#andy barber

You don’t envy her. You could never live that lifestyle. Never throw yourself so carelessly into the unknown.

Opposites attract. That’s what they say. Since your first day in college, you’ve been almost inseparable. If it wasn’t for her, you never would’ve done anything with your youth. And without you, she likely would’ve gotten in way too deep by now.

You sit on her sofa, poring over the philosophy textbook that makes you crosseyed. You thought it would be an easy elective. Turns out, you don’t get any of it. It’s all a bunch of ‘what if’ and ‘why?’ but there’s really no answers.

You sigh as Everly giggles at her phone. She never studies. It’s a miracle because her GPA is the same as hers and she barely even makes it to her lectures.

Is that pretty privilege? You’ve heard of it but you always shrugged it off as misogyny or even just jealousy. You’re sure life would be easier if you were like her; blond, five-ten, and blue eyed. Still, you can’t blame her for a roll of the genetic dice.

“Fortelli is going to gut me,” you groan and slap your notebook. “Why do I have to care what some medieval priest said about animals?”

She looks over at you and makes a face. “Oof, weekly quizzes? Fun. You know they answer keys are all online.”

“What?” You scoff.

“Oh yeah. Guy hasn’t updated his lectures since before we were born,” she chirps. “I didn’t have to do all that. I just put on some nice lip gloss–” She pauses and her eyes widen. She stares at her phone. “Um, one sec.”

She stands up and answers the phone. “Hi, daddy.” Her voice raises several octaves in a singsong. “Uh huh. No, that’s strange…” She heads for the door. “I don’t know.” She laughs nervously. “No, daddy, it wasn’t–”

She opens the door and gasps. You glance over as she backs up. A man steps into the dorm and drops the phone from his ear. He taps the screen without looking and tucks it into his pocket.

“Daddy, what are you doing here?” She juggles her phone nervously then hides it behind her back. Her lock screen is here and Charles; that guy she’s been sneaking around with.

Her dad crosses his arms. You don’t move or say a word. He has that stringency to him that makes you feel like even you did something wrong.

You don’t know what you expected but they’re a lot alike; both tall, vibrant blue eyes, attractive. He’s older and there’s bolts of grey around his temples and through his beard. He must be the same age as some of your professors but doesn’t show it as much.

“Ten thousand.” He growls. “Evie,” he snips. “What did you do?”

“Daddy, nothing,” she rocks as she twists her ankles around each other. “Really. I’m being good.”

“I didn’t raise a liar.” He retorts. “Now tell me–”

Your textbook slips and you catch it with a scuffle of paper. You gulp as he glances over at you. His brows arch.

“Hm,” he hums. “I.. let’s talk privately.”

“Daddy, it’s probably just a mistake–”

“Now,” he points her into the next room.

She lives in one of the bougie buildings. You have a single room to her full bath, kitchen, bedroom, and living room. You can't even covet it as she's all too willing to share her spoils.

She pouts and drags her feet to the bedroom. His eyes longer on you and narrow before he follows. You suddenly feel very out of place. It isn't a new feeling, just much more intense.

You slide forward and shut the textbook. Maybe you should go. You planned on staying the night but the campus buses run for a bit longer.

Then again, you can't just run out. You teeter on the edge, of the couch, of uncertainty. You can hear their voices but not their words.

One sentence booms through clearly. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

You're having flashbacks of your own father. He never spared you any shame though. He would've scolded you right then and there and if he needed to give you a smack, he wouldn't shy away from that either.

The door swings open and you flinch. Her father stomps out and slows as he sees you. His lashes flick and his cheek dimples. His throat is all locked up, tendons bulging. He nods and storms out of the dorm.

You sit in silence as you wait. Everly emerges with a sigh. She shakes her head.

“God, my dad is such an ass sometimes. I told him, he'll get the deposit back,” she rolls her eyes.

You stare at her. She's entirely unfazed by the anger. You chew your lip and look down at your hands, clamped tightly around your books. Your joints ache at the tension.

“Oh,” you eke out. The slam of the door still echoes in your head.

“Ugh, please. Don't let him ruin the night,” she flops down with her phone. “He'll come around. I mean, Charles is one of his.”

You don't know what she means exactly. One of his… what? You don't ask.

“Um, okay,” you murmur. “I can go if–”

“Why?” She asks dismissively. “Whatever. He reminded me anyway. You have to come to my appointment!” She squeals and kicks her feet.

“Appointment?” You wonder. 

“Well, secrets out so I may as well enjoy it!” She claps her hands around her phone. “Me and Charles are getting married! I booked the bridal boutique and I have a full Pinterest board of ideas!”

“Married?” You gulp. “But we’re only in second year.”

“Uh huh? And it’s boring. I don’t need school. My dad just wants me to get a degree so he can look like such a responsible father.”

“Hm, right,” you mumble. 

Sometimes, she doesn’t realise how easy she has it. Not the way she looks, or that she is so outgoing. No, she doesn’t worry about tuition or her rent in a place like this. Not with her dad simply storming off because she spent ten thousand dollars; seems like it will stay spent and she’ll get exactly what she wants.

“I know lots of guys like Charles. If you’re interested. They’d love a sweet thing like you,” she smirks. “Oh, they just love taking care of us. All you’d have to do is let me put something cute on you.”

"Thank you, Mr. Barber. I just wish I knew why this was happening."

"Because he doesn't deserve you," Andy mutters under his breath, too quietly for you to hear. "Let's get some of the details ironed out. Do you have a place where you can stay?"

"Um...my mom?"

"You should probably call her. I'll go ahead and cancel some appointments while you do that."

"Mr. Barber, I can't---"

"Andy, please. Just call me Andy."

"I'm sorry, I'm just all out of sorts."

"Understandable. Now go call your mother to make sure you've got a place to stay."

After you've left his office, Andy makes a phone call to a secure number.

"He's followed through on his end of the deal. Send the photos to the usual location."

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

When he'd found out your husband was cheating on you, Andy could've shown you the proof. But with this route, he can be your hero. And when the photos show up in court evidence, he can claim he'd just gotten them, that he'd had no idea. Best of all, you'll get everything in the divorce with that.

And you deserve everything.

You moan for him, loud and shameless, because it makes him angrier. Makes him fuck you harder, like he’s chasing oblivion. Like if he just buries himself deep enough, your heat might thaw the cold that grief carved out.

“Lucky me,” you purr, grinding back. “ADA Barber’s got a soft spot for crime bosses with tight cunts.”

He’s still in his suit, sleeves rolled, pants shoved down, cock buried to the hilt in the same body he promised he’d put behind bars. You’re half-naked beneath him, legs trembling from how hard he’s fucking you.

Your pussy always makes him forget he’s supposed to be a good man.

“You like being bent over your empire, sweetheart?” Andy pants, thrusting harder, cock dragging against every spot that makes your walls pulse around him. “I should drag your pretty ass to holding. Cuff you and keep you there.”

You laugh, wicked. “Cuffs are in the drawer if you want a test run.”

He growls in response. His hand wraps around your throat, hauling you upright against his chest, arching your back so his cock slams into that perfect, unforgiving spot. Your vision blurs. You cry out his name, shaking, cunt clenching hard enough to make him swear.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “All this power and you still come on my cock so fucking pretty.”

He fucks you through your release, until you’re sobbing and pliant in his arms, and the fight drains out of you completely.

“Be a good girl,” Andy snarls, breath hot against your ear. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” you choke out a gasp, the sound almost swallowed by the slap of skin as he keeps driving into you.

That’s what breaks him.

Andy growls low in his chest, hips jerking and control shattering as he spills deep inside you. His teeth sink into your shoulder like it’s the only way to keep from falling apart completely.

Because he’s the law and you’re the rot beneath it. He shouldn’t orbit your fire. 

But where worlds collide and days are dark, Andy Barber finds absolution between your thighs.

You tip toed out of the tiny room and towards the bathroom. The mundane routine of showering, taking and checking your suppressants, getting ready and cooking breakfast for both of you etched into your muscles like a scar. Everyday, every moment blended together for you, but it was better than being on the streets.

"Good morning! Is the breakfast ready?" Tina asked, already hurrying through her routine.

"Yes." You replied dully and clipped your name tag on your burgundy uniform.

"You are the best!" She blew you a kiss and dissappeared into the bathroom. Coming back in her own uniform and damp hair as she jumped straight for the eggs and coffee.

"How do I look?" She asked after sipping her coffee.

"Like usual." You replied, finishing your meal before sipping on your coffee.

"Do I look pretty?" She continued with a huff.

"Yes, that's our entire job as hostesses." To look pretty and pleasing to the powerful alphas visiting The Primordium hotel. The hotel prided itself for being one of the best at catering to the powerful alphas. You were little more than a show piece, a pretty doll but it paid decent and they provided free housing, albeit compact.

But it was way better than working minimum wage jobs at local restaurants as an omega. It was a dangerous and cruel world for omegas. Sometimes even Primordium felt ready to bite you but again, it was better.

Tina scrunched her nose at you and gulped down her coffee. "Don't be like that. I was hoping to get some generous tips since I heard some very important people are coming today." She explained with a smirk.

You sighed. "Tina, just don't. Keep your head down and work. These are not some normal customers at a restaurant. These are powerful people you don't wanna mess with." You warned her for the umpteenth time. You just know she was going to land herself in trouble with her fantasy of jumping the social ladder.

"Umm! Don't be so uptight babe." She finished the last bits of her breakfast and stood up. "And let's go before we get late." She fluttered around the kitchen and took your plates to dump them into the sink.

"And who's fault that would be, huh?"

🛎

"Ladies, today is a very important day and there's no room for mistakes." Harris, your manager hollered as the hostesses stood in a line in their maroon uniform and neat buns as the room fizzled with anticipation.

"But first, why don't you fix your uniforms?" He implied with a grin. Your jaw ticked as you pushed down your dress to reveal more of your chest.

"Perfect, pretty omegas," Harris purred and clapped his hands together. "So the elections are coming up and because of that the Rogers brothers are staying at our hotel while they champaign in the city." The tension shifted from anticipation to anxiety in an instant as the news fell on everyone like a bomb.

Of course, the Rogers brothers were coming to stay in this hotel, they owned it after all. The family riddled with power, secrets and sandals. But Steve and Andrew Rogers were quite charming and because of that, people ignored the scandals and swooned over them like teenage fangirls. Especially how Andrew claimed his wife, poor girl. They have been in the 1% in the 1950s and operated several businesses, this hotel was one of them. So it was but obvious that they would dip their toes in politics eventually and the elder brother, Andrew finally did it.

You flinched as harris called your and Tina's name. You both stepped forward as harris apprised you. "I have seen you both work fairly well together so you two will cater to Andrew and Steve Rogers, understood?" He implored with a tilt of his brow.

"Yes, sir." You said in unison.

"Good, now go and wait in the reception, they will arrive anytime now." He dismissed you and you began walking towards the reception.

You gripped your hands together tightly as your stomach swirled with uneasy. Your intuition was in distress but without any clear reason. Oh well, maybe you were just nervous.

You glanced towards Tina as she walked beside you, a slight flare in her steps and a twinkle in her eyes that made you even more anxious. Something very wrong was brewing inside her head.

🛎

"You should tend to Andrew Rogers." You suggested to Tina, standing by the reception counter.

She blinked and furiously shook her head. "No, no. What if I make a mistake? He's a Presidential candidate," She said, fear flashing in her eyes. "You cater to him."

You sighed. "It's not like I can't make a mistake."

"You are less likely too." She insisted as she fixed her bun.

You opened your mouth to argue but the words died on your lips as a black suv, surround by security stopped at the entrance. You let out a shuddering breath to calm your nerves before reaching the front gate.

Andrew and Steve Rogers exited the car, their presence similar and opposing at the same time. Andrew wore a classic black suit paried with a charming smile, hair black and fluffy, making him look approachable when he was far from that.

Steve, having no such obligation, had an unreadable yet calm expression on his face. He was also wearing a black suit but his shirt was of teal blue color, making his blue eyes more striking, his blonde hair swept back.

Tina and you greeted them, your eyes flickering towards Steve beneath your lashes. He was so tall... and so was Andrew.

"Thank you ladies, we appreciate the effort." Andrew's said, his words coming out like a symphony practiced to perfection as he flashed an endearing smile. His scent, sandalwood and musk hitting your senses.

His words broke through your reverie as you swiftly moved towards Steve before Tina could reach him. Your eyes met for a second before you dropped your gaze and took off his coat. Steve gave a polite nod as you did so.

That was when it hit you. Petrichor, his scent. The earthly fragrance made your pulse quicken and your mouth water involuntarily but you kept your mask of professionalism intact.

"Let’s check in." Steve said to his brother, his deep voice almost making you flinch.

You gulped. "Please, this way." You said evenly.

His brow flicked up before he gestured forward. You turned to walk inside as you caught the stiff posture of Tina as she narrowed her eyes at you. She was definitely pissed but it was better than whatever stupid dreams she had in her head.

Your heels clicked on the marble floor as you led him to the reception of this opposing building. The hotel was enveloped in the shades of black and gold, large glass doors, with a statue of Achilles situated at the centre of the reception, cut from a single stone. The air was crisp, devoid of any scent due to the scent ventilation and strict suppressants usage by the staff.

You stood a few feet away from Steve and Andrew as they checked into the hotel.

"Why did you go for Steve?" Tina hissed in your ears and you side eyed her.

"Because he was closest to me." You replied

"Liar." She responded with a glare.

"Don't even think about it, Tina." You gritted out.

"I can and I will. Watch me." She moved closer to Steve as you just closed your eyes and sighed tiredly.

He turned around and she glanced at him. "Let me show you to your suite, sir." Tina said in a honeyed voice, fluttering her lashes.

He let her finish before his eyes landed on you. "It's ok, she can do that for me." He replied, tilting his brow.

"Yes, of course. Please come." You said with practiced warmth as Tina's jaw twitched but she said nothing, diverting her attention towards Andrew.

You went to the elevator, he walked inside first and you followed him inside. You pressed the button to 34th floor and waited.

You could feel his gaze, burning a hole through your skin but you ignored it as it was usual for alphas to stare, at least he wasn't touching...

You sighed when the elevator dinged, reaching its destination. You quickly left, gliding to the grand suite with adjacent rooms. You showed him the suite. It had the same black and gold color scheme. The living area had a mini bar, marble desk and leather couches and floor to ceiling windows.

Every room had scent sealers, which blocked any pheromones during rut or heat to leak into the meeting area. While the living area had the same crisp, ozone scent of the ventilators.

"This is your room, sir. You can let me know if you need anything." You said, showing him the room. It accompanied everything an alpha of his stature would require. Everything that you can only touch as a servant.

"Where's my luggage?" He asked.

"I got everything organized from your luggage before you arrived." You explained simply but your blood turned ice when he just stared at you.

You always did that, had the luggage of the guests organized so that they wouldn't have to worry about it after a tiring journey. But his blank stare made you feel like a criminal. "I apologise if i overstepped sir-"

"No, I like that. You made my job easy." He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

You dipped your head and smiled. "Do you need anything?"

"No, you may leave." He dismissed you and sat on the cushioned chair, near the mini bar.

"Alright. If you need anything just press that intercom and we'll attend to you." You replied, gesturing towards the button at the corner of the marble desk and on his nightstand.

"...Will it be you?" He asked nonchalantly, inspecting the gin bottle.

You paused. "It will be one of us, rest assured."

When he didn't respond, you took it as your cue to leave. You turned on your heels and retrieved, just as your fingers touched the door, his calm yet commanding voice caused you to abruptly halt and look at him.

Giddy with enthusiasm to start your day, you hopped out of bed when it was still early in the morning, especially for the weekend. But you’d waited as long as you could, so you eagerly got ready with a bounce in your step and a smile on your face. 

From your closet, you pulled the skimpiest bikini you owned, one that was little more than tiny scraps of fabric held together by thin strings. It left nothing to the imagination, and it gave you a sense of satisfaction to imagine how the buttoned-up lawyer-next-door would react to seeing you in it.

Flouncing downstairs, you paused only briefly to make an iced coffee and grab one of your smutty romance novels before making your way outside.

The patio around your pool was drenched in warm, golden sunlight, a soft breeze blowing through your yard to keep the heat bearable. You took a deep breath, soaking in the scent of freshly mowed grass and the late summer flowers of your garden—a mix of zinnias and black-eyed susans. 

You loved this time of year, when the high heat of summer had burned off, leaving the smoldering, delicious warmth of August’s cooler nights and bright sunny days. If you could live your entire life in one slice of a season, it would be this.

Bubbly joy filled your chest and a bright grin was spread across your face as you made yourself comfortable on your favorite sun lounger—the one that had a perfect view of the kitchen window in the Barber house. 

You didn’t see the smudge of shadow that meant Andy was inside, which sent a tiny pang of disappointment curling through your belly, but you reminded yourself it was still early. Perhaps the 40-something lawyer needed to sleep in after all the excitement of yesterday.

That thought had you smirking to yourself and you flipped your book open to a page you knew well. You’d read this particular romance novel before, so you knew exactly where to find your favorite smutty sex scene. Settling into the lounger, you sipped your coffee and began to read.

By the time you felt the familiar electric current zip down your spine that meant Andy Barber was watching you, your body was already warm with desire. The book had done the trick and your arousal was already making a mess of the scrap of fabric between your thighs.

Lifting your eyes from your book, you caught a glimpse of Andy’s shadow in the window of his kitchen before he disappeared. It was so much like those mornings when he’d disappeared after simply watching you that your heart dipped unpleasantly, but it perked up a moment later when Andy stepped out his back door.

Your body shifted on the sun lounger, almost without your notice, crossing your legs enticingly and arching your spine so your tits were pushed up, straining against the thin strings of your bikini. Your nipples were already hard and aching, clear as day against the thin fabric of your suit.

The closer Andy got, the more his expression darkened with desire. His blue eyes were raking unabashedly over your body, feasting on every inch of exposed skin like it was a meal only for him—which, of course, it was. Surely he knew that by now…

“Is this all for me, sunshine?” Andy rumbled, his voice gruff with barely leashed lust as he came to a stop next to your lounger, casting a shadow across your face. 

Setting your book aside, you skated your fingertips teasingly up your thigh and over your hip, toying with the ties of your bikini for a moment before moving higher. You heard the hitch in Andy’s breath when your fingers traced the curve of your tits, and a smile tugged slowly on the corners of your lips.

“It’s always been all for you, Mr. Barber,” you said huskily, catching Andy’s eye and arching your body toward him in a sensual, lustful presentation.

For a moment, Andy’s jaw just worked, the muscle popping as he chewed over what to say. While you waited for him to decide, you were gratified to see the bulge growing in his jeans. Your fingertips lightly teased your aching nipples, your smile growing when his cock twitched in his pants.

“You’re too good for me, sunshine,” Andy murmured, and the tenor of his voice had the breath rushing out of you. 

The fear that Andy might pull away before you’d ever really had him struck deep in your heart and you sat up quickly, grabbing his hand. You laced your fingers through his until your palms were pressed together and you peered up at him, letting him see the genuine honesty in your eyes as you spoke.

“I want this, Andy,” you said, squeezing his hand lightly before pulling it to your chest. You pressed the back of his hand against your sternum, so he could feel the way your heart raced. “I want you.”

“You want a divorced, 40-something lawyer who works too much and has no idea how to do this anymore?” Andy asked, gesturing between the two of you with his free hand, bitterness dripping from his tone. His face was guarded, but you could’ve sworn you saw something deep in his eyes, something that looked like hope.

Spurred on by that spark in his gorgeous blue eyes, you pushed yourself up to standing, gratified when Andy didn’t step back. Your bodies were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, and for a moment, you basked in the feeling of him. It was the first time you’d ever been so close.

Andy Barber was hotter than the sun in his simple jeans and t-shirt, a hint of the silver chain he wore around his neck peeking out. You couldn’t help the way your body swayed into him, not quite touching, but aching to. Instead, you squeezed his hand again, still holding on.

“I want the man who’s my hot, friendly, charming neighbor, the generous man who always offers to mow my lawn or carry my groceries even when he’s busy,” you said, speaking slowly to make sure Andy heard every word you said. “I want the man who makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every time he looks at me—the one who drives me so wild that I’ve been showing off for him all summer hoping he’d finally take a hint and ask me out.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you felt laid bare after your pronouncement. You felt so much more vulnerable admitting your feelings than you ever had showing off your body, and you wondered briefly—morosely—if Andy would leave you hanging like he did all those other mornings.

Andy was quiet for a long time, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for any hint that you weren’t being entirely truthful. However, you had nothing to hide. You’d told him how you felt, how you’d been feeling all summer, and it was up to him to figure out how to handle it.

“He sounds like kind of an idiot,” Andy rumbled, raking his free hand through his fluffy brown hair. The gesture was uncertain, but there was a glimmer of humor in his gaze, and in the flickering corners of his mouth. “Maybe you’d be better off with someone else.”

You could hear the insecurity in his tone, and a sad smile curved your lips. He’d barely finished the sentence before you were shaking your head. 

“He’s the one I want,” you said simply, closing the distance between your bodies and pressing lightly against Andy’s chest. For a second, your head spun at the exhilarating feeling of him, but you refocused, pressing his hand to your sternum again. “My heart’s set on him.”

Andy took a deep breath, his chest rubbing against your aching nipples and sending a delicious shiver down your spine. It took all your self-control to hold yourself back from rubbing against him and begging him to fuck you. Somehow, you knew Andy just needed time, so you gave it to him.

“Well, sunshine,” Andy murmured, cupping your cheek in his big palm. His touch was cool compared to the warmth of the sun and you nuzzled into him, your eyes going heavy-lidded as you stared into his handsome face. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you said quickly, just to drive your point home that you were sure. 

You were rewarded with Andy’s soft smile and his even softer, “Alright.” He ducked his head, pressing his forehead to yours.

Inside your chest, your heart soared. Andy Barber was finally going to give you what you wanted—him. You were so sure he was going to kiss you, a buzzy awareness filling your body as you tipped your head back, ready to slant your lips to his. You could taste the coffee on Andy’s breath, and you wanted to lick the taste from his lips.

But before your mouths could connect, Andy was pulling away, leaving you feeling bereft. A cry of protest rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down when he dropped a quick kiss to your knuckles, which stopped you from feeling too disappointed. 

There was a smirk flirting around the edges of Andy’s mouth, and there was a heated promise in his gaze as he stared at you. It only took a second for you to realize that Andy wanted to have a little fun before you took things further—and he’d rightly guessed that if you kissed, you didn’t know if you’d be able to stop yourself from jumping him.

“How about that dip in the pool?” Andy asked, back to his charming, friendly self—back to the game the two of you had been playing. “It’s another scorcher today, and I could use a little relief.”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Andy that you needed some relief from the heat swirling in your core, but you were too curious about what he was up to. So you let him pull his hand from yours and gestured welcomingly to your pool. “By all means…”

Then, right in front of you, Andy Barber began to strip. 

Reaching behind his back, he tugged his shirt over his head, ruffling his fluffy brown hair and revealing the wide expanse of his broad, golden chest. There was so much to look at, and all you could do was stare.

Andy’s shoulders were deliciously broad, his pecs covered in a dusting of dark brown hair that led down to his belly, and even further down… His skin was also decorated in a smattering of freckles that ran up his toned arms and across his collarbones, which were highlighted by the silver chain he always wore.

There was a layer of softness to Andy’s body that belied the strength you knew resided in his corded muscles, and it only made you ache for him even more. The tight coil of need in your belly wound even tighter as your gaze followed the path of hair down to his belly, where it disappeared into his jeans.

“Ya like what ya see, sunshine?” Andy asked, his tone friendly and teasing, but there was an undertone to it that revealed his own lust. It occurred to you, suddenly, that he liked it when you looked at him just as much as you liked the feeling of him watching you. 

The realization had your mouth curving into a smirk, and you wrenched your gaze up to Andy’s face to let him see the naked desire in your eyes. 

“Oh, I like it very much, Mr. Barber,” you murmured huskily, teasingly skating your fingertips down your sides to play with the ties of your bikini. “I’m feeling a little hot and bothered, might need to join you in the pool.”

At that, Andy grinned, his eyes dipping down your body to rake appreciatively over the way you looked in your skimpy bikini. It made you practically glow with pride and you grinned back, your own gaze greedily wandering his body.

In his jeans, Andy’s cock was hard and bulging, and you could imagine it was beginning to get uncomfortable. It was a good thing, then, that he made quick work of shucking off his jeans and socks, leaving them with his shoes by the sun lounger beside yours. 

Andy reached out, brushing his fingers over the back of your hand as he walked past, moving toward the pool. His touch sent tingles dancing through your body, and you desperately wanted to grab him and drag him back, but you wanted to see how this played out first.

“Join me whenever you want, sunshine,” Andy said, before pausing next to you and catching your eye. “Until then, enjoy the show.” He brushed a quick kiss to your cheek, his beard rasping against your skin and sending a shiver of delight down your spine.

Then he was gone, strolling to the edge of the pool and executing a smooth dive into the cool water. 

Your legs felt weak, all the blood in your body rushing between your thighs, where you were throbbing with need, so you sank down onto your sun lounger. You watched with breathless anticipation thrumming in your blood as Andy cut a clean line through the water, swimming laps like he didn’t have a significant bulge between his thighs.

You were too riled up to sit still for long, and when you couldn’t stop squirming on the lounger, you gave up the pretense of watching to walk to the edge of the pool. There, you sat down, dipping your feet into the pool and letting its coolness give you some relief. 

For a little while, you watched Andy swim laps, his golden skin a contrast to the bright blue water. Leaning back on your hands, you kicked your feet idly as you watched him unabashedly, your eyes taking in the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, the curve of his trim waist and the perfect flex of his ass and thighs.

When he finally came to a stop, treading water in the middle of your pool, he looked around and grinned when he found you sitting on the edge. Swimming over, his hands gripped the lip of the pool on either side of your hips, a shameless grin on his handsome face. 

Andy made a show of looking at you, his eyes lingering on the plushness of your thighs pressed against the stone edge before dragging slowly up to your tits and peaked nipples. His gaze felt like a physical caress, it was so intent on your body, and your tits bounced a little as your breathing quickened.

Finally, Andy’s eyes collided with yours, and you sucked in a gasp at the sheer amount of heat in his gaze. It perfectly matched the desire burning in your belly. You wanted to jump him so bad, but you tried to act as if you were indifferent to the hot older man in front of you.

“How’s the pool? Refreshing?” you asked, trying to distract yourself from the tension swirling thickly around you and your neighbor. However, your voice was so breathless, you still sounded as if you were panting like you were in heat. 

Andy noticed, the corner of his mouth curving up into a ridiculously self-satisfied smirk. The expression was so distinctly masculine, it made your core clench and you squirmed a little, pressing your thighs together for some semblance of relief. 

“It’s perfect,” he purred and you nearly trembled at the seductive heat in his voice. “And it’s even nicer with you sitting on the edge, looking so pretty in your little swimsuit while you watch me.”

“Andy.” His name was a helpless exhalation, your heart racing faster in your chest the longer you stared at your handsome neighbor. Up close, you could see the fine lines around his blue eyes, and a little smattering of gray in his beard. 

The evidence of Andy Barber’s age was a reminder that he was older than you, but it also made him all the more handsome in your eyes. You swayed toward him, pushing your tits out as if in offer, and he let out a little growl of desire.

“What do you want, sunshine—want to give me some of those pointers on how to improve my show,” Andy began, his voice as low and rough as gravel. “Or do you want to join me in the pool and let me get some hands-on experience with how to please you?”

Your brows winged up and your eyes widened with delight at the second option Andy presented. It didn’t take you more than a second of thought to decide you wanted your neighbor’s hands on your body—and you hoped desperately that led to his cock in your cunt.

The question was barely out of Andy’s mouth before you were slipping into the pool. He stepped back and straightened his arms to give you room, but didn’t move his hands from the edge of the pool. That meant that as you slid into the water, your body rubbed against his bigger, sturdier frame.

Andy held your gaze the entire time, your body rioting with sensation at the drag of his hard muscles against your softer, plusher body. His blue eyes darkened and it felt like your skin was engulfed in flames, even as the cool water of the pool swirled around you.

Once your toes touched the bottom of the pool, Andy crowded you into the side, pinning you between the tiled wall and his hard body. Your hands rested on his biceps, distractedly learning the curve of his muscles, and you gasped softly when his bulge brushed against your belly.

“This is what you do to me, sunshine,” Andy murmured, his voice low as he pressed his hips forward, digging his hard bulge deeper into your softness. “You’ve been driving me wild all summer, making me fuck my first more than I have since I was a teenager.”

“Mm, it made me so wet knowing you were watching me,” you teased, winding your arms around his broad shoulders and lifting your legs to circle his waist. “I would’ve been more than happy to help you with your predicament, Mr. Barber.”

Your core settled against his thick bulge and you closed your eyes as pleasure burst through your body, a soft, helpless moan slipping from your lips. He felt so big and thick, you knew he was going to fit inside you perfectly, and your body was already aching for exactly that. 

Andy’s growl brought you back to the moment. “Stop calling me Mr. Barber like you’re the naughty girl next door,” he rumbled, his hands falling from the edge of the pool to grab your hips. He rubbed you shamelessly against his bulge, wringing a moan from you. “Or are you calling me that because what you really want is to call me daddy.”

Your pussy clenched and you clung tighter to Andy, humping against his bulge while you moaned in his ear, “Fuck, daddy, your cock feels so big and hard against my pussy.” You dragged your slit down the length of his dick, the scrap of fabric of your bikini already slipping to one side. “What are you gonna do about it?”

With a tortured groan, Andy captured your lips in a kiss, stealing the filthy words from your tongue and plundering your mouth for all you were worth. His fingers yanked on the strings of your top until he could pull it free and toss it onto the patio.

Then Andy was groping your tits and grunting his satisfaction into your mouth. His hands were so big and strong, his deft fingers pinching and plucking at your nipples, wringing soft moans and desperate whines from your mouth, which he greedily swallowed down.

Andy was quick to figure out what made your breath hitch and what had you moaning helplessly into his kiss; he put that knowledge to good use, turning you into a writhing mess in his arms.

All you could do was hold onto him, your arms tightening around his shoulders, your fingers carding through his soft brown hair. You raked your nails down his neck and across his shoulders, enjoying the way he shuddered against your body.

Andy’s mouth broke from yours to trail kisses down your jaw, nipping and teasing your throat while his beard rasped deliciously against your skin. It sent tingles of pleasure dancing through your body, leaving you to hump mindlessly against his bulge.

“Oh god, Andy, I need more,” you cried, burying your face in the base of his neck, mouth suckling on the skin just above his collarbone. He tasted like salt and chlorine and you didn’t think you’d ever get enough. “Please, daddy, I need you.”

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you, sunshine?” Andy rumbled with a deep chuckle, the vibration teasing between your thighs. You rocked your hips, grinding harder against his bulge while he played with your tits. “Why don’t you tell daddy exactly what you need, and then maybe I’ll give it to you.”

You huffed a petulant sound at the teasing in Andy’s tone, but lifted your head to look him in the eye. You were gratified to see he was just as wrecked with lust as you were, and a smile flirted around the edges of your mouth at the realization that you were both in this moment together.

“I need you to fuck me, daddy,” you said plainly, growing impatient with all the games you’d played that summer. You felt like he’d been edging you for months, and you were ready for a good, hard pounding. “I need you to split me open on your fat cock and fuck me like a slut. I’ve waited so long—please, Andy, give it to me. I need it—I need you.”

“Oh fuck, baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Andy groaned, kissing you again. His hands slid down your sides, fingers tearing at the strings of your bikini until the scrap of fabric was finally wrenched away. In the next moment, he was shoving his boxer briefs down, freeing his hard length.

Then Andy was lining up the head of his cock with your tight entrance, dragging the tip through your soaked folds. You were already drenched and dripping for him before you’d even gotten in the pool, and all the grinding against his bulge had only made you needier. 

Still, when he began pressing inside, it stole the breath from your lungs. 

“Oh god, Andy, yes, give it to me,” you babbled quietly in Andy’s ear, barely enough air to get the words out. You held him tight in your arms while he lowered your hips onto his cock, slowly impaling you on his thick length. “Daddy, daddy, please!”

“Jesus fuck, baby,” Andy grunted, shunting his hips forward until half his cock was hilted inside you. A high-pitched squeak tumbled from your lips and pleasure coursed through your body, pleasure singing in your blood at the burn of him stretching you open.

Distantly, you were aware that you were still in your backyard, which only offered an illusion of privacy, so you buried your face in Andy’s beard, muffling a moan into the coarse, dark hair. He was so big and thick inside you, making room in your tight cunt for his fat cock, that you were trembling in his arms from how good it felt. 

“Y’alright, sunshine?” Andy asked, one of his hands stroking up and down your spine in a soothing gesture. 

You nodded into his neck. “Feels sooo good, daddy,” you murmured, enjoying the way his cock twitched at the endearment. “Deeper, daddy, need you deeper, all the way—want you to fill up my tight cunt with your big daddy cock.”

Andy groaned like he was being tortured, but he grabbed your hips and pulled you all the way down on his cock. You stifled a scream into his beard, your mouth biting into his jaw through the coarse hair and making him grunt, his cock twitching inside you.

For a long, hazy moment you let your body adjust to the feeling of Andy’s cock buried inside you. It was such an intense feeling of fullness, and you already knew you’d never get enough of it. Andy Barber could stuff you full of his cock every day of your life and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Before too long, though, you grew impatient for the friction your body craved. You squirmed against Andy, trying to fuck yourself on his cock, but he pinned you more firmly against the side of the pool, keeping his cock buried deep in your tight cunt.

“Gimme a minute, sunshine,” Andy rumbled, his voice warm with affection as he pressed kisses to your cheek before capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. When he pulled away, his forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna savor this—the first time daddy’s cock is buried in his baby girl’s cunt.”

The filthiness of his words had a delicious shiver skating down your spine and an obscene moan slipping from your lips. You didn’t know which of you closed the distance between your mouths, but in the next breath you were kissing desperately, making out with your hot older neighbor in your pool while you were impaled on his cock. 

By the time Andy slowed the kiss, your body had relaxed in his arms. You were draped loosely around his sturdy frame, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails raking through the hair at the nape of his neck, and your legs wound around his waist, ankles resting on the curve of his ass.

“That’s a good girl,” Andy cooed in your ear, smoothing his hands up and down your bare back. “Just keep daddy’s cock warm for a minute while he makes sure he doesn’t come too soon.”

Despite the loose, relaxed feeling in your limbs, you snickered into Andy’s beard. “Really showing your age, old man,” you teased, purposefully clenching around his cock and wringing a grunt from your neighbor.

He pulled back and gave you the harshest glare he could muster, which wasn’t harsh at all. If anything, it was adorable. But you gave Andy a sweet kiss all the same in apology. 

“I like it,” you murmured into his mouth, letting the truth spill freely. “I like knowing I have such an effect on you.”

Andy’s mouth curved into a smile against yours, and you could practically taste the affection on his lips. “You have no idea, sunshine, the effect you have on me,” he said, his words sounding like a promise. 

Before you could ask him what he meant, his hands were sliding under your ass and he began to move you on his cock. Your body was buoyed by the water, making you basically weightless, and Andy used that to his advantage, lifting you up and pulling you down on his hard length. 

“Be a good girl and take it, sunshine, take my cock like the pretty little slut I know you are,” he growled, fucking you in hard, deep strokes. With every thrust, the tip of his cock brushed against a spot inside you that had you seeing stars, and you gave yourself over to the sensation.

You threaded your fingers in Andy’s hair, holding on tight as he fucked you, enjoying the feeling of his thick cock dragging in and out of your tight pussy. When he hiked you up higher against his chest, his head ducking down so he could lick and suck at your tits, you squealed, the sound dissolving into a moan.

Curling around Andy’s big body, you buried your face in the crown of his head, trying to muffle your sounds of pleasure. You’d remembered far too late that even though the trees around your property shielded your yard from view, there was nothing stopping the noises of you and Andy fucking from carrying on the breeze.

Thankfully, it was still early on a Sunday morning, and most of the neighborhood wasn’t awake yet. Otherwise, you had no doubt someone would’ve been calling in a noise complaint to the HOA.

The pleasure in your core coiled tighter as you rushed toward your release. When your pussy was fluttering around Andy’s cock, he yanked you back down into the water and pinned you against the wall of the pool, pounding into you relentlessly. 

All you could do was take it, clinging on to Andy while he fucked you, moaning helplessly with every brutal thrust of his cock in your tight pussy. It wasn’t long before you were close, the sounds spilling from your lips becoming more and more high-pitched and desperate. 

“Daddy, please, cum inside me,” you begged, burying your face in his beard and whining your need into his sun-warmed skin. “I’m on birth control, just pump me full—please, Andy.”

“Fuck, yes, baby, daddy’s gonna fill you up,” Andy groaned, grinding his hips between your thighs. The movement had his cock stroking that spot inside you, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit. “Cum for me, sunshine, wanna feel your perfect cunt milking my dick dry while your pussy sucks all the cum from my balls.”

“Oh god, Andy,” you cried, teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle the piercing scream that spilled from your throat as you came. Your body convulsed in your neighbor’s arms, pleasure overwhelming your mind until all that was left was you and him and his cock inside your clenching pussy.

Your release triggered Andy’s, and he came a moment later, his mouth pressed against the side of your throat as he groaned his pleasure. You felt the bite of his teeth and it only sent your pleasure spiralling higher, making your release last even longer. 

Through your haze of pleasure, you felt Andy’s cock twitch as he spilled rope after rope of cum inside your pussy, painting your inner walls white. He groaned against your neck and held you crushed to his chest, his hips jerking as your body wrung every last drop from his cock.

It was everything you’d wanted—better even than all the fantasies you’d had about Andy Barber all summer, because it was real. He was really in your arms, his cock coming inside you, claiming you, his mouth murmuring sweet, possessive words against your skin.

“My girl, my sweet girl, my perfect girl.”

You hid your smile in Andy’s beard, nails digging into his skin as you clung on to him, your bodies writhing together and eking out every bit of pleasure you could. 

When you were both finally spent and exhausted, Andy carried you over to the tiled steps in your pool and collapsed, keeping both of your bodies submerged in the cool water. He leaned back, and you sprawled across his broad body, enjoying the feeling his chest hair teasing your nipples.

“Was that worth the wait, sunshine?” Andy asked, a hint of insecurity in his voice that had your heart clenching in your chest. His hands were lovingly stroking your back, but you could feel the tension in his body.

You lifted your head from where it had been laying against this shoulder and cupped Andy’s handsome face in your hands. Your fingers teased through his beard, nails scratching lightly at the skin beneath. He practically purred at the feeling and you had to bite back a bigger grin.

“It was everything I’d waited all summer for,” you said honestly, ducking forward and capturing Andy’s mouth in a sweet, decadent kiss. When you pulled away, you couldn’t stop yourself from adding a snarky comment: “I’m still waiting for you to ask me out, though.” 

Andy chuckled against your mouth, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze before his hand slid up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck. He pulled you in for a kiss, this one all happy smiles and teasing nips. When you were sufficiently breathless, he finally pulled away. 

“Can I take you out to dinner tonight, sunshine?” he asked, a small smirk on his lips. 

You knew he had a right to look and sound self-satisfied—you were, after all, going to say yes. But you made a show of making him sweat a little. Leaning back, you tapped your chin, acting like you were checking your schedule in your head and thinking it over.

Andy chuckled at your antics and waited patiently, though he did start rocking his hips, fucking you in shallow, grinding thrusts that had your head going hazy with renewed pleasure. 

Finally, after another moment of his teasing rocking, you put Andy out of his misery. “I’d like that,” you said, your voice more than a little breathless, before leaning in for another kiss.

Andy’s relief and happiness were palpable as he kissed you. His mouth moved slowly, methodically, against yours, and it took you a moment to realize what he was doing—that he was deliberately exploring your body, taking the time you hadn’t given him earlier to learn you.

With a smile that he licked from your mouth, you settled in on Andy’s lap, kissing him back and reveling in the knowledge that you had all the time in the world to explore him and learn him in return. After so long spent dreaming about your neighbor, you were going to take your time getting to know him, and his body, better.

You spent the rest of the morning with Andy Barber, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the pool and the rekindling heat between your bodies. For a while, you kept his cock warm while you sat in his lap in the pool. When he was ready for another round, you rode him lazily, delighting in the pleasure of his cock inside you.

After, you recovered together on one of the sun loungers on your patio, where you told him about all the books you’d read that summer and he’d opened up about himself. The sun was dipping low in the sky, the afternoon bleeding into evening when you finally parted ways.

That evening, Andy took you out to a nice dinner, and you discovered you didn’t need to be wearing a skimpy bikini for him to rake his eyes appreciatively over your body. You just needed to be you.

Despite how much you’d talked during the day, you and Andy didn’t run out of conversation topics at dinner, and it was an enjoyable date. So enjoyable, in fact, that you went home with him afterward—though nothing much happened.

After such a long day spent in the sun, the two of you ended up falling asleep on the couch together instead of continuing what you’d begun in the pool that morning. At some point in the night, Andy led you up to his bedroom, and you fell back to sleep together, entirely entwined.

You woke the next morning with a smile on your face and Andy’s arms wrapped around your body. There was an autumn chill in the air, so you snuggled deeper into his chest, enjoying the way his arms tightened around you and held you close.

As summer turned to fall, your relationship with the hot older man next door deepened and turned into something profoundly meaningful. Andy Barber went from being a good neighbor to a good boyfriend—and, eventually, he became a good husband.

part 1 ☀️ part 2 ☀️ part 3

It started with stray, lingering touches, because it was torture to have you—so beautiful and sweet—sitting across from him week after week, and yet still, Andy couldn’t have you. 

No matter how much he knew it was exactly what you needed, him to protect you and appreciate you, someone who had a deep understanding and sympathy for your issues but who could also, in time, he was sure of it, lure you out of your shell and, at the very least, make that tempting body of yours come alive. 

But after just a few weeks, touches weren’t enough. 

Andy needed to taste you, and not just that sweet mouth, oh no. He needed to feast on your pussy like a man starved. 

So of course Andy took it as “a sign” that the same day that he woke up from the most intense wet dream ever—dreaming of ruining you from his place between your thighs—you wore a pretty dress for him, for the first time in weeks. 

If that wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. 

As exquisite as it was to drink from your sweet cunt, nothing compared to the first time he filled you with his cock. 

You were under just enough that you couldn’t resist—not that you would, he was sure of it—but still aware enough that you could feel him and hear him and respond to him. 

Beg him. 

And you did. 

He had barely stretched you open before you were mewling and moaning and pleading for more, your fingers curling into his crisp button down, your mouth as responsive as your cunt around his cock as he dipped close and kissed you deeply. 

And the icing on the cake? Without any prompting or influence at all, you said his name, his given name–”Andy!”–as you came around his cock, sending him over the edge right after you. 

Andy groaned against your neck as he pumped into you a few more times, spilling his seed deep and marking you in the most intimate way he could. Making you his completely, whether you knew it or not–for now, anyway. 

And once he was done? Andy cleaned your sensitive cunt with his mouth, forcing another orgasm from you, eyes shining as your fingers gripped his hair, your eyes still closed and face sweetly twisted with your pleasure. 

Andy shifted your panties back into place, tugging your dress back down and smoothing it for good measure. He stole one more kiss before returning to his chair across from the sofa where you laid, now freshly debauched by him, and clueless about it. 

He took his time gently pulling you back to the surface of consciousness. Smiling encouragingly as your shy gaze briefly met his as you sat up and primly tugged your dress as far down as it would go, crossing your legs at your ankles before folding your hands in your lap. 

“How do you feel?” Andy asked. 

He barely suppressed a smirk as you squirmed in your seat, avoiding his gaze. 

“Um, good actually. I don’t feel as tense as when I first got here.” A small, beautiful smile broke out across your face as you glanced up at him. “I guess our work is paying off, huh?”

“I certainly think so,” Andy grinned, making a note in his pad. “I say we strike while the iron is hot and double up our weekly sessions for the time being, what do you think?”

“If that’s what you think is best, Dr. Barber, then let’s do it.”

Smiling, Andy resisted the urge to praise you with a gentle “good girl.” He promised himself that he’d save that for your next session, which he could barely wait for, growing hard again already merely at the thought of having you again. 

And again, and again.

I won’t even apologize 😌

—

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He opens the fridge and stands there, hand on the door, looking for the thing he knows he doesn’t have: some dinner that isn’t toast or yogurt. He glances at his phone, no messages. He looks around before releasing a deep sigh. The house always feels too silent.

Now he’s back at the door, peering through the storm glass, the box still waiting unobtrusively before him.

It isn’t his birthday, not for another three months. He’s not sure who would send him a package anyway, and he’d made no orders recently. Andy’s neighbors are too old to bother with pranks. He opens the screen, bends down to collect the box, and slips the package under his arm, carrying it in to the kitchen counter.

A neat arrangement of flowers emerges as he opens the box. No cellophane, just a pale blue tissue cushioning the stems and a small card. Not even in an envelope. The handwriting is blocky: TO ANDY. That’s it. No return address, no signature, just his name as if that alone would explain everything.

He looks at the flowers: some kind of bloom he’s never seen before. The petals seem delicate, and they’re a strange, precise shade of ivory, each petal streaked with a faint green that seems to deepen as he stares. The scent is so thick he almost recoils, first overly sweet, almost rotten with anticipation, syrupy-sweet and high-pitched, but settling, after a breath, into something lusher, like the inside of a greenhouse after rain. The air feels heavy, and on a second, unguarded inhale, his chest swells with a pleasant, tingling warmth. He can feel the pink rising along his neck, the way his hands want to fidget, like he’s standing awkwardly at a middle school dance, which is so strange he almost laughs. The scent—if he admits it, even to himself—reminds him of you, his new neighbor.

He wonders if you’re home, and the thought is so sudden, so absurd, he nearly puts the flowers back in the box. But that would be ridiculous.

He’s only met you twice: once waving from your side of the street as you retrieved your mail from the mailbox at the curb, and once at the neighborhood meeting, where after introductions were made the two of you had exchanged a handful of words about the late pick-up of recycling before Janice had called the meeting to order.

Maybe he should give the flowers to you.

No, that would also be ridiculous. He hardly knows you.

He goes to the kitchen sink and fills a water glass, digs under the cabinet for the only vase he owns—one of those heavy-glass things, left behind by someone in the house before it was his, maybe a relic of a more optimistic era, or more likely, a leftover from a florist’s upcharge. He arranges the flowers, still cautious, sets them in the middle of the kitchen table. For a minute he stands, simply staring, as if they might reveal something by being observed.

He sits at the table, scrolling his phone, forcing himself to focus on the news, but the scent of the flowers—now more bearable, even comforting—keeps lapping at his attention. He tries to read about the city council’s new water restrictions. Then about the meteor shower predicted for next week. When he looks up, the glass vase is throwing long, refracted ovals of green-tinted light onto the table, and the petals are trembling faintly, as if in a draft. There is no draft. He wonders what kind of flowers these even are. The urge to Google it is strong—maybe they’re from some rare local shrub. Maybe you’d know.

He huffs in frustration, then pushes away from the table. He makes his usual evening circuit through the house—checking doors, clicking on the living room lamp, pulling a can from the fridge—but each time he passes the kitchen, the wet-glass shimmer of the flowers is waiting, like a question he forgot to answer. He hovers in the doorway during commercials as he pretends to watch the game while really watching the slow collapse of petals in the vase. He tries to remember what you looked like across the street, what you were wearing, but all he can recall is how you hadn’t noticed him at first, and how that felt sharp and interesting in a way he didn’t know what to do with.

He eats cold noodles over the sink and finds himself rehearsing, in his head, how you might react if he brought you the flowers after all. What kind of note would he write? Would you even open the door?

The phone buzzes—a work group text, something about interviews for the new interns next week—and he thumbs out a reply, then set the phone down and finishes his shoddy meal.

He can’t remember the last time he was this preoccupied with anything. You’ve crossed his mind a number of times since you moved in across the street, but tonight it’s somehow impossible to think of anything or anyone but you. He’s never thought of himself as the “intrigued by a neighbor” type. And yet. The air feels crimped with possibility, which is stupid, because what would that even mean? He wonders if you’re watching the same game, or if you’re home at all, or if you’re across the street eating your own sad single-person dinner, oblivious to the fact that you’ve taken up residence in someone’s mind.

It doesn’t get any better.

He blames the flowers. The scent is everywhere, and he can’t make it stop, can’t crack a window wide enough to dilute it, can’t shake the sense that the petals are folding and unfurling at a speed just shy of human perception. He’s always been able to fall asleep instantly—smirking at friends who whined about insomnia—but now it’s as if his head is a hive. Minutes after crawling into bed, he’s restless, hot, the sheets sticking to him. He twists, then sits upright, the pillowcase damp and smelling faintly of the flowers. He gets up, paces the kitchen, then the living room, then stands at the window and stares across the street.

Your porch light is on. A rectangle of light throws out from your living room, and there’s a silhouette moving inside, maybe you, maybe a coat thrown over a chair, but all the same, the knowledge of you being over there is a burr under his ribs, a contamination in his bloodstream.

He can’t take it. He runs his hands through his hair, then growls in frustration and strides out his front door and down the steps of his porch before he knows what’s happening or what will come next.

The knock on your door startles your heart clean out of your body because no one should be knocking on your door this late at night.

You freeze, bowl of cereal in hand. In place of chewing, you hold your breath. After a full, tense ten seconds, there’s a second knock, insistent and measured, as though whoever is out there has no intention of going away.

You reach for your phone, thumb shaking a little more than you want to admit, and check the time, knowing you should’ve headed to bed ages ago. Not even the delivery apps will come out this late, not in this blissfully suburban neighborhood.

You mute the TV and tiptoe to the entryway, bowl cradled to your chest like a shield. Peering through the peephole, you almost drop the whole thing—milk, cereal, ceramic and all—because Andy from across the street is standing on your porch. He’s alone, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt that’s wonderfully too tight, his usually soft-looking floofy hair wild, face creased with some expression you can’t decipher.

You step back, breathing through your nose, heart in overdrive. It’s not as if you’ve fantasized about him showing up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. Except you have. Far too many times.

You set the bowl on the entry table and smooth your hair in the faint reflection of the hall mirror. Four seconds elapse. Too long? Too short? You open the door just enough to wedge your face out the crack, just far enough to shield your pajamas, which feature a cartoon from your childhood with a long-defunct brand logo, but not so much that you’d seem like you were hiding. Andy’s bearded face is flushed; he runs a palm over the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he says, honeyed voice low, and pitching right to your twisting core. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

You make yourself smile. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh, yeah. I—” He glances back at the perfectly safe, empty street, then leans a little closer to the door frame. “Actually, could I come in? Just for a second?”

There’s a quality in his voice you can’t name. An urgency layered under hesitancy. You nod, opening the door wide, and back up through the narrow entry, suddenly very aware of the state of your hair, your house, the half-finished bowl of cereal.

He nearly pulls the door out of your hand, pushes it tenderly but forcefully shut, and before you can arrange your face into the appropriate social mask, Andy is kissing you like he came here to do exactly this and nothing else in the world has ever mattered. His hands are reverent and greedy at once, one cradling your jaw, the other fisting in the back of your t-shirt. He tastes faintly of toothpaste. You respond as you always imagined you would—if not out loud, then with every part of your animal self—gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, digging into the muscles you’d admired from across your respective sidewalks.

You’re already a little winded when you break apart, but Andy’s eyes are glassy and his breathing is ragged. His thumb is tracing delicate lines over your cheekbone, and you’re trying to remember how to speak when he does it again—lips on yours, but this time slower, like he’s trying to press your molecules together, seam to seam. You let him. He mouths at your lower lip until you open for him, tongue gliding in, deliberate and sure. His body presses yours backward, and you feel the flat cold of the door through your pajamas. Andy’s body is all heat and intention and hard planes against your utter softness, and the pressure of him caging you in is heady.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, eyes wide and startled as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. “Sorry,” he says, almost in a daze of his own, “I just need…”

He kisses you again, mouth hot and desperate, tongue slick against yours, like he’s been thirsty for weeks. His hand never strays from your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it with a tenderness that nearly undoes you, but he slides the other down, skimming your side, the subtle flex of muscle through his shirt as he grips your waist. Your mind cracks open, every synapse alert, every cell singing.

You arch into him, needy, shameless. You think there’s no way this can be real. But even as you think it, he smothers a groan into your neck, lips dragging from your mouth to the pulse that hammers there, then back again, like he can’t bear to be away from your lips for more than a single heartbeat.

His palm curves over your hip, slow and decisive, then dips past the loose elastic of your pajama shorts. You gasp a warning that’s half protest, but mostly need, as his knuckles drag against your belly, then he’s inside, palm cupping you, and the simple warmth of his hand makes every thought you’ve ever had vanish. Andy kisses you with the same searching hunger, open-mouthed and ruined, as two blunt fingers sweep through the wet slick of you, slow at first, deliberate, petting the lips of your cunt until you’re squirming for more, until it’s embarrassing how wet you are, how quickly you’re coming apart.

You brace both hands against his chest, meaning to slow him, but instead you just hold on, clutching the soft cotton of his shirt, small noises escaping you. The way he kisses you is relentless—mouth devouring, tongue hot and sure, as if the world might end if he doesn’t taste every inch of you. His hand works down your body, urgent and hungry, and his fingers push deeper into your shorts, parting the seams, as if he’s opening a gift he’s thought about unwrapping for months. He slides two thick fingers into you, curling them with a deftness that feels like it should belong to a darker, more dangerous man—the kind of person your mother warned you about, not Andy, who always walks his recycling bin out at the exact right day and waves at the old lady three doors down.

You’re already trembling and he’s barely started. He fucks you with his hand, slow at first, then ruthless, setting a rhythm that makes your knees threaten to buckle. You clutch his shoulders, gasping into his open mouth, and he swallows the sound, grinning against your lips.

How is this happening?

You can’t think. You feel the split between your thighs and Andy’s hand, the way his palm is big enough to cover all the space there, possessive and gentle at once, drawing out tight circles over your clit. His fingers drive in unyielding and sweet, crooking with precision, the heel of his palm grinding firm as he fucks you through a shattering pleasure—one that comes so fast and hot you actually try to bite it back, your teeth sinking into his lower lip. He huffs a desperate, laughing sound, and when you come, it’s not like climbing some steady hill, but being dropped through a trapdoor.

You gasp and shudder, clutching at the man who just wrecked you. You should’ve protested all of this, shouldn’t you?

You want, more than anything, to collapse to the cool hardwood and drag him down with you, but Andy must sense this, because he presses you harder to the door, trapping you upright between the wood and the furnace of his body.

Andy’s hand doesn’t ease up. He holds you pinned, like you’re an answer he’s demanded from the universe and now that he’s got you, he won’t let you out of his grip. He presses his lips to your temple, riding out your aftershocks, but you feel the tremor in his arm, like restraint is costing him something precious. When you try to shift away, to breathe, he gives a small, strangled sound—almost wounded—and tugs you back, mouth at your ear.

“No,” he whispers, and his hand strokes lower, like he’s determined to find the bottom of you, the root of this need. “I need more. Need to see you—” His breath stutters, and he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. “Need to watch you lose it for me again.”

You’d argue, but the truth is you want the same thing, no part of you wants him to stop.

The twist of his wrist, the scuff of his palm over the tight bundle of nerves, the softness of his mouth on your jaw, your neck, the corner of your lips—he’s everywhere, demanding and worshipful. Andy’s body presses closer, crowding you against the door, and you can feel every frantic beat of his heart through the thin shield of his t-shirt. He murmurs nonsense into your skin—good girl, so gorgeous, fuck, need, need, need.

You think you’re going to say his name, but it gets stuck behind your teeth, too many syllables suddenly unfathomable. It’s ridiculous. The pressure builds, sweet and sharp, and Andy’s hand is never not exactly where you need it, somehow reading micro-adjustments on your face, your breath. He curses—soft, reverent—when your whole body shivers, when your hips buck into his palm. You’re making noises you don’t recognize, high and pleading and so raw you’d be embarrassed if you could think straight. There’s no shield. There’s just Andy and his hand and you, the way your body opens for him, the way you melt and tremble. The second release is so complete it whites out everything—and what brings you back is not your own breath or heartbeat but the faint, helpless trembling in Andy’s forearms, the way he is shaking almost as badly as you are.

He’s watching you, face open and wild, like he’s just been let out of a cage. And the sight of him—lips parted, brow damp, pupils obliterating the blue—turns your insides to syrup. You are about to collapse, or maybe just melt, when you realize Andy’s hand is still inside your shorts, but now it’s gentle, just a palm pressed over your cunt, and his other hand has caught your wrist and pinned it gently but immovably above your head.

You try to breathe. You fail.

He kisses you, softer this time, and you let your eyes flutter closed. For a long minute, the world is just your breath curling together, the press of his lips, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, and your heart constricts beautifully, remembering how you’ve longed for a moment just like this.

And then a sudden, vivid memory of the other night, ambushes you mid-kiss.

You, alone and wine-drunk a week ago, flicking through late-night TikToks until you scrolled upon a witch who was too intriguing to pass by. She spoke about manifesting and desires and moon cycles. She was answering comments with wisdom that was tinged with only a whiff of whimsy. The whole thing seemed so exquisitely stupid, so precisely the sort of thing you’d mock with a friend at brunch, but that was half the ache that had you wine-drunk and scrolling. You’d never been in a serious romantic relationship, but now you were also in a new town with no family, no friends, lacking connection, and feeling so alone.

So you’d stayed, wanting to believe, just a little, in magic.

The witch hadn’t seemed much older than you, if at all—hair in two space buns, eyeliner winged so sharp it could slice through time. Unlike the other algorithmic spiritualists who popped up on your feed, she answered comments with candor and missed no opportunity to call out the grifters. She laughed often, cackled sometimes, and radiated a low-budget but compelling earnestness that you respected. Her handle was something like @HexAndFlex, and before you knew it, you’d clicked through to her profile and linktree, then her Etsy, then, in a tangle of embarrassment and fascination, to the checkout page.

Wine glass in hand, you signed up for her $19.99 “Goddess Alignment Manifestation” bundle via Etsy, which included a personalized reading and three PDF guides. You filled out the intake questionnaire at 2:12 a.m., pausing long and hard on the prompts: “What are your hopes? Who are you inviting into your life? What does love feel like in your body?”

Waking up the next morning, you had an email from Sage Moonwater—a name that was either a branding masterstroke or her actual birth certificate humiliation—inviting you to select a time to consult that evening via her convenient Calendly link so you could step into your power and claim the life you deserved, specifically by manifesting “your soulmate’s touch” before the next crescent moon. It was so transparently silly, but her voice had had a way of making you feel less like a joke and more like a person who could actually want things, and what the hell did you have to lose now that you’d already paid the twenty bucks?

You’d set up the call for the same evening, all self-mockery, already rehearsing the text you’d send to Emily about what you were about to do. But as soon as the video chat connected, you felt a weird, grounding nervousness, like maybe you were about to reveal something shameful and true.

Sage had an actual backdrop—galaxy stars on a rich tapestry, a candle burning low, shelves of glass jars and labeled bottles that might hold essential oils or ketchup packets for all you could see. She greeted you with a firm, confident wave and a smile so wide it bordered on conspiratorial. She asked about your day, your mood, how you slept, and the questions came not as a checklist but as a real curiosity, like she wanted to know what you’d eaten for lunch because it was the first data point in a cosmic equation. The whole interaction felt, bizarrely, more intimate than your last three actual dates.

She asked and you talked about desire, about heartbreak, about loneliness, about the years and years of being the person everyone called “so independent” and “so intimidating” when really, you would’ve given up every self-actualized inch of it just to have one person see you across a crowded room and want you enough to cross the distance. You had not intended to say any of this, not even to yourself, but in the slow momentum of Sage’s affirming silences and cocked eyebrows, it all tumbled out. The next thing you knew, you were telling her about the feeling of your last almost-relationship ending, how it made you feel like a fading echo in a canyon, and how the new town had seemed like a possibility for a reset, a new chapter and new connections, but instead just made everything echo louder.

And then you mentioned your neighbor. Andy. Not by name at first, but by silhouette: the broad-shouldered man who was clean cut and seemed so kind and took his trash bins to the curb at the exact legally sanctioned minute, who always mowed the lawn of your elderly neighbor. You admitted—your cheeks burning, as if Sage could sense it across the pixels—that your neighbor looked like the actor who played Captain America, only with a beard that made him look less Marvel franchise and more the Northeast suburban lawyer that he was. You told her that, and Sage grinned, writing notes on an index card, and said you should never apologize for wanting a man whose forearms could probably open a stuck pickle jar with hardly an ounce of effort.

Sage guided you through a ritual that was half guided meditation, half pep talk, and one hundred percent more soothing than you expected. The rest of the call was a blur, but you remembered the precise click of the lighter as Sage torched a little twist of something in a shell, then told you to believe, for just a minute, that the universe would not play you if you simply asked for what you wanted, no disclaimers, no shame. At the end, Sage closed her eyes and murmured something, then said, “Manifestation doesn’t mean sitting still. When you see the signal, walk into it. Be the spell.” You laughed—together as she took her craft but not herself too seriously, you promised to leave her a five-star review, and closed the laptop.

Then you forgot about it. Full on forgot for the rest of the week, until the entire affair reverberates with the force of a sucker punch, the moment Andy’s hand, slick with you, presses harder, grounding you in the exact present of everything Sage told you to want.

Now, as you gasp for air—Andy’s mouth still pressed to the hinge of your jaw, his hand holding your wrist pinned—you have the wild, horrible thought that you might actually have done this. Not just metaphorically, not in the way of I set an intention and now the universe is showing me signs, but in the literal, actions-have-consequences sense of the word. That you, in a fit of late-night desperation, tapped your wishes into the digital void with the help of an Etsy witch, and then the void, bored or mercenary or high on its own power, sent you Andy, unfiltered, nearly deranged with need, to finish what you started.

“Oh, no,” you murmur, breathless, aware at cellular level that you’ve broken something and there’s no undialing it back. Andy’s mouth is still on your neck, but his hand has stilled, fingers wet and honest where they rest. You feel the insane urge to confess all of this, to babble out the chain of cause and consequence, but that would be even more unhinged than what’s actually happening, so you just clutch at his nape like you can anchor yourself to him and ride it out.

Andy, meanwhile, is not waiting for your existential reconciliation. He’s pulling you from the entryway, hands gentle but insistent, urging you through the darkness of your own house toward the living room. Neither of you turns on the light, as if to do so would break this spell and lay bare the ordinary details—your couch’s threadbare arm, the red-wine blot you still haven’t cleaned from the rug.

You stumble a little in front, Andy’s body close behind, and he makes a sound, half-plea, half-laughter, and tells you to, “Wait, wait,” and then he’s pulling you, deft hands at your hips, to the couch.

He presses you down by the shoulders. Not rough, not even assertive—just a gentle, inarguable pressure until you’re seated, knees spread slightly by the width of his own. Then he is on his knees before you, hands sliding up your thighs with a kind of focus you’ve never been on the receiving end of, certainly not from a man who, until ten minutes ago, was no more than a participant in your erotic daydreams. He looks up at you, gaze level and starved, and you realize with a choked hitch in your breath that Andy’s intent is not ambiguous. Not even slightly.

You know how this scene is supposed to go. You’ve read enough, watched enough, spent enough late nights with a hand beneath your sheets and a fantasy running wild to recognize the choreography: the kneeling man, the parted thighs, the hungry eyes and trembling hands. Your heart should be galloping, and your body should be velvet and opening, but what you actually feel in this precise instant is a kind of underwater panic—a clutching in your chest that says, This isn’t you, this isn’t how you imagined it, not even in the most fevered, shame-laced moments before sleep. You want him, yes, but you want the wanting to be mutual, not conjured or compelled or rolling downhill because gravity says it must.

You seize his wrists—not to guide, but to stop him. For a second, the only sound is your breath, jagged and raw in the dark. Andy’s arms tense, and he freezes, hands hovering just above your knees.

“I need to know,” you say, surprised at how thin and breakable your voice is. “Do you actually want this?”

He’s startled, like you’ve splashed cold water in his face, and draws back just enough for a wedge of lamplight from the street to silver his jaw. He blinks, hard, and his mouth forms a quizzical line. “Of course I want this,” he says, and when you don’t let go, he adds, “I need it.”

You should let that be good enough. You should. But something inside you is a little stubborn, a little afraid this isn’t about you, but about magic and that the spell won’t last if it isn’t real.

You tug Andy’s arms higher, make him look at you. “Not need,” you say, the two words sounding childish, a repetition from some earlier, unsophisticated self. “Want. Do you even like me?” It’s an absurd moment to ask, and you nearly laugh, except the stakes are so much sharper than they were a minute ago.

Andy’s head tilts, and you see the fight in his face, the tangle of what’s happening and what he thinks should be happening. His brow knits, lips pursing as if considering this seriously, like you’re a witness in some small, late-night court, and he needs to get the answer right on the record.

“I—” The word is thick. He tries again. “Yes. Jesus, yes. Since you moved in. Hell, I thought I was being subtle. I—” He drops his gaze, and his hands flex hard on your knees.

Then his hands come up to cradle your hips, steady and unquestioning, and for a moment he just looks at you. His hands squeeze your hips, like he’s grounding himself, and he says, “No, I wasn’t being subtle. I was being careful. Guarded.

“Last time I had something that was supposed to be good, it blew up, and I lost it all. I couldn’t keep it, and I swore I’d never want that hard again.” His thumb slides, absently, along the bare skin where your shirt rides up. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not since the first week you showed up. I don’t even know why I’m here, doing this, skipping a hundred steps. But I want to want you, actually want you, and not just for tonight.”

You stare at him like an idiot, every word a stone dropped in the deep well of your body. You surge forward and now it’s you who’s kissing him like he’s the air you need to breathe. Your mouth meets his and this time there is no hesitation, no apology. You wind your hands into the back of his hair and tug, not to hurt but to anchor, and when Andy’s teeth scrape your lower lip, you welcome the pain because it means presence, it means both of you are here. The kiss tastes a little of resolve and a little of blood, and you devour it, clambering forward until you’re no longer seated but crouched over him, both of you half off the couch, falling together into the negative space between bodies.

He moves with you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his lap, so you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands gripping his face. The feel of his beard on your palms is shockingly soft, and you run your thumbs along his jawline, mapping him, learning the shape of what you’ve summoned into existence. “Andy,” you whisper, testing the word against the flat of his tongue, and then again, like this will root him in place and keep him from dissolving away. He shudders, arms banding you tight, and you think, This is what it means to be wanted.

You can’t stop your hands. You want to clutch the collar of his shirt and drag it over his head, but instead you just knead the soft cotton over his shoulders, wanting to memorize every contour, every heat map of skin and muscle. He lets you, hands feather-light at your back, as if he’s still recalibrating to the idea that it’s possible, that this is happening. You dig your nails into his shoulders, shivering at the thought that this is real. Andy shivers too, and when your hips rock down, you both moan, a glorious, unscripted duet.

You laugh, or do something like it—a sound that is threaded with disbelief, with the creeping thrill that this moment is real. Andy is kissing your throat, your jaw, your face, kisses everywhere. You let your arms go slack, let your head fall back so he can drag his mouth along the column of your neck. All shyness has evaporated. You grind against him now, swim in the dizzy, churning heat, and every friction of your body ratchets it higher.

He rocks you in his lap, hands steady, and you can feel him straining hard beneath the soft jersey of his pants. There’s a voice in your head that wants to script this, to slow time and savor every beat—but you’re already gone, fueled by something that feels elemental. You hook your fingers under the hem of his shirt—his body is so warm, too warm, as if he’s been running a fever for you—and drag the fabric up his back. Andy helps you strip it off, and you stake your palms against his chest, which is warm and smooth, and you realize with delight that you had guessed correctly—light brown hair, just enough to tangle your fingers in. You do, just because you can, and Andy hisses, then laughs, catching your wrists and kissing the insides of them.

Your own shirt is next, or maybe he gets there first, but either way you’re bare chested against him, your nipples dragging over the broad terrain of his chest, and the friction is electric. You shudder, and Andy’s breath is hot on your neck as he buries his face there, humming low. His hands find the small of your back—one splayed to anchor you, the other traveling up your spine to cradle the curve of your neck, fingertips tracing fire along your vertebrae. His palm is huge, a brand against your skin, and you arch into it—hungry, greedy, alive.

You reach down, pulling at the drawstring on his lounge pants, and brush your knuckles along the line of his hip, skin so hot you think it might burn you. Andy’s teeth scrape your collarbone, and you laugh again, gasping.

You slide your hand beneath the waistband, push past the taut elastic, and find him hot, hard, and heavy in your palm. Andy’s eyes screw shut, jaw flexing. His head tips back, lips parted, and the sound he makes is so raw, so unguarded, you grip him tighter just to hear it again.

He lets you stroke him for three, maybe four slow pulls, until his patience fails and he tackles you backwards, the suddenness of it sending you sliding to the rug. He lands above you, catching your skull in his hand so you don’t hit the floor, the other braced by your shoulder, and for a moment you both hover, suspended over the thrum of your own need, before he’s tearing at your shorts, shoving them down your legs and off, then pulling your thighs around his hips. You’re naked on your living room rug, limbs akimbo, world reduced to the heat where his body meets yours.

Andy’s hand finds your knee, wedges himself between your thighs, and your heart stutters when you feel the heavy press of his cock against you, notching himself at your entrance. He presses forward, the head of him breaching you, then stops, sucking in a breath so sharp it’s almost a curse. “Fuck,” he growls.

The tenor of it sends a sliver of doubt through you. “What is it?”

He looks down, like this is the first moment he’s considered anything other than skin and the immediacy of you. “I, uh,” he says, “I don’t have anything on me.” The way he says it—on me—drags you back to the shore of reality. “Fuck, I’m sorry, this is so… Do you have anything?”

You don’t have to think hard about it. You know there is no pharmaceutical miracle in your bedside drawer, no leftover Trojan in your purse, not even a faded old wrapper in the medicine cabinet. You are never reckless, never this unprepared, and yet—“I don’t,” you say, and there is no hiding the want in your voice, no matter how much you try to paste on a veneer of caution. So you say the only other thing that’s blaring through your mind, “I don’t care. I want you.” And you mean it.

Andy freezes, some battle of conscience visible in the sharp lines of his face. But your next words crack him open. “I trust you.”

He leans in, presses his brow to yours. “I’ll pull out,” he says, voice a rumble and a promise, but you know even as he says it that you’re both already beyond that kind of discipline. He lets the head of his cock push just inside—enough to make your body go tight, desperate—and then he fucks you. It’s want, it’s intimate, but it’s an unadulterated fuck.

There is no slow easing in, no warmup. He’s already so thick and hard that the first push makes you gasp, makes your knees come up to lock behind his hips, makes your eyes flutter shut so you can concentrate on the sensation of being split with wanting. Andy cradles your head in his palm, mouthing frantic apologies into your neck, but you clutch at his ass, digging half-moons into his skin, urging him deeper. He’s past the point of teasing, and so are you. He drives in, the long, forceful motion grinding your back into the rug, and you can feel every inch of him, feel the way your body adjusts and grabs at him, absolutely unwilling to let go.

The sounds are obscene—yours, his, the wet slick of every thrust amplified by the chamber of your ribs. With each stroke, Andy mutters a gospel of fuck yes, you feel so good, so tight, fuck, never, never, not like this, fuck, need, fuck. You lose the shape of your own voice, the thrum of your body a radio tuned to a single frequency—fullness, friction, the absolute need to have him inside you.

You feel the edge building with every thrust, the thick heat of his cock nearly too much, the sweet ache of him pushing against the deep wall of you, and then—he angles your hips and suddenly he’s hitting something that turns you inside out. Your yelp is wild, and he does it again just to hear it, just to chase it. The rhythm is relentless, not violent but insistent. Your hands catch at his arms, shoulders, back—anywhere, everywhere—and your nails rake lines down the ladder of his spine.

He braces himself above you, then drops onto his elbows, crushing your body beneath his, pressing your breasts to his chest, so every thrust rocks you together. One palm cradles your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you so deep the longing goes atomic, the world turning inside out.

You know that you’re making noises. You know your mouth is open and you’re emitting a sound with each pulse of his body into yours, but you’re not sure what it is, nor do you care. You’re right at the edge, clinging to the lip of it, and the friction is so much, so constant, that when you blurt, “Don’t stop,” you don’t even recognize your own voice.

Andy cants his hips and you swear he’s gotten deeper, impossibly so, and he grazes the spot that makes the world flash white at the edges.

You teeter at the precipice, clutch at his back, your legs straining around him. He feels your body start to come undone and murmurs, “That’s it, just like that,” right by your ear, breath molten. He grinds even deeper, and the pressure is so much you’re not sure if you’re gasping or screaming. Climax devours you in greedy waves—first ripping and sharp, then rolling, sensual, heady. Your cunt clamps hard around him and you feel him stutter, lose cadence, gasp your name like a plea. He’s close, so close, so ready to follow, and you sense his muscles tense, his will battling itself.

He tries to pull out, you feel it, the faltering withdrawal, and something primal and vast surges up from your deepest self. You fist your hands in his hair, drag his mouth to your ear, and whisper, “Don’t. Please. I want you to finish inside me.” Your voice is shredded, a raw thing, almost animal.

He groans, the sound wrenching from him, and he punctuates it with your name, the syllables snapping and falling apart, and then he’s coming inside you, the heat of it blooming in deep, pulsing bursts, and your body cages it, cages him, takes in all of it because it wants to, because you can. He’s heavy on top of you and you pull him down, press your face to his shoulder and hold him through that long, shuddering ride-down, both of you panting, hearts jackhammering against rib and skin and the braided muscle of your entwined bodies.

Eventually, Andy shifts, bracing himself carefully on his elbows so as not to crush you under his weight, but he looks down at you, face awash in disbelief and—if you’re reading it right—something like worship.

For a long time you just breathe. Your body hums, a sweet ache radiating from your pelvis, your thighs, your shoulders. Andy strokes your ribs in slow, lazy circles, like you’re a cat he’s coaxed into his lap. The air smells like salt and sweat and ozone, like something essential has been altered at the molecular level.

Andy is the first to break the silence, resting his brow against yours and exhaling, “Jesus Christ.”

You giggle softly and press a kiss to his jaw. “That was…” You don’t finish the sentence. Can’t. The words would be inadequate.

He nudges at you, gentle as a suggestion, and rolls your entire body with his until you’re both on your sides, limbs still knotted, belly to belly. The rug itches at your hip and the room is cold now that the furnace of him has transferred from on to next to, but neither of you is willing to move. Andy tucks your head under his chin, beard scraping your scalp, one arm pillowed under you, the other banded around your ribs.

You go slack in his arms, the exhaustion of pleasure rolling in after the storm, but your mind is a live wire, all overloaded circuits and impossible, bright newness.

“We should get up,” you say, because you were never one to fall asleep on the living room floor, but now you know you and Andy are both far too old to stay here for long in any kind of comfort.

Andy rumbles a laugh in your hair. “We should,” he agrees, but neither of you does, and you lay there, two bodies caught in a gravity well, breathing in tandem.

You run your palm up Andy’s rib cage, feeling the slight tremor beneath his skin, and look up into his face. He’s already watching you, blue eyes luminous in the dark. You’re both still naked; your bodies are still a tangle, and neither of you is prepared to speak just yet. He kisses your forehead, so light it feels like a benediction, and then he sighs, long and low, utterly without artifice. “You’re unreal,” he says.

You want to tell him, in that moment, about the witch, the twenty-dollar spell, about the two a.m. confessional and the shattering loneliness that made you whisper your want directly at the universe. You want to tell him you think you made this happen, that the ties between coincidence and desire are thinner than dental floss, but the words tangle up in your chest.

Because as surreal as the first moments were rocketing through the two of you as he showed up in your entryway, everything after felt real. The ache in your limbs is a perfect echo of satisfaction. You’re aware of Andy’s hand moving, tracing slow, distracted circles along the small of your back, like you’re something fragile or a secret he’s only just discovered.

It’s only a few minutes later that you do shift and groan at the discomfort of the floor, and Andy laughs.

You both untangle, groaning dramatically at the effort it takes to stand. Andy is first to his feet, and he has the nerve to offer you his hand like he’s some kind of courtly gentleman and not the man who just railed you so hard your vision is migrating out the sides of your skull. You snort and take it anyway, let him steady you as if you might topple, even though you are perfectly well balanced, thank you.

You shuffle toward the bathroom and he hangs back, fastening his pants, fussing with the drawstring. When you turn back to catch him, he’s straightening the couch cushions, gathering your clothes, and—hilariously—folding them into a neat pile on the endtable.

“Andy?” you call softly.

“Yeah?” he answers, turning to look at you.

“Come shower and stay the night?”

He looks at you for the space of four heartbeats, but it’s all intensity and warmth, and so you know before he says it, that the answer is a simple, “Yeah.”

Maybe this will be nothing. Maybe this will be everything. Right now it’s just this: a real thing, a warm thing, a thing with no name yet and no need for one, and the rest of it can wait.

AND???

WHAT DO WE THINK?

Did you like? 🥹 As I said in the A/N at the beginning, I had some immediate AU possibilities come to mind, but then I felt like they were all stories I'd probably read before, and I was happy enough to play in the typical sandbox, but then I thought....

WAIT!

WHAT IF ETSY WITCH?! And then my muse was gleeful in that idea... scrolling through Tiktok, going ahead and just trying the thing, and then maybe the witch thinking... maybe let's give these two a little push and sending those flowers Andy's way, see if she could send just a little bit of harmless magic your way because she genuinely liked you.

A little sex pollen never hurt anyone, right? 😌

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