#aotfanfic

The words cut through the night, smooth and unhurried, and you can't help but turn toward the sound.

Jean's sauntering over from the stables with that tired, satisfied slouch of a man who's spent the whole day working the land.

His button-up shirt, a faded denim blue, clings to his toned chest, the fabric stretched just enough to hint at the muscle beneath. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with strength and dusted with golden tan. His jeans are smeared with dirt and worn from hard work, but it's the way his Wranglers hug his legs, all snug over his thighs and hips, that really holds your attention. The hint of sweat at his collarbone only adds to the rugged, effortless appeal that's been driving you crazy for months.

He gives your dad a polite nod, murmurs something low you can't quite catch, but it's the way his gaze sweeps over the group before landing on you that makes your breath catch.

Instead of joining the group, he settles himself on a log just outside the main circle, far enough away to keep his distance but close enough to watch everything. You can't help but notice the way he stretches his legs out, leaning back on his hands like he's trying to take up as much space as possible. He's too damn comfortable for his own good. Or maybe yours.

A little liquid courage burns warm in your veins. It's enough to push you to your feet and make your way over, cheeks flushed more from nerves than the heat.

"You finally decided to join us," you say, sinking down beside him on the log. Close enough for your knee to brush his. Close enough to see the glint of curiosity that flares in his gaze.

"Couldn't leave you all to have fun without me," he drawls, voice like gravel dipped in honey. "Figured I'd at least get a drink out of it."

"Well, you've missed most of the beer, but there's whiskey left. If you can handle it." You tilt your head, watching his expression shift—half-amused, half-challenged.

"Oh, I can handle a lot more than whiskey, darlin'."

The words settle low in your stomach, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, searching for a hint of teasing. Jean's gaze doesn't waver, and there's a spark of something dangerous in it. Something that tells you this might be the night you've been waiting for.

From the way his gaze lingers a little too long on your mouth, you think he's been waiting for it, too.

You're not sure if it's the whiskey or the way Jean's gaze feels like it's burning straight through you, but you don't look away. Instead, you let the corners of your mouth curve up, just enough to hint that you're playing along.

"Guess you'll have to prove it," you say lightly, tossing the challenge back at him.

Jean huffs a laugh, low and rough, but his eyes are locked on yours like you've got his full attention. Around you, the others are wrapped up in their own conversations, their voices drifting like background music. Nothing but noise.

Wordlessly, you hold out your whiskey bottle, the glass cool against your palm. His gaze flickers to it, then back to you, something curious and hungry sparking in his eyes.

He takes the bottle from your hand, his fingers brushing yours for just a second before he lifts it to his mouth. His throat works as he takes a long, slow swig, the motion somehow just as captivating as the way his eyes never leaves yours.

"Smooth," he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes still on you. "Not bad. But I think you're the one who's got something to prove."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That you can keep up."

The words are casual, but the glint in his eye is anything but. And damn if you're not ready to rise to the challenge.

"Think you've got me figured out, huh?" you say, voice low enough that only he can hear. You lean in just a little, the warmth of the fire mixing with the heat radiating off him.

"Maybe," he says, his drawl thickening like he's letting his guard slip, bit by bit. "Maybe not. But I reckon I'm startin' to."

He looks at you like he's daring you to push him further. Like he's hoping you will.

You reach for the bottle still in his hand and take a swig. It burns down your throat, but you barely feel it over your pulse thudding hot and heavy beneath your skin.

"Maybe I'll let you figure me out then." The words fall easy from your lips, but they hang there between you, challenging him to do something about them.

Jean's smile is a slow, wicked thing. "Careful now, darlin'. A line like that might get you into trouble."

"Maybe I like trouble."

And there it is—the truth you've been dancing around for months now, finally laid bare between the crackle of the fire and the low hum of voices just feet away. You can feel the shift between you, something that leaves your mouth dry and your skin buzzing.

Jean glances up at the other's, a quick, instinctual check to make sure nobody's paying attention. The others are lost in their own worlds, oblivious to the game you and Jean are playing.

His hand drops to your knee, casual enough to look innocent if someone happens to glance over, but the weight of it feels anything but. His thumb traces a slow, lazy circle over your jeans, like he's testing the waters.

"Still feelin' brave?" he murmurs, his voice pitched low and dangerous.

"I guess that depends," you breathe. "Are you finally going to do something about it?"

Jean's eyes darken, his fingers tightening just slightly against your leg. "Maybe we oughta take a little walk. Unless you're too chicken to be alone with me."

You're on your feet before he's even finished talking.

"Come on, cowboy," you toss over your shoulder, catching the flicker of surprise in his gaze before it turns into something more eager. "Let's see if you can keep up."

You lead him away from the bonfire, his footsteps crunching softly over the dry grass as you wind your way toward the edge of the property. The glow of the fire shrinks to a faint orange flicker behind you, the noise and laughter fading to nothing but a distant hum.

Your destination is one of the old barns, a relic left to weather and rot, mostly forgotten and unused. You know the ranch hands sneak off here sometimes when they want to drink in peace or play cards out of your dad's watchful eye — and tonight, it's exactly the kind of quiet, out-of-the-way spot you're looking for.

One of Jean's hands finds the small of your back, his touch light but steady, guiding you along like he's already made up his mind about how this night is going to end. The warmth of his fingers against you sends a shiver straight through your skin, anticipation curling hot and restless in your belly.

When you slip inside of the barn, the night's suddenly quieter, the air cooler, and the only sound you can hear is Jean's steady, deliberate breathing. And your own, a little faster now.

"Looks like I've got you alone, after all." he says, his voice a low rumble that curls down your spine.

You lean back against the rough wooden planks, cool against your flushed skin, and Jean's standing just a breath away, eyes locked on yours with a look that's almost predatory. Not harsh—more like he's savoring this moment, drawing it out just to watch you squirm.

"You sure you know what you're askin' for, darlin'?" he murmurs, his voice as smooth as the whiskey still lingering on your tongue. "Because once I start, I'm not gonna be easy to stop."

"Who said I wanted you to stop?" you fire back, but your voice trembles just enough to make his grin widen. That slow, knowing smile of his sends another rush of heat rolling through you.

"Bold. I like that." His hand rises, knuckles grazing your cheek with a touch so gentle it feels almost reverent. But there's nothing innocent about the way his thumb skims over your bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to make your breath catch. "Been thinkin' about this, you know. About you."

The confession steals your words, leaves you staring at him like you're trying to read every filthy little thought he's had about you. Because God, you've had more than a few about him.

"Funny," you manage, your voice softer now. "I've been thinking about you, too."

He hums, like he's pleased with your honesty. "Then I guess we're done with all that thinkin', huh?"

Before you can answer, his mouth is on yours. Not rough, not desperate. Just thorough. Like he's been dying to take his time with you and he's damn well going to enjoy every second.

His lips are warm and teasing, coaxing rather than demanding, and it makes your head swim. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer until his body presses against yours, solid and unyielding. The smell of leather, sweat, and something distinctly Jean fills your senses, leaves you feeling heady and reckless.

He kisses you until your knees feel weak, until you're arching up against him just to get a little more. And when he finally pulls back, you're both breathing harder, the space between you gone but still not enough.

"Just like I thought," he says, his voice roughened by desire. "You taste even better than you look."

The compliment makes heat flare in your belly, but it's his hands that really do you in. One slips around your waist, tugging your hips against his. The other wanders lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans with a touch that's far too casual for what it's doing to you.

"Been wonderin' what you'd feel like," he continues, his breath hot against your ear. "How sweet you'd sound when I finally got my hands on you."

You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming in your throat. "Guess you should find out, then."

He chuckles, the sound rich and pleased. "Guess I should."

His hand slips beneath your tank top, calloused fingers gliding over bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You gasp at the contact, and his mouth is right there again, swallowing the sound with another slow, devastating kiss.

His hands slide up, taking the hem of your shirt with them, his touch firm but unhurried. He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the tank top over your head and toss it aside, leaving you standing there in jeans and bra.

"Damn," Jean breathes, his gaze raking over you with such blatant appreciation it leaves your skin burning. His hands find your waist, then slide up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing along the underside of your breasts like he's testing your reaction. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, you know that?"

You barely have time to catch your breath before his mouth is back on you, lips tracing down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. He trails kisses lower, his mouth finding the tops of your breasts, his hands sliding up to cup them through your bra.

"Been wantin' to get my hands on you like this for so damn long," he admits, his voice muffled against your skin. "Feels even better than I thought it would."

His thumbs drag over your nipples, slow and deliberate, the friction just enough to make you whimper. The wicked smirk that curves his lips says he knows exactly what he's doing. And when he tugs the cups of your bra down, baring you completely, his mouth is on you in an instant.

"Jean—" His name spills from your lips as his tongue flicks over one nipple, then the other, his mouth hot and greedy as he sucks and nips, alternating between gentle and rough until your chest is heaving and your nails are scraping over his shoulders.

"Sweet as honey," he rasps, his lips brushing over the curve of your breast before his mouth crashes back to yours, all heat and hunger. His hands roam over your body like he's trying to memorize every inch of you, fingers tracing over your bare skin and leaving sparks of pleasure in their wake.

"Been dreamin' about this," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice thick and low. "Touchin' you. Takin' my time with you."

He palms your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples with that same slow, teasing precision that's got your breath stuttering. The way he watches you, like he's savoring every little reaction, has your pulse pounding even harder.

"God, Jean," you gasp, your back arching as his mouth dips lower again, teeth grazing over sensitive skin before he soothes it with his tongue.

"Easy now," he says with a crooked grin, his breath warm against your chest. "Ain't no need to rush. I'm plannin' on enjoyin' this."

His mouth stays right where it is, trailing over the soft skin of your breasts with maddening precision. His lips brush over the curve of one, then the other, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull.

You whimper, your back arching into him, and Jean's hands tighten on your hips, steadying you as he keeps working you over with that same, unhurried determination. His thumbs continue to tease your nipples, rolling them between his fingers until pleasure curls low and hot in your belly.

"God, you're sensitive," he murmurs, his voice thick and hungry as his mouth moves from one breast to the other, paying each equal, devastating attention. "Could stay right here all night."

His hands never stop moving, fingers tracing down your sides, over the curve of your hips, and back up again to cup your breasts like he can't get enough of touching you. The way he's looking at you, like he's memorizing every little reaction, has your head spinning.

"Jean, please..." you manage, your voice wrecked and pleading.

"Patience, darlin'," he drawls, though his own voice sounds strained. "I wanna take my time with you."

Even as he says it, his hands start drifting lower, fingers trailing down your stomach before finding the button of your jeans and popping it open with a casual ease that leaves your breath hitching.

"Still feelin' brave?" he asks, the challenge clear in his voice.

"Brave enough to make you hurry up," you bite back, even if your voice is embarrassingly shaky.

Jean just chuckles. A low, delicious rumble that makes your stomach twist. "Now, now. Patience." His fingers hook in the waistband of your jeans, dragging them down just enough to make you shiver. "Good things come to those who wait."

You can feel his smile against your neck, that teasing confidence of his like a dare you're desperate to take. And when his hand finally slips between your thighs, his touch firm and knowing, you nearly lose your damn mind.

"Yeah," he drawls, his voice thick and low as your body arches into his touch. "Just as soft as I thought. So damn perfect."

Jean's fingers work between your thighs with a skill that leaves you trembling. He's not just touching you—he's learning you, testing what makes you gasp, what makes your hips twitch against his hand like you're trying to get closer, trying to pull him deeper.

"Easy there," he chuckles, voice thick and honey-smooth. "Didn't think you'd be this needy already. What's got you so worked up, darlin'? Just me?"

You bite your lip, trying to smother a whimper as his fingers press more insistently against you, slipping beneath the fabric with a confidence that leaves your head spinning. "You're such an ass," you manage, but the breathlessness of your voice ruins the bite.

"Maybe," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as his fingers find the wet heat waiting for him. "But you like me like this, don't you?"

Your only answer is a strangled moan when he slides one finger along your slick cunt, the teasing touch driving you out of your mind. He's grinning—damn him—because he knows exactly what he's doing.

"God, you're already so wet," he says, like it's the best compliment he could ever give you. "All for me?"

"Jean..." His name is a plea, low and desperate, and he clearly loves the way it sounds falling from your lips.

"Shh, I got you," he soothes, his voice all honeyed drawl and dangerous intent. "Just let me take my time, darlin'. Been thinkin' about this for too damn long to rush it."

You want to argue, to tell him that if he drags this out any longer, you're going to lose your mind. But then he's sliding a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, and every coherent thought scatters like leaves in the wind.

"Fuck," you gasp, your back arching against the barn wall. The rough wood scrapes against your shoulders, but you can barely feel it over the way Jean's touch makes your whole body thrum.

"Just like that," he murmurs, his eyes locked on your face like he's cataloging every little reaction. "You feel so damn good. You know that?"

"Jean—"

"Yeah, darlin'?" His voice is all smug satisfaction, his thumb circling over your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees go weak.

"You're—" The words stick in your throat when he adds a second finger, stretching you with that same slow, relentless thoroughness that's making you crazy. "You're such a tease."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling against your neck where his lips are grazing over your skin. "Maybe. But from the way you're fallin' apart on my hand, I'd say you don't mind too much."

He's not wrong. You can't even pretend to argue when he starts pumping his fingers in and out, each stroke sending ripples of pleasure curling through your body. His thumb never stops its lazy, devastating circles, and it's enough to have you grinding your hips against his hand, chasing the friction he's giving so generously.

"Look at you," he whispers, his voice gone rougher now, strained like he's barely holding himself back. "So damn pretty when you're like this. Could watch you fall apart all night."

You're already on the edge, trembling and panting, his words only making it worse. Better. Both.

"Jean, please—"

Your voice is nothing but a broken plea, and Jean's eyes flick up to meet yours, that wicked smirk spreading over his lips.

"Could listen to you beg all night," he murmurs, but then he's sinking to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

Before you can catch your breath, his mouth is on you, his tongue gliding over your slick folds with a hunger that leaves your head spinning. The first hot, greedy swipe over your clit has your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to drag a groan from his throat.

The vibration only makes the pleasure coil tighter, your hips jerking against his face as he works you over with that same maddening precision. His tongue circles your clit, flicking and sucking until your thighs are trembling around his head.

"Fuck, Jean—" you gasp, your voice wrecked and desperate.

His fingers keep pumping into you, slow and relentless, matching the rhythm of his mouth as his tongue plays with your clit, teasing and stroking until you're damn near sobbing.

"Look at you," he growls between kisses, his voice thick and smug. "Fallin' apart on my tongue. Tastes even better than I imagined."

You can't think, can't even breathe properly. All you can do is cling to him, your nails scraping over his scalp as he drags you closer and closer to that breaking point.

Your fingers stay buried in his hair, tugging every time his tongue circles your clit just right. And judging by the low, greedy sounds rumbling from his throat, he fucking loves it.

"Shit," you gasp, your voice splintered and breathless. "So fucking good."

He groans against you, the vibration sending another shock of pleasure straight through your core. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot that has your hips jerking forward, your knees damn near giving out.

"Yeah, that's it," he murmurs, his voice thick and wrecked between his filthy kisses. "Knew you'd be sweet, but fuck—you're somethin' else."

His tongue drags over your clit again, flicking and sucking in a way that's downright obscene. His pace picks up, his fingers pumping into you harder now, matching the desperate rhythm of his mouth. It's relentless, overwhelming, and exactly what you need.

Your body's already coiling tight, every nerve stretched to the breaking point. The sounds you're making are shameless, echoing in the quiet night air, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

"Jean, I—fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," he growls, his breath hot and desperate against your cunt. "Come for me, darlin'."

His mouth seals over your clit, his fingers driving into you with just the right amount of roughness, and that's all it takes. Pleasure crashes through you, ripping a ragged cry from your throat as your body clenches tight around his fingers. Your thighs tremble around his head, your fingers tugging hard at his hair, but Jean doesn't let up.

He keeps working you through it, his mouth and hands dragging every last drop of pleasure out of you until you're nothing but a shaking, breathless mess slumped against the barn wall.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he finally pulls back. His chin's glistening, eyes dark and hungry as he looks up at you. "Fuckin' beautiful."

He rises to his feet slowly, his body pressing against yours again, and his mouth crashes over yours in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow, it only makes you want him more.

A broken whimper slips from your throat, the sound raw and needy, and Jean's eyes darken like he can feel your desperation pouring off you.

"What do you need, darlin'?" he murmurs, his voice low and taunting, like he's enjoying drawing this out just to watch you squirm.

"I need you," you gasp, your fingers clutching at his shoulders like you can't stand another second of waiting. "Inside me. Now."

His eyes flash with hunger, his smirk turning wicked. "Good girl."

His fingers slide free of you, and he's already pushing your jeans and underwear down your legs, his hands trembling just enough to make you smirk. He kneels to tug off your boots one at a time, his touch almost careful before he sets them aside. Then your jeans and underwear are gone in one swift motion, and he tosses them on top of your boots without a second thought.

"Who's the needy one now?" you manage, voice all ragged edges.

"Maybe I've been a little desperate myself," he admits, his voice gruff as he yanks his belt open. "Thinkin' about this. About you."

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle through his shirt before reaching for the buttons. You fumble with them, a little too eager, but Jean just smirks, his hands dropping to your waist to give you space to work.

"You're killin' me here," he mutters, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes hooded and hungry, as you work each button free, exposing more of his sun-bronzed skin. You push the fabric off his shoulders, letting it slide down his arms, and your hands are back on him before the shirt even hits the ground.

His skin is warm under your palms, firm and a little rough from days spent working under the sun. You trail your fingers down his stomach, tracing the faint line of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. Jean hisses a breath through his teeth, his hips giving a little twitch against yours.

"Goddamn," he breathes, and that's all the warning you get before he's shoving his jeans and briefs low enough to free his cock, thick and already aching.

You reach for him, wrapping your hand around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke that makes his breath stutter.

"Fuck, darlin'," he groans, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before they're back on you, burning hot. "If you keep doin' that, I ain't gonna last."

"Then you better hurry up, cowboy."

A strained, breathless sound escapes him, but there's a flicker of hesitation tangled up with all that hunger. "Shit. Just one problem, darlin'. I ain't got a condom on me."

The admission sends a jolt of surprise through you, but it only makes your pulse pound harder.

"I don't care," you say, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. "I need you. Now."

"Fuck," Jean breathes, his voice gone rough and desperate. "You sure?"

"Yes." Your fingers curl into his bare shoulders, your eyes locked on his. "Please."

A shaky breath leaves him, his gaze burning as he reaches down to grab his discarded shirt from the dirt. Without a word, he drapes it over your shoulders, the worn fabric shielding your back from the rough wood.

"Can't have you gettin' all scraped up, darlin'," he murmurs, his voice still rough and wrecked. "Ain't lettin' some splinters ruin this."

Before you can even respond, his hands are on you, grabbing your thighs and hoisting you up against the barn wall with a strength that leaves you gasping. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, the heat of his body pressing into yours as his gaze locks on yours.

"You ready for me?" he asks, and there's a softness beneath the heat—like he needs to be sure.

"Yes," you breathe.

He pushes into you slowly, inch by torturous inch, like he's savoring the feeling of you stretching around him. And the stretch burns in the best way, your body clinging to him, desperate to take him deeper.

"Goddamn," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You feel so fuckin' good."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as he starts to move, pulling back only to thrust in again, a little harder this time.

The worn fabric of his shirt presses between your skin and the barn wall, but all you can feel is him—filling you, dragging pleasure out of you until you're panting against his neck.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice breaking on a groan when you clench around him. "Take me, gorgeous. Just like that."

He starts a steady rhythm, his hips rolling into yours with a precision that leaves you gasping, the pleasure building sharp and heavy in your core. And just when you think you might break apart, he adjusts his angle, hitting something inside you that sends a shockwave of heat tearing through your veins.

"Jean, fuck—"

"Yeah?" His voice is all gravel and honey, and you can tell he's barely holding on himself. "Fuck, darlin'."

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, your fingers digging into his shoulders, clinging to him as his rhythm drives you higher and higher. The world's narrowed down to just this—his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing you into the wall, the way he fills you so perfectly you feel like you might shatter.

"That's it," he rasps, his breath hot against your neck. "Just like that. Take me. You feel so fuckin' good, you know that?"

His words send another rush of heat through you, your body clenching tight around him as you chase that burning, aching pleasure building inside you. Jean's pace stutters for a second, a choked groan spilling from his lips when he feels you clench around him.

"Shit—don't do that or I'm gonna—"

"Then do it," you gasp, your own pleasure teetering on the edge. "Fuck. Don't stop, Jean."

The way you say his name does something to him. You see it in the way his jaw clenches, his eyes squeezing shut for a split second before his thrusts turn rougher, harder, driving into you with a desperation that leaves you reeling.

You're so close it's maddening, your whole body tensing, every nerve set on fire as he hits that perfect spot over and over again.

"Come on, beautiful," he growls, his voice all rough desperation. "Need to feel you cum on my cock. Fuck, you're squeezin' me so good—drivin' me outta my damn mind."

Then the pleasure slams into you, your release crashing over you in a wave so powerful your vision whites out for a second.

"Jean—" The cry tears from your throat, half his name, half a broken sob of pleasure as your body spasms around him. The intensity of your orgasm leaves you trembling, your walls clenching tight around his cock in a way that makes him groan, his hips faltering for just a moment before he finds his rhythm again.

"Fuck, darlin'," he rasps, his voice wrecked and filthy as he keeps driving into you, dragging out every last bit of your pleasure. "Takin' me so damn well. So fuckin' good—watching you come apart like this."

He leans in, his mouth brushing hot against your ear, his words nothing but a rough, breathless whisper. "You feel so goddamn good. Makin' me lose my fuckin' mind."

He's still fucking you, his thrusts steady and unrelenting, his breathing ragged as he chases the pleasure building between you. His hands grip your hips like he can't get enough, like he's determined to push you over the edge all over again.

"Hey! Jean, you out here?"

The voice snaps through the haze like ice water to the face.

Connie. One of your dad's other ranch hands. One of Jean's best friends.

Fuck.

Panic surges through you, but Jean's body is still pressed tight against yours, his cock still buried deep as his head jerks up, eyes wide with shock.

"Shit," Jean mutters under his breath, his gaze darting to the corner of the barn where the footsteps are approaching. "Connie, uh—now's not really a good time, man."

There's a beat of silence, like maybe Connie's about to turn around and walk away. Instead, you hear him laugh. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Just needed to—"

Connie's voice cuts off as he rounds the corner and sees you both. His eyes go wide, his mouth hanging open like he's just been hit over the head with a shovel.

"Oh. Oh, shit."

You can feel the heat flood your face, embarrassment slamming into you even harder than the lingering pleasure. But Jean's body stays braced against yours, his arms tightening instinctively around you, almost like he's making sure you're covered—even if he's still very  much inside you.

"Fucking christ, Connie, ever heard of givin' a man some damn privacy?" Jean snaps, though there's still a hitch in his voice, like his body hasn't fully recovered from what just happened.

"I—shit, sorry, man, I didn't—" Connie's stumbling over his words, eyes flickering between your flustered face and the way Jean's body is still pressed tight against yours. His throat works as he swallows, and you can practically see the moment his shock turns into something else.

"Well... fuck. Didn't expect to walk in on you two like this," Connie says, voice lowering, his gaze dragging over the two of you with a curiosity that borders on fascination. And maybe something even dirtier. "Guess I was interruptin' somethin' real good, huh?"

"Just—turn around and walk away, asshole," Jean growls, but his tone lacks its usual sharpness. Probably because he's still buried deep inside you, his own arousal clearly not fading as quickly as it should be.

Connie doesn't move. Instead, he leans against the barn wall, eyes glinting with something you can't quite place. "Didn't know you had it in you, Jean. Or you, for that matter," he adds, his gaze flicking to you, and the way his attention lingers on your half-bare body sends a shiver through you.

It should feel humiliating. And it does, a little. But there's something else there, too. Something that makes your skin prickle and your thighs clench around Jean's hips.

"Come on, man," Jean snaps, his voice rough. "Ain't you got better things to do?"

Connie's smirk is downright filthy now as he crosses his arms over his chest, settling in like he's got all the time in the world. "Maybe. But hell, I wasn't expectin' a show when I came out here." His gaze drops, and his tongue flicks over his lower lip. "Sure looks like you two were havin' a good time."

"Connie..." Jean's voice holds a warning, but you can feel the way his body reacts against yours, that slight twitch of his cock still buried inside you.

Connie notices it, too. His eyes gleam, his curiosity turning wicked. "Huh. Guess you're not quite done, are you?"

Your own breath catches at the implication, your body traitorously heating up all over again. Jean's gaze flicks back to you, searching your face like he's trying to gauge your reaction.

"Sorry, darlin'," he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll get him to leave if you want me to. Just say the word."

The way his hips are still pressing into yours, his cock still twitching inside you, tells you he's not entirely against the idea of Connie watching — and to your surprise, neither are you.

Connie's eyes haven't left the two of you, his gaze trailing over where Jean's hips are still locked against yours, his cock still buried deep inside you. The weight of Connie's attention is almost unbearable, your skin prickling with heat as you cling to Jean's shoulders.

"Connie, I swear to God..." Jean growls, but the way his voice shakes just makes Connie's smirk widen.

"Relax, man. I ain't tryin' to jump in or nothin'." Connie's voice is lazy, low, like he's settling in to enjoy the view. "But fuck, you two are really somethin'. Never would've guessed you'd be out here fuckin' against the barn like a couple'a animals."

His words send a rush of embarrassment through you, but it's tangled up with something dirtier, something that makes your body clench around Jean in a way that leaves him groaning.

"Shit—" Jean hisses, his fingers tightening on your hips. "You like that, huh?" he breathes, his eyes searching your face. "Him watchin' us like this?"

You should be horrified. Mortified. But the way Jean's voice turns ragged when he realizes just how much this is turning you on is almost as thrilling as the fact that Connie's still standing there, openly staring.

"I—" Your voice breaks when Jean rolls his hips against yours, grinding deep enough to make your breath hitch. "Jean, please."

"Please, what?" His teasing drawl is back, but now it's threaded with hunger, his gaze flicking over your shoulder to where Connie's still watching. "You wanna put on a show for him, darlin'? Let him see how good I make you feel?"

"Fuck," Connie mutters from behind Jean, and the roughness of his voice makes you realize just how affected he is. "This is so fucked up..."

He doesn't leave. No, he stays rooted in place, his eyes devouring every filthy detail of you and Jean tangled together. And when you dare to glance over Jean's shoulder, your gaze locks on the way Connie's hand has drifted to the front of his jeans, palming himself through the fabric.

The sight sends a fresh rush of heat flooding your veins, your pulse thudding so loudly you're sure they can both hear it. From the way Jean's breathing speeds up, his hips pressing harder against yours, you know he's more than aware of what's happening.

"Guess you're not as shy as you act, huh?" Jean rasps, his mouth brushing over your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin in a way that leaves you shivering. "Gettin' all hot and bothered just knowin' he's watchin' us?"

"Jean..." It's not even a real word anymore, just a broken, pleading sound as he starts moving again, his cock dragging slow and deep inside you, like he's determined to make this last even with Connie's attention burning over you both.

"Damn," Connie murmurs, his voice gone hoarse.

You catch a glimpse of him, eyes hooded and dark, his hand now shoved down the front of his jeans. His arm moves in a slow, steady rhythm, matching the lazy roll of Jean's hips as he fucks into you with that same teasing intensity.

"You like that?" Jean asks, his voice nothing but gravel and heat.

"Knowing he's gettin' off to the way I'm fuckin' you?"

You can't even pretend to deny it, your body tightening around him in a way that has him groaning, his hips jerking against yours. And from the way Connie's eyes widen, you can tell he noticed it, too.

"Fuck, Jean..." you gasp, nails raking over his shoulders as he drives into you harder now, like he's giving in to the filthiness of it all. Like he wants Connie to see exactly how well he's ruining you.

"Yeah, that's it," Jean growls, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that's all teeth and heat, his hips pistoning into you now with a force that leaves you whimpering. "Show him how good you take me. How much you love this."

You can barely breathe, every thrust dragging another broken sound from your throat as Jean fucks you against the barn like he's desperate to leave you a wrecked, trembling mess. And the worst part? Knowing Connie's standing there, stroking himself to the sight of it.

"Oh, fuck—" Connie groans, his hand moving faster, his eyes glued to the place where Jean's body keeps slamming into yours. "You two... fuck, that's hot."

The filthy praise sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight through you, and Jean must feel it, because his thrusts turn even rougher, his rhythm crumbling into something frantic and punishing.

"Gonna come for me again, darlin'?" Jean rasps, his voice cracking under the strain of holding himself together. "Let him watch you come all over my cock."

Somehow, the idea of it—of coming with Connie watching, knowing he's jerking himself off to the sight—has you spiraling over the edge before you can even brace yourself. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your whole body convulsing around Jean's cock as you choke out a desperate, shattered moan.

"Goddamn," Connie chokes out, and when you manage to drag your gaze back to him, you see him shudder, his hand jerking hard and fast as he watches you fall apart. The way his jaw clenches, his eyes squeezing shut—it's obvious he's coming, spilling into his own hand with a broken, muffled groan.

The sight is so filthy it almost sends you tumbling over the edge all over again. And from the sound Jean makes—half-growl, half-whimper—you know he's just as affected. His thrusts turn frantic, his hips slamming into yours like he's barely holding himself together.

"Fuck—darlin'," he rasps, his voice splintered and wrecked. "Where do you want me? Tell me where you want me to cum."

The question tears through you, sending a fresh wave of heat crashing over your already trembling body. His desperation is painted all over his face, eyes locked on yours like your answer is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

"Inside me," you gasp, your own voice shaking. "I want you to cum inside me."

Jean's jaw clenches, a ragged groan ripping from his throat as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep with a guttural, desperate sound. His head falls into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as his whole body trembles through the force of his release.

For a moment, everything's hazy. All you can feel is Jean's chest heaving against yours, the heat of his breath still fanning over your neck, and the sticky, shameful satisfaction of knowing Connie got off to the sight of you both.

"Fuck..." Connie finally breathes, his voice ragged. "Didn't mean to interrupt, but... damn."

You can't even bring yourself to answer, your limbs still trembling as Jean slowly pulls out of you, his eyes locked on your face like he's making sure you're okay.

"Shit," Jean mutters, a breathless, dazed grin tugging at his lips.

Jean's arms are still braced around you, his breathing heavy and uneven as his forehead presses against yours. His eyes search your face with a softness that feels almost surreal after everything you just did.

"You good, darlin'?" he murmurs, his voice still rough from the pleasure he's only just come down from.

"Yeah," you whisper back, a breathless, giddy laugh bubbling out of you. "Better than good."

"Good." His lips brush over yours, a gentle, lazy kiss that feels worlds away from the desperate way he was fucking you just moments ago. "Wasn't exactly plannin' on givin' the poor bastard a free show, though."

You snicker, your legs still trembling as you lower them from around his waist, your feet unsteady on the ground. "I dunno. He didn't seem too mad about it."

"Yeah, no shit." Jean huffs a laugh, glancing over his shoulder to where Connie's wiping his hand off on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. The bastard's smirking, his gaze still shamelessly lingering over the two of you.

"Well, damn. Gotta say, you two sure know how to put on a hell of a show," Connie drawls, his grin pure, unfiltered mischief. "Wasn't expectin' my night to end like this, but I sure as hell ain't complainin'."

Jean's groan is more exasperated than anything else. "Connie, you got five seconds to fuck off before I start throwin' punches."

Connie raises his hands, but the grin never leaves his face. "Alright, alright. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone."

He turns to walk away, but pauses just before disappearing around the corner. His gaze flicks between you and Jean, his eyes gleaming with shameless curiosity and that signature cocky swagger.

"Just sayin'," Connie calls over his shoulder, voice all easy confidence. "Maybe next time, send me an invite?"

Jean's shoulders tense, his eyes narrowing as he growls, "Get lost, Connie."

Connie's laugh echoes through the night, carefree and completely unbothered as he strolls back toward the bonfire, leaving you and Jean standing there in the cooling darkness.

"Fucking bastard," Jean mutters, though his lips are twitching like he's fighting back a smile.

"You really think he meant that?" you ask, breathless and still a little dazed.

Jean's hands find your hips again, pulling you closer as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "Don't care," he says. "Ain't nobody touchin' you but me."

The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, the heat stirring low in your belly all over again.

"Good," you say, your voice softer now, the lingering thrill making you grin. "Because I wasn't exactly planning on letting anyone else."

He smiles then, full and genuine, his gaze warm as he looks at you. "Guess we better head back before someone else comes lookin'."

"Yeah." You're both a mess, your clothes still tangled and your skin still buzzing with the aftershocks. But for once, you don't care.

Because the way Jean's looking at you? It's more than worth the risk.

❅ PROLOGUE

To the outside world, Jean Kirstein is a human argument waiting to happen, a grenade with a loose pin. He’s blunt. A little cocky. Not afraid to piss people off if it means telling the truth.

But to you he’s been a shelter. Nothing but loyal, protective and always there. The only person you have ever fully trusted.

It all started during a third-grade biology class, of all places. Assigned seats, two to a desk and you ended up next to him. It was a random twist of fate that felt insignificant until it became a chosen life sentence. From that day on, he was your default, your plus-one, your person. Always.

Through every school project, every lunch, every triumph and tragedy, he was your constant. If there ever was a choice to be made, the answer was simple. You and Jean. Jean and you.

And when it wasn’t school, it was everything else. Summer camps. After-school clubs. Study groups. If you weren’t side by side, you were cheering each other on from the sidelines.

So when the foundation of your own home crumbled and the shouting matches between your parents weren't about who would get to keep you, but who would be stuck with you, the choice was simple. You didn't choose your father's house because you liked it better, you chose it, because it was the one closest to Jean.

And when your mother left and your dad couldn’t care less, the Kirsteins didn't just open their door to their house, they invited you into their home.

His dad painted the spare bedroom in your favorite color. His mom decorated it like it was always meant for you. You could come and go as you pleased. They never treated you like an inconvenience. Never made you feel like a guest.

They called you family. And more than a decade later, you and Jean are still you and Jean.

Now both in college, renting a two-bedroom apartment off campus, you’re still as inseparable and loyal to each other as the day you met. Different majors. Same chaotic friendship. Same impossible closeness.