We all have to sleep at night

“First of all, that guy was 3 times my size.  Second, he had a larger weapon!  Third…”

“Third?”

“Whatever, let’s just do this!”  I clenched my fists together, making sure my thumbs were not in the palms of my hand.  I took a staggered stance.  My mind was racing, trying to remember everything dad taught me about fighting someone more experienced, and not a big, dumb, dope.  I looked him up and down, looking for a point of weakness.  None.

“Are you going to attack?  I promise if this were real, you’d be finished by now.”

“I know, I know.  It’s weird when it’s you.”  I shifted back again, hands still in tight balls.  Kidneys!  It just popped into my head!  Kidneys are a good place to start.  I swung low, fast, and parallel and clipped around his side.  He grunted a bit, but still there he stood.

“Is that all you got?”  I was ready to take his head off now.  I quickly lunged low at him and hit the same spot.  This time he stumbled backwards, making a louder grunt.  So, I did it again on his other side, but this time he blocked me and took my legs out.  He knelt over me with one leg pinning my arm and straddled my hips.  With his free hand, he grabbed a hidden knife and held it to my throat.  “Now you’re dead.”

“Ugh, get off me!”

“No.  You need to learn from this.”  he said calmly.  I sighed, laying there not knowing what to do.  Then it hit me.  I moved my hips up, curled my right leg to my chest and swung it around him, taking my other leg and knocking him back.  Now I was on top, but he was much stronger and flipped me backwards.  I realized I still had a knife on me too, so I pulled that, popped up to my feet and had it straight out towards him. “Nice move.”

“Thanks.  Just took me a minute.”  Standing there, breathing a little harder with my heart racing a bit more, we both had our blades out.  Suddenly, I could feel like he was going to jab into my left side, so I stepped right just before he did, and he stumbled right pass me, giving me an opportunity to jump on his back.  I had my legs wrapped around his hips, one arm was tangled with his left arm and my right arm with the knife was now up against his throat.  We both stood still.  “I win.”  I whispered as I hopped off him.  I could see his shoulders moving up and down a little faster, meaning he was breathing heavier.

“Could you see what I was going to do?  Lunge at you?”

“Yes.”  Slowing my breathing a little by now.  “I could see you move before you did.”

“Is that your powers?  Are you are using the force?”

“I guess so.  That’s what Luke said I had been doing my whole life, but I just didn’t know I was.”

“We must utilize that power.  You must learn to use it to your advantage.”

“I know, I know.”  There’s silence between us now.  Like we are both thinking of what to do next.

“We need to find out what motivates you and use that to help focus your powers.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“What’s something you really want.  We can start with that as motivation.”  I thought for a minute.  I felt like a ton of things should have flashed through my head, but I came up empty.  So, I sighed. 

“I’m not sure.  Nothing tangible.”

“So, what then what do you want?”

“I don’t know!  Geeze!”  We remained silent again.  I kicked a stone at Din with my foot.  It knocked against hist boot.  Nice shot I thought.  “I want a vacation!”  Wait, what did I just say?  I just came out.  Did I mean that.  Din tilted his head, looked at me, like he was trying to decide what to say next.

“Ok.”  He scratched the back of his neck.  “We can go somewhere and not work.  Just try to relax.”

“Really?  I didn’t really mean that.  I know you have a lot going on with your contacts and Nevarro.”

“No, no.  It’s fine.  It’s not like we’d be gone for a year.  Maybe a few days?  Grogu would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”  It was like I was asking him to sell a body part or something.  Don’t sound too excited I thought.  “The deal is, when we practice and train, you must find a way to control your powers.  If you can, we go.  If not, we continue to train.”  Fair enough.  I sighed. 

Once you finish the last page, you slide the book onto Ozzie’s lap. He turns through the pages again, quietly reciting the story to himself, as you pick up your phone.

Two texts from Jules:

Babe, are you watching the weather?

Text me back in five or I’m coming over.

You type out a reply:

No, should I be?

You walk to the window, and when you peek through the blinds, you see only gray; a bank of clouds is pushing fast across the sky, thick and dark and roiling. It doesn’t look any worse than a typical summer thunderstorm, but you click on the television just to be sure. The weatherman is on screen, pointing toward a variety of bright, flickering polygons on the map. He seems amped up, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, and you pick out the words “tornado watch” and “hook echo” before muting the TV so Ozzie doesn’t hear.

Your phone rings in your hand – Jules.

“Fucking storms.” Jules’ furious tone tells you she’s taking the threat of tornadoes personally, as usual. “Such fucking bullshit.”

“I don’t know –” you squint at the screen, trying to follow the track of the storm – “but it looks like it’ll miss us.”

“You’re awfully calm considering we’re about to get Wizard-of-Oz’ed out of here.”

“Want to come over? I can make you some tea?”

“Will the tea have Klonopin in it?”

You laugh. “No, the best I can offer is peppermint.”

“Then I’ll pass. Thanks, though, babe. I just wanted to be sure you were paying attention. Kiss my sweet baby for me.”

“I will. And call if you need me to talk you down.”

“Will do, babe. I’ll call you later.”

You pitch your phone onto the cushions of the couch and walk to the garage. You scoot the stack of cardboard recycling away from where it’s piled in front of the storm shelter door, then locate a box of dusty candles on a high shelf next to it. You pass through the kitchen on your way back to the living room, finding a pair of flashlights and a jar of matches, and heap your supplies in the middle of the coffee table.

Your phone rings again, and you grab it, answering without looking at the name.

“Change your mind about the tea?”

“…the tea?” Frankie sounds bewildered.

“Oh! Sorry, I thought you were Jules.”

“Ah. Are you watching this storm?”

“I am now.” You look at the television, where a storm spotter’s camera is showing a wall of opaque rain beyond the hurried slap of his windshield wipers.

“Can I come over? I’d feel better if you two weren’t home alone.”

“Oh, Frankie, we’re fine – really. I’ve got the shelter, we’ve got supplies. You don’t need to do that.”

“I would feel better if I did –“ his voice is no-nonsense and direct, your first glimpse of this take-charge side of him – “so unless you say no, I’m coming over.”

You furrow your brow – you’ve been through storms like this your whole life; you hardly need someone to hand-hold you through one. But if it makes him feel better, you suppose there’s no harm done – other than what feels like a slight blow to your ego. “Well, okay. It’s fine.”

His voice softens. “I’ll be there in 10.”

You say goodbye and end the call, then text Jules:

Guess who’s coming over?

Her response is immediate:

Hot Dad? Please say it’s Hot Dad.

You keep one eye on the television as you type your message:

Apparently, he will ‘feel better’ if he’s here? Should I be insulted?

You can picture the glee on her face as you read what she’s written:

Babe, we know why he’s coming over. He’s hoping for a power outage. Gonna break that new no-sitting-in-the-dark rule of yours and see what happens.

Three dots flicker on your screen as she types another message:

Two more things. A man who wants to be around for you and our boy during absolute bullshit like tornado watches is a good find. And you should know I put condoms in your nightstand earlier this week because I’m basically the best friend ever and you’re lucky to have me. Thank me later by giving me details. Love you, babe!

You hurry down the hallway to your bedroom and pull open your nightstand drawer. Rooting around in the detritus that has accumulated there, you find the box tucked into a back corner. A hot pink Post-It note is stuck to the front, with Jules’ oversized cursive scrawled on it: ‘Hope this is enough to get you two through one night – if not, sorry AND jealous. Love, Jules!’

You stuff the box back into the drawer and shut it quickly, then text Jules:

You’re a bad influence.

You can almost hear her voice as you read the response:

That’s why you love me, babe. Call me in the AM and, for the love of God, have something good to tell me!

Some part of you feels a frisson of excitement at the opportunity Jules’ little present is offering – the same part of you that carries you to your bathroom to run your fingers over your hair, the same part that spritzes a little perfume at your throat, the same part that glides an appraising hand over your calves checking for stubble.

But the other, more determined part of you refuses to change into something cuter than what you’re already wearing: a pair of denim cutoffs and another faded band tee – Kings of Leon this time, the once black fabric now a washed-out, splotchy gray.

The knock at the front door removes the possibility anyway.

You can hear the patter of rain beginning to hit the windows as you open the door, and Frankie shakes the glistening drops from his dark hair as he crosses the threshold. He’s carrying a duffel bag, army-green and clearly full, that he drops on the floor.

“Daddy!” Ozzie slides off the couch and rushes to Frankie, catching him around his knees.

“Hey, pal.” Frankie scoops him up and kisses his plump cheek, and Ozzie screws up his face.

“Skwatchy.” Ozzie rubs his open palms over Frankie’s scruffy jaw.

Frankie smiles as he sets the boy back down.

“It is a little scratchy, I guess.” He catches your eye and winks. “What do you think?”

“I think –” you shrug, your hands upturned and open – “that I don’t have an opinion.”

“Really? Alright then.” His eyes crinkle from his smile as he squats down next to the duffel bag. “Here, Oz, this is for you.”

He holds out a bright green plastic flashlight, with a chubby handle sized for children, and Ozzie reaches for it with wide eyes.

“Is mine?” He looks back and forth between you and Frankie. “Is my light?”

“It’s yours. You can use it for all kinds of stuff like playing outside or making shadows, but it’s good to have during a storm in case the lights go out.” Frankie shows Ozzie how to flick the switch off and on. “You can keep it in your room in case you need it. If that’s okay with your mom?”

They look at you in unison and you’re struck by the similarity of their expressions.

“Of course it’s okay. Buddy, what do you say?”

“Dank you!” Ozzie gives Frankie a loose, fast hug, his attention fixed on the flashlight.

“You’re welcome, Oz.” Frankie rises from his crouch as Ozzie takes off down the hallway flicking the light off and on.

You hold out your hand expectantly, a bright smile on your face, and Frankie looks at you blankly.

“What?”

You lift your eyebrows. “I assume I also get a gift?”

He laughs and bumps the duffel with the toe of his boot. “I can offer you some camping lanterns, extra batteries, or a first aid kit. Oh, or a wrench in case we need to turn off any utilities.”

You grin at him. “Frankie. I am a grown woman. Do you honestly think I don’t own a wrench? Or a first aid kit?”

“Can’t be too prepared. And thanks for letting me come over. I know you don’t need me here, but I –” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck, his face a little embarrassed – “hated the thought of the two of you here alone. Just in case.”

“It’s okay. I guess Ella’s still with her mom?”

“Yeah, they decided not to drive back in until tomorrow afternoon with the weather getting crazy.”

“Good call.” You nod your head toward the kitchen. “I was going to make us some dinner just before you called. Interested? Saturday nights are sandwich nights around here, so if you like ham and cheese, I’ve got you covered.”

“Sounds great. Need a hand?”

You gesture toward the television. “It’s a one-person job. You can keep an eye on that.”

---

Frankie carries the plates from dinner back to the kitchen and racks them into the dishwasher. You’d brought the sandwiches to the coffee table so the two of you could keep an eye on the storm – you’d called it a picnic, which had made Ozzie so delighted he didn’t notice the anxious glances the two of you had been sharing.

When Frankie walks back into the living room, Ozzie is on the floor contentedly stacking a tower of blocks and you are cross-legged on the couch, typing on your phone. You look up at him – he can’t imagine ever getting tired of how you look at him, like he’s a gift you didn’t expect – and smile broadly.

“Jules says hi.”

He sits down on the couch next to you – almost close enough to touch you, definitely close enough to smell your perfume, sweet and clean.

“Tell her hi for me. Let her know if she needs company, I’m pretty sure Pope would drive through an F5 to get there.”

You laugh, your fingers flying over the screen. “Can you imagine the two of them together? It’d be chaos.”

“Unfortunately for me, I don’t have to imagine, because Pope has been describing his plans in detail.”

“Eww.” You wrinkle your nose, and he chuckles.

“No, not those kind of plans. Well, mostly not. Don’t tell her any of that.”

“Oh, Frankie –” you grin at him, your thumb hitting send – “too late.”

Frankie groans, letting his head fall against the back of the couch. “He’s gonna kill me.”

You nudge him with your shoulder, mock sadness written over your face. “It was good knowing you.”

He notices you don’t lean away; you leave your shoulder resting lightly against his, and he nearly holds his breath so as not to lose the point of contact.

A sudden roar of wind rattles the windows, and you hop up from the couch to cross the room, peeking out the blinds. “Guess it’s here.”

Frankie’s eyes follow you, his gaze fixed on the frayed edges of your cutoffs as they brush the back of your thighs. He hasn’t forgotten how soft you are there, how the curves of muscle and flesh yielded to the grip of his fingers as he spread your legs wide onto the crisp percale of the hotel sheets.

You turn suddenly, concern creasing your forehead, and he blinks away the memory. “Are you worried about hail? I could make room in the garage for your car if you want?”

He shakes his head, smiling appreciatively at you. “The Bronco is mostly dents and dings. A little hail won’t hurt it.”

You nod, then turn your attention back to the window as the wind whips against the house. “What if a tree falls on it?”

He chuckles. “Then I have an excuse to get a new truck.”

You hold up two crossed fingers and cast a grin over your shoulder at him. “You may get lucky.”

He widens his eyes at you and holds up his own crossed fingers, and you laugh.

“With a tree. You may get lucky with a tree,” you emphasize, though your eyes sparkle in a way that makes him curious.

“Come please build blocks.”

He looks toward Ozzie, who is holding up a painted wooden block, his eyes fixed on Frankie.

“Sure, pal.” He gets up and settles on the floor by the little boy, taking the chunky blue rectangle. “What are we building?”

“A towah t’ the sky!” Ozzie waves dramatically at the teetering stack of blocks in front of him, and Frankie nods.

“A tower to the sky it is, then.”

You sit down on the floor next to them, your eyes glued to the weather app on your phone. “I think the worst of it is going to miss us.”

Frankie adds his block to the wobbling structure. “I think so, too. Just wind and rain for us.”

“Now, as long as the power stays on…”

As if on cue, the television and the lights snap off, and silence spills through the house as everything stops running at once. You and Frankie meet each other’s eyes in the dim light of your still-glowing phone screen.

“Well, shoot.” The surprise on your face makes him smile.

He lifts his eyebrows, his voice teasing. “Look what you just did.”

---

Frankie looks up from his phone with a frown as you walk back into the living room. “The website says power will be restored no later than Monday. But that’s probably a worst-case scenario.”

“Wow, I hope you’re right.” You flop onto the couch next to him, the flickering candle on the coffee table beginning to waver as its flame sinks low. “Hey, thanks for helping with him in there.”

A few extra stories were required to settle Ozzie down for sleep, but you and Frankie had taken turns, and soon the excitement of the power outage had worn off enough to let him close his eyes and drift off. His nightlight and sound machine both had batteries – that still worked, thank whatever gods were responsible for that – and as long as they made it to morning, he should be fine.

“Don’t thank me for that.” Frankie squints at you playfully. “I’m his dad.”

“Then I’ll thank you for the company instead. I’m glad you came over. We didn’t need you but–” you hold up one finger in a placating gesture, an easy smile on your face – “it’s been a much better evening with you here than it would have been without you.”

“Thanks.” He casts his eyes away almost shyly before returning your gaze. “I hope I didn’t overstep, but I just…it’s important to me to take care of my people. To keep ‘em safe.”

“Your person.”

He looks at you, not understanding. “What?”

“You said your ‘people.’ But it’s just one person – Ozzie.”

A thread of something stretches between you, taut and fine and golden.

“No.” He shakes his head, and the flicker of candlelight burning in the depths of his dark eyes kindles a bloom of heat in your cheeks. “I meant my people.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, turning your attention to the shimmer and sway of the candle flame.

He shifts his attention to it as well. “I think that one’s about to burn out. Want me to grab another one?”

The candle begins to gutter, the light flickering out again and again, before it finally expires, a thin ribbon of smoke twisting into the air above it.

“No.” Your voice is soft but certain.

“But we aren’t supposed to sit in the dark.” He sounds like he’s joking, but there is a question hidden in the words.

You take a deep breath, then shift your body toward him. You lift both hands to his face, the scruff of his beard rough on your palms. Your thumb finds that bare patch, the heart-shaped one, and warmth flashes over your skin as you stroke it gently.

You can feel him holding his breath as you lean towards him, your lips scant millimeters from his. “Then we don’t sit.”  

Your shared breaths mingle for a moment, until you feel his hands slide around your waist, his fingertips edging beneath the hem of your tee to trace warm paths over your skin – until you know for sure he wants this as much as you do.

When you kiss him, his lips are soft and warm, careful and patient. The plump curve of the lower one slots perfectly between yours, and you can’t resist easing the tip of your tongue against the swell of it. His hands tighten at your waist, his fingers digging into you, as a small guttural sound escapes him.

It’s like a bolt of electricity through your veins, that sound - you need to hear it again.

Another sweep of your tongue against him and his exhale is a groan, his mouth opening to you. You are dizzy with want now – everything you’ve been holding back crashes over you, and you know there’s no stopping.

You swing your leg over him, straddling his lap, your hands tangling in his hair as your kiss becomes messy and hungry – his tongue sliding into your mouth, your teeth nipping against his lip, breathy moans mingling with the crash of thunder outside.

His broad palms wrap around the backs of your thighs, high up, fingers inching beneath the hem of your shorts; they splay wide and grip you hard, grazing the edge of your panties as he pulls you toward him.

The feeling of being spread wide over his lap, the swell of his cock in his jeans already grinding against your center, makes your breath come hot and fast; your hips rock mindlessly in rhythm with your panting.

 You let your head drop back, offering him the long line of your throat. He kisses the tender place beneath your chin, the prickle of his mustache sending an unexpected sizzle through your nerves, then works a path downward. The rough rasp stings until soothed by the velvet caress of his lips, and you bite your lip to quiet the sounds that threaten to spill from you.

“Oh, fuck.” Your silence comes undone when two thick fingers find the soaked center of your panties; they move in a tantalizingly slow sweep over the slick fabric. You rest your forehead against Frankie’s, a strangled groan caught in your throat.

“Goddamn.” His fingers push against the slippery material, testing the edges, and when you feel them slip beneath the thin barrier to glide through your folds, you whimper. “Baby, you’re so wet – is this for me? Are you this wet for me?”

Your mouth is on his as he finishes the last word, your hands on his cheeks. Your words tumble out in a halting stutter as his fingers explore you. “Frankie…I want to…let’s go to my room. Please.”

The ‘please’ bends into a whine as his fingertip flutters against your entrance, then pushes deep into the wet heat of your body. Lightning arcs outside, and in the flash of brightness, you see his eyes, focused and dark and hungry, as he works you open.

“Please,” you ask again, dropping your face to bite into the tensed line of his neck. “Please, Frankie. I need you to fuck me.”

“Baby, I didn’t –” his finger slides out of you, then finds your clit, curling to stroke you gently – “bring anything.”

“It’s okay, I have –” you inhale sharply as a second finger joins the first, the twinned rhythm quick and sure – “condoms.”

His fingers slip from your panties, and he gives your ass a firm squeeze, dragging you against the swollen bulge of his cock.

“Thought you were a spinster.” His voice is playful – husky and hot against your ear.

You huff out a quick laugh, and grind your pussy against him, delighting in the groan the movement elicits. “But not a celibate one. C’mon.”

You clamber off his lap and turn toward the hallway. He rises to follow you, but you hold out a hand, pointing toward his duffel bag.

“Bring one of those lanterns. I want to see you.”

He murmurs appreciative assent and extracts one of the small lanterns out of his bag, and the two of you creep down the hallway to your bedroom. You quietly close the door, turning the lock, as he rocks the switch on the light, filling the room with a warm, golden glow.

You meet each other’s eyes a little bashfully – the protective invisibility the darkness offered gone —but when he reaches for you, his broad palm cupping your cheek, thick fingers curling around your neck, any hesitancy melts away.

You let your body fall into his, your lips crashing together, your hands pushing the hem of his shirt up the smooth expanse of his belly and chest. He lifts his arms so you can pull it off, and as you drop it on the floor, he’s already tugging at your tee, dragging it over your head and tossing it to the side.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He eases his palm over the horizon of your shoulder, his eyes moving over the swells of your tits ensconced in the simple black jersey bra you’re wearing. You briefly wish you had on something more seductive, but his face shows nothing but pleasure at the sight before him. He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss on your collarbone, his tongue flicking out to draw a wet, warm line over the ridge of bone. His hands move behind you, finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it nimbly.

You shrug the straps down your shoulders, letting the bra fall to the floor, and he gathers your tits into his palms, his thumbs circling the tight buds of your nipples. With quick hands, you yank open the button of your shorts, then kick them off, before turning your attention to his belt.

The leather snakes through the brass buckle with a hiss. You want him out of these jeans, right now, but you force yourself to slow down. You move your hand over the straining bulge of his cock in the denim, gripping him through the material. You’d sometimes wondered if your memory had been generous when recalling the heft of his cock, but the way he fills your hand answers the question.

He groans as you touch him, his hips rocking toward you. His words are half-grunted as you stroke him. “Do you want me to fuck you, baby? Or something else first?”

Your stomach clenches at his question, remembering the early hours of that morning in Miami, his face nestled in the juncture of your thighs, his tongue working you feverishly. But – you squeeze his cock through the denim, saliva pooling under your tongue – that’s for later. Now you want this.

You lift onto your tiptoes, kissing the blade of his jaw, your words whispered into his skin. “I need you inside me, Frankie. Right now.”

He catches your chin, bringing his mouth to yours. “You said you have condoms?”

You nod, and crawl on your hands and knees over the end of the bed toward your nightstand. Your hips are canted high in the air as you dig through the drawer, your fingers finding the tucked-away box. You hear Frankie’s jeans hit the floor, then the bed sags with his weight behind you. You pull a few condoms free from the box just as you feel Frankie’s palm spread wide over your upturned ass.

“Jesus fucking Christ, this view of you.”

You glance over your shoulder to see him behind you, his face hungry as he takes you in. He spits into his hand, then smears the saliva over his cock, working himself slowly. His fingers crook into the waistband of your panties and he slowly begins to drag them down. He trails kisses over every inch as he exposes you, and you sink to your forearms, lost in the hazy pleasure of his mouth against your skin.

“You look so good like this.” His praise sends throbbing heat through your center, and when he gently slaps your ass, you smile into your sheets and arch your back, offering him more.

Your panties are at your knees now, forgotten, as his hand kneads and squeezes your pliable flesh, the wet squelch of his cock in his fist filling your ears. You feel his weight shifting on the bed, and then keening cry falls from your lips as you feel the flat of his tongue slide over your pussy.

“I just need to taste you a little, baby,” he croons against your folds, his voice honeyed and warm. “So sweet…taste as good as I remember.”

You close your eyes, your need for his cock inside you slowly being forgotten as his tongue seems to be everywhere at once, the scruff of his beard rough against your thighs. But then he stops, placing a sticky kiss on the soft crease where your thigh meets your ass. He rises to his knees behind you, and you feel his cock dragging against you, the head trailing a hot, slippery glaze of precum on your skin.

“If you want me to fuck you like this, I will.” His hands smooth slow and easy over the curves of your hips, then he gently guides you onto your back. “But like this first, so I can see your face.”

You slip one of the condoms into his hand, then shimmy your panties the rest of the way down your legs, as he tears the package open. You watch as he strokes his cock for a moment before rolling the condom over the hard length of it. He grips one of your calves, lifting it to kiss the inner curve of your knee before spreading your legs and kneeling between them.

“I’ve thought about this so much.” Two thick fingers glide through your center, then settle against your clit, rubbing you gently. “All I’ve wanted was to hear you again, hear those pretty little sounds you make when I fuck you.”

You rock your hips toward his hand, hooking one leg around his waist. “Then stop waiting.”

He grins, then drops down to kiss you, his tongue teasing the edges of your lips. You feel him line up the head of his cock at your entrance, and a gasping moan is wrenched from you as he pushes slowly inside. The stretch of him burns a little, but he moves gently, and your body relaxes.

“Oh, fuck, Frankie –” you roll your hips against him, as he nips the tender skin of your throat – “you feel so good.”

His forearms rest on either side of your shoulders, caging you in, and you feel surrounded by him, grounded to the bed by the weight of his body, his hips rocking steady against you. It is unhurried, the way he fucks you, and you slide your hands over the broad expanse of his back, the muscles tense beneath your hands.

His mouth finds your ear, his words gritted and low. “I want to feel you come on my cock, baby. Want to feel this sweet pussy get so tight I can’t fucking take it. Think you can do that for me?”

“Uh-huh.” You snake your hand between the sweaty crush of your bodies, fingers dipping low to where his cock is filling you. He pushes up onto his hands, levering his body off yours, to watch your movements. Your fingers make their way back to your clit, and you find the rhythm you like best; you’re already so close, your body so ready for this – for him.

“Come on, baby, come on, –” his eyes narrow, his brow furrowed in concentration – “that’s it, show me how you like it.”

His words, the swirling slip of your fingers, the delicious friction of his thick cock sliding in and out of you – the sensations blur together, and you arch your back and come hard, the pulsing squeeze of your pussy making him moan in unison with you.

He falls to his elbows, his mouth on yours, hips rocking hard against you. You rake your nails down his back as his rhythm falters. He buries himself deep, every muscle in his body flexed, and you can feel the pulse of his cock inside you.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck.” His voice is hoarse and strained, the words muffled against your cheek.

You are both out of breath, the sheen of sweat on your bodies shimmering in the golden light of the lantern, and he kisses a winding path from your damp temple to the corner of your mouth.

“Why did we wait so long to do this?” He rolls his hips languidly, the heft of his cock still heavy inside you.

You laugh softly, and he grunts as your body tenses around him. “I may need a couple minutes before I can remember my reasons.”

He reaches between your bodies, holding the condom in place as he pulls out of you, then stands up. “Hope you don’t.”

You shift onto your side to watch him head to your bathroom – the width of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the loose-limbed swagger of his walk…you could get used to this view.

When he comes back, he clicks off the lantern, then stretches out on the bed facing you, brushing a soft kiss on your forehead as he eases his palm along the valley of your waist.

You rest your hands on his smooth chest, your fingers tracing small circles on his golden skin. “Maybe that’s out of our systems now.”

“Not yet.” He dips his head to kiss your lips and you feel his smile. “So we’ll have to keep trying, and I’ll let you know.”

Next

“I could take you home if you’d like. Pretty girls like you shouldn’t roam the street alone.”

Simon, more commonly referred to as Robotic Class Guy or French Fries, was surprisingly not half as bad as you thought he would be. He had all the height of a man but none of the bulk. From behind he could be easily spotted as someone in their late teens to early thirties, mostly blaming his horrid graphic tee and skinny jeans combo, but when he turned that face was all boy. His caramel hair flopped over his eyes in the way no office worker could get away with and on his wrist were bracelets in woven leather. 

At first, you accepted his awkward invite out of spite. 

Just to rid yourself of a certain plague festering upon your head, feasting on your brain cells so that you’d think of nothing but Mr. Miller in all his glory. Him with his tight worn-out jeans, spread open enough that you could see a naughty peak of his bulge, while he watched the soccer game. Him with his shirt off, bathing in the summer-induced moisture, while he mowed the front lawn and edged the curb. Him with his thumb parting your lips, looking at you like he’s about to consume you alive, but of course he didn’t. 

At least now that Simon came around, you’d have a new port to anchor your boat on.

“No, thanks, I’m alright. My..”

Who was Mr. Miller to you again? 

Your.. father? Absolutely not. Even if he’s taken you in as a part of the Miller family, just like how he used to say, you would feel like it’d be morbidly repulsive to deduce him to that particular role. For fuckssake, you stick a finger up your cunt every single week to the thought of him fucking you like one of his girls.

Then would a family friend be better of a word? Or should you just say that he’s a guardian of yours? But that’d be confusing, wouldn’t it? You glanced at your watch, counting the hour and minute hand as if it’d give you a revelation on how to answer Simon’s pop quiz.

“Someone promised to pick me up.”

That sure did sound ominous.

With a promise to leave a message to his cell once you’ve returned home safely, you stepped out of the quaint local restaurant. It was warm outside and you weren’t particularly fond of that. Heat has always been your mortal enemy; something about the musty scent of middle school boys’ armpits after PE class mixed in with the pungent perfumes they use to try and hide it has left you permanently traumatized. Your once-cheery mood had long evaporated along with any semblance of coolness. You tugged at the hem of your sundress, fanning yourself with your hand in a futile attempt to find relief from the stifling heat. This is hell!

Where was Mr. Miller?

Mr. Miller must've read your mind, because a honk quickly resonated. He was on the very corner of the parking lot; his large pickup truck looked hilariously out of place when compared to the array of city cars parked by his side. You swore you could see him grin from behind the shaded tint of his window, perhaps entertained at your almost too obvious annoyance. The thought made your heart jump and maybe even did a front-flip. God, you’re helpless!

As you beelined down the sidewalk and on to him, the heat seemed to intensify with every step. Beads of sweat formed on your forehead, causing your hair to stick in weird shapes. You just hope that his truck’s AC works.

“Hi.. Hi, Mr. Miller.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How was it?”

The nickname never ceased to exude so much power. ‘Sweetheart’ made you feel as if a tail had grown out right from the hilt of your ass and you had no other choice than to swish it around excitedly. You propped up one leg on the washed-off gray carpet, before swinging yourself into the vehicle in one go. The door closed behind with a loud thud. As you leaned back, you cringed at the feeling of your sweat-soaked dress clinging onto your skin. You felt like some marinated beef, sticky and in need of a quick shower.

“It was alright,” you hummed.

“Alright? Now that made me all the more curious,” he grinned, nudging your side with the edge of his elbow. “Com’on now. Tell me all about it, will ya?”

“Mr. Miller, are you trying to embarrass me?”

Mr. Miller’s soothing brown eyes that were stuck on the glittering street lights came flickering over to you, as if he’s actually afraid that perhaps he’s made you uncomfortable. His shoulders squared and his jaw slackened for just a split second as he tried to grasp for any nuance you’ve just given. You then smiled at him, relieving him of his worries.

It’s a little jarring to say that you think he’s quite cute. In the same way people find puppies cute, or those strawberry-shaped trinkets. He’s a little socially-awkward in his own way. Embarrassed to ask the waitress to bring his plate back, but would be confident bullying his cock into a tight cunt. Would definitely get kooky when asked to join a parents-teacher conference, but would whisper filthy things on the internet.

“I ain’t tryna make you embarrassed,” he huffed out. “I just wanna know you’re safe.”

How nice. If only he knew why you went on dates in the first place.

“He’s alright, Mr. Miller. Kind, decently groomed, respectful,” you replied, flicking through your Twitter feed mindlessly. “Better than most college guys.”

“Did he pick you up?”

Your forehead scrunched up. “I ordered a cab.”

“Did he at least get the door for you?”

“It’s not exactly the 1900’s, is it?” you quipped back at him.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for your answer.

“If you’re that curious, then no.”

“Well then, did he pay for dinner?”

“No, well.. I did offer for us to split it,” you reasoned.

“Well, sweetie, he’s not too respectful. Is he?”

“Yeah.. but he’s cute.”

He’s cute and you’re desperate to get over Mr. Miller. Terribly so. At first, the entire situation with having your pornstar crush be the head of your host family was hilarious, it’s a joke written by itself. But then the desires went through the roof in a matter of weeks and you’re sure that you’d actually jump him one of these days. He’s attached to the back of your mind like some ghostly presence. Everything he said and done carved at your brittle wall of determination and one day it’s all going to fall apart like broken glass. You needed to stop it from happening. 

There was a minute or so where he didn’t have anything to say. He hadn’t let go of the handbrakes either, though he appeared to be squeezing the leather cover of the steering wheel tighter.

“Cute ain’t enough for a man, sweetheart.”

Mr. Miller finally pushed down the handbrakes and released the pickup truck from the small parking lot. His large hands skillfully turned the wheels to fit through the tiny gaps, guiding the vehicle towards the open road. You shut your eyes for a good minute, then you let out a weighted sigh. Almost as if you’re a deflated balloon.

The drive was going to be a long one, considering the restaurant you’re on was in the heart of the town and Mr. Miller’s humble abode was more towards the outskirts. Would he continue preaching about the importance of Southern manners and being a gentleman? Because if he did, perhaps you’d just shut him up with a kiss.

“I’m just a little nervous,” you broke the silence.

“Because of the boy?”

“Sorta, yeah. It’s my first time..”

You clicked your phone shut, stuffing it on the cup holder next to the car stick. The entire conversation was making you nauseous. You had to press on the button on your left to slide down the windows in order to take in fresh air. Through the open window, a gentle breeze tousled the top of your hair, carrying with it the familiar scent of Summer in Austin. As he drove closer into the outskirts of town, the lights gradually faded behind into a sea of twinkling stars.

“First time in what?”

“In all this,” your hand motioned the idea abstractly.

“You’ve never dated?”

An enthusiastic grin snaked its way to his lips.

“I have! But it’s not- it’s not real. It’s middle school romance. We meet each other in the hallways, hold hands and giggle about it, then go on pizza dates,” you tried to explain. “I’ve never dated properly.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” you tousled your hair in frustration. “Just because, Mr. Miller. I’m not sure either. Maybe I’m just comfortable in my own little bubble?”

“Then this boy.. What’s his name again?”

“Simon.”

“Right, Simon. Are you thinking of dating Simon properly?”

“Maybe,” you muttered.

“Maybe I could teach you,” he paused. “Well, that is if you’d like this old man to teach you old tricks.”

Your hands tightly clutched the edge of your seat. A rise of bile disturbed your throat's peace as a knot of anxiety started to form in your stomach. This is what you’re working towards.

You didn’t want to admit it, because admitting means legitimizing what you had in mind, but you were hoping for him to offer you help in any way that he felt was right. Despite your.. odd relationship with him, he was your guardian and you’ve seen the way he dealt with all Sarah’s problems with soft-spoken words and fair actions. You trusted him to help you delve into this new world of adult romance, but it’s not like you’re expecting for him to agree on it. Shit, shit, shit! You couldn’t think straight.

“Com’on then. Tell me what you’re so nervous of.”

“You’re gonna laugh at me,” you groaned.

“I’m not!”

“You are,” you persisted.

“Fine. I promise not to laugh.”

You took a deep breath. The single word sticky on the end of your tongue.

“Sex.”

The pickup truck swerved.

To your surprise, instead of howling and laughing at your lack of experience, he was quiet. Awfully so to the point where you think you’d rather have him laugh at your patheticness instead of giving you the cold shoulder. You rolled the window back up, giving him your full attention as you waited for him to do something. He looked tense; the grip he had on the steering wheel was so tight you could see the leather developing crescent-shaped marks. What was he thinking of?

“Do I.. do I have to give you the talk?”

“God, no! Mr. Miller, I’m not clueless,” you looked horrified that he even considered giving you the birds and the bees talk. “I am, but I know what happens.”

The hours you’ve spent analyzing each and every one of his videos surely made an impact on how you view sex. Perhaps not the most accurate one, since you were merely looking through a 720p video and not being present in the scene, but you knew how sex goes. How it starts, what arousal looks like, what appears to feel good and what doesn’t, and how good an orgasm looks like when induced by another person. Mr. Miller might not be aware of how much he’s taught you. Not directly, but in a cause-and-action kind of way.

“Then what are you afraid of?” he hummed.

“Making a mistake,” you muttered dejectedly. “Of it not feeling good.”

A beat passed.

“Do you..” he struggled to speak properly. “Do you want me to teach you?”

What were you thinking! It was one thing to harbor intense, disgustingly filthy feelings towards a man who perceived you as an addition to his family, but it was another thing to act on it desperately. Your mind reeled back towards the exact moment when you agreed on his proposition. How you agreed on it instantly as if it wasn’t even a question, how you nodded your head miserably as if you were afraid that you’d miss this one chance, how you buckled your knees at the thought.

God, how pathetic can you be! You didn’t remember much after such a cathartic turn of events. All you managed to compile in that pretty little head of yours was that he took a different interchange, then slipped onto a highway towards.. whatever this place was.

It was on the outskirts of town. Opposite to where he lived. Big trees grew tall and heavy as they provided a mystique veil for the trailer house. You remembered the shade of peeling paint covering the outside, sky blue. The lanterns provided ample lighting for it to be spotted from a distance, but not enough to attract rowdy attention. Mr. Miller told you to come inside first while he secured his pickup truck properly. He mentioned a thing or two about racoons or squirrels, but you were too high off adrenaline to even notice. Being in the property, you instantly knew where you were.

This was his lair.

Where he shoots his videos, where he invites all his pretty co-stars to make them moan and whimper about how good his cock felt and how deep it went, where he edits those striking millennial-core thumbnails. Your throat grew dry and you began to think if it’s time to bail. He’d understand, wouldn’t he? Mr. Miller would just take you home and forget about it. Then, by next summer, you’d be out of his hair and he’d never even think about it.

A creak sounded from the front door. You jumped.

“Hi, sweetheart. You okay?”

You nodded. Your entire body went cold, especially the tips of your fingers and toes as you saw him come close. One step at a time. Almost as if he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t scare you too much. Mr. Miller looked awfully big up close. You never seemed to notice this entirely when you see him around the house, but when he’s confined in this miniscule trailer house, he looked massive. His presence towered over every last bit of your confidence. It’s surely crumpling - your confidence - slowly dissipating into thin when he was flushed against your chest. 

“I’m okay, Mr. Miller.”

He pulled a foldable chair from one of the open compartments, before taking a seat on it. He spread his legs, as always, and had this look in his eyes. 

“You sure you wanna do this?” he paused, before resuming. “You could tell me you don’t feel like doin’ this anymore and I could take you home. Won’t talk about it anymore if you don’t wanna.”

“I.. I want to do this, Mr. Miller.”

“Are you sure? There ain’t no pressure in this. I’m simply here to help you, sweetheart, so if you feel like-”

“I get it, okay, I get it. I trust you. A lot. And I know you’d be the best person to teach me.”

What were you even saying? This was straight out of your wildest wet dreams and perhaps that’s why you’re so adamant about it. You watched silently as he contemplated his choices. Mr. Miller scratched his beard for a short while, his gaze focused beyond you and you could almost watch in real-time how his morals and values crumbled onto the creaky floorboards. He stood up from his small chair and headed right towards where you were standing idly. Is this what May felt like in those videos?

“Alright, sweetheart. I ain’t a vocal man so this is gonna be challenging even for me,” he chuckled gruffly. “Every man has their way of settlin’ with their ladies, but I like ‘em stripped off their clothing first. So will you be a pretty thing and do that for me?”

For a second, you were as still as a rock. Entirely not used to having the person who initiated many if not all of your orgasms giving you these orders in real life. He’s right there in front of you, flesh and bones, telling you to strip off your clothing. It felt like a fever dream. You must’ve had a weird look on your face, because a grin started to form on those chapped lips of his.

Conscious of the mistake, you quickly reacted. Almost skittishly in a way as you pulled on the zipper that’s located on your right ribs. Your fingers fumbled with one another, as if it’s been braided into one, but you managed to loosen it after a few attempts. You slipped your right arm under the spaghetti straps, before you slipped the other one. The only thing holding your modesty together was your one arm that’s holding onto the support-less front flap of your sundress.

“Com’on now. It’s just me. You can act shy and adorable around Simon, but not this old man,” he teased.

You nodded, hesitantly letting your arms fall to the side. The terribly warm weather encouraged you not to wear a bra. Although you wondered if 3 PM you knew that you’re going to be engaging in some promiscuous agenda this evening. You looked up into his eyes for some kind of guidance, in which he responded with a curt nod, before you tugged on the dress so that it’d slide onto the floor.

Now the only piece of modesty you’re wearing is your plain white panties. Your breasts were entirely exposed, cold nipples firming up as it reacted to the change of temperature. This is embarrassing! Mr. Miller was being incredibly methodical in the ways in which he approached the situation, lacking sloppy mouthy kisses and feverish touches.

“Smart girl,” he complimented, almost on instinct. “Let’s get on the bed, yeah?”

You moved adjacent to him. Mr. Miller was gentle when he patted the spot next to him, allowing you to settle down properly while he fixed a pillow behind your back. To think that you’re positioned on the same bed where you’ve witnessed him please an array of girls made you feel some sort of way. A hitch in your heart, a twitch in your hole. You’ve never witnessed him this gentle. He’s always fond of establishing the power he held on the dynamic he’s presented, always telling girls what to do in quick succession and calling them humiliating names if they fail to do as told. With you, he was sweet and rather funny.

“In my experience, one of the things girls like the most is to be withdrawn from control,” he spoke up into the thick air. You didn’t miss the way his eyes cruised along your beaded nipples, or the way it watched you with feral precision. “Of course, it depends on the person. But you. I think you’re a sensitive one, are you?”

You nodded obediently.

“Cross your arms behind your back,” he ordered and watched closely as you followed suit. “Lean back onto the pillow.”

You copied his order. Only then did your finicky brain finally compute that you’re limited off your movements now. With your body weight acting like paper weight for your arms, t’d be impossible for you to react in quick time.

“Good girl.”

His mindless comment made you tighten your thighs together.

“I’m gonna touch you, okay?” he whispered gently. You could watch how he’s slowly approaching you with much caution. His arms caged you in as it dug into the tangled sheets next to you. He’s testing the currents, making sure you’re fully consenting to the experience before he makes any mistake that might ruin your perception of sex. “Ask your little friend to touch you slowly. None of that frisky aimless touching. If he pulled on your nipples and called it a day, I’d leave his ass.”

This little routine he had, the one Wicked Fantasies had, was memorized into your head and to watch it take place right in front of you made you ecstatic. He caressed the side of your face. Gently even with those big, large fingers of his, he managed to take up a good portion of your cheek. Mr. Miller then made his way to your lips. He swiped it once over your upper lip, then another time over your thicker bottom lip. You’d anticipate for him to stick his thumb in deep enough so that he could see your uvula properly, but he didn’t. Instead, he settled on pressing down your tongue as if to pin it against the lower floor of your mouth. A good amount of saliva was collected that when he pulled away, a lewd string remained intact.

“Do you know why I like pinning a girl’s tongue down?” he queried to increase comfort in a way.

“No,” you whispered breathlessly. “Why?”

“It makes ‘em docile,” he muttered. “Encourages submission and I like a pretty girl who listens.”

Mr. Miller’s fingers dragged through the curves and texture of your warm skin, leaving goosebumps on his wake, before he finally reached your two perky nubs. Each one hardened before he could give them the treatment they both deserved, which in a way broke his routine, but instead of being irritated, he appeared to be pleased.

Girls in his videos weren’t as sensitive as you. They didn’t get riled up just by a little touching and teasing. Seeing you like this was a refreshing touch. One that made the wrinkles on his forehead ripple as his eyebrows quirked. He circled his calloused finger around where the pigmentation started. Once, twice. Right until he was merciful enough to press against the apex of your nipples.

You squirmed.

“So sensitive, are you?” he cooed. “Tell Simon to play with your sensitive little nipples, hm? You look like you could cum just by this.”

“O-oh please!”

“Please?”

You couldn’t respond. Not when he’s rolling the most sensitive part of your nipples between the pads of his thumb and the side of his pointer finger. Touching your breasts with your own nimble hands felt nothing like what he’s doing right now. You instinctually grinded your leaking pussy down onto the bed, almost like an animal in heat.

“Poor thing couldn’t even tell me what she wants. What would Simon think, hm? A girl with no self control like you,” he hummed. Mr. Miller quickly held onto your thighs so that you’d stop rocking onto the bed and getting off from pleasure he’s not offering. Your eyes met his, searching for help, but the sweet and respectful Mr. Miller wasn’t there anymore. “Alright now, sweetheart. You have ta make sure that you’re thoroughly aroused before thinkin’ of even touchin’ this place.”

“You’re new at this,” he hummed. His fingers slipped off the hold he had on your nipples before it slid down your stomach and settled precisely above your clothed clitoris. “It’s gonna hurt bad if you’re not properly lubricated. Sex is supposed to be fun, not painful so if some guy tells you that it’s supposed to hurt, don’t listen to his dumb shit.”

Mr. Miller was incredibly informative if you put aside the fact that he’s touching you in all the right places that it’s making you go dumb. He spent the time explaining why an action must be provided and how to perform it, when you know for a fact that this is not what he’s used to doing. Wicked Fantasies was known to be straight with words, using minimal sentences to provide his co-stars with just the right amount of information. You could tell he’s holding back the urge to be meaner, to act the way he likes, just for you to be more comfortable.

“Let’s take a look, shall we? You think I did a good job, darlin’?”

It’s dark out. There’s only one source of light that’s present in the room. A small bedside lamp in the shape of an elephant, Sarah’s favorite animal that’s grown to be yours as well. This session with him felt intimate; you’d expect for him to bring out the bright light panels and reflectors just like in those videos you watched of him, but instead, he mostly depended on the moonlight rays.

You were acutely aware of how those dark eyes of his mirrored your own. The way he studied you was unlike any other, not with an invasive intent, but rather with heed. You watched as he hooked his fingers on each side of your panties. Slowly dragging it down, only to stop to wait for you to ease your thighs upwards.

“Look at you,” he chuckled. “I’m right about you bein’ sensitive. Don’t think we need any lube when your pussy looks like this.”

By instinct, you brought your thighs together, shy that he’s observing you with such vulgar intensity. He hummed out a tone of disapproval and quickly placed his arms on both of your knees, prying the two apart as if he’s opening a stubborn can of bolognese. You bit your bottom lip, stifling the noise of embarrassment.

Anxiety bubbled up inside of you. You wondered if you looked okay down there - no other men had seen it besides him! - or if there was something strange that caused him to halt. There was a lewd string of sticky arousal pooling on the center of your panties. You silently watched as it stretched and broke as Mr. Miller pulled the thin fabric away.

“You’re soaked, sweetie,” he teased.

“Mr. Miller, that’s- that’s embarrassing..”

“You like to touch yourself, don’t you?”

Your eyes flickered towards his direction in fear. Has he discovered your incurable obsession for him and his erotic videos? That couldn’t be, could it? There’s no scientific correlation between being extremely aroused with masturbation as far as you’re aware, but the confidence he exude made you doubt yourself. Mr. Miller moved in a painfully slow tempo, taking his time to caress your inner thighs and stomach before even considering touching you where it ached. His calloused fingers felt different against your skin. It left a fiery trail in its wake.

“No, I don’t,” you lied with a breathless squeak.

“It’s okay if you like to touch yourself, y’know,” he whispered as if taunting you. “Girls who like to touch themselves understand themselves better.”

Mr. Miller finally touched you properly. His pointer finger probed against your clitoris, touching in the lightest feathery manner possible that you couldn’t have felt it if you weren’t concentrating. Your hips followed the brief source of pleasure, only to be disappointed when you notice that he wasn’t there. He pulled his finger close to his mouth and made a big show out of it. The way your arousal glistened under the pale moon rays, Mr. Miller teased you with his expressions and mannerism. He dipped the stained finger in his lips to have a good taste while keeping  eye contact.

“Please touch me.”

“What was that, sweetheart?” he hummed.

“Please touch me again. It feels go-”

You were cut off immediately when he lazily drew a perfect circle on top of your hooded clit.

“Fuck, please, please, sir.”

Ah, he liked that. He liked the new name you’ve granted him. Mr. Miller was kind enough to resume what he was doing. His finger descended down onto your throbbing hole to gather a good amount of slick before he brought it up to aid his ventures.

“The best way to feel good is controlled pleasure. It feels better to be denied than to receive boring continual pleasure, so..” he paused his movement all together. “I’m gonna teach you a little game.”

“A little game..” you sounded like you’re about to cry from his sudden withdrawal.

“Count to ten, properly. Then I’ll reward you with more. If you fail, then we gotta start from the very beginning,” he explained. His warm breath fanning over your sensitive clit. “You think you can do that, pretty girl?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll start now.”

“One, two..”

You felt how he made his laps around your nub. It was much more intense than the pleasures you’ve initiated before. Compared to rutting against a pillow, grinding against a bedpost, or laying under the tub’s running water, this felt like an entire new experience. You fought to keep still, but it’s gradually getting harder when his finger starts prodding against your tight little hole.

“Three, four. Please, Mr. Miller. Oh god,” you whimpered by accident. He didn’t like that one bit by the look he gave you. There weren’t rules and promises to this, no dynamic the two of you have agreed on, but you couldn’t help but be terrified of his disapproval. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir.”

“From the start,” he ordered.

“One, two, three..”

You could barely remember the numbers in your head despite encountering them almost every day of the week. You’re a smart girl, knows your ways around things, but being touched by Mr. Miller makes you go all dumb.

“Four, five, six..”

Your thighs began to twitch and spasm. You catched the way he pulled back the hood to your clit to get a more direct touch. It was working wonders as the sensation now is a lot more electrifying. Arousal dribbled down your twitching hole and onto the crack of your rear, wetting the sheets beneath you with the sticky clear substance.

“Seven, eight, n- nine!”

You jutted your hips out when his fingers brushed over your clit once more, the sensitive bundle of nerves extra aware of his presence, and he managed to hold you back once more. He’s forgiving. You knew he’d punish his co-stars if they couldn’t stay still like you, but he let this one slide. He continued rubbing slow, tight circles only to alter into an eight shape.

“Ten.”

The ultimatum. It has arrived, your key to heaven.

“Smart girl,” he cooed, never actually stopping. “This little hole of yours looks neglected, hm?”

“Yes, pleasepleaseplease.”

“Touch your clit slowly like I taught you,” he ordered. “You can do that can you, sweetheart?”

You nodded, distraught and ruined. With his sweet permission, you pulled one arm out from your back and rested it right above your clit. Slow and steady. Just like how he ordered. Mr. Miller on the other hand was slicking up his pointer finger with his tongue. Fuck, that looks so god damn hot.

He had pressed his sole finger deep into your warmth with no hesitation whatsoever. The combination of his calloused finger against your walls and the golden freckles inside his narrowed irises had you reaching out for his forearm. Your nails came in contact with his skin as you dug upon it, crescent shapes formed in pinkish shades atop his skin. You had to sit up as the only way you’re getting through this is by leaning on his sturdy arm.

“Oh, you like that, huh? Filthy girls like you love to get their holes filled?”

What you didn’t expect was having him press a second finger in. His one finger was thicker than what you’re used to, but two fingers? That makes you an overachiever for sure. You looked up to meet his eyes frantically. You knew he wouldn’t be kind enough to withdraw the action when his mind is already set on it, but it was worth the try. He cocked his head arrogantly as he pursued his plans. Mr. Miller’s middle finger was a tight fit. Barely able to slip past the ring of muscles. Though when he did manage to get himself in, a loud moan escaped your lips. 

“Mr. Miller. I can’t- I’ve never- never taken two fingers!”

“I know you can do it, sweetheart,” his free hand went over to run over your sweaty hair, admiring every inch of you. “You wanna please that boy, don’t you? Little Simon?”

He was skillful with his fingers, perhaps from his job requirements. Although it’s still incredible how he managed to have you squirming, yelling how you’re about to cum in a matter of seconds. All he did was switch between pumping the two in you, creating the filthiest sounds, and reaching upwards to hit that certain spot of yours. You rubbed your clit with much concentration as you followed after his thrusts.

“Mr- oh.. Mr. Miller! I’m gonna cum, sir.”

“You’re gonna do that for me?” he grinned, pushing his fingers into you as deep as they could go. He maintained a steady pace, emphasizing pressure on that spongy spot up top that you’ve never managed to reach with your stubby fingers. “Pretty girl gonna cum from my fingers?”

“Yes, yes.. sir. Please.”

“Cum for me, darlin’” he whispered. “Show me how good you can be.”

It shouldn’t be tempting, but when Jack Daniels is your lover, your partner, it’s always on the table. The man could talk you out of plans and out of your clothes so fast, your head would be spinning. And not just from that talented mouth eating your pussy like it was nectar of the Gods. 

“You always say that, Jack.” “‘Cause you always tempt me to keep you for myself, sugar.” Strong, warm arms slide around your soft stomach and he squeezes you tight as his nose and mouth burrow in at your shoulder. Giving you a view of his artfully combed hair. The cowboy hat hadn't gone on his head, just yet. “Fuck, you always smell so good.” 

It was the perfume he had bought you. One of the first gifts he had brought from a mission when he had decided to ‘court’ you. His words, although you find the old fashioned vernacular charming and very fitting. Jack might be crass at times, but at others he is the height of a southern gentleman. 

His mustache tickles and makes you shiver, followed by his hot mouth ghosting over your pulse and pressing petal soft kisses to your skin. Making gooseflesh pebble your skin and your eyes slip closed as you sigh out his name. 

He’s good at distracting you. Those large hands sliding over your stomach and traveling up to cup your breasts. His groan against your skin is low, already husky rumble even raspier as he slowly massages the flesh in his hands through your bra. You hadn’t dressed yet, waiting until  your hair and makeup is done before you slide your dress on. 

“Jack.” You whine, eyes half closed and your lips poised in a pout as you instinctively lean to the side to give him more room to do whatever he wants with your body. “You planned tonight.” You remind him. 

“Next time, smack me upside the head.” He huffs, reluctantly pulling away from where he was nibbling on your shoulder to send you an playfully unhappy look in the mirror. “For being such a fool to think I wouldn’t want to keep you home and to myself.” 

Rolling your eyes at him, you smirk and lift a brow. “Finish getting ready, Mr. Daniels.” You chide. “You promised me a night out for my birthday and that is exactly what I am getting.” 

Letting go of your tits, Jack winks at you and grins. “Of course you are, sugar.” He promises with a smirk. “Tonight is going to be a night you never forget.” 

****

“Jack!” Your surprised squeal is muffled against his jacket, although you shouldn’t be surprised. Jack’s fingers, push aside the material of your panties and those thick, nimble fingers quickly find your sex slick with desire. “We are in public!” 

“So?” His chuckle fans out warmly over your skin and he rubs your bundle of nerves before his thumb presses against it and two fingers push slowly inside you. “No one is paying attention and I can’t help myself.” He defends. “You are too appealing, sugar. Sittin’ here lookin’ like an angel wrapped in sin.” 

The pressing curl of his fingers steals your ability to answer. Mouth dropped open in a soundless moan, only the tiniest squeak manages to sound, barely even reaching his ear except he’s listening for it. 

“Hmmmm.” He rumbles, making sure that he curls his body around you in the booth in the most intimate corner of the restaurant. While he loves pushing the boundaries of propriety, he doesn’t want anyone to actually see you. Your pleasure is his alone. “What’s that, sugar?” He coos softly. “I didn’t hear you.” 

Turning your head, you feel the way that he is absolutely playing your pussy like it’s a stringed instrument. Moaning softly into his ear, your body pulls taunt and starts to roll with the plunge of his fingers. It’s wicked and filthy, letting him finger you right here in the middle of the trendiest restaurant around, the possibility of anyone catching you running high as waiters and guests run around. Still, your fingers grip the fabric of his suit coat and you let him do whatever he wishes to your body as you respond to him. 

The drag of his fingers in and out of your velvet walls makes you hiss in pleasure, the way they pulse around his thick digits similar to how he feels when he is working his cock inside you. Nerve endings firing in pleasure and making the knot in your belly grow every time he pushes them deep. 

“Jack.” You pant softly, trying to keep your voice down as your eyes dart around the room. It makes him chuckle, but the pressure against your clit and the movement of his fingers never pauses. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, sugar.” He promises. “Your pretty little pussy is gonna weep around my fingers and give me a little treat to suck on that will be more delicious than the best dessert in this place.” His chuckle is low and raspy. “Hell, I’d rather set you up on the table and feast on you.” 

He would probably do it, if you were at home. Your table has often been the scene of countless couplings. Now he just intends to make you whine and whimper, shaking with pleasure in public. 

Your finger nails dig into the fabric of his suit, clutching for purchase, to ground you so you don’t go floating away on a cloud of ecstasy while the entire restaurant watches. The wine on the table is barely touched and yet you feel like your head is swimming, thoughts fuzzy to everything but the press of his fingers. 

Jack’s dark eyes watch you, sparkling encouragement from their dark depths. His lips pulled into a smirk as every pass of his fingers rockets you closer to having to muffle a cry. He’s enjoying your pleasure. If you were to reach down and take a squeeze of his cock, you would find him hard as a rock. 

“Just a little more, sugar.” He coos, leaning in and kissing your jaw. “Just a little more and your sweet pussy will be singin’ for me. Can you do that? Can you cum in my fingers and let me have a little taste of you?” 

The raw, rough pitch of his voice and the next swipe of his finger pushes you over the edge. Turning and burying your face against his neck, your muffled moan is barely heard outside your little booth, breathed into the fabric of his suit. “Jack, oh God, Jack.” You whimper, the quiver of your cunt following the molten slick that coats his fingers and makes him hum in satisfaction. 

“That’s it, sugar, cream on ole Jack’s fingers for me.” He whispers in praise, working you through it and humming as your flutter walls start to slow. “Good girl,” He likes the way you pant against his collar, looking just for the world like a woman who is snuggled against her man. “Ride it out.”

Jack’s fingers work you until he can sense that you want him to stop and slowly pull out of your wet heat. The sticky sounds make him grin and his napkin comes up with his hand to cover him discreetly licking his finger clean with a small groan of pleasure. 

Your face flames hot when the server glides back over to the table, either unaware of what had just happened or the soul of discretion to not mention that you are still slightly panting from the way he had just turned your world upside down. Clearing your plates and assuring you that dessert was already on the way. 

Turning towards Jack with a surprised look, you can tell that he had pre-planned this by the very pleased look on his face as he nods and picks up his champagne glass. “To another year that we - and I mean all of us - have been graced with your presence and blessed by your existence.” He taps his glass to yours. “Happy Birthday, sugar.” 

You take a sip of your frothy, bubbly champagne and he winks at you. “This is only the beginning.” He promises, having planned out the entire night out to make sure you know how special you are to him and how much he loves you. 

“Jack.” You huff, almost embarrassed having his attention centered on you like you always are. When Jack is focused, that is the only thing that matters in the world and right now, that focus is on you.  

“Baby girl, you deserve a night that is all your own.” He insists, lips pushed into a pout and winks at you. “I’m going to make sure of it.” A promise that you know that he will not be satisfied until he makes good on.

****

“Jaaaaaaaack.” Your hips jerk and lift under his firm grip, not going anywhere but where he wishes for you to. Completely in control and taking you apart lick by lick as his tongue curls and flicks over your swollen clit. Wrenching moan after unhinged moan out of you as he builds you up for yet another peak. 

You don’t know how long it has been since you last shuddered apart under the coaxing of his tongue, it might have been thirty seconds ago or an hour. Time is suspended when you look down to see his mustache pressed against your mound and his sharply curved nose breathing in the heady scent of your pleasure. 

Jack is meticulous. Bringing you into the house and starting to strip you down. His lips covering every inch of your body and making sure that he whispers praises into your skin as he scatters them artistically on your skin. Fingers trailing as he slowly drags your dress down to let it pool at your feet before sliding under the straps of your bra to pull them down your arms. Stripping much more than your clothes as he undresses you, he’s stripping away the layers of protection and armor until there is nothing left but you and him. 

That is when Jack’s true talent comes out. That mouth. It can be used for quick witted banter or issuing threats that he has the training to back up, sarcastic quips or for smooth reassurances. The best use for it though is when he puts his mouth on you. 

Jack Daniels is a cocky son of a bitch, but he knows what he is doing. He spends the time making sure that he knows every spot on your body that would make you sing his name. Carefully and meticulously mapping your pleasure points to use against you.

Smirking against your cunt, Jack chuckles and flicks his tongue against your clit once more. Pushing you over the edge and you come with a wail of his name. Watching as your entire world explodes and your eyes flutter while you gasp out. Working you through it with a slow suckle on your sex that keeps extending the pleasure and twisting it higher inside you. 

Your fingers tangle into the sheets, the only thing keeping you from floating away as your body shakes and heat floods your system. His name is the only thing that you can manage to say over and over again. Falling off your tongue in gasping praise while your thighs press around his ears and squeeze them tight. 

By the time that he is kissing up your body and settling between your thighs, you are finally floating back down to earth. Cognizant of the smug smirk that rides on his face as he slides up to kiss your lips and nudges his nose against yours. “I love you, sugar.” 

The sentiment is perfect for the moment that he slides inside you. Filling and stretching you out the way that only he can. Your head tilts back and your moan is soft, your legs starting to wrap around his waist. Enjoying the weight of him on top of you and surrounding you. Consuming you. 

Every thrust is slow and measured, letting you feel him. Experience the slow pulses inside you and the sharp twitches as he rocks you both higher. Words of love and praise passing between you with languid kisses. 

“I love you sugar.” Jack groans, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”