Sweet But Psycho

You spot a man at the bar, his presence instantly commanding attention. Dressed in a vibrant tropical polo adorned with lush palm leaves and exotic flowers, paired with swim shorts. He looks relaxed, yet confident like he's not somebody you could easily fuck with. He stands out against the laid-back ambiance of the bar. His dark curls are slightly tousled, and a hint of a beard frames his chiseled jawline, adding to his charm. His eyes, a deep, soulful brown, seem to watch you with an intensity that is both comforting and unsettling. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and you have to look away for fear that your blush might become permanent.

"You're doing great!" Your friends continue to cheer you on.

"I'm going to die," you whisper to yourself, not so quiet as the man's smile grows.

"You are not going to die," Jane, your best friend and the mastermind behind this whole scheme, says while her drink-fueled bravado wavers. "Besides, we're here if something goes wrong."

"What if I panic and pull you down with me?" You ground yourself, your feet back on. the pool floor.

"That's not going to happen, now focus."

"Jane, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I think you've had too many Mai Tais."

Jane looks around, her gaze stopping on the hot guy at the bar, who's sipping a colorful cocktail while his gaze continues to linger on you.

"Well, I can think of worse people to drown with." She nudges you with a smirk. "Maybe Mr. Pool Boy will give you mouth-to-mouth."

You glare at her before glancing back at the bar, but the mysterious man is nowhere to be found. You try not to let your disappointment show, though. You really don't need more reasons to doubt yourself, and drowning because you were distracted by some hot dude feels like an embarrassing way to go out.

"Alright, I'm ready," you say. "Let's get this over with."

"Great!" Jane exclaims, "So, we're going to have you lay back, and put your arms and legs out, and--"

"'Scuse me."

You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of the deep, velvety voice beside you.

"Yes, can we help you?" Jane asks, not missing a beat, hearing her shit-eating grin from behind you.

The man smiles at you. "Well, I was takin' a look at what you all were doing, and I figured I could offer my services."

"Services?" you ask him and you can see the scatter of grey in his scruff when his lips quirked up on one side. "Are you a lifeguard?"

He laughs and the sound makes you embarrassed, and a little flustered. You feel your face get hot again.

"Not exactly, but I do have some experience in the pool," he tells all of you. "I taught my kid how to swim back home and and it seems like these ladies are having some trouble and I'd be happy to take it off their hands." He looks to you, specifically. "If you'd like."

Your friends are looking at you and the man and you're not sure what to say, but Jane decides to answer for you.

"Actually, that would be really nice. We could use the extra help. I'm Jane, by the way," and she nudges your back while introducing you, moving you forward towards--

"Joel." He sticks out his hand and you take it, the massive grip of his hand engulfing yours. You can feel the callouses and roughness of his fingers, and you curse in your head anyone else that's had the chance to feel it in places that would bring them to their knees.

Joel lets go, and before you can ask what comes next, he pulls off his shirt and plunges into the pool, submerging himself completely before resurfacing with a shake of his head. Water cascades down his chest and broad shoulders, and his shorts cling to his thighs.

"Well, don't be shy. Get on in here," he beckons.

You and the girls are still standing there, watching him.

"Go on," Jane tells you, and you realize Joel was talking to you. "Get in there."

You give her a look and she pushes you down the steps further into the shallow end. The water is warm against your legs, and you wade forward toward Joel.

"Alright," he says once you've joined him. "We're gonna have you lean back, and just hold out your arms and legs for me. Sound good?"

You nod, swallowing thickly.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall," Joel assures you.

You do as he says, leaning back and putting your arms and legs out, and the moment your weight is supported by the water, you start to panic.

"It's okay, darlin', you're fine. Just stay calm." Joel's voice is low and soothing. "Just focus on my voice. I've got you."

You take a few deep breaths, trying to keep yourself from freaking out.

"There you go. Just relax. I'm not gonna let you go."

As he speaks, his voice a deep rumble, you feel your heart rate slow and the panic subside. You can hear the others cheering and encouraging you, but it's almost drowned out by the sound of his voice.

"There you go," he repeats. "Just relax, honey. I've got you."

You lift your feet up, and for a second you're completely horizontal, suspended in the water. Then you feel his hands under your back and the back of your head, supporting and guiding you as you float effortlessly on the surface. You look up at this handsome relative stranger

"I told you I'd take care of you," he says. "How's it feel?"

You let out a breathy laugh. "It feels amazing."

You stay like that for a while, his hands holding you steady as he talks you through it, his voice never faltering. And when you finally stand upright, the applause and cheers from your friends echo around you.

"Thank you," you tell him, still a bit breathless from the experience.

"My pleasure," he says, and his gaze lingers on you, making your heart race for a different reason. "Y'know, if you wanna get back to your friends I get it. But there's still so much I could teach ya if you're interested."

You can feel the warmth of his body so close to yours, and you can't deny the attraction between the two of you. You know it's reckless, but something about Joel makes you want to take a risk.

"Let me just tell my friends not to wait up."

-----------------------------

You're not sure how long it's been since you've been in the pool with Joel. But your friends are gone and other people have started to clear out. After dinner at the pool bar, and more drinks, the two of you are back in the pool. Joel was playfully tugging at your leg, trying to get you to join him in the deep end.

"Joel, I can't swim!" You're laughing as you cling to the wall.

"That's what I'm here for. C'mon, darlin', it'll be fun," he says, his hand reaching out for yours. "If you don't wanna go, we really don't have to but if you wanna come, you can trust me. I won't let go."

And that's all you need to hear.

You hop on Joel's expansive back, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"Ready?" he asks.

"As I'll ever be."

He laughs. "Okay, here we go."

Slowly, he begins to walk into the deep end, taking you with him. The water rises to your hips, then your waist, then your chest. You can feel the firm muscles of his shoulders under your thighs, and the heat of his body against yours.

"Still good?" he asks.

"Yep."

"You know, if you wanna move your hands, I think you're safe."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

You hesitate for a moment before slowly removing your hands from the top of his head onto his tanned shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist, your core flush with his back. He keeps walking deeper, until the water is up to his neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as he wades around.

"See? It's not so bad," he says, turning his head to look at you.

You're so close to him, his face mere inches from yours.

"No, it's not," you whisper.

He turns back to bring you towards the edge of the pool. He sits you down on the side, keeping himself in the water. He hovers over you, his hand braced on the ledge, the other resting on your thigh.

"You did good tonight," he says, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. "I'm proud of you."

His praise sends a jolt of arousal straight to your core, and its taking everything in you not to scare off this nice stranger with your growing infatuation.

"Thank you. Really, I don't know what we would've done if you hadn't offered to help. Now I can actually enjoy the beach and the pool a little more."

He chuckles. "Well, I'm glad I could help." He tilts his head, his gaze soft and warm. "You know, you don't have to stop learnin' if you don't want to. There's plenty more I can show ya."

You're not sure how to respond, but the offer is tempting. You've already learned so much today, but the thought of learning more, especially from him, is enticing.

"What else ya got, Miller?" you ask, your voice low.

"Oh, there's a lot more where that came from," he says. His voice is deep, the words rolling off his tongue with a delicious drawl that makes your stomach flutter. He opens up his arms, and the water glistens down his body. "C'mere. Swim to me."

You bite your lip. "I don't know..."

"Remember what I told ya." Joel smiles. "I got ya. I ain't gonna let you sink."

You take a deep breath and jump back into the pool, slowly wading as you repeated his mantra in your head. Joel's eyes never leave you, watching as you move towards him, the water coming up to your shoulders.

"That's it, darlin'. You're doing great," he coos.

You finally reach him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you hold onto him. He chuckles, pulling you close.

"I knew you had it in ya." He murmurs. You can see the freckles scattered across his face, and the deep pools of his brown eyes. You feel his arms wrapped around you, his hands caressing your lower back, the warmth of his body. It's intoxicating.

"Thank you, Joel."

"My pleasure," he breathes, his voice low. You're not sure who moves first, but before you know it, his lips are pressed against yours, and all rational thoughts leave your mind.

The kiss is gentle, almost tentative, like he's waiting for you to decide the next move. You usually aren't the person to kiss strangers on vacation. But something about him makes you want to throw caution to the wind.

Your hands tangle in his wet curls, pulling him closer, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue skating into your mouth with the taste of alcohol. His beard is rough against your chin, and you can't help the moan that escapes your lips.

His hands wander down your back, grabbing a handful of your ass as he presses himself against you. Your tongue moves slowly in his mouth, matching the rhythm of your hips as you start to grind against his growing bulge.

He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his dark brown eyes gazing into yours. "Sweetheart..." his hands squeeze your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and his lips graze yours. "We need to get outta here before I do somethin' stupid."

"Like what?" You trail the stubble of his jaw with your fingertips and look at him, testing him. Daring him to say what you both wanted.

"Like takin' you right here." He rolls his hips, the hardness of his cock rubbing against your clit through your soaked bikini bottoms. "Lettin' anyone who comes by see how pretty you look when I'm fuckin' you."

"Fuck." The moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and Joel grins.

"I wanna hear more of that." He peppers kisses on your neck, and down to the top of your breasts. "Wanna hear every pretty sound comin' outta that mouth of yours."

"Then I guess we'd better get out of here," you say, breathless.

Joel helps you out of the pool and grabs a couple towels from a nearby cabana, wrapping one around you and sliding his hand around your waist. You liked how he towered over you, like he was already claiming you as your own.

He leads you inside, down the hall and to the stairs, the two of you making the decision knowing there would be less people around. You go up a flight up steps and you stop at a corner of the steps, turning around and backing into the wall. He crowds in on you, looking at you like he's ready to devour you.

He cups your face with his calloused hands, his lips capturing yours in a hungry kiss, your tongues moving in tandem. You grind against him, as he moans into the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his other hand grabbing a fistful of your ass. Caution and carefulness be damned, you just want him.

He moves his hands from your face to your breasts, tweaking your nipples outside of your bikini fabric. You whine into his mouth and his hand snakes between your bodies, rubbing you on the outside of your bikini bottoms. You gasp as his fingers rub the material against your clit.

"If I could I'd take you right here." he breathes, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Would you let me do that? Take you right here, where anyone could see? Where everyone could see what a good girl you are, lettin' me take you how I want?"

You arch your back, grinding into his palm as he rubs your clit through your damp bikini. "I might take you up on that."

He chuckles, and you can feel the deep rumble of his chest. "Well, I might just take you up on that later. But for now..."

He slides your bikini bottoms aside, dipping his thick fingers into your slick cunt, and curling his finger inside. He slowly moves them, fucking you open, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from moaning too loudly. He presses his lips to the base of your neck, kissing and sucking as he fucks you on his fingers.

"You're so fuckin' wet," he murmurs against your skin. "Love the way that little pussy feels. So tight."

You roll your hips, feeling his thumb rubbing against your clit and his rhythm speeds up. The echo of the stairwell amplifies every sound and the thought of someone catching you makes the whole thing that much more arousing.

He slips another finger inside of you, and you hold onto his arm as you hear his wetness sliding against his fingers. The sound of your soaked pussy echoes in the stairwell.

"That's it, honey, just let go," he murmurs. "Let everyone know how good I'm making you feel."

His fingers curl inside of you, and sends you over the edge. You wail as you feel yourself throb around his fingers, your cunt fluttering as he holds you upright.

He slowly pulls his fingers out and licks them clean, moaning as he sucks them off. You whimper as his mouth is on yours, letting you taste yourself. He holds you upright, adjusting your bikini bottoms and stroking your hair as you come down.

"Pretty girl," he says, peppering kisses on your face and neck. "You think you can make it to my room?"

----------------------------------

You knew you'd have some new adventures on this trip.

But never in your wildest dreams would you have guessed you'd find yourself here.

Sitting on a man's face as he ate you out.

Joel's big, calloused hands held onto your ass as he lapped at your cunt, his tongue running along your folds, his beard scratching your thighs.

"That's it, sweet girl," he groans. "Just like that. Keep ridin' my face. You're doin' so well."

He squeezes your ass as he spreads your cheeks, his tongue teasing your asshole and making you moan. He moves his mouth back to your pussy, sucking on your clit as his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your thighs. You ride him in earnest, your hands gripping his hair, holding him in place.

"Oh, god," you pant, grinding on his face. "I'm gonna cum again, please please please."

He hums against your clit, sucking on the sensitive nub, and your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out in what sounds like a pornographic moan as you shake, your cunt throbbing around his tongue.

He holds you through it, his hands on your thighs, keeping you steady. Once you've come down, he gently moves you off his face, lying back and breathing hard. His face is slick with your cum, his lips swollen and red. He looks beautiful.

He quickly recovers and sits up, moving to lay you down on the bed, his heavy cock slapping against your folds. He teases you, rubbing his length up and down your slit, coating it in your arousal.

When he finally enters you, it's heaven. You moan as he stretches you, your cunt gripping him tightly as he bottoms out. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

"You want it deep, pretty girl?" Joel murmurs, his breath hot on your ear. "Want me to fuck you so deep and hard, make you feel me for days?"

You nod, moaning and writhing under him.

He starts slow, rolling his hips as he thrusts in and out, the two of you moaning as you feel every inch. But his pace quickly increases, his hips snapping against yours, his balls slapping against your ass. He pounds into you and your mouth is open, In a silent scream, as you take every inch of him.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," he growls. "This pussy's so fuckin' perfect."

You can't form any coherent words, you've never been fucked like this. You can't tell if it's because you know this is a passing encounter. After this vacation it's not like you'll see Joel again, so why not indulge yourself in a way you normally wouldn't? Guys back home were usually so gentle, treating you as if you were delicate.

But Joel is different. He fucks without mercy or shame in how much he wants you. He holds you down, pinning your hands above your head as he rails you, as if he wants to make sure you'll remember him.

"Look at me, baby ," he grunts, and you turn your head to see him, his pupils blown and his chest covered in a sheen of sweat. He lifts your legs higher, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes you scream.

"That's right, let 'em know how good I'm fucking ya," he growls, his lips hovering over yours. "Let everybody in this damn hotel hear how good you take dick."

You cry out, feeling the pressure build up as he fucks you harder, his cock hitting your g-spot. You've never felt this full, this wanted, this satisfied.

You can feel him getting close, his thrusts becoming erratic and his rhythm faltering. He lets go of your hands, one moving down to rub your clit, his other hand tangling in your hair. He holds you in place as you cum a third time, chanting like a mantra "please fill me up, please please" and Joel does just that. He lets out a guttural moan as his cock twitches inside you, his cum filling your throbbing cunt.

He collapses on top of you, panting, his weight a comforting presence. You run your hands along his broad shoulders, his muscled back, feeling the sweat that coats his body. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, placing featherlight kisses along the column of your throat.

You feel him seeping out of you as he pulls out, his cum spilling onto the sheets. He lies next to you, his arm draped over your stomach, his hand resting on your hip.

"Was that alright, sweet girl?"

"More than alright," you murmur, stroking his beard.

He pulls you closer, and you're enveloped in his warmth, his arms wrapped around you, his hands drawing lazy patterns on your back. You snuggle into his chest, your legs entwined.

"I should probably get back to my friends at some point, though." You murmur, half-heartedly.

"They won't miss you for one night," Joel murmurs.

He's right. You check the time on your phone and it's midnight, and Jane has your location. You've kept her updated until recently when you'd been too busy taking Joel's cock. She knows where you are, she knows you're safe and one or two more rounds wouldn't hurt.

"You know, I can always show you a lot more ways to swim," Joel drawls, his fingertips drawing patterns along the base of your spine.

"Oh yeah?" You smile, propping your head on his chest.

"Yeah, sweetheart." He grins. "There's the breast stroke, the backstroke, the butterfly. Pool is probably closed and I ain't got nothin' but a bathtub, but..."

You can't help but laugh at his stupid jokes, and he joins in, his eyes crinkling in the corners. You love the way he smiles, the way he laughs.

"We could also stay in, watch some movies, order room service, all that." He continues, his tone light, casual.

You raise your brow, amused. "Is this the part where you ask me out?"

He chuckles. "It's the part where I'm asking if you wanna spend the night."

"I'd like that," you murmur, your fingers running through his salt and pepper curls. "I can meet the girls back at the pool tomorrow and show them what I've learned."

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.

So much for hating your new neighbor.

—-

He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.

Only one thing has you concerned.

You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.

“What happened to Frankie?”

Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.

You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.

Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.

She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.

Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.

Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.

Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.

The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.

But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.

There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.

Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.

Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.

But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.

Great, just great.

They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.

It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.

You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.

There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.

Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.

You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.

Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.

Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”

The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”

“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.

“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”

The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”

“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”

“You’re not serious,” you sputter.

“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.

You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.

He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.

With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.

“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”

You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”

Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.

“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.

His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”

He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”

Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.

“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”

“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”

“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”

He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.

“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”

You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.

He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”

“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.

“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”

You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”

He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”

Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.

The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.

You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.

They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.

“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”

Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.

You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.

“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”

He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.

You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.

Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.

The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.

The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..

Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.

Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.

When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”

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it isn't some special occasion.

he simply wants to make love to every part of you, your soul. the sacred devotion this early in the morning genuinely rewires your brain.

he's got you wrapped around his finger, and you equally as much. you're both absolutely smitten with each other. but that's right where you want to be. wrapped up in the mess of your limbs, breaths intermingling as your hips lazily rut into one another.

his length prods through the thin fabric of his boxers, catching your clit just right through the flimsy lace of your panties. your hands are firm on his arms, flexing at the feeling of your nails gently sinking into his skin. both of your eyes remain hooded, a particular roll of his hips eliciting a wrecked moan from you.

"jay," his name falls from your lips like a sinful prayer.

it only eggs him on. it makes him want to pursue your pleasure even further, to pull the breathiest of moans from your plush lips, to have you melt into complete putty and quiver beneath him.

so he does just that.

"just relax, honey," he rolls you flat onto your stomach, already pressing hot kisses to the curve of your neck, down your shoulder. "i got you. let me make you feel good, mama."

the graze of his fingers along your backside has your hips recklessly pushing back into him, eager for more. he moves even slower, dragging your panties down your legs at a pace that indicates no urgency.

his breath catches when a string of your arousal follows the crotch of your panties, your folds glistening before his eyes. already so wet, completely prepared to take all of him.

his fingers are heavy between your legs, parting your lips to spread your slick before sinking home. there's no gradual stretch ― just two fingers prying you open like they belong there.

"mm, fuck, baby."

your words are muffled by the fluff of your pillow, hips moving in tandem with each push of his fingers. your thighs briefly squeeze around his wrist, slightly halting his ministrations.

"gotta open up for me, sweet girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss right beneath your ear. "gonna let me make you feel good, right, sweetheart?"

he lives for this shit. absolutely fiends for the way your walls drip for him, the way they try to swallow up everything that he gives you. you try to nod, hips still wriggling for him to stop talking and just give you more.

he simply laughs at your weak attempt, firmly pressing one hand to the small of your back.

"patience, mama," he hums, fingers slowly starting to massage your gummy walls again. "patience."

quiet whimpers and low whines rip from your throat with each push of his hand. then his digits curl beautifully against that spot that drives you mad.

"oh, fuck― jay," you gasp, one hand reaching back to tug at his wrist.

he tuts, hissing when your nails press dull crescents into his flesh. he doesn't stop his movements.

"damn, ma," a dark chuckle vibrates through his chest. "that good?"

you can hear the smirk in his voice. if this man wasn't so hot, built to perfection, you'd be pissed. instead, it goes straight to your core, walls clenching around his two thick fingers.

drool pools beneath your pouted lips, coating them in that glossy sheen that makes jason's brain short circuit.

"want more, jay," you attempt to catch his eyes through your hooded ones, moaning softly. "please gimme more."

a grumble resounds from deep within. the sight of you so worked up does nothing to quell the ache in his boxers.

he doesn't even pretend to consider it, pulling his fingers out of you with an earnest "sorry, baby."

his boxers are flung across the room in seconds. his cock rests heavy in his palm, head red and leaking. a few quick pumps are all that he can spare before he's pressing himself to your heat, sloppily running his tip through your folds.

the sounds that leave both of your mouths are lewd. you're sure that you're dripping all over the sheets, but you can't bring yourself to care at all. he continues like that for a bit, whimpering when he barely nudges at your entrance.

you prop yourself onto your elbows, head falling between your shoulders as his hips finally push forward. cacophonic moans spill from your mouth, already coming undone. his free hand finds your hip, deliberately feeding every girthy inch to your greedy cunt.

he shushes you, pressing his lips to the flexed muscles of your back and shoulders.

"'m right here, baby," he stills for a moment before filling you to the hilt, ripping the breathiest moan from your chest. "right fuckin' here, mama."

he sets a harrowing pace ― one that makes you feel every inch and every vein, yet has you damn near bawling out for more.

your fingers clutch a pillow against your chest, the fluff collecting your pathetic moans and stray tears. your thighs are quivering already, fighting the urge to just push back and use him however you please.

"so fuckin' big," you weep when his hips smack the plush of your ass.

his hands abandon your hips, slipping his forearms under your frame instead. he's impossibly deep. you swear you can feel him in your lungs at this point.

another desperate cry urges his hips to move faster, eager for more of those pretty sounds to ring in his ear.

"this pussy was made for me," he muses. "you were fuckin' made for me, sweetheart."

your thighs press closer together, heightening the sensation of his cock nestled deep between your walls.

"baby, fuck, i c― i can't take it," you mewl, fingers curling deeper into the fluff beneath your chest.

his hips pick up their pace, slapping your ass with obscene whack, whack, whacks.

"hell, you can't," he spits, chest shoving down on your back. "you were made for this shit, baby, c'mon. take it."

he bites on your shoulder with enough pressure to get you out of your head. a surprised yelp strings into a moan when his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles to the sensitive nub.

"c'mon, honey," he pushes. "let go. come for me. make a mess all over me."

he kisses the blunt bite mark forming on your pretty skin.

"lemme see how good daddy makes you feel."

and that does it.

with one high-pitched gasp, you're falling apart, legs violently trembling as his hips continue to snap forward, drawing out the intensity of your orgasm. your arms give out and the side of your face lands on the pillow as though it'll save you.

"gonna let me fill you up like a good girl, right, baby?"

he has the audacity to whimper as if he's the one being fucked to oblivion. nonetheless, you're nodding wildly.

"fill me up, jay," you blubber with closed eyes. "wan' you to come in me."

he grunts at the feeling of your walls pulsing around him, driving him over the edge shortly afterwards. warm spurts of white paint your insides, shamelessly claiming you as his and his only.

he settles against the warmth of your back, your breaths evening out.

"good fuckin' morning," he croons.

he doesn't pull out, just stays sheathed comfortably. you stir softly when his lips flutter across your back again.

"so," his voice comes out completely wrecked. "me calling myself daddy does it for you, huh?"

you half-heartedly swat a hand at him.

"shut up."

he nips at your shoulder playfully, right where he'd bitten you earlier, and a quiet whimper echoes from the plush of your lips.

"yeah, that's what i thought," he grins to himself, entirely too smug.

gotta give the guy some credit.

You woke abruptly to the feeling of something tangled in your hair, pulling your head back harshly as frigid liquid rolled down your face. Pain shot down the back of your head, sharp and biting.

You winced at both the pain and the sudden shock of ice. A soft groan fell from your lips as your eyes peeled themselves open, ultimately shrinking closed again in response to the assault of a lamp pointed in your face. It felt like you were waking up on a weekend, still groggy from the late night before, while the sun beat on your face from a crack in the blinds. 

The taste of something metallic lingered on your lips, mixing with the liquid stuck to your face (which was very much not water) as you spit it out onto whatever lay in front of you.  

Your eyes took their time to adjust to the light, burning and blurry from whatever it was that you couldn’t wipe away. You were tied to a chair, arms snug in restrains behind your back. You didn’t need to see to figure as much- the way your body tugged on itself as you coughed out the burning liquid that had traveled down your throat was evidence enough of your immobility.  

Your captor released you with a deep inhale, something clattering beside you as if tossed from his hands with little care. Heavy steps made their way to your front as you gathered yourself, your eyes finally adjusting enough to make out a large figure blocking the light. 

A black, skunk-striped mop of hair caught your attention first, a small smile forming on your lips as you realized who stood before you. 

“Hiya, Jay,” you croaked out. Your head felt too heavy for your neck as you peered up at him. Slowly, his features started to come together. You looked him in the eyes, ones usually so full of hurt and sorrow, only to be met in anger- blazing anger. Your smile lost its potency as a slight pang of fear shot through you. It seemed as though you would soon discover what it meant to be on the Red Hood’s shit list. 

He did not return your smile.

His imposing figure towered over you. No matter how confident you were in your ability to escape the situation alive, he had the type of stance that made you naturally want to cower away, pushing yourself deeper into the plastic chair that dug uncomfortably against your back. He was fucking scary like this. Terrifying, really. And with an offensively low chair budget. 

When he spoke his voice rumbled with irritation, cutting sharply into the silence of whatever safe-house he had dragged you to.

“Where is it.” 

He spoke his question as a statement, as though to note that he already knew you had done what you would soon be accused of doing. Standardly, there was a sort of art to interrogation. A hard hand here, a sly question there. There would usually be some back and forth before the accusations started flowing, a bit of foreplay, if you would. You had to play with your toys a bit, warm them up for the heavy stuff. 

However, Jason wasn’t in the mood for games, it seemed. Always no-nonsense. Boring!

Not one to give in easily, you played along. You cocked your head to the side in feigned ignorance. “Where’s what?”

He was most definitely referring to the flash-drive you had swiped from him, the one containing lots of important things about lots of important people, very conveniently sitting in your bedside table at home. What a small world. 

He had grown tired of your shit quickly as his hand returned to your hair. You let out a small whimper as he pulled your head back, his free hand coming up to squeeze tightly at your jaw. His thumbs made harsh indents into the plush skin of your cheeks, as the pain and pressure hitting your skull at different angles made you want to scream. 

“Don’t fuckin’ play stupid with me.” He squeezed and pulled harder, enough that you were certain he’d taken some of your hair with him. 

You choked out a response through a stretched jaw, ultimately sounding more like a collection of vowels than words, “I don’t have it.” You tried your best to plead with him through your eyes, filling them with faux confusion and fear. 

His nose barely brushed yours as he inspected your face for any hint of betrayal. It was clear what he thought of your performance as he sneered at you in disgust.

Although still young, you wouldn’t consider yourself green when it came to successfully faking your way through interrogations. You’d experienced your fair share of beatings over the years and had learned the tricks of deceit better than most street criminals you’d encountered. You could hold your own well enough around the streets of Gotham. Well enough to support your lifestyle, at least. 

Unfortunately for you, Jason was not a street criminal. In actuality, Jason was quite the opposite of a street criminal. He was a specially trained combatant, highly lethal, and with as little remorse left in his heart as would ensure it stayed beating. He was dangerous and overly experienced. Most importantly, he could sniff out your act from a mile away. 

He had probably known as it was happening- hell, he'd probably let you steal it. Just so he could fill his Tuesday night with chasing you down and having someone to hurt. The motherfucker probably got off on it. 

He released your head with a frustrated grunt, allowing you to stretch out the aching pain in your jaw.

Before you could process any movements, Jason pulled out a sleek black pistol and nestled it against your temple. The cool metal soothed your inflamed skin, but Jason was trigger-happy enough to raise some alarm bells in your head.

"Jason," you let out an awkward chuckle, straining your eyes to meet his without turning your head further into the gun, "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

He pulled the slide back in response, loading the weapon against your skull.

You were beginning to panic slightly, fidgeting uncomfortably in the godforsaken chair. The restraints against your arms and legs were tight, allowing for little wiggle room, although not for your lack of trying.

"Jason, please," you begged, voice wavering. "I don't have what you're looking for."

Jason was a man with little patience on a good day, and a good day it was not. He needed you to talk- it was not in question whether or not you'd taken the flash-drive; he just needed to know where you'd put it.

He removed the gun from your temple and aimed it towards the ceiling. Without hesitation, a round went off with a bang, shaking you to your core. You flinched violently at the sound, ears ringing with the remnants of the fired shot. Tears welled up in your eyes in fear as your confidence slipped away. Jason Todd's true danger was becoming apparent.

"I won't ask you again." He spoke with deadly calm, a sharp contrast to the bullet he'd just put through the ceiling.

While you were scared of what he would do to you, the thought of what he would do to you once you admitted what you'd done was worse. You were in too deep. Even in your final moments, you'd be nothing if not prideful.

"Please, Jason. I swear, please, I didnt- " the words caught in your throat, small and beady tears rolling out the corners of your eyes as you shook your head.

A blinding, white-hot pain shoots through your cheek as your head swings to the side. The familiar metallic taste filled your mouth, which you’d now recognized to be blood.

He’d hit you, straight in the jaw.

Your face became stuck in a silent scream, fighting to unclench your jaw as it throbbed through the tension.

You were crying in earnest now, fat drops of salty water making their way down your face in consequence. You usually could get by with a bit of pain, but it was your fear of Jason that caused you the most distress.

"Jason, p-," a bloody glob of spit fell to the floor beside you, "please. I'm sorry, I didn't-" You pleaded the best you could, doubling your previous efforts in an attempt to save you from whatever else this psychotic man was capable of.

His hand returned to your hair as you let out a sob, scrunching your eyes closed on reflex. "I don't fucking believe you," he growled from somewhere up above.

All your cockiness had crumbled. He'd stripped you down to your bare and basic fears, leaving you to fend for yourself with nothing more than an instinct to survive. He was colossal, towering over you with a rugged dominance. He probably had enough strength in a pinkie to take you down entirely on attempt to escape.

You were so fucked.

His grip tightened again, sharp and hot. The ice of the gun returned, this time on your lower jaw, offering a sort-of fucked up relief to the hot skin. You imagined it would bruise up dreadfully in a couple days, if you managed to survive.

"Here's what's gonna happen- you wanna hear what's gonna happen?" A tighter squeeze.

You choked out a sob, far too consumed by adrenaline to give a comprehensible answer.

It seemed as he was unhappy with your lack of appropriate response. To demand an answer, he gripped your hair impossibly tight and shook your head in ways that resembled a 'no' or a 'yes', tugging on your neck uncomfortably. "Answer me," his voice raised.

His aggression sent you right back to your feeble state of self-preservation, desperate to keep the stings away.

"Y-yes, I do." You nodded as much as he allowed with his hand in your scalp, opening your watery eyes again.

Satisfied temporarily, he relaxed his grip, if only slightly. He acknowledged your response with a spit of his own on the ground, then teetered your head back to meet his big brown eyes.

"You want to prove to me that you didn't do it- want me to believe you, huh?" You nodded again with a wince.

He chuckled humorously. "Thing is, sweetheart, I don't believe you. You're a lying whore." Another sob.

"Please-" you began.

"Shut up, I'm not done." His tone commanded obedience, his scream shaking you to your core and effectively shutting you up.

"Here's what we're gonna do, okay? You're going to prove to me, convince me, that you didn't do it- that you're a good girl, yeah? You're gonna try your fucking best. If by the end, I still don't believe you, I'm going to kill you."

Panic shot through you, and you could do nothing else but cry distastefully at the thought of your life in his hands, just mere minutes, hours, days, from ceasing.

"You wanna die?" He asked, deadly serious. You took too long to respond again, resulting in another shake of your head, "you wanna die?"

"No-o, Jason, no." A plea.

"Open your mouth," he ordered. You were dumbstruck for a moment, caught off guard by his sudden ask. However shocking the statement, however, you did as you were told. He'd spare you if you were good.

He stared at you for a second, observing your compliance with a blank face. Slowly, the barrel of his gun began to trace from your jaw, to your chin, to the curve of your bottom lip. You watched him with wide, horrified eyes, knowing what he wished to do next.

Your panic only increased as you felt the cold metal touch your tongue, the bitter taste of gunpowder in its wake. Soon enough, the entire barrel was nested neatly between your plush lips, buried in your mouth. Your eyes clenched closed again, another heap of tears falling as soft moans of resistance escaped from around the gun.

"Look at me, look at me."

You heeded his command, a slight pang of fear shooting through you at the darkness his eyes held. You weren’t safe- you were tied to a chair with nowhere to run, fully and completely at his mercy.

“Suck.” Another dry order.

You looked at him dumbfounded for several moments, the grip on your scalp limiting your range of motion. When you didn’t move right away, he became impatient and used your hair to move your head up and down on the pistol.

You gagged slightly as he hit the back of your throat, eyes filling with a new set of tears. You could do nothing but watch as he used your mouth to fulfill whatever sick fantasy he had. He, similarly, was fully engrossed in how the weapon would retreat from your mouth with a slick sheen around it.

"Atta girl, there y'go. Get it clean- ‘s your fault I had to use it, huh? Clean it.”

The slight praise sent something through you, but whatever it was, it was overshadowed by terror. How long until he got tired of this game? How long did you have left alive?

“Use your tongue or I pull the trigger.”

Up until this point, your tongue had laid dormant at the bottom of your mouth, afraid that moving it without permission would make him angry, or in contrast, make him believe you wanted more.

Timidly, you moved your tongue to swirl the tip of the barrel, wincing slightly at the flavor. You kept your eyes on him as you did, knowing that’s what he wanted to see. Fucking bastard.

Slowly, the act became a distraction. You were focused on running your tongue around as much of it as you could, and soon your heart began to settle and your tears dried up. You were still in danger, but if you behaved he seemed to lean towards leniency.

You hated that it helped how he kept speaking to you, in a low gruffly voice. Bits of praise here, a degrading comment there. While the seconds passed, you felt as sick as him for liking it as much as you did.

Drool dripped out of the corner of your mouth as you worked, Jason’s constant thrusting allowing you no room to swallow.

“Look at you, fucking nasty. Knew you’d like this shit. Gonna have to do better than that- c’mon, baby, you owe me.”

He pulled the gun out of your mouth with a trail of spit and you choked on air, oxygen filling your needy lungs. Your scalp was hot with the aftershock of pain. In his mercy, he gave you a second to calm down, sputtering through spit and deep breaths.

He tossed the gun carelessly on the floor, watching it skip on the concrete floor. Relief washed over you- at least now he couldn’t shoot you. He could still kill you, though, with just his hands.

Suddenly, the air got cold again. What now? Your brain began to rack through the endless possibilities of what awaited you, pushing the obvious horrible answer towards the back of your mind.

“Think you can do better than that, yeah, yeah you can.” He repeated, more to himself than anything.

You watched him nervously as he moved closer to you, his calves brushing your knees. His hands moved down to unbuckle his belt patiently, deliberately slow. He made a show of pulling the strap through the loop, stretching it out, and unbuckling it so that it fell to his sides freely. You simmered in your nerves until they almost about bubbled over, shaking your head frantically as you realized what he wanted.

His hand returned to your head, stifling your movement, but this time he didn’t grip. It rested on the backside, a firm presence to guide you without inflicting anymore pain. He widened his legs to fit around yours and stepped forward, your face now leveled closely to his crotch.

“You fuckin’ owe me. Yeah, baby, yeah you do.” Your eyes widened at the implication, looking up at him to confirm what you knew he wanted you to do. “Gonna be good? Y’have a lot to prove.”

“Jason, please- no, please don’t make me.” You begged, trying to shake your head out of his grip. A fruitless endeavor.

You didn’t want that. Sure, you’d fucked up, but you’d rather die with some dignity still left than to be used for his pleasure. He was a monster, fucked in the head and depraved. You’d rather he hurt you- you’d endure it. The cuts would eventually heal, but this- this would stay with you forever.

His pushed your head forward to nuzzle your face into the outline of his cock protruding from his dark jeans, effectively shutting you up. He felt huge, and you accepted that your bruised jaw would feel infinitely worse once he was done with you. You hated him.

He let out a low groan from above you, pushing you on him in earnest now, dragging your face up and down and side to side on his bulge.

Your tears were soaking through his pants, the material too dark to tell. You felt so helpless- forced to play a game for your life in which being good meant allowing him to deprave you for his contentment. It was sick.

He was growing visibly impatient, moving your head sloppily against him as his hips rolled into your face.

He stepped away from you abruptly, as though he couldn't wait another second with your face pressed up against him. You jerked your head away from his hand as quickly as you could, but it wasn't met with punishment.

He took advantage of his free hand to unbutton his pants, pulling the zipper down harshly. In one fell swoop, he pulled down the constricting fabric of his pants and underwear, releasing his flushed cock from its confines.

If you thought he felt big through his pants, ho ho. Jason Todd's cock was a masterpiece, and a small part of you wished you could've experienced it under better circumstances.

If you hadn't already noticed, it was extremely clear that Jason enjoyed hurting you, judging by the way his tip was angrily red, desperate and leaking. He was buzzing with need, hands returning to your hair to form a misshaped ponytail.

Your eyes filled with newly formed tears at the sight of him. He looked like an animal- dangerous and hungry. He looked down at you with eyes nearly black with want. His grip on your hair tugged you closer to his cock, the tip tapping your lips expectantly.

You eyes gave their final plead for mercy. Another futile attempt.

"Open your mouth. I won't ask you again."

Feeling as though you'd lost the battle completely, you had no choice but to oblige. You weren't too keen at giving him a reason to follow through with any more threats.

As soon as you'd opened wide enough, Jason pushed your head down, meeting half-way with his hips. Your eyes widened at the feeling of his size in your mouth. Immediately, your jaw began to ache.

He was so heavy on your tongue, the smooth skin of his shaft against your tastebuds. He tasted faintly on sweat, but the intrusion sent an involuntary flutter through your core.

"S-shit," he groaned as the warm walls of your throat enveloped him. "Knew you wanted to live- shit."

He was so big you could barely take him all. A small ring of skin remained untouched at the bottom of his shaft, connecting to a trimmed patch of dark hair at his navel. You felt him nestled against the back of your throat as you contained a gag, saliva pooling in your mouth.

With more care than you expected from him, he slowly began inching in and out of your mouth, fucking himself with your face.

His brief stint of affection quickly vanished, however, as his thrusts picked up speed. You were choking in earnest now every time his cock hit the back of your throat. It felt like he was trying to fuck through you, wishing nothing more than to impale your head on his cock.

You gurgled out a surprised yelp as he threw his head back, strands of black hair falling onto his forehead. Your eyes watered for different reasons this time as the gagging continued.

"Fuckin' good girl-knew you needed this shit," Jason punched out, not ceasing his assault on your mouth. You felt his balls against your chin as your eyes blurred, fighting back the urge to vomit.

He pulled away briefly, a line of spit connecting your lips to his now even redder cock. You choked in as much air as you could, coughing occasionally on your own saliva.

After allowing you a couple seconds to breathe, he pushed back in, resuming his brutal pace.

"Still haven't forgotten- fuck- what y'took from me," he said. "Y'weren't being so good then."

He pulled your head back slightly to meet your eyes. He towered above you, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the lamp as he thrusted in you.

"Yeah," he nodded, condescendingly. "Need to make you work for it."

One of his large hands released your hair and pinched your nose, effectively cutting off your last available air supply. Your eyes practically grew out of your head while you yelped in protest.

You couldn't breathe, and at the expense of your panic, Jason threw his head back and let out a deliciously low moan, fucking himself deeper into your mouth.

Your chest burned at the lack of oxygen, eyes slowly drooping as it made you woozy. Your body buzzed, gurgling lightly against his cock.

You could still feel him in the back of your throat when he pulled away. You took longer gasps of air than you'd ever thought possible, feeling like you were just pulled out of a cold pool.

Again, he only allowed you a couple seconds to breathe. Not enough to fill your lungs completely, but enough to prevent you from passing out. He was dangling you on the precipice of death. It was torture.

"Such'a pretty fuckin' mouth," he groaned through his teeth.

His fingers returned to your nostrils, his other hand around your throat now. You knew he could feel himself through the thin skin of your throat and you didn't know how to take that.

His frequent moans drowned out the sound of your choking, and you could tell he was close by the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic.

Your chest was burning again. He was pushing you harder this time, and you could tell. Your body twitched against the restraints in an effort to pull yourself away. He only gripped tighter in response.

Your eyes rolled back as your vision danced with black dots. If it weren't for his grip on your throat, your head would've dropped straight back. You tried to take a breath as he pulled out, but it only caused you to breathe in spit.

"F-fuck, sweetheart," he thrusted a few more times before releasing your nose, warm steaks painting the inside of your cheeks. He pushed his cum back into the back of throat as he thrusted through the aftershocks. You cringed at the liquid trailing down, heaving against it.

He tasted of salt and musk, and you swallowed through your coughing fit without incident. He probably expected it of you.

You were gasping for air when he pulled out, salty tears mixing with the taste of blood and cum in your mouth.

He let out some shallow, heavy breaths as he tucked himself back into his pants, wincing slightly in sensitivity.

You gaped at him silently, begging- no, willing him to end this.

He broke your heart when he spoke: “I don’t believe you,” Jason concluded.

Panic simmered in you again. “Please Jason- I don’t know what else I can do, I swear-I- I don’t know where it is.” You shook your had, the lingering taste in your mouth silently reminding you that there was always more you could do.

He scoffed out a beautiful laugh, looking down at your pouting eyes condescendingly.

“Tell me where it is and this stops.”

You weighed the possibility of telling him. His reputation suggested that he would punish you regardless if you disclosed the location of the flash-drive or not, so it didn’t give you much of a choice.

If he was going to hurt you anyway, might as well get a pretty penny for your suffering.

“I swear, I don’t know where it is.”

“Right,” he turned around to face the table behind him, scanning for his preferred toy.

When he returned to you holding a small paring knife, you began to cry for the umpteenth time that night.

Since guns were more likely to kill someone during attempted use during interrogation, they were usually not a popular toy for inflicting physical harm. Knives, however, could cause almost any desired amount of pain without the lethal ramifications of its automated counterpart.

While you were scared when Jason brought out his gun, you were not positive that he would actually use it. The knife, on the other hand, was much more probable.

“Since I still don’t believe you,” he noted, dismissing your previous attempt at convincing him otherwise with a tone that made him sound almost bored. “You’re going to continue to prove yourself.”

Jason stalked towards you menacingly. He got close enough to brush the tip of the knife against your bottom lip, nicking it with dangerous precision.

A small whimper left your now crimson lip. Fear bubbled up again, but you knew there was no where you could go.

“I’m sorry,” there it was- an admission, coaxed from you in response to fear and danger.

“Please, I’ll do anythi- anything. Just don’t..” your voice wavered off, meek in the presence of his stoicism.

He ticked his tongue in response, cooing at you softly, like how a father would try and divert a petulant child, “I know you will, sweetheart. So you’ll do this.”

He left no room for conversation.

Right as you thought he would slice you again, he dropped down to your feet, slid the knife between the rope and your leg, and cut them free.

You watched him, confusion evident as you tried to piece together what was happening. You stayed deathly still as he released you, worried that a breath in the wrong direction would result in the blade finding its home right in your femoral artery.

The ropes dropped uselessly to the floor.

He stood up with a grunt, walking behind you until you could only feel his body heat pressed up against your arms on the back of the chair.

With a free hand he grabbed your throat, holding you down firmly with light pressure. You swallowed against his palm as he sliced through the ropes on your wrists, freeing you completely.

Your breath stalled against his hand. No way he was letting you go, not in a million years.

Your brain wasn’t working correctly. The feeling of freedom was so overwhelming, you hadn’t the time to think about what you were doing before you did it.

Quickly, your nails made way into the flesh of Jason’s arm, piercing the skin and leaving tiny red cuts along his bicep and forearm. He grunted in pain, tightening his grip around your neck.

A scream escaped you as you kicked your legs, your body moving so wildly it was causing the cheap plastic chair to tilt on its sides.

You managed a couple good punches, none of which he reacted to, before he raised you up by your neck, dragged you towards the wall, and slammed you against it so hard you saw stars.

You screamed gutturally in pain, flailing yourself uselessly against him in pointless action.

“Shut up,” he growled, slamming his hand on the wall beside you. He gripped your airway tighter in an attempt to muffle your noise, but you were hardheaded enough to keep it up.

Jason was growing increasingly agitated, his eyes violent at your disobedience.

He managed to catch your wrists in his hand, pressing them hard against your stomach, never releasing your throat in the process. You were bound once more.

As he pushed himself against you, effectively trapping your hands between your bodies, he stilled your thrashing jaw, and kissed you.

With enough force to nearly knock out a tooth, Jason kissed you, the delicious tang of your bloody lips entering his mouth.

You were too shocked to continue screaming, attention completely captured by how Jason’s lips moved against yours; how your teeth clashed against each others in a desperate chase of cat and mouse; and how, disgustingly, you found yourself kissing back.

Jason, in contrast, found himself letting out the loudest noise he had all night. Once your taste entered his system, his chest rumbled with the deep, devastating moan that poured through him.

Ever so true to himself, he even kissed torturously. He would nip at your cut, making you cry out into his mouth. Once he drank up your cries, he’d run his tongue against the cut soothingly, showing you the first kindness the entire night. You were getting whiplash. You didn’t know what he would do next- would he offer a petal or a thorn? The thought had you positively reeling, stuck in nervous anticipation of his next move.

Sickeningly, your lips began to chase his. You hated yourself for matching his rhythm, especially since he’d forced you to do this.

It seemed that once he noticed you getting too comfortable, he just had to pull the rug out from under you. With blinding speed, he stepped back, spinning you around and pressing your face against the cold concrete wall.

“Pretty lil’ thing,” he spoke lowly in your ear. Your hands had made their way to your back, pressed against his firm figure behind you. “You owe me this.”

He kicked your legs open, nesting his thigh between them. You were trapped at all angles. His free hand made its way down to your pants, making quick work of your buttons with the skill only a predator could have.

“N-no, no Jason please, don’t do this,” you croaked from against the wall, your voice meek. His intentions caused another embarrassing round of tears to start, but this time they were of anger, not of fear.

“You fuckin’ did this,” he countered, dragging your pants and panties down your thighs.

The feeling of cold air on your bare core did nothing to soothe your burning body. Your muscles ached and burned, throbbing in random places.

“Jason,” you pled, feeling him free himself from behind you, resting his soft member on the curve of your ass. The sound of his belt hitting the floor distracted you enough to not hear him spitting in his hand, spreading the wetness on his cock.

“Come and I'll kill you.”

With that, he lined himself up with your aching, wet heat and thrust in.

You braced yourself for the pain his size would surely cause with such little lubricant, but you surprised yourself when he went in smoothly. Your body had betrayed you. Your pussy sucked him in like a lush stream, with no discomfort besides the delicious stretch of his girth.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned as he bottom out, aching cock finally engulfed in your soothing heat. Your face was stuck in a silent moan, too blindsided to make any real sounds.

He pulled out slightly before rutting into you, rubbing the head of his cock against your cervix.

A groan was punched from your chest, “Oh my G-uhhh,”

Your vocalizations seemed to spur him on. He quickly unsheathed himself only to push roughly back in, soon building up a brutal pace that had you rocking forward against the concrete.

"J-Jason, please, oh," you didn't know what you were begging for- relief, release, it didn't matter. The worst part was how good it felt, and instead of the pleasure brining you peace, it only made you more panicked. You had no idea how long you would last with Jason fucking you so disgustingly good, and he made a promise on what would happen should you come.

Relief, you finally decided, that's what you needed. Relief from his relentless thrusts that were pitching you straight towards that release.

You wiggled your bottom, willing yourself to press further into the concrete to escape his assault. In your sheer stupidity, the slight change in angle only drove his cock deeper, hitting a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed.

Stars swirled behind your eyelids, and you dropped your head back into his shoulder with a wide mouth.

"Can't fucking run," he growled in your ear through grit teeth, "you did this, now take it."

He used his grip on your wrist to pull you back against him, meeting his already powerful thrusts with as much force as could be produced at the hands of Jason Todd. Your ass smacked thwok against his meaty thighs, the sound filling the room alongside your fucked out cries.

"N-no, Jason please, don' wanna come," you cried.

You were barreling towards it, no longer a matter of if, but when. You would die in a matter of seconds, if Jason was good on his word.

He stilled for a moment, and you almost sobbed in relief. If you had an ounce more respect for him, hell, you would've thanked him. But before you could enjoy your reprieve to its fullest, he spoke:

"Listen to me and hold it."

You impending orgasm had not fully dissipated, and thus his moment of mercy was rendered absolute once he began moving again. The break had been so brief, it barely had no use at all. He didn't care about how you felt, he just wanted to prove that he held your life in his hands. Come or don't, he decides. Live or die.

His pace was ruthless and his stamina never ending. You had stopped realizing the thrusts all together, as his consistency with force and speed blended all the sensations together, until you didn't know when the pleasure started or stopped.

"I've been good, pl- tried to prove, fuuuck," a pit of dread rose inside you as your orgasm grew in tandem.

"Fuckin' prove it, be good and hold it." His neck dropped to the crook of yours and began to leave hot, wet, opened-mouth kisses on your jugular. His teeth nipped at your skin, leaving tiny red welts in their wake. The combination of pain and pleasure was lusciously addictive, and it ashamed you at how badly you wanted it.

You were done for the moment he brushed the side of your ear with his soft tongue. Your thighs clenched up, sucking him in. His arm flew to your waist as your legs failed you on shaky feet. The orgasm was powerful, hitting you all at once everywhere, overtaking every sense of anything you had left.

He fucked you through it, blackening your vision. The stars behind your eyes transformed into fireworks and created the most mind-bending visuals while your body floated in ecstasy.

Your mouth spilled out nonsense as you came. You were constricting him through the aftershocks, and Jason had to do everything in his power not to blow right then.

He bit you through the tail-end, right on the shoulder, never relenting in the way his cock tired to pummel through you. "Can't ever, shit, ever listen."

"How was that? You liked that shit?" He grunted.

Another stupid moan.

"Speak." The hand from around your waist reached down to land a sharp smack on your ass, which sent you right into action.

"Yes, so good, mph, soso good," your nod scraped the concrete, feeling nothing but agreeable in your state.

"Well enjoy it- the rest are gonna hurt." He was furious. If you wanted to come so badly to go on and defy him, then you would keep coming. If he couldn't stop you , he would make sure you did it so much you would learn to hate it.

"H-huh?" You panicked slightly. The rest? What rest?

With that, his hand reached over to your aching, leaking cunt, and placed his finger directly on your sensitive nub. With learned precision, he lifted your hood and began rubbing small, stiff circles directly on your clit.

You overstimulation was immediate. Your pussy spasmed involuntarily as white-hot pleasure shocked through you. You were being pushed to your limits, unable to stop the pressure at your core from growing.

"Jason, I don't-," you knew this feeling. Each swirl of his fingers was more unbearable, until you felt like a dam ready to burst.

Liquid gushed from your cunt, wetting your legs and his in your juices. You poor pussy weeped in response to his torture, brining all your pleasure to a tipping point,

"You're such a fucking slut," he scoffed out a laugh, eyes never leaving the mess you'd made. "This what you wanted?"

His fingers never stopped, timed perfectly with his thrusts.

You had barely any mind left to speak. "Jay, c'mon- please, uh," you whined. He smelled like musk and sweat against you, caging you in his large body as you writhed in overstimulation.

"No, take it," he repeated, trying to ward off his own orgasm against your beautiful cries.

You choked on a scream as another orgasm rolled through you, this one coming as a building wave, destroying through everything in its path.

This comedown was devastating, as you lost all strength in your limbs. Jason was fully holding you up at this point, his thrusts nearing the point of accidental sloppiness.

"Tha's it, there y'go," he mumbled into your hair, almost sweetly. "Good fuckin' girl, doin' s'good."

You mewled against him, feeling the embers of another orgasm growing in heat. You twitched uselessly against him as he chased his own release. "Can't, Jay, can't again," you shook your head.

He grunted in disapproval, working you faster. "You can, gimme one more,"

"No," you wailed, the fire growing bigger. Maybe this is how he planned to kill you, by sending your whole body up in flames under his touch. The pleasure twisted with pain, involuntary jerks attacking your body.

Jason was crumbling. "One more, tha's it, pretty girl, jus' one more," he drove into you deeper as you collapsed, desperate to feel you come around him once more time.

You might as well had been set on fire. You felt every nerve ending explode into a million tiny specks of glass as you came, somehow finding their way into your veins and shocking you cold.

Jason got two more thrusts in before you clenched impossibly around him, no sooner had he pulled out than ropes of warm cum shot into the small of your back.

The sound that rumbled through him was beautiful, if you'd any mind left to hear it. Waves of pleasure rolled through him forcefully, only exaggerated by how good you looked under him.

"Holy fuck, baby," he choked out, breathing heavily through the waves, one hand bracing the wall in front of you.

Since his grip had loosened, you found yourself sliding down the wall, no longer able to hold yourself up.

"A-are we done?" You whispered meekly, eyes closed and crumpled to the floor. Exhausted, you didn't realize Jason had scooped you into his large arms until you could no longer feel the ground at your feet.

"Yeah baby, we're done. I’m sorry. Y’did so good for me," he kissed the top of your head as he led you out of the garage and into your home, "my perfect girl."

You nuzzled your face into his neck, mumbling softly, "tired."

He gripped you firmly, holding you close. You must've weighed nothing in his arms. "I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you like that."

He felt horrible at how he unleashed unto you what he'd worked so hard to store away. He tried desperately to separate his violence from you, but his protests were useless. He knew there was nothing in this world he wouldn't do for you- especially when you asked nicely.

You snorted lightly at his comment. "Oh hush, I liked it. You did too." And you were confident in that. Jason needed to let go sometimes, in a controlled environment where he could play out whatever sick and twisted fantasy tickled his fancy.

Every couple of months, when things were particularly bad out in the streets, you would approach Jason with an open heart and made-up mind. He never asked you for any of this, but you knew how badly he needed it.

You didn't mind- you relished in it, actually. You loved the things he did to you, and you would be lying if you said you didn't need it, too. The sense of his sheer power over you, and the reminder that he'd never once used it against you, was enough to make you fall in-love with him ten times over.

You had a safe-word for whenever things got too rough, but you rarely used it. You knew he'd always take care of you.

"Yeah, maybe. Don't get used to it, sweets. You're too good for this shit. Let me wash you up and I'll order dinner." You could feel the disapproval in his tone.

You hummed noncommittally, imagining the warmth of the water on your sore muscles.

Dick

cockwarming 

like refuses to leave your warmth so you're stuck with him inside you while cuddling after

crazy stamina, a quick fuck easily turns into multible hours

loves seeing your legs being all wobbly after or you having to limp because of him

Jason

having his fingers inside you 

likes to see your wetness on his fingers when he pulls out from downwards or your mouth

if he’s not fingering you, his fingers explore the insides of your mouth while fucking you

loves when you leave bite marks and scratches, like a physical confirmation of your enjoyment 

i fell like he'd be up to try pegging if you really wanted to

Tim

loves when you take care of things, especially when he’s too tired to do anything crazy

probably loves seeing you ride him and pushing him back down when he tries to come up to kiss or touch you

not to say that he’s super submissive and passive, but he likes seeing you take charge once in a while

Wally

anything mouth related

whether it’s something in his mouth or his mouth in something it gets him going 

similar but to highlight it: making out (wet and sloppy kisser when getting really into it, would rather suffocate than let go of you to catch his breath)

You stood behind Dick’s chair with one hand resting near the pommel of your sword, your armor polished, your expression composed, and your attention divided between the men arguing around the table and the prince whose shoulders had begun to slump beneath the weight of fiscal policy.

Lord Halyard had been speaking for nearly eleven minutes.

Dick leaned back just far enough that the carved wood pressed against the front of your breastplate. He did not turn his head.

“If I throw myself from the western tower,” he whispered, “would you be obligated to catch me?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Even if I specifically asked you not to?”

“Yes.”

“What if I made it an official command?”

“I would disregard it.”

A pause followed.

“Disobedience,” Dick murmured. “How exciting.”

You kept your attention on Lord Halyard, whose description of the southern wheat stores had somehow become more detailed.

Dick’s hand slipped beneath the table. A moment later, a folded piece of parchment appeared beside his elbow.

You stared at it.

He pushed it toward the edge of the table with one finger.

There were twelve councilors present, as well as King Bruce at the head of the table, the royal secretary, two scribes, four guards at the doors, and you. None of them appeared to notice that the heir to the throne was attempting to pass secret correspondence to his personal knight.

That only meant they had all learned not to acknowledge it.

You took the note.

Dick sat straighter as you unfolded it.

Lord Halyard’s mustache resembles an exhausted squirrel.

You folded the parchment again and placed it beside his hand.

Dick glanced back at you expectantly.

Your face remained still.

His expression fell with such theatrical disappointment that the royal secretary paused in her writing to hide a smile.

“You know,” Dick whispered, “most people would consider that funny.”

“Most people are not responsible for keeping you alive, Your Highness.”

“I fail to see how those matters are connected.”

“Your survival requires my concentration.”

“Surely you can concentrate while appreciating my wit.”

“I have never been presented with the opportunity.”

His eyes widened.

The secretary’s pen scratched sharply across the parchment. Across the table, Lord Foxworth coughed into his fist.

Dick turned fully in his chair, council meeting forgotten. His blue eyes were bright with triumph.

“That was a joke.”

“It was an observation.”

“You insulted me.”

“Your Highness, I would never.”

“You did. I heard you.”

King Bruce lifted his gaze from the report before him.

“Richard.”

Dick faced the table again. “Yes, Father.”

“If your knight has finally threatened you, I suggest you deserve it.”

A few of the councilors smiled. Dick looked wounded by the betrayal.

You remained motionless behind him, although satisfaction warmed beneath your breastplate.

Lord Halyard resumed his report. Dick lasted almost three minutes before passing you another note.

This one bore a poorly drawn squirrel with an enormous mustache.

You did not laugh.

You did keep the parchment.

Dick never noticed you slide it beneath the edge of your vambrace.

The truth was that you laughed often.

You laughed with the women who worked in the kitchens when they smuggled you honey cakes before dawn patrol. You laughed with the squires when one of them stumbled into the wash trough after claiming he could defeat you blindfolded. You laughed when the stable master complained that the palace’s most expensive warhorse had developed a personal grudge against decorative ribbons, and when the laundress’s youngest daughter followed you around the courtyard with a wooden spoon tucked into her belt as a sword.

You laughed loudly enough that Captain Gordon had once crossed the entire training yard to ask whether someone had been injured.

It was only around Dick that you seemed to lose the ability.

The problem was not that he failed to amuse you. The problem was that he succeeded far too easily.

Dick Grayson had been charming people since he was old enough to understand the effect of his own smile. Courtiers adored him. Soldiers would follow him into impossible battles. Visiting royals forgave him for ignoring protocol because he could make an insult sound affectionate and a diplomatic concession feel like a shared secret.

You had watched him dance with princesses, flirt with ambassadors, and kiss the hands of noblewomen whose fathers possessed useful armies. He offered warmth as naturally as breathing, and most people mistook it for intimacy.

You knew better.

Or you had tried to.

You had been appointed to his personal guard six years earlier, after distinguishing yourself during an attack on the northern road. Dick had been twenty, newly returned from his first military campaign and furious that his father intended to assign someone to follow him everywhere.

He had disliked the restriction.

He had liked you almost immediately.

By the end of your first week, he had learned your patrol schedule, your preferred sword, and exactly how close he could stand before you became visibly annoyed. By the end of the first month, he had begun leaving pastries beside your gauntlets before morning training. Within a year, he had confided in you about everything from the burden of the crown to the fact that he hated the ceremonial shoes required for state occasions.

You knew the names of the servants who had raised him. You knew which scars ached before rain and that he slept poorly after battles even when he claimed otherwise. You knew he checked every room for its exits without thinking and softened his voice around frightened children.

You also knew the precise shape of his mouth when he was attempting not to smile.

So you kept your own mouth firmly under control.

Affection encouraged carelessness. Desire encouraged worse. You had sworn to place Dick’s life before your own, and you could not afford to forget what he was simply because he insisted on making himself impossible not to love.

Your restraint had worked admirably.

Until the night he found you in the stables wearing an old linen shirt, feeding stolen apples to a foal while explaining to a barn cat why Lord Halyard’s mustache had become a matter of national concern.

“His Highness drew it himself,” you told the cat, who sat on an overturned bucket with a blue ribbon tied loosely around his neck. “The likeness was poor, but the spirit was accurate.”

The cat blinked.

“You are right. I should not encourage him.”

The foal nosed impatiently at your shoulder.

“You have already had three pieces.”

She nudged you again.

“You are becoming entitled.”

Her ears flicked forward.

“That was not praise.”

You surrendered another slice of apple.

The foal took it delicately from your palm, then sneezed so forcefully that warm breath and flecks of fruit struck your face.

You stared at her.

She stared back.

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It grew when the cat, apparently offended on your behalf, leaped down from the bucket and swatted at the foal’s front leg. The foal jumped sideways. The cat fled beneath a wooden bench, blue ribbon trailing like the pennant of a retreating army.

“You are both ridiculous,” you said, still laughing as you wiped your cheek with your sleeve.

“I have spent six years trying to make that sound.”

Every trace of amusement vanished.

Dick stood at the stable entrance.

He was dressed in dark trousers, soft boots, and a loose white shirt open at the throat. His hair was disordered in a way that suggested he had been running his hands through it, and the candle he held painted gold along the edge of his face.

You rose too quickly.

The basket tipped beside your knee, sending apples rolling through the hay.

“Your Highness.”

Dick looked behind you, then beneath the nearby stall divider.

“Where did she go?”

Your heart was still beating too quickly from surprise. “Who?”

“The woman who was here a moment ago.” He stepped into the stable. “She looked exactly like you, but she smiled.”

“I do smile.”

“Not at me.”

“That is not true.”

He stopped beside an apple and nudged it with the toe of his boot. “Name one occasion.”

You searched your memory.

Dick watched you struggle.

“Precisely,” he said.

The barn cat emerged from beneath the bench. Dick looked down as the animal wound around his ankle, the blue ribbon still tied around his neck.

“What happened to him?”

“Nothing.”

“He has a ribbon.”

“It is decorative.”

“Does he often decorate himself?”

You folded your arms.

Dick crouched, offering the cat his hand. The animal sniffed his fingers, then permitted Dick to scratch beneath his chin.

“What is his name?”

“He does not have one.”

Dick glanced at you.

The cat purred.

You looked away. “Sir Whiskers.”

Dick’s hand stopped.

“He was named by one of the kitchen children.”

“Of course.”

“I did not choose it.”

“Then why is he wearing your ribbon?”

You looked at the cat. The cat regarded you without loyalty or shame.

“He has sensitive ears,” you said. “He requires ornamentation.”

Dick laughed.

The sound filled the quiet stable, warm and startled and far too pleased. He rose, still grinning at you.

“You have been hiding an entire person from me.”

“I have done nothing of the kind.”

“You sneak into the stables after midnight, tell scandalous stories to animals, and knight cats.”

“I did not knight him.”

“He has a title.”

“It is part of his name.”

Dick stepped over the scattered apples. “Do the horses have names too?”

“Their names are written above the stalls.”

“I mean other names.”

You said nothing.

His grin widened. “They do.”

“Go back to bed, Your Highness.”

“I will not.”

“You have a diplomatic breakfast at sunrise.”

“I’m aware.”

“You require sleep.”

“What I require is an explanation.”

You bent to collect the apples. Dick knelt before you could stop him and reached for one at the same time you did. His fingers brushed yours.

You withdrew your hand.

The movement was small, but he noticed.

Dick’s expression changed.

The amusement remained, though it softened at the edges. He picked up the apple and placed it in the basket.

“Do you dislike me?”

The question was so unexpected that you stared at him.

He collected another piece of fruit, his gaze lowered. “You laugh with everyone else.”

“Your Highness—”

“I have heard you in the training yard. I didn’t realize it was you until now, but I remember the sound.” He placed another apple in the basket. “You speak freely with the squires. The kitchen staff know more about your life than I do, and I spend nearly every day with you.”

“You are my prince.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It answers all of it.”

Dick rose. You did the same, holding the basket between you like a shield.

He studied your face with an intensity you usually saw reserved for battle maps and political negotiations.

“Have I ever made you believe you cannot speak freely around me?”

“No.”

“Has anyone in my household treated you poorly for your position?”

“Never.”

“Then is it the title?”

You tightened your grip on the basket. “The title is not something that can be separated from you merely because you dislike its inconvenience.”

“I don’t want it separated from me. I want you to look at me and see something other than a responsibility.”

“That is precisely what I cannot afford to do.”

Dick went quiet.

Beyond the stable walls, the castle grounds were still. Rain had begun sometime after midnight, whispering against the roof and gathering in the gutters. The horses shifted in their stalls, accustomed to your presence and unconcerned by the prince who had entered their sanctuary.

Dick took the basket from your hands.

You let him, mainly because resisting would have required touching him again.

He set it on the bench.

“You think caring about me would make you worse at your duty.”

You stared at the hay near his boots.

“I already care about you,” you said. “That is part of the duty.”

“That isn’t what you meant.”

“You should return to your chambers.”

“You have faced armed men without retreating.”

“Armed men are generally less persistent.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled.

Dick saw it.

He stepped closer.

The movement placed him within reach, close enough that you could smell rain on his shirt and the faint cedar oil used in his rooms. Your training measured the distance automatically. A half step to intercept an attack. One movement to draw your sword. Less than a second to put yourself between him and danger.

There was no danger here except the one you had carried quietly for years.

Dick lifted his hand.

He paused before touching you.

When you did not move away, he plucked a piece of hay from your hair.

“You are allowed to be a person in my presence,” he said.

“Being a person is the problem.”

His fingers remained near your temple.

You could see the moment understanding began to form. Dick was clever enough that it did not take long, although disbelief arrived before certainty.

“All this time,” he said slowly, “I thought I was failing to charm you.”

You wished for an enemy to emerge from the rafters. You would have accepted an assassin, a fire, or the sudden collapse of the eastern wall.

Instead, you had Dick looking at you as though the entire night had rearranged itself.

“You succeeded years ago,” you admitted.

His lips parted.

Once the words existed, you could not force them back behind your teeth. Your composure, so carefully maintained for so long, seemed suddenly as fragile as a cracked shield.

“I took an oath to protect you,” you continued. “I stand outside your chambers. I accompany you to war. I watch you dance with women who may one day become your wife, and I remain close enough to hear every charming thing you say to them.”

“I don’t say the same things to them.”

“You told Princess Koriand’r that the stars had envied her entrance.”

“She had arrived during a meteor shower. It was contextually appropriate.”

“You compared Lady Helena’s eyes to moonlight.”

“She had a knife beneath her skirt. I was distracting her while you moved closer.”

“You sent flowers to Ambassador Bea.”

“Her nation controls the eastern shipping route.”

You stared at him.

Dick frowned. “Those examples are less compelling than I expected.”

A laugh threatened at the back of your throat. You swallowed it.

His eyes narrowed.

“Do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Laugh now.”

“That seems contrary to everything you have ever wanted.”

“You are confessing your love for me while presenting evidence that I am an indiscriminate flirt. I am trying to defend my honor.”

“I did not confess love.”

“You said I charmed you years ago.”

“That could mean anything.”

“Could it?”

He moved closer until only inches separated you. The softness in his face did not diminish the satisfaction in his eyes.

You had watched Dick negotiate with warlords. He was relentless once he discovered an advantage.

“Perhaps I find you mildly pleasant,” you said.

“Mildly.”

“When you are quiet.”

“You love me.”

“You are remarkably confident for a man who spent six years losing an argument with my face.”

His smile became brilliant.

There it was again, the expression that had won over kingdoms and soothed frightened soldiers. You had always resisted it in public. Here, with hay beneath your boots and Sir Whiskers cleaning one paw nearby, resistance felt less like discipline and more like cowardice.

Dick’s hand came to your waist.

He gave you time to stop him.

“Does your oath forbid you from kissing the prince?” he asked.

“It does not specifically address the matter.”

“An oversight.”

“A catastrophic one, apparently.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your side. “You could tell me to leave.”

“You would not listen.”

“I would if you meant it.”

The answer stripped the game from the moment.

Dick could be reckless, demanding, and infuriatingly amused by rules designed to protect him from himself, but he had never made light of your boundaries. Even now, when he had finally uncovered the affection you had concealed from him, his grip remained gentle.

You set your hand against his chest.

His heart beat hard beneath your palm.

Dick looked down at it, then back at you.

“I do not want you to leave,” you said.

He kissed you.

For all his confidence, the first touch of his mouth was careful. His lips brushed yours softly, testing whether you might change your mind. You had imagined kissing him often enough that the reality should not have surprised you, but imagination had never included the warmth of his hand at your waist or the quiet sound he made when you leaned closer.

You kissed him again before he could pull away.

Dick’s restraint broke.

He caught your face between his hands and kissed you with years of unanswered flirtation behind it. You gripped the front of his shirt, dragging him nearer, and his back struck the wooden divider beside the nearest stall.

One of the horses snorted.

Dick smiled against your mouth. “Scandalized.”

“Quiet.”

“You are kissing me in front of the royal cavalry.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed back.”

You pressed your mouth to his again to stop him speaking.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, then around your back. There was strength beneath the elegance the court expected from him, built through years of swordsmanship, climbing, riding, and the acrobatic training he still practiced whenever the master-at-arms was not watching.

He turned you smoothly, guiding you backward until your thighs met the edge of a heavy tack trunk.

You sat.

Dick stepped between your knees.

Without your armor, there was little separating you from him. Your linen shirt had been borrowed years ago from the knights’ laundry and worn soft through use. His hands settled on your thighs above your pants, warm and broad, while he kissed the corner of your mouth and then your jaw.

“You are very different off duty,” he murmured.

“I am never off duty.”

“You are feeding apples to a horse in the middle of the night.”

“I remain capable of drawing my sword.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It may become one.”

His lips moved beneath your ear. “That sounds familiar.”

You shivered.

Dick felt it. His mouth curved against your skin, but when he kissed your throat, the teasing gentled into something slower. He seemed determined to learn every reaction you had denied him, and you had spent too long hiding to know how to survive the attention.

Your fingers slid into his hair.

He exhaled against your neck.

“That,” he said, “was worth six years.”

“You have had women touch your hair before.”

“I have never wanted them to be you.”

The simplicity of it hurt more than any practiced declaration could have.

You tightened your grip and drew his mouth back to yours.

Dick kissed you until breathing became difficult. His tongue swept across your lower lip, and you opened beneath him, tasting the faint sweetness of the wine he must have drunk at dinner. His hands moved higher along your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs met your hips.

Heat gathered between them.

You became aware of every place your bodies touched. The press of him against your knee. The lean strength of his waist beneath your hands. The growing hardness beneath his trousers when you pulled him closer.

Dick broke the kiss with a ragged breath.

“Tell me to stop if this is too much.”

“You are still speaking.”

“I need you to understand.”

“I understand.”

His gaze searched yours. “Say it.”

The prince could command armies, but this was not an order. You heard the vulnerability beneath it, the need to know that the woman who guarded him was choosing this without duty, rank, or years of loyalty clouding the answer.

“I want you,” you said.

Dick’s eyes darkened.

“Good.”

He kissed you once, hard enough to leave you breathless, then lowered himself to his knees.

Your thoughts scattered.

“Dick.”

His head lifted.

It was the first time you had spoken his name that night. Perhaps the first time you had ever said it without a title while looking directly at him.

The expression on his face nearly undid you.

“Again,” he said.

“You are kneeling in the stable.”

“I am aware.”

“You are the crown prince.”

“I’m also very comfortable down here.”

“Someone could come in.”

“That is unlikely.”

“You came in.”

“I was searching for you.”

“You were wandering after midnight.”

“Semantics.”

His hands found the fastening of your pants.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the trunk.

Dick paused. “May I?”

Every sensible thought you possessed urged you to stand, restore your clothing, and escort him back to the safety of the castle before either of you destroyed the careful order of your lives.

You lifted your hips.

Dick smiled as he opened the fastening.

“You look far too pleased.”

“I have been imagining what it would take to make you lose your composure.”

“You could have simply asked.”

“I did. Repeatedly.”

He tugged your pants down over your hips, taking your undergarments with them. The cool stable air met heated skin. You shifted instinctively, but Dick’s hands settled on your knees before you could close them.

His teasing faded.

For a moment, he only looked at you.

You had faced enemy forces with fewer nerves than you felt beneath his gaze.

“Say something,” you muttered.

“You are beautiful.”

“That was predictable.”

“I can be more specific.”

“You should not.”

His thumb moved along the inside of your knee. “You are already wet.”

“Dick.”

“There. That expression.” His smile returned, slow and wicked. “I have been trying to see it for years.”

“You have never been close enough to earn it.”

“I intend to earn several.”

He pushed your knees farther apart.

The position left you exposed to him, trousers gathered around one boot, shirt rumpled around your hips. Dick leaned forward and kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your breath caught.

He kissed you again, higher this time.

The rough grain of the trunk pressed through your shirt beneath you. Hay rustled under Dick’s knees. Somewhere beyond the stable walls, rain continued to fall, concealing the quiet sounds neither of you could entirely control.

Dick’s mouth brushed the crease of your thigh.

You pulled lightly at his hair. “Do you know what you are doing?”

He looked up.

The question had been intended as provocation. His expression suggested he understood that.

“Would you like a list of references?”

You tightened your grip.

He laughed softly. “Jealous.”

“I am reconsidering the wisdom of leaving you armed.”

“My sword is in my chambers.”

“That is not what I meant.”

His grin flashed before he lowered his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue stole the rest of your threat.

Your thighs tensed around his shoulders. Dick held them open, firm enough to keep you where he wanted you without forcing the position. His tongue moved through your wetness, unhurried at first, learning the shape of you and the reactions you could not hide.

You pressed your lips together.

He looked up without lifting his mouth.

The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

You glared at him.

Dick licked slowly over your clit.

Your head tipped back.

A quiet sound escaped you, little more than a breath, but he heard it. His hands tightened on your thighs, and he repeated the motion with greater pressure.

Pleasure unfurled low in your stomach.

You had expected him to tease. Dick treated nearly everything as an invitation to play, and he had spent years provoking you simply to see whether you would respond. Between your thighs, however, his attention sharpened into something almost ruthless.

He watched you.

Every change in your breathing taught him something. When his tongue circled your clit and your hips lifted, he held you closer. When he drew back enough to press two fingers against your entrance, he waited until you looked down at him.

“Still want me?” he asked.

You could have struck him.

Instead, you said, “Yes.”

He slid one finger inside you.

The intrusion was easy, your body already slick from his mouth. Dick’s gaze remained on your face as he worked it deeper, curling experimentally until your grip in his hair became painful.

His eyes lit with discovery.

“You are unbearable,” you whispered.

“You like me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

He added a second finger.

Your legs opened wider.

Dick leaned in again, sealing his mouth over your clit while his fingers moved inside you. The combination tore through the last of your restraint. Your hips rocked toward him, seeking more, and he gave it willingly, following every movement with practiced precision.

You had been quiet in pain before. You had endured arrows pulled from flesh, bruised ribs beneath armor, and wounds stitched beside campfires without allowing Dick to hear more than a hiss between your teeth.

Pleasure proved harder to withstand.

A moan slipped into the stable.

Dick answered with a groan against you.

The vibration made you jerk. Your heel struck the side of the trunk, and one of the horses shifted uneasily in its stall.

“Quiet,” you gasped.

Dick lifted his head. His lips were wet, his hair disordered by your hands, and his eyes held enough satisfaction to be infuriating.

“You’re the one frightening the horses.”

“You are doing it deliberately.”

“Doing what?”

His fingers curled inside you.

Your answer dissolved into another broken sound.

Dick’s smile softened into something hungry.

“That.”

He returned his mouth to you.

You clapped one hand over your lips.

He objected immediately, catching your wrist and pulling it away. He laced his fingers through yours and pressed your joined hands against your thigh while his other hand continued to work between your legs.

“Dick,” you warned.

“I spent six years trying to hear you laugh.” His mouth brushed your inner thigh as he spoke. “I am not letting you hide every other sound from me.”

“We are in a stable.”

“Then you should be quiet.”

You stared at him.

He grinned.

Before you could answer, his tongue returned to your clit, and his fingers found the place inside you that sent heat blazing through your body.

Your hand crushed his.

Dick did not slow. He drove his fingers into you with an increasing rhythm, each stroke drawing you tighter. His mouth alternated between slow, broad licks and concentrated pressure that made your vision blur at the edges.

You tried to keep your voice contained.

The effort lasted until he sucked gently.

Pleasure snapped through you.

Your thighs closed around his head as your body tightened, hips lifting from the trunk. Dick held you through it, fingers continuing their steady motion while your release broke over you in waves.

You said his name.

Louder this time.

He drew out every tremor until you pushed weakly at his shoulder. Only then did he slow, pressing one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before withdrawing his fingers.

Your breathing sounded impossibly loud.

Dick remained kneeling between your legs.

His cheek rested against your knee. The sight of him there—the future king, flushed and smiling, his lips shining with evidence of what he had done—sent a fresh pulse of heat through you.

He lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.

“You are very expressive,” he said.

You covered his mouth with your free hand.

His laughter warmed your palm.

“I should throw you into the horse trough.”

Dick kissed the center of your hand.

“You would catch me before I hit the water.”

“I might reconsider my oath.”

“You love me too much.”

You lowered your hand.

His expression had become softer again, the teasing unable to hide what lay beneath it.

You touched his face.

Dick leaned into your palm.

“I do love you,” you said.

The admission felt different now. There was no armor between you, no council table or formal title behind which to retreat. You sat half undressed on a tack trunk while Dick knelt in the hay, and somehow the indignity made honesty easier.

His eyes closed for a moment.

When they opened, the prince had disappeared. There was only the man who had left pastries beside your gauntlets, trusted you with his nightmares, and spent six years trying to hear you laugh because he wanted some part of you that belonged to neither the crown nor your duty.

“I love you too,” he said.

You drew him up and kissed him.

The taste of yourself lingered on his mouth. Heat rushed through you at the realization, but the kiss remained tender, almost reverent. Dick settled between your knees again, one hand cupping the back of your neck.

His erection pressed against you through his trousers.

You reached for the fastening.

He caught your wrist.

“You don’t have to.”

“I am aware.”

His breath hitched when your palm moved over him.

“Someone may come in,” he reminded you.

“That did not concern you earlier.”

“I’m attempting to be responsible.”

“You are doing it poorly.”

“I’ve had little practice.”

You squeezed lightly.

Dick’s forehead dropped against yours.

“That,” he said hoarsely, “was unkind.”

“You like me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

You laughed.

It burst from you before you could stop it, bright and breathless and still tangled with the pleasure he had given you.

Dick went still.

He drew back just enough to look at you.

You became self-conscious beneath the wonder in his face. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are staring.”

“I know.”

“Stop.”

“I don’t think I can.”

You reached for your trousers.

Dick caught your hand again and kissed it.

“Do that again.”

“I cannot laugh on command.”

“I’m the prince.”

“That authority does not extend to laughter.”

“It should.”

“It does not.”

He kissed your palm. “I’ll petition the council.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Lord Halyard will support me if I promise never to draw his mustache again.”

“You would break that promise before midday.”

“Probably.”

You smiled.

Dick looked as though you had handed him the crown willingly.

The affection in his face threatened to overwhelm you more thoroughly than his mouth had. You tugged your clothing back into place, and he helped without complaint, smoothing the linen of your shirt over your hips once you were covered.

When you stood, your legs felt less steady than you would have preferred.

Dick noticed.

He offered you his arm.

You stared at it.

“I can walk.”

“I have no doubt.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You took his arm anyway.

Sir Whiskers waited beside the stable entrance, ribbon crooked around his neck. Dick bent to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

“I expect discretion from an officer of the Crown.”

“He is not an officer.”

“He has a title.”

“That is not how military appointments work.”

“I’ll correct the oversight tomorrow.”

You guided Dick toward the castle before he could begin drafting official honors for the cat.

Rain had softened to a mist. The stone courtyard shone beneath the lanterns, and the windows of the palace were mostly dark. Dick remained close beside you, his hand covering yours where it rested on his arm.

At the entrance to the private wing, you stopped.

His chambers lay beyond the guarded corridor. Yours were in the opposite direction, near the barracks.

Dick looked toward the stairs, then back at you.

“You could come with me.”

The invitation warmed you, but the night had already changed enough.

“You have a diplomatic breakfast at sunrise.”

“I was hoping you had forgotten.”

“I never forget.”

“Tomorrow night?”

You studied him.

The hopeful uncertainty in his face was so unlike his usual confidence that you could not resist leaning closer.

“Perhaps,” you said.

Dick narrowed his eyes. “You are doing this intentionally.”

“Good night, Your Highness.”

You kissed his cheek and walked away.

His quiet laughter followed you down the corridor.

The following morning, Lord Halyard resumed his report on the southern wheat stores.

Dick sat at the council table dressed in royal blue, his posture attentive and his expression composed. Anyone who did not know him might have believed he was listening.

You stood behind his chair in full armor.

Your face revealed nothing.

Five minutes into the meeting, Dick slid a folded note toward the edge of the table.

You waited until King Bruce looked down at the agricultural records before taking it.

Sir Whiskers requests a formal audience regarding his appointment as Minister of Stable Affairs.

Beneath the words, Dick had drawn the cat wearing a tiny crown.

Your mouth twitched.

Dick turned his head.

“Face forward, Your Highness,” you whispered.

His smile was insufferably pleased.

He obeyed, though only after catching your smile, the one you could no longer quite hide from him.