ℳℴ𝓇𝒶

your feet hit the floor at the side of the bed. the clock on the nightstand next to you reads 1:34 am. you sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. you glance over in hopes of seeing a tangle of red hair lying next to you, but her side of the bed is empty.

you stand, bare feet padding against the obnoxiously hollow floors as you walk down the stairs towards the kitchen. your eyes are drawn to the source of low light bathing the downstairs in a soft glow. your feet continue pulling you forward as you hear the gentle clink of metal against glass.

when you peer around the edge of the kitchen archway, you’re met with the reason you began your journey downstairs in the first place.

natasha stands with her back to you near the island. she slides onto a bar stool, pulling a porcelain mug close to her chest with both hands. another mug sits beside her, steam still rising from its surface.

waiting.

“can’t sleep.” her voice is low in the quiet space. of course she knows you’re there. she always does. you shuffle into the room, rounding her chair just as she turns in your direction.

“are you asking or telling me?” you ask, lingering on your feet instead of taking the bar stool next to her. she lifts the mug to her lips, taking a small sip.

“you were tossing and turning.” her emerald green eyes flit to your face. her expression is smooth as she looks over you. you hug your arms around yourself, her oversized shirt you were wearing riding up your thighs just a bit.

“you should be sleeping.” you tell her. you’d been so stressed that you had barely gotten any sleep the last week you two have been in hiding. you didn’t want to ruin natasha’s rest any more than yours.

“i hadn’t fallen asleep yet.” she reaches around you and pulls the bar stool out a couple inches. it squeaks against the floor. “sit.” she tells you. it’s not a request.

you comply, assuming the chair next to her. she pushes the second porcelain mug closer to you. lemon tea—your favorite. you glance around for the jar of honey you normally keep out on the counter.

“it’s already in there—two tablespoons.” natasha says, knowing exactly what your eyes were searching for. normally, your heart would swell at the quiet knowledge of her remembering how you like your tea, but the stress that was currently coursing through your body made it hard to acknowledge.

“thank you.” you offer simply, cradling the mug in your two hands. you don’t drink from it. your stomach still feels sour and unsettled. in your peripheral vision, you can see natasha watching you. the way she observes you has you squirming in your seat, but you still don’t turn to face her.

she doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, as if she’s waiting for you to break the silence first. you know that she knows you’re stressed. you also know that any worries you express regarding her safety will fall deaf on her ears. she’s always so sure of herself—never worrying about what could happen to her. it fills you with anxiety.

“i can practically feel your anxiety, (y/n). talk to me.” her voice is low with an edge of raspiness to it.

you sigh and shake your head, feeling reluctant to share your worries. you’d tried before to communicate how much you fret and stress over her when she was away on missions, but she never seemed to worry so much about herself.

“it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.” you mumble, bringing the mug to your lips to take a small sip. the hot liquid is soothing as it slips down your throat.

“tell me anyways.” she swivels her barstool so she’s now angled more towards you. she doesn’t reach out to touch you—not yet.

you sigh, turning to face her at last. you’re momentarily taken aback by her stoicism. she looks so calm—sure of herself. like she hadn’t almost died two weeks ago, like you weren’t on the run from one of the most dangerous organizations the world has ever seen.

“natasha…” you look back down towards the tea still steaming in your mug. your palms run along the smooth porcelain in attempt to soothe the urge to fidget.

“i can’t stop thinking about what happened. every time i close my eyes, i think about you back there, bleeding, alone and on the verge of taking your last breath. knowing that you aren’t afraid makes it worse for me. what if they know exactly where we are but they’re waiting for a sign of weakness? what if they find you one day when you’re out and about and you never come home to me? what if… what if they find me and take me in attempt to blackmail you into giving them what they want? what if the next time you run into them…” you trail off, unwilling to finish the sentence. natasha knows what you mean anyways.

she’s quiet for several beats. you don’t look at her as the silence stretches on.

your body is slowly turned towards her as she swivels your chair around to face her. she looks like she’s trying to be calm, but there’s a hard edge in her eyes that makes it hard to sit still.

“(y/n). i have you. i have us. i promise you that we’re safe and i would never let anything happen to you. i know you worry about me, but you don’t need to. i need you to trust me.” one of her hands is still gripping onto the chair, the other braced against your thigh. her closeness begins to cloud your thought process, like every imagined catastrophe slips quietly out of reach.

“but what if—“ she silences you with a single finger pressed against your lips.

“no more what ifs.” when she’s sure you won’t speak again, she moves her finger away from your lips and curls some hair behind your ear.

“but—“ you start again. this time it’s simply an arch of her brow that silences you.

“what did i just say?” she says firmly. your shoulders slump in defeat, a small frown etching in between your eyebrows.

“moya trevozhka (my little worrier)… looks like i need to reroute that anxious brain of yours.”

you glance at her face, gauging her expression. she holds your gaze with an intensity that seems to shift the feeling in the air. her eyes rake over your form, dressed only in her old, worn t-shirt and panties.

“reroute?” you ask quietly, your voice sounding small, even with so little space between the two of you. she offers a simple hum of acknowledgment, her eyes lingering on your bare legs dangling from the chair.

“stand up.” she commands gently. you hesitate. she lets you, patiently waiting for you to comply.

you slide from your chair, scooting it back and standing before her. she stands with you. you can feel the warmth of her body.

“you’re cute when you’re worried.” her hands find your hips, squeezing gently as she runs them up your sides.

“quit that.” you groan, just a little peeved at her making light of your worries. she grins, her grip tightening as she lifts you effortlessly onto the counter behind you. you make a small noise of surprise, your hands steadying yourself by her shoulders.

“it’s true.” her touch travels along your thighs until her fingertips dip under the bottom of the shirt barely concealing anything.

“i like seeing you in my clothes.” her eyes rake over you again, her gaze hungrier than before.

“natasha, this isn’t going to change how i feel.” you cross your arms stubbornly across your chest. she’s unfazed by your declaration. her palms press against your knees, spreading your legs so she can step closer to you. you try to appear like your heart isn’t beginning to race in your chest.

she exhales slowly through her nose. her hands tease your skin, gripping onto the fleshy part of where your hips meet your thighs.

“what’re you worried about again?” she asks, as if she could have forgotten the last five minutes.

you swallow, your thought process already becoming hazy with her proximity and close attention. “you getting hurt. something happening to you or to both of us.” you try to sound firm, but your tone is a little wobbly.

a small smile turns up the corner of her mouth, but she hides it as she leans closer, pressing her lips against your neck. your breath hitches as you hear her inhale deeply, humming to herself as she takes in your scent.

“would i ever let anything happen to you?” her voice so close to your ear causes goosebumps to prick at the back of your neck. it’s becoming increasingly difficult to recall your worries.

“well.. something could happen to you.” you offer, your voice sounding weaker than before, even to your ears.

her nose traces along your jaw, and then she kisses lower, at the base of your neck.

“don’t you know i’m good at what i do?” you don’t miss the twinge of arrogance in that statement. it doesn’t bother you as much as it should.

“you are good, but.. mistakes can happen.” you don’t even realize your arms have uncrossed and unconsciously wrapped around her neck, your body melting into her knowing hands.

she hums again, this time the sound unapproving. she peppers kisses along your jawline, then your chin and then your nose, moving in a manner that was completely unrushed.

“you’re underestimating how difficult i am to kill.” she states matter-o-factly, her touch gliding up to your ribs, caressing the soft skin.

you exhale in defeat, your eyes closing as you half reluctantly surrender to the sensation of being held.

“maybe.” you whisper, your whole argument and line of worries squashed with one word.

“maybe.” she echoes. you can feel her smiling into your neck before she nips there gently.

she pulls back, hands retracting from under your shirt and caging you in as she places her palms flat against the counter at either side of your legs.

“arms up.” you willingly obey her this time, reaching your hands towards the ceiling. you wiggle your hips to assist her as she lifts her borrowed shirt over your head and discards it carelessly onto the floor. your nipples harden in the cool air. you watch her eyes darken as she takes in your newly exposed skin with an intensity that has your cheeks glowing pink. you know by now not to cover up, despite the urge to.

she takes in the valley of your breasts, the soft perkiness to them; your nipples that go from a soft pink to a more dusty rose as they harden; the expanse of your stomach, paler than the rest of your body since it gets the least sunlight; the way it pudges and rolls slightly whenever you sit down. she loves that.

she watches you become more squirmy the longer she stares. it makes her belly curl with desire.

your pink panties are suddenly offensive as they cover the place she wants to give attention. she gives you one last look before spreading your legs with her strong hands, leaning down so her face is level with your increasingly aching core.

she notices the small wet patch, causing the spot to become translucent. she moves closer, her nose pressing against your panties as she inhales deeply. you whimper, hips rolling against her face. she holds your hips still with firm hands. her eyes flit up to yours, her tongue peaking out to taste your arousal coated panties. you exhale breathlessly, trying to keep your hips still.

she teases slow circles through the fabric. her tongue is warm, her breath hot as you can feel the heat even through the cotton barrier.

you’re about to plead for more when she pulls back just an inch, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties to take them off.

you spread your legs wide for her, heels planted firmly on the edge of the countertop. you look at her through your lashes, lip caught between your teeth. it’s an innocent expression, one she goes feral for since she knows you look that way unknowingly.

with your core now exposed to the open air, she leans down again. slow hands come between your thighs. she uses her thumbs to spread your labia, her mouth pooling with saliva as she watches arousal drip down your slit. she applies light pressure, smoothing her thumbs upwards until she spreads your lips wide enough to expose your clit. your hole clenches around nothing, an impatient whine bubbling up your throat.

she doesn’t acknowledge the sound, nor does she pick up the pace. you need this. you need to remember the careful hands that know exactly what you need. instead, she glides her thumb gently down your slit, the pressure so light that it’s barely even there.

you shift impatiently, your restlessness evident in your squirming body and desperate expression.

wordlessly, she leans closer. she flattens her tongue, exhaling so you can feel her breath against your pussy. she moves her tongue, acting like she’s going to taste you, but she never actually makes contact. she’s teasing you.

your whine of protest is louder this time. it makes her lips curl in amusement.

“are you still worried?” she asks, not moving from her place, which is so close to where you need her.

you huff, shifting your hips just an inch closer to the edge of the countertop.

“no.” you cry out, voice cracking with your breathless response.

“that’s what i thought.” she murmurs. her response sobers you up for half a second and you mean to retort back, but forget when you feel her tongue dip into your hole.

she hums at the flavor of you, gliding in and out of you with precise motions. you moan, hands coming to the back of her head like you’re worried she’ll stop unless you keep her there.

she slips her tongue back up towards your clit, swirling it around in tight circles. your head falls back, sounds freely flowing past your parted lips. you didn’t realize how much you needed this—needed to let go.

“fuck—nat. that feels so good!” your hands twitch against her head as her now flattened tongue moves perfectly in time with your rolling hips. she moans into your pussy, hands grabbing fistfuls of your thighs as she devours you.

she slips her tongue back inside of you, stretching it as far as it will go. her nose bumps against your clit. your hands tighten in her hair as you feel the pressure building in your stomach.

the noises she makes against you make you whine. there was no doubt in your mind she loved the taste of you.

she sucks your clit into her mouth, two fingers easily sliding into your dripping cunt as she pistons them in and out of you.

“fuck! i’m close!” you whine, hips moving on their own accord now. natasha doesn’t acknowledge your words beyond humming against you. the sounds you’re both making spur each other on. it’s almost enough to cover up the sticky noises from natasha fucking you with her fingers.

your back arches, the pressure in your stomach tightening until it feels like a rubber band that’s been pulled taut. it snaps, waves of pleasure wracking through your body with each flick of her tongue and curl of her fingers. she rides your high with you, slowing her pace as your walls flutter gently around her. her lips don’t release your clit until your hands push her away subconsciously.

she retracts her fingers carefully, kissing your thighs with arousal coated lips as you try to catch your breath. you run your fingers lazily through her hair, watching with hooded eyes as she helps to soothe your trembling form.

she straightens her posture, gathering your face in her hands before she leans in to kiss you. you moan at the flavor of yourself on her lips.

“i will never get over the taste of you.” she mumbles against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, your cheeks glowing under her praise.

“i hope not. you’re really good at that.” you tell her. she pulls back, an amused smile on her face.

“i’m really good at a lot of things.” she chuckles once. you roll your eyes affectionately.

there’s a lull of silence. not awkward, just quiet as you take each other in. your eyes glance from her right eye to her left.

“nat,” you start, your arms coming up to wrap loosely around her neck.

“hmm?” she hums when you don’t continue.

“i do trust you. just… please be careful.” your eyes are soft and sincere, conveying the weight of your genuity.

“Y'know I can't help but be your bodyguard…” Clark’s voice is a low, honeyed drawl as he slips into the dimly lit barn, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him. He’s got that lazy tilt to his cowboy hat, looking entirely too smug for someone who just spent the last hour picking a fight with half the town at the saloon just because a man looked your way. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you — knows that his protective streak drives you crazy, even when you’re trying your hardest to freeze him out.

You keep your back turned, stubbornly wiping down the leather of an old saddle like it’s the most important job in the world. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, completely betraying the cold front you’re trying to put up. “Ain’t even gonna look at me, darlin’?” you hear the slow, deliberate thud of his boots getting closer.

You keep your eyes glued to the leather, but you can feel the heat radiating off him. He steps right into your space, his large frame completely blocking out the rest of the barn until he’s looming directly over your shoulder. 'Don't give in' — you think to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek. If you let him off easy, he’ll never learn to keep his temper on a leash.

“I was just lookin’ out for my girl — my wife,” he murmurs, his hot breath fanning against the shell of your ear. When you still don’t answer, he lets out a soft, amused scoff. He reaches around you, his gentle hands dropping onto yours to gently take the leather rag from your grip. You send a sharp glare backward — a look that says ‘you’re in trouble.’

He just grins, a roguish, dimpled thing that makes your knees instantly feel like jelly. “Yeah, I know.”

Clark hooks his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up until you have no choice but to look into those striking eyes of his. Before you can pull away, his other hand settles heavy and possessive on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He cradles you close, his thumbs tracing slow circles into your skin through the fabric of your shirt, rocking you ever so slightly to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. “Somebody’s gotta protect you, baby. Even if someone's knuckles are a little bloody for it. You really mad at me for that, huh?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans down, his lips brushing softly along your jawline, tracing down to the sensitive dip of your neck. A shaky sigh slips past your lips, your hands instinctively gripping the front of his shirt just to keep yourself upright.

“Show me how to make it up to you,” he whispers against your skin, his deep voice vibrating right through you. “You want me to beg, huh? Tell you I’m sorry, baby — get on my knees for you?” Clark slides his hands down, his palms skimming the curve of your hips, his touch growing heavier, more deliberate. His eyes are dark with a sudden, intense heat as he locks his gaze back onto yours.

He sinks lower, his hands sliding down the back of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until you’re forced to wrap your legs around his waist. He backs you straight up against the sturdy wooden pillar of the barn, pressing his weight into you in a way that makes your thoughts completely scatter. The hard ridge of his length strains against his jeans, grinding slow and deliberate right between your thighs, right where you’re already aching and slick for him.

Clark buries his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of you like a dying man, his lips parting to press a warm, wet kiss right over your pulse point. His teeth graze the spot, just enough to pull a soft whimper from your throat. One big hand slips under your shirt, rough palm sliding up your bare skin until he’s cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightens into a needy peak.

“Say it’s all fixed, honeysuckle,” he groans against your skin, rolling his hips forward in a filthy grind that has you clenching around nothing. “Tell me I’m doing a good job keeping you safe… say you’re mine.”

His fingers make quick work of your buttons, shoving your shirt open so he can drag his mouth lower. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trail down your chest until his lips close around your nipple, sucking hard while his tongue flicks in lazy strokes. You arch into him with a broken moan, fingers threading tight into his hair under that damn hat. “Clark…” his name comes out wrecked, half plea, half surrender.

He sets you down just long enough to yank your jeans open and shove them down your hips along with your panties, then he’s lifting you again, pinning you to the pillar with one strong arm while his free hand works his belt open. The thick head of his tip nudges against your slick folds, teasing, rubbing up and down until you’re trembling.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he breathes, voice rough as gravel. “Let me in.”

He pushes inside you in one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open around him until he’s buried to the hilt. The burn is perfect, overwhelming. Clark groans deep in his chest, forehead pressed to yours, pupils dilated, hips rocking shallow and steady while you adjust to the full, heavy feel of him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasps, starting to move harder, deeper, each thrust driving you up against the rough wood. The wet sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet barn, mixing with your gasps and his low, filthy praises. One hand grips your ass, holdng you open for him while the other braces against the pillar, muscles flexing with every powerful stroke.

He fucks you like he fights — intense, possessive, completely focused on claiming what’s his. Every roll of his hips drags against that sweet spot inside you until your thighs shake around his waist and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“That’s my girl,” he growls against your mouth, kissing you deep and messy. “Come on, lil' honeysuckle. Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

The pleasure coils tight and snaps hard. You cry out, clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat flooding every nerve. Clark curses softly, thrusts turning erratic and desperate until he buries himself deep one last time, pulsing hot inside you as he comes with a low, broken groan of your name.

For a moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the creak of the barn settling around you. Clark stays buried deep, holding you close, pressing soft, lazy kisses along your shoulder like he can’t bear to let you go just yet. And just like that, the anger is completely gone, leaving you entirely at his mercy.

“I got you, darlin’… I got you,” he breathes against your temple, his voice droppin into a low, gravelly hum as the adrenaline begins to fade from both of you. He slips out of you with a soft, wet sound that makes you shudder, but before your feet can even touch the cold dirt floor, he’s lifting you right back into his arms, keeping your thighs hooked around his waist.

He carries you over to the workbench in the back corner, setting you down gently on the edge where his old flannel shirt is draped. Your legs are still trembling, your breath hitching as the cool air hits your bare skin, but Clark is already moving. He grabs a clean cloth from the shelf, tipping the water canteen over it until it’s damp.

“Look at me, honeysuckle,” he murmurs, kneeling right down between your thighs. When you look down at him, his hat is pushed back, his eyes soft and completely devoid of the heat from earlier. He’s incredibly gentle as he uses the cloth to wipe away the slick mess between your legs, his calloused thumbs trailing over the inside of your thighs to soothe the ache. “Still mad at your husband? Huh? Tell me the truth.”

You shake your head, reaching down to trace the slight bruise forming over his knuckles from the saloon fight. A soft, breathless laugh escapes you. “You’re such an idiot, Clark.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he grins, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss right to the center of your chest, right over your heart. He helps you pull your panties and jeans back up, tugging your clothes into place with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. Once you’re put back together, he pulls you down off the bench and wraps his massive arms around you from behind, buried into the crook of your neck as you both just sway in the quiet barn. “Next time, I’ll try to be good. Promise. But ain’t nobody allowed to look at you like that. Not while I’m drawin’ breath.”

“Você ‘tá mais calmo?”, a indagação soou hesitante, saiu quase num sussurro. A pergunta nem era tão retórica quanto parecia, apesar de estar visivelmente menos agitado, Jude sempre guardava muita coisa na cabeça — às vezes deixando que elas acumulassem ao ponto de explodir. “Fala comigo.”, preocupou-se mais quando tudo que ganhou como resposta foi um suspiro baixinho.

Esticou-se no abraço dele, largando um selinho morno no cantinho da boca. Estar sobre a pele quente do homem era a única coisa capaz de te fazer aguentar a madrugada gelada, as mãos correndo livres por todo e qualquer pedaço de pele que encontrava pela frente.

“É tão ruim te ver quietinho assim.”, roçou o nariz no maxilar firme, sentindo os pelinhos repuxando sua pele. O olhar, agora meio apático, nunca perdia seu toque de adoração — mesmo quando os olhos ainda estavam tão vermelhos pelo choro recente. Achou que essa mesma adoração estava se mostrando presente quando Jude acolheu a lateral do seu rosto com uma das mãos, o carinho demorado com o polegar quase confirmou a dedução, no entanto ela foi arruinada assim que sentiu-o forçar o dígito para que ele adentrasse a sua boca.

“Me faz parar de pensar.”, o timbre dele era mais rouco que o usual, a voz ainda embargava na garganta. O pedido pareceu ter sido sussurrado em vão, afinal não houve curiosidade alguma da sua parte em descobrir o que ele queria dizer com aquilo — pelo visto, quem havia parado de pensar foi você. Jude esfregou o polegar contra a sua língua, brincando com a saliva, entretendo-se com a sua falta de resistência ao aceitar ele experimentando como bem quisesse com a cavidade quentinha.

Embora parecesse, a súplica não havia sido ignorada. Estava disposta a muita coisa se isso significasse deixá-lo minimamente satisfeito consigo mesmo. Os dedos, que já não tinham pudor algum em tocá-lo, alcançaram o volume meio adormecido sem dificuldade. Correu as pontinhas das unhas por cima do tecido que cobria o local, refreando um sorriso ao notar a pulsação. Jude demonstrou perder o interesse na sua boca, o dedo repousando quieto ao que ele se concentrava em sentir o carinho safado.

Sua mão enfiou-se sem dificuldade dentro dos shorts, fazendo a ereção crescer na sua palma numa punheta delicadinha — Jude sempre brincava que você fazia como se tivesse medo de quebrar. Julgou ser esse o pensamento dele quando enfim foi deixada de boquinha vazia e se esticou outra vez na tentativa de conseguir um beijo mais quente que o anterior, porém tudo o que conseguiu foram as mãos do homem na sua nuca, detendo o movimento.

“Quero encher ela de porra.”, soou impassível, como se houvesse certeza da sua resposta. Se a vontade não fosse clara, a maneira faminta de encarar sua boca fazia a intenção dele ser muito explícita. Sentiu o estômago se apertar em excitação. Você já havia deixado Jude derramar as próprias frustrações no seu ombro, então não teria problema com elas escorrendo na sua língua.

“Eu seria uma péssima namorada se não deixasse você descontar em mim um pouquinho, não seria?”, mordeu um sorrisinho sacana, erguendo-se cheia de pressa para se colocar de quatro entre as pernas dele. “Pode usar. É só sua.”

Mostrou obediência logo no início. Deixou que Jude fizesse todo o trabalho de alcançar o próprio pau dentro dos shorts e pincelar contra a sua boca. Não houve muita cerimônia, impaciente como estava, ele forçou para dentro no primeiro sinal de que realmente podia fazer o que bem quisesse.

Você sentiu seus olhos pesando, o tesão te tornava preguiçosa, carente demais. Tornava-se faminta, prendia a cabecinha entre os lábios, sugando, esfregando a pontinha da língua... os beijinhos que deixava iam além do “apaixonada”, a língua fazia questão de recolher qualquer gotinha que escapasse. A garganta relaxou facinho, forçou o que pôde para dentro dela sem que ele te pedisse e, mesmo com dificuldade, brincava com ele inteirinho — as mãos tomando a liberdade de cuidar direitinho da parte que não cabia na sua boca. Quis sorrir satisfeita por senti-lo agarrando seu cabelo entre os dedos num aperto desesperado.

“Isso, porra. Engole meu caralho…”, ele grunhiu entre-dentes, a testa franzida em prazer. Era seu fôlego em jogo agora, preso bem embaixo das palmas dele. Jude queria controle e você faria questão de dar isso a ele — a sensação de que ele é o único capaz de decidir o rumo das coisas, de que pode dominar, exigir.

“Tá gostando, amor?”, a pergunta saiu meio grogue, já que ele forçou sua cabeça por meio segundo, te fazendo engolir além do limite. O barulhinho patético que você produziu ao se engasgar foi julgado por Jude como uma resposta: “É, putinha? Tá gostoso?”, já sorria degenerado, a cabecinha gorda pingando contra a sua língua. “Mama então, caralho. Assim…”, o aperto se tornou mais firme, agora os movimentos não eram seus: Jude fazia questão de ditar o jeitinho que sua cabeça subia e descia. Você se entregava à submissão, porém ainda era necessário lutar com a própria mente.

Era difícil lidar com a maneira com a qual sua cabeça repetia em mantra que se estivesse ganhando esse mesmo tratamento na sua bucetinha já teria gozado 'pra caralho, deixaria tudo molhadinho. Não havia discussão se tinha a certeza de que, a essa altura, já estaria burrinha, esguichando no pau do seu namorado até cair inconsciente.

“Não, não chora. Não faz assim comigo.”, resmungou aborrecido, uma das mãos saindo da sua cabeça para recolher a lágrima que escorria pela bochecha. Sentiu-se estúpida quando tomou consciência de estar chorando, tão presa ao devaneio de receber prazer que até gemia sozinha. “Você disse que eu podia usar ela, amor. Para de chorar.”, o timbre segue impaciente, mesmo com ele claramente segurando a vontade de usar sua boca e te fazer chorar mais ainda. Você obedece, claro que obedece. Fungando baixinho, engole a própria frustração para continuar sendo o brinquedinho de foder que havia se comprometido em ser. “Bonitinha. Assim.”

Suas próprias lágrimas ainda foram generosas o suficiente para te permitir enxergar que as de Jude pareciam prestes a cair outra vez — o que era admirável, ele já havia se derramado tanto. Fosse impressão sua ou não, o rostinho contorcido numa expressão chorosa te fez arrastar as pernas contra a cama num rebolado inquieto, não conseguia achar uma posição boa o suficiente para esfregar a bucetinha no edredom e menosprezava a vontade que sentia de usar os próprios dedinhos. Não, não poderia. Mantinha as mãos ocupadas com o carinho que fazia na piroca encharcada e nas bolas cheinhas de porra, negligenciava o próprio prazer porque queria oferecê-lo completamente a Jude.

O barulho da sucção havia se tornado tão obscenamente intenso que já beirava o nojento. Enchia a sua audição, te fazia prestar atenção em como a saliva corria abundante pelo seu queixo para dar espaço para a porra de Jude dentro da sua boca. Não sentia repulsa alguma ao sabor salgado, sinceramente só não havia engolido ainda porque isso significaria abrir mão de respirar. Na verdade, a privação te causava sede, sentir o líquido morninho descer pela sua garganta talvez fosse o mais próximo que você passaria de um orgasmo no momento e te frustrava que Jude estivesse sendo malvado ao ponto de não te dar um tempinho nem para engolir.

“Mama, vai, filha da puta…”, dessa vez soou tão carente que você precisou apertar as perninhas, não suportava mais esse tesão maldito — Jude definitivamente estava tentando te matar. “Vou jogar tudo na sua boquinha gostosa, amor... Encher com a minha porra…”, você nem ao menos percebeu, porém já replicava a expressão manhosa no rosto do seu namorado, mesmo de boquinha cheia ainda imitava a maneira como as sobrancelhas do homem se apertavam no rosto — como se estivesse para chorar mais um pouquinho, de prazer dessa vez. “Fode, porra. Fode, fode…”, um sonzinho dengoso demais escapou da garganta dele quando a superestimulação passou a machucar, as mãos emaranhadas no seu cabelo puxavam para fazer questão que você soubesse o quanto doía.

Sua cabeça foi empurrada para baixo uma última vez quando o quadril dele ergueu-se da cama, socando o caralho sensível com vontade entre os seus lábios. A fala arrastada não prestou sentido a sua audição, pois talvez nem ele mesmo soubesse o que estava dizendo em meio aos gemidos que saíam sem controle. Você sentiu sua pele arder ao acompanhar o momento exato no qual os olhos dele reviraram, porém logo teve sua atenção roubada para o modo como ele pulsava na sua língua, a porra sendo cuspida bem no fundo da sua garganta.

Dessa vez, não houve discussão com o seu corpo, precisou se levantar às pressas e tossir copiosamente para compensar o tempo em que esqueceu-se de respirar. O pouco do esperma que não havia descido completamente pela sua garganta escorria no canto da boca.

A falta de ar ainda nublava os seus olhos assim que tentou olhar para o seu namorado outra vez e, mesmo desorientada, não era difícil notar que ainda tinha muita frustração para você engolir.

Jude opened the apartment door with a quiet click

He walked inside and dropped his training bag by the entrance while taking off his shoes and stretched

“I'm so hungry” he called from the hallway as the smell of food filled the whole house

You were standing by the stove stirring the soup “Perfect. You came home at exactly the right moment”

Jude walked up behind you and looked into the pot “What are you making?”

“Tomato soup. I've been craving it for the last few days”

“Smells good”

You smiled to yourself “I hope it tastes as good as it smells”

Jude hummed quietly while stealing grapes from the fruit bowl on the counter. Leaning against the kitchen island he looked around the room “Have you seen my phone?”

Without turning around you shook your head “no”

“I swear I had it a second ago” He started looking under the cushions, on the chairs, then checked the pockets of the hoodie he'd thrown onto the counter

“I swear to God I left it right here” he said pointing at the kitchen counter with a frown

You could barely stop yourself from smiling

His phone was hidden behind the pasta container, exactly where you'd secretly placed it as soon as he'd walked into the kitchen

“Maybe you left it in the car again? Or at training?” you said casually

“No, I'm sure I brought it inside” He sighed and walked back over to you “I'll look for it later”

You scooped up a spoonful of soup “Want to taste it?”

“It's ready?”

“I need to know if it's missing anything” You turned slightly away from him pretending to keep stirring the soup.

In one quick movement you poured a large mound of salt onto the spoon and carefully covered it with a thin layer of soup.

After blowing on it to cool it down, you turned back to him with an innocent smil

“Open”

Jude didn't hesitate for a second

He leaned forward and ate the entire spoonful.

For the first second...nothing happened

Then he slowly started chewing.

His eyebrows pulled together slightly as he struggled to swallow.

You acted like you hadn't noticed anything “So?”

Jude cleared his throat “It's... good”

You looked at him with fake surprise “Really? Maybe I should add a little more salt”

He scratched the back of his neck “No— I mean... it's perfect. It's... really good. It doesn't need any more salt”

“Are you sure?”

He went quiet “I don't really know how to say this...”

Jude looked back at the pot “I think it's... maybe just a tiny bit salty”

“A tiny bit?”

“Really... just a tiny bit”

“Are you sure?” you asked trying your best to keep a straight face as you reached for another spoonful “Let me check”

Jude immediately reached out and stopped you.“NO—wait”

“Why?”

“Because... maybe I just got a saltier part?”

You looked at him barely holding back your laughter “A saltier part of the soup?”

The two of you stared at each other for a few seconds and that was it

You couldn't hold it in anymore

You turned away covering your mouth with your hand as your shoulders shook with laughter

Jude frowned. He looked at the spoon, then at the pot......and finally back at you

“You did something?”

Still laughing you pulled his phone out from behind the pasta container. It had been recording the whole thing for the last few minutes

Jude's eyes went wide “I knew it! You were the one who hid my phone too!”

“That was just the first part of the plan!” you giggled, looking at him

“So you've been messing with me this whole time?”

You didn't answer

You were laughing so hard that you had to lean against the counter for support

Jude just shook his head with an amused smile “You're lucky I love you but one day I'm getting you back. Just wait”

©loudmissy this story is my original writing. Please do not copy, translate or claim it as your own without my permission. Thank you for respecting my work ♡

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It has been two hours of sitting at this stupid conference table, looking over CVs and resumés, reading cover letters and letters of recommendation for outstanding scientists with no true wish for being a storm chaser, rather looking for the glory of solving something. Scott understands the glory chasing, wanting to capture that storm and be the first there, to take action and see the truth of nature up close, but he hates these polished academic pricks who think they’re all that because they’ve been in school for twelve years. 

            “Found anyone, yet?” Javi calls out, lifting his head, neck cracking from the motion. The two of them have been working hard at this, business partners, sponsors and investors on the line. 

            “No one worth going into danger with for,” he answers and Javi sighs, leaning back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs, his back the next to crack, loud in the still room. 

            “Maybe I should call Kate,” Javi says, not for the first time tonight and Scott bites his tongue, irritation running through his veins at the mention of this golden girl from Javi’s past. A genius with ideas that got her team killed. Javi always forgets that part. 

            “Two more hours, man,” Scott says, reaching forwards, pulling a new file from the pile, flipping it open to reveal a picture of a gorgeous girl, smiling, seeming to glow even in this 2D piece of paper. Innocence radiates from her—you—in the way she smiles, in the way she looks at the camera, body completely covered. 

            Scott can picture the lips stretched wide in a smile, rather wrapped around his cock, sucking him off with hollow cheeks and teary eyes, going from innocent to knowledgeable, to wanting. It’s an addicting thought, the feeling sending a twinge of energy to his groin as he flips past the picture, pushing past the image, instead skimming the CV. 

            He was right when he looked at the picture, taking note of the achievements that scream, good girl. The kind of girl who goes bed early and wakes up early, always studying or volunteering, never drinking or smoking or taking any kind of risk. The kind of girl who wants true love and a happy ending. The kind of girl he’d like to break. To see take those risks. 

            You graduated top of your class from Yale in a Bachelor’s of Science, then moved to Harvard for a Master’s in atmospheric chemistry. The application questionnaire filled in with neat writing, the answer as to why storm chasing, why Storm Par, merely saying; I’ve been told that science is in the real world too and that I need to see it if I’m to practice successfully.

            “What about her?” Scott asks, tossing the file over to Javi, his hand twitching once it’s gone, wanting to keep it by him, wanting to keep you by him. 

            “You better not be thinking with your dick,” Javi says, looking up at him from the picture, the glossy headshot reflecting like back at him. 

            “I’m not,” Scott says, his tone irritated, frustrated as he leans back in his seat, fingers locking behind his head, “just read her application.” And to Javi’s credit, he does, skimming over all your achievements, accomplishments. All your goodness. 

            “She’s good,” he says, lifting his head and closing the file, his hand resting on the top of it, “but I know you, Scott. I know what you like and this girl,” Javi nods at the file, “is it. So, I need a promise from you if we hire her.”

            “What kind of promise?”

            “I need you to promise me that you won’t fucking touch her,” he answers, eyes narrowing on him. “She’s too good to lose because you want to fuck her and move on.”

            “You make me sound so crass,” Scott replies, but inside he’s seething, insides twisting at the idea of you being so close, but not being able to touch you. Of watching someone else earn that right. 

            “Scott,” Javi says, his tone a warning and Scott makes an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes and offering his hand across the conference table. 

            “I promise,” he says as Javi takes his hand, palm warm and calloused against his as they shake. But Javi doesn’t know that he’s keeping his fingers crossed on his other hand, behind his back. 

            Scott’s never made a promise that he’s actually kept before. 

            He sees you as soon as you step out of your vehicle, as if he’s attuned to you even from just seeing you in that picture. You’re exactly as he expected, sweet looking and smiling, hands in the pockets of blue overalls, yellow Converse on your feet, matching the long-sleeved yellow shirt you have on underneath the overalls. You look like a farmgirl and not the kind in some porno, but rather an honest to god farmgirl.

            You are the kind of girl that he would love to show the rest of the world too. The world that isn’t light and bright and kind, but slightly dark and a whole lot rougher and dirtier than whatever cookie-cutter life you’ve been living. You are the kind of girl that he loves to corrupt, to see go from someone unsure of sex to someone who wants it, to see go from strict moral codes to rather the morally flexible ones he favours. 

            You’re the kind of girl that Javi was right about. The kind he uses and ditches, no longer concerned when he’s done what he’s wanted. 

            You’re also exactly what Javi said when he extracted that promise from Scott: too good to lose. 

            He’s still watching when your gaze drifts from your feet, up to land on him, a smile curving up your lips, the kind of smile that causes a stirring in his gut. The kind of smile that makes everyone feel welcome, makes everyone feel like they’re worth everything.

            The kind of smile, Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. 

            You lift your hand in a wave, doing a small hop before you begin to jog over, the front of your overalls shifting in a way that is taking all of his control to not watch, his gaze turning away to glance at the skyline, waiting for the storm that was predicted. He can see Javi, arms crossing as he takes in the scene of you, the girl Scott has promised to stay away from, running towards him. 

            “Hi!” he hears you call out, your voice just a little breathless, but exactly as he expected anyways, light and bright and sweet. So, so sweet. “I’m—”

            “—I know who you are,” he says as he turns, narrowing his eyes at you and cutting you off, knowing that the sound of you saying your own name will destroy his resolve because it will be a piece of yourself that you’ve just givenhim. Your face freezes for a second, eyes widening in the way that comes when one is surprised, a small gleam of hurt in both of those far too pretty eyes. Eyes that he likes looking at him, ones that he would like to see lined with tears as you cry out his name—no, this line of thinking will get him nowhere. 

            “But everyone calls me Sunshine,” you say, recovering from his interruption, the smile still on your face, just the edges of it, the corners betraying the fact that it’s not as real as it was before.

            “Cool,” he says and turns back to the skyline, his arms crossing, jaw moving up and down, the flavour of cool mint on his tongue from his choice of gum that day. He chose it, knowing that he’d need something strong to ignore you. Something to distract him. 

            He can hear you turn, walk away, your sneakered covered feet cutting through the long grass that’s growing out back of the building they’re working in this week as they wait. The building that you’ll be working in too, running calculations and looking at data and making predictions, research theories. 

            “Sunshine?” he calls out, twisting his body a bit to look at you, arms still crossed as if that’s the only thing keeping him from grabbing you right now. 

            “Yeah?” you reply, looking back at him, your face twisted in the prettiest expression he’s ever seen, an expression of hope. Hope directed at him, as if he’s someone worth hoping for or hoping on.

            “In this business, we bet on rain.” The words are cruel, cutting and biting, punctuated with a particularly loud pop of his gum, the sentence making that hopeful expression fall, rather a look of pain, of sadness, of…embarrassment crosses your face instead. 

            He watches as you turn, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you’re holding yourself together, just a bit, walking away from him towards the building, towards anywhere away from him. He knows that this has hurt you, but as he catches a glimpse of Javi again, catches the way he nods at him, he knows that even if it hurts you (hurts him too, if he’s being completely honest) it’s for the best. 

            You’re too good to lose. 

            “I come baring gifts!” you call out, your voice seeming to bounce off the thin, plastered walls of the office building, surrounding Scott, suffocating him in the sound. He turns to see you standing in the doorway, bright purple Converse on your feet, matching the t-shirt you wear underneath another pair of overalls, these ones more beat-up than yesterday, but the kind of beat-up that is artfully done, designed by people who would rather look like they’re doing work than actually do the work. 

            In your hands is a container of Tupperware tied up with a bright purple ribbon, the kind that curls and kinks on its own, the kind that is a pain in the ass to tie. He can see the shape of brownies through the translucent container and he knows, he just knows, that you baked them yourself to bring to work. 

            What would it be like to watch the perfect girl that you seem to be change? Become…something different, less perfect, less good, more selfish and wanting and destructive. More like him.

            He thinks it would be too good, too perfect. 

            “Hey, Scott?” you call out, your voice sounding far too perfect saying his name. He likes the way it lilts up and around the syllable of his name, the way you make it sound sweet when it’s never been sweet before. 

            “What?” he says, his voice gruff and slightly husky. He knows why it sounds that way, knows what he was imagining, but it’s his luck that it sounds mean, cruel. Irritated. 

            “Do you want a brownie?” You hold the container out to you and he realizes that it’s open, that people have taken some while he’s been standing there, thinking things he has no business thinking. 

            So, he does what he doesn’t want to do. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, walking past you, his shoulder shoving against you, pushing you aside until he’s out of the break room, in the hallway enough distance between the two of you that he can breathe, his shoulder still tingling with the pressure of your body against him. 

            “Scott,” he hears you call out and he tenses, muscles seizing up at your voice saying his name and still saying it with warmth as if the two times he’s been a dick haven’t been enough to ruin him in your view yet. 

            “What?!” he snaps, turning around, arms crossed, jaw clenching around the piece of gum in his mouth, the same piece of gum that’s he’s been chewing so much that it’s hard now because he was watching you after the storm talk with fucking Tyler the fucking Tornado Wrangler and he couldn’t do anything about it. 

            “I was just gonna ask you what your coffee order was,” you whisper, your voice still sweet, still lilting in the evening air, the sky just starting to deepen to night, “because I’m doing a run for our team.”

            “I don’t want anything,” he says, his voice more defeated than angry or distasteful. He can see the recognition in your eyes, his gaze trained on the land that was damaged and destroyed just hours ago. It fascinates him, the way tornados leave a perfect place absolutely destroyed. 

            Maybe that’s why he does this job. Because he’s like a tornado and the girls he’s been with are the land—absolutely changed and destroyed once he’s gone. 

            He doesn’t want that for you. 

            No matter how much he wants you.

            “Morning!” you call out to him, stepping into the breakroom, a tray of coffee in your hands, four cups resting in it. You set the tray on the table, pulling a cup from it and walking to him and handing him the cup. He can smell the scent of the coffee, mixing with the scent of you, the one that is citrusy and sugary and all together far too addictive. 

            “What is this?” he asks, his tone disdainful, eyes narrowed. He hopes it looks like he’s glaring, rather than checking you out, taking the new outfit you’re wearing, a button-up shirt tucked into linen pants, but still with a pair of bright coloured Converse. 

            “It is,” your voice is high and dramatic, excited, “an iced latte flavoured with a shot of hazelnut. I was informed this was what you liked.” Your face is hopeful, so hopeful that it hurts him because that damn promise is still hanging over his head, the words still ringing through him too good to lose even when he wishes that they weren’t because he would like nothing more than to shove you up against the breakroom wall, the coffee slipping from your hand, totally forgotten as he fucked you senseless. 

            “Not my kind of drink,” he tells you and steps past you, steps away. Fuck Javi for doing this to him. He could have had you ten times by now if it weren’t for that damn promise. 

            That stupid, fucking promise. 

            “Hey, Scott,” you call out and he sighs, turning around, hands in the pockets of his slacks, taking in the sight of you jogging towards him, a small box held in your hands. “I brought you something.”

            “Don’t want it,” he says and turns, walking away, knowing that you’ll be standing there with that crestfallen look on your face, his shoulders tense. He wants nothing more than to turn back around, take the gift and kiss you until you’re breathless. Kiss you until you want more. 

            But he can’t.

            “Scott?”

            “Fuck off, Sunshine,” he replies, not even turning around to look at you. He trains you, he works with you and he can play professional, but the times in the breakroom, the times in the field and now, when the day is done…he can’t be nice. 

            He can’t play at someone who cares because then he will and that promise will get broken. 

            He sees you step into the breakroom of the new office building for this week and he waits for you to say something, anything. A hi or brought you something or anything, but you do nothing. You don’t even look at him, rather stepping up to say something to Javi, a piece of paper held in your hands, a smile for him, but nothing for Scott. 

            He doesn’t like it. 

            He really doesn’t like it.

            “Okay,” Scott hears Kate say, her voice still grating on his nerves, as he pauses outside the room, debating whether to go in or not. Debating whether coffee is worth playing civil. “How bad was the date?”

            “It wasn’t bad,” he hears you say and he can feel his breath hitch, feel it stutter, breaths pulsating as a heat fills his veins, one of jealousy and anger. “It just wasn’t good.” He doesn’t like picturing you out with another guy, talking sweetly to him, doting on him, possibly having sex with him. 

            It makes him want to go in there, pull you from the room and make you realize that you’re his. 

            “Bad sex?” Kate asks and he chokes for a moment, the hard swallow he had at the image of you crying as he fucks you relentlessly, his breathing hitching at the choking. 

            “How about no sex?” you counter, your voice light but an undertone, an edge to it. Something he didn’t know you had. “I don’t…do that. I’m a virgin,” he hears you sigh, the sound sweet and light, your admission going straight to his dick. 

            He could be the first guy you ever have, the one your body learns before all else. He’s never had that before, not really. He could be your first. He could be the experience you compare all future ones too, the model for it all. The one who makes you want it. 

            “I’m still waiting for the right guy,” he hears you say amidst the sound of blood pulsing in his head, his dick growing hard at the thoughts running through his head, thoughts that stop like cold water has been poured over him. 

            The “right” guy. That’s what you’re waiting for and he certainly has not made himself seem like that. 

            “Waiting for the quote-on-quote right guy isn’t always worth it,” he hears Kate say, for once agreeing with her. “Just find someone who is willing to go down on you, put your pleasure as top priority.”

            “I don’t think I’ll find that,” he hears you say, the laugh at the end of your sentence not sweet and light, but sad. Self-deprecating. 

            He would do it, would make you come around his tongue, his fingers first before even trying anything else. He would make it good for you first because you enjoying it would be the best thing to him. 

            Because…no, he’s not going there. Feelings make things messy. And besides, he has the promise that he made to Javi. But the thought of someone else having you, of being there first is the worst thing he’s ever thought of. It’s the worst thought to pass his mind and he…he doesn’t want that. 

            He wants to be first. To be the one to strip you of that bit of innocence. 

            Fuck the promise.

            “I bring cookies!” he hears you call out, the crew congregating in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for the storm that was promised to drop. He glances over his shoulder at you, taking in the way that you always seem to glow, bright and beautiful and perfect. You hold the Tupperware container in one hand, the limb kind of outstretched as you stand in the entry way. He has about two minutes before people realize and start to move so he moves first, closest to the entrance, cutting to you and standing before you. 

            He watches as you flinch just a little at his approach, the sight both pleasing and hurting him, the idea that he stripped you of the idea that all people are good, but it hurts because…no, no feelings. 

            He reaches into the container, grabbing one, his eyes flicking to you, tracing the shape of your lips as he says, “I love cookies.” He lifts it, biting into it with slow, exaggerated movements, eyes locked on you the entire time, making sure to lick his lips at the end. “Delicious,” he tells you, dropping his voice a register, making the sound husky, hoping to get a rise out of you. 

            Which he does, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat when you swallow, the darkening of your cheeks as you turn from him, to Kate who’s appeared to take one, shooting him a strange glance. One not quite a glare, but not quite not one either. 

            But he knows you reacted. 

            That’s what matters.

            “Hey, Sunshine!” he calls out, waving at you, two cups of coffee held in his hands, one for you and one for him. He watches as you walk to him, your bag held tight to your shoulder, expression wary. 

            “What’s wrong, Miller?” you call out, voice still light and sweet like you, but a separation between him and you, the last name a distance. One he doesn’t like. He doesn’t want that distance between you now, but he’s aware that he created it. 

            “Just come here!” he says and you do, jogging to reach him, taking in the sight of the gathering clouds behind him. “This is for you,” he says, handing you the coffee, the one you take with apprehension, his arm coming around your shoulder, your body stiffening at his touch. 

            “Why are you being nice?” you ask him and his heart breaks for a moment because he never wanted this. He never should have made that fucking promise to Jav, it’s only hurt you and for some reason, that…well, that hurts him. 

            “Because I want to be. Now, look,” he says, pointing to the clouds, the first raindrops beginning to fall in the distance, untouched in the place where you stand, where sunshine still reigns. “Sunshine and rain.”

            “I thought we only bet on rain in this business,” you return, tone dry and oh, that voice does something to him, a smile, a real smile, the dimpled one comes out, curving up his lips for you. 

            “Not anymore.”

            “Sunshine! You’re with me! Let’s go!” he yells out, gesturing you over, the van already running, his door open as he climbs in, you hopping in after him into the passenger seat, your scent overwhelming him for a moment before he blinks, refocusing. “You ready for your first real day in the field?”

            “Yeah,” you tell him, your tone excited as you buckle yourself up and he puts the van in gear, taking off after the storm. He likes this, you beside him. He likes it a lot. 

            “I know you don’t like coffee in the afternoons,” he says, stopping behind you, reaching around you, his hand holding a sweating plastic cup, one which holds a pink coloured drink, “so I got you this.”

            “Why?” you ask him, taking it and turning around in the same breath, his breath hitching from the graze of your fingers against his. 

            “Because I want to.”

            Rain is coming, he can tell in the smell of the air, the shift in the pressure, the change in the winds. It’s why he’s taking his break now, lifting his watermelon vape to his lips, pulling on it, the smoke filling his lungs before he blows it back out, watching the vapour twist and twirl in the air like fingers or figures dancing. 

            “Why?” he hears you call out behind him, your voice confused and hurt and he wondered how long it would take before you confronted him, before he fessed up. “Why are you so nice to me now? After months of being a jerk?” He should have known you wouldn’t swear. 

            “You can say it, Sunshine,” he calls out without turning around, putting his vape back to his lips for another puff. “I was a dick,” he says on exhale, hearing your footsteps crunch along the gravel that makes up the parking lot of the old school that’s base of operations for the week. 

            “Yeah,” you say, voice so close now, but not quite close enough, “you were a dick.” The swear sounds strange in your mouth as if you rarely say them and the fact that he’s gotten you to say one sends a thrill through him, one that lands right in his dick. 

            “Well, you see, Sunshine,” he says, turning around to look at you, his vape back at his mouth as he sucks in again, the taste of the watermelon nicotine vapour permeating his mouth as he blows it out at you, saying, “I made a promise to someone about you.” You cough, batting away the smoke that flies at you, stepping closer to him. 

            “A promise?” you ask. 

            “I promised that I wouldn’t do anything about my attraction to you when Javi and I hired you,” he says, “because I have some…bad habits with women and Javi didn’t want you to be another one that has to suffer through them.”

            “So, you were a jerk because…what? You…like me?” you ask and he nods, the vape pen still in his hand even as he lets his hand drop, falling to his side. 

            “Bingo, Sunshine,” he says, eyebrows flicking up, his gaze darting to the sky for a moment before flicking back to you and the way you look, the way your eyes are shifting more than any storm ever could. 

            “What changed?” you ask him finally, stepping even closer, your proximity making his breath hitch and his palms tingle with the need to reach forwards and frame your face before kissing you long and deep and slow with a lot of tongue and the taste of nicotine on his tongue slipping onto yours. 

            “I just…” he pauses, shoving past the thoughts that crowd his mind, “couldn’t stay away anymore.” 

            “Well, I like you being nice,” you tell him, voice soft as you lean against the brick wall beside him, looking out at the darkening skies. “Smells like rain doesn’t it?”

            “That and my watermelon vape,” he answers and you look at him with a teasing glint in your eyes, a shift to your lips that he likes, wants. Covets, actually. “Wanna try?” He can see the debate in your head before you shrug and nod, reaching out a hand for it and he places it in your hand, palm lighting up at your touch. 

            “But you can’t judge me if I cough cause I’ve never done this before,” you tell him, holding one finger out to him and he holds both hands up, laughing a bit to hide the desire that’s growing in him as he watches you lift the pen—the pen that his lips have touched, that his saliva has been on—to your lips, drawing a breath in of the vapour, coughing immediately, pushing the pen at his chest as you double over, coughing. 

            And he doesn’t judge it because he can feel his dick growing hard at the sight of you that’s ingrained in his brain of you with your lips to a vape, trying it for the first time. 

            He wonders how many other things he can get you to try for the first time. 

            “Now that you know I like you,” he calls out when you straighten up, breathing more even again, “will you go out with me?”

            “Nope,” you tell him, your lips curving in a smile as you reach forwards, straightening the collar of his polo tee. “You have to be consistently nice first.”

            “Okay,” he says, his free hand reaching forwards, cupping your cheek, delighting in the way your pupils expand for a moment, your breath hitches and your lips part. “I’ll do it.”

            The first time he sees you outside of work in his attempt to be nice is when you invite him out to coffee with you and Kate. It was awkward and hard because it was Kate, but he did it because of the smile on your face when he did it. 

            He would do anything for that smile, the one he saw the first day, the one that made him feel enough. And you gave it. 

            The second time was helping you shop, he gave outfit advice like a friend while fighting a boner the entire time. 

            The smile you gave him hinted at the fact that you knew. 

            The third time was a picnic with you and Kate and fucking Tyler that he sat through with a grin plastered on his face, playing nice the entire time because you asked him to. 

            The fourth time was coffee just the two of you. The fifth time was a group movie outing. The sixth was more movies, laughing and talking and showing you that he remembered how you liked your popcorn, the type of candy you liked. 

            And he realized through these times, that yeah…feelings were involved this time. Because he might…yeah, he might love you. 

            “Why did you insist on a farmer’s market?” Scott asks you now, your body curled in the passenger seat, the basket of strawberries on your lap, your knees pulled up, body facing him, window open, wind running through the tendrils of your hair. 

            “The strawberries, man! The strawberries!” you reply, lifting one to your mouth, biting into it, red juice dripping from your lips down your chin in a way that makes him want to stop the car, lean over and lick it away, lick you clean. The strap of your overall has also come undone, but he doesn’t want to fix it, rather undo the whole thing, letting him fuck you senseless. 

            “It was a zoo!” he cries, laughing as you tip your head back out the window, the column of your throat long and elongated. He walks to kiss his way up it, to meet your lips, to taste the strawberry still on your tongue. He wants to fuck you right here, right now. 

            But he won’t. 

            Not yet, at least. 

            “He hasn’t made a move yet?!” he hears Kate whisper, her voice shocked and slightly worried. “I thought he would have by now. Don’t you want to have sex with him?”

            “More than anything,” he hears you answer, his heart clenching in his chest, pain and anger and irritation warring, making it hard to breathe, his lungs squeezing tight. “But he hasn’t made a move.”

            “So, you make one!” Kate returns. 

            “How?” you ask. 

            “I don’t know! Ask, maybe?”

            “Oh, yeah, Kate. That would so work, just go up to him and be like, ‘would you like to have sex with me?’ and see what he says?”

            “Yeah, actually, exactly like that! Do that!”

            “I’m not that girl! I’d vomit all over him before the words came out!”

            “Listen to me! You are smart and hot and sexy and that fucker would be lucky to have you and I already know that you’re head over heels for him so just go for it! Maybe…maybe he is the one.”

            Scott slams his office door, unable to listen to that conversation, to you talking about letting someone else be first. Unable to listen to the fact that you’ve been seeing someone else. He’s been consistently nice and yet you’re seeing someone else; probably fucking Tyler. 

            But, he can’t let someone else have you first. He wants your body to learn his shape first, no one else’s. 

            (And if he’s being honest, he wants to be first, last and only. But he’s quite good at lying to himself.)

            The knock sounds on his door, soft and quiet, three taps. Your knock. He wonders why you’re here, knocking on his office door when everyone else has gone home, the day over. He wonders why you’re not out with fucking Tyler and asking him to have sex with you. Why are you here? Knocking on his door?

            He doesn’t get it, but he rises from behind his desk where the data sits, walking around to open the door, watching as you step in, the skirt you wore today swishing around your thighs. He’s wanted to rip it off of you all day, and honestly, he’s tired of playing Mr. Nice Guy when he’s never even been what you wanted. 

            “Scott I ha—” He cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours in a fast, hot kiss, pushing you back into the wall, your noise of surprise has you open your mouth, enough that he can slip his tongue into your mouth, stroking along yours in a way that has you gasping, your hands scrambling digging into his back, nails no doubt leaving half-moons on his skin.

            His hands are on your waist, hot and heavy, your skin deliciously soft, even through the layer of fabric, he can tell. He slides them down from your waist, to your hips, back to your ass, squeezing the skin as you moan into his mouth. 

            “Do you have any idea,” he whispers, pulling back from the kiss, his forehead falling against yours, “how crazy you’ve been driving me?”

            “Scott, I—” He doesn’t let you finish, his one hand sliding around your thigh, slipping underneath the skirt, inching closer to your pussy. 

            “With the playing nice? And the hang-outs,” he whispers, his hand pulling your underwear to the side, the gesture having your body squirming on the wall. “The treats and the laughing and the smiles. Only to find out,” his voice drops as he slides one finger in-between your folds, watching as your face twists both in pleasure and a bit of revulsion, “that there’s been some other guy all along?”

            “There’s been a mis—”

            “There’s been no mistake,” he whispers, dragging the finger back and forth, back and forth between your folds, stimulating you, arousal growing on his finger, the pad of his index finger pressing down on your clit. “I heard you talking to Kate about it.”

            “What?” Your eyes fly open, wide with surprise and shock. “Then you should kn—” you break off, your words becoming nothing but a low moan as he slips one finger inside of you, knuckle deep, dragging his knuckle back down your walls as he pulls it out, his thumb finding your clit, finger continuing to pump in and out of you. 

            “I know that I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispers, his voice a husky rasp as he slips a second finger in, dragging both knuckles down your walls and up them over and over as his thumb circles your clit in clockwise motions over and over and over, your breathing hitching, noises breathless whines. “Since I heard you tell Kate you were a virgin.”

            “Do you know,” he whispers, adding a third finger, listening as you whine, your head falling against the wall, hands curling into his back, his mouth dropping to your neck, kissing and licking and sucking up the column of your throat. “What you do to me?” He slips a fourth finger inside, his other hand, sliding underneath your shirt, towards your breasts, roaming over them underneath the practical bra you wear. 

            “Scott,” you whine as he presses down on your clit, fisting inside of you, for one, two, three pumps before you cry out, sharp and unbidden, your walls clenching around him, tight and unrelenting as your orgasm washes over you. He draws out when you’re finished, instead lifting his hand to your lips, skin glistening with your arousal as he pops two fingers into your mouth. 

            “Suck,” he whispers and you do, sucking the taste of yourself down, before he pulls his fingers back out, sinking to his knees before you. “Now, I want to know what you taste like, Sunshine,” he says, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, followed by the other, his body the only thing holding yours up, your back flat against the wall. 

            He can see your pussy, glistening and pretty as he leans forward, pressing a kiss against your mons first before dragging his tongue from your entrance to clit, tongue flattening on your clit, your whines precious above him. You’re sweet and sour and salty, delicious, better than any treat you’ve ever made, any coffee you’ve ever brought him. 

            He drags his tongue over and around your clit, little figure 8s around it, your hands clawing at his hair, pulling at the strands, rough and hard and desirous. 

            “Look at you,” he murmurs against you, “my not-so-good girl.” The words have you whining more, your hips bucking up, back towards him and he obliges, his tongue finding your entrance, diving in and out while one hand trails up your thigh, to your clit, one finger circling it and driving you to the edge in tandem with the movement of his tongue. 

            It doesn’t take long before you’re clenching around him again, another orgasm washing over you, flooding his tongue with that sweet and salty taste of your release. 

            “Scott,” you whisper as he sets your legs back on the ground, standing back up, his hands finding your waist, “the guy I was talking about was you.” He swallows hard on reflex. 

            “What?” he asks you and you smile at him, despite that fucked out glaze in your eyes and the shake in your legs. 

            “I thought we were, kind of dating,” you whisper and then he’s pulling you from the wall and towards his desk, his hand knocking a bunch of papers and pens and whatever off of the surface, his hands yanking down your skirt and panties, pushing you down onto the surface of the desk, his hands fumbling with his belt, his zipper, before finally succeeding in pulling his hard and leaking cock out of his pants. 

            Then, without fanfare, he slips inside of you. You cry out around him, pussy clenching once before he slips all the way in, you already slick from two orgasms. 

            “You,” he whispers, pulling out before slamming back in again, “are fucking perfect. Feel so good around me, pretty girl.” You whine at that, his hands gripping your hips tight as he jackhammers in and out of you, needing this, needing you in a way he’s never needed anything else. 

            “Like this, huh?” he whispers. “Always knew you were a naughty girl.” Your hand reaches back for his and his heart melts, one hand letting go of your hip to instead hold onto you. You cry out again, his name on your lips as he slams up and into you. “Know how many times I dreamed of this? You whining and crying as you came on my cock? Too many times? I wanted to be the one to end your little innocence act, you know.”

            He can feel that you’re close in that way you’re clenching around him and he slams up and into again, your pussy orgasming for the third time. When you’re done, he pulls out, still hard, still not done, pulling you back and lifting you to sit on the desk. 

            He wants you to watch him as he fucks you. When you’re settled he slams back in again, lips chasing after yours as he drives in and out, his own release so close, especially with the way your lips move against his. The way your tongue feels against his. 

            “Oh, pretty girl,” he whispers, “I’m the only guy you’re gonna have now. You know that right?” He feels you nod against him when he kisses you again, hard, just as you clench around him again, this time drawing his own release from him and he comes inside of you, in thick, hot ropes. 

            He can feel exhaustion in him as his head falls against your shoulder, breathing heavily drawing in your citrusy sugary smell which is exactly how you taste. 

            “I’m glad,” you breathe out and he lifts his head to look at you, “that it was you. Even if this was a shitty way to do it.”

            “Am I the one?” he asks you, a teasing smirk growing on his face, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. 

            “I want to say yes,” you whisper. So, say yes, he thinks. “But what does this mean for us? I know…I know that taking virginity is a kink for some people so—” He cuts you off, pressing a short and sharp kiss to your lips, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs. 

            “You think I’d ever let anyone else have you now?” he asks. “Your body knows me. And it’s only gonna know me, okay?”

            “Okay,” you breathe out, your words falling out in-between a laugh and a gasp. “What now, then?”

            “Now,” he says, lifting you from the desk and helping you back into your skirt and underwear, “we go to my place and fall asleep.”

            “Just sleeping?” you ask, a wanting, teasing glint in your eye and he feels that jolt of lust knowing he’s done. He’s made you want more, want him. But unlike all those other times, he’s not letting go of you. 

            You’re his. 

            “I love you,” he says. “So, sleeping, fucking, dating. I want it all, Sunshine. Every last bit.”

            “I think that can be arranged,” you tell him with a teasing smile, your arms around his neck. “But you might have to carry me out of here. I don’t think I can walk.”