Shameless Hoe HQ

Footsteps approach and you stiffen. You’ve run into a few agents here or there. They don’t really acknowledge you. Although a security guard asked to verify your badge.

The button on the microwave depresses and the door pops open. The growl in return assures you of the shadow in your peripheral’s identity. You glance over as Agent Walker examines the stuffed oxen.

“Hm.” He huffs and flips it over. “How long does this go for?”

“Oh, uh… ninety seconds. You can add thirty if it doesn’t warm enough.” You guide him, not thinking as you cross and punch in the numbers yourself.

“Great.” He puts the ox on the glass plate and shuts the door. You back up as he taps start. “Thanks.”

“Meeting went okay?” You ask.

His brow arches. He tilts his head and looks at you from the edge of his eye. “You’re on lunch.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.” You back up. “Speaking of… I had a bit too much so if you’re hungry…” you open the fridge and take out a container. “I made some quinoa and salmon. You don’t even need to warm it up.”

He stares at the tupperware. You feel ready to melt. You’re doing too much. You set it on the counter.

“If you don’t, just… put it back in the fridge.” You shrug and grab the other from the middle shelf of the fridge.

He exhales but doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best response you can hope for. You leave him and opt to find somewhere to eat outside. You stare at all the luxury electric cars and their handleless doors as you eat without tasting.

Walker, Andy. You feel like you’re hanging by a string with both. Each sliver of progress is met immediately with backslide. You stir the last few bites and scoop them up from the tilted container. You put the lid back on and delay your return with a stroll around the grounds.

“That’s prohibited.” A holler startles you. You stop and spin to face the man jabbing his finger at you. “What are you doing here? How’d a civilian get in here?” He snarls.

“No, I’m not– I work here. I was only going for a walk,” you fumble for your badge as you keep the container under your arm. “See.”

You approach the man as he sneers down his nose. He squints at your photo. “You don’t have the clearance level, ma’am.”

“Redfield,” A timbre rumbles from behind the large man. “Leave her be. She’s with me.”

The man, Redfield, juts out his chin and clucks. He turns slowly. “Walker.”

“Sunny as rainstorm.” Walker retorts as he approaches. “I told her to take her break. This place ever think of working on amenities?”

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you outside your office.” Redfield snorts.

“I’ve been cleared for field work so… we shouldn’t see much of each other. Thankfully.” August gestures you past the other man. “Don’t talk to my PA like that again.”

“Don’t let her wander where she doesn’t belong.”

“And what are you doing? Got nothing better to do than lurk?” Walker scoffs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He beckons to you again. You obey. You try not to notice that word he used. Not ma’am, not lady, sweetheart? Hell, when’s the last time Andy used that word with you? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. If anything it’s condescending, demeaning. This is a workplace after all.

He turns and walks beside you. The other man grumbles. You chafe and grip the container between your hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t meant to–”

“Don’t worry about it. Chris always finds a reason.” He assures.

“Okay, um… yeah but I don’t wanna break the rules.”

“You didn’t. Worry about my rules.” He insists.

“Uh huh…” you hum uncertainly. Silence festers around you. “Your shoulder feel better?”

“Sure. It doesn’t feel like a nails lodge behind it. Was tryna stretch…” he trails off. “Not your worry.”

“Well… it kinda is. I’m your PA.”

“My shoulder isn’t CIA business.”

“Fair,” you accept.

He’s quiet again. You approach the doors and he swipes his badge first. He opens the door for you. He waits and follows you in. You cross the lobby to the elevators. He taps his badge again.

You step onto the elevator and stand beside him. He seems bigger in here. You teeter on your heels.

“Can you do me another favour?” He asks.

“Sure. That’s my job.” You chime.

“Cancel that meeting with Fowler. I don’t got the energy.”

💔

“Sending a girl to tell me to fuck myself, huh?” Fowler slaps the screen of the coffee machine. “Does he really think I want to deal with him either?”

“Maybe tomorrow–”

“Fuck it. I’ll send an email. He can read, right?” He chuckles.

“Sir.”

“Jesus. I feel bad for you. Guy’s a prick. Specially since that thing in Vienna.” He hits start on the machine.

You look at his hand and something else catches your attention. The container you offered Walker is empty, washed out, and set neatly against the wall, labelled with your name on a post-it. Well, at least someone enjoyed lunch.

“Right. I’ll have him check his mailbox.”

“Sure, honey. I know he’ll get right on it.” He pushes his jacket back as he grips his hips. He glances over at you. “Didn’t peg you as his type.”

You frown. “The director hired me–”

He laughs again. “Go. I don’t like my coffee with stress.”

You do just that. Most of the agents have that bluntness. That lack of patience. If it’s not urgent, it doesn’t matter.

You knock before you enter Walker’s office. He sits back sharply from holding his forehead. You don’t acknowledge it.

“Done. Meeting off.” You confirm as you near your chair and pull out your phone. There it is. An email already. Oh, it’s not from Nick.

You sit and squint at the screen. It’s not easy to read the layout on the small phone.

‘Confidential. Mission Brief.’

You have to put in your employee number just to view it. You review the information, much of it in lingo you don’t really understand. You sit up and find Walker looking at you.

“You’re going to Paris?” You say.

He taps his fingers on his armrest.

“You need a tablet. Or laptop.” He says.

You nod. “Thank you, sir. It would be helpful, but… Paris.”

“I’ll show you how to do the expense report. You can book the travel.” He stands up and checks his watch.

“Uh, okay, yes, sir.”

“Make sure you get two tickets. Business.” He insists as he marches to the door.

“Two?” You wonder as you watch him strut to the door.

“Can’t do much here when I’m there.” He grabs the handle and twists it.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, slapping your hands over your eyes to give your brain a moment to reboot. And your heart a moment to return to its normal rhythm. 

“Don’t be, I’m not,” Steve teased, sending you a wink once you were done hiding and trying not to outright stare at him. “Were you waiting around for me?”

“Yes, actually,” your gaze turned shy now as you fiddled with your fingers, feeling Steve’s eyes on you as he patiently waited for you to broach whatever topic was on your mind. “You know how Jake set aside that money for me?”

“Yeah, you need to access it?”

You nodded, peeking over at Steve. “I’d really like to get some new clothes and essentials. With how quickly everything happened, and just, the craziness of that night, I didn’t do a very good job at packing, and there’s just stuff I need, and want.”

“Hey,” Steve moved across the kitchen, until he was looming over you. His hands felt so big and warm as they cupped your upper arms and gave you a gentle squeeze. “It’s your money, and you don’t need to justify using it. I’ll make sure Jensen sets you up so you have direct access to everything. "I'm sorry I didn’t think of that until now.”

“No, it’s okay! You all have been so generous.” You hesitated, biting your lower lip as your next ask teetered on the tip of your tongue. 

“Go on,” Steve encouraged with a soft smile. “I like when you ask for what you want, when you put yourself first.”

Your belly fluttered before you asked, “Do you think maybe you could take me into town to go shopping for everything I need?”

“Of course. We’ll go today–”

“Well, we don’t have to! I’m sure you’re very busy and–” your words turned into a startled squeak as Steve pressed close and kissed you quiet. 

“I’m never too busy for you,” he murmured, stealing another kiss before pulling away with a grin. “Plus, I think it will be fun–watching you try on a bunch of clothes.” 

Your face warmed as he winked at you, but before you could respond, Lloyd appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by the talk of fashion. 

“Did someone say shopping spree? Count me in,” he declared, dropping his hands to his hips and giving a thrust. 

Steve rolled his eyes as you giggled, and Lloyd shot his superior a glare. 

“You know I have an eye for fashion,” he sniffed. Lloyd’s annoyed gaze shifted to you, and softened. “Come on, pumpkin, you want me to tag along, right? I’m the only one in this house who actually likes to shop. And we’ll get you all dolled up real fast.”

You peeked over at Steve to see if he truly looked put out at the idea of Lloyd joining in on your outing, but he just seemed amused as he met your gaze and gave a small nod. If anything, he liked that you were getting on so well with the team.

“Okay,” you smiled at Lloyd. “It will be fun.”

“You bet your sweet ass it will be fun.”

You were still buzzing from your outing earlier with Steve and Lloyd, your smile so big as you glanced at yourself in the mirror and gave a little spin. Your cute new dress flared out around your thighs, and you laughed, feeling pretty–and much more like yourself than you had in a long time. 

You’d been under your father’s thumb for so long, in every possible way, even when it came to what you wore, that you forgot how freeing–and soothing–it could be to just… be yourself, wear what made you happy and comfortable. 

It seemed such a small, meaningless thing, but you felt so happy in a way you hadn’t in years. 

So you had a little bounce in your step as you made your way to Jake’s bedroom. You were excited to spend some time with him, because out of all of the mercenaries, he seemed the most normal.

Down to earth, sweet, funny. 

Truly, Jake was just the icing on the cake of your already great day. 

You knocked on his door, and barely a second later, it swung open to reveal Jake grinning big and warm, and wearing a t-shirt that looked like a tuxedo. 

“Your shirt is so cute!” you giggled. 

“Thanks!” Jake’s grin widened as he glanced down at himself. “It’s kind of the only way I could get dressed up for you, so much of my stuff is just tac gear or novelty shirts, so…”

“I love it,” you assured him. 

“And you! Wow, you look…wow,” Jake stuttered, his eyes taking their time inching over you as you stood before him, nervously wringing your hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered, biting back a stupid smile as your eyes flickered down to your feet. 

“So, um, come in!” Jake encouraged you as he stepped back and waved you inside his room eagerly. Once you were inside and glancing around curiously, he closed the door behind you both before stepping up beside you, his gaze following to where yours was fixed.

Jake’s room as a whole was tidy, with everything in its place, but it was the small two-seater table across the room that had your eyes lighting up. 

It had been set like at a fancy restaurant; there were lit candles in the center of it, lending ambiance to the room. You weren’t sure what was in the takeout food containers set between the plates and glasses, but whatever it was smelled heavenly and had your stomach growling loud enough to make you cringe in embarrassment. 

“It’s okay,” Jake chuckled, shifting his weight beside you. “I’m starving too. You wanna eat now?”

You glanced over at him, your eyes soft as you nodded, because Jake looked just as nervous–and slightly awkward–as you. As he went to step away, you reached for him, your fingers touching his wrist, and then finding his hand so you could give it a squeeze. 

“Thank you for doing this, Jake, it’s so sweet.”

He blushed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, shrugging those big, round shoulders of his as he gave you a small smile. “It’s no big deal.”

“To me, it is. You’ve made me feel special.”

“You are special,” Jake returned, his brows furrowed a little, like he thought this truth was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Belly swooping, you followed Jake over to the dinner setup, giggling as he acted the gentleman and pushed in your chair for you before darting over to take his own seat across from you. 

“I hope you like Thai food? There’s this awesome restaurant a few towns over, so that’s what I got for tonight.”

You nodded eagerly, your tummy rumbling again and making Jake laugh. He was quick to serve the food, until both your plates were full and you both dove into your meals, 

chatting in between bites and learning more about each other. 

Jake told you about his sister and nieces that he missed so much, and how he always used to attend all of their soccer games. In return, you told him about your mother, and how helping her in her garden had always been your favorite way to spend time together. 

“I’m sorry you had to leave it behind,” Jake frowned, pushing his now empty plate away. “I bet that was really hard.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, mustering a smile and shrug so you didn’t totally kill the fun vibe that had been brewing between you. 

“Hey, I bet one day, you’ll have a new garden–your own garden–and it will be amazing!” Jake smiled, his eyes bright in a way that made you believe that he really did wish that for you. 

“Yeah, I bet you’re right,” you smiled back at him. 

You took a moment to just really take him in. His fluffy hair and bright blue eyes, his handsome features and ridiculously built body. Jake really was so handsome, but it was the kindness in his eyes that kept drawing you gaze again and again. 

It was so strange, that you had spent so much of your life despised for merely existing, and now, you were becoming surrounded by people who seemed to genuinely care for you, who looked at you like you mattered, like they wanted what was best for you. 

It was Jake’s resulting smile that made you realize you were smiling at him like a dope, and you gave an embarrassed, nervous giggle as you plucked your napkin from your lap and set it down beside your finished meal. 

“You know uh…” Jake hesitated, rubbing his hands along his thighs as he sat back in his seat. He was blushing again–rosier than before–as he continued, “We don’t have to, yanno, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh.” You blinked, straightening in your seat as your fingers fell to twist the hem of your dress. “Do you… not want to?”

“No!!” Jake said it so loudly, you both winced. “Sorry. I uh want to. Like, wow do I want to,” he emphasized, making you giggle. “But also, I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything."

Feeling yourself melt at his thoughtfulness, you reached across the table, setting your hand on top of his as you met his gaze and gave him a warm smile. 

“How about we just see where the night takes us? No pressure for either of us.”

“Okay! I’d really like that.”

The two of you moved over to the small loveseat against the far wall, chatting some more. Jake told you how he had joined the team, how he felt like he was making a difference even if most people didn’t know about it, but that he also really missed his family. 

And something about how sad he looked as he muttered that confession had you leaning over and kissing his cheek. 

Jake stilled, turning to look at you with wide eyes, and you found yourself smiling as your gaze flickered to his parted lips, the plumpness of which drew you in closer and closer.

You heard Jake’s breath hitch a second before your lips met his, and then your eyes closed and your pussy fluttered at the guttural groan that rose up at the back of Jake’s throat.  

Something about how careful Jake was with touching you–his hands hesitant to frame your face–and then his thumbs gently gliding back and forth along your cheeks, it made you feel so special, so desirable and wanted. 

It had you clambering into his lap until you were straddling him, and you both pulled away from each other’s mouths long enough to exchange wide-eyed wanting looks before you were sinking into another round of sweet, frantic kisses. 

When you started to rock in his lap, seeking friction, Jake moaned, pulling back and panting as he met your floaty gaze and asked, “You wanna move over to the bed?”

He grinned as you nodded enthusiastically, the two of you nearly tripping over each other in your rush to relocate. You both fell atop the bed together, giggling and breathing heavy as Jake leaned up over you and took a moment to just look at you. 

“God, you’re so pretty,” he murmured, his fingers reaching out to caress along your face. “And so soft. And smell so good.” He ducked lower, tucking his face against the side of your neck and breathing in deep before exhaling a “Hnnngh,” against your skin and making you laugh. 

You continued to giggle as Jake snuffled along your neck, your fingers sinking into his hair, gently stroking the blonde locks as you told him, “You’re very sweet.”

Jake pressed a kiss against the top of your chest before pulling away, his gaze meeting yours–both eager and tentative–as he asked, “Can we take this off?” he tugged at your dress. 

“Of course,” you nodded, the two of you quickly working together to rid you of your new dress. 

“Oh god, boobs,” Jake breathed as his gaze fell to your chest, which was encased by one of your pretty new bras.

He reached for your chest without thinking–his gaze going glassy–and just a beat before he touched you, he remembered himself. Pulling up short, he gave you a sheepish grin as he asked if he could touch you. 

Feeling all fluttery that he was seeking consent, you nodded again, shyness creeping up on you as things got steamier. 

You gasped as Jake groped your tits, his hands so big against your softness, the weight of him settling over you now too as he shifted closer. 

His thumbs caught in the edge of lace cupping you, and he tugged it lower, until your nipples popped free and he could pluck at them, making you gasp and arch up into his touch. 

“This okay?” Jake asked, his voice deeper than before, huskier, as his lust-darkened gaze flickered up to yours.

“Y-yeah,” you trembled, licking your dry lips as you told him, “You can take it off if you want, my bra.”

“Hell yeah I want,” Jake nodded, his hands already moving to slip off the pretty, lacy piece. “Fucccck me, you’re so hot,” he groaned once you were bare save for your cute panties. 

His touch was firmer now as he cupped both your breasts and squeezed until you were gasping and writhing beneath him. When he dropped his head to catch one of your nipples in his mouth, you moaned, spreading your legs and rutting up against Jake’s hips, desperately seeking friction. 

Groaning, he pulled away from your tit with a wet pop before showing the other just as much attention. 

“Jake, please,” you begged, your body nearly vibrating with need now as you pawed at him. 

“Wait, I… there’s something I wanna do first, before we, yanno,” he confessed. 

Pressing your thighs together, you tried not to pout as you asked, “What?”

He blushed so hard, he resembled a tomato, as he asked, “Can I please uh fuck your tits? I just… I’ve always wanted to do that, but always felt weird asking, but you… you make me feel brave.”

“How are you being this sweet right now?” you marveled before reaching for the back of Jake’s neck and yanking him in for a very ardent kiss. “And yes, you can do that,” you whispered, too shy to say it out loud, but your pussy was leaking a small river at the idea of fulfilling one of Jake’s naughty fantasies. 

“You’re the best,” Jake grinned, nearly falling off the bed in his excitement to undress. 

You giggled, reaching out to help steady him, and then your eyes were going wide as dinner plates once Jake was completely naked and you realized just how built he was.  You swore every single one of his muscles was either bulging or defined, his body looking like that of a Greek god as he hovered over you. 

“Wow,” you breathed, reaching out to trail your fingers down Jake’s stomach. “You’re so beautiful, Jake.”

“I am?”

“Yeah,” you laughed, meeting his gaze and giving him a soft smile. “Really, really, really beautiful. Like a work of art.” 

He puffed out his chest, looking very pleased–and genuinely surprised–by your admiration. “Thanks.”

Your fingers kept trailing lower, and you bit your bottom lip as you caressed along the head of his cock, your fingers coming away sticky and covered in his pre-cum. You met Jake’s gaze as you sucked your fingers into your mouth, making a delighted sound at the briny taste of his cream.

“Ohhhh fuck,” Jake grunted, his cock twitching as he dropped a hand to grip himself. “You keep doing stuff like that, and I’m not gonna last long at all.”

“Well then you better hurry up and get to the good stuff, huh?” you grinned at him. 

In the back of your mind, you were surprised at yourself–at how playful you were being, how teasing–but something about Jake made you feel confident. Maybe it was the way he had this genuine air of awe for you–to be with you–but it made you feel sexy. 

And it made you want to make him feel good, too. Really good. 

So you didn’t even cringe or shy away at all as you cupped your breasts and held them together in offering. 

“Ohhh my god, it’s happening,” Jake whispered, his gaze glossing over and his lips parted and he moved to straddle your torso. 

His gasp when he pressed his hard, warm cock between the softness of your tits was so wrecked already that it had you gushing into your panties, squirming beneath him as you stared up and watched–mesmeraized–as Jake began to gently rut against your chest. 

“Oh my god,” he groaned as you pressed your curves around him more firmly, increasing the pressure around his cock, until his head was dropping back in ecstasy, and he lost himself to his pleasure. 

When his tempo increased, his rhythm starting to falter, you found yourself sticking out your tongue, trying your best to catch the flushed, leaking crown of Jake’s cock on his next thrust. 

At the first feel of your tongue lapping at his head, Jake’s eyes shot open, his head darting up, his gaze big and shocked and so turned on as you did it again, then again. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum,” he panted, curling over you and gripping the headboard as he stilled. 

“You can,” you told him, “I don’t mind, I want you to.”

“Wanna cum inside you,” Jake whispered, staring down at you in awe. “And I wanna make you cum, too.”

“So do it.” 

Laughing at your cheeky grin, Jake scrambled away from you, then on top of you properly, not even asking–not that you minded–as he yanked off your underwear and carelessly tossed them behind him. 

“Oh, thank god,” he breathed once his fingers dragged along your slit and found you soaked and messy for him. “God, you’re so wet.”

“Well, you put on quite the show, Jakey,” you grinned shyly at him. 

“Yeah?” he looked very chuffed that you found all of this–found him–as sexy as he found you. 

“Mmmhmm, now please, I’m so worked up,” you whined, spreading your legs wider. “I think I’ll cum without any real effort at all.”

“Thank god two point oh, because I’m ready to blow,” Jake laughed, sinking down between your thighs and lining himself up. 

You both moaned as he drove into you slowly. The sharp gasp was spilling past your lips before you even realized it, because Jake was so thick. Like, yes, you had seen he had a very impressive cock, but to feel it inside of you, stretching your inner walls to their limits... 

It had your head falling back on a ragged, “Oh my god!” as Jake finally bottomed out with a primal grunt and a sharp rut for good measure. 

“You feel incredible,” he panted, dropping his forehead to yours. 

You fluttered wildly at his praise, making him moan and rock against you in response.  

“Oh god, I’m really not gonna last, please don’t judge me,” Jake laughed nervously, but he looked a little panicked as his chest heaved and he tried to remain very very still. 

Concentrating less on how desperate you were to cum, and more on Jake–on his momentary insecurity–you opened your eyes and met his gaze without wavering. Cradling his cheek with your palm, you gave him a soft smile. 

“Jake, I never would. You’ve been amazing, in so many ways,” you assured him. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll be right there with you, so, let’s just… do this thing.” 

Snickering, Jake dropped the rest of his weight on top of you, making you murmur in approval as he curled one of his arms over the top of your head and began to fuck you. 

You moaned on his very first thrust, arching up against him as you begged him to go, “Harder, faster, please!”

“Fuck,” Jake groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he started to pound into you. 

You keened as he hit a spot that had your body lighting up in a brand new way, making a choked squeal of a sound as you cried, “Right there, oh my god, please don’t stop!” 

Hnnnghing against your sweaty neck, Jake doubled down, fucking you like you wanted and having enough functioning brain cells left to dig his free hand between your bodies so he could rub your clit to hopefully push you to the edge before he himself fell over it. 

You gasped at the added stimulation, your eyes slamming shut as you felt that delightful build up start deep in your core. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” you chanted, your hips rocking and rising to meet the thrust of Jake’s cock, your words dying away into unintelligible gasps and cries as you got closer and closer to your climax. 

“Oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck, Jesus Christ,” Jake’s string of curses and nonsense, along with the way he was relentlessly plowing into you now, rocking the whole bed as he desperately sought his own orgasm–found so much pleasure in your very willing body–it tipped you right over that glorious ledge. 

You came with a sharp, ragged cry, each and every muscle in your body locking up tight as your pussy went wild–fluttering and clenching so hard it sent Jake rocketing over the edge right after you. 

You were still riding the wave of your pleasure as you felt Jake cum inside you, his spend a thick, warm gush that made you moan and flutter all over again as you squirmed beneath him. 

“Fuccccck,” Jake groaned against your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin, not hard enough to cause pain, but enough to have you whimpering and clenching around him until he was babbling as you milked his cock of every last drop of cum. 

The two of you clung to each other tightly, both breathing hard–like you had just run a marathon together–as Jake sank against you, feeling just as boneless as you yourself felt. 

There was a long, pleasant stretch of silence as the two of you took your time coming down from your highs. You were nearly dozing with your lips tilted into an almost smile as Jake nuzzled against your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin like he was wordlessly thanking you for making him feel so good. 

“I have one more surprise for you,” he eventually murmured, his head popping up as he looked as mussed and wrecked as you were sure you yourself looked right about now. 

“You do?” you smiled like a dope. “I hope it’s close by so we don’t have to move because I don’t think my legs will work after that.”

Laughing, Jake shook his head, pouting a little as he broke the bad news that, “We have to walk just a little, but not far, I promise. And I’ll shoulder your weight so you barely need to walk at all.”

“My hero,” you giggled tiredly, groaning as Jake finally pulled away from you before helping you out of bed. 

You didn’t even feel self-conscious to be naked and leaking his cum, still feeling nothing but giddy and satisfied as you curled close to Jake’s side and allowed him to lead you just a few feet away to the closed bathroom door. 

And when he opened it, he stole your breath away yet again, because awaiting you in the small space was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers on the sink counter, and a bath tub rim decorated with candles and rose petals, setting the mood for what you knew would be a relaxing, luxurious bath. 

“Oh my god, Jake! You’re so sweet! I can’t believe you did this for me!” 

His smile was shy as he led you over to sit on the edge of the tub before kneeling beside it and cranking on the water. You watched as he doctored the steamy rush with a bubble bath that smelled incredible, and once the tub was perfect for soaking, Jake took your hand and helped you settle in.   

“Join me?” you asked hopefully. 

“Actually,” Jake looked the shyest you had seen yet. “If it’s okay, I’d really like to bathe you.”

You blinked at him, your shyness creeping up again at that, but you couldn’t help the small smile that curled your lips as you sank back against the porcelain with a quiet, “Okay.” 

“Yeah?” Jake perked up, looking more hopeful and less shy as you met his gaze. 

“Yeah.” 

Smiling, he settled on his knees, reaching for a colorful loofah and pouring some body wash onto it. “I know I’m not as suave or experienced as the others,” he confessed. “But I just… I want you to feel appreciated. And beautiful, because you are.”

Feeling your belly flutter, you caught Jake’s free hand, twining your fingers together as you replied, “I feel both of those things, Jake, thanks to you.”

And it was the truth. 

You felt beautiful, appreciated, and so very, very cared for as Jake gently began to wash you, looking so focused and intent as he drew the loofah over your skin, and lulled you into a state of utter, boneless bliss.

AHHHH! Jakey! The sinful sweetheart sunshine boi we all deserve!!!! I so hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please take a moment to let me know your thoughts! Also, maybe buckle up for what’s coming up next ::nervous laughter:: 

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So before Steve could open his mouth and say something you were not yet ready to hear, you beat him to it, tossing a piece of opened mail on the counter. 

Steve blinked down at it, frowning once more as he glanced between you and the paper before him. “...my driver’s license renewal card?”

You huffed, leaning closer and stabbing your finger at the date of birth printed on the card stock. “Your birthday is in a few weeks! And you haven’t mentioned it at all!”

“Oh.” Steve’s big, broad shoulders lifted as he gave you a sheepish look, a rosy flush staining his cheeks and working its way to the tips of his ears. “I just… didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” 

“Well what if I want to?” you glared at him. “You were just going to rob me of the full birthday experience?” You made something close to jazz hands that had Steve choking down a laugh because you did seem genuinely irritated by this. “That’s so selfish of you, Hercules,” you finished with a huff, crossing your arms for good measure.

Even though he was able to suppress his laughter, Steve wasn’t able to do the same with his smile. He grinned big, blue eyes twinkling with a very fond sort of mirth as he rounded the counter and pulled you into his arms. 

“You’re right, omega, I’m the worst.”

“Truly!” you nodded in agreement, your own lips twitching as Steve interlocked his hands at the small of your back and kissed your cheek. 

“Next year, I’ll be sure to set monthly reminders for you about my birthday so it’s always top of mind,” Steve murmured, kissing your other cheek. “It won’t be obnoxious at all.”

You nearly giggled, but were able to maintain your stink eye as you gave him an unimpressed look. “You better,” you hmphed, realizing your mistake a second after you spoke. 

That you didn’t object to the fact that you would still be here–with Steve–a year from now.

You hadn’t really thought much about the future since you were a young omega, still brimming with hope and not yet beat down by the state of the world. 

But now… after months of being in Steve’s orbit, of… whatever this was between you–because you still weren’t ready to admit that you were together–the thought of this whole thing not being temporary, of it being your future, of Steve being your future… 

Well, it was an idea that you didn’t hate.

You could tell by the warmth and softness in Steve’s gaze that he was thinking along the same lines as you, but again, you just couldn’t with what ifs, and big feelings, and more. 

Not yet.  

“So,” you cleared your throat, pretending to fiddle with the collar of Steve’s t-shirt so you could escape his intese gaze for a moment. “What would the perfect birthday look like to you?”

Steve was quiet for a moment, for more than a moment, and you felt a swirl of anxiety in your stomach, worried that you had upset him by side-stepping the almost emotional landmine. 

But when you peeked up at him, Steve’s gaze was just as warm and soft as a moment ago, and he was giving you a small, boyish smile as he replied, “I think I have an idea that we’ll both enjoy.”

A few weeks later, on Steve’s birthday, his idea came to fruition, and for the first time in a very long time–maybe ever–you really were getting the full birthday experience, even if it wasn’t your birthday.

But that didn’t make it any less perfect.

Because Steve had driven you upstate to a small lake house in the middle of the woods. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you had been out of the city, and it truly felt like a slice of heaven to be surrounded by nature and quiet and have Steve all to yourself on his special day.  

His special day was just part of the week-long vacation he had surprised you with, and he really had planned it all so perfectly. The fridge and pantry were stocked with your favorite prepped foods and takeout, so neither of you would need to cook. And he had gotten a cute little birthday cake, along with lots of other treats, from his favorite bakery. 

And now, you were both enjoying the gorgeous tranquility around you, as you and Steve sat on the dock out back of the house, watching the sun set over the lake. 

You gave a quiet sigh of contentment as you sank back in the circle of Steve’s arms, allowing your head to fall to the side as his nose skimmed up the side of your throat as he took his time scenting you. 

It was actually the first time you two had ever done this–scenting outside of sex–and you didn’t hate it. You were kind of obsessed with it to be honest.

In fact, you had never been so squirmy in your life, your mind pleasantly hazy and quiet for once as you gave a soft chirp when Steve pressed a kiss to your unmarked mating gland. 

“You smell so good, omega,” he murmured against your skin, inhaling deeply and purring with satisfaction as he basked in your scent. “You always do.”

Your inner omega chirped up a storm, loving Steve’s attention and admiration as you turned your face so you could nuzzle his nose with yours. 

Steve kissed you gently, his eyes so soft and happy as he told you, “This really is the perfect birthday.” His lips touched yours again, lingering this time before he pulled away and breathed, “Thank you, omega. I mean it.”

As he often was, Steve was so earnest in his words and feelings, but something about the sheer affection for you that was coloring his alpha scent had you feeling shy, and a little cranky to be honest. 

Because you were still getting used to how much Steve made you feel and want, even after knowing him for months. But you shoved down the minor flare of irritation that you knew was a defense mechanism, because you would not be bitchy with Steve on his birthday. 

So instead, you playfully rolled your eyes, murmuring, “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” Steve grinned. 

Your scent spiked with your own joy–and something wanting–and he huffed a laugh.

He leaned in and kissed your mating gland, laughing again as you squealed and tried to squirm away, overwhelmed by how sensitive that part of you was, especially under Steve’s attention. 

“How do you like it?” he rumbled, eyes twinkling as you huffed and twisted in his hold to glare at him. 

For a moment, you just gave him the best stink eye you could muster, and then, you pounced.

Of course you knew that Steve was letting you “attack” him as he fell back against the dock and took you with him. But that didn’t make it any less silly or fun as you wrestled with him until you straddled his hips and had his hands pinned above his head, preening your victory. 

“Well now that you’ve got me, what are you gonna do with me?” Steve husked, his eyes noticeably darker as you hovered over him. 

For probably the millionth time, you were nearly struck dumb by how gorgeous Steve was. His skin smooth and flawless, his golden hair gleaming in the setting sun and now perfectly mussed. And his eyes–those pretty blue eyes–so expressive as he watched you, as he waited for whatever you deemed came next. 

For a long, quiet moment, you just stared at each other, and then your eyes flickered down to another feature of his that you sure did love–those plump pink lips. 

Those plump, pink, kissable lips. 

“I have a few ideas,” you finally replied before swooping close and capturing his lips with yours. 

Steve groaned into your mouth as you traded pinning his wrists for framing his face between your hands. You made your own sound of delight when you felt his touch at your hips, his fingers pressing into you, holding you tight and urging your body against his even more.  

Your lips teased and tasted until both you and Steve were breathless, and when you finally pulled back enough to raggedly inhale a gulp of air, you paused for a beat, your eyes dancing as you said, “I want smores.”

“I want more too,” Steve immediately returned. His big hand cradled your cheek and tried to reel you back in for another kiss, but you pulled away. 

Giggling as you sat up over him, you shook your head, lips curled into a playful smirk as you tutted, “Keep it in your pants, Hercules. I want smores. You promised we’d make them using that little fire pit on the back deck.”

For a long moment, Steve just stared up at you, uncomprehending, gaping. And it was nearly enough to make you cackle, but then he blinked owlishly, his brain rebooting, and he didn’t look disappointed at all as he said, “Oh. Right.” Instead, he gave your hips a squeeze, his grin boyish as he continued, “I’ll go set it up now.”

You couldn’t help the dreamy sigh that bubbled past your lips as Steve helped you to your feet. Because he really was so good, so perfect.

And he was all yours. 

Preening for a different reason now, you looped your arm through Steve’s, pressing close to his side as you two began to slowly walk back up the dock. 

You felt mischievous as you glanced over and drank in the still flushed state of Steve’s cheeks, the way his lips were still kiss swollen, too.

“After smores, then I’ll give you more,” you teased, shooting Steve a wicked grin. “You can spend the rest of my night fucking me full of your cum and keeping me on your knot, birthday boy.”

Steve tripped over his own feet, making you burst into laughter as you grabbed onto him to help steady his steps, enjoying the way his flush deepened for an entirely different reason now as he shot you a stink eye. 

“You’re such a menace," he muttered, but he was already grinning again as he wrapped his arm around you and tugged you flush against him. “But you’re my menace.”

“Well happy birthday to you,” you chimed, laughing into Steve’s side as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. 

He held you just a little bit tighter as he murmured against your hair, “You’re the best birthday present ever,” rumbling his content as you caught his hand with yours, twined your fingers together, and stayed tucked close as you cleared the dock and made your way back to the lake house. 

—

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There are eighty-six people in attendance at the rooftop restaurant, and you are only sure you know the names of maybe a third. The rest are here because of Andy—to witness or test alliances, play in the ongoing power games, weigh old debts or new risks. It’s the rehearsal dinner for one of Boston Mafia’s elite, so the guest list was meticulously refined for Andy’s part. Yours as well, but not with the same intent or stakes to be considered.

Andy doesn’t own Contessa—the restaurant atop The Newbury Hotel—but he does own the hotel, so it was seamless for your team to arrange this part of the wedding nuptials there. While you and Andy aren’t having a full society affair wedding with all the bells and whistles and three or four days of events and traditions, you do have few significant event pieces woven into the wedding weekend, this being one of them. No one had asked you what to include, but you were part of the overall conversations, and if there had been anything you truly wanted to refuse, you think you might have been able to say so. But your team knows you well enough to create elements you appreciate.

And, annoyingly, so does Andy.

The room is a riot of velvet and silk and black wool, the exact social armor you expect at a pre-wedding gathering of this sort. And yet you can tell this doesn’t scream mafia to the people who don’t know the predators they’re intermingling with. It’s all too reminiscent of how you dismissed the barely-hushed rumors of Andy Barber’s potential connections before he revealed he was one of the kings of organized crime in the city. And for the sake of your parents, your friends, your family, you’re relieved and hope they remain ignorant.

Tonight will be a monumental tell for the future and whether or not you can pass, or rather, who you have to be while passing. You scan the clusters of guests and realize you should have always been able to spot true mafia at ten paces, even when they’re disguised as board members and development officers and venture capitalists. There’s a particular gravity, neither ostentatious nor shy. Men in Brioni suits who know how to vanish into the background, women with hair so immaculate it could have been sculpted from silk.

Andy’s hand has been heavy at the small of your back most of the evening, and it’s somehow almost comforting, an anchor. Occasionally you feel his thumb graze the bare inch of spine between velvet and skin, a touch so subtle it’s only for you.

You look across the room and spot your parents lingering near a tray of passed champagne, your mother straightening the lapels of your father’s jacket with the hopeless affection of people who have been married long enough to know that preening is just another form of devotion. Your mother’s dress is a shade of navy so dark it reads black, and your father looks as if he was born inside a suit, so naturally does this one fit him.

Suddenly Thea is in front of you, plucking a glass of champagne off a passing tray and handing it over, flanked by your other two other bridesmaids. Thea gives you a once-over, and says, “You look like a goddess, a terrifyingly pretty one.” You mutter a thank you, and Thea rolls her eyes. “Please pretend you believe it, just a little bit. You’re a gorgeous bride-to-be whether you want to be or not.”

She’s the only one who knows about your hesitations, and even then you’ve only indulged a fraction.

She winks at Andy, linking her arm through yours. “I’m stealing your fiancé.”

He smirks. “At least you're conceding she’s mine.”

“You wish,” Thea replies, and with a toss of her hair of her shoulder, she leads you away.

The entire evening is a kind of lucid dream. Greetings, handshakes, hugs, careful double-cheek kisses dispensed by those in attendance as you circulate the room. In reality there was no rehearsal for tomorrow’s ceremony, tonight it is merely a small gathering staged for … well, from what you gather, for the sake of it. For those closest to you, it’s to keep up the illusion that this is a wedding you want. For Andy’s world, it seems to be a necessary ritual to confirm the ranks of his order—his trusted soldiers and a handful of his choice allies.

You don’t register that your uncle Rob isn’t there until suddenly he is, and by then, the room has already begun the low-pressure phase transition from cocktails to dinner. The movement is organic—someone dims the lights, the waiters begin the subtle herding, and you are being gently, almost imperceptibly, shepherded toward the long, low banquet table at the far end of the room.

You are halfway to your seat, with Thea close behind and Andy once again at your side, when the double glass doors at the restaurant’s entrance hiss open and Rob strides in, in a full three-piece suit and with the off-kilter swagger of someone who seems to have truly rushed directly from the airport. He gives you a nod and a warm smile, though even at this distance you note it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You wave him over, ignoring the subtle tightening of Andy’s hand on your hip. Rob moves quickly across the room to you, and immediately drops a palm on your shoulder, squeezing—warmth, family, genuine affection. “Am I horrifically late or just fashionably disruptive?” he asks, and before you answer, he’s already deflecting. “You look tired but good. He treating you right?”

Your uncle’s gaze bores into yours for a half-second, searching for something reassuring. You nod and give him a smile. He softens, but only infinitesimally.

“Uncle Rob, this is—”

“Andy Barber,” he supplies, and his gaze flicks to your fiancé, settling there a half-beat too long, cataloging him. You don’t know what’s transpired between them, but you sense something clearly has as there’s a palpable undercurrent, like two strong magnets meeting, neither yielding.

Uncle Rob gives Andy a stiff nod, but Andy merely meets the moment with an open hand. You sense the silent exchange—neutral ground, white flag for tonight, or maybe just a kind of mutual agreement not to detonate inside a room full of witnesses.

It feels strange, but it’s only another line on the list of things that aren’t normal for this entire affair. The exchange goes unnoticed by nearly everyone else since all in attendance are finding their seats, and Uncle Rob falls in among them and takes his assigned seat by your parents.

The food is dazzling, course after course in small, perfect compositions. You try to taste things, to remember flavors, but you are more conscious of the shifting dynamics around you. You are aware of Andy’s hand ever present—on your knee, tracing patterns on your arm, once just lightly gripping your wrist as if keeping you tethered to the table, to himself. You wonder if it’s meant to keep you under control, but the gesture genuinely feels more like reassurance than possession tonight.

Flanked by Andy on your left and Thea on your right, both seem engaged in a subtle contest to out-maneuver each other in their attempts to manage you. Sometimes it’s by steering the conversation, sometimes by way of silently passing you the better part of a shared dish, with Thea by gambling how much she can make you laugh given the current company and whether the moment is suitable for choking on your wine. You’re not sure if you resent this orchestration or if it’s a balm. Maybe both.

At intervals, you glance over at Uncle Rob. The smile he flashes the room is the same as ever, but his eyes seem to rove the room, always taking stock, never fully at rest. He watches Andy most of all, the way a hunter watches a rival predator—admiring and calculating, never blinking outright. At one point, your eyes meet and Rob lifts his glass in a toast, not quite a salute, but you feel the force of the message: he’s here, for you, and he’s not leaving until he’s sure you’re safe. He’s always been more protective of you than anyone else in the family, but this seems more intense, even for him.

Halfway through the meal, Andy excuses himself to confer with two men in dark suits who materialize at the edge of the room, and you find yourself, for the first time all evening, feeling alone at the lack of him. Thea leans in. “You doing okay?” she whispers, but with a smile on her face so it reads as idle gossip.

“It feels like someone else’s wedding,” you mutter back. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

She gives you a look that is both knowing and impossibly gentle. “If you want to run, just say the word. I have five hundred dollars in cash and a getaway Prius, and that’s enough to get us at least to New Hampshire before anyone notices.”

You snort-laugh, a little louder than you meant to, and feel lightheaded for an instant. There is some relief in naming it, even as a joke, even though you don’t question she’s serious about the Prius and the cash.

There is a moment, a half-second, a single synaptic twitch, in which you consider the offer or vanishing into an Uber for Logan Airport. But the urge passes. You already jetted away once and came back.

And that coming back was your choice.

It doesn’t make sense to escape again now.

The rest of dinner passes in a spiral of rich food and laughter that from most people seems to be unforced. Andy returns, all courteous apologies, and places his warm palm on your back again as if plugging back into a vital organ. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, his voice pitched only for you. “I’ll need to disappear for a bit after dessert. Business.” He says it lightly, but the tension is a wire behind each syllable. You nod, and at the same moment he gives your leg a squeeze under the table, as if to say: Don’t worry, I’ll be back. For you. Always that emphasis.

When the meal ends, the room doesn’t thin so much as it condenses. People abandon their seats in favor of looser, more volatile clusterings near the bar or moving out onto the balcony. You sense the shape of the next hours—a kind of shadow afterparty, drinks and ritual toasts and the swerve toward dysfunction that all close social gatherings eventually take. Andy fields a last volley of congratulations, then gives you a look that says thirty seconds, and moves toward a private door near the kitchen, shadowed by his men. You watch him go, feeling again the negative space at your side.

It’s at this point that your uncle finds you again.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, like you’re trading nuclear secrets instead of making polite familial small talk at your rehearsal dinner. “Not too late to call it off.”

You set your jaw, then, because the answer is yes. Or as close to yes as you’ll ever have. If there’s a question curled up in the base of your spine, it’s quieter now—not gone, but quelled by Rob’s questioning.

You find yourself saying, “I’ve made my decision.”

Uncle Rob’s expression is unreadable, then softens just enough to let a sliver of affection through. “Your folks are damn proud. Just so you know. You do know that, right?”

You give half a shrug and a nod.

“And you know that you can always come to me, for anything.”

“Even ashes and body disposal?” you ask, letting a smirk break through the anxiety. He huffs a laugh, but you can see he’s not disarmed by it, not really.

“Especially that,” he says. But then, gentler, yet more serious, he says, “You ever want out, you just say so. Don’t matter what anyone else wants, least of all him. You come to me. You hear?”

You nod, only then realizing, “You know who he is.”

He nods and knocks his glass lightly against yours. “I’m only a phone call away. Fuck the protocols.”

You don’t know exactly what his ties to Andy’s underworld are, or how long he and Andy may have known each other, but some unexplained parts of Uncle Rob’s past make a whole lot more sense if he’s involved with the mafia. You imagine the more you trace back, the more certain absences and behaviors could ultimately be explained.

You don’t allow yourself to ask the next rush questions assembling in your mind. Instead, you clink glasses with Rob again, and when Thea reappears at your side, he makes an excuse and fades back into the crowd. You watch him go, feeling heavier and lighter at once.

“You want air?” Thea asks, as if the answer could ever be no.

Out on the balcony, you stand at the stone parapet for a while, each of your with a glass in hand, the city shining beneath you. Over the railing, half the Back Bay looks like a jewelry case, all neat squares and gold filigree light.

Thea tips her chin out into the dark. “So what’s it like standing up here, knowing you’re about to be a married woman?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a nervous tickle in your chest. “About the same as it is being an unmarried one, only with more witnesses.”

You expect her to laugh, but instead she fixes you with a sly, assessing stare. “He scares me a little, you know,” she says, so matter-of-fact it undercuts any drama. “Not for anything he’s said or done. More in the way those security guys all treat him like he’s royalty. Which, I guess, he basically is, right? Mafia royalty?”

You hesitate, glass at your lips. Did you ever say it to her? You don’t think you did, because you went to Stockholm on the heels of signing the pre-nup which included the NDA elements… You race back through every conversation, every running-on-fumes phone call, and there’s nothing you can recall that would have spelled it out. But your silence lingers half a second too long.

Thea’s face splits in a grin that’s bright and wolfish at the edges. “I KNEW it,” she crows, as if you’ve just confirmed a conspiracy theory about the moon landing. “Oh my god. I knew it. I KNEW IT! Don’t even try to deny it.”

You gawk. “What are—how did—”

You try to look innocent, but Thea is already cackling, delighted with herself, her elbows resting on the parapet like a triumphant detective. “Please,” she says, waving her hand at the party inside, “He’s waaaaaaaaay too rich, I’ve read way too many mafia romance novels, and you had a security detail when you visited me in Stockholm using his private jet. I was 99% sure, and your hesitation there hesitation gave me the last percent.”

You consider protesting, but technically you’ve broken nothing in the contract, and the fact that your best friend knows—that anyone knows—feels like an instant balm.

You clamp a hand on Thea’s wrist. “Promise me you won’t say a word. Seriously. Not to a soul. I mean it. Not a joke, not even a whisper or a meme reference.” There’s an urgency in your voice, and Thea, reading the shift instantly, sobers.

The brightness in her eyes dims by an iota, the seriousness of your tone cutting through the fizz of her delight. She nods, solemnly, and you know that as cavalier as she can sometimes be, she doesn’t question the gravity of your insistence. “I won’t,” she vows, putting her hand over yours.

In the shared silence, you feel her searching your face for something she doesn’t want to say. You let the air prickle between you, each steadying the other just by being present, until Thea finally asks, “Does he make you happy?”

You don’t answer, not at first. You stare into the bright helix of city lights and let the question slide down your spine and settle into your gut. You want to say yes, or even no, anything definitive, but instead you just tell her, “He makes me feel alive,” and hope she hears the ambiguity for what it is.

She nods, lips pressed together. “I’m still not sure why you’re doing this, but I will admit that even though I still have questions, one of those questions is not how much that man cares for you.”

Thea fixes you with a look so curious and gentle it makes you want to squirm out of your skin. “It doesn’t look like any love story I’d picture for you,” she says. “It’s not the type people write poems about or that you see on Pinterest boards. I don’t even know that it’s love, but it’s definitely fierce, and runs deep.”

“Thea,” your voice is a little choked.

“He looks at you like you’re the last thing on earth he thinks is worth burning for.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s true.”

You’re grateful, even if you can’t manage the words to say so outright. Thea is one of the few souls you trust without hesitation in this world. You study her face in the city-dark, finding closeness there that reminds you, with a pang, of who you were before all this.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. You mean it harder than it sounds.

Thea bumps shoulders with you. “I’d literally stand in front of a bullet for you.” She glances toward a distant rooftop bar, probably scouting for snipers. “Metaphorically, but also probably literally.”

You stay there together a little longer, the gentle thrum of summer and the humid glow from the party behind you, breathing easier for the reminder that not all loves are fairy tales, that some are knife-edges, and open secrets, and best friendships.

Shep slides out the glass door with the hush of someone practiced in not disturbing an armed perimeter. He doesn’t interrupt, just drifts into the range of your awareness and waits. When you finally realize on a conscious level that he’s there, turning your head and giving him a small, tight-lipped smile, he says, “Time to make our exit, if you’re ready.”

There’s a quiet emphasis on the word “our,” and you realize how long you must’ve been out here.

“Where’s Andy?” You look over his shoulder, expecting to see him somewhere in the glow and tangle of the party, looming, waiting for you expectantly, but he’s not there. You’re surprised at how keenly you feel his absence. Then you ask Shep, “He’s not coming back tonight, is he?”

Shep shakes his head, a single, precise movement. “He wanted me to see you home. Mark’s already downstairs.” He hesitates, then softens with a half-smile, reading some of your reluctance to leave. “You can have ten more minutes if you want them.”

You take the ten.

It’s enough time for Thea to finish her glass and for you to make the rounds of the party, saying goodnight to your circles of friends and family who were invited to be part of tonight.

Your mother is waiting for you near the coat check, her dark eyes shining, twin tears perilously close to the edge. She pulls you in for a fierce, almost painful hug, her perfume sealing around you like a memory from childhood. “You’re my treasure,” she says into your ear so hard you forget to breathe for a second. She pulls away, fixing your hair with a trembling hand. “Just tell me he’s as good as he looks. That’s all I ask.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and you bob your head, not trusting yourself to say anything more.

Outside, the night air is a slab of heat. Shep guides you to the waiting Range Rover with a balanced mix of deference and I’m still your bodyguard. Mark already has the curbside door open, and you buckle yourself in, feeling the exhaustion of the night releasing through your limbs. You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes. As complicated as your feelings are around Andy, his absence gnaws at you in a way you didn’t expect. Especially tonight.

When you walk into the mansion, the silence is as sharp as a slap. You expected it, or something like it, and yet standing in the cavernous hush of the marble entry, clutching your tiny evening bag, you’re overtaken by an urge to slam the door hard enough to wake the dead. You don’t, though. You click it shut, toe off your heels and hook them on your fingers, and walk barefoot through the dark to your rooms upstairs.

Andy’s absence is complete and total—no jacket left half-flung on the banister, no ghost of movement or glass of half-drunk bourbon left somewhere. You resist the urge to immediately check your phone, because you want to feel the ache fully, let it sharpen until it outcompetes the dull, unanswerable questions that have circled every day since you said yes, but especially tonight.

You go to the bathroom and take a long, methodical shower. You take your time as you finish getting ready for bed, drifting through the mechanical rituals of skincare and pajamas and teeth-brushing, but you take no comfort in the delicate, orchid-scented candle you light, or the feel of the silk on your skin.

You check your phone, eventually. There’s a text from him, timestamped an hour ago.

ANDY: I’ll be late, don’t wait up.

You want to scream. You want to hurl the phone at the wall or at least send an angry string of messages to force some reaction from him, but you don’t. You sit at the end of the bed with your phone in your palm, glaring at the glow as if it can blink first. Don’t wait up, as if this is remotely normal. You know he’s got business, but he’s never missed an evening with you, never let you go to sleep without him there, touching you, fucking you, just being with you. And now he’s gone the night before your wedding?

You thumb your phone off, toss it face-down onto the bed, and stand for a moment in the hush. You are lit by moonlight coming by moonlight coming in a narrow spill through the vast window, alone with the hum and pop of baseboard heat, a ghost in your own life. You want to be sated by this, to have the sudden expanse and absence feel like relief, but instead it gathers pressure inside your chest. Under the thin silk of your robe, your skin feels hypersensitive, almost electrical, and the wet ends of your hair drip cold water down your spine.

You don’t want to admit how badly you want him here—how quickly your anger at his text has curdled into a more woeful, sticky missing. It chafes to need him.

You try to zone out streaming something on TV, but nothing cuts through to capture enough of your attention in the absence. You’re so used to the energy of Andy’s presence—the kinetic hum of him near you, whether he’s angry or amused or simply radiating power from the next room—that the void he leaves behind is almost audible.

Eventually you are able to at least focus on reading, legs tucked up under you on the settee.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next sensation is not the passage of time but abrupt displacement.

You’re in mid-dream when you sense the shift, the weightless suck of gravity before the realization: someone is lifting you. You twist, half-awake, to find Andy’s arms locked under your knees and back, carrying you with the unthinking efficiency of someone who has probably hauled bodies at some point. You mutter something into his shirt, a syllable heavy with sleep and protest, and he just keeps moving, your head lolling against his chest, too groggy to fight him off at first.

Then you thrash, not gently. You elbow at his chest, catch his ribs with a knee, and hiss, “Put me down.” You mean it. You’re not just startled—you’re still feeling that lingering anger—and Andy, to his credit, sets you down with more care than you expected. You sway and nearly lose your balance, but he catches your wrist, keeping you upright.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice absurdly gentle, and that somehow pricks worse for all its reasonableness.

You rip your hand away. “Don’t do that. Don’t just—pick me up.”

He studies you, searching your face with an unreadable patience. “You were sleeping,” he says.

You steady yourself and glare up at him, refusing to let your fatigue soften the edge of your voice. “You missed the whole rest of the night, Andy. Where were you?”

Although his expression remains the same, the tension around his eyes tightens. “You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

You scoff. “How do I know that?”

Maybe it’s the sleep, maybe it’s the hunger you’ve been stifling, but it lands with a new kind of sharpness, how Andy answers a question only by hollowing out the possibility you’ll ever ask again. But you refuse to fold into that silence tonight.

“I want you to tell me,” you say.

Andy closes the gap between you with a slow step, his gaze not leaving your face. “Tomorrow’s our wedding,” he says, low and thick in his throat, a softness that isn’t practice so much as exhaustion. His hand goes to your shoulder, thumb pressing the knot between bone and tendon, and you flinch at the intimacy of it, at how easily he can make you want to forgive him. You step back, and he lets you, his arms falling to his sides in a slow, theatrical surrender.

“Don’t do that,” you say again, voice thin this time. You hate the tremor more than you hated his absence.

He tilts his head, studying you in the low light. “You’re angry.”

He smiles, weary but pleased. “You’re angry because you missed me.” He says it not as an accusation, but a simple, delighted observation, like he’s just solved a riddle in your presence. “You care.”

You make a sound, a cross between a snort and a huff, and turn your head before he can get a better look at your face. “I’m angry because you’ve insisted on all of this—me, the wedding, pulling me into your life—and then you desert me the night before we’re supposed to get married? Leave me during the rehearsal dinner? And all I get is a ‘don’t wait up’ text?”

You hate that your voice rises, hate the heat behind your eyes. Andy comes closer, and you want to slap him and also want him to hold you. You flex your jaw, force your gaze to stay away.

He listens. He lets you say it all, and when it’s out of your mouth, tumbling and ugly, he says, “I know. But there are things I can’t and won’t tell you. I can’t ever expose you to certain things. I won’t allow them near you.” His voice is all iron and velvet. “I’m protecting you, even if it doesn’t look or feel like it.”

He lets the pause hang, then takes a slight step closer—close enough that you nearly shiver at the radius of his heat.

There are things I won’t shield you from, either. You told me to never lie, so I won’t pretend I’m made another way. But I will always come back.” He says it softly, neither a threat nor a comfort.

After a lengthy moment of silence, you tell him, “I don’t want another night like this. I don’t want to ever be stranded in the dark.”

He considers it. Not with a smirk or a challenge, but real intent, a resolution hardening. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I’m not good enough,” he says, and it is the flattest, most relentless admission. “But I am what you’re marrying.”

You should laugh. You almost do, at the incredulity, the audacity, the unfairness of his answer, of this entire situation, but then he reaches out, just a single knuckle under your chin, and you’re suddenly taking in a shaky breath.

You hold his eyes for a full count, your body picking up the stutter of your pulse, anger and want running convergent through your system. You want to turn away, to break the connection, but you can’t.

“Then show me. Make it better,” you say, and your voice is a command, not a plea.

You let him guide your face up. His thumb travels a gentle path down your jaw. He leans in, pressing his words, and his mouth, against your skin. “You want more than this? I will never give you less.” The last of it is a murmur, not a vow, but it lives in the hollow between you, nudging the edge of promise.

He kisses you behind the ear, slow and intentional, and your whole body contracts around the point of contact. You hate how even this controlled display of contrition draws you in. Were you less tired, were it not the night before your wedding, you may have pushed him away. But he knows exactly how to pull on the string that unravels you, and you can’t leave it at that, so you cup his face and press your mouth against his, not sweet or apologetic but with a frustrated need to bite, to mark. He lets you, opens willingly, tongue flicking yours, and the pressure he uses to guide you toward the bed is insistent. You pull him with you, backwards, the two of you bumping knees, bumping hips, his hands already finding the tie at your robe and making short work of it.

He pulls it from your shoulders, lets it float to the carpet with exaggerated gentleness that’s belied by the urgency of his mouth and hands. You take brief satisfaction in yanking at his shirt buttons, two of them tumbling somewhere onto the bedding, but Andy just shrugs out of the rest and lets it fall to the floor.

He is, as you’ve come to expect, taller and heavier than you in the moments that matter. He pins you beneath him, stretching your arms above your head, taking his time as if you both aren’t aching with a violent need. He kisses you with a patience that does not match the tension in his body, hands working down your ribs, touching and teasing the places he’s learned draw your responses.

You let him press you down, let him grind against you, clothed below the waist but with a bare chest and a punishing grip as he presses one of your thighs up and open for him. Your silk nightgown is tangled above your hips, ruined for decency, and the sheets under you bunch as you wrap your leg around him.

You are not even sure when you stop resisting—the anger, the loneliness—maybe when he murmurs, “I’m here,” into the shell of your ear, or maybe it’s before that, at the familiar drag of his teeth across your shoulder. You want to snarl at him, but you can only gasp and tear one of your hands away so you can grab for his waistband, the zipper, too impatient for finesse.

The button resists for half a second before you hear the pop. Andy’s hips cant, the gesture half involuntary. He is, unlike you, a master at not showing his hunger—unless he wants you to see it, and tonight he must, because the restraint rubs your skin raw in a way that’s almost a dare. You dig your heel into the mattress, lift your pelvis to grind into the urgency that’s thickening between your bodies. He lets you, but barely; his hand catches your thigh, squeezes, and you wonder if there will be marks tomorrow. You hope so.

He pulls back, and you make a desperate, wordless noise—appalled at the empty space, the abrupt loss of him. Andy grins, a glint of teeth in the dark, and then he’s dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, eyes black and bottomless. “Patience,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I want you naked for me. Completely.”

You’re tempted to resist him, to force him to earn the reveal, but you want the heat and the gaze and—more than anything—the feeling of him unraveling for you. So you tug the nightgown up and off, shimmying as best you can.

Andy reaches out to assist, dragging your panties off in a single, practiced movement, leaving you splayed open and vulnerable in the spill of moonlight, the air cold and sharp against your skin.

He stands, shucking his pants and boxers with ease. His cock is already hard, and he takes himself in hand, stroking slow, almost lazy, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his forearm tightens, every line of his body at the edge of restraint. He stands there for a moment, head tipped, just watching you with that focus, just this side of feral. It should alarm you. It should, maybe, make you recoil, the ferocity in him, so unlike the men you’ve known before. It’s a look that should have scared you from the beginning—but no one has wanted you the way he wants you, and you’ve grown addicted to how Andy’s hunger works.

You want to wipe that look of composure from his face, and you know exactly how to do it. You arch your back, knees falling apart, and bring your fingers to your cunt—slow, deliberate. Andy’s mouth parts the barest inch, but he doesn’t move to stop you. You circle your clit with two fingers, the slide easy and slick, and moan just loud enough that you know he’ll hear it for days. He watches, lips parted, and the tension in his neck sings.

“Is this what you want?” you ask.

You don’t wait for an answer. You drag a slick, purposeful circle with your fingertip, then roll your hips up again, forcing his attention onto the precise spot you want it. Your other hand moves to your breast, pinching a nipple until the ache flashes through your belly. You moan again, longer, keeping your eyes pinned to his as though you can draw out his release through sheer insistence.

Andy comes closer, his hand sliding up your calf, kneading the inside of your knee with enough pressure to make you gasp and lose the rhythm of your own touch. He takes your wrist in his, slows your movements, and brings your fingers to his mouth. He licks them, savoring your taste, then sucks the tips into the heat of him, eyes trained on yours the whole time. “You want to make me lose control?” he murmurs. “You’re close, sweetheart.”

You shudder, half from his voice and half from the pleasure needling up your legs. “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Flip over,” he says, and you obey. Not because you care to perform for him, but because this is the only language you speak fluently with each other.

You turn, face pillowed in moonlight, the curve of your ass arched and on display. The sheets are cool under your cheek. Andy’s hands find your hips, not rough but absolute, his palms broad and braced. He kneads you for a long moment, a brief, silent exhibition of ownership, before running his thumb down the seam of you, spreading you open with the same clinical certainty he uses to carve out secrets.

He fucks you in one smooth, relentless motion, every inch filling you until your body feels engineered for the shape of him. You groan from the fullness, and he groans being sheathed inside your cunt. He leans forward, curling over you, and presses a kiss into your neck.

He holds you there, pressed hard against the mattress, your knees bracing apart as his cock drives into you with a steadiness that’s almost brutal but never crosses over into pain. You have only ever known men in this position to get greedy, to lose their pacing almost immediately, but Andy’s rhythm is a ruthless metronome, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder, calibrated to keep you right at the edge.

His weight is a gravity you loathe and crave; you let him press you into the bed and hold you there. You’re still angry, still trembling, but everything is blurred with your arousal, your hunger, the lines so tangled you can barely see the difference.

You try to deny him your pleasure out of spite, but it’s a losing proposition—Andy finds the angle he wants, rocks into you so that you choke on a half-sob, and holds there until you scratch at the sheets, half-crazed. The sound you make is ugly and desperate, and the only thing worse is how much you want him to hear it, to be stoked by it, to see what he does to you. He seems to sense this, his voice a gravel scrape against your shoulder blade. “Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want it.”

His thumb finds your clit, presses in tight, and for a few strokes you somehow resist, but then your hips buck and your vision splotches out, and you do let him hear how much you want him. It’s exquisite. He continues to fuck into you, working your clit, every nerve burning, every muscle tightening in a white, brutal wave. He fucks you through it, groaning, not letting up until a second, sharper quake rips through your body. Then and only then does Andy let himself go—slamming into you, his hand a vise around your hip as he spends himself, jaw pressed to your spine. The shudder of him fully inside you is shocking, almost convulsive, and he bucks in you until the last aftershocks fade and the only sound in the room is two desperate people fighting for air.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there, draped over your body, letting you catch your breath, his weight an absolute. When he does finally move, he’s slow and careful, laying beside you and rolling you into his arms, not a word spoken. You’re still too fogged by want and exhaustion to move, content to let him hold you close, the press of his cheek against your hair. Neither of you speak for a very long time.

But there are thoughts you still need him to hear.

You find your voice in the hush, not loud or demanding but plain, with the rough edge of sleep and aftershock. “I don’t want more nights like this,” you say, and you can feel the way Andy’s chest stills under your hand. “I didn’t want to be coerced into your bed, I didn’t want to be forced into an engagement, I didn’t want to get married like this. You exploited the attraction, you’ve made me weak for you, but please,” your voice breaks, “please don’t make me the wife who has to wait up alone for you.”

Andy doesn’t speak, not at first, and the silence unsettles you, but you make yourself hold it—make yourself show that it matters. You refuse to shrink or swallow the need. If he’s going to be the kind of man who pulls you into his orbit, he’s damn well going to know he can’t just leave you in the dark. Not without a fight. He’s made slow but small shifts in some areas you’ve pressed with him. Maybe you can have resonance here, too.

He smooths a hand from your shoulder, down your back, each pass gentler than the last. He’s thinking, you know. Not just brushing off what you said, but actually holding it up to the light, inspecting the seams. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and soft, but firm.

“I meant it when I said I’d do my best,” he says. “I don’t want you to be her—the wife who waits at the window. But I also can’t give up what I am.” His hand lingers at your waist, a heavy presence.

You sigh, too thoroughly boneless to summon the right words, so you simply roll over, and it’s too natural how your body melds against him as he curls his arm around you and pulls your back flush against his chest. All you can do now is hope your sentiments will start to seep into him through osmosis.

You let the silence ride a little longer, curled together as if this is some and listen to the slowing cadence of his breath, to the metallic taste of words you didn’t say, and you wonder if this is what love might be—the willingness to be furious and still stay.

And you wonder if this is love—not because it’s gentle or clean or what you imagined, but because it has weight, because it has teeth, because it sits in your chest like a stone you keep reaching for. Because you are angry and ruined and held, and somehow all three of those things are the same thing. Because no one has seen you the way he does. Because no one has made you feel so wanted, even if it’s infused with possession. But even through the moments you know there are things he isn’t telling you, you know he’s never lied to you. Even when he says things you don’t want to hear, he speaks to you openly. Even when his actions are incendiary and disagreeable, they’re still somehow for you now.

He says your name. It’s a quiet thing, a soft push through the dark, but it lands with a rattle in your chest.

“I want to tell you something,” Andy says. “Not because you asked, but because if you’re going to be my wife, you will need to know.”

You swallow, knowing instinctively that to interrupt is to lose the tiny, trembling momentum inside him. He never initiates these confessions. He’s all action, never exposition. You hold your body still, afraid any breath will snap the thread.

“They brought me in tonight to consult on a sit-down. Not a war, but something close. One of the families in Jersey—Lupo’s people—made a move on Levinson’s properties—of one of our allies—along the North River. Not a huge play, but enough to draw blood. No one got shot. But next time, someone will.” Andy’s hand flexes at your hip, tightening like a vise. “If that happens, everything changes. This life, the way we can have it, ends. The only thing that keeps us—keeps you—safe, is the order.” He breathes out, a single tight exhale. “If the peace goes, I can’t guarantee anything. Not for you, not for me. And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, sheets cooling under your legs, and you realize what he’s giving you is not reassurance, but the truth of his world, knife-sharp and blood-warm. It should terrify you. It does, to a degree, but you’ve had a security detail, you know there are six loaded guns hidden here in the master suite. There is nothing normal about any of this, but the fact of Andy’s world is that it remains obsessively ordered only so long as no one has reason to start a war.

“When I have to go, I have to go, and I’ll never apologize for that,” he adds when you don’t say anything more.

Thea joked about reading mafia romance novels, but this is not a genre, this is your life now. When you let the reality land, it isn’t just gravity, but something like inheritance: no matter what you wanted or didn’t, you’re marrying into all of this.

And yet, as you lie there, taken apart and held tightly yet again, you find a calm in yourself you didn’t realize you could access. Maybe it’s the spill of adrenaline draining away, or the simple fact that Andy—your future husband, in a matter of hours—has finally handed you the truest thing he’s ever said. Everything is always at risk.

But if the world really is this dangerous, you’ve no doubt you’re held by the most powerful man you’ve ever met, and since he stopped at nothing to secure you, he will stop at nothing to keep you secure.

Uncle Rob! Thea! Andy! A Levinson name drop?!

There are so many things here that I've been plotting for ages, and so I think it's half the reason it took me so long to finish this chapter. Back in May I had written what I thought was about 3k to make up the first half of the chapter, but something about it just wasn't working, so I pulled it apart, kept a few of the scraps, and went back to the drawin board. I'm pleased where it finally ended up, and even though I know parts of this story are frustrating (coughSOMEOFANDY'SBEHAVIORcough), I do hope you all like the chapter.

And I know this is at the verrrrrry tail end of Monday for the first of what I'm hoping will be I'm Your Man Monday, but we made it! So we'll see if I can make this happen and get you another update next week!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I’m so intrigued by Uncle Rob 👀 I’d love to know more about his history with Andy, and if you have a face claim for him 🤓

I am once again declaring my undying love for Thea 🧎🏻‍♀️

 “It doesn’t look like any love story I’d picture for you,” she says. “It’s not the type people write poems about or that you see on Pinterest boards. I don’t even know that it’s love, but it’s definitely fierce, and runs deep.”

“Thea,” your voice is a little choked.

“He looks at you like you’re the last thing on earth he thinks is worth burning for.” She shrugs and takes another sip of her champagne. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but it’s true.”

Oh my godddd 😭😭😭 Okay, first of all!! All of this was incredibly beautiful, you talented hoe. And also now I’m very much in my feels and they aren’t even stabby 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

You don’t want to admit how badly you want him here—how quickly your anger at his text has curdled into a more woeful, sticky missing. It chafes to need him.

Andy better have a damn good excuse for not being there for us after such a tedious, vulnerable night that was more for HIS benefit 😡

He smiles, weary but pleased. “You’re angry because you missed me.” He says it not as an accusation, but a simple, delighted observation, like he’s just solved a riddle in your presence. “You care.”

I insist you borrow my knife 🔪

…but no one has wanted you the way he wants you, and you’ve grown addicted to how Andy’s hunger works.

Love this 🤌🏻 And can totally see why it would be addictive. 

As smug as Andy would be about it, I do think this story contains some of your best smut 😮‍💨

Because no one has seen you the way he does. Because no one has made you feel so wanted, even if it’s infused with possession. But even through the moments you know there are things he isn’t telling you, you know he’s never lied to you. Even when he says things you don’t want to hear, he speaks to you openly. Even when his actions are incendiary and disagreeable, they’re still somehow for you now.

YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN ✋🏻

Me at that Levinson name drop:

I would like to volunteer to be his love 🙋🏻‍♀️