♥︎

Who ever said that you couldn't use your own fiery jealousy to your advantage?

You'd seen the way that Oz's dark eyes lit up, widened even, at the sight of Rita Hayworth. You'd seen it and you felt the tight pangs of jealousy grip your stomach. He said it was one of his mother's favorite films, and it was nostalgic for him. That may have been true, but you suspected there was another layer beneath that claim. He shifted forward in his seat, captivated by the way she sung and danced across the screen, oozing a dark, feminine sort of elegance that you could only dream of.

The next time Oz was out working, you took it upon yourself to make that dream a reality. It took you all of an hour to locate a full-service salon that specialized in vintage and pinup styles, and you booked the last appointment they had available. You spent the day riding the subway, from thrift store to thrift store, until you'd procured a perfect outfit; all black, strapless, and the way it hugged your curves was to die for. To top it off, it was vintage, not a replication. The lady who had helped you assured you that it was, and then curtly explained that it was expensive. You, despite your current attire, were on the receiving end of of Oz's constant spoiling and assured her that money was no object. A pair of silken nylons and a black pumps finished off the look.

So, bag in hand, you caught the train again, this time, downtown. Three stops and a short walk later, you arrived at the salon. The stylist, who introduced herself as Tiffany, wasted no time in sourcing your inspiration, which you explained was Gilda. You both decide on big, voluminous waves and she quickly got to work.

Mid-appointment, your phone buzzes, tickling your palm. You blink, and look at the time, biting your lip. He was home early.

The message reads: You okay doll?

Careful not to disrupt Tiffany as she continues to clip your waves in place, you lift the phone and type out a quick response.

Everything's fine. Just went out to do a little shopping and stuff.

Love hearing that baby. You want me to pick you up?

You mull over that option, swiping your tongue along the smooth front of your bottom teeth. You'd originally planned on beating him home, and surprising him, but this might be just as good.

Tiffany chimes in, obviously having read your texts over your shoulder. It doesn't bother you - quite the opposite. You appreciate that you don't have to awkwardly ask her when she'll be finished. "We'll be done in an hour or so. Your hair is just about done... we just need to do your makeup and you'll be set."

You smile at her in the mirror, and hurriedly tell Oz the details.

The time goes faster than you can predict. Before you know it, Tiffany is unsnapping the beauty cape, and as she spins you around to look at yourself in the mirror, a gasp leaves your lips.

You scan over your appearance slowly, taking in each detail. Frankly, you haven't felt this beautiful in a long time. With your hair in perfect waves, your brows high and arched, lips a perfect shade of crimson, and then… jeans and a t-shirt, it looks staggeringly out of place.

"I look… perfect. Thank you so much," you say to the mirror. Tiffany is as delighted as you are and nods, wrapping the cape around her forearm. You get to your feet, and turn, looking towards your bag.

"Do you… do you mind if I change into a dress, here? My boyfriend is coming to pick me up and this whole thing is kind of a surprise for him…"

"Of course! Let me know if you need any help."

It turns out, you do. But Tiffany is there, ready to help you with that back zip. She gets a generous tip, and you make your way to the door.

Finally, with your old clothes in your shopping bag, you step down onto the sidewalk, and lean against the wall in a sultry pose. You're really milking the whole thing, but you know Oz is going to eat it up the second he sees you. A few minutes later, that plum-colored Maserati pulls up to the curb. As you push yourself off, the window rolls down, and you smirk, sauntering towards the car.

You hinge at the waist, and insert one long arm into the car; it's cool inside. Carefully resting your head on your shoulder, you look at the man in the driver seat — who looks like he's about to faint — with a smoldering gaze. Your lips twitch, a desperate attempt at trying to hide the amused snicker that is bubbling up from your throat.

"Say, you wouldn't mind giving a lady a ride would you?"

"Doll, I uh..." He swallows the lump in his throat. His eyes are locked on you, memorizing the visual in front of him. "I almost didn't recognize ya'."

You flash him a bright, red-lipped smile and duck out of the window, moving to open the door yourself. Before you can, Oz is getting out of the driver's seat and gently ushering you out of the way with a wide hand on the small of your back. He pulls the door open for you, gesturing for you to get inside with a sideways nod of his head.

"Such a gentleman," you say, and slide into the seat, careful to keep your modesty. Part of the charm was in the tease, you knew this. Oz pauses a a moment, just taking it all in as you click the seat belt into place.

He heaves a breath and shuts the door.

Once he's inside again, he throws the car into drive, and reaches over to you. Oz's big hand comes down atop your knee with a delicate reverence, like he's afraid the dream might disintegrate if he touches it.

"Shit," he breathes. "You look like a million bucks, sweetheart. More."

"I feel like a million bucks," you reply, toying gently with his fingers. They twitch against the satin of the dress and you smile. You look out the window, watching as the scenery flies past you. Oz is weaving in an out of traffic, clearly in a hurry. You tuck into your seat and turn to him, raising a perfectly defined brow.

"What's the rush, big boy?"

He shudders. You've never called him that. "Shit," he says. "I oughta' hate you for that."

Immediately, a line from the movie pops into your head. You wonder if he'll pick up on it, and decide to test your luck. "Hate is a very exciting emotion. Haven't you noticed?"

"I —" He stops, and disconnects his eyes from the road to give you a sideways glance. "This the part where you tell me that you hate me so much you think you're going to die from it?"

You smile again, satisfied, and reach over the center console. So maybe it was one of his favorite movies. Maybe it was.

"Just wait 'till I get you home, sweetheart."

"Yeah, Ozzy?"

"Yeah," he repeats, keeping his eyes on the road. There's a promise in his voice, one that excites you. Every time you're intimate with Oz, it's as thrilling as the first time because he's so… obsessed with you and your body, hard pressed to please you until you see stars on his bedroom ceiling. You expect this time to be no different.

Your eyes, laden with lust, fall to his crotch. There's a heavy outline in his slacks, and you know he's fighting to keep his attention on the driving. He'd never put you in danger though — precious cargo, he'd always say.

Your hand creeps forward to touch his hard-on, but Oz catches your wrist and brings it to his mouth, where he presses warm, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of it.

"Ah-ah. Ain't tryin' to get in an accident. The way you look… I gotta' focus on drivin', or we're gonna' get ourselves in trouble, huh?"

You pout, pushing your red bottom lip forward and batting your lashes at him.

Oz does, in fact, get you home without an accident. And once he does, he shows you exactly how he feels about your little surprise.

Very exciting.

Hair and makeup done, you stand in front of your closet, fingering through your dresses. Although you didn't know where he was taking you, most of them are too short for a nice dinner, saying I'm going out for a night at the Iceberg Lounge instead of I'm going out for a nice dinner with a guy I'm developing major feelings for. Your heart thuds, and your brain skips. Major feelings. Yikes. You hum, pulling a wine colored evening gown off the hanger. You step to the side, in front of your mirror, and hold it up to your nearly naked body. This will do. You hurriedly put on the dress, pulling up the side zip.

Hooking your fingers around the straps of a pair of nude heels at the bottom of your closet, you grab your purse and pad carefully down the plush carpeted stairs. Your father sits on the sofa, looking at his phone. He has some papers on his lap, but you aren't sure what they are. You don't care to ask.

You muster up all the confidence you can, hoping your voice doesn't waver. "I'm going to dinner with Oz, daddy. He'll be here soon."

He turns, and all the words die on his tongue as soon as he sees you. You look beautiful, elegant even, and he has nothing that can hold you. You can see him recoil slightly, like you've just slapped him, but what transpired before keeps him in line. Instead of saying everything he wants to say, he just nods, and returns his attention to the phone. You want to say something reassuring, but words fail you. You slip your feet into your heels one by one.

When you open the door, Oz is outside, leaning against the passenger's side door. He's wearing a suit, and your heart squeezes at the visual — you're in too deep at this point. He's got his phone in his hand, but quickly pockets it when he hears the front door open.

"Was just texting you."

You flash a bright smile, and lift your dress as you walk down the three steps. Oz holds his hand out for support, and you take it. It's warm and big and you feel every inch of your body heat up.

The drive is quiet. Sinatra plays on the stereo, and Oz's fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, but doesn't. You keep your hands in your lap, wanting desperately to touch him. When he finally pulls the car up to the curb, you look through the window and furrow your brow.

"You said you were going to take me to dinner."

"Yeah," he grunts. Holds his hand out again.

"This is your apartment building."

"Yeah," he says again, ushering out of the car with a jerk of his head. You run your tongue along the front of your bottom teeth, fighting off a smile. You pivot in the seat, and reach up, using his hand as leverage to pull yourself up off the seat. On the way up, Oz holds every door for you.

There's a familiarity in the way you step inside, and you're happy to settle back in. Your eyes dart to the bedroom as he moves into it, taking off his suit jacket. Fondly, you remember how you rode his face and how he fucked you. A smile curves around your glossy lips as your eyes dart back to the main room. Just before the kitchen, you spot a small dining room table. It's set for two people, with candles that aren't lit yet.

As you set your bag down on one of the armchairs, Oz walks past you to the table, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows. He pours you a glass of wine and returns it, pushing into your hands.

Flippantly, you ask: "What, you ordered pizza or something?"

"You think I ordered takeout for a gal like you? C'mon. I cooked," he says plainly, like it's the most normal thing in the world. In some ways, it is. This is what people do when they're dating, isn't it?

Still, your brows fly up on your forehead, your red lips tightening into a smile. "A home cooked meal, huh? Should I call my dad and tell him you're gonna propose next?"

"Ahh." He waves away your comment, but the sentiment isn't lost on you as he continues speaking. "I uh, know you've been to all the fancy restaurants here in Gotham. Ain't nothing special to you."

You nod once, swirling the wine around in your glass. "And?"

"And… I wanted to do somethin' different."

You're stunned. Butterflies are fluttering around in your ribcage, so you take a long sip of the wine. It's all you can do to contain them and avoid them changing your facial expression to something too sappy. It's different now, the dynamic, and your heart feels heavy, laden with adoration for the guy.

As Oz makes his way back to the kitchen, you pull out one of the chairs and perch on the edge of it, crossing your legs. The silken fabric slides down your thigh, exposing it to the cool air of his apartment. You hear him open the oven and pull out a heavy dish, setting it on the stove top.

"What did you make?"

"Baked ziti. Used to make it for my ma when I was kid. Her recipe."

Your stomach pangs with hunger at the mention — you were a sucker for a good Italian dish. It came with the territory. Oz returns with two loaded plates and with an unexpected gentility, sets them down on the table in their respective spots. After lighting the candles, he takes his seat across from you, and watches you closely. You know he wants to see you take the first bite, and enjoy it. The pressure builds in your core.

"Can't keep your eyes off me, huh?" Your usual snark is ever present, but there's something tainting it now, something softer. "You've got it bad, baby."

"And you don't?"

You answer with your eyes before lifting your fork, and pierce some of the noodles. Strings of melted mozzarella and ricotta stretch up as you bring it to your lips. As soon as it hits your tongue, you let out a pleased hum that goes straight to Oz's chest. He relaxes in the chair, and lets the corner of his mouth lift in a satisfied grin before taking a forkful of his creation.

As you two eat, any tension that was there melts away. Oz laughs at your jokes, and you laugh at his stories. He compliments your eyes, says they're prettier than any jewels he's seen — and he's seen some. You two work your way through the bottle of wine and half of the dish, and before long, you're feeling wonderfully comfortable. Full of food and alcohol, you lean back in your chair.

"This was nice."

"Was? What, you wanna go back to daddy already?" His tone is teasing, but underneath there's a pleading that he probably hopes you don't hear.

Your eyes flash with something dangerous. "The only place I wanna be is your sofa. Or your bed. Again."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Oz stands up and walks to your side of the table, extending his hand again. He's a real schmoozer, a gentleman, but you appreciate it. Most guys your age wouldn't dream of acting this way, they don't have a suave bone in their stupid little hormonal bodies, and it's got heat pooling between your legs.

He guides you to the sofa, and you both sit, close to each other. You drape your legs over his lap, and finish off the remainder of your wine. You set the empty glass on the side table with a tink! and return your attention to him.

"Listen, doll."

Oh no.

"I know I said this wasn't a thing…"

Oh, but it was.

You smirk and lean back against his couch with a laugh. "You want it to be a thing, Ozzy? Huh?"

"What if I said I did?"

As you stare at Oz's ceiling for a moment, you consider that question, mulling over it like a mouthful of wine. You sit up, and sweep your legs underneath themselves, crawling over to him. You straddle him, and again, the familiarity burns in your core. He feels so comfortable, so warm…

You lean down and kiss him. Really kiss him. The other kisses may have been fueled by lust and alcohol, but this is softer, like you're just kissing him for the sake of feeling his warm, scarred lips against your own. You're kissing him because it's what lovers do.

Lovers.

Your hand trails down his broad body — god, you love it — and makes quick work of his slacks, unbuttoning them and sliding the zip down. His cock is hardening under your weight, and you shift slightly, allowing yourself some room.

"So you wanna ask me out, Ozzy? You wanna go steady?"

Oz's breath hitches in his throat. You feel his dick throb, move against you as it hardens further. He's really getting off on this kinda talk…

"What will my daddy say?"

"I gotta be honest with you sweetheart, I don't really give a fuck what he has to say…"

You liked that. Your fingers delve into his underwear and wrap around his cock, giving it a few slow strokes. It twitches against your palm and Oz bucks his hips unconsciously.

"Tell me, Oz… Say it."

You drag your fist up and down, stroking him in a passionate, controlled way. Oz's breathing goes from steady to shallow, and he swallows, shifting his neck slightly. Twitching.

"I want you to be my girl."

The words are heavy…. so heavy. You want him all over again. You long for the feeling of his cock inside you.

"You want what all this means, huh? You want me to be your controversially young girlfriend? Oz Cobb dating the daughter of one of Gotham's councilmen? Think about the headlines, baby…"

Oz groans underneath you, and you tighten your grip on his dick, urging more precum from the slit. You smear your thumb over it and down the length of his shaft and Oz mutters something about how good it feels.

"Yeah, you remember how good it felt, don't you? Haven't got that outta your head, have you, baby?"

He shakes his head.

Your speed increases, pumping his thick cock in and out of your fist and Oz tightens beneath you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you against his body. Without another word, he comes in your hand, spilling out over your fingers in white, hot spurts.

Disappointment flashes in your eyes, but disappears with the thought that you're going to fuck him all night long. You weren't going home tonight.

You let go of his throbbing cock, and raise your palm. The cum drips from your knuckles, and you bring it closer to your mouth. Your tongue darts out, and licks one of the fingers clean. You swallow down his heady taste, and nod lazily.

"Okay," you whisper, dizzy with lust.

"Okay?"

"I'll be your baby, Oz. I'll be your baby, if you take good care of me."

A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, and he looks flushed. He reaches up and cups the side of your face. "You'll want for nothin' with me, doll."

You lean down to kiss him again.

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

"Nah, nah," he denied, running his fingers up your legs slowly, "you look good in everything. Though, I'll admit, your looks with my impeccable taste? It's a good combo."

Carmine turned to look at Oz, sitting on the nearby couch, seemingly a little conflicted on where he was supposed to be looking right now.

"Don't you agree, Ozzy?" Carmine prompted his partner.

"Uh huh," Oz cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's a nice dress, she looks good."

"You think so?" you encouraged him coyly.

"Yeah," Oz replied, a little more confident now, "you're gorgeous, honey. Way too gorgeous to be with this old creep."

You smiled, biting your lip, and Carmine chuckled as he pulled you down into his lap further. "Yeah, what are ya doin' with an old man like me, huh?" he asked you teasingly, moving his hands just a little higher up your thighs.

"You're not old," you insisted. "You don't look old... and you still have plenty of, um, stamina."

"That I do," Carmine agreed with a crooked smirk, suddenly grabbing your ass under your dress; you gasped, and you heard a strained noise from Oz on the other end of the couch. "Oh, right," Carmine chuckled, "I almost forgot... Ozzy here was tellin' me before about how he has a little fetish for stockings."

You knew there was some ulterior motive to Carmine asking you to wear thigh-high stockings under your dress... and grabbing your ass had apparently given Mr. Cobblepot a good view of where the lacy hem of those stockings wrapped around your thighs.

"I never notice them, to be honest," Carmine continued, "but I figured they'd look good on you... whaddaya think, Oz, am I onto something here?"

Oswald nodded awkwardly, and you laughed. "Don't be so mean to him, daddy," you scolded Carmine gently, "you know it's rude to show off, make him want what he can't have."

"Rude? No no no, not at all," Carmine denied, "I'm bein' generous, actually... you know I don't like to let anybody look at you..."

That was a bald-faced lie; Carmine loved everyone getting an eyeful of his girl, knowing full well they would lose any appendage they tried to touch you with. Oz was a little different, though... Carmine really trusted him, but he liked to play around with him, too. And ever since he found out that Oz had some extracurricular feelings for you, he'd been dangling you in front of him at nearly every opportunity.

"But he's an old friend, and I figure he could use some new spank bank material, eh?" Carmine grinned, lifting your dress again to expose the stockings and your lacy thong once again. "And oh, baby, what a sight this is. These stockings are nice, but I gotta say, I think I like the panties better. Maybe just cause I know they're getting wet already..."

You smiled and rocked your hips on top of Carmine's grinding on his cock through his suit pants. "You really think he's gonna jerk off to this?" you asked quietly, though not nearly quiet enough for Oz not to hear you.

"I'd be surprised if he can wait until he's alone," Carmine replied with a purr.

You grinned and gave Carmine a long, needy kiss as you started to grind down harder onto him, feeling him stiffen under you as you smiled proudly.

"Aw, baby," he groaned as you reached to his fly and started opening it. "You're not gonna wait 'til we're alone either? Guess I'm the only one here who's got any patience."

Another lie. When he wanted you, he wanted you now. He wasn't patient at all, at least in these matters. "Daddy," you whimpered as you pulled his hard cock from his pants, stroking it slowly. "You're gonna let me ride you, right?"

"If you ask nicely," he promised.

"Please," you pouted, "please please, daddy, m'gonna be good, do it just how you like..."

"Go on, baby," he offered, and you grinned happily as you sat up just enough to pull your panties aside and slide down slowly onto his length. You both moaned at the feeling, and you heard a small noise from Oz; turning to look at him, you saw the massive tent in his pants shift as his cock flexed involuntarily. You smiled at him, half sweet and half demeaning, and he choked on a whine. "Fuck, what a tight little hole," Carmine praised, mostly for Oz's benefit (or detriment) rather than his own.

"You're so big, daddy," you returned, clutching his shoulders tight as he reached up to slip your dress' straps down and expose your chest. He leaned forward to suck on one of your hardening nipples, and you moaned much louder than you meant to. "Mm, fuck," you sighed, "that feels good."

He hummed happily against your skin, switching to the other nipple for a while, and starting to grab your waist tighter as you bounced up and down in his lap.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, tossing your head back and riding Carmine faster. When you heard another sound from Oz, a sort of wavering groan, you looked over and saw something you didn't expect.

For comparison, you expected to see him with his cock in his hand, jerking off to the sight of you riding his boss (and, well, he was your boss, too). Instead, you saw his cock still in his pants, but a wet stain starting to spread beside that bulge as a red flush tainted his scarred cheeks.

"Oh," you gasped, and Carmine looked over as his face turned into a wide grin.

"Oh, Ozzy," Carmine laughed mockingly, "did you make a mess on yourself? My girl got you that worked up just by wearing some lacy stockings."

"It's, uh... been a while," Oz half-heartedly defended himself.

"Poor thing," you cooed. "I didn't mean to get you that excited."

"Honey, you can't help that," Carmine absolved you, "you're just so gorgeous, guys are busting in their boxers over you all the time."

"Daddyyyy," you whined bashfully, burying your face in Carmine's shoulder.