Snape's RN

Something poked him in the spine. Sharp. Insistent. Repeated.

Frank grunted, burying his face deeper into the pillow to escape the assault. The room was dark, the house quiet, and the bed was a warm, soft cocoon he had absolutely no intention of leaving. He’d spent the entire day dealing with bureaucratic idiots and budget cuts that made about as much sense as a chocolate teapot, and his reserves of patience were running on fumes.

“Mmph,” he mumbled into the pillow, his brain trying to reboot. “There’re pickles in the fridge. The ones you like. The garlic ones.”

Behind him, you sighed.

“I don’t want pickles, Frank.”

Frank groaned, a long, rattling sound that started in his chest and ended in the mattress. He cracked one eye open, staring blindly at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was ungodly late. Or perhaps ungodly early. Either way, it was a time for sleeping, not for whatever domestic crisis was currently poking him in the kidney.

“Whatever it is,” he rasped, his baritone heavy with sleep and gravel, “it can wait until tomorrow.”

He shifted, trying to pull the duvet higher over his shoulder to block out the world. He was exhausted. A deep, bone-weary kind of tired that settled in his joints and made his eyelids feel like they were made of lead.

He didn’t have the strength to get up even if he wanted to.

The day had been absolute hell—a tribunal, a missed lunch, and a two-hour phone call with a Minister who didn’t understand the difference between a drone and a delivery van.

He just wanted to sleep.

He wanted to dissolve into the mattress and not resurface until the sun was up and the coffee was brewed.

“Sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice slurring slightly. “Please. I’m very tired now. Very, very tired. I’m an old man. My back has seized up and my will to live is currently hovering at about ten percent. Let me sleep.”

He heard you shift behind him, the rustle of sheets loud in the quiet room.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you said, your voice dropping, suddenly right next to his ear.

“Go to sleep,” he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ll build the crib. I’ll buy the pickles. I’ll do it tomorrow. Just… five minutes. Please.”

You leaned in closer, your breath tickling the back of his neck, your hand sliding over his waist, resting dangerously low on his hip.

“I want to have sex,” you whispered.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Frank didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

For a split second, his brain actually stopped processing information entirely.

The exhaustion that had been weighing him down like a suit of lead armor? Vanished.

The aching in his back? Suddenly negligible.

He rolled over.

It wasn’t the sluggish, creaky roll of a tired man waking up. It was a sudden, fluid motion, fueled by a surge of adrenaline that had no business existing in a man who claimed to be on the verge of collapse.

He blinked his hazel eyes open, wide and alert in the dark, staring at you as if you’d just announced you’d won the lottery.

“You… what?” he asked, his voice suddenly clear, the sleep roughness vanishing to be replaced by a deep, intrigued rumble.

You bit your lip, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you watched him transform before your eyes. The grumpy, exhausted lieutenant general was gone. In his place was the man who had pinned you against a garage workbench earlier that afternoon.

“I said,” you murmured, tracing a finger down the center of his chest, over the soft cotton of his t-shirt, “that I want to have sex.”

Frank huffed, a sound of pure disbelief and rapidly awakening desire. He reached out, his hand finding your waist in the dark and pulling you flush against him. You could feel it—the heat radiating off him, the sudden hard press of his interest against your thigh.

“Why didn’t you say so before, woman?” he grumbled, but there was no annoyance in his tone now. Only warmth. And a deep, baritone vibration that you felt all the way down to your toes.

You giggled softly, scooting closer until your forehead rested against his. “I thought you were tired?”

Frank scoffed. The sound was dismissive, arrogant, and incredibly endearing.

“Tired?” He shook his head, his white hair mussed against the pillowcase. He leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against yours, his eyes searching yours with a sudden, fierce intensity.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made your breath hitch, “I’m not tired for that.”

He punctuated the words by rolling his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that left absolutely no doubt as to how not-tired he was.

“I could be bleeding out,” he continued, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter, “on my deathbed, surrounded by weeping generals and a bagpiper playing ‘Amazing Grace,’ and if you climbed into that bed and whispered that in my ear? I would sit up. I would ask for a moment of privacy. And then I would absolutely wreck you.”

You laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the quiet room, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m honest,” he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, the soft curve of his belly pressing comfortably against yours. “There is tired, and then there is you. They exist on completely different planes of existence.”

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and sweet and tasted of sleep and mint toothpaste. When he pulled back, his expression had turned serious again, though the warmth remained.

“How do you want me, then?” he asked quietly, the question rumbling through his chest like a distant storm. His hand moved from your waist to your hip, thumb tracing the bone there with a languid, possessive heat. “Quick and rough? Slow enough to make you forget your own name? Or are we feeling adventurous tonight?”

The question hung in the dark, heavy and inviting. But instead of answering with a touch or a demand, you felt your cheeks heat, a flush that had nothing to do with the warmth of the duvet. You bit your lip, sudden shyness overtaking the bravado that had driven you to poke him awake.

“I had a dream,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper against his skin.

Frank paused.

He leaned back just enough to see your face, the faint light from the window catching the curious tilt of his eyebrows. “A dream?”

You nodded, feeling ridiculous. It felt silly to say it aloud—to admit that your subconscious was just as obsessed with him as your waking hours were. But the way he was looking at you, so intent and patient, made the words spill out.

“We were… in your office,” you confessed.

Frank raised a white brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “My office? You mean the study? The one stacked with paperwork I’ve been ignoring for three weeks?”

You shook your head quickly, your face burning hotter. “No. Not the study. The real one.”

His smirk faded, replaced by a look of intrigue. He waited, his hand stilling on your hip.

“The army one,” you whispered. “The one at the base. The one I visited that one time to bring you lunch.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed immediately by a dark, sharp hunger.

He knew exactly which office you meant.

It was a place of cold efficiency, of gray carpets and harsh fluorescent lighting, of maps and monitors and the crushing weight of responsibility. It was a room where he wore a uniform and rank, where his voice commanded colonels and negotiated with politicians. It was the last place on earth associated with anything soft or sensual—which was exactly why, apparently, your dream-brain had decided it was the perfect setting for this.

“Did you now?” Frank murmured, his voice dropping an octave, turning into something that scraped deliciously against your nerves. “And what, pray tell, were we doing in a classified government facility?”

“You were working,” you said, your breath hitching as his hand began to move again, sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt to rest against the bare skin of your waist. “You were bent over the maps. Looking at screens. You had your glasses on.”

He hummed low in his throat. “And you?”

“I was on the desk,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “Right on top of the files. You… you pushed everything aside. The briefing papers, the coffee mug, the pens. You just swept it all onto the floor like it didn’t matter.”

Frank let out a soft, dark chuckle. “Very disobedient of me. General Benson neglecting his duty for a girl.”

“You weren’t neglecting it,” you argued, emboldened by the way his fingers were digging into your flesh. “You were… you were taking what you wanted. You told me to be quiet. You said the walls were thin, and that if anyone heard me, you’d stop, and I had to be good.”

His breath hitched.

The grip on your hip tightened bruisingly.

“And were you good?” he asked, his voice thick, rough.

“No,” you whispered. “I wasn’t. It was too much. You were… you were wearing the uniform. And the tie. And you looked so severe, so angry about the war, and then you just—” You broke off, burying your face in his neck. “You ruined me, Frank. On your desk. While people were walking right outside the door.”

Frank was silent for a long moment.

You could feel his heart hammering against yours, a rapid, heavy thud that belied his calm exterior.

The image had clearly done something to him. The idea of corrupting that sterile, orderly environment with the messy, desperate reality of you—the contrast of the uniform against your bare skin, the rank insignia catching the light while he buried himself inside you—it was a heady aphrodisiac.

He rolled onto his back, taking you with him, settling you astride his hips. The duvet slipped away, leaving you exposed to the cool air, but Frank’s hands were hot enough to burn.

“That’s a dangerous dream to have, love,” he murmured, his hands settling on your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where your leg met your hip. “Because now I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s bloody terrible,” he said, but his eyes were dark, glazed with lust. He reached up, hooking his hand behind your neck, and pulled you down for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, a desperate imitation of the frenzy you’d described. When he pulled back, his lips were red, his breathing ragged.

“Frank,” you breathed, grinding down against him, feeling the hard length of him through his pajama bottoms.

He patted your thigh, the gesture firm but lingering, his palm warm through the fabric of your sleep shirt. It was a dismissal, but not a rejection.

“Get off, love,” he murmured, his voice already shedding the drowsy roughness of sleep for something sharper, clearer.

You scrambled to obey, shifting your weight to the side and sliding off his hips to settle onto the cool mattress beside him. The loss of contact was immediate and disappointing, your body still humming with the residual energy of your confession, the heat of his hands lingering on your skin like a brand.

Frank sat up, the duvet pooling around his waist, exposing the soft, pale curve of his belly and the silver hair dusting his chest. He raked a hand through his sleep-mussed white hair, exhaling slowly through his nose as if steadying himself before a briefing. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.

“Frank?” you asked, sitting up yourself, clutching the sheet to your chest. The sudden movement felt jarring. “Where are you going?”

He turned back to look at you, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angle of his hooked nose and the glint of determination in his hazel eyes. He looked at you not like a husband woken from a nap, but like a man with a mission objective.

“I’m going to make your dream come true,” he said simply.

You blinked, confused. “Right now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Soldiers don’t sleep when there’s a job to be done,” he replied, a dry, self-deprecating humor coloring his tone. He reached for his dressing gown hanging over the chair, but paused, his hand hovering over the terrycloth before letting it fall. “No. That won’t do.”

“What won’t do?”

He looked at you, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk that was part arrogance, part hunger. “The dream, sweetheart. You were very specific. I was wearing the uniform.”

You felt your breath catch. “You’re… you’re going to put it on? Now?”

“I am,” he said, heading for the closet. “Complete kit. Medals, cap, the lot. If I’m going to corrupt a government facility, I’m going to do it looking like the Queen’s own bloody nightmare.”

You watched him go, the sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway toward the study where he kept his military formal wear. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the image now burned into your mind.

Frank Benson in uniform.

It wasn’t as if you’d never seen it before.

There had been mess dinners, Remembrance Day services, the occasional ceremonial requirement. And yes, there had been times in the early, desperate days of your marriage when the uniform had stayed on longer than necessary—the tunic unbuttoned just enough to reveal the shirt beneath, the trousers unzipped in the back seat of a car after a reception.

But tonight… tonight felt different.

Tonight, after the vivid, Technicolor detail of your dream, the uniform felt like a costume for a role you were desperate for him to play.

The Lieutenant General.

The man who held life and death in his hands.

The man who commanded rooms and orchestrated drone strikes with a calm voice and a steely gaze. To have that man—the man of discipline and order—lose that control because of you? It was an aphrodisiac more potent than anything you could imagine.

You waited.

The minutes stretched out, taut and vibrating.

You shifted restlessly against the pillows, your body already reacting to the anticipation, your skin feeling tight and oversensitive. The quiet house felt different now, charged with a heavy, electric static.

Then, you heard the footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. The rhythmic tread of polished boots on hardwood.

You sat up straighter, clutching the duvet to your chin, your eyes fixed on the open bedroom door.

And then he was there.

Frank stopped in the doorway, framed by the dark hall behind him, and the sight of him hit you like a physical blow.

He was fully dressed. The No. Dress uniform, immaculate and terrifying. The dark, navy-blue tunic was fitted perfectly to his shoulders and torso, accentuating the broadness of his chest and the slight, solid softness of his middle.

The rows of medal ribbons glittered on his chest in the low light—colors of service and campaigns and history—and his actual medals, heavy gold and silver, hung with a weight that seemed to pull the very air in the room toward him.

His trousers were razor-sharp, the red stripe down the leg vivid, disappearing into highly polished black boots that you knew cost a fortune and caused his knees to ache. But he stood straight, spine rigid, shoulders back, radiating an authority that made your breath hitch in your throat.

His white hair was combed back severely, exposing the sharp lines of his face, and his eyes—those hazel eyes that could soften with sleep or harden with judgment—were locked on yours. They were dark now. Predatory.

He reached up and adjusted the peak of his cap, tucking it low over his brow, and the transformation was complete. The grumpy, cuddly husband was gone. In his place stood Lieutenant General Benson.

He didn’t speak.

He just stepped into the room, the scuff of his boots on the carpet loud in the silence.

“You’re staring,” he said. His voice was different—deeper, clipped, the baritone polished to a sheen like steel.

“I can’t… I can’t help it,” you whispered, your eyes roaming over the medals, the gold braiding on his shoulders, the gleam of the cap badge. “You look… intense.”

Frank walked to the foot of the bed, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, surveying you like a map he was about to redraw.

“Do I?” he murmured. “Good.”

He reached out, taking your ankle in a firm grip, and tugged. You slid down the mattress with a gasp, the duvet slipping away to leave you in your sleep shirt. He didn’t stop until you were flat on your back, your legs dangling over the edge, your feet resting on the cold, hard leather of his boots.

“Frank,” you breathed, looking up at him. The height difference, the rank difference, the sheer power radiating off him—it was dizzying.

“Sir,” he corrected automatically. His eyes bored into yours. “If we’re role-playing, girl, let’s do it properly.”

The word went straight to your core. “Yes… sir.”

He released your ankle and moved to stand beside you, his gloved hand—you hadn’t even noticed the gloves—resting on the mattress beside your head. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the smell of starch, polished leather, and the faint, lingering scent of his cologne enveloping you.

“You told me you were on the desk,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest. “That I pushed the briefing papers aside. That I made you keep quiet.”

You nodded, your heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. “Yes, sir.”

He hummed, a dark, considering sound.

“We don’t have the desk. Or the briefing papers. But we have the uniform. And we have the order.”

He straightened up, his gloved hand moving to the buttons of his tunic. He undid them slowly, one by one, the movement precise and practiced, revealing the crisp white dress shirt underneath. He didn’t take the tunic off, though. He just opened it, leaving it hanging loose, the medals clinking softly with the movement.

“Sit up,” he commanded.

You scrambled to obey, your movements clumsy with urgency.

Frank reached for the hem of your sleep shirt and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. You were bare to him now, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your skin, your nipples tightening under his heavy gaze.

He didn’t touch you immediately. He just looked.

“God,” he muttered, his gaze tracing the curve of your breasts, the swell of your belly, the way your thighs were pressed together in a desperate attempt to alleviate the ache between them. “You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Ruining my career with your body.”

“It’s not ruining if it’s consensual, sir,” you couldn’t help but quip, trembling.

He huffed a short, dark laugh. “Smart mouth.”

He gripped your chin, his leather-clad fingers rough against your skin, and tilted your head back. His kiss was punishing—hard, demanding, tasting of mint and authority. He kissed you like he was claiming territory, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to stake a claim that left you dizzy and breathless.

When he pulled away, you were panting.

“On your knees,” he ordered, stepping back just enough to give you space to move. “On the floor. Facing the bed.”

Your eyes widened. The carpet was soft, but the implication… “Frank?”

“Sir,” he corrected sharply. “And yes. On the floor. Now.”

The tone left no room for argument.

You slid off the mattress, sinking to your knees on the carpet. You turned to face him, your hands resting nervously on your thighs. You were eye-level with his belt buckle now, with the sharp crease of his trousers, the gleam of his boots.

Frank moved closer. He stood directly in front of you, a towering wall of wool and gold and authority. He reached out, resting one gloved hand on top of your head, his fingers threading through your hair.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

He only stroked your head for a moment, his gloved fingers a paradox of rough leather and gentle intent against your scalp.

It was a fleeting caress, a silent approval of your submission before his hand shifted, fingers tangling into your hair. He tightened his grip just enough to pull lightly, tilting your head back until you were forced to look up at him, trapped between the command in his eyes and the dizzying height of his rank.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, the baritone rough-edged and dark. “Take it out. Don’t make me ask twice.”

You obeyed eagerly, your trembling fingers finding the gleaming brass of his belt buckle. The metal clicked loudly in the quiet room, a stark, mechanical sound that made your breath hitch.

You undid the clasp with frantic urgency, your knuckles brushing against the coarse wool of his uniform trousers and the solid warmth beneath. The button followed, then the zipper, the rasp of the teeth lowering sounding obscene in the silence.

You reached inside, parting the fabric of his boxers, and freed him.

His cock was heavy in your hand, hot and thick, weighing down your palm. He was only half-hard, flushed a deep, angry color that contrasted sharply with the pristine white of his dress shirt and the dark navy of his open tunic. You could feel the pulse of blood beneath the velvety skin, the latent power of him waiting to be coaxed to life. The smell of him—intoxicating, masculine, mixed with the scent of starch and leather—went straight to your head.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, born of sheer need and reverence. Without thinking, you leaned in, your tongue peeking out to taste the head, desperate for a drop of him, desperate to feel him on your tongue.

“Ah.”

The sound was sharp, a single syllable of reprimand.

Before your lips could even make contact, Frank’s hand in your hair tightened brutally, dragging you back. The sting on your scalp made you gasp, your eyes flying up to meet his. He loomed over you, a monolith of authority, his expression unreadable in the shadow cast by his cap, but his eyes were cold and hard.

“And where exactly,” he drawled, his voice dangerously quiet, “did I say you could put that in your mouth?”

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I—I just thought—”

“You didn’t think,” he cut you off, his tone clipped and brooking no argument. He shifted his grip, tilting your head back further, forcing you to arch your neck and look at him. “You acted on impulse. Like a child who doesn’t know the rules yet.”

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. “I’m sorry, sir. I just wanted to taste you.”

A dark, humorless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care what you want. I care about what you’re told.”

He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, the polished leather of his boots creaking with the shift in weight. The gold braiding on his shoulders glinted in the low light, a reminder of the power he held.

“Permission is not a suggestion, sweetheart,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “It is a bloody order. And I don’t recall giving you permission to put my cock in your mouth. Did I?”

“No, sir,” you whispered, tears of shame pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“No,” he agreed, his thumb coming up to trace your lower lip, the leather of his glove dragging against your soft skin. “You see, in my line of work, acting without authorization gets people killed. It ruins operations. It destroys careers.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, the gravity of his persona pressing down on you.

“And in this bedroom,” he added softly, “it means you don’t get what you want until I decide you’ve earned it.”

He released your hair then, letting his hand drop to his side, leaving you feeling bereft and exposed on your knees.

He didn’t step back, though.

He stood his ground, his cock still hardening in your grip, demanding attention you weren’t allowed to give yet.

“Use your hand,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low rumble of instruction. “Get me ready. But if your tongue so much as dares to touch me before I say so… you won’t be sitting down for a week.”

You nodded quickly, your hand moving tentatively along his shaft.

You stroked him slowly, feeling him grow thicker and longer under your touch, the veins becoming more pronounced, the skin heating until it burned against your palm.

“Eyes up,” Frank ordered, his gaze boring into yours. “Don’t look at what you’re doing. Look at me. I want to see exactly how desperate you are.”

You kept your eyes locked on his, your wrist moving with a steady rhythm, your arousal pooling between your thighs at the sheer control he exerted. He watched you like a hawk, his expression stern, his jaw set, the only betrayal of his own desire being the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the medal ribbons.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise washing over you like a physical touch. “Just like that. Show me you can follow a simple order.”

Your single hand moved along the length of him, but Frank made a low, dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat—a gravelly rumble that vibrated through your very bones.

“Both hands,” he commanded, his voice clipping the words short and sharp. “Surely you’re capable of multitasking, girl. Or do I need to call in a support team?”

“No, sir,” you whispered, your breath hitching as you obeyed.

You brought your second hand up, wrapping it around the thick base of his shaft, joining the first near the head.

The contrast was stark and undeniable: your pale, small fingers against the angry, flushed red of him, the soft skin of your palms against the iron-hard strength of his arousal. You couldn’t encompass him fully, not even with both hands; he was simply too thick, too substantial, the heavy weight of him forcing your fingers to stretch wide to accommodate his girth.

Frank looked down.

The angle allowed him a perfect view of the tableau you presented—the top of your head, your upturned, flushed face, and your hands working dutifully between the pristine press of his uniform trousers. He saw the way your knuckles strained, the way the medals on his chest glinted in the low light as his breathing deepened, the visual dichotomy of the Lieutenant General fully dressed and completely undone by your touch.

It was a power trip, certainly.

But watching you—seeing the physical evidence of your desire to please him, the way your hands worshipped him—was doing things to his composure that the threat of a court-martial never could. His cock throbbed in your grip, growing heavier, the skin tightening until the veins mapped a distinct, urgent pattern along the shaft.

“Getting dry,” he noted, his tone rough, detached, as if commenting on a logistical error in a supply chain. “Fix it.”

You blinked, confused for a split second, before the heat in his eyes clarified the order. You paused your stroking, bringing one hand to your mouth and gathering as much saliva as you could, letting it pool on your tongue before spitting it deliberately into your other palm.

The sound was lewd, wet, and shockingly loud in the quiet bedroom.

Frank’s breath hitched audibly.

“Good,” he muttered, the baritone roughening. “Now use it.”

You slicked the moisture over him, spreading it with trembling fingers, and the friction changed instantly—became smoother, hotter, wetter. Your hands glided more easily now, twisting in counter-rhythm, sliding from the weeping tip all the way down to the coarse hair at the base.

And as you worked him, you finally let yourself look.

Really look.

It wasn’t something you often voiced—it felt absurd, maybe a bit crude, to compliment a man on his genitalia in the middle of the act—but in the quiet sanctity of your own mind, it was the truth.

Your husband had the most beautiful penis you had ever seen.

It wasn’t just that it was him, the man you loved, the father of your child. It was the aesthetic of it, the sheer masculine perfection of it that seemed to belong on a marble statue rather than a sixty-something lieutenant general with bad knees. It was thick, a heavy, imposing column of flesh that commanded respect before it even demanded pleasure. The color was a deep, burnished rose, darkening at the head to a feverish purple that made your mouth water, the skin there impossibly smooth and velvety in contrast to the steely hardness beneath.

Even the shape of it was elegant—the flared, defined ridge of the crown, the way the shaft tapered just slightly before flaring again at the base, heavy and grounding.

You loved the weight of it in your hands, the way it felt alive, pulsing with a heartbeat that seemed stronger than the one in his chest. You loved the way it looked emerging from the dark, tailored uniform, a flagrant, defiant display of life amidst the rigid formality of the Service Dress.

And God, the way it smelled. Clean skin, salt, and that underlying musk that was uniquely Frank. It made your head spin, made your cunt clench around nothing as your hands continued their steady, worshipful glide.

He was looming over you, imposing and severe, the cap casting a shadow over his eyes, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his nostrils flared slightly with every drag of your thumbs over the sensitive slit.

He was majestic.

“Enjoying the view?” Frank murmured, his voice dropping an octave, catching you staring. He knew, of course he did. He could read you better than you read yourself.

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, not bothering to deny it. Your thumbs brushed over the head again, smearing the pre-come that had beaded there, mixing it with your spit. “It’s… perfect.”

A huff of amusement escaped him, dark and warm. “Flattery will get you everywhere, love.”

He shifted his stance, the leather of his boots creaking, and reached down to brush his gloved thumb over your cheekbone. The leather was cool against your flushed skin.

“But you’re still thinking with your eyes and not your orders,” he chided softly, though there was no real heat in it—only a thick, heavy lust. “Keep going. I want to see those hands moving until I tell you to stop. And if you dare look away from me again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Your panties were soaked, a damp, clinging reminder of how thoroughly he had dismantled your defenses without even touching you below the waist.

A dull, insistent throb had taken up residence between your legs, aching so badly your hips shifted restlessly on your heels.

You wanted him to sweep you up, toss you onto the mattress like a ragdoll, and bury himself inside you until you couldn’t remember your own name. You wanted the quick, rough fuck you had originally poked him awake for. The one that would end in sweat and sleep and silence.

Instead, you were on your knees, worshipping a cock you weren’t even allowed to taste yet, while Lieutenant General Benson looked down at you with the detached scrutiny of a man inspecting a weapon.

He was in absolutely no rush.

Frank stood there, immovable as a statue, the cap casting a dark shadow over his eyes, the medals on his chest rising and falling with a slow, measured rhythm. He looked terrifyingly composed. If he was feeling the same desperate urgency that was currently making your thighs tremble, he was doing a masterful job of hiding it behind a wall of iron-clad discipline.

You should have lied.

That was the dark, whispering thought that niggled at the back of your mind as your hands continued their slow, agonizing glide over his shaft.

You should have kept your mouth shut.

You should have just told him you were having contractions. Or that the baby was doing gymnastics on your bladder and the only cure was an orgasm. Or that your hips were aching so badly you needed a “medical intervention.”

You were pregnant, for God’s sake.

It was the ultimate Get Out of Jail Free card.

The world’s most convenient alibi.

You could have claimed that the baby demanded sex immediately for health reasons, and Frank—an anxious, over-protective father-to-be—would have likely stripped you naked and folded you in half before you could finish the sentence.

But no. You had to be honest. You had to share your dream. You had to invite the Lieutenant General into the bedroom.

And now you were paying for it.

“Your mind is wandering,” Frank murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp that cut through the haze of your arousal. “I can see it. You’re not looking at me anymore.”

You snapped your eyes back to his face instantly, your heart kicking up a frantic rhythm. “Sorry, sir.”

His eyes narrowed behind the shadow of the cap visor. “What’s going on in that head of yours? You look… regretful.”

Regretful didn’t even cover it. You were seconds away from faking a cramp just to break the standoff.

“Just…” You bit your lip, your hands stuttering slightly on his cock. “Thinking that maybe I should have just asked for a quickie, sir. Instead of… all this.”

A dark eyebrow arched. “All this? You mean the fulfillment of your own fantasy?”

“I wanted to come,” you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I wanted you to fuck me and let me sleep. This is… this is torture.”

Frank huffed—a short, dry sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. He shifted his weight, the leather of his boots creaking, and the hand in your hair tightened, tilting your head back further.

“Torture,” he repeated, rolling the word around his mouth like he was tasting it. He looked down at you, his gaze drifting from your flushed face to your heaving chest, then lower, to the way your thighs were pressed together in a futile attempt to alleviate the pressure. “You’re complaining because I’m making you work for it?”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, not daring to lie.

He hummed, a low, thoughtful vibration.

“You see, in my experience, things that come quickly tend to be forgotten instantly. But things you have to earn?” His gloved thumb dragged over your lower lip, pressing down slightly until your mouth parted. “Those you remember.”

His hips jerked forward just a fraction—a tiny, involuntary thrust that betrayed his own fraying control. His cock slipped through your slick grip, the head bumping against your cheek, leaving a smear of wetness on your skin.

“Besides,” he added, his voice dropping an octave, thickening with arousal, “I like seeing you like this. On your knees. Desperate. It suits you.”

You whimpered, the sound pathetic even to your own ears. The damp heat between your legs was unbearable now, your clit pulsing with every beat of your heart. You looked up at him, at the stern set of his jaw, the silver glint of hair, the imposing rows of medals, and felt a sudden, desperate surge of inspiration.

If you couldn’t wait for him to give in, maybe you had to force his hand using the only weapon you had left: his weakness for his unborn child.

“I just… I’m worried about the baby, sir,” you said, injecting a tremble into your voice that was only half-acted.

Frank stilled. The hand in your hair paused, his grip loosening slightly. The Lieutenant General vanished instantly, replaced by the anxious father. “What? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?”

You nodded quickly, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “The doctor said… stress isn’t good for the baby. And I’m very stressed right now, sir. My heart rate is up. I’m tense.”

You shifted on your knees, spreading your thighs slightly to let him see the flush there, the way your body was trembling.

“I need… relief,” you whispered, letting your voice break just enough to sound fragile. “For the baby’s sake. I need you to… regulate me. Immediately.”

Frank stared at you.

He looked at your tear-stained lashes, your heaving chest, the way your hands were still clutching his cock—hard and desperate. He was a smart man. A brilliant tactician. He knew exactly what you were doing. He knew you were manipulating him using his own child as a tactical diversion.

But as he looked down at you—disheveled, wet, his wife in military ruins—he found he didn’t care.

“Regulate you,” he repeated slowly, his voice dropping into a register that made your bones hum. “Is that the medical term we’re using now?”

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, daring to stroke him a little faster, feeling the heavy throb of him against your palm. “It’s urgent, sir. Operational necessity.”

Frank let out a sharp exhale, a sound that was half-groan, half-curse. His control snapped with an audible click, like a breaking wire. The stoic facade of the Lieutenant General cracked, revealing the hungry, desperate man underneath.

“Operational necessity,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re a menace. You’re going to be the death of me.”

He pulled your hands away from his cock—ignoring your whimper of loss—and gripped your upper arms, hauling you up from the floor with a strength that made your head spin.

“Get on the bed,” he growled, the baritone rough enough to scrape. “On your back. Legs apart. If we’re treating this as a medical emergency, sweetheart, we’re going to do it properly.”

You scrambled onto the mattress, heart racing in triumph, but you didn’t make it far. Frank was on you the second your back hit the sheets, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the rough wool of his trousers abrading your skin. He didn’t give you time to adjust; he shoved your knees up and apart with bruising force, settling himself between your thighs.

He didn’t wait for you to settle. The urgency of your “medical emergency” had clearly infected him, stripping away the last of his patience. Frank reached down, his hand still gloved in the pristine white leather of his dress uniform, and caught the waistband of your soaked panties.

You gasped, expecting him to pull them down, to undress you with the slow reverence he usually favored. But this was a man acting on operational necessity.

He curled his fingers into the fabric, holding it taut against your hip, and brought his other hand to his mouth. With a sharp, practiced motion, he gripped the tip of the glove’s index finger between his teeth and ripped the leather off, spitting it onto the floor with a wet, guttural sound.

The sight of him—Lieutenant General Benson, stripped of decorum, baring his teeth—sent a violent shiver down your spine.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the baritone thick and ragged.

He didn’t bother removing your panties.

He didn’t have the time.

Instead, he hooked his bare fingers into the crotch of the damp fabric and yanked it aside, exposing you to the cool air. You were slick, swollen, and absolutely dripping, your body’s betrayal evident in the way your thighs gleamed.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “Stressed, indeed.”

He reached out, not giving you a moment to brace, and sank two fingers straight into your heat.

You cried out, your back arching off the mattress, your hands flying to his shoulders to grip the heavy wool of his tunic. He curled his fingers immediately, finding that spot with unerring, military precision, and dragged a harsh moan from your throat.

“So wet for me,” he growled, his eyes fixed on where his fingers disappeared inside you. “Greedy little thing.”

He added a third finger without warning, stretching you wide, burning through the resistance.

It was a punishment and a reward all at once. He pumped his hand, thrusting hard enough to make your breasts bounce, to make the medals on his chest clink rhythmically against the fabric. He was stretching you properly, making sure you could take him, forcing your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.

“Frank—Sir—”

“Hush,” he snapped, though his voice was wrecked. “Take it. You wanted to be regulated? You’re getting regulated.”

He scissored his fingers, curling and twisting, tearing whimpers from your lips until you were trembling on the edge of madness. It was too much, the stretch too sharp, the friction too perfect, and just when you thought you might scream, he pulled his fingers out.

The loss was devastating. You felt empty, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled again.

Frank didn’t leave you empty for long.

He reached for his trousers, shoving them down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out heavy and angry. He ripped the other glove off with his teeth, the leather joining its twin on the floor, and then he was looming over you, a wall of muscle and heat and authority.

He hooked your knees over his elbows, folding you nearly in half, and lined himself up.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp.

You locked eyes with him, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way the silver hair at his temples gleamed in the low light. He pushed inside you in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You gasped, your head falling back, your nails digging into the dense fabric of his tunic. He was thick, hot, and overwhelming, stretching you even more than his fingers had. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his pelvic bone flush against yours, the rough wool of his uniform trousers scratching the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

“God,” he choked out, his head dropping forward, his forehead resting against yours. “You feel… bloody incredible.”

He started to move.

At first, his thrusts were slow—deep, grinding strokes that seemed to touch the bottom of your soul. He was savoring the heat of you, the way your walls fluttered around him, the wet, slick sounds of your bodies joining. He was in no rush now; he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“You take me so well,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath hot and heavy. “Like you were made for me. Like this body was built specifically to take my cock.”

You whined, high and broken, your hips lifting to meet his, desperate for more friction. “Please, sir—harder—”

Frank grunted, the sound vibrating through your chest. He obliged. The slow, deliberate pace shattered into something ragged and desperate. He pulled out almost entirely and slammed back in, setting a rhythm that was fast and punishing. The bed frame creaked, the headboard hitting the wall with a dull thud that matched the cadence of his thrusts.

He was fucking you in full uniform.

The medals on his chest rattled with every movement, a chaotic jingling that underscored the lewdness of the act. The cap was still on his head, slightly askew, casting shadows over his eyes, making him look like a stranger—like a commander taking what was due to him. The contrast was dizzying: the rigid discipline of the Service No. Dress uniform against the primal, messy reality of sex.

Your body tightened, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter with every drag of his cock against your inner walls. “I’m gonna come—Frank, please—”

“Come,” he growled, his hand fisting in the sheets beside your head. “Come all over me. Let me feel you.”

His voice, dark and commanding, was your undoing. The orgasm slammed into you with the force of a physical blow. Your back arched, a silent scream tearing from your throat, your cunt clamping down on him like a vice. You shattered, your vision whiting out, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you.

Frank groaned, a long, broken sound, as your spasming milked him. He thrust into you twice more, deep and hard, and then he was following you over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt and held himself there, his hips jerking as he filled you, his cock pulsing inside you, marking you as his from the inside out.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and grounding, his chest heaving against yours. The smell of sex, sweat, and starch filled the air, thick and intoxicating.

You lay there for a long time, wrapped in his arms, listening to the frantic thud of his heart slowing down. The room was quiet now, save for your ragged breathing. The uniform, once so terrifying and imposing, was now just a collection of rough fabrics and hard medals digging into your skin.

Eventually, Frank stirred.

He pushed himself up, his movements slow and heavy, and looked down at you. His hazel eyes were soft now, the harshness gone, replaced by a warm, lazy affection.

“Alright?” he murmured, brushing a stray hair away from your forehead.

“Better than alright,” you whispered.

He huffed a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple before he pulled away. He sat up on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and began the arduous process of undressing. It wasn’t the efficient striptease of a younger man; it was the methodical shedding of armor.

He unbuttoned the tunic with care, sliding it off his shoulders and hanging it over the chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. The medal ribbons glinted one last time before he turned away. Next came the tie, then the shirt, peeled away to reveal the soft, pale skin of his back, the slight curve of his spine, the dusting of silver hair that narrowed down to his waist.

He stood up to remove the boots and trousers, bending with a groan that spoke of aging joints and a long day, until he was standing in just his boxers and socks. He stripped those off too, leaving him bare.

He was older, yes. There was a softness to his belly, lines etched around his eyes, silver hair covering his chest. But to you, he was the most beautiful thing in the world. He was Frank.

He turned back to you, his body relaxed, the hardness of the General completely gone.

He helped you clean up with a warm, damp cloth from the ensuite, his touch gentle and reverent, wiping away the sticky mess with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

When he was done, he pulled the duvet back up, tucking you in before sliding into bed beside you. He didn’t hesitate; he pulled you close immediately, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. You curled into him, your back to his chest, his body heat enveloping you like a blanket.

Silence settled over the room, comfortable and safe.

You were drifting on the edge of sleep, heavy and sated, when you felt him press a kiss to your shoulder. His lips were soft, his breath warm against your skin.

“I was thinking,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

“Hmm?” you hummed, too tired to open your eyes.

His hand came to rest on your belly, splaying wide across the swell where his child grew. He rubbed his thumb gently over the fabric of your sleep shirt.

“I hope it’s a girl,” he whispered, so softly you almost didn’t hear him. “A little girl. A mini-you.”

A lump formed in your throat, sudden and sharp. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he insisted quietly. “I want a girl with your eyes. Your laugh. Your spirit.” He paused, his thumb stroking you slowly. “I want to spoil her rotten. I want to be the old man she runs to when she falls off her bike. The one who buys her the ponies I never bought for myself. I want to spend the rest of my time making sure she knows she’s the most important thing in the world.”

Your eyes burned.

You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest to hide the sudden tears that pricked at your lashes.

“Don’t say things like that, Frank,” you whispered, your voice thick.

He tightened his hold on you, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to brush it off with a joke or a pragmatic reassurance. He just pressed another kiss to your hair, his lips lingering.

“Why not?” he asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

“Because,” you said, your voice cracking. “Because it sounds like a goodbye. Like you’re planning on leaving before they even get here.”

Frank stayed quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched out, heavy and unspoken, filled with the truth you were both trying to ignore. He was old. He was a man who had lived a lifetime of war and stress, a man whose heart had already beat longer and harder than most. You both knew the math. You both knew that the time he had left to spoil a daughter was a finite, dwindling resource.

But he didn’t let go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he lied, because he loved you.

And because you loved him, you let yourself believe him.

“Go to sleep, Frank,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

“Okay, love,” he murmured. “Okay.”

He stayed awake for a while longer, listening to your breathing even out, feeling the steady rhythm of your heart against his. He kept his hand on your belly, guarding the life inside, the Lieutenant General standing watch over the only peace he had ever known.

"We won't be late, my dearest lioness. Do not concern yourself with that. Oh, please."

Lionel laughed, his hand on your thigh as he tried to soothe you. With your birthday here, Lionel had to think of something, and based on his keen observation of you and some advice he received from your close ones, he concluded that you would be thrilled to go to the opera for the night. Among other locations, of course. Lionel was not going to be cheap about his partner's special day. He took you shopping and only warned you that in the evening, there would be one more location where he intends to take you.

However, without disclosing anything.

"But you said it starts at 6 PM." "I did, darling, but it's not even 5:30 PM yet. You will be fine. Do you really think I would fail you on such an important day?" asked Lionel, his lips meeting yours in a soft, reassuring kiss. "Trust me." "Oh, Lionel. You always make me tense like this." "A little excitement is always good, stimulates the blood." You rolled your eyes, leaning against his shoulder and pouting, to which Lionel responded with a kiss on your lips.

And trust him, you did after the kiss. It was Lionel, after all; he tended to keep his promises.

Lionel's driver pulled up in the parking lot of the opera house. Your partner wasted no second in coming to open the car door for you, helping you out and offering you his arm. Once you took it and you stepped out of the car, he placed a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, bringing it to his lips before his head leaned to find your ear.

"I admit I cheated a little with deciding this. I asked your friends. But I did get it right, didn't I, love?"

"These are such…" "Good seats?" "You could call them that, sure." "I wanted them private on purpose. The last thing I want, my dearest, is for some obnoxious person to disrupt your viewing." Lionel waited for you to sit first before he joined you, sitting by your side with a smile on his lips. After an exchanged kiss, he adjusted himself more comfortably by your side, his hand showing bold signs already, resting on your thigh.

The performance began, and for the most part, Lionel watched it alongside you. But after a while of doing so, he found your expressions far more alluring than the stage, so his gaze would drift from the enactment to you. Gradually, his eyes would not be the only ones on you. From his hand stilled on your thigh and eyes on yours, he began to stroke.

Slow, gentle movements across your flesh.

At first, you paid no mind to him, thinking it was a self-soothing gesture Lionel did out of boredom or concentration, but it progressed. It transitioned from gentle strokes to firmer movements, with the thumb pressed against the inner side of your thigh.

"Lionel!" You whisper-yelled, hand going to his, trying to catch his wrist and stop him, but Lionel smirked, and his head rested against your shoulder as he hushed you. "Shh, keep watching." "Lionel, you can't do this here." "I can do whatever I want, wherever I want, don't worry your pretty mind about it," Lionel whispered, hand sliding under your dress. "All I need to know is that you want it."

You hissed, squeezing his wrist, but after a half-disgruntled, shy huff, you readjusted yourself in your seat, head resting against his.

"Fine, but don't go too far. If we get caught, I will be very mean to you at home." "Oh, trust me, what did I tell you, dearest? You need to trust me."

Lionel's fingers reached under your dress, to your panties, fingers tracing over the fabric. If watching the performance was difficult before, it has now become nearly impossible. Lionel's fingers felt the soaked spot on the knickers before he slipped the fingers under the panties, fingerpads pressed against your slit.

You hissed, hand tightening around his wrist.

Trying to stay quiet.

Lionel pushed his finger inside you, first one, then a second, easing them and gently thrusting them as he kissed your neck. Your eyes fell closed, hips pushing up into his hand, trying to tell him to be gentle, but Lionel smiled against your skin and kept going, fingers finding your sweet spot and curling against it, thrusting them at a gentle pace.

"You took me to this, and now I can't watch." "You can still listen." "I can't do anything while your fingers are inside me." "What a shame." Lionel mocked teasingly, lips sucking a spot near your ear, fingers working more eagerly, his own trousers feeling tight. But this time, it wasn't him who was the priority, but you.

Your head turned to him, and he seized the opportunity, his lips crashing on yours, holding you into the kiss while his fingers kept working, feeling your climax nearing. Your soft sounds he muffled with kisses, and your needy cunt began to throb around his fingers. He didn't let go, keeping up the pace you seemed to love most, mouth on yours, fingers in you until you came against him.

You tried to keep yourself quiet, but as Lionel promised, he assured you he won't let it be too loud, keeping his lips on yours to hush you. His fingers guided you through it, until he felt your body relax, until it went soft, nearly limp against him.

His fingers came out, and he licked them clean, kissing softly at your neck and whispering soft praises. You nuzzled against him, eyes fluttering shut while you caught your breath.

"Was this part of the birthday gift?" You panted, a soft, pleased mewl escaping your lips as your body found closure against Lionel's.

He raised a brow, then grinned, kissing your temple.

"Just the warm-up for it. You get the rest at home."

==============================================

You had always chosen the quiet corners.

The departments no one visited. The floors where the executives never wandered. The positions that kept you behind screens, buried in data, invisible, and uninterrupted.

It wasn’t accidental.

As a data researcher, you knew your place in the company hierarchy, and you were perfectly content with it. You weren’t a star, you weren’t visible—and that was the entire point. Your role didn’t come with popularity or face-time with the CEO; it wasn’t the kind of position that invited attention or admiration. Unlike Human Resources or PR, where optics mattered and presence was performance, yours was HR-adjacent and analytical, tucked safely away from the dramatic glass offices and power meetings Lionel Shabandar was known to frequent. You did your work, sent your reports, attended the necessary meetings, and went home.

No small talk, office politics, and definitely no extracurricular bonding.

In. Out. Peace.

You’d been doing it that way for nearly five years. Ever since you graduated. Ever since you started working for him.

And somehow… you never had any interaction with him.

Which suited you just fine.

Normally, your days were predictable. Work. Home. Book. Tea. Period dramas. Repeat. You liked it that way. You needed it that way.

So when the company-wide email came in about the fundraising car wash, attendance encouraged, all departments involved—you had immediately closed it.

No.

Absolutely not.

You had every intention of ignoring it… until Amelia got involved.

That morning, you were curled up in your bed, cocooned in your blanket, half-asleep and entirely content. The world could have ended and you still would have chosen to stay exactly where you were.

Your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

You groaned, burrowing deeper into your pillow.

Then there was knocking.

Loud. Persistent. Rude.

You squeezed your eyes shut. If I don’t move, she might go away…

The knocking continued.

With a dramatic sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, shuffling toward the door like a disgruntled ghost. You opened it—

And there she was.

Amelia.

With a wide grin, coffee in one hand, a bag slung over her shoulder and that determined look that meant resistance was futile.

“Come on, babe,” she said, breezing straight past you into your flat. “It’s for charity, it’s outdoors, and it’s literally one day. One. Day.”

You groaned, closing the door and padding after her. “You know I don’t do office bonding things.”

She turned, pointing her coffee at you.

“And you know,” she shot back, “that you’ve worked for Lionel Shabandar for five years and have the social presence of a ghost.”

You blinked.

“…That’s unnecessarily accurate.”

She smirked. “Exactly. Now get dressed.”

You stared at her. Then at your couch.  Then back at her.

With a dramatic sigh, you gave in.  “Fine. But I’m blaming you.”

She beamed. “As you should.”

She headed out to bring the car around while you changed, and you kept it simple. Denim shorts. Plain white t-shirt. Hair pulled into a ponytail. Comfortable. Practical. Forgettable.

You weren’t there to impress anyone.

You were there to tick the attendance box and escape.

Wax a few cars. Go home. Read. Or watch Pride & Prejudice. Simple.

That was the plan.

Amelia honked not ten minutes later. You grabbed your bag, locked the door, and jogged down.

“Hyde Park,” she announced as you slid into the passenger seat. “Prime location. Lots of foot traffic. Rich people territory.”

You snorted. “Wonderful. I’ll try not to get run over by a Bentley.”

She laughed, pulling away. “Relax, Miss No-Fun.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

She grinned. “Accurate.

Hyde Park was already buzzing when you arrived.

Tents. Banners. Buckets. Hoses. People laughing, shouting, music playing from someone’s speaker. The sun was warm, the grass was green, and the atmosphere was… annoyingly cheerful.

You spotted familiar faces from different departments—HR, marketing, PR, finance, people you only ever saw in passing or in meetings. Everyone looked oddly excited, some already damp, others flirting shamelessly while pretending to work.

You scanned the crowd, instinctively looking for a quiet corner.

A clipboard appeared in front of you.

“Name?” a volunteer asked.

You gave it. She ticked something and pointed.

“Waxing station. Over there.”

You followed her finger… and blinked.

Waxing.

You glanced back at the washing station—where people were already laughing, splashing water, with hair plastered to their faces, and flirting openly.

Of course.

Of course you’d be the one stuck on waxing.

You exhaled, tying your hair tighter and rolling up your sleeves. “Alright,” you murmured to yourself. “Let’s just do this and go home.”

And so you did.

Car after car. Hood. Door. Panel. Repeat.

You barely noticed the noise around you, too focused on the task, the rhythm, and the small satisfaction of seeing the shine come through. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t linger. You just… worked and determined to finish and leave.

And then—

“BABE!”

You jumped.

Amelia appeared in front of you, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to her cheeks like she’d just survived a water ride.

You stared.

“…Did you fall into a lake?”

She laughed. “Worse. Marketing boys.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Why am I not surprised?”

She glanced around, then frowned. “Where have you been? This is supposed to be fun. Why are you taking it so seriously?”

You gestured to the line of cars. “Someone has to actually do the job.”

She snorted. “Even the boss isn’t here anymore.”

You blinked. “He’s not ?.”

She waved a hand. “No, he did. Earlier. While we were washing. You were back here, and then he went missing. Probably got bored.”

You hummed, uninterested. Lionel Shabandar might as well have been a myth for all he existed in your daily life.

Amelia nudged you. “Actually… a bunch of us are going clubbing later. Wanna join? I mean, I’m supposed to bring you home, so what’s the verdict, Miss Waxxer?”

You paused, considering.

Then you pictured your couch. Your blanket. Your movie. Your grilled cheese and tomato soup that you’re craving.

Easy choice.

“It’s okay, Melia,” you said gently. “I’ll just take a cab or the bus home. You go. Have fun.”

She pouted. “You sure?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice. “Besides… I think a certain someone you like is going too. Mr. Williams.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh hush, Y/N, he’s going to hear—”

You both burst out laughing.

She swatted your arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

She sighed dramatically, then hugged you. “Alright. Go home safely. Message me. And don’t work too hard.”

“You too,” you replied, hugging her back. “Message me when you’re home.”

She pulled away, blowing you a kiss before jogging back toward the chaos.

And just like that…

It was quiet again.

You turned back to the car in front of you, gripping the cloth a little tighter.

Wax. Go home. Cook. Movie. Simple.

With that goal firmly in your head, you picked up the pace. Faster strokes. Firmer pressure. You just wanted to be done—to finish the car in front of you and disappear back into your quiet little life.

Your arm was already starting to ache when you leaned in to polish the side panel, brow furrowed in concentration.

And then you heard it.

A voice behind you.

Calm. Smooth. Mildly amused.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

Not because the comment was rude, but because the tone was… different.

Controlled. Cultured. Unhurried.

The kind of voice that didn’t belong to the chaos of splashing water and laughing coworkers. The kind that made your spine straighten before your brain even caught up.

You turned.

And there he was.

Lionel Shabandar.

Crisp white button-down, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist, dark slacks sitting obscenely well on his frame. No jacket. No tie. Just effortless authority. Sunlight caught the edge of his watch, glinting softly as he stood there like he belonged exactly where he was.

His hair—golden-blond, softly wavy, was brushed back, catching the light in a way that made him look unreal. Like something lifted straight from a billboard.

Which, you realised belatedly, wasn’t far from the truth.

You’d seen him before. Of course you had.

In boardrooms.On screens.Across corridors. On massive billboards towering over the city.

Always distant. Always untouchable.

Never this close and never looking at you.

Your breath stalled.

His gaze flicked briefly to the cloth in your hand… the wax smudged across your fingers… the faint streak of polish on your cheek which you knew was there as you forget to wipe it after seeing it on the car window.

Then back to your eyes.

A slow smile curved his lips.

Not polite, friendly but interested.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, his voice lowering just enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Heat rushed to your face.

You turned quickly back to the car, hoping the distraction of work would ground you.

It didn’t.

You were just finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You blinked. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out without asking, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath hitched.

You could feel the heat of him behind you—his chest just inches from your shoulder, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your thoughts scatter uselessly.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

And then… he didn’t move away.

Instead, he stayed.

Guiding. Teaching.

His voice was low at your ear as you worked the panel together.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly. “Like this.” “Yes… exactly.”

You swallowed.

This was supposed to be a fundraiser.

Not a moment. Not… whatever this was.

You were so absorbed you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t even blink.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery.

“Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

You stiffened but Lionel didn’t hesitate.

He slid an arm lightly around your waist and drew you in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

Your eyes widened.

His hand was warm through your shirt. Possessive in a way that made your stomach flip and your pulse spike. You stood there, frozen, as the man raised his phone.

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You gently stepped away, clearing your throat, and busied yourself with gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing out rags. It was the last car anyway.

Even though you knew the cleaning crew would take care of everything.

You felt his gaze on you before he spoke.

“You do know you don’t have to do that.”

You shrugged. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

Behind you, you heard fabric shifting and then the soft sound of rags being collected and buckets being filled.

You turned, startled.

He was helping.

Lionel Shabandar—rolling up his sleeves, collecting dirty clothes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared.

He caught your look and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed softly, unable to stop yourself.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle, as if he were amused by something only he could see.

You finished cleaning quickly after that, movements efficient and purposeful, doing your best not to think about the way his gaze followed you as you worked.

When everything was done, you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

His voice stopped you immediately.

You looked back.

This time, he didn’t speak right away. He studied you—properly. Not the passing glance from before. Not the distracted curiosity of a man accustomed to faces blurring together.

This was thoughtful, measuring and intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last. “How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“That explains it,” he murmured.  “I would have remembered you.”

Warmth crept into your cheeks.

You gave a small, polite smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

You turned back, in a heartbeat and quick step, giving you away.

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

He walked you toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting near the curb was a sleek Rolls-Royce, dark and gleaming under the streetlights.

The driver straightened when he saw Lionel.

Lionel opened the passenger door for you without hesitation.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, a discreet compartment stocked with drinks—champagne chilled in silver, crystal glasses, a bottle of whiskey bearing a lion engraved into the glass.

Of course it did.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

The driver glanced back. “Where to, Mr. Shabandar?”

Lionel turned toward you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

You realised it at the same time.

“…Carrington,” you said gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened—interested.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, like he was testing the sound of it. “Alright.”

You gave the driver an address.

“Understood,” the driver said, and the car began to move.

Lionel shifted slightly toward the drinks compartment.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” he said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s okay, sir,” you replied.

“Drink?” he asked. “I have champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you. Then poured himself a measured glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.

The car settled into a quiet hum.

The city slid past the windows.

You took a sip.

The day finally caught up with you.

Your eyelids grew heavy.

The warmth of the seat, the steady motion, the quiet presence beside you—

You didn’t even realise you’d leaned until a gentle pressure touched your arm.

“Miss Carrington.”

You stirred, blinking.

Your head had fallen against his shoulder.

“Oh—!” You straightened immediately, mortified. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” Lionel said, smiling softly.

You noticed then how close he was. How relaxed. How unbothered.

“We’ve arrived.”

The car slowed to a stop.

“Thank you for the lift, sir,” you said quickly. “I really appreciate it.”

You reached for the door,

“Wait. Let me.”

He stepped out first, walked around, and opened the door for you.

You paused, then smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You nodded and said, “Good night, sir. Safe travels.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

And then, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it, 

“Yes… a good night indeed.”

You walked to your door.

Before unlocking it, you glanced back.

He was still there.

Watching.

You lifted a small wave, half-shy, half-dazed,then slipped inside and closed the door.

The moment it shut, you leaned back against it, and laughed. Softly. Breathlessly.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You stayed like that for a moment, forehead against the door, cheeks warm, heart doing something wildly unprofessional, before forcing yourself to straighten.

Get a grip.

It was just a day. A fundraiser. A lift home.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and headed for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the wax, the sun, the exhaustion… and him. Or at least, you tried to.

It helped. A little.

By the time you were dressed in soft pyjamas, hair damp and loose, you felt calmer. More like yourself.

You moved through your routine on autopilot—tomato soup simmering on the stove, grilled cheese crisping in the pan, sparkling apple drink poured into your favourite glass.

Normal things. Safe things.

You curled up on the couch, tray balanced on your lap, Pride and Prejudice already playing.

This was your comfort. Your reset.

Darcy appeared on screen, stiff and reserved, delivering his first lines with that familiar, controlled arrogance.

You smiled faintly.

And then—

his hand on your waist.

You blinked and shooked your head.

Focus.

The film continued. Darcy walked closer. Spoke softly.

His voice near your ear.

You groaned quietly and sank deeper into the couch.

“Stop it,” you muttered to yourself.

You tried to concentrate on the dialogue, on the music, on literally anything else, but your mind betrayed you at every turn.

The way Lionel had looked at you when he said your name. The warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek. The calm certainty in his voice.

At some point, halfway through the film, your eyes grew heavy.

You drifted.

And then—

“Miss Carrington.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Darcy stood on the screen, mouth moving,but for a split second, you could’ve sworn you’d heard him.

You stared at the television.

“…I’m losing my mind,” you whispered.

You laughed softly, shaking your head, pressing your palms to your face.

You told yourself it was just exhaustion. A long day. Too much sun. Too much everything.

And yet, every time Darcy spoke, every time he stepped closer, every time his tone softened, your thoughts wandered.

You finished your soup. Your sandwich. Your drink.

The film rolled on.

And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, he kept appearing anyway.

After the ordeal with Harry Dean and PJ Puznowski, after too many conversations that felt like chess matches and not nearly enough that felt like breathing, Lionel Shabandar wanted something different.

Not louder. Not grander. Not another evening spent in a tailored suit beneath chandeliers, surrounded by admiration that asked nothing of him and offered even less.

His PR department had suggested a fundraiser—something visible, personable, approachable. A gala at his manor was the obvious choice. It always was. Women fawning, donors eager, reputations polished over crystal glasses and rehearsed charm.

Once, he would have welcomed it.

Now, the thought exhausted him.

So he chose something else.

A car wash.

Simple. Public. Unpretentious.

A place where his staff could exist as people rather than extensions of his name. Where laughter didn’t need scripting and goodwill didn’t require rehearsals.

Hyde Park was perfect.

On the day of the fundraiser, Lionel arrived to find his employees in denim and shorts, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, music playing softly from somewhere near the tents. There was no rigid structure—just motion, water, sunlight, and noise that felt… honest.

He made a brief appearance. Launched the event. Smiled for a few photos.

There were, inevitably, attempts at flirtation. He accepted them with polite amusement and moved on. He hadn’t come to linger.

After an hour, he returned to the office. Finished what needed finishing.

Later, he found himself back in Hyde Park—not to rejoin the event, but to walk its perimeter. To breathe. To keep an eye on what he had set in motion.

That was the justification.

The truth was less tidy.

When he returned, the fundraiser was winding down. Staff were laughing, soaked, flushed with success. Someone, Williams, he thought—invited him out. Club, drinks, celebration.

He declined with ease. Praised them. Thanked them. Wished them a good night.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He saw you at the far end of the row.

White shirt. Ponytail. Denim shorts.

Waxing the final car with a focus that bordered on excessive—as though you intended to scrub every trace of the day from it.

The others had gone. Laughter had drifted away.

He assumed you have been left with the last one. Or had chosen to stay.

Either way, you were alone.

Lionel paused, watching you for a moment longer than he meant to, before stepping closer.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

He immediately regretted the timing, you were the only one there after all. His tone hadn’t been sharp, but it was unmistakably his.

When you turned, he understood the hesitation.

Not fear.

Awareness.

You looked at him the way people did when distance collapsed all at once, when a name became a presence.

He recognised it instantly. The stiffness. The careful stillness.

Shy, he realised. Or simply unused to being seen.

You weren't striking in the way billboards demanded. There was no performance of you, no studied posture, no invitation.

Just… easy.

The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be looked at, and therefore lingered longer.

His gaze dropped briefly, wax on your fingers, a faint smudge on your cheek you clearly hadn’t noticed.

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.

Endearing, he thought. Unexpectedly so.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked, once, twice, then nodded too quickly.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, glancing briefly at the space between them, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, voice lowering,not intentionally, but instinctively.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Colour bloomed across your cheeks and you turned back to the car too quickly.

Lionel smiled.

He observed you finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You glanced at him. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath caught.

Lionel felt it, felt the sudden stillness beneath his hand. Warm. Tense. Relaxation

He should have stepped back but he didn’t.

He stayed, guiding your movements, his voice low near your ear.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly.” Like this.”

“Yes… exactly.”

He hadn’t expected this when he’d walked back into the park.

Hadn’t expected you.

You both were so absorbed, that both of you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t blink. If anything, he smirked.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

Lionel felt you stiffening again but he didn’t hesitate.

His arm settled at your waist, light but certain.

It felt… right.

As though you fit there and always had.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You stepped away first.

Not abruptly, just enough to put space between them. A soft clearing of your throat, then you were moving again, gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing rags as though the work still required your attention.

It didn’t.

It was the last car. The cleaning crew would handle the rest.

You stayed anyway.

Lionel watched you quietly.

Not because you had to, but because it was right.

There was no distaste in your movements. No impatience. No sense of being above any of it. You worked with the same quiet diligence you had given the car, treating the aftermath as though it mattered.

He was… surprised.

Too many people mistook service for something beneath them. Too many wore their status like armour, looked at mess as though it were contagious.

You did not.

Something in his chest shifted, subtle, but unmistakable.

“You do know you don’t have to do that,” he said gently.

You only shrugged, not even looking up. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

What a girl, he thought, before he could stop himself.

Without comment, Lionel rolled up his sleeves.

If you noticed, you didn’t say anything.

He joined you, collecting rags, stacking buckets, lifting crates as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It felt… grounding.

You glanced at him then, surprise flickering across your face. He caught it and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed,soft, genuine, unguarded.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle. Amused, not by your reaction, but by how easily you had drawn it from him.

They finished quickly after that.

Lionel watched your movements—efficient, purposeful, as though you had done this a hundred times before. There was no lingering, no attempt to draw attention to yourself. And yet, somehow, his gaze followed your anyway.

When you finally slung your bag over your shoulder, the evening felt… finished in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The word left his mouth before he’d fully decided on it.

You stopped immediately and looked back at him.

This time, Lionel didn’t speak right away. He studied you properly, not the passing glance from earlier, not the distracted awareness he gave most people who passed through his orbit.

This was thoughtful. Measuring. Intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last.

“How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his chest.

“That explains it,” he murmured. “I would have remembered you.”

The faint colour that crept into your cheeks did something entirely unreasonable to him.

You adjusted the strap of your bag.

 “I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

Your quick step gave you away when you turned back in a heartbeat, and he noticed. Of course he did.

Lionel hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

Good.

They walked toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting by the curb was his Rolls-Royce, dark and immaculate beneath the streetlights.

The driver, Adam, straightened instantly.

Without thinking twice, Lionel opened the passenger door for her.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, crystal glasses secured neatly beside champagne and whiskey etched with his crest.

Of course it was.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

“Where to, Mr. Shabandar?” the driver asked.

Lionel turned towards you, a faint smile touching his mouth.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

Ah. You idiot.

“…Carrington,” you supplied gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened, interest deepening.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, as though testing the sound of it.

Yes. That would do nicely.

You gave the driver her address, and the car eased into motion.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” Lionel said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s alright, sir.”

“Drink?” he offered. “Champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you before pouring himself a measured glass of whiskey. The amber caught the low light as the city slid past the windows.

The quiet settled.

Then he felt the weight against his shoulder.

Your head, resting there, unguarded.

Lionel adjusted instinctively, careful not to wake her.

How, he wondered, had I not seen you before?

The thought lingered as he relaxed back into the seat.

When the car slowed and the driver announced their arrival, a ridiculous impulse crossed his mind, to carry you inside rather than wake you.

He dismissed it just as quickly.

Instead, he spoke softly.

“Miss Carrington.”

You startled awake immediately, mortified.

“I—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, smiling despite himself. “We’ve arrived.”

You thanked him, sincere and warm, and reached for the door.

“Wait. Let me.”

Lionel stepped out first, walked around, and opened it for you.

You paused, then smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Safe travels, sir. And good night.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

The words followed you as you walked away.

And Lionel found himself thinking—then, quite absurdly, muttering under his breath,

“Yes… a very good night indeed.”

He watched your back retreat, wondering, not for the first time that evening, whether you had heard him or not.

He didn’t move the car.

Instead, he remained where he was, eyes fixed on you until you reached the building. Anything could happen in seconds, he knew that better than most. Only when you glanced back while unlocking the door did his shoulders ease.

You gave a small, shy wave.

Lionel almost laughed.

Adorable, he thought, entirely unhelpfully, as you slipped inside.

When the door closed behind you, he remained still.

Only when the light in your flat flicked on did he finally turn back toward the car.

Adam caught his expression in the mirror, and, wisely, said nothing.

“Home,” Lionel said at last.

As the car pulled away, your building disappearing behind them, his thoughts drifted, not to headlines, not to optics, not to strategy, but to a woman in a white shirt and denim shorts, waxing a stranger’s car with quiet diligence.

To the way you had smiled so easily. To how naturally you had fit at his side. To how he had somehow not seen you around not once, and how unacceptable that now felt.

For the first time in a long while, Lionel Shabandar found himself grateful for a decision made without calculation.

A simple fundraiser.

And the inexplicable sense that fate, at last, had met him halfway.

Next Morning

Then, just like the previous day repeating itself, you woke to your phone buzzing instead of your alarm.

Once.Twice.Relentless.

Half-asleep and already knowing exactly who it was, you answered without looking.

“Hello—”

“BABE—OH MY GOD—YOU AND LIONEL—WHAT—WHEN—HOW—”

You shot upright, heart slamming into your ribs.

“What?”

“THE PICTURE,” Amelia screeched. “THE CAR WASH—YOU—HIM—IT’S EVERYWHERE— I’M COMING OVER RIGHT NOW, BABE—”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Lionel who?”

Silence.

Then—

screaming.

The sound blended with the rush of yesterday crashing back all at once—

Hyde Park. Wax on your hands. His voice at your ear. His arm around your waist.

Your hands shook as you scrambled for your phone, pulse racing.

And there it was.

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

And beneath the headline—

you.

In his arms.

Smiling.

Lionel's Office That Morning

Lionel Shabandar did not wake up expecting chaos.

His mornings were precise, meticulously scheduled, calibrated down to the minute, and always predictable in a way that left no room for surprises or sentiment. Each day unfolded exactly as the one before it had: coffee brewed to the same strength, briefing notes waiting on his desk, markets already moving in patterns he understood well enough to bend if necessary.

Control was not merely a preference; it was a discipline.

Coffee. Briefing. Markets. Power.

For exactly three minutes, the routine held.

Then, uninvited, you slipped into his thoughts.

White shirt. Rolled sleeves. The faint crease between your brows as you concentrated. The way you laughed when he raised an eyebrow at you, soft, surprised, unguarded.

Your head on his shoulder.

Lionel exhaled slowly and set the thought aside.

Indulgence was a luxury along with sentiment was a weakness.

He had a day to run.

His phone lit up.

Once, twice and then again.

By the time he picked it up, the screen looked like a Christmas tree.

Three missed calls. Five messages. A calendar alert that had absolutely nothing to do with this.

And then,

PR: URGENT – CALL ME NOW

He frowned.

The screen refreshed.

And there it was.

A photo of him at the car wash.

Sleeves rolled. Expression softened. Framed in warm afternoon light, close enough to feel intimate, clear enough to be intentional.The man who had asked for the photo had captured far more than he realised.

His arm around—

He froze.

You.

Your head tilted slightly toward him. Smile small. Unaware. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

The headline loaded beneath it:

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

His jaw tightened.

He stared at the image longer than he should have.

Not because of the press. Not because of the cameras, the clarity, the way the shot was already circulating like currency.

But because of the way his hand rested on your waist.

Because he remembered exactly how warm you had been, how you laughed and how you tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend he didn’t affect you.

And how he absolutely knew he had.

Footsteps approached at speed, heels clicking with barely contained panic.

A knock.

The door opened, and Lisa stepped in, her heels clicking too quickly for a woman who usually prided herself on composure.

“Sir… the phones are… busy,” she said carefully. “PR is requesting guidance. And—”

She hesitated, “There are inquiries about the woman in the photo.”

Lionel didn’t look away from the screen.

“She works for the company,” he said evenly.

Lisa paused, fingers tightening around her tablet.

Lionel added, without lifting his gaze, “She’s your colleague, Lisa.”

The correction was subtle,but unmistakable.

Then, more quietly—firmly,“And she is not for public consumption.”

Silence filled the room.

Lionel finally leaned back in his chair.

A slow smile touched his lips.

Not amused.

Intent.

“Find her schedule,” he said. “Clear mine.”

Lisa blinked. “Sir?”

“I want to have lunch with my employee.”

He rose, moving toward the window, the city stretching beneath him, orderly, obedient, predictable.

For a moment, he shook his head faintly, a quiet huff of breath leaving him.

Five years, he thought. And I didn’t notice you.

He watched the morning traffic below, already recalculating his day, not in numbers or markets this time, but in timing.

“Lisa,” he added without turning.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have Adam bring the car.”

She hesitated. “To the office?”

“No,” Lionel said calmly. “To her address.”

Lisa’s brows lifted, just slightly—but she nodded.

“Understood.”

Lionel remained at the window long after she left.

Yes, he decided.

Chaos, apparently, had a face.

And it was wearing a white shirt and denim shorts.

The lot was empty.

Not silent—somewhere in the distance a radio hummed from an open garage, and a breeze scattered dead leaves across gravel—but empty. No headlights, no pedestrians, just concrete, fence, and Frank’s heavy body pressing you into the cool metal side of his car.

His palms were planted on either side of your head, breath hot against your temple, chest heaving. You could barely stay upright, your spine arched from the way he’d bent you back against the vehicle, and the windows behind your shoulders fogged with every ragged breath you took.

Your thighs trembled, legs already sore from his mouth, from his voice. But Frank? Frank wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“Fucking insatiable,” he growled, his baritone cracking rough against your ear as he thrust into you again, slow but brutal, his cock stretching you open like he meant to split you in half. “Don’t even let a man finish dinner without trying to climb him.”

You whimpered, eyes rolling back, your hands scrabbling at his shirt. “You kissed me like that—what did you expect?”

Frank pulled back and drove into you hard enough to rattle the car door.

“Don’t talk back,” he snapped, but his voice was low, thick, breathless. “Jesus. This pussy—gripping me like it missed me. Like it knew I’d come back.”

You sobbed, a garbled noise of pleasure and pain, your nails digging into the curve of his shoulder. The night air kissed your thighs, already sticky and wet with the mess of earlier, and the cold contrast made the heat of him feel unbearable. Necessary. Endless.

Frank reached down, one hand sliding beneath your thigh to hook it over his belt, opening you wider. The new angle made you cry out.

“Yeah, there it is,” he muttered, his voice a rasp of broken want. “That’s how you take it. Good girl—fuck—there’s my good girl.”

You clenched around him, helpless, greedy for the stretch, for the weight of him, the curve of his belly pressing into your lower stomach as he rammed deeper, slower now—meaner. He kissed your cheek, not sweet, but possessive—just teeth and breath.

“I should keep you here,” he snarled. “Fucking you against this car until you forget your own goddamn name. Look at you—legs shaking, eyes glassy, can’t get enough of me, can you?”

You shook your head, barely able to breathe, your voice cracking into a moan. “Please, Frank—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He slammed into you, each thrust making the car groan beneath your weight. The metal dented slightly behind you, cold and hard, but your body was too wrecked to care. All you could feel was him—his thick cock splitting you open, his groan sinking into your skin, his hips driving you up the side of the fucking car like he wanted to leave bruises that matched the curves of his fingers.

“You think this was some one-night stunt?” Frank grunted, thrusting harder. “You think I let you in just to fuck and forget?”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted. “N-no—Frank—”

His hand shot up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face to his.

“I don’t share,” he said, and his voice was low and cold. “You wear my shirt, you come on my cock, you let me fuck you in public like this—and now? You belong to me.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, and Frank felt it—growled into your neck.

“Oh, you like that,” he whispered. “That dirty little ache in you… it’s mine now. All of it. You don’t get to tease me all fucking week and expect mercy.”

His rhythm shifted—brutal, fast, sharp. The slap of his hips echoed across the empty lot, mixing with the slick wet sounds of your body taking him like it was starved.

You were panting now, your voice broken with each thrust. “Frank—Frank—”

“Come on,” he hissed, biting down lightly on your throat. “Come for me. Right here. In the open. Where anyone could see—”

You shattered, your orgasm tearing through you like lightning. Frank didn’t stop—held you up as your body collapsed, kept thrusting as you clamped down around him, whimpering, shuddering, leaking all over his cock.

Then—finally—he groaned deep in his chest and shoved in hard one last time, thick ropes of come spilling inside you, hot and raw, pumping so deep you swore you could feel it bloom.

Frank’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, his hips twitching once, twice more, his hands braced against the car like he might fall otherwise. You were limp in his arms, legs trembling, your cheek pressed to his chest, breathing him in.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Frank exhaled. Long. Slow.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he muttered, kissing your temple like it was a curse.

You smiled against his shirt, eyes fluttering shut.

“So are you, Frankie.”

He groaned and pinched your ass. “Get in the car. Before I fuck you again and we get arrested.”

୨♡୧ ｡It starts with you being needy and sneaking into his office while he is working.

୨♡୧ ｡He tries to send you off at first, but you beg him to stay because you are bored and promise you won't bother him, so he ends up accepting. Obviously, you did not keep your promise.

୨♡୧ ｡At first, you sat quietly, working on your own assignments, but then you started to inch closer and closer to Severus. He wasn't stupid. He noticed it but chose not to comment, hoping you would stop. You didn't. You continued to get closer and closer until you were right by his side.

୨♡୧ ｡He sighed deeply, glancing away from his papers to instead focus on you.

'What are you doing?' 'Nothing.'

୨♡୧ ｡Severus exhaled deeply and tried to return to grading papers, which was significantly more challenging to do when you were clearly not doing your homework but instead were fixing him with your eyes.

'What is it?' 'Nothing.'

୨♡୧ ｡Snape's lips twitched in frustration, and he put his quill down. You were clearly not going to stop until you got what you wanted, so he crossed his arms and stared at you.

'What is it?'

୨♡୧ ｡This time, his voice was so serious and firm that you gulped and rubbed your knees shyly.

'Could I sit on your lap?'

୨♡୧ ｡Severus Snape tilted his head, his eyes widening as he heard the audacity of your request. There was no need for an answer; it was blatant. He wouldn't accept such a thing. That was his intention at least, because after another couple of minutes of you being a nuisance, he ended up agreeing.

୨♡୧ ｡You quickly climbed on him, straddling his thigh.

୨♡୧ ｡For the first part, you actually behaved.

୨♡୧ ｡Severus returned to grading papers, pleased to finally have peace, even if it meant having to accept you sitting on his lap. Sitting would have been tolerable, but you were a minx, and you didn't stop at that.

୨♡୧ ｡Severus grunted as he suddenly felt you move. It wasn't a gentle kind of move, but you ground against his thigh.

'Sorry, it was an accident.'

୨♡୧ ｡You lied, and without proof of the contrary, he accepted that excuse.

୨♡୧ ｡But then it happened again. This time, you ground harder, your hands on Severus' shoulders, clutching them as you moaned at the sensation.

'Was this also an accident?'

୨♡୧ ｡He mocked, putting his quill down again.

୨♡୧ ｡You stared down, embarrassed, but didn't stop. After all, Severus didn't say you should. He just pointed out that your actions were intentional. He leaned back slightly, watching as you began to move again, rhythmical movements as your hips rolled against him, clothed cunt grinding against his thigh.

୨♡୧ ｡Severus let you do so, although he did well at containing himself; there was an undeniable erection growing painfully in his briefs. Yet he didn't act on it.

୨♡୧ ｡He tried to pick up his quill and work on the papers, but this time it was your needy moans that disrupted his focus.

୨♡୧ ｡As you rode him, you got close. Dangerously close to an orgasm. Feeling it coming over you soon, Severus thought you might stop being a nuisance, so he slid his free hand down between your bodies, helping you chase your orgasm.

୨♡୧ ｡The climax crashed over you embarrassingly quickly, and you collapsed against Severus' chest, whimpering as he pulled his hand away from your crotch, returning his attention to his papers.

୨♡୧ ｡But this time, another problem arose.

୨♡୧ ｡You stopped bugging him, you were finally quiet and obedient on his lap, but he? He had to deal with the consequences of your naughty behaviour.

୨♡୧ ｡His erection was distracting him, but he didn't want to give in to such foolish acts without finishing his work first. Discipline had to come before these bodily desires.

୨♡୧ ｡Yet he couldn't focus.

'Foolish girl, look what you have done.'

୨♡୧ ｡Severus grunted, dropping his quill once again. This time, he reached down, opening up his robes, releasing his throbbing erection from his briefs.

୨♡୧ ｡You stared down at it curiously.

୨♡୧ ｡At first, you wanted to help with your hand or your mouth, but Severus stopped you, grabbing your wrist.

'Not. So. Fast.'

୨♡୧ ｡He guided his hand to your thigh, feeling up and under your skirt, pushing it up. Severus pulled you closer, moving your knickers to the side and adjusting his position more comfortably under you.

୨♡୧ ｡Then he grabbed his shaft and eased himself inside you with a needy low gasp.

୨♡୧ ｡You tried to start moving, but again, he stopped you, both hands gripping your hips.

'Do not.' 'But?' 'No. I have work to fulfil.' 'But?' 'After I finish this work. Now stay still and rest.'

୨♡୧ ｡You nodded and complied. You were tired after your own orgasm, so you were glad to shift comfortably and rest against Severus Snape's chest while he sighed and continued his work.

୨♡୧ ｡His shaft filled you perfectly, stretched you to the point you felt like riding him, but he said no, and you, for once, behaved and listened.

୨♡୧ ｡Despite the cock inside you, you could stay comfortable.

୨♡୧ ｡Severus was still distracted by his erection, but with his size inside you, he felt compelled to finish grading the papers faster so he could fuck the brains out of you after and punish you for bothering him while he worked.

୨♡୧ ｡But that had to wait.

୨♡୧ ｡For now, he had to be patient.

୨♡୧ ｡Patience was key.

୨♡୧ ｡He gripped the quill tightly and focused on the papers.

୨♡୧ ｡You made his job nowhere easier because, occasionally, as he worked on the papers, you would make soft, pleased sounds and squirm a bit, adjusting your position, which only pushed Severus to feel needier, his erection throbbing painfully as he fought himself to resist the urge.

୨♡୧ ｡That painful urge to grab your thighs and fuck you.

୨♡୧ ｡You felt the throbbing, sensed his neediness, and decided to be a brat, to make his life harder.

୨♡୧ ｡That was something you were very good at.

୨♡୧ ｡You made it a point to keep going, shifting and squirming, making soft motions enough to cause a little friction that would drive Severus mad with lust.

==============================================

Retirement had been a strange adjustment for Frank, almost like shrugging out of a life that had wrapped itself around him for nearly eighteen years. He’d survived things most people wouldn’t even dare to imagine: war zones, broken bones, betrayals, near misses, and the kind of accidents that carved themselves into a man’s bones. The military had shaped him and scarred him. Kept him standing.

So waking up slowly in a quiet house, without orders, without drills, without boots hitting concrete at dawn—felt foreign. Wrong. Like he’d lost something he wasn’t sure he could ever get back.

But then there was you.

His one unexpected blessing.

The twenty-five-year-old volunteer walked into the base with bright eyes, steady hands, and absolutely no fear of him, as you kept on saluting him no matter where you were. You’d seen past the temper, past the sharp tone and cold exterior. You saw him, the man beneath all the armour. And you chose him. Despite the whispers. Despite the age gap. Despite everything.

Which was why the empty bed hit him harder than it should have.

He blinked awake, stretching, reaching instinctively for warmth that wasn’t there. No soft weight snuggled on top of him. No sleepy mumble against his chest. No cold little feet pressing into his thigh. Just quiet… and the warm smell of bacon drifting up the stairs.

He exhaled softly, running a hand through his messy hair. Thank god for you.

He swung his legs out of bed, stretched as he did every morning, then tugged on yesterday’s sweatpants, he preferred sleeping in just his boxers… far more comfortable, and much better for certain nightly circumstances involving you, before grabbing his old black shirt. He slipped it over his head the way he always did, but halfway down the fabric caught against his chest… then his stomach.

He froze. Pulled it again. Still tight.

'Probably shrank in the wash again,' he told himself quickly. Happens all the time.

Without thinking much of it, he padded downstairs on bare feet.

You were standing at the counter, plating bacon, morning radio humming softly behind you. Dressed in a light sports bra and fitted tights, skin glowing, hair tied back, fresh from your light morning workout, just the easy routine you did to stay healthy. You were never a gym freak; you weren’t chasing abs or weight loss. It was simply who you were: naturally lean, naturally effortless, naturally beautiful.

Still… you looked fit. Young. Radiant.

You turned, a bright smile blooming instantly.

“Well, look who finally crawled out of bed. My very own koala,” you teased.

He huffed a quiet breath, the closest he came to laughing this early, but your eyes dipped briefly to his shirt. The tightness across his midsection was unmistakable now that he’d stepped fully into the light.

And God, he felt it.

His eyes flicked down automatically to the softer curve forming where years of strict military diet had given way to homemade breakfasts, lazy mornings, and shared desserts. A body no longer defined by combat or discipline but by peace.

And right in front of him stood you, toned waist, slender arms, bright eyes, looking like the embodiment of youthful energy.

You stepped toward him, arms open for your daily morning hug.

And for the first time, Frank stiffened the moment you wrapped your arms around him. Not because he didn’t want your touch, God, he always wanted your touch, but because your hands landed right against the place where his shirt felt too tight, too revealing, too much.

Your warmth pressed against him, and suddenly his mind wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

It was back there.

A few nights ago, at the annual base anniversary gathering, was the first time many people saw you and Frank together. Not everyone knew he was taken.

He remembered that you enjoyed the night fondly.

Frank didn’t.

He hadn’t told you everything.

Like the moment he walked past a group of officers and overheard:

“Damn, she looks fine.” “Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.”

He froze.

Young. Hotshot. Fit.

All things he wasn’t anymore.

Later, he saw you laughing with a group of younger men — the guys from your volunteer programme. You’d told him many times they were like big brothers, and they had even told him that they saw you as a sister.

But Frank, through the haze of insecurity, saw something else entirely.

Young bodies. Muscles. Youth he no longer had. And then he saw you taking pictures with them, your arm slung casually around their shoulders, their smiles wide and easy. You looked like you belonged among them.

A stone formed in his chest that he never quite swallowed.

He barely spoke on the drive home. You chattered, telling stories, teasing him, reaching for his hand, and he gave nothing but quiet hums and nods. At one point, he even snapped, his voice sharper than he intended:

“Can we just drive in silence for a minute?”

You blinked in surprise.

He regretted it instantly. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m just… tired.”

You let it go, leaned over and kissed his shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey. I can see your tiredness on you, so let me draw you a bath when we get home, alright? You can relax." 

He nodded, but the guilt ate him alive.

In the warm steam of that sandalwood bath, he made a quiet decision: he should look better for you. You deserved a man who looked like he belonged beside you, not someone with softening edges and years written across his body.

But he didn’t act on it. Not really. He told himself he’d start working out again, return to his old routines, and run like he used to, and he meant it. But intentions were easier than action. He convinced himself he wasn’t that out of shape. That maybe he’d imagined the comments. That may be the shirt that felt tight last week had shrunk in the wash.

He avoided mirrors more than usual and avoided thinking too deeply about any of it.

Which was why this morning hit him so hard.

Because now, with you hugging him, smelling like a fresh workout, wearing your fitted clothes, your palms resting exactly where he felt bigger, everything he’d been suppressing came crashing back at once.

The insecurity from the anniversary. The vow he didn’t follow through on. The quiet denial he’d been living in. And the terrified little thought:

She deserves better than this. Better than me.

His shoulders tensed, his breath caught, and his entire body locked up involuntarily under your touch.

You pulled back slightly, confusion flickering across your face.

“Frank? You okay, honey?”

He swallowed, forcing his expression into something neutral.

“Breakfast smells good,” he muttered. “Let me… get the coffee.”

He stepped away faster than he meant to, fully aware of your gaze following him. And as he stood there pretending to focus on the coffee machine, something inside him shifted — a quiet, heavy resolve settling into place.

Something had to change.

He had to change.

Not because you’d ever asked him to, God, no, you loved him openly, endlessly. But because he suddenly feared that one day, you’d wake up and realise you could do better.

He swallowed hard, grounding himself.

“Coffee’s ready,” he said, forcing his voice steady.

But in his mind, something had already begun, a resolve, messy and insecure but firm, that he needed to become someone worthy of you again. Someone who could stand beside you, who didn’t flinch from your touch, someone you would never outgrow.

He didn’t know it yet, but this was the morning everything changed.

For both of you.

Frank started waking before dawn, slipping out of bed with the kind of care he once used on missions, slow movements, controlled breathing, careful not to disturb you. He’d pause sometimes, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the way your hand curled into his pillow in your sleep, as if you knew he was gone even then.

He hated leaving you like that.

But he pulled on his joggers anyway, laced his old running shoes, and stepped out into the early-morning darkness.

The first jog nearly humbled him.

His legs burned far quicker than they used to, a sharp pull in his hamstring making him grit his teeth. His lower back pinched with every uneven step, his breath heavier, harsher. The quiet streets that once felt like freedom now felt endless.

This wasn’t how it used to be.

He slowed, then walked, jaw tight with irritation, not at his body exactly, but at the reminder of time. Of change. Of everything he’d tried not to think about.

Some mornings, when he returned sweaty and stiff, you’d already be awake.

“Hey,” you said softly once, peeking up from the couch with your mug cradled between your hands. “Where’d you go?”

“Just a morning walk,” he replied, a little too quickly.

Your face lit up anyway. “Aww… you could’ve woken me up. I was actually planning to go today. We could’ve gone together.”

The idea of you jogging beside him, effortless, glowing, made something twist in his chest.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It was too early. Didn’t want to wake you.”

You smiled, accepting it easily. “Okay. Next time.”

There was always a next time, wasn’t there?

On the mornings guilt won, when his legs ached too much or the weight of it all sat too heavy, he stayed home. And instead, he did push-ups.

Quietly. Carefully. In the living room. In the dark.

Once, you caught him.

You padded in half-asleep, rubbing your eyes, and froze when you saw him on the floor, breathing hard, arms shaking.

“Frank?”

He startled, nearly collapsing. “—Just stretching,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and wiping his face.

You squinted at him, unconvinced, giving him that look, the one that said I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go. 

“Oh. Okay,” you said slowly.

You left it alone.

Another time, he was sure you’d gone out, only for you to pop back in to grab your phone. You found him mid-rep again.

“Stretching?” you repeated, eyebrow raised.

He huffed, irritation flashing briefly before he caught himself. “Yeah.”

You lingered just a second longer than usual, arms slipping briefly around his waist in a quiet hug.

Frank stiffened,, not pulling away, but not leaning in either and for a terrifying moment, he had the distinct sense that you knew.

Not what he was doing.

But why.

As if you could feel the tension in his body and chose tenderness instead of questions.

Your lips brushed his jaw once more before you stepped back.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?” you murmured softly.

 Leaving him standing there with his chest tight and his resolve wavering.

And then you were gone.

Frank exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, forcing his muscles to relax as he returned to his stretches.

He heard you move down the hall.

Then the soft thud of the laundry room door.

He was halfway through another stretch when he heard your voice again, faint, distracted.

“What the—”

He paused.

A moment later:

“Huh.”

There was the rustle of fabric. The clink of the washing machine lid.

“That’s… weird.”

Frank straightened slowly, heart ticking up for reasons he couldn’t explain.

You muttered again, more to yourself than anyone else.

“I swear this wasn’t this tight before…”

His stomach dropped.

A second later, you popped your head back into the living room, eyes flicking briefly,  almost unconsciously, to his shirt.

He went still.

“Everything okay?” he asked, carefully neutral.

You hesitated.

“Yeah,” you said, a little too quick. Then you frowned, glancing down at your own sleeve, tugging at it thoughtfully.

“Just… laundry stuff.”

You hummed under your breath, distracted now, already turning away.

“I really shouldn’t have switched detergents,” you murmured absently. “Cotton’s such a pain…”

The words barely registered.

Detergent. Cotton.

Frank stood there, frozen, staring at the doorway long after you disappeared back into the laundry room.

His shirt still pulled tight across his stomach and chest still felt heavy.

And somehow… the knot inside him twisted tighter instead of loosening.

He told himself it meant nothing.

He always did.

The changes didn’t stop there.

He kept wearing that same black shirt, the one that fit a little tighter now, like a challenge he refused to back down from. Somehow, it only made him look grumpier. Quieter. Sharper around the edges.

Meals changed too.

He know that you aree noticing he eating slower, less. He pushed away second helpings without comment. When you offered dessert, your time, your cozy ritual curled together on the couch with a movie, he shook his head.

“Think I’ll skip tonight.”

You frowned. “Really? You love dessert.”

“Just… full,” he said. “Feeling a little gassy. Probably lunch.” 

You watched him for a moment, then nudged his knee lightly with your own.

“Hey,” you said, gentle but firm. “I need my man eating properly, alright?”

He looked up.

“No weird dieting. No skipping meals. You’re allowed to enjoy food.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because of what you eat — or don’t eat.”

His throat tightened.

“I know,” he said quietly.

But he still didn’t reach for seconds.

He didn’t sit with you anymore. Instead, he retreated to the bedroom, turning on the TV and leaving you wrapped in a blanket alone on the couch.

Every time, his heart ached.

He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to feel your warmth, your weight, your comfort. But the thought of you touching his stomach, noticing, made him pull back.

At night, when you curled into him automatically, your hand drifting to his middle like it always had, he gently moved it away.

“Hey,” he murmured, guiding it higher. “Up here.”

You hesitated only a moment before curling closer again, your forehead resting against his chest.

“No,” you whispered quietly, one hand slipping back down anyway, possessive and warm.

“You’re mine, Frank. All of you. No restrictions.”

His breath hitched.

“I love you exactly the way you are.”

He wrapped his arm around you then, tighter than he meant to, as if holding on was the only thing keeping him steady.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

And he lay awake long after, wondering how something so simple could hurt so much.

You never expected to meet someone who would change your life when you volunteered at the army base.

At first, you thought it would just be harmless fun, a break from routine. A few months of helping out, teasing a bunch of sweaty soldiers who desperately needed some interaction with the outside world. You expected laughter, chaos, brotherly nonsense. Nothing more.

You certainly never expected to fall for one of the commanding officers.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson.

The men you worked with treated you like a little sister, and you were grateful for it. They were protective, loud, endlessly annoying in the way only brothers could be. You loved them for that. Romance was never part of the picture.

Until one afternoon, during some ridiculous dare game, Adam slung you over his shoulder like a sack of grain while everyone laughed.

And then the laughter stopped.

Adam nearly dropped you when he noticed.

You turned, and there he was.

Silver-streaked hair. Immaculate uniform. A presence that sucked the air out of the room. You would’ve melted into the floor if not for the piercing look in his eyes and the sudden awareness of how very improper your position was.

You scrambled down and snapped into a salute. “Sorry, sir.”

You heard snorts behind you.

Frank studied you for a moment — then nodded once and walked past.

From then on, every time you crossed paths, you saluted. Sometimes he’d stop for a word or two. Coffee turned into conversations. Conversations turned into quiet drives home. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a volunteer, and became his.

When you moved in together and once Frank retired, you made it your mission to feed him properly. After years of cafeteria food and solitude, he deserved warm meals, full plates, and someone waiting for him at home.

And it showed.

His skin looked healthier. His shoulders relaxed. He laughed more. Slept better. And you? You loved every second of it.

You weren’t a fitness fanatic, just occasional jogs, light stretching. Your body had always been lean, more genetics than effort. You loved food as much as Frank did. You were happy. He was happy.

Until the base gathering.

You hadn’t thought twice about it, Frank seeing old friends, you reuniting with your army brothers. But as you laughed and posed for photos, you caught Frank watching you from across the room.

Not angry.

Just… wrong.

The drive home was quiet. Too quiet.

When he snapped, it startled you.

“Can we just drive in silence for a minute?”

Your hand slipped from his.

He apologized immediately, but the look on his face stayed with you long after.

The next morning, you woke early, kissed his forehead, and pulled on your workout clothes, just enough movement to wake yourself before cooking him a proper breakfast.

That’s when he appeared in the doorway.

Joggers. Black shirt.

Your smile bloomed, then faltered.

That shirt hadn’t fit like that three days ago.

You stepped into his arms for your usual morning hug.

And he stiffened.

Didn’t hug you back.

Your heart sank.

“Frank?” you asked softly. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Breakfast smells good,” he said, already stepping away. “I’ll get the coffee.”

You watched him move, tired, shoulders slumped, avoiding your touch.

And in that moment, you knew.

Something was wrong.

And you were going to get to the bottom of it.

So that’s what you did.

The first time you noticed, you woke expecting the familiar weight of Frank curled around you, his arm slung over your waist, his warmth pressed into your back.

Instead, the space beside you was cold.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet.

You frowned, sitting up, listening. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Curious and uneasy — you slipped out of bed and padded toward the window. You opened the blinds just a crack.

At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you.

Then you saw him.

Frank, in his joggers, moving steadily down the street. Jogging.

You rubbed your eyes and looked again.

Still him.

Shock rooted you to the spot. In all the time you’d been together, Frank had never woken early like this. He loved sleeping in with you — slow mornings, tangled sheets, nowhere to be.

Heart thudding, you watched until he turned back toward the house.

Panicking slightly, you hurried back to bed and slipped beneath the covers, closing your eyes just as the front door opened. Soft footsteps coming up the stairs. A pause beside you.

You felt his lips brush your forehead.

Then the sound of the shower.

You lay there staring into the dark, the same thought looping again and again.

Why are you acting so strange?

You told yourself to let it go.

At first.

But the mornings kept repeating.

Some days, you were awake when he came back, damp and breathing heavier than usual.

“Where’d you go?” you asked once, trying to sound casual.

“Just a walk,” he replied — too quickly.

Your face lit up anyway.

“Aww, you could’ve woken me up. I was actually planning to go today. We could’ve gone together.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face, then it vanished.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It was too early. Didn’t want to wake you.”

You smiled.

“Okay. Next time.”

But next time never came.

Another morning, you woke later and padded into the living room, only to freeze.

Frank was on the floor.

Breathing hard. Arms shaking. Holding a plank.

“Frank?”

He startled so badly he nearly collapsed. “—Just stretching,” he muttered, pushing himself upright and wiping his face.

You eyed him skeptically.

“Oh. Okay.”

You let it go. Maybe he really did just want to stay active. You didn’t mind. You didn’t want him to change for you, not ever.

But then it happened again.

You’d gone out, realized you’d forgotten your phone, and returned, only to find him mid-rep once more.

“Stretching?” you asked again, eyebrow raised.

He huffed, irritation flashing briefly.

“Yeah.”

You stared a second longer than usual, then stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a quiet hug. His body stiffened — not pushing you away, but not relaxing either.

You ignored it. Kissed his jaw softly.

“Don’t overdo it, okay?”

You left, your mood to go out completely gone.

Instead, you headed to the laundry.

That’s when you noticed it.

You pulled clothes from the washer and frowned.

“What the heck…?”

Some of your shirts felt tighter. Shorter. An oversized tee now fit like it never had before.

Then you noticed Frank’s clothes.

His shirts. His joggers. Even his underwear.

“I swear this wasn’t this tight before…”

Your mind raced. You stepped into the living room and glanced at him, his black shirt clung tighter around his waist now, stretching where it hadn’t days ago.

Frank noticed your stare.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you said a little too quickly. Then you tugged at your sleeve thoughtfully. “Just… laundry stuff.”

You retreated back to the laundry room, staring at the detergent bottle.

“I really shouldn’t have switched detergents,” you muttered under your breath. “Cotton’s such a pain…”

You’d bought it on a whim, flashy label, promises of extra softness, something new to try. Now you regretted it instantly, fingers rubbing the fabric of a shrunken sleeve.

You shook your head and pushed the thought aside.

Laundry could wait.

Frank’s behavior, however, didn’t.

It crept back in that evening.

At dinner, you noticed it again, the way he ate slower. Smaller bites. Less enthusiasm. He pushed his plate away after barely finishing one helping, even though you’d cooked his favorite vodka pasta, garlic bread still warm on the table.

You watched him, quiet concern settling in your chest.

When dessert came, your ritual, your time, curled together on the couch with something sweet and a movie playing softly in the background…

“I think I’ll skip tonight.”

You turned to him, brows knitting.

“Really? You love dessert.”

“Just… full,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “Feeling a little gassy. Probably lunch.”

You knew he hadn’t eaten much at lunch.

You nudged his knee gently, grounding him.

“Hey,” you said, firm but soft. “I need my man eating properly, alright?”

He finally looked at you.

“No weird dieting. No skipping meals. You’re allowed to enjoy food.”

You squeezed his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because of what you eat — or don’t eat.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

But he still didn’t reach for seconds.

And it didn’t stop there.

After dinner, instead of settling beside you like always, he retreated to the bedroom. The TV clicked on, muffled through the walls, leaving you alone on the couch wrapped in a blanket meant for two.

Your heart ached.

That was when you knew.

This wasn’t about food. It wasn’t about exercise. And it wasn’t something you wanted to corner him about — not yet.

So you gave him space. Let him have silence when he needed it. Let him decide when he was ready to speak.

But at night… you still held him.

You always did.

When you curled into him beneath the covers, your body instinctively sought his — your hand drifting to his middle like it always had, familiar and loving.

He stiffened.

Gently, carefully, he moved your hand upward.

“Hey,” he murmured softly. “Up here.”

You paused.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

You didn’t pull away.

“No,” you whispered instead, slipping your hand back down anyway — warm, possessive, unafraid.

“You’re mine, Frank. All of you. No restrictions.”

His breath caught sharply in his chest.

You pressed closer, your voice barely more than air.

“I love you exactly the way you are.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his arm came around you, tighter than necessary, like he was afraid letting go might make you disappear. Like you were the only thing holding him steady.

“Goodnight,” he murmured into your hair.

You hummed softly, nestling closer, your fingers tracing slow, reassuring circles.

And in the quiet dark, you hoped gently, patiently that when he was ready, he’d let you in.

Frank threw himself into the renovation plans like it was a mission briefing.

Measurements scribbled on scrap paper. Tools laid out in precise lines. The garage smelled of sawdust and oil, a comfortingly familiar distraction. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

Anything to keep him from thinking about the way you still touched him like nothing had changed.

And how that somehow made everything worse.

You appeared in the doorway, arms folded loosely, voice gentle in a way that made his chest tighten.

“Hey, honey. Come on. Let’s go out tonight.”

He glanced up, surprised.

“It’s been a rough week,” you continued softly. “For both of us. Let’s just… relax. Have a drink. Be us again.”

Guilt hit him hard and fast.

He nodded before he could talk himself out of it.

Later, while he was dressing, he hesitated with the long-sleeved shirt in his hands.

“This one might—”

“It’ll fit,” you said easily, not even looking up.

And somehow… it did.

No tightness. No strain. The fabric sat exactly where it always had.

Frank frowned at his reflection, confusion flickering, but he pushed the thought aside when your arms wrapped around him from behind.

“You ready, babe ?” you murmured.

He turned.

And forgot how to breathe.

Jeans. White knit top. Messy bun. Effortless. Comfortable. You, exactly the way he loved you most.

You reached up and messed his hair with a grin.

“Damn, I love your hair so much.”

“Oh?” he muttered dryly. “Didn’t know it had that kind of magnetic pull.”

You laughed, bright and warm — and just like that, something inside him softened.

The drive there was calming with you by his side like old times and the bar was quiet, a seaside bar, your favourite place to be together.

Ocean air drifted in through the open doors, carrying the salt and the low hush of waves. Soft lights reflected off glass and water, the dock stretching just beyond the railing, overlooking the sea. Calm. Unbothered. Everyone minding their own business.

It felt safe.

Frank relaxed, just a little.

You both settled into your seats, drinks in hand, talking easily. About the garage renovation you’d been planning. About paint colours. Storage. Things that mattered without touching the thing that had hung between you since the anniversary.

Food came and went. Laughter slipped in naturally. You finished with a glass of wine; Frank stuck to his whiskey like old times.

Then he saw him.

A man walking toward your table.

Frank heard your name first, spoken casually, familiarly. The man was near your age. Good-looking. The kind of man who made sense standing next to you.

You turned, recognition lighting your face.

 “James!” you said, cheerful.

“Yes — it’s me,” he laughed.

You didn’t hug him. Didn’t lean in. You just smiled, genuinely happy, and that somehow hurt more.

You introduced Frank, your hand briefly touching his arm as you did. James greeted him respectfully, apologized for interrupting your time together.

Frank forced a smile. “It’s fine.”

But his jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists under the table as he turned slightly, lifting his drink and staring out at the sea.

She should be with someone like him.

Someone young. Someone who fits her world. Not some old, overgrown, retired arm general who’d been moody and distant for weeks.

He caught snippets of your conversation, laughter, memories, easy familiarity, and waited patiently even though every part of him wanted your attention back on him.

For a moment, he even imagined James as a rookie back on base, the kind he’d once thrown out of the barracks for flirting with you.

The thought almost made him smile and cleared his throat as an indication to which he thought you heard.

Then you said your goodbyes.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” you said softly once James left. “I know tonight was supposed to be for us. He’s just an old friend from school. Nothing romantic. We lost touch.”

“Hm,” Frank murmured. “I see.”

The rest of the evening went quiet.

Later, once you were home, you headed upstairs to get ready for bed. Frank locked up the house, his thoughts heavy and loud as he followed.

When he reached the bedroom, you were tying your hair up for a shower.

Frank leaned against the doorway.

“You deserve someone your age,” he muttered, stepping further into the room. “Not an old man with a retired soldier’s gut.”

He saw you freeze.

“Frank,” you said gently. “I knew something was bothering you. Ever since that gathering. Talk to me — what really happened?”

He shook his head. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did,” you replied softly. “But I also saw you stop eating properly. Pushing food away. Pulling back when I touch you. All those random workouts. So tell me, what happened?”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have let you meet me. You should have someone more than I am. Someone your age. Not me.”

You stared at him. “Over what? Weight?”

He swallowed.

“At the gathering” he said quietly. “I heard a bunch of dumbasses talking. ‘Damn, she looks fine.’ ‘Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.’”

His jaw tightened.

“I wanted to knock their teeth out. Deport them if I could.”

He let out a bitter breath. “Then I saw you taking pictures with your army friends. And I thought… maybe they were right.”

“And that morning,” he continued, “when my shirt felt tight, it just added fuel to it all.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh my god, Frank,” you said softly. “I thought — for a minute — you were cheating. Or losing interest in me.”

He looked up, startled.

“But then I knew,” you continued, stepping closer. “That something hurt you. And you needed time. I just… never expected this.”

You took his face in your hands.

“Don’t you ever call yourself that. Or say you don’t deserve me.”

Your voice shook. “You gave me a home. Safety. A shoulder. Your heart.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

“And for the record, you didn’t gain weight. You look exactly the same to me. And even if you did? I’d still love you.”

You huffed a laugh through tears.

“And the shirt? That’s my fault. I changed the detergent. Even my clothes shrank — I’ve been walking around feeling like I’m wearing toddler knickers.”

Frank smirked weakly.

“So… just assholes talking?”

“Exactly,” you said. “And if I ever hear them again, my army bros will handle it.”

You stepped forward and wrapped yourself around him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For pushing you away these last two weeks.”

He hugged you tightly, kissing your temple.

“Well,” you murmured with a smile. “You can make it up to me.”

You slipped away, giggling as you darted toward the bathroom.

Frank watched you go, lighter than he’d felt in weeks.

You decided on the date because it had been a while.

Because ever since the gathering, something in Frank had shifted — the rigid routine, the forced workouts, the way he pulled away without ever really letting you go. And you thought… why not? Why not take him somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar.

Your favourite restaurant by the sea.

So when you found Frank in the garage, buried in renovation plans like they were military orders, you crossed your arms and smiled.

“Hey, honey ,” you said sweetly. “Come on. Let’s go out tonight.”

He glanced up looking surprised.

“It’s been a rough week,” you continued softly. “For both of us. Let’s just… relax. Have a drink. Be us again.”

You hid your smile as you turned away, hoping — really hoping — you might get your General back tonight. Maybe he’d finally let whatever he was carrying go.

That night, you dressed together. You handed him a long-sleeved shirt, and you saw the hesitation flicker across his face.

“This one might—”

“It’ll fit,” you said easily.

And somehow, it did.

Perfectly.

The confusion crossed his expression, but before he could dwell on it, you wrapped your arms around him from behind.

“You ready, babe?”

He turned, and the way his eyes softened when he saw you in jeans, a white knit top, hair thrown up in a messy bun, made your chest ache.

You reached up and messed up his hair deliberately.

“Damn, I love your hair so much.”

“Oh?” he muttered. “Didn’t know it had that kind of magnetic pull.”

You laughed, and just like that, the tension eased.

The drive was calm. Easy. You both enjoyed the seaside drive like the old times and the bar was just as you loved it. Quiet. Open to the sea. A dock stretching out toward the water. Everyone minding their own business.

Safe.

You ate. You talked. You drank wine for you, whiskey for him.

Then you heard your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned, surprised, and then smiled.

“James!”

An old friend from school. English club. Not close, but familiar. He’d changed, no glasses, broader shoulders, but the smile was the same.

You greeted him warmly, but you didn’t hug him.

“And this is my partner,” you added easily. “Frank.”

James smiled politely. “Nice to meet you. Sorry to interrupt your time.”

You noticed Frank nod, polite but distant, turning back toward the ocean with his glass.

You chatted briefly, volunteering, life updates, until Frank cleared his throat softly.

You took the cue immediately.

“We’ll catch up another time,” you said.

James agreed, wishing you well before leaving.

You turned to Frank. “Sorry, babe. I know tonight was meant to be just us. He’s an old friend, nothing romantic.”

“Hm,” Frank said quietly. “I see.”

The rest of the night passed gently — but quietly.

At home, you went upstairs to get ready for bed while Frank locked up. You were tying your hair up for a shower when he appeared in the doorway.

“You deserve someone your age,” he muttered, eyes fixed anywhere but you.

“Not an old man with a retired soldier’s gut.”

The words hit you like a slap.

You froze — then realised, with a strange mix of hurt and relief, finally.

He was opening up.

“Frank,” you said gently. “I knew something was bothering you. Ever since that gathering. Talk to me — what really happened?”

He shook his head, frustration rough in his voice.

 “Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did,” you replied softly. “But I also saw you stop eating properly. Pushing food away. Pulling back when I touch you. All those random workouts.”

You stepped closer.

“So tell me — what happened?”

His voice cracked.

“I don’t deserve you. I shouldn’t have let you meet me. You should have someone more than I am. Someone your age. Not me.”

You stared at him.

“Over what?” you asked quietly. “Weight?”

He swallowed hard.

“At the gathering,” he said at last. “I heard a bunch of dumbasses talking.”

His jaw tightened.

“‘Damn, she looks fine.’ ‘Wonder who her man is. Bet he’s some young hotshot.’”

His hands curled into fists.

“I wanted to knock their teeth out. Deport them if I could,” he muttered bitterly. “Then I saw you taking pictures with your army friends… and I thought maybe they were right.”

He exhaled sharply.

 “And that morning, when my shirt felt tight, it just added fuel to it all.”

You could feel the anger flare, not at him, but at the idiots who had planted the thought in his head. Bloody dumbasses. If you’d known that same day, you would’ve happily kicked their bollocks in with your heels.

And then the guilt hit.

The detergent.

All of it, weeks of insecurity, compressed into him without a word.

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh my god, Frank,” you whispered when he finished. “I thought you were cheating. Or losing interest in me.” 

He looked horrified.

“But then I knew,” you continued, stepping closer. “That something hurt you. I just never expected this.”

You cupped his face firmly, making him look at you.

“Don’t you ever call yourself that. Or say you don’t deserve me,” you said, voice trembling despite yourself.

“You gave me everything, a home, safety, your heart.”

You rested your forehead against his.

“And for the record — you look exactly the same to me. And even if you didn’t?”

You huffed out a weak laugh. “I’d still love you.”

You pulled back just enough to smirk.

“And the shirt? That’s my fault. I changed the detergent. Even my clothes shrank — I’ve been walking around feeling like I’m wearing toddler knickers.”

He finally smirked small, but real.

“So… just assholes talking?” he asked quietly.

“Exactly,” you said, wrapping your arms around him.

“And if I ever hear them again, my army bros can handle it.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For pushing you away.”

“Well,” you murmured with a smile, cheeks warming as you thought about it,

“you can make it up to me.”

You slipped away toward the bathroom, giggling, heart lighter, face warm, already blushing at the thought of how Frank planned to do exactly that.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt it, the weight lifting.

The tension easing and Frank breathing freely again.

He’d finally let it all out.

And you knew — absolutely, that everything was going to be okay.

Epilogue

A few days later, you found yourselves at the supermarket, cart half full, Frank reading labels like it was a tactical operation.

You were comparing pasta brands when you heard it.

“God, look at that silver fox…”

“Damn. Where do we get one like that?”

Frank frowned.

“…Who are they talking about?” he muttered.

You bit your lip.

He glanced around — then froze.

There was no one else nearby.

Two women down the aisle were pretending very badly to study canned tomatoes, whispering and glancing in his direction.

Slowly, Frank turned to you.

“…Are they talking about me?”

You lost it.

A soft snort escaped you before you could stop it. “Oh my god, Frank — yes. Yes, they are.”

His ears turned red.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, looping your arm through his. “That silver fox hunk? That’s you.”

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“This is deeply uncomfortable.”

You grinned up at him.

“Aw, come on,” you teased. “You’re a total magnet.”

He huffed. “Too bad I’m taken.”

You squeezed his arm possessively.

“Very taken.”

As you wheeled the cart away, you caught him glancing at his reflection in the freezer door, not critically this time, but with something softer.

Something settled.

And you smiled, knowing exactly what he saw.

"You look awfully young to be out this late." A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts. You turn to see John Dutton standing behind you. Black cowboy hat planted atop his greyed hair, his face still as handsome as the first time you'd laid eyes on him some years ago.

"I'm old enough sir." You reply and he laughs. "You want to join me? Gets awfully lonely drinking on your own."

"Sure, let's sit at a booth." He says and you eagerly follow him.

It didn't take you long to realise that John didn't remember you at all, after saying your name you looked for an ounce of recognition in his eyes but found nothing. But why would he? He had four children to look after, he didn't have the time to meet all of their friends so your slight offence soon went away when he ordered another round to your table.

He introduced himself properly and you shook his hand like it was the first time meeting him. A part of you wanted to interrupt him and explain that you already knew him as you'd met years ago but you stopped yourself. It would make things a little awkward wouldn't it?

"I'll tell him later." You thought to yourself as you took a mouthful of the fruity gin that was brought to your table moments ago. "Of course I'll tell him." You thought as his fingers rested on yours 10 minutes later atop the sticky table of the booth. "Ok I'll tell him now." You thought when two hours of laughter and flirting went by and the bell rang for closing time. John held his arm out for you to take as he lead you to his truck, he opens the passenger door for you and playfully taps your ass as you climb in.

"Where you staying?" He asked when he turned the truck on.

"Motel down the road, got a room there for a few nights whilst I visit my friend."

"Maybe I shouldn't tell him." You thought when his rough palm rested atop your bare thigh as he drove, your legs parting ever so slightly in reaction to the touch. If it weren't for the alcohol in your system his presence alone could intoxicate you. With his rough voice and equally rough hands you felt your underwear dampen as John pulled into the motel car park.

Stepping out of the truck he wasted no time in rounding the vehicle and opening your door, holding a hand out for you to hold onto as you jumped down, your legs almost gave way underneath you as your feet hit the cold concrete below but John was quick to steady you. In the short walk from the truck to your motel door you'd decided to confess everything to your friend's dad. Standing with your back to the door after unlocking it you open your mouth to speak. "John I-" The overdue confession was interrupted by a kiss and just like that all regard for doing the right thing was thrown out the window.

Johns lips felt just like you'd imagined. His kiss was rough but his lips were soft. Carefully but quickly he moved you backwards, through the motel door and continued pushing until your legs hit the edge of the old bed frame. You both stopped and John turned, you thought for a second he was leaving but instead he closed the motel room door and locked it before returning to you. Slowly, Johns hands traced up your spine to the zipper that held your dress taut and he pulls the metal down, goosebumps prick your skin as the fabric falls off your body and gathers around your feet.

You're bare against him. The only thing covering you now is a lacy thong and your boots. "I feel a little under-dressed here Mr Dutton." You say dropping down onto the hard mattress.

He laughs, a deep but hushed laughter that makes you blush. With zero hesitation John removes his shirt, discards his boots and undoes his belt, letting his jeans drop alongside your dress. Despite his age he was still in incredible shape, strong arms and shoulders from years of heavy lifting, a broad chest speckled with hair and scars and strong thighs that painted muscle throughout years of horse riding.

"Let me get these off for you darlin." He says dropping to one knee and taking hold of your right ankle. Slowly, he slid the boot off your foot, kissing your knee as he did so and then moved to your other foot where he repeated the action.

Once freed from your boots you shimmy up to the top of the bed until you're led against the uncomfortable pillows situated there. John follows you and positioned himself between your spread thighs, his bulge pressing down onto your clothed pussy. His lips meet yours again in a hungry kiss and you feel his cock twitch against you when you run your fingers through his hair.

Pulling away from your lips John kissed down your neck to your chest where he latched his mouth around one nipple. A hand that was previously resting on your waist moved down into your underwear where he caressed your cunt before pushing two fingers into your sopping hole.

"Nice and wet for me aren't you baby?" He says pulling himself from your tit, voice aged and gravely from years of smoking, drinking and shouting.

"All for you Mr Dutton." You reply and he moans.

John continues to kiss down your body until his face settles between your thighs. Effortlessly he pulls your underwear off you and dives face first into your pussy letting out a soft hum as he does. You're caught off guard, you'd half expected John to be the type of man to go straight to fucking but this was a pleasant surprise. He lapped at your cunt, tongue diving this way and that like he was trying to commit the shape to memory and you were loving it.

He'd already made you cum once and by the time he sucked on your clit again you were clawing at the bedsheets and wriggling around under him trying to move. "John, please." You whined and he laughed. Finally he stopped his torment and flicked your clit once more with his tongue before moving back up the bed. His boxers had been discarded now but you had no clue when he'd took them off.

With zero hesitation and precise aim built from years of experience John sheathed his cock inside of you, your gasp was stifled by his mouth pressing against yours. You could taste your cum on his lips and tongue as he kissed you though you barely had time to savour the taste as John began pounding his cock into you.

"Fuck." You sighed in ecstasy. You'd thought that maybe because of his age you would be doing most of the work but John proved you wrong. With your legs perched on his shoulders his balls slapped against your arse as he pummelled into you, snapping his hips in a fierce rhythm chasing his release which was approaching quickly.

In another quick motion John dropped your legs from his shoulder and before you could protest he flipped you both around so he was on his back and you were straddling him. "You good at riding baby?" He asked, voice low and accompanied with straggled breaths.

"The best you'll ever have." You replied and immediately got to work with swirling your hips and grinding on his cock. The curled mass of his pubic hair tickled your clit as you rode him and you moved your hands to find purchase on his thighs behind you, head rolled back and tits bouncing you were a sight to behold. John stared at you and forgot for a moment that your tight cunt was milking his cock, the way the light in the shitty metal room shone on you made you look angelic.

John shook himself out of his haze and landed a firm slap to one of your tits. You brought your head forwards and peered down at him. You lowered your face towards him and John took the opportunity to bring you closer to him. Your forehead was pressed to his as he gripped your waist and began to buck his hips upwards, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every single deep thrust.

With one final thrust John came deep inside of you. He wasn't quick enough to pull out but thankfully you'd remained on birth control after your breakup. "So good darlin'." He says with a grunt and gives your thigh a little tap to indicate it was time to get off him.

Your legs ached but you managed to throw yourself down to the empty space next to him on the bed. You didn't want to assume that John would spend the night though when he climbed off the bed and began to put his clothes back on you couldn't help but feel a little hurt at his lack of aftercare. "Sorry to leave you so soon darlin' but I've got a busy day tomorrow." He explains after seemingly sensing your hurt.

You accept his explanation and throw on a dressing gown to cover yourself as you walk him to the door. With one final kiss to your forehead John leaves the motel room with a soft smile resting on his face. "I'll look forward to bumping into you again John." You say testing the waters slightly.

"I have a feeling you'll come find me before you leave." He smirks. With that John steps to his truck and you close the door. His scent mixed with the smell of sweat and alcohol is plaguing the room. You should shower, but your feet are already pulling you to the bed and before you have the chance to fight back you're under the covers and drifting off to sleep. Dreams of John Dutton infesting your mind.

Fortunately it wasn't the pounding of a headache that woke you up in the morning. Unfortunately however it was the persistent buzzing of your phone on the crappy bedside table. Deice edging closer to the ridge of the wooden surface. Without checking you pick the phone up and press it to your ear.

"Hey you're finally awake, my dad's hosting a meal tonight, would you like to join?"

It's Jamie. His question makes you sit right up so fast the room spins slightly. "Oh, no thanks Jamie, I've got other plans." You stammer out an unconvincing reply.

"No you don't." He laughs. "He's not as grumpy as he used to be so you're coming, I'll pick you up at 6."

"Ok." You mutter softly. With a lump in your throat dropped your phone onto the bedside table and sank back into the pillows. Your head is taken over by thoughts of regret as you think back to the hours you shared under the assumption that he didn't know who you were and now you felt guilty. Guilty at the fact that you knew him all this time and still fucked him on the grotty motel bed that now had your suitcase rested on it.

You stayed in that position for the majority of the day until 4pm rolled around and you were forced to get out of bed by another call from Jamie reminding you of the dinner. You took a shower and picked out a nice dress, one that hid as much as possible but still showed off your natural curves, ones that John had run his rough hands over some hours ago. Your phone pinged and you heard the beep of a car horn outside. Taking a few more deep breaths you plucked up what little courage you had left and stepped out of the room with your bag, tucking your phone into the side pocket as you walked down the steps to the car park.

"You seem nervous." Jamie says, eyes fixed on the road.

"I am, been a while since I've seen your family."

"You'll be fine, if any of them give you a hard time just give me a nudge." His reassurance didn't help as he turned down the road that led right to the front of the Dutton ranch.

You wanted to try and avoid John as much as possible. Try and reconnect with his kids, well, they weren't kids anymore, hell you even thought about running to the bunkhouse to make awkward conversation with the ranch hands, anything to make your stay go faster but it was pointless.

John was already waiting. He stood on his porch, staring at you as Jamie turned the truck off. You looked away for a second to undo your seatbelt and open the door but when you looked back John was gone. A part of you honestly thought you were losing it, but when Jamies hand pressed to the middle of your back as he motioned you inside the house you realised that it was no dream at all.

There he stood. Mr Dutton. The man who had fucked you not even a day ago in a shitty motel room, the man you knew all about but who couldn't remember you. It hit you like a freight train when he turned to look at you. Once soft blue eyes replaced with a stern gaze that made you feel small. He crossed the room, said hi to Jamie and then brought all of his attention to you. "I'm John, nice to meet you." He says holding his hand out. You take it into your own and his grip feels tight. He's definitely angry, but he's doing a fantastic job at hiding it.

Sensing some tension, though he doesn't know why, Jamie takes the opportunity to save you from his father's gaze and gives you an updated tour of the house. You'd been here plenty times before but the decor had become more modernised, some pieces still remained, things that were too nice or held memories that John wasn't ready to part with yet. After the tour Jamie returned you back to the living room where you were then forced to try and have a normal conversation with Beth. She asked a few questions here and there and you answered where you could until she asked if you'd gotten lucky since coming back.

You laughed. "Oh yeah, you have no idea. That's a story for another day though." You reply and she laughs. After some small talk, where you were practically glued to Jamies side the table was set. Everyone took their places and you were forced to sit opposite John who had been glaring at you ever since you'd walked through the front door.

The food was great, the wine even better as it worked its magic at surpassing your anxieties about being under the same roof as a man you had ridden to high heavens hours ago. Under the table you feel Johns boot tap yours and it makes you jump ever so slightly. Avoiding his gaze you continue eating and conversing with his family until he taps you again. "Sorry." You announce. "Can you excuse me for a moment please." Your voice is shaking as you stand from your chair and quickly make your way out of the room and to the bathroom down the hall.

You run the cold tap and collect water in your hands, splashing it onto your face in an attempt to cool yourself down. "You knew." A familiar voice makes you jump as you dry your face with the flannel. Looking in the mirror you see John stood in the doorway of the bathroom, he's leaning against the doorframe, hands on his hips and his eyes fixated on the back of your head.

You turn around and his eyes finally meet yours. "I'm sorry, I tried to tell you but I couldn't find the right time. If id've known beforehand that Jamie was going to bring me to this meal I would have said something straight away."

He laughs. "Sure."

You stood in awkward silence and contemplated barging past John and walking back to your motel but the sound of the bathroom door shutting brought your attention back to him. He'd shut the door and was currently stepping towards you, a smirk plastered on his handsome face as he closed the distance.

"Y'know, when I saw you at that bar I could've sworn I'd seen you somewhere before." His voice low. "Why don't you stay here tonight, I've got a bed that's much nicer than a shitty motel one."

"Hmm, you didn't seem to mind the shitty motel one though." You reply with a flirty tone and he smiles. "Plus I've paid for the week, can't really afford to waste money like you Duttons."

"I'll reimburse you."

You were dating an older man. You knew that. You liked that.

You liked the white hair, the slow confidence, the baritone voice that didn’t rush or fumble. You liked the way he handled you—his hands steady, his body warm and solid, like a mountain that occasionally whispered filthy things in your ear while you rode it.

You liked Frank.

You liked him a lot.

But you weren’t prepared for this.

It was the first night you were staying over—really staying over, toothbrush and everything. The sex had been phenomenal, of course. He’d gone down on you like he had something to prove, and as always, left you limp and starry-eyed and whispering praises to a god you didn’t believe in. You’d showered, crawled into his bed, and now you were lying beneath his navy sheets—warm, flushed, messy-haired—watching Frank as he stood at his bedside table.

And then he did it.

Just like that. Calm. Casual. Like he was putting down a watch or setting an alarm.

He took out his fucking dentures… and dropped them into a glass of water.

You blinked.

You blinked hard.

“…What,” you said flatly, voice almost inaudible.

Frank turned toward you, towel still slung low on his hips, his chest soft and dusted with silver hair, completely unfazed. “What?”

You stared at the glass.

Then at him.

Then at the glass again.

“…Was that your teeth?”

He squinted, brows furrowing slightly in confusion. “Yes?”

You sat up like you’d been electrocuted, sheets falling from your chest. “Wait, wait, wait—wait a minute, Frank—what the hell?!”

He looked taken aback now, caught between bafflement and rising concern. “Didn’t you know?”

“NO, I didn’t know! When were you planning on mentioning that you had no fucking teeth?!”

Frank’s mouth opened. Then closed. His hazel eyes flicked toward the glass, then back to you. “…I mean… I thought it was obvious.”

You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Frank,” you said slowly, “you gave me oral like—eight times.”

He raised a brow. “Yes?”

“I never noticed! You took your teeth out and didn’t think that was worth, I don’t know, disclosing?”

Now Frank looked truly puzzled. “I only take them out before bed. Or… before other things.”

“Other things?!” Your voice cracked. “You mean you’ve been gumming my pussy like a goddamn immoral grandpa?!”

That made him wince—just slightly. “I… that’s a rather harsh way to put it.”

You stared at him in full horror, your brain short-circuiting.

“…Oh my God,” you muttered, suddenly crawling across the bed toward him. “Open your mouth. Open it.”

“Darling—”

“Nope. Nope. I need confirmation. I need visual proof. I think I’m hallucinating.”

Frank sighed—long-suffering, quietly wounded—and opened his mouth.

You blinked into it.

No upper row. Nothing on the bottom except a few natural teeth that looked perfectly healthy—but clearly didn’t do much heavy lifting.

“Oh my God, I’m dating a man with missing teeth,” you whispered, half-shocked, half-hysterical. “This is like some kind of elaborate social experiment. Am I being filmed? Are the cameras hidden in the closet?”

Frank’s face fell—just a fraction. But you saw it. You saw the way his shoulders shifted, the way his gaze dropped, his confidence faltering beneath your incredulous stare.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said after a moment, his voice lower, quieter. “You seemed happy. I didn’t want to… complicate things.”

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out.

Because suddenly, Frank wasn’t just the man who made you scream his name in parking lots.

He was a man with scars.

With missing teeth.

With soft spots he hadn’t meant to show you yet.

He turned away without another word, reached for the glass—and in a practiced motion, popped the dentures back in. There was a faint click. Then silence.

You watched him, your heart thudding.

He looked at you again, jaw squared now, something shuttered in his hazel eyes.

“If this changes things,” he said quietly, “you can go.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your expression softened immediately. “Frank…”

“I’ve been through worse,” he added, voice steady now, measured. “You wouldn’t be the first to lose interest when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy.”

You tried to speak.

You opened your mouth—twice—but the words just wouldn’t come. Something about the way Frank was standing, towel slung low, jaw clenched, the dim light catching the silver in his chest hair… it made everything feel heavier. Too heavy for jokes. Too heavy for the shocked, messy reaction you’d just had.

And then, without a word, he turned.

The towel dropped to the floor with a soft thud. He reached for a pair of sweatpants folded neatly on the chair, stepped into them with practiced ease, and pulled them up without looking at you. His movements were slow, careful. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just quiet. Controlled. The same way he always moved when something cut too deep for him to show.

You watched as he padded barefoot out of the bedroom, not even glancing back.

The door didn’t slam.

But it closed.

Softly.

Too softly.

You sat in the navy sheets for a long, hollow minute, your heart hammering in your throat. The room smelled like him—cologne, warm skin, fabric softener—and that somehow made it worse. Made the empty spot he’d left feel even bigger.

By the time you pulled on a shirt and padded out into the hallway, Frank was already seated on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands steepled together beneath his mouth. He looked like he was praying. Or preparing for war.

His hazel eyes flicked to you once. Then back to the floor.

He said nothing.

You stood there for a beat, arms crossed against your chest. You’d never felt so much distance in so little space.

“I…” you started, then trailed off. You pressed your lips together, exhaled, then tried again. “Frank, I wasn’t—what I said back there, I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice was calm, clipped. That familiar baritone, now dry as dust. “You don’t need to explain.”

You took a step closer. “Yes, I do.”

Frank’s jaw twitched, and he shook his head faintly, staring ahead.

“I was surprised,” you said softly, “that’s all. Not disgusted. Not horrified. Just surprised.”

He gave a soft, humorless huff. “Sure sounded horrified.”

You winced.

“Frank…” You walked around the coffee table, lowering yourself slowly to sit beside him on the edge of the couch. His body was stiff, arms crossed now over his chest, his hooked nose in profile as he stubbornly avoided your gaze. “I’ve just never dated someone who… takes their teeth out to sleep.”

He snorted faintly. “Guess I should’ve included it in the welcome packet.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” His voice was flat. Too even. That was worse than if he’d shouted. “And it’s fine. Really. You can go.”

“Stop saying that.”

Frank looked at you now, finally, and the look in his eyes made your stomach twist. Not anger. Not irritation. Just… resignation. A quiet kind of hurt. The kind of hurt that had been felt before.

“I’m not angry,” he said, and he meant it. “I’m just… tired. I should’ve known better.”

You shook your head, reaching out before you could stop yourself, placing your hand over his. His knuckles were warm. Rough. Still tense.

“I like you, Frank,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Like… a lot. The sex is great, sure, but that’s not why I brought a toothbrush. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I trust you. Because I feel safe with you. Because you… calm me in a way no one else does.”

He didn’t say anything. But his hand didn’t move from under yours.

“I freaked out,” you admitted. “Not because of your teeth. Not really. But because I think you’re this indestructible, military-grade tank of a man… and then you did something so human, so normal, and I—” you broke off, swallowing. “I felt like an idiot. For not knowing. For reacting like a dumbass.”

Frank’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close. “You called me an immoral grandpa.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto his shoulder. “I hate me so much.”

He let out a soft breath. And for a long moment, that was all. Just breath, and warmth, and silence.

Then, his voice—softer now.

“I lost most of them in a training accident. Years ago. Before I got promoted. One of those things they tell you is statistically rare—until it happens to you.” His baritone was quiet, like gravel soaked in regret. “I got a bridge. Then implants. Then eventually… these.” He glanced toward the bedroom, where the glass still sat by the lamp. “Didn’t think it mattered anymore. Most nights, it doesn’t.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His hazel eyes met yours—tired, yes, but softer now.

“You’re still sexy as hell, you know,” you whispered.

His brow lifted. “Without teeth?”

You smirked. “Especially without teeth. That gumming thing? I mean, ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

Frank let out a laugh—low and gravelly, a huff through his nose—but this one was real. Tension slid from his shoulders as he shook his head, rubbing his hand over his face.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet, here I am.” You leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Still here. Still choosing you.”

Frank turned, just slightly, just enough to press his lips to your temple. The kiss lingered longer than necessary. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Mm. But I’m your pain in the ass.”

He pulled you into his lap then, strong arms wrapping around you, anchoring you against his chest. You could feel his heart beneath your ear—steady, slow, solid.

And there, in the quiet, you whispered, “Just don’t ever take them out mid-blowjob, okay?”

Frank groaned. “Christ, woman.”

But his laugh shook the both of you.

And that was enough.

___________

Okay.

You definitely never thought you’d go through this.

But here you were—barefoot, slightly hungover, standing in Frank Benson’s bathroom days after the Great Denture Revelation™—brushing his fucking dentures. Because he was too drunk to do it himself.

And you were really rethinking your life up to this point.

The things people did for love.

You sighed, shifting your weight on the cool tile as you held the pink toothbrush between your fingers, gently scrubbing the upper plate like you were polishing fine china. The glass of water sat beside the sink, his “night cup” as he sarcastically called it, and you tried not to dwell on the surrealness of the moment. But it was hard not to.

Because five nights ago, you’d had your legs over Frank’s broad shoulders while he made you cum so hard you saw the Virgin Mary in your ceiling fan.

And now?

Now you were brushing his fucking teeth while he lay face-down on the couch, dead to the world, shirtless, snoring into a throw pillow like a war vet who’d lost a battle with Scotch.

You rinsed the dentures carefully, holding them up for inspection like you were some kind of perverse dental hygienist.

“Well,” you muttered to the sink, “this wasn’t in the rom-coms.”

You placed the clean dentures into the glass with a soft clink and turned to face the mirror. Your hair was a mess. You had a wine stain on the sleeve of Frank’s Henley, and you still had bite marks on your inner thigh from the last time he’d dragged you into bed whispering, "You're mine tonight. All fucking night."

You stared at yourself for a long moment.

Then sighed again. “God help me… I think I’m in love.”

A low groan came from the living room.

You padded out, wiping your hands on the towel, and found Frank exactly where you’d left him—flat on his stomach, one arm dangling off the couch, his white hair ruffled, his bare back rising and falling with each slow, hungover breath. The waistband of his sweatpants had ridden low enough to make you momentarily forget your irritation.

“Frank,” you said, crouching beside him. “Teeth are done. You’re welcome.”

He let out a low grunt, baritone thick with sleep and regret. “Mmmfgh.”

“Very articulate.”

One hazel eye cracked open. Barely. “Why’s the ceiling spinning?”

“Because you drank an entire bottle of Glenfiddich and challenged my neighbor to arm-wrestle in the parking lot.”

Another groan. “Did I win?”

“No. You almost dislocated your shoulder.”

He turned his head slightly, squinting at you. His face was flushed, scruffy, and devastatingly handsome even in his current state of decay. “You’re a saint.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “I’m dating a toothless alcoholic. I’m going to heaven and I’m getting a statue.”

Frank huffed a laugh into the cushion. “Was it the teeth again? You still stuck on that?”

“No,” you said, surprisingly soft. “I’m stuck on you.”

That shut him up.

For a beat, anyway.

Then he groaned again and tried to roll over. Failed. Gave up halfway and just flopped dramatically. “I’d kiss you, but I’m not fully assembled.”

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered fondly.

“You love it.”

You stood, placing a hand on your hip. “I brushed your dentures, Frank. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

He lifted a hand, eyes still closed, and made a vague groping gesture. “Come here. Need to touch something soft before death claims me.”

You snorted and leaned down, letting him cup your thigh, your hip, the side of your ass like it was a talisman warding off the hangover gods.

“Mmm,” he mumbled. “Still perfect.”

“Still drunk,” you said, ruffling his white hair.

But your chest felt warm. Full.

Because you’d seen him at his worst now—sloppy, sloppy-drunk, too proud to ask for help, too old-school to admit he needed it—but you’d done it anyway. You’d held his head when he dry-heaved in the bathroom, poured him water, put his phone on the charger, and tucked him in on the couch when he insisted he was “too gross” to share the bed.

And now you’d brushed his teeth. The fake ones.

And you’d do it again.

Frank cracked one eye open, voice barely above a whisper. “You still wanna stay over?”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’m never leaving.”

He let out a long breath and reached for your hand, twining your fingers with his, rough palm warm against your skin.

“Good,” he rasped. “I need someone to brush my teeth when I’m dead.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’re not dying, Frank. You’re just hungover.”

“Feels the same.”

You chuckled and settled on the floor beside the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his body warm and solid and smelling like regret and aftershave.

The ceiling fan spun slowly above you, casting shadows on the ceiling like it had secrets to whisper.

You were in love with a denture-wearing, war-weathered, grumpy old man with the voice of a god and the stamina of a devil.

Frank Benson stared at his scowling image reflecting back at him in the bathroom mirror, his irritation mounting, arousal quickly dissipating. You had told him the garment would look flattering. Erotic even. He didn’t think so. Not at all. 

He was seconds from rushing into the bedroom to declare a mutiny with the same dedication he held for arranging regime-changing coups in countries far from the rocky shores of Britain. Strengthening his resolve, and after giving the offending scrap of fabric one last nose-scrunching grimace of distaste, he exited the bathroom. Frank’s steps were even, steady, precise as he approached the bed. He levelled you with a stare that would have made Putin sweat.

You scrolled aimlessly through your phone, liking and reblogging posts at random. You shifted atop the deep green duvet, internally debating whether or not to slip under the covers. The sexy, skimpy, red and white Santa Claus-themed teddy you wore offered no protection from the cool drafts invading the room. You bit your bottom lip, teeth toying with the sensitive flesh. Frank had been in the bathroom an awfully long time. A worrisomely long time. 

The man at the center of your thoughts quickly strode the length of the room, his expression menacing. He gave you a glare you were quite certain he reserved only for war criminals and memos with shite grammar and incorrect spelling.

You were the first to break, raising a lone eyebrow at Frank’s out-of-character behavior. “What’s wrong?” You questioned, voice holding nothing but concern. The arousal that had been pooling in your lower belly fully drained. 

“What’s wrong?” Frank growled, eyes flashing dangerously, face as impassive as stone. “What’s wrong?” He repeated, cool, icy dread entering your chest. “How could you possibly think this—this—this thing—was sexy?” He thrust his hips forward with a jerk, drawing your attention for the first time since he entered the room to the garment that was the evident subject of his disgust. 

You laughed. Giggle after giggle of your sweet laughter erupted from your pink lips, your hand soon rising to hide your mouth from Frank’s view. Frank bristled. “It’s not funny, Y/N,” he grumbled, his serious expression starting to waver as mirth shone brightly through your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you could barely breathe out between waves of chuckles. Frank’s resolve ebbed away, his lined face sporting a pained grimace rather than his earlier, day-old milk curdling glare. 

When you had ordered yourself Christmas lingerie from the catalogue, you had bought Frank a surprise too. Red, white, and green boxer briefs, the back with the cartoony words, “Rein me in, Mommy!”, a custom phrase you had requested. What you guessed annoyed Frank, and had made you cackle uncontrollably, was the long pouch for his penis to rest, shaped like one of Santa’s reindeer. The deer’s brown ears and cream-colored antlers were attached to the pouch separately to the face, but the most ridiculous part of the creation was the googly eyes, sitting atop the head of Frank’s cock. They bobbled and wobbled every time Frank moved, every time his long cock sheathed in the offending boxers, bounced. The gift was meant to be a gag, but you had also expected the underwear to be sexy. The googly-eyed reindeer did not look sexy.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Frank grumbled, his gravely baritone increasing in volume in time with his frustration. “You said it was hot!”

“I thought it was Frank.” The laughter was gone from your voice. “I’ve never bought you sexy lingerie before. I thought it would be fun,” you paused, voice now at a whisper. “I thought it’d be—you know—fun and hot.” The underwear had clearly been a mistake, you sadly realized, pulling up the duvet and light, mint green sheets. Frank definitely wouldn’t be in the mood.

Frank looked at your covered form, now rolled over, your back facing him. You seemed sad. Disappointed. He probably shouldn’t have been so dramatic about the underwear. He looked down at his crotch, the googly eyes bouncing as he shifted his weight. 

A chortle rose from deep within the back of his throat, a chortle that rapidly turned into a wholehearted belly-laugh. The reindeer really did look ridiculous, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, and probably wasn’t worth his charging against his wife in a full-scale rebellion over. The woman who had received his earlier attacks with a stiff upper lip moments earlier rolled to face him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What’s so funny, Frank?” Tears welled in his eyes as his great peals of laughter increased in their intensity. His wife’s lips curled into an uncertain frown. A timid smile finally broke across her face, brows relaxing. “Frank?”

“It really is ridiculous!” he bit out between a bout of chuckles, one hand cradling his reindeer-clad penis. He gave his member a shake, sending the reindeer’s antlers flopping and eyes spinning wildly. You and Frank giggled madly, a small line of tears beginning to trickle down your cheek now. Arousal returned to your belly when you noticed Frank’s dick stiffening. 

Frank hefted himself onto the bed, legs straddling your shoulders, cock bobbing inches from your face. “It looks like Mr. Reindeer wants some attention,” you teased, a smirk draped over your face.

“Please,” he murmured, breathless, his semi twitching, fighting to reach full mast. “Give us a kiss.” Frank thrusted his hips forward, the reindeer’s silky nose brushing your plump lips. You gave the tip of his cock a peck before closing your mouth over the shaft’s head. Frank moaned, pushing deeper into your warmth. He rocked himself, back and forth, enjoying the feeling of your tongue rubbing against his shaft through the soft cloth. He stuttered to a disappointed halt when your lips disappeared, your hand reaching out to pull the front of the waistband of the Christmas boxers beneath his sagging, heavy balls. 

You blew a puff of air on the swollen red head, causing Frank’s whole body to shiver. His cock jumped, thin slit steadily dribbling clear fluid. You nestled his weeping dick against your cheekbones, coating the sides of your face in a layer of sticky precum, before slipping his length back into your waiting mouth. The man above you grunted, soft belly heaving, neck tilted back, face relaxed in pure ecstasy. You moaned at the lovely picture Frank made in front of you, vibrations stimulating the straining shaft in your mouth. The vein stretched across the underside of his cock throbbed, desperate to pulse a healthy load of cream down your throat. 

“Close, Y/N,” Frank grunted, a sheen of sweat glistening across his face, breath coming in short pants. 

“Mmmm,” you hummed, eager to receive the prize for your efforts. You slipped a hand into the bottom of Frank’s boxers to rub the man’s full balls, your other hand happily squeezing one of his taut arsecheeks. The white-haired man offered a low, guttural moan, and another gush of wetness gathered between your thighs. 

He gripped one of the wooden posts of the headboard for dear life with his large, meaty hands, hips slamming himself deep into the back of your waiting, wanting hole. Cum, hot cum, poured down your bruised throat. You enthusiastically swallowed every last white drop. “Mmmm, yes, sooo goood,” Frank praised from above, low voice a husky whisper. His balls lay loosely against your chin, cock beginning to soften after its glorious finish. You hummed at the praise, Frank’s dick gave a twitch. 

His white-knuckled hands left the headboard to cradle your head, your dark curls severely tangled in knots, but to him, you looked stunning. “That was excellent, love.” He reluctantly pulled his dick from your mouth, the action creating a loud pop amid the silent room. Drool and cum landed in a puddle on your bare neck. Frank swiped the glob with a finger he brought to your closed lips. Your pink tongue escaped from your swollen, red lips, licking the pad of his thick finger clean. “Good girl. We wouldn’t want to waste any, would we?” You shook your head no, heat pooling between your legs.

Frank shifted, still straddling your body, leaning back to eye the tops of your breasts, nestled in the red and white teddy, absentmindedly licking his lips. He hastily pulled the garment up, exposing your nipples to the cool air of the bedroom, but tearing a corner of the thin fabric at the seam along your side in the process. A cruel smirk crossed his face, nails making short work of ripping the rest of the teddy, tossing the fabric to the ground in a flash. “Frank!” you scolded the attack, sore lips pouting. “That was new,” you trailed off in a quiet, hurt voice.

“Santa will get you something better for Christmas, sweetheart.” His mouth latched onto your left nipple, suckling with the intensity only a military man could muster. His uneven teeth teasingly grazed the sensitive flesh surrounding the perky bud. Frank gave a loving nip, drawing a gasp from you below, before turning to your other tit, giving the hardened nub a puff of warm air. He sucked on the erect nipple, causing your legs to shift in their futile attempt to add pressure to the ache at your center. 

“Ah,” you gave a high-pitched moan when he gave a harsh, parting bite to the teat. “Frank, please,” you whined, pure, white-hot need coursing through your lower half, entire body tingling. You desperately needed an orgasm, and you needed it right that second.

“Please, what?” Even with your eyes tightly closed shut, you could hear the playful edge to Frank’s baritone voice. You guessed the corner of his lips were quirked up into a dangerous smile.

“I need to cum, Frank, please!” You cried out, thighs wantonly rubbing together, wetness soaking your red silky panties. Frank kissed his way from your breasts to your pussy, adorning one last lingering kiss to the white bow below your lower stomach. He pulled your underwear down with his teeth with practiced ease, hands spreading your legs, preventing you from providing yourself with any further stimulation. Your hips bucked, a moan breaking forth that would make even a seasoned prostitute blush. “Frank,” you whimpered, a fresh tear falling from your cheek. His lips hovered inches from your dripping cunt, warm breath only adding to your ache.

Frank Benson had faced enemies. He’d faced bureaucrats. He’d faced moral dilemmas so heavy they left hair white and souls threadbare.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for being butt-naked on national television.

The heat was brutal, the air dense with moisture, the jungle around him buzzing with unseen life—and there he stood, stark naked, boots long gone, dignity hanging by a thread that didn’t exist. His white hair was damp from the humidity, sticking to his forehead, and his pale, slightly sunburnt chest heaved as he tried to ignore the camera drones hovering at a discreet-yet-soul-crushing distance.

He had signed up for this. Willingly.

Naked and Afraid. A show he’d scoffed at over glasses of scotch and reruns on late nights, muttering things like “Soft generation. No discipline. Can’t even build a fire.” He said it so many times—so many times—that one day, after retirement boredom sank its claws into him like a stubborn infection, he sent in the application.

He hadn’t expected them to accept.

And he certainly hadn’t expected you.

His partner. His survival companion. His very naked, very American, very young partner.

You were about five feet away, butt to the wind, struggling with the flint. Again. Frank didn’t look. Couldn’t. It wasn’t gentlemanly, for one. For two, he was already battling sunburn in places that should never see sunlight, and the last thing he needed was his blood pressure spiking because you happened to exist in that body.

He focused on the spear in his hands, carving a point into the end of a long, dry branch with the dull survival knife they’d given him. His white hair was plastered to his brow, his hazel eyes squinting at the wood, trying to ignore the ever-present drone cameras that buzzed like locusts just above the tree line.

You had no survival experience. None. You’d told him—cheerfully—that you were a Girl Scout once, and Frank had nearly choked on a mouthful of coconut water. But you were trying, bless you. You were cheerful, optimistic, and—though he’d never say it out loud—you were the only reason he hadn’t walked straight into the sea on Day 4 and let the tide take him.

There was a sharp crack, then a spark—and then, miraculously, a flame.

“Frank!” you chirped, turning with a proud grin as the fire finally caught. “Got it!”

He didn’t look up, but a small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “About time,” he rumbled, voice thick and dry like gravel soaked in scotch. “Only took you twenty-seven tries today. A new record.”

You stuck your tongue out at him—he saw that in the corner of his eye—and padded barefoot across the clearing to sit beside him on the rough patch of palm leaves they called furniture. You were still glowing from the small win, sweat trailing down your spine, your hair twisted up into a messy knot with a bit of vine. The cameras buzzed somewhere behind you, but you ignored them. You always did.

“What’re you working on now?” you asked, watching his hands work the point of the spear. “Another fishing stick of death?”

“Fishing spear,” he corrected, tone dry. “And yes. The last one cracked. Bloody termites.”

You hummed thoughtfully, then leaned your arms on your knees, the two of you sitting side by side in companionable silence. You didn’t comment on his growing beard, or the way his belly had burned a perfect pink crescent two days ago. You just watched, curious.

“I was thinking,” you said slowly, “maybe we could work on the shelter today?”

Frank paused, glancing over at the lopsided structure cobbled together with branches, leaves, and spite. He grunted. “No need. It’s holding.”

You scoffed. “Holding? Frank, it rained inside last night.”

He shrugged, still whittling. “Jungle rain. Comes sideways.”

“Frank,” you said, tone sharpening. “It was wetter inside the shelter than outside. You woke up floating.”

Frank laughed at your drama—deep and gruff, like stones shifting in an old riverbed—but he didn’t agree. Not openly, anyway.

“Shelter’s fine,” he muttered, still focused on his spear. “You want to waste energy on vanity carpentry, be my guest. But I’m saving mine for food. Or survival. Whichever comes first.”

Your shoulders tensed beside him. He could feel it before you even stood. And then—yep. There it was.

You rose abruptly, brushing dirt from your thighs with more force than necessary. “Fine,” you snapped. “Then I’ll do it myself. Reinforce the damn thing alone.”

Frank didn’t look up, but his jaw flexed slightly, the only visible reaction. He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

He’d known this would happen. Hunger. Heat. Sleep deprivation. They could rot the most rational minds—and yours was already running thin. He’d seen it in the army: tempers fraying like rotten rope, every tiny annoyance turning into a battlefield. But knowing it didn’t make it easier.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said, voice low, measured. “We didn’t eat yesterday. You’ve had about three spoonfuls of that awful root this morning. Sit. Wait for the tide. We’ll fish, then we can argue about roofing.”

“I’m not arguing,” you bit back, already halfway across the camp. “I’m being proactive. You should try it.”

Frank didn’t rise. He didn’t follow. He just muttered something under his breath—bloody hell—and turned the spear in his hands again.

He heard you rummaging near the shelter, followed by the soft beep of your assigned GoPro clicking on. One of the “confessional” cameras. 

He heard your voice as you sat down a few feet away, speaking into the lens like it was your therapist.

“Okay,” you huffed, brushing hair out of your face. “Day... whatever. I’ve lost track. Frank’s being Frank again.”

Frank stilled, knife paused on the wood.

“He’s a good guy. I mean it. Smarter than me out here. Stronger. Knows how to do... like, everything. But God,” you groaned, tossing your head back against a palm tree, “he is so stubborn. And controlling. Like, 'The shelter is fine,' he says, while we wake up in a puddle.”

Frank’s lips twitched. He didn’t smile. Not really. But it was close.

“I get it,” you continued, voice softer now. “He’s tired. We both are. But sometimes, I just wish he’d listen. Or bend. Just a little. Instead, it’s ‘military protocol this,’ ‘energy reserves that.’ I swear, the man thinks emotions are a tactical weakness.”

Frank blinked slowly, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood. The jungle around him buzzed, humid and relentless, but your voice cut through it all like a machete through leaves.

“I know he’s probably rolling his eyes right now,” you muttered. “But whatever. If I have to sleep one more night with jungle rain dripping on my ass, I’m building a damn palace out of palm leaves. Alone, if I have to.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“He is kind, though. Not that he’d admit it. Gave me the bigger half of the coconut yesterday when he thought I wasn’t looking. Also saw him shoo away a spider before it got in my ass. Very heroic. Very topless. Very British.”

Frank closed his eyes. Let out a long, weary sigh.

“God help me,” he muttered aloud, “I’m stranded with a chatty nudist who thinks I’m emotionally repressed.”

The camera beeped again. You were done.

Frank set the spear down beside him and finally, finally stood. His back cracked audibly as he rose to full height, sun glinting off his white hair and slightly pink skin.

“You know,” he called across the clearing, baritone steady but not unkind, “when you’re done slandering me to the camera crew, I could use another pair of hands fishing.”

You turned, surprised, sweat glistening at your temples, your hands full of palm fronds.

He looked at you for a beat longer than he meant to.

And then—just for a moment—Frank Benson smiled. Really smiled.

“Bring the vine,” he said, gesturing to the pile of supplies you’d gathered. “We’ll build your bloody shelter.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“I’ll supervise.”

“Frank.”

“I’m kidding.”

You dropped the fronds, dusted your palms, and grinned.

“About time you listened to your emotionally unbalanced nudist,” you teased.

Frank rolled his eyes and walked toward the campfire, muttering, “Chatty. Always so damn chatty.” But you saw it—the way his mouth twitched again, the way the edge in his posture softened.

Maybe surviving the jungle wasn’t just about spears and shelter.

Maybe it was also about surrender.

The hour was late—long past midnight—and the judge’s chamber lay steeped in shadows, disturbed only by the rhythmic ticking of the mantle clock and the dull red glow of the hearth, nearly extinguished now but still breathing the last of its heat into the room. A chill had crept in from the long windows, seeping through the stone and wood, brushing the corners of the room with its cold fingers.

Richard Turpin lay still in the large four-poster bed, half-curled beneath the heavy coverlet, one arm slung across his chest, his breathing deep and even. The house had been silent for hours. Not even the rats stirred.

And then—

A knock. Faint. Hesitant.

A pause.

Then another. Slightly firmer.

Turpin’s brow twitched, but he did not stir.

Until—

“Papa?”

The voice was soft, but near. Close.

Too close.

His hazel eyes snapped open.

He grunted, not moving, his baritone already thick with sleep and annoyance. “Go to your mother.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“She’s snoring.”

Turpin scowled into his pillow.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because Clara was already climbing onto the bed.

He felt the shift of the mattress first—a rustling of skirts, a cautious knee pressing into the coverlet, a hesitant hand bracing against the edge of the pillow. Then came the weight of her, small and warm, settling beside him like a barn cat, limbs drawn up, breath soft and steady in the cold air.

Turpin groaned. “I did not grant you permission.”

“You didn’t say no fast enough,” she whispered, tucking herself beneath the blanket with surprising efficiency.

The judge grumbled low in his chest but didn’t sit up. He lay still, eyes closed, jaw tight, waiting—praying—for silence.

Ten blessed seconds passed.

Then—

“I’m cold.”

Turpin’s eyes opened.

Clara curled tighter beside him, her back to his chest, her shoulders hunched.

Turpin muttered something Latin under his breath that most likely translated to divine vengeance. Then he sat up with a scowl, the sheets falling from his bare shoulders as he swung his legs out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Clara mumbled.

“To rekindle the fire before you freeze into a child-shaped statue and haunt me,” he growled.

He rose unsteadily, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a thud, his nightshirt shifting as he reached for the poker. He cursed quietly when he stubbed his toe on the hearth stool, then cursed again when the ashes puffed into his face.

“You should wear slippers,” Clara advised from beneath the covers.

Turpin shot her a glare over his shoulder. “You should stay in your own bed.”

She yawned.

He jabbed at the embers, fed in a log, and coaxed the flames to life with more effort than he liked to admit. His silver hair caught the orange glow as the fire finally responded, casting flickering warmth back into the room. He adjusted the screen, dusted off his hands, and turned back toward the bed.

Only to stop short.

Clara had taken the sheet.

Not just a corner. Not a portion.

All of it.

She was cocooned in it like a smug, sleepy chrysalis—arms tucked, legs hidden, the fine linen wrapped around her body in several secure layers. Only the top of her head and a single foot poked out.

Turpin stared.

“Of course,” he muttered, blinking slowly.

He stood there for a moment—cold and affronted—then sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. He trudged back to the bed like a condemned man returning to the block, lifting the edge of the remaining blanket and crawling under it without ceremony. The sheet was a lost cause. He’d litigated murder trials with less resistance.

Clara made a contented noise, shifting slightly as he lay beside her.

Turpin flopped onto his side with all the resignation of a man who had once sentenced a thief to twenty years for stealing a pork pie—and now found himself ousted from his own linens by an eight-year-old with cold toes.

The fire crackled behind them.

The room was warmer now.

And in the heavy hush that followed, just as he was finally drifting back toward sleep, Clara whispered into the dark:

“Papa?”

He groaned into the pillow. “What.”

“I’m glad you were there.”

His brow twitched.

“I was scared,” she murmured. “In the park. But you came.”

Turpin didn’t respond right away.

He opened his eyes slowly, staring into the dark.

Then, after a long moment:

“I always will.”

A pause.

“Even if I roll my eyes?” she asked sleepily.

“Especially then.”

She was quiet after that.

And slowly, her breathing evened.

Turpin let his eyes drift closed once more.

And in the quiet, with a stolen sheet and a snoring daughter curled beside him, Richard Turpin—judge, father, tyrant of bedtime—slept.

But unfortunately, Judge Richard Turpin ended up remembering—very quickly—why he hated sharing a bed with Clara.

The first fifteen minutes had been tolerable. She had curled up like a cat, tucked herself beneath the stolen sheet, and gone blessedly still. He had laid beside her stiffly, eyes closed, already rehearsing his complaints for the morning.

But then the kicking started.

First, it was a nudge to his thigh. Then a sharp little jab to his side. Then—God help him—a bony heel drove straight into his groin.

“Clara,” he growled, eyes snapping open.

She didn’t stir.

He shifted, rolled away, muttering Latin under his breath. She followed. Like a magnet. A small, warm, violently possessed magnet.

Her elbow landed squarely in his ribs.

He flinched.

“Clara,” he hissed louder, reaching to prod her shoulder. “Stop that at once.”

No response.

Instead, she turned over and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “I’m a goose,” and promptly kicked him again, harder.

Turpin exhaled through his nose with the kind of fury that sank ships. He sat up, the sheet tangled around his knees, and stared down at his daughter—snoring faintly, splayed across the bed like a victorious starfish.

“This,” he muttered, rising, “is what I get for reproducing.”

Dragging the coverlet aside with a grimace, Turpin stood, shoulders hunched, nightshirt hanging lopsided, hair mussed at the crown where he’d been dozing against the pillow. His cane leaned untouched in the corner. He didn’t bother with it.

Instead, he walked barefoot down the dark corridor, dragging his feet with the exhausted indignation of a man betrayed in his own bed.

He stopped outside your door.

And hesitated.

He could sleep on the sofa in his office. Or in one of the guest rooms—three of them stood vacant, each draped in dusty lace and unused linen, chambers large enough to house nobility and far more deserving of his presence than the tangle of limbs and elbows presently occupying his marital bed.

But he didn’t.

Because as he passed your door, barefoot and scowling, he saw it.

A flicker.

A low, quivering flame—just one—burning from the brass candlestick on your nightstand. Its glow bled through the crack beneath the door, soft and traitorous.

You were still awake.

Of course you were.

Turpin narrowed his eyes, the deep furrow between his brows sharpening. His jaw clenched. He could hear the faint rustle of pages. Linen shifting. The occasional hush of breath.

He stood there a moment longer, shoulders hunched, nightshirt hanging unevenly over his knees, white hair tousled, a shadow of irritation curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then, quietly, he pushed the door open.

And caught you red-handed.

You were curled in bed, candle guttering beside you, the covers bunched around your waist, a book splayed across your lap.

Not just any book.

Green leather. Gold-embossed spine. Dog-eared corner. A familiar cracked binding.

The Garden of Eros.

He stared.

You startled the instant you saw him—jerking upright, eyes wide, mouth parted. The book slammed shut with a guilty thud as you tried, fumbling, to stuff it beneath the pillows. You yanked the sheets higher to your chest as though modesty might erase the evidence.

“Richard—” you began, voice high, apologetic.

He grunted.

Low. Displeased.

But he didn’t yell.

He didn’t storm. Didn’t tear the book from your hands or rip the pages free.

He simply exhaled through his nose—long and tired—and trudged toward the bed.

You watched him in stunned silence as he circled to the empty side, pulled back the blanket, and climbed in with the exhausted irritation of a man defeated not by enemies or trials—but by his own household.

“I was only—” you began again, softer now. “I couldn’t sleep, and the candle was already lit, and I thought—”

He interrupted you with a look.

And a hand.

It reached—slowly, deliberately—and plucked the book from where you had just tried to hide it.

Turpin turned it over in his hands, squinting at the spine in the flickering light.

His baritone was rasped with sleep. “Still reading this filth?”

You flushed. “I… only meant to skim—”

He opened it.

Not gently.

The book fell open easily at a well-worn crease—no need for guessing.

His hazel eyes scanned the page.

His brow arched. His lips twitched in a faint sneer.

“What page,” he asked flatly.

You hesitated. “Thirty-nine.”

His gaze didn’t lift. He dragged one long finger down the margin, then paused.

And read aloud:

“The widow fell to her knees before the lattice, her skirts pooling like wine upon the stones.

'Bless me, Father,’ she whispered, ‘for I have sinned.’

The priest made no reply. Only parted his robes, the folds falling open like confession itself.His cock, stiff and flushed, jutted forth like an altar candle. She stared at it reverently.

‘Then offer penance,’ he said, low and cruel.

She did. With her lips.”

Turpin stopped.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

His hazel eyes lifted from the page and pinned you in place, hard and unreadable in the candlelight.

You stared back, cheeks burning, your hands clutching the blanket to your chest like it might shield you from the weight of what he now knew.

That you had read that.

That you had pictured it.

That you—his wife—had been lying here in this very bed, in this very house, with your thighs likely pressed together, whispering prayers with one breath and imagining cocks behind confessionals with the next.

He closed the book.

Very slowly.

And set it on the nightstand.

Not to scold.

Not tonight.

He lay back against the pillow, one hand resting on his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Not sharply. Not cruelly. His voice came low, gravelled with sleep and something else—something quieter, harder to name.

“When you read this,” he said, staring at the ceiling, “did you imagine anyone?”

You turned your head on the pillow. “Pardon?”

He did not look at you. His hooked nose cut a shadow across the side of his face, cast by the dying firelight.

“I asked,” he said again, slowly, “when you read it—this filth, this fantasy—was there someone you imagined?”

You stared at him, your body still curled in the blankets, heart beginning to climb your ribs. “I don’t understand—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupted, finally turning his head to face you.

His hazel eyes, sharp even in dim light, fixed on yours.

“Our marriage was arranged,” he said bluntly. “Everyone knows it. You, plucked from your father’s ledger like a lamb from market. And I—” he scoffed faintly “—a man twice your age, half your dreams. I’ve no illusions about it. I was never your ideal suitor.”

You swallowed.

“Not the sort a girl dreams of at night,” he continued, voice flatter now, detached. “Not the sort she writes letters to. Or sketches on the back of hymnals with ink-stained fingers. I’m not a poet. Or a soldier. Or a young fool with soft hands and sonnets. I am—” he stopped, jaw working. “I am what you were given.”

You opened your mouth. But he wasn’t finished.

“Perhaps there was someone,” he said, quieter now. “Some boy. Before. Some… friend. You never said. But perhaps you think of him still, when you read these pages. When you touch yourself beneath the blankets at night.”

You sat up slightly, the linen bunching around your waist. “Richard—”

He turned his face back toward the ceiling. “Perhaps it is his cock you imagine between your lips. Perhaps it is his voice that says those things—the priest’s words, the priest’s hands, not mine. Perhaps it’s him you want—kind and young and clean—and not the bitter old man your father sold you to.”

“That is enough,” you said, more sharply than you meant to.

He went quiet.

And that silence—it hurt more than the words.

You reached for him, slowly, resting your hand on the linen just over his chest. His heart beat beneath your palm, slow and steady, and when you spoke again, your voice was soft.

“I imagine you,” you said.

Turpin blinked.

You exhaled, lowering your eyes. “When I read those pages… it is your voice I hear. Not anyone else’s. Not some boy. Not a stranger. Yours.”

His brow furrowed.

“I didn’t have suitors, Richard,” you continued, voice steady despite the heat in your cheeks. “No one courted me. No one wrote poems or brought flowers. I had books. I had my sisters. I had duty. And then I had you.”

He didn’t speak. But his fingers curled slightly atop the sheet.

“When I read,” you whispered, “I imagine your hands. Your mouth. Your voice—saying those things. Doing those things. The priest in the book, he reminds me of you.”

That startled something in him. His eyes flicked to yours, skeptical. “You compare me to that… that pagan creature?”

You nodded slowly. “He’s cruel. Like you. Sharp. Commanding. He doesn’t ask, he takes. He doesn’t love kindly, but he loves deeply. Like something ancient.”

Turpin watched you. The hard lines of his face were unreadable.

“And when he’s kind to her,” you said, barely above a whisper now, “when he kisses her softly, when he touches her as if she’s something precious—not just wicked—I imagine that, too.”

You swallowed.

“I imagine you being kind to me.”

Turpin didn’t believe you.

Of course he didn’t.

The crease between his brows deepened, his eyes narrowing beneath the heavy shadow of his hooked brow, and the glint of candlelight caught sharply in the hollows of his cheeks. His chest rose beneath the thin linen of his nightshirt, broad and stiff with suspicion.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, baritone curling low and jagged with warning. “Not in this bed.”

His hazel eyes, dark and accusing, locked on yours like iron clamps—searching, dissecting, waiting for you to flinch. To lower your gaze. To retreat into excuses.

But you didn’t.

Not this time.

You leaned in.

Slowly. Deliberately. Without fear.

And kissed him.

Your mouth brushed his with soft, steady pressure—no hunger, no heat. Just truth. A vow made in silence, with lips and breath and trembling heart.

Turpin grunted in surprise against your lips, the sound muffled, sharp. He froze for a heartbeat—his shoulders locked, jaw clenched beneath the rasp of your kiss—but it didn’t last.

He broke.

With a sound between a groan and a curse, he slid one large hand into your hair, fingers curling tight, not cruelly—but possessively. Anchoring you.

His lips met yours again, harder this time. Not commanding. Not punishing. But certain. Full. As if something he’d locked away had cracked open, spilling want and confusion all at once.

He kissed you like a man drowning.

And you leaned up onto his chest, your hands bracing on either side of his ribs, your knees pressing into the coverlet for balance. The warmth of his body rose up into yours, solid and searing. The thick fabric of his nightshirt clung to the sweat at his collarbone, and you kissed him through it—slow and sure, like it wasn’t the first time, like it wouldn’t be the last.

His other hand—rough, calloused—slid up the bare curve of your waist beneath your chemise. You gasped against his mouth, and he drank the sound in like sacrament, tongue flicking the edge of your lip before deepening the kiss with something close to desperation.

His hooked nose pressed into your cheek, and his chest rumbled beneath you with a growl you could feel in your bones.

“Damn.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. But it was ragged—guttural—like something had broken loose inside his chest and didn’t yet know how to form itself into words.

You pulled back slightly, breath trembling, your voice soft. “What’s wrong?”

His hazel eyes were open now—dark and sharp, glinting beneath the shadow of his furrowed brow. He stared at you as if he could see something you couldn’t. Something blooming behind your ribs that he hadn’t planted but now couldn’t bear to rip out.

“She was right,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Who?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned forward again—rough, deliberate—and kissed you once more, cutting off your breath and whatever questions lingered on your tongue. His lips were firmer now, more certain. Less afraid.

And for a moment, you forgot what he’d said.

Forgot the ache in your chest, the cold of the room, the hour, the past. Forgot your name. Forgot that you were supposed to keep some distance still.

Because his mouth was hot and hungry, and his hands were no longer cautious.

One of them slid down your back, anchoring you to his chest, while the other—steady, firm—found the edge of your chemise and slipped beneath it.

You gasped, the air catching in your throat as his calloused fingers dragged across the bare skin of your hip, moving slow, so slow, until they brushed the thin, already-damp linen of your drawers.

You froze.

Just a moment.

But he felt it. Of course he did.

His mouth tore from yours, hovering just above your lips. His breath was ragged now, hot against your cheek. “Still afraid?” he murmured, baritone thick and low.

You shook your head, barely.

“No.”

He nodded once. Then kissed you again—slower now, deeper—as his fingers slid inside your panties.

You shivered violently against him.

The first touch was exploratory. Testing. His fingertips brushed the slick heat between your legs, and you felt his breath hitch the instant he realized just how wet you already were.

“Christ,” he rasped against your mouth. “You’re soaked.”

Your cheeks burned. But you didn’t look away.

And you didn’t stop him.

Turpin’s lips grazed your jaw now, then your throat, as his hand slipped lower, fingers spreading the soft folds apart, sliding through the mess he’d made of you with quiet reverence.

“This from a book?” he asked against your skin. “Or is this for me?”

Your head tilted back, mouth parting as his middle finger circled your entrance—teasing, pressing, not yet giving. “It’s you,” you whispered.

He growled.

A low, dark, vicious sound, like a beast startled to find itself cherished.

Then his finger pressed in.

You gasped, body curling forward into his chest as he slid inside—just one at first, thick and slow and cruelly patient. He kissed the corner of your mouth as he moved, his hand gripping your hip to hold you steady.

“So tight,” he muttered. “Like you’ve never been filled.”

You moaned, the ache of him so sudden it blurred your vision.

And still, he watched you.

Watched your face as his finger pushed deeper, curling slowly, deliberately. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your throat, his lips warm against the bruises he’d left the night before.

“You want more?” he murmured, voice rough. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you whispered, nearly sobbing. “Please, Richard—please—”

A second finger joined the first.

You cried out, clutching at his shoulders, your hips stuttering forward instinctively. He growled again—pleased, possessive—and kissed your lips hard, swallowing your sound as his fingers fucked you deeper.

His pace was brutal and precise, every stroke measured—like he meant to write a sentence into your cunt and would not lift his pen until it was finished. Your breath came in sharp gasps, your thighs trembling around his lap as his fingers curled again—hitting that spot inside you that made your spine arch and your stomach clench.

“Good girl,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. “Look at you. Dripping over my hand like a bitch in heat.”

You whimpered, clenching tighter.

He pressed deeper.

“Tell me again,” he growled. “Who do you imagine when you touch yourself?”

“You,” you sobbed.

“And whose cock do you want buried in this tight little cunt?”

“Yours—Richard, yours—”

He groaned aloud, hips jerking against your thigh, his own arousal pressing stiff and urgent through the linen of his nightshirt.

“Then ride my fingers,” he hissed. “Now. Make yourself come for me.”

You obeyed.

You moved against him—slow at first, grinding your hips down against his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers as your cries turned ragged, desperate. His thumb found your clit and circled it—rough, relentless—and your body convulsed in his lap.

“Come for me,” he ordered, biting your shoulder now, one hand gripping your waist as the other fucked you through it. “Come on my fingers, little wife. Show me how much you want me.”

And you did.

You came hard—loud and gasping, your body shaking with it, eyes wide and unfocused as the wave broke over you. He held you through it, his mouth on your throat, his fingers buried deep, even as your cunt fluttered and clenched around them like it didn’t want to let go.

When it passed, you collapsed against him.

Boneless. Ruined.

Turpin’s breath was hot in your ear.

He slid his fingers out slowly—wet and gleaming in the candlelight—and brought them to his mouth without breaking eye contact.

He licked them clean.

“Not from a book,” he said, baritone like thunder. “That taste is mine.”

And tomorrow night, he promised silently as he pulled you into his chest—

He’d take more.

Annabelle noticed it first.

She was not the sort of girl given to romance—Clara had inherited all of that—and she certainly wasn’t sentimental. But she was observant. Keen-eyed. Sharp in the way that children sometimes are, especially eldest daughters who learn to study their parents the way footmen study clocks.

And this morning, something was… different.

Her father kept glancing at her mother.

Not obviously. Not in any way that a stranger might notice. But Annabelle was no stranger.

She saw it in the slight turn of his hooked nose as the carriage hit a bump. The flicker of his hazel eyes, dark beneath the brim of his Sunday hat. He sat straight, as always, one arm cradling baby Sophie with practiced ease, his gloved hand tapping lightly against the child’s swaddled back in rhythm with the slow roll of the wheels. But every few moments, his gaze shifted.

To her mother.

And her mother—remarkably—was doing the same.

She sat opposite him, back ramrod straight, cheeks still faintly flushed from the brisk walk down the steps, Belladonna bundled in her arms and blinking sleepily beneath her bonnet. Her posture was perfect. Her hands demure. But Annabelle caught it—the way her mother’s gaze flicked upward, then down again. The faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The soft way her lashes dipped when she realized he was looking.

It was nothing.

And it was everything.

Annabelle blinked, unsure if she ought to say something. She didn’t. Just tightened her grip on the hymnbook in her lap and looked away, pretending to admire the gray light slanting through the small square window.

“Can we eat after church?” Margery demanded, her small voice rising suddenly above the gentle creak of leather and wood. “I’m starving.”

“You’re not starving,” Clara said primly, adjusting her bonnet with both hands. “You’re fasting.”

“I hate fasting,” Margery groaned, slumping dramatically against the carriage wall. “Jesus already knows I’m hungry. He can feel it in his heart or whatever.”

“That’s not how it works,” Clara said, her eyes rolling.

“It is how it works! He sees all! So why can’t I have a biscuit and still love Him?”

Annabelle smothered a laugh behind her book.

“Because,” Clara said, adjusting her gloves now, “the Eucharist must be received on an empty stomach. It's reverent.”

Margery made a sound that was neither reverent nor appropriate. “My stomach is empty. Very empty. Very loud.”

Turpin grunted.

The carriage bumped again.

Annabelle glanced back to her father—just in time to see him glancing at her mother once more.

This time, their eyes met.

Not Annabelle’s.

Theirs.

Her mother, cheeks now a touch pinker than before, gave the smallest of nods. Turpin’s mouth twitched—not a smile, but the faintest suggestion of one. And then, as if they had exchanged a paragraph, they looked away.

Annabelle blinked. She wasn’t sure what she had just witnessed.

But it felt… like something.

Sophie stirred in her father’s arms, her little mouth opening in a sleepy yawn. Turpin, without looking, adjusted her bonnet with surprising care, his long fingers brushing a stray curl back beneath the lace. Belladonna, in her mother’s lap, let out a small hiccup and promptly sneezed.

“Bless you,” her mother murmured.

Turpin’s gaze flicked to the sound of it—quick, sharp—but again, nothing was said.

Clara, satisfied with her hat, leaned slightly toward the twins. “Belladonna always sneezes before the sermon. It’s like she knows what’s coming.”

“It’s because God’s boring,” Margery mumbled, now curled sideways with her feet tucked rudely against the seat.

“Don’t let Father hear you say that,” Clara warned.

“Father knows,” Turpin said suddenly, his voice low and firm, eyes not moving from the window.

All three girls froze.

Margery gulped. “Knows what?”

Turpin turned his head slightly—just enough to cast a glance toward his youngest daughter, brows raised like a judge preparing to deliver sentence.

“That you are loud. And wriggly. And that you’ve likely already untied your shoes.”

Margery gasped in theatrical outrage and immediately bent to retie them.

Annabelle caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mother’s mouth again.

It wasn’t much.

But it was there.

As the carriage rolled on, the bells of the parish began to toll faintly in the distance. One chime. Then another. A soft reminder that Sabbath had begun.

Turpin straightened slightly, adjusting his grip on Sophie, who had begun to gnaw on the collar of his coat with her gummy mouth. His cravat was wrinkled already. His coat bore the unmistakable mark of baby spit just below the lapel.

He didn’t flinch.

He only looked up once more—toward the woman across from him.

She met his eyes, calm and still and knowing.

And something warm passed between them.

A recognition.

A peace.

The carriage rolled toward the church, and for the first time in many Sundays, they arrived not just as a household—

Did Frank feel pathetic?

Of course he did.

A decorated officer. A man who’d once negotiated the fate of a foreign village with a single nod, now half-naked and half-drunk in the middle of a king-sized bed, grinding into a fucking pillow like a teenager who hadn’t been touched in years.

But tonight—tonight he didn’t care.

Not about pride. Not about appearances. Not even about how low he’d sunk.

The only thing he cared about… was you.

You—his wife—his stunning, sharp-tongued, maddening wife who had boarded that international flight a week ago with her friends and a suitcase full of bikinis, promising to “check in soon.” You—who hadn’t sent a single message since wheels-up. Not one. No calls. No texts. Just the occasional blurry Instagram story of your sunburnt legs draped across a deck chair in Bali. A tagged photo at a rooftop bar in Prague. A Boomerang of you clinking cocktails in Madrid.

And not a single fucking word for Frank.

He only knew you were alive thanks to your friends’ updates.

Frank lay on his side now, shirtless, his broad chest heaving as he rutted into the pillow beneath him—one he’d stripped of its case because it “felt more like skin” that way. He had pulled one of your old t-shirts over it—faded cotton, black, smelling faintly of your shampoo—and he’d whispered your name against the worn collar like a man possessed.

He wasn’t pretending it wasn’t insane. He knew it was.

But it was your shirt.

And this pillow, beneath him, soft and trembling under the weight of his thrusts—it was you.

“Bet you’re out there right now,” Frank growled, his voice slurring just slightly, baritone thick with scotch and self-loathing. “Laughing with your friends, wearing something tight, legs bare for every asshole with a camera.”

He grunted, grinding harder into the pillow, the bed creaking beneath his weight. His cock, hot and thick, rubbed against the soft fabric, the sensation maddening. He could almost feel you beneath him. Could almost hear your whimpers, that sharp gasp you always made when he bottomed out, when he grabbed your throat and whispered, “Mine.”

But you weren’t here.

You hadn’t been here for days.

“You think I don’t miss you?” Frank snarled, his hips snapping forward again. “You think I don’t care that you’re out there flashing that smile at strangers while I’m stuck here like some goddamn widower with his cock in a pillow?”

He pressed his forehead to the mattress, growling through his teeth as he thrust again, deeper this time, harder. “You want to ignore me? You want to play this little game? Fine. But when you come back—when you drag your sun-kissed ass back into this house, drunk off sangria and foreign compliments—I swear to God, you won’t walk straight for days.”

The pillow didn’t answer.

But in Frank’s mind, you whimpered.

You begged.

He reached around with one hand, gripping the stuffed cotton mass like it had curves, like it could fight him, like it had any power at all. “This what you want?” he rasped, rutting into it. “You want me so desperate I fuck a goddamn pillow in our bed, where we sleep, where I held you last—”

His voice cracked.

He shut his eyes tight.

“Fuck,” he muttered, softer now. “Fuck, I miss you.”

The rhythm faltered for a moment. He slowed, his breath uneven. The pillowcase was damp with sweat. Or maybe spit. He didn’t care. His cock throbbed against the cotton, aching for friction, for release, for the real thing.

But you weren’t here.

And maybe you wouldn’t come back.

Maybe this was your way of telling him that.

Frank clenched his jaw, fury curling around the edges of his grief. He shoved his hips forward again, punishing and sharp. If you won’t be here, you’ll still fucking feel me.

“I’ll make you pay for this,” he hissed, voice low and cruel. “First night back, I’ll bend you over the sink and fuck you like you tried to forget who you belong to.”

His breath stuttered.

“I’ll pull your hair, make you cry, remind you whose cock fills you like this.”

He grabbed the pillow tighter, growling as his body trembled, his climax chasing down his spine like a predator. He shoved forward, thrusting hard into the fabric, the crude, desperate motion almost violent now.

“I’ll come so deep you taste it in your throat,” he snarled.

And then he broke.

Frank groaned, a low, guttural sound that came from somewhere deep inside him—somewhere raw, embarrassed, but real. He came hard, body shuddering, hot spurts soaking the makeshift mockery of you. The pillowcase darkened beneath him, sticky with humiliation and longing and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

He stayed there for a moment, trembling.

Then, finally, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, one arm flung across his eyes.

The room was silent.

His chest rose and fell.

“Pathetic old man,” he muttered to himself, lips twisted in a humorless smile.

But even as he lay there—staring at the ceiling, shirtless, stained, empty—his other hand reached out, blindly, and pulled the pillow closer. Held it to his chest like it might still be warm from your body.

And whispered, one last time:

“Come home.”

The pillow didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t. It just lay there—stuffed, silent, smelling faintly of you and stained with the evidence of how low he’d sunk.

Frank felt the burn in his eyes before he could stop it.

No.

God, no.

He was already pathetic enough.

But the heat sharpened, tightened, and then the first tear slipped hotly down his cheek. He blinked hard, swallowing thickly, but it only made the next one fall faster. Soon his breath hitched, his chest tightening in a way he hadn’t felt since the day he’d signed his divorce papers. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, as if he could command his body back into discipline. As if emotional restraint were still something he had any control over.

It wasn’t.

Not when it came to you.

He missed you. Christ, he missed you.

He had never missed anyone like this, which—again—was pathetic. You were younger than him, damn it. He’d lived half his life without you, thrived without you, survived war rooms and political storms and years of cold beds without blinking.

And yet… now he was falling apart because you’d left for a damn trip with your friends.

He hated it.

He hated this pulsing ache in his chest, this clawing fear curling around his ribs, this humiliating vulnerability. He hated the silence in the house. He hated the empty side of the bed. He hated your suitcase not being here, your shoes not kicked messily by the door, your laugh not echoing down the hallway.

He hated how soft he’d become.

His phone rang.

The sound cut through the room like a shockwave, sharp enough to make him flinch. He froze. The ringtone again. Then he lunged—actually lunged—for the bedside table.

When he saw your name on the screen, another tear broke loose.

He picked up with shaking hands. “Hello?”

It came out cracked. Pathetic.

“Hi, Frank,” you said softly, lightly winded, probably walking somewhere. There was laughter in the background—your friends—and music echoing faintly. Then you were alone. “Are you awake?”

He pressed his fist against his mouth, trying—failing—to steady his voice.

“You—” He swallowed hard. “You finally called.”

A small beat.

And then—

“Frank,” you breathed.

A soft laugh. “Are you… crying?”

His eyes squeezed shut.

Goddammit.

He dragged a hand over his face, smearing tears across his cheeks. “No.”

Then, quieter, defeated: “Yes.”

Your breath caught. “Frank… honey—”

“I miss you,” he blurted, voice trembling. “I miss you like a fool and you haven’t answered me in a bloody week and I—” His voice cracked again, humiliatingly. “You wouldn’t abandon me, would you?”

Silence on the line.

His breath rushed out. “I know you’re younger, I know you’re beautiful, I know you’re out there in places full of tall, handsome, rich bastards who’d love to take you home. What if someone—what if someone’s trying to win you over? What if someone—” His voice grew hoarse, raw. “What if someone stole you from me?”

You let out a sound between a sigh and a laugh—warm, incredulous, touched.

“Frank,” you murmured. “Oh my God.”

He couldn’t stop.

“What if—what if some foreign prick with a yacht told you he’d take care of you? What if—what if a mafia idiot kidnapped you like in those obscene books you read? You’re always shaking your head at them but you read every damn one—”

You actually laughed at that—soft, startled, delighted.

He could hear you smiling.

“You think I got kidnapped by a mobster?” you teased gently.

“I don’t fucking know!” Frank snapped—desperate, shaky. “All I know is you’re half a world away and I’m here—pathetic—and I—” His voice broke again, quieter now. “Please. Just… come home.”

Silence again. Not cold. Not distant.

Soft.

You exhaled, voice tender and disbelieving. “Frank Benson… are you begging?”

He closed his eyes, crushed by the truth.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m begging. I’ll beg if that’s what it takes. Just don’t leave me. Don’t—don’t stay gone.”

Your voice melted—slowly, beautifully. “Baby… I’m not leaving you.”

Frank sucked in a breath.

You continued, gentle as warm hands in his hair. “You think I’d run off with some random guy? Or that I’d let anyone take me? Frank, look at yourself. You’re crying.”

He blinked hard. “I know.”

“You’re crying because you love me.”

Frank swallowed. The word landed like a blow.

“I—” His breath hitched. “Yes. I do.”

“And I love you,” you whispered. “Even more when you’re dramatic and jealous and crying into pillows, apparently.”

He groaned softly in embarrassment.

You giggled.

“Frank?” you murmured.

“Yes?”

“I’m coming home.”

His chest unraveled entirely—relief pouring through him so fast it nearly hurt. He let out a shuddering breath, pressing the pillow to his chest, your scent filling his lungs.

“When?” he whispered.

“First flight I can get,” you promised. “A few hours.”

He shut his eyes, a tear slipping free. “Good.”

Another pause. Then your voice, low and teasing:

“And Frank?”

“…What.”

“Have I ever told you that you look beautiful when you cry?”

He actually laughed—broken, shaky, real.

“Get on the damn plane,” he muttered, wiping his face with his forearm.

“Already packing,” you said warmly. “See you soon, old man.”

He hung up.

Held the pillow tighter.

And this time, when he cried, it wasn’t pathetic.