#bs76 fic

You roll your eyes and keep moving, trailing your fingers along the back of an empty chair, scanning for better options. It’s not that you don’t like money—you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need it—but the hockey guys are always the same. Loud, arrogant, slurring their words as they flash their cash like it makes up for everything. The girls fall over them anyway, because they tip well, but you’re not in the mood to play along. Not tonight.

Then you spot him—taller than the others, broader too, leaning back in a booth with one arm slung over the back. His dark shirt stretches over strong shoulders, and he’s got that look, like he’s been around long enough to know better but still ended up here anyway. Silver streaks through his hair, catching in the dim light, making him stand out among the younger guys. For a second, you assume he’s someone’s dad, maybe a bored husband waiting for his friends to finish throwing cash at girls half his age.

You sidle up to him, pressing a hand against the edge of his table, angling yourself just right. He glances up, eyes sweeping over you, slow and considering. “You look like you could use a dance,” you offer, letting your lips curl as you shift your weight, making the fringe on your outfit sway. You’re used to men snapping at the bait instantly, but he just watches you, then drags a hand down his face like he’s debating it.

“You sure you wanna waste your time on me?” he asks, voice lower than you expected. There’s a rasp to it, like whiskey over ice, settling in your stomach like a slow burn. Up close, you can see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw flexes when he smirks. He doesn’t look like the others—there’s something steadier about him, something grounded. But money is money, and he doesn’t look like he’s hurting for it.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say, trailing a finger along the buttons of his shirt. He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s in on some private joke, but nods toward the back rooms anyway. You grab his hand, leading him away, heat buzzing beneath your skin.

The private room is dimly lit, the music thrumming softer, the scent of cologne and champagne lingering in the air. You straddle his lap, shifting against him as your hands find his shoulders. The heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, the scent of whiskey and clean linen mingling in the space between you. 

He leans back in the chair, hands resting on your hips like he’s holding himself still more than anything. Most men would already be pawing at you, but he doesn’t move beyond what’s necessary. There’s something unnerving about it, the way he watches without expectation, letting you decide how this goes. You shift against him, rolling your hips just slightly, waiting for the usual reaction—a sharp inhale, a stutter in his movements—but he just exhales slow, steady, eyes tracking every little movement like he’s taking his time memorizing it.

You don’t like that. You like it when they react, when they get drunk on the moment, when they stop thinking and let you work. It’s easier that way. But he’s still too focused, too present, and it makes something crawl under your skin. Your fingers skim the front of his shirt, trailing over the buttons, giving him a coy look. “You like to have fun, old man?” you tease, tilting your head as you press in closer, your lips just inches from his jaw.

He huffs out something close to a laugh, but it isn’t dismissive—it’s knowing, like he’s letting you have this moment, letting you think you’re the one in control. His fingers brush against your thigh, not gripping, just there, his warmth bleeding through your bare skin. “Depends on what you think fun is,” he says, voice still wrapped in that easy rasp, like he’s had a lifetime of late nights and long conversations. His eyes flick down for just a second, taking in the way you’re pressed against him, the way your lingerie shifts as you move. Then, without hesitation, he pulls out a neat stack of twenties, slipping them one by one into the band of your top, the crisp edges dragging over your skin.

Your stomach tenses at the sheer number of bills he pushes into place—most guys toss down singles, maybe a five if they’re feeling generous. He isn’t showing off, though. He’s just handing it over, casual as anything, like it’s only fair. The weight of the money settles against your ribs, each bill a silent message. You should be thrilled, should feel triumphant, but instead, there’s something else there, something that makes your fingers twitch against his collar. “Big spender,” you murmur, trying to tip the balance back in your favor. “You always hand it out this easy?”

He tilts his head slightly, considering you. “You’re working,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You should be paid for it.” He says it without that slimy edge you’re used to, no leer or expectation hanging between the words. Just a fact, clean and simple, like he’s handing cash to a bartender or tipping a valet. His eyes don’t waver from yours, and it’s unsettling in a way you can’t quite place.

You should just play along. You should say something flirty, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, keep him comfortable so he keeps peeling off those crisp twenties. But instead, you hesitate. Your hands rest lightly against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He doesn’t have the usual desperate hunger you expect from men here—he’s comfortable, settled, like he’s just here to pass the time. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, more curiosity than performance.

He sighs like he’s debating how much to give away, then shrugs. “I play hockey,” he says, watching your reaction carefully. You feel your mouth pull into something close to a smirk, the pieces clicking together. It makes sense now—the broad shoulders, the thick arms, the way he carries himself. But it still doesn’t fit, not with the silver at his temples, the calm steadiness in his gaze. The guys outside are boys, throwing money around like it makes them interesting. This man–he’s something else entirely.

“You don’t act like them,” you say, testing the words as they leave your mouth. His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close.

“That a bad thing?”

You don’t answer, just trail your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the way he exhales at the touch. Maybe it’s not a bad thing. Maybe, for once, you don’t mind taking your time.

You let your fingers linger at the nape of his neck, watching the way his breath shifts, slower now, controlled. He doesn’t react the way you expect—not a sharp inhale, not a hungry pull closer, just the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your touch. It’s unsettling, but not in a bad way. You’re used to men throwing themselves into the moment, eager to chase whatever high they think they’re buying. But he’s content to let you lead, watching you like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“Got a name?” you ask, voice soft but certain, testing the waters between you. You don’t really care—most men give fake ones anyway—but something about him makes you want to hear it. He shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling just enough to make you wonder if he’s debating an answer. Then, finally, he exhales, voice low and even. “Brady.”

Brady. It suits him. Strong, simple, like he doesn’t feel the need to dress it up. You roll it around in your head, weighing the way it feels against everything else about him—the silver at his temples, the steady way he holds himself, the patience in his movements. It doesn’t give much away, but somehow, it’s enough.

You lean in, dragging your nails lightly over the fabric of his shirt, waiting to see if he’ll shift beneath you. He doesn’t, just watches, still as ever. Your body hums with the anticipation of something you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the lack of urgency, the way he isn’t rushing anything. It should make you feel powerful, in control, but instead, it feels like he’s the one holding the reins, simply by refusing to pull them.

When you reach back, unfastening the clasp of your bra, his eyes track the movement, slow and deliberate. The fabric slides down your arms, and for the first time in a long time, you feel the moment stretch between you—thicker than air, almost tangible. Brady doesn’t move right away. Instead, he waits, gaze flicking up to yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“Can I?” he asks, voice steady, unhurried. It knocks something loose inside you. Most men would have already taken what they wanted, hands eager and clumsy. But he asks, like it matters, like you matter. You nod, and when he finally touches you, his hands are warm, sure, sliding slow like he’s in no rush to get anywhere.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, pressing your palms against his shoulders for balance. His thumbs brush along the curve of your ribs, and there’s something grounding about the way he touches you—not possessive, not hurried. Like he’s just enjoying the moment for what it is. You close your eyes for half a second, letting yourself settle into the warmth of his hands. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pull you closer, just lets you decide what comes next.

Your fingers flex against his shoulders before you glance at him, something prodding at the back of your mind. “You got a wife, Brady?” The words come out quieter than you mean them to, but you need to ask. He looks at you, expression unreadable for a moment before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says simply, and somehow, you believe him. Maybe it’s the way he says it—no hesitation, no guilt. Just a fact. 

You study his face for a second longer than you should, taking in the way his expression doesn’t shift, the way he doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Most men would have already fumbled through some kind of reassurance, something performative, but Brady just meets your gaze and lets the words sit between you. You roll your weight forward, pressing against him, watching for the reaction that never comes. The heat of his body is unmistakable beneath you, solid and real, but there’s no sharp inhale, no tightening of his grip, nothing to indicate that your movement did anything at all.

Your stomach twists, something uncomfortable knotting inside you. You know what men are supposed to do when you grind against them, when you move like this, when you put on the show they came here to see. You shift again, a little slower this time, rolling your hips in a way that usually makes them fall apart, but Brady only watches you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for you to realize something. Frustration flares in your chest, unexpected and unfamiliar, and you lean in closer, letting your breath ghost over the curve of his jaw. “What’s wrong?” you murmur, letting the words drip into his ear like honey, like a promise. “Not feeling it?”

Brady exhales sharply—not a sigh, not a groan, but something closer to a laugh. It sends another ripple of frustration through you, hot and fast, and you pull back just enough to see the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, voice smooth, easy, like he’s perfectly content to sit here all night and let you puzzle him out. His hands still rest against your hips, unmoving, steady, patient in a way that makes your pulse kick up. You tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt, needing something to ground you. “Are you even here because you think I’m hot, or what?” The question slips out before you can stop it, sharper than you intended, but you don’t regret it. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like he sees something you don’t.

His fingers flex just slightly against your skin, the closest thing to a reaction he’s given you yet. “I think you’re beautiful,” he says, plain as anything, like it’s a fact and not something meant to be tossed out in the dark of a private room. He doesn’t say it the way most men do, all hunger and desperation, like he’s hoping to get something out of it. He just says it like it’s true, like it would be true whether he was here or not. Your breath catches for a split second, but you don’t let it show, just tip your chin up like you’re unimpressed, like it doesn’t mean anything at all.

You roll your hips one last time, slower now, searching for any flicker of something beneath you. Still nothing. Your frustration bubbles over, making you want to shove at his chest, make him react, make him stop looking at you like he’s already got you figured out. But before you can, the timer on your phone chimes, sharp and insistent, shattering the moment between you. You let out a breath and pull back, already reaching for the money tucked into your top on the floor, ready to gather it up and move on like you always do. But then Brady is pulling out more bills, crisp and clean, sliding a few hundreds into your hand like it’s nothing.

“Run it back, sweetheart,” he says, voice easy, like he has all the time in the world. The words send a strange pulse through you, something both grounding and electric, like a coin flipping mid-air. He could have just booked another dance, could have tossed the money down and expected you to come back, but instead, he asks, like it’s a choice, like it’s up to you. You watch him for a second, weighing the extra cash, the way he’s still looking at you, patient and unreadable. Then, before you can think too hard about it, you nod, slipping the money into place, already shifting to settle back onto his lap.

His lips twitch again, and this time, you don’t bother pretending it doesn’t make something shift inside you. “Good girl,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear over the bass pulsing through the walls. You set your hands against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your palms. He’s still not reacting the way you expect, still watching you like you’re something worth taking his time with.

You don’t know how it happened, not really. One second, Brady was just another client in a dimly lit private room, handing over cash with the kind of ease that suggested he wouldn’t miss it. The next, he was everywhere. He was a text when you woke up, a sleek car waiting outside when you finished your shift, a reservation under your name at a place that didn’t bother listing prices on the menu. He was the glint of diamonds on your wrist, the weight of silk draped over your shoulders, the ache between your legs that didn’t fade no matter how many hours passed. And worst of all, he was under your skin, curling into places you hadn’t realized were hollow until he filled them.

The first time someone mistook you for his daughter, you nearly choked on your drink. It had been a waiter, flustered but well-meaning, offering you a mocktail menu like you weren’t wearing a dress that cost more than your rent. Brady had just laughed, easy and unbothered, taking the regular cocktail menu from his hands and placing it in front of you like it hadn’t happened. But later, when you sat in his lap, impaled on him, legs trembling, his hand wrapped around your throat in that perfect way, he murmured against your ear, “You still worried about what they think?” The words had burned, deep and low, his voice sinking into your skin, and you had whimpered something incoherent, nails raking over his shoulders as he fucked the doubt right out of you.

It happened again, and again, always some older couple glancing at you with polite, confused smiles, always someone assuming you were his child and not the woman he dragged to bed every night. But he never let it touch you. Never let you dwell on it for more than a moment before replacing every sliver of uncertainty with something else—his lips tracing fire over your body, his fingers pressing exactly where they should, his voice wrecking you until you forgot how to doubt anything at all. He never let you slip too far, never let your mind wander into places that didn’t serve you. “Let them think what they want,” he would say, smoothing a hand over your thigh, his touch grounding you in ways you refused to name. “We know what this is.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you understood in the way he never asked you to quit, never tried to change you, never tried to buy more than you were willing to sell. He let you keep your job, let you keep your life, never once demanded more than what you were willing to give. But he gave. He gave so much it made your head spin. Bouquets waiting at your door, money slipped into your purse with an easy, thoughtless grace, gifts wrapped in expensive paper that you pretended not to like before wearing them with pride. He would leave for road trips and still find ways to make his presence known—a wire transfer, a handwritten note tucked into your things, a message just vague enough to make you ache. “Be good, sweetheart.” As if you ever could be with him on your mind.

The sex was the biggest problem. Or maybe it was the solution. You weren’t sure anymore. He ruined you, left you shaking, left you panting, left you wondering if you had ever actually known pleasure before he put his hands on you. He would take you apart slowly, deliberately, then put you back together in ways you didn’t understand. It wasn’t just that he was good; it was that he knew exactly how to unravel you. Every time you thought you had a handle on it, thought you could predict what he would do, he would change the game. A new position, a new rule, a new way to make you beg. He wasn’t just fucking you; he was playing you like he had all the time in the world to figure out every note, every key.

But he never kept you. He never demanded you quit, never told you to move in, never asked you to give up the independence you had fought so hard to carve out. He let you have your life, let you keep the control you had spent years clawing for. It should have been a relief. It should have made this easier. But instead, it made the space between you feel sharper, more pronounced. He was everything, but he wasn’t yours. Not really. He was just there, filling your nights with pleasure and your days with excess, leaving his mark on you in ways that didn’t fade even when he was gone. 

And worst of all? You liked it that way.

You liked that he never asked for more than you were willing to give. You liked that he treated you like something to be spoiled, not owned. You liked that he let you keep your life while making sure it was just a little bit better, just a little bit easier, just a little bit more golden. 

Your favourite version of Brady was when he would come back from a road trip, tired and sore, and pull you into his lap like nothing had changed. He would touch you like he had missed you, kiss you like he had thought about you every second he was away.

He pulls you in without a word, arms locking around your waist, solid and certain, like he needs to remind himself you’re real. His lips find yours in the kind of kiss that isn’t rushed or desperate but slow, purposeful, like he has all the time in the world. His hand slides up your back, fingers curling at the nape of your neck, holding you just close enough that you can feel the way his breath fans against your cheek.

You sink into him easily, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, letting yourself get lost in the familiar press of his mouth. There’s something different about it tonight, something softer. You can taste the exhaustion on him, the way his body is too tired to demand anything beyond this, beyond the quiet intimacy of just being close. Your fingers slip into his hair, tracing the silver strands at his temples, and he sighs against your lips like that single touch melts away the weight of the last few days. His hands settle at your waist, firm but not insistent, just holding, just feeling.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his lips, and his answering hum vibrates low in his chest.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw, breathing you in. His hands drift lower, palms skating over your hips before tightening just slightly. “Tell me how much.”

You bite your lip, smiling, pressing closer so there’s no space left between you. Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way his breathing shifts when you reach the hem of his shirt. You trail your mouth along his jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tasting the warmth of his skin. He leans back against the couch, letting you take your time, letting you do what you want with him. When you slip to your knees between his legs, his breath hitches just slightly, the only sign that he’s not as unaffected as he wants to pretend.

But before you can go any further, before your fingers can even reach for his belt, his hand catches your chin, tilting your face back up to his. There’s no urgency in the way he does it, no roughness. Just a simple, quiet demand. “Come back up, sweetheart.”

Your brows pull together, but you don’t resist, letting him guide you back onto his lap. His arms wrap around you again, holding you close, his lips brushing against your temple. There’s a quiet sort of contentment in the way he touches you, like he’s savoring the feeling of you being here, real and solid in his arms. “Not tonight,” he murmurs, voice smooth and steady, like he’s already made up his mind. “Just wanna hold you for a bit.”

Your heart trips over itself, not expecting the warmth that spreads through you at his words. He could have let you continue, could have let you take him apart the way you know he likes, but instead, he’s choosing this—choosing to just be close, to breathe you in and take his time. It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does, shouldn’t make your chest feel tight and your fingers curl into his shirt like you never want to let go. You swallow, pressing your face into the curve of his neck, letting yourself sink into the moment.

“You like this life I’ve given you, baby girl?” His question is unexpected, slipping into the space between kisses, his voice smooth but laced with something deeper. You pull back just enough to look at him, blinking as the words settle in. His thumb traces along your jaw, his gaze steady, patient, waiting for your answer.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a question that shouldn’t feel so loaded, but it does, because there’s no easy answer. You love the dinners, the gifts, the way he always makes sure you’re taken care of—but that’s not what keeps you here. It’s him. The way he watches you like you’re something worth waiting for, the way he never takes more than you’re willing to give. The way he makes you feel like you belong to him without ever asking you to.

He must see the hesitation flicker across your face because he hums, tipping his head to the side like he’s considering something. “I love it,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love spoiling you, taking care of you. Love the way you curl up in my lap when you’re tired. Love how you kiss me like you mean it. Love how you keep my bed warm when I come home.” His fingers drag slowly down your spine, his grip firm but gentle. “Love that I can’t go a day without thinking about you.”

Heat rises in your face, creeping down your neck, pooling low in your stomach. His words settle into your bones, each one wrapping around you like a brand. It should make you nervous, the weight of it, but it doesn’t. It just makes you want to sink deeper into him, let him pull you closer, let him keep talking like he’s unraveling something inside you.

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the curve of your throat. “And I love you,” he says, simple and certain, like he’s known it all along. “I know you love me too.”

Your heart stutters, a sharp inhale catching in your throat. He says it like a fact, like he’s never once questioned it. You should argue, should say something teasing to tip the moment back into your control, but you can’t. Because he’s right. You do love him. And the realization crashes into you like a wave, leaving you breathless, dizzy.

Brady smirks, reading every flicker of emotion on your face like an open book. “Not in it for the money, are you, doll?” His fingers tighten just slightly at your nape, enough to make you shiver. “I’ve known that from the start.”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your pulse, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like that. Like he already knows every thought running through your head, every unspoken truth you’re too afraid to say.

Then, before you can catch your breath, he drops it on you like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as anything else he’s ever given you. “I wanna marry you, sweetheart,” he says, casual as anything, like he’s suggesting dinner plans. “Make it official. Keep you forever.”

Your mind blanks. The air leaves your lungs. For the first time since you met him, you have no idea what to say.