#cryingwriter

Chapter 16: Voicemails • A confused and worried Daniel calls Teresa and leaves her a hundred voicemails.

Chapter 17: Who is She? • Daniel asks BB for help finding Teresa but starts to lose hope.

Chapter 18: Bullet with Your Name • Teresa gets caught.

Chapter 19: A Taste for Pain • Teresa returns to her hide-out after being shot.

Chapter 20: Turncoat • Daniel Blake fakes it until he makes it.

Chapter 21: In All the Ways That Counted • Teresa visits an old friend and contemplates fleeing.

Chapter 22: Your Lonely Calls to Me • Teresa and Daniel attend Mayor Fisk’s fight.

Chapter 23: All We Are (is Time That’s Counting Down) • Teresa takes a risk to see Daniel, and Daniel goes for a little ride with Buck.

Chapter 24: Lies Between Your Teeth • Teresa finally reaches out to Daniel but the reunion is bittersweet.

Chapter 25: All Too Well • Teresa meets with Buck and finds herself in trouble again.

All Too Well (Buck’s POV) • Buck drives away angrily as he recalls a memory Teresa spoke of during their meeting.

Chapter 26: To the End of It All • BB throws Daniel a birthday party he doesn’t want and Teresa returns. ✦

Chapter 27: A Ruin Made for Two • Teresa and Daniel are tested.

Chapter 28: The Fatal Flaw • Teresa and Karen meet again as they both sit in jail.

Somehow the conversation takes a left turn and he’s forced to defend his position when it comes to Fisk. Neither of the girls seem to care for the mayor. He’s okay with that. Not everyone can see the vision but part of him feels outcasted having to explain himself and a little embarrassed by his love for the guy. Deep down, there’s another part of him that can't help wanting to impress a pretty girl. So he rambles off a bit of his to-do list. He knows he shouldn’t but he’s proud to be a part of Fisk’s team and maybe if BB just saw what kind of guy he really is then she’d change her mind. About Fisk or him.

Maybe he can prove Hawke wrong too.

Cece has other plans though. Definitely not a wingwoman. “If we’re not gonna keep drinking, can we at least get some food?”

He vaguely remembers to protest but it comes weakly. His body is too tired to fight and they’re already dragging him toward the exit.

Outside, the air wakes him up a little and when they start doing some kind of girlish food-craving-chant, he finally gets the energy to put his foot down. “No, no,” he complains, sluggishly following them.

“Just a quick bite!”

“I can’t. Stop making me feel guilty.”

“Okay. Fine,” BB says with a sigh.

They start giggling and clinging to one another. He almost asks this time. They have to be lesbians or he’s high. Well, he is high. He wouldn’t care either way, he’s just curious. Are girls just like that? Oh, god! Oh, shit! What if they’re treating him like the gay best friend? His mouth is half open with drunken accusations in the chamber when he spots her.

No fuckin’ way.

Across from him in the shadowed alley, Miss Hawke hangs there, leaning against the graffitied wall like a high-class prostitute. She’s not in her normal attire, although he’s never found that to be office appropriate either. Tonight she’s dressed for the streets. Her silver dress falls mid thigh, the neckline so low he can see the curve of each breast and if she bent even slightly he’s sure he’d see her navel.

His mouth falls open and he stares. Blatantly, not even trying to hide it. Both BB and Cece turn to look. It’s that action that changes the script.

Hawke pushes off the wall and emerges from the darkness on a slow stride. Her black knee-high boots glisten like an oil spill under the street lamps as she gets closer. Something about it goes straight to his dick.

“Hey, stranger,” she says when she reaches them.

BB gives him a look. “Who’s this?”

“She’s my, uh, my, my, uh . . .”

“Just a fellow Fisk henchman,” Hawke answers for him, bitchy, tongue-in-cheek. “And you?”

Daniel glares. She knows exactly who BB is and it makes him burn with anger watching her have to introduce herself. Cece shakes Hawke’s hand and the tension between all of them ramps the longer the silence lasts.

“Uh,” BB starts, awkwardly. “We were just trying to get him a cab.”

“Oh? Where are you headed?” Hawke gives him a once over. Her tone says she’ll raise hell if he doesn’t answer this correctly.

“Home,” he grits.

“Me too, actually. We can ride together.”

Before he can protest, she’s waving down a cab. BB and Cece give him worried looks . . . or maybe skeptical. He can’t tell.

The cab pulls up and Hawke gets in first. For a moment he almost shuts the door on her but now he’s curious. They will be alone for at least half an hour. And after she’s done berating him for going out tonight, what else could they find to talk about?

BB grits her teeth, almost encouragingly. “Bye, grandpa,” she teases as he slides into the cab. There’s a moment of hesitation before the door closes and he’s locked inside with the she-devil.

He tells the driver they’re headed for the Staten Island Ferry then leans back in his seat with a heavy sigh. The silence between him and Hawke is immediately deafening. But there’s a current in the thick, hot air, something dark that speaks to brewing tension. Something tinged with sex.

Confused and uncomfortable with that, he dares a glance her way. Of course, she’s looking at him and it makes him squirm.

“Are you hot?” she asks and he feels her eyes burning a hole in his jaw, feels the way they follow the sweat rolling down his neck.

He doesn’t look. “Yeah.”

“That’s because you’re wearing this.” She reaches into his space, her hand sliding along the seam of his hoodie. “Oh, it’s a button up,” she says, surprised.

Before he knows what’s happening, she’s moving into the middle seat and has both her hands on him. One gripping his shoulder, the other thumbing open the top button of his jacket.

Then the second button.

Third.

The air in his lungs is punched out. It takes him a second to get his bearings, then he waves her off, shrinking against the door. “I know how to take off my jacket,” he says dumbly, defensively.

“I know.” The seat creaks as she leans back against it slowly and lets him do it himself. “You look different out of a suit.”

Chills roll through him as he shucks off his jacket, the perspiration on his skin making him feel moist and sticky. “Yeah, well, you look . . .” You idiot. He stops and curses himself for never knowing when to shut his mouth.

“Go on. I can take it like a big girl.”

“Are you cold? Is that why you’re trying to take my hoodie? I mean, you fuckin’ look cold.” He turns toward her, pulling his jacket from behind him. “The weather is crazy this time of year and you're practically wearing nothing.” He shoves the hoodie onto her lap. “Take it. I don’t even need it.”

Her laugh is overly loud in the enclosed space as she spreads his jacket over her legs. “Wow. I think that’s the nicest way someone has ever said I look like a whore.”

“You covered the least of your problems,” he scoffs, gesturing to her breasts.

Her thighs fall open, his hoodie sinking in between them. “You don’t like the dress?”

The traitorous thing between his legs loves this dress. He loves it so much, he wants to see it on the floor of his bedroom. He loves it so much he might make himself known if Daniel doesn’t look away.

“I don’t know. It’s kinda ugly.”

“Uh-huh. It is kind of ugly. Maybe I should take it off.”

Their eyes meet and he wants to shoot himself. She’s got him so pegged. “No, no, I know what you’re doing. You’re baiting me and I’m not gonna fuckin’ fall for that. Okay? I’m not sticking my foot in my mouth this time.”

She slides up next to him, hands moving across his chest. He squirms again but there’s nowhere for him to go. “You’re so much fun, Daniel,” she purrs, an inch from his ear.

The sound of his first name from her lips for the first time makes him shiver. She’s so close now he can smell her perfume but no alcohol. There’s no way she’s doing this sober, is there? But if she is drunk, maybe she won’t remember in the morning. He, on the other hand, is never going to forget this for as long as he lives.

Her hand clamps around his thigh. He gasps and chokes on his own spit. “Holy fuck,” he pants out between a cough, trying not to be too loud.

That godforsaken hand travels between his legs until it’s nestled there over the hard ridge in his jeans. Holy Mary mother of God. He sucks in another torturous breath. And he looks at her, eyes wildly pleading don’t do this . . . but don’t stop either. His body responds so eagerly he wants to die because she knows now exactly what this does to him. As if things weren’t bad enough, her other hand comes up to caress his cheek. Over the sweat on his upper lip. Down his chin. And oh fuck, he likes that. A lot.

“I hope Fisk keeps you around.” Her hand pumps him a few times and he sighs.

“Yep. Me too.” Hesitantly, he puts his hand over hers and stops her from moving, flicks his eyes to the driver, then back to her. “Hey so, uh, normally, if I’m gonna, ya know, go all the way with a girl, uh, woman, well, I’d know her name first,” he stutters.

“What makes you think you’re gonna go all the way?”

Heat floods into his cheeks. “Your . . . Your hand.”

“You’re so easy,” she whispers. “If I can do this, what would Miss Urich have to do to get you talking?” Her lips nearly touch his neck. “Not. Very. Much.”

That sends the heat below, down his chest, into his stomach. It churns. He hates what she’s implying but now he understands. “BB is a nice girl,” is the best he does at a counter argument.

Her hand squeezes him and he makes no effort to stop her. “No, BB is a very bad girl. And I think you’re gonna find out soon she’s played you for a chump.”

“You don’t . . .” He cuts himself off with a pleasured sigh. “Know that.”

The cab comes to a stop and Hawke pulls away from him abruptly, settling into her seat as if nothing happened. She hands him his hoodie and his dick throbs so he puts it around his waist.

“I got somewhere else to be tonight. You go on and I’ll pay for the ride.” Her eyes are so light they almost match her dress when she looks at him. “Get some sleep and take a shower. You can think of this dress if you want.”

He scoffs, peels himself off the seat, kicks open the door, and steps out.

“Oh, and Daniel,” she calls, leaning down to see him. And he catches a glimpse of her navel in the split opening of her dress just like envisioned. She stretches forward and grabs the handle. “My name is Teresa,” she says and pulls the door shut.

Mr. Fisk already seems to like him, or at the very least tolerates him, because he didn’t fire him the second he spoke over Sheila earlier. He’s lucky she didn’t fire him. But he did get them further than maybe Fisk would’ve been without his signatures.

He’s been watching the polls on his phone for days but the fluctuations don’t matter. Fisk will win. He’d bet money on it.

It’s late into the evening when Sheila invites him and the other political aides to the hotel bar downstairs. They must be celebrating early. The results are in so someone somewhere owes him 20 bucks. But he keeps the exhilaration to himself, not wanting to spoil it for those who are waiting on the election broadcast to announce it.

The cube TV hung above the liquor cabinets finally breaks the news and the bar erupts with hoots and cheers. But through the haze of drinks, cigar smoke and enthusiasm, his gaze is drawn to the wide mouth of the doorway. And time stands still.

The striking figure of a woman saunters through the open arch and all the air is sucked out. Suddenly it’s as if there are only two people in this dim barroom—him and her. He watches, with a tight throat and heated skin, as she moves inside like dark water lapping the port at night. Her hips sway in a classy red gown that hugs her curves. He licks his lips. Once, twice. But his mouth only goes dry again when his eyes follow her body upward, settling on the side of her neck where a tendril of black hair has fallen from her bun.

Her deep wine lips are parted with a sigh, her generous chest heaving within the restricting fabric of her dress. Their gaze meets. The smudge of eyeshadow makes her look provocative in the yellow low lights, her stare a penetrating, icy blue. Then her eyes leave him.

Holy shit, she’s fucking gorgeous.

It all comes back into focus, the loud pop music and laughing patrons assaulting his ears. Across the room Sheila greets the goddess with a tight smile and hand shake. Then she’s whisked away from his sight by the political aides who clearly already know her.

A group of men in the corner start chanting ‘MAY-OR FISK, MAY-OR FISK!’ and someone from the opposite side boos. Three ladies beside him talk about hookups and free drinks. The bartender tells an old man he’s topped off for the night. But through all that noise he hears her. Bright infectious laughter.

Oh, he’s screwed.

Raymond Garraty is eight years old when he meets the girl he wants to marry. Before Connie Nesbitt—before her mousy brown hair and sparkling gray eyes—there was basketball and monster trucks and hot dog eating contests and other things that excited him. But the second he sees her across the playground, he abandons the idea that kissing is gross.

The odd thing about falling for someone at a tender age is that you suddenly notice everything about yourself. And you worry that the pretty girl in overall shorts and Mary Jane’s thinks you’re a loser. And to all his school bullies, he is. For the first time in his short life he’s self conscious of his orange hair and gapped teeth and freckles.

But when his future wife walks his way, she gives no indication that he’s the abomination his bullies tell him he is. She smiles. And when he stares too long, she waves.

“I like your shirt.”

It takes him a second to realize she’s speaking to him. For a moment he thinks he hears an angel. His breath picks up. He nearly forgets his entire existence, just staring at her perfect face.

“Hello? Did you hear me?” She laughs. “I said I like your shirt.”

He looks down at his chest. “You like X-Men?”

“Sure do.”

When he looks back up, she’s pulling down the top of her overalls to reveal a Jean Grey shirt. He swoons—whatever that means. He’d heard someone say it on TV before. But he feels it, something in his chest tightening and expanding with his heartbeats. She’s beautiful.

“Who’s your favorite superhero?” she asks.

“Wolverine.”

“He’s a mutant.”

Beautiful and smart, he thinks. “Fine. Spider-Man, I guess.”

Her pink lips stretch over perfect white teeth. “Me too.”

Something builds within him, a great swelling of heat he’s never felt before. He thinks of it like riding a roller coaster and the rush you get when you go over a huge crest. He wants to feel it again and again and again.

They continue their conversation about Marvel cartoons and then switch to talking about school and hobbies and what they want to be when they grow up. But he keeps the part where he wants to marry her to himself. He doesn’t want to scare her away with something like that. What if she doesn’t even like gingers?

He can tell she likes talking to him. Or at least, likes to talk. And he listens because he likes to hear her talk too. He could fall asleep to the sound of her voice.

“Do you wanna come over after school and see my beanie baby collection?” she asks, leaning closer. “Well, it’s really my big sister’s but I’m gonna steal it when she goes to college.”

He perks up and leans in, smelling her strawberry shampoo. “Uh-huh. Totally.”

“Well, I’ll see you then. I gotta go.” Her warmth withdraws and he sighs leaning further into her empty space. “Bye, Ray.”

“Bye.”

I love you, he thinks. But what the hell does he know about any of it? He’s just the older schoolkids’ punching bag with a crush that may knock him off his feet before they do.

The back of her sister Denise’s Buick stinks like feet and listerine but there is nowhere else he’d rather be. The Wicker Man was a total drag. He spent half his time getting up the nerve to put an arm around Connie’s shoulder and the other half listening to people snore over the movie. If he had to choose this minty gymsock smelling bench seat over that, he would every time. At least then, when his knee brushes against hers, he can pass it off as an accident.

She’s wearing a blue dress that falls just above her knee, even higher than that when she’s sitting, and for the umpteenth time tonight he thinks of her thighs. He can see them clearly every time they pass under a street lamp. His hand inches closer across the seat vinyl. Nope, he knows better than that.

Teenagehood has been rough. All the new things he has to get used to because soon enough he’ll be out of school and on his own. But most of all, this nagging tingle in the base of his spine every time the wind blows wrong. Of course, now that he’s thought about it, he’s hard again. He shifts, the vinyl squeaking under him.

Connie looks at him. Through him, really. “Are you alright?” she asks, scooting closer to whisper.

If his ears weren’t specifically attuned to the sound of her perfect voice, he might not hear her over the sound of Denise and her muttonchopped boyfriend fighting in the front seat.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m right as rain.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

He is. Boy, he is. The front of his corduroy pants stretches obscenely as he leans forward to hide any evidence of his stupid little friend. “No, I’m good. It’s just hot in here.”

Denise smacks her gum loudly. “Not my fault I inherited a car without AC, bud.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t listen to her,” Connie says with a roll of her eyes. She slumps back into the seat and her dress rides higher. “She’s a cranky bitch.”

He licks his lips and stays quiet. He knows well enough not to get between them. His eyes shoot to Connie’s thighs, bare and white. Between them. The phrase repeats over and over in his mind and his mouth goes dry.

The car jolts to a stop and he nearly hits the head rest with his face.

“Why don’t you two get out and go suck each other's face off somewhere else?” Denise says, still gum-smacking, still a cranky bitch.

Connie huffs and kicks her door open. “Ugh. You are so rude!” She gets out and all he can see is legs. “Come on, Ray. She just wants to apologize to her boyfriend with her vagina.”

Ray side-eyes Denise warily and scoots out the open door as fast as he can, scared he’ll be the one getting the beating she wants to give her sister.

“Have fun walking home, brat!” The Buick roars as Denise peels out and Ray watches her boyfriend throw his head back with obnoxious laughter as they disappear in a plume of dust.

Now he feels like a jerk. If it weren’t for the disgusting thing in his pants they’d be riding comfortably back to Happy Land. He curses himself. He didn’t put his arm around her in that theater because he’s a coward and now he’s an asshole pervert who is making her walk home in the dark in her cute little cream heels.

She sways and paces. And his dick throbs.

Get it together, Garraty, he tells himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Save it. She’s a c-u-n-t.”

He snorts. She’s so cute she can’t even say the word out loud.

Things have been going wrong in the Nesbitt household since Denise dropped out of college. The two girls are rarely not at each other's throats so tonight was supposedly a lucky occurrence. Although it had been forced on them by their parents. And he is the sonofabitch blessed enough to be asked out like he’s wanted for almost a decade now. Even when he knows it doesn’t mean anything.

He and Connie have been good friends. Only friends. But he’s still working on his plan to take her from good friend to wife. He’s gotta get his shit together first. Right now all he has to offer is gangly teenage limbs and a dumb sense of humor.

“Ray?”

He looks up and realizes she’s walked away. “I’m here,” he says, jogging to catch up. “I’m still sorry we have to walk.”

Her gray eyes twinkle when she beams at him. “I don’t mind walking with you.” Her cool fingertips crawl across his sweaty palm and weave between his own fingers.

Three words circle his mind—the same ones he thought about saying at eight years old on that very first day—but he doesn’t say them. Can’t. Not yet.

His heart throbs. His hard-on throbs. He doesn’t know it now but he’ll think of this moment in a few years, on a night much different than this, surrounded by boys that smell like Denise’s Buick, on a walk that only ends one way.

The first time he thinks about someone dying, it’s by his own hands. It’s ridiculous. Rash. But he fantasizes about choking the life out of Edmund Crowley for doing the exact thing he’s never gotten the nerve to do.

He watches from the corner of the restaurant bar and seethes. Connie puts her hand on Ed’s chest as he dips her, laughing, and they go on dancing and playing pool.

Rage burns in his gut so hot he tastes bile every time he belches the beer he isn’t old enough for. Talk of the town says they’re getting married. A wave of nausea roils his stomach. Who the fuck gets married at 18?

His buddies jest and talk around the table but all he sees is her. Long flowing strands of tawny hair flip back and forth as she moves and he can almost smell the strawberry shampoo from here. What a sick joke.

“Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says, scooting his friend out of the booth.

“Yeah, sure, Ray. Nothing to do with the happy couple by the pool table,” Kyle says with a laugh that makes Ray want to punch him.

“Should’ve bagged that when you had the chance.” Lee chuckles.

“Fuck you guys,” is all he manages before he takes off.

The cool night air stings his skin as he paces outside the restaurant. He can’t drive home, he’s too drunk. He can’t stay either. His fingers ache as he clenches them into fists. He wants to hurt something. Someone. And in his booze haze he thinks he might just up and do that.

The bell rings as he swings the door open and storms back inside. He stalks over to the pool table but doesn’t find anyone to punch. What reason would he have anyway? Just a real stupid excuse to go to jail tonight. And for her he would.

The restaurant and bar is a blur as he stumbles around, looking for Connie and her fiancé. The word alone forces vomit up his gorge. So he sprints uncoordinated down the hall toward the bathrooms.

Only before he can expel his dinner and three quarters case of beer, he spots them at the end of the hall, in the fuzzy dark. Their voices are low secretive murmurs and he can’t make out what either of them are saying so he steps closer. They don’t notice him.

Connie tries to walk away but Ed grabs her upper arm. She shakes him off with a yelp. Then a sudden snap, like dry lightning, ricochets in the empty hallway. Ray can’t believe his eyes. He just fucking slapped her.

He’s feet away but he only takes two steps and has Ed in his grip. He might just get his wish tonight. “If I ever see you put your hands on her again, I will kill you, mother fucker,” he says and tastes metal. Adrenaline. Venom.

Connie’s fingers dig into the arm that holds Ed, struggling, against the wall. He gurgles and chokes.

“Ray! Please!” She tugs frantically. “He didn’t mean it!”

“The hell he didn’t!”

“Ray, stop!”

Her voice loosens his grasp like his body is possessed by it . . . her words . . . her mouth. God, that stupid fucking mouth. How wrong it is. He lets go and Ed slumps forward. And there is stillness, quiet, for only a split second before his own face hits the floor.

Ed flips him over by the skin of his neck and lays him flat out on his back. Meaty fists bash into his face like cannon fire. He hears Connie’s angelic voice screaming for Ed to stop but to him it sounds like singing, the tinkling of silver bells. His vision blurs and he spits blood.

I love you, he thinks. This is what I’m willing to do for you—die. Don’t you see that? His breath leaves his lungs as Ed’s fist wallops his stomach and finally his dinner and rancid alcohol spews out of his mouth like a ruptured spigot. I love you!

He hasn’t spoken to Connie in a year and half, which is why he’s surprised when she shows up at the bowling alley where he works one day out of the blue. Her hair is cut short, a few inches above her shoulders, and she looks matured, adult. There’s the shadow of an old bruise under her eye and it makes the muscle in his jaw tick. Because it’s not from Edmund Crowley this time but some other asshole she’s seeing that she doesn’t want to be saved from.

She storms into the lobby in her bell bottoms and reaches across the pay counters to hit him. His face burns as her hand collides with his cheek and he stands there dumbfounded, letting it happen.

“What is wrong with you!”

He doesn’t know what she’s referring to. “What’s not?”

“Don’t be funny. You know what I mean.”

He really doesn’t.

She places a big caramel-colored boot up on the counter and climbs over. Then shoves his chest and stumbles him backward into the break room. She doesn’t stop until he’s flopped against the wooden bench. Her figure hovers over him like a veiled wraith, sad eyes boring into him.

She bursts into tears and he feels sick shame chill him through. “What? What did I do?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she cries.

Oh. He’s done a damn good job of ignoring it for the past few weeks. He hadn’t planned on thinking of The Long Walk until he was physically foot in shoe on the road. But the list of applicants was put up all over town last night. And Maine's Own Ray Garraty is at the very top.

He pulls her down onto the bench beside him and rubs her arms hesitantly. It seems to console her somewhat.

“Why would you do that?” she asks.

“I have my reasons.”

She looks defeated beyond words. “I don’t get to know them? For some peace of mind or maybe I’ll understand why you’d be so goddamn stupid.”

He smiles. She finally learned to curse. “I’m gonna win, Con. And I’m gonna change things.”

Her brows furrow but she doesn’t question him. She must think he’s gone crazy but she relaxes into his touch and moves forward until her head is on his shoulder.

Strawberry shampoo. He takes a long breath, inhaling her scent, committing it to memory. Some things never change.

“Can I help you pack?” she asks.

“Not much to pack.”

“Can I make you something?”

“My mom’s already baking cookies.”

With a huff, she looks up at him, face so close to his that he can feel her breath. “Can I come and send you off then?”

“You’re not gonna talk me out of it?”

“Would it work?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “No.”

Another huff and her arms wrap around his midsection. He feels inadequate and unattractive like moldy bread but she doesn’t run away repulsed so he lets her hug him. It’s the closest he’s been to her in a long time. Maybe ever.

That feeling from 3rd grade comes back like a pipe bomb, tightening and exploding and shrapneling in his chest. All those feelings for her are still fresh. He can’t help it. Even when she chose meaty-fisted Ed Crowley over him and got his melon beat in. Even when all she did was call and say she was sorry before going radio silent for a year. Even when she comes into his job today and slaps him in the face. He has feelings for her, no matter how unrequited.

A lump forms in his throat. The Long Walk is a reality he will be facing very soon and it makes him want to puke knowing he might get his ticket never having told her. I love you. He screams it in his mind. I love you, damn you. But he doesn’t open his mouth.

Connie comes to help him pack his bag anyway. It’s the night before his mother drives him up to the starting line and he’s anxious. Unfortunately, the anxiety is only heightened by having her here. She’s anxious too and he can smell the heady fear-sweat from where he’s standing across the room.

“You really didn’t have to come,” he says, gesturing vaguely and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” she starts, out of breath from nerves. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget anything.”

“I won’t.”

He pulls his pack out of the back of his closet and dusts off cobwebs. The thing hasn’t seen the light of day since he went camping as a kid. A sudden vision of the bottom ripping open while he’s walking strikes him and his heart turns over.

Connie notices and takes the bag. “What’s first? A jacket in case of rain?”

He nods.

She stuffs his green fatigue jacket inside and smiles stiffly. “Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

Her faux positive attitude slips for a moment as she struggles to swallow what he assumes to be fear. But she packs it down and goes over to his dresser. “What about this?” She holds up his baseball.

“I don’t think I’ll have much time to be hitting balls out there,” he says, irritably.

“Just for throwing. Maybe you’ll meet another Knicks fan.”

“That’s basketball.”

She sighs heavily.

“Look, I really don’t need your help. It’s not a hard job.” He says and his teeth grind. Why the hell is he so angry all of a sudden? “I’ll just see you tomorrow before I leave.”

“What?”

“You can go.” His cheeks catch heat like a wild fire, burning hot in an instant.

“I thought we could spend some time together.” The waver in tone gives away her hurt. “And I’d feel better knowing you had what you needed. I mean did you even think about sun screen or, I dunno, a fucking hat?”

His nails dig into his palm, knuckles popping. “Did you ever think maybe I don’t give a shit?”

She pulls a face that makes him want to hang himself. “Why are you being like this?” she asks, a deeper tremble in that beautiful voice now.

He can’t stop himself. It all explodes out of him at once. “Because I have no idea what I’m doing! You know what The Long Walk is, Con. You know what they do. That’s why you came crying to me when you found out. You think I’m immune to that knowledge?”

“No, of course not.”

“I know what I’m gonna see and I can’t fathom it. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I know what could happen to me. Which is all just fine and dandy,” he says, voice high, a hysterical laugh on its heels. “I’m gonna die a fucking virgin and for what? A pipe dream? A death wish? I don’t know!”

He looks at her, rant reaching peak, and he watches grimly as her face goes dull and her body shrinks away from him. “God. Shit . . . Fuck!” He panics. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

He reaches for her but doesn't touch her. Her eyes scan his body, chin wobbling as she takes him all in. Everything he hates about himself. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Ray?” she asks and it shocks her too. Her hand flies over her mouth with a cry.

“No!” He bolts forward and grabs her then, pulling her in. He’s not much taller than her but somehow she’s shrunken, small and weak in his arms. And she cries, heavy and loud, against his chest.

He pets her head and sucks in deep breaths through his nose. Strawberry shampoo. He wants to go back—to 3rd grade, that night in her sister's car, when he had his hand around Ed Crowley’s throat—any time but this. Because he’s at this precipice now, one step from falling.

“You’re gonna win, Ray.” Her voice is distant. Wind chimes. Heavenly. “You have to.”

He has to.

For a brief moment she’s unmoving, so still that he almost doesn’t notice her trying to pull away when she does. He’s lost in the feeling of her in his arms. How could it be that this is the first time he’s held her like this?

He meets her eyes and his chest does the funny thing again. Her lips open, she looks at his lips, licks her own. And his dick does the other funny thing. Those gray eyes don’t look so scared anymore when they’re half lidded with lust. Not that he knows what it looks like on a woman but he’s known many expressions on Connie Nesbitt and this isn’t one he’s familiar with.

Her hand is cool when it touches his cheek and he just about doubles over backward. The blood rushes completely out of his brain and below his belt.

“When will your mother get back?” she asks, still staring at his lips.

“Uhm. A few hours maybe.” He almost short circuits. “Like n-nine. . . o’clock.”

A shiver rolls through him. He knows why she’s asking. But who is he kidding? Maybe she just wants to know how long she has to stay with him so he won’t be alone and try to off himself. And God, if she’d really left, maybe he would.

“You know I care about you, don’t you, Ray?” she asks, voice lilting, almost seductive. Her thumb slides down his cheek and brushes over the stubble on his upper lip. “You know that?”

“Sure.” It’s nearly punched out of him. He can’t breathe.

“You should know that. I know you care about me.” Her hand keeps traveling. Down his neck, his chest. “You know I care.” Down his belly. Down . . .

“Yes,” he rasps, and closes his eyes as her fingers press against his stiffening dick.

Stars start to dance in his vision as he loses all his oxygen and shutters into the pressure forming around his erection. Her hand seems to pulsate. Oh, god. Oh, GOD.

His eyes snap open and he grabs her wrist a bit more forcefully than intended. “I shouldn’t have said that. About. . .”

“It’s okay if you're a—”

“I don’t want you to think—”

Their words overlap, clashing. He looks at her, terrified, to tell the God’s honest truth. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to experiment together or whatever and then get married and make babies and do the whole white picket fence bullshit. But she dates men who beat on her, and he isn’t. . . Whatever that is. He can be an asshole but he isn’t that.

“You don’t have to pity fuck me.”

Somehow this doesn’t even make her blink. “Damn, I’ve really been bad about sharing my feelings with you, haven't I?” She sighs heavily.

“What?”

“I care about you. I like you, idiot.”

His breath catches. Say it, he chants to himself in his mind. Say it. The bravery ebbs and flows. He opens his mouth. “I. . .” And the confession dies on his lips.

Her expression grows more confused by the second. “Do you really think I would only have sex with you because I feel sorry or something?”

Yes. Yes, he does. But he can’t say that because then that icy shame will bite at him again, like a little rat terrier shackled to his leg. Biting. Biting. Gnaw to the bone. But not saying anything is just as bad, the silence speaks his answer for him.

“Don’t make me feel crazy now.” She turns slightly and crosses her arms over her chest. Her cleavage bulges in the low cut of her dress and the guilt behind his zipper aches. Pulses, much like her hand did. Jesus. He closes his eyes again. “Wake up!” she snaps.

He startles then shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”

“Every time we were alone I waited for you to make a move. I wore the shortest dresses I was allowed to leave the house in. Hell, I would watch you across a room while I was with other guys trying to make you jealous. But you never took any bait.”

His mouth falls open. Holy goddam motherfucking shit. If the stupidest person on this planet was in the room right this minute, he’d still be stupider.

“I. . . I did,” he says lamely.

“When?”

“I let Ed Crowley ring my bell pretty fucking good.” Her frown softens and he sees the realization form. “Yeah. Was tryna tell you something.”

She stays silent, looking at him with Drama Queen eyes and it pisses him off. All this time he stopped himself from wanting her, having her, because he thought she didn’t want him. And she didn’t, at least not that bad, because how could she go out with other guys? His stomach churns.

“You let him ring yours, too. More ways than one,” he adds.

“That’s not fair.”

The defeat in her voice dampens the angry heat burning in his chest . . . slightly. “No. It’s not.”

There’s a broad silence and she can’t look at him. That's the worst of all. Because if it ends here, this will be the image he has for those days on the road. The Long Walk to his probable death. And he’ll die with that last snapshot in his mind's eye and a belly full of rotting shame.

He steps forward and hovers over her shoulder as she turns further away. “Why do you let them hurt you like that?” he asks.

Tear rimmed eyes shoot daggers at him. “I guess I was just waiting for you to come save me. And that was wrong of me, so then I thought maybe that’s my punishment. Maybe I deserve it.”

He grabs her face in both his hands, turning her toward him, and looks her dead in the eye. “You’re not going to go back to any man like that ever again. Do you understand me?”

Her answer comes in a whisper. “Yes.”

Before she can say anymore, he crashes his lips down into hers. He tastes the salt of her tears, the sugar of a hard candy she’d been sucking on when she arrived. The smell of her shampoo and her body wash and her perfume mixes, throwing him into intoxication. His body is alive with sensation and he takes it all in at once. Every careful touch, every sound she makes. He has to bottle this. He has to keep it.

His hands pull at her, anywhere he can grab ahold. And she’s burning hot under his palms, like she has a fever. But he makes no mistake, this is much more than simple sickness. He shivers and groans, mouth breaking free.

Her soft female form presses against him and he’s painfully aware of how hard he is. Every heart beat thrums in his cockhead and he’s sure any minute now he could ruin this.

As if aware of it too, Connie reaches for his belt and shucks it off quickly. His zipper is next and the vibration of it damn near cripples him as she pulls it down slowly. Then pops the button. He’s so sensitive he could cry. Every jolt and jostle rubs him to overstimulation inside his boxers.

“Please,” he says and sounds foreign to his own ears.

Her deft fingers slide inside the chafing fabric and wrap around him delicately. His hips jump. His next breath is gasped. Oh, shit. Oh, god. The muscles of his thighs and ass tighten and he starts praying mindlessly as the pressure wanes. He’s so close. How pathetic.

The light outside is starting to disappear, bathing the room in twilight. His mom will be getting home soon. Damn it, he’s losing time.

She seems to realize this as well and throws his pants and boxers to the floor with a comical thud. “We have to hurry,” she says, breathless. Then her lips find his jugular and he almost loses it.

He grabs fistfuls of her dress skirt and yanks it up so he can find her underwear. His thumbs hook lace and bingo! They slip down her thighs with no effort and puddle at her socked feet.

“Jesus,” he groans, moving his fingers across the thatch of hair between her legs. “I’ve wanted this forever.”

Her body shakes as he plays with her and he likes the way it feels when she tightens her arms around his neck to stop herself from falling, as if he’s her lifeline. Her hips roll and his fingers slide into wetness. Oh. This is going to totally kill him.

“You know what to do,” she whispers.

He’s never done this but she’s right, that animal part of himself designed for rutting and breeding surfaces. It’s scary how well he knows what to do. How easy it is to find the groove of her thighs with his hips as he bends to a better angle. She wraps a leg around his knee and he takes his cock in hand like a man for the first time. Feels it pump with blood. Virility.

“Ray, it’s 8:30,” she whines and he plunges inside her. Their shared moan is so loud his ears ring and he almost loses balance.

Notched inside her now, he takes both hands and lifts her under her ass. She whines again and wraps her legs around him. Her tight, hot depth takes him to full capacity and he almost loses it again. He stumbles into the dresser and holds her there.

She arches and throws her head back. The only logical thing to do is bury his face against her breast and groan. Her nipple hardens under his mouth and he can feel how it responds to his warm breath. He sucks her through the ribbed fabric of her dress top until it darkens. Her hips pitch and he weakens to the onslaught of pleasure it causes.

Her fingers curl into the hair at the back of his head and she moves down on him, slipping almost out of his grasp. Her slick heat tightens and he hisses—scared to thrust. It’s too much. But a dull aching builds until he can’t stop himself, his hips move anyway because they’re supposed to, it’s automatic.

His cheeks burn, his thighs burn, he’s struggling to keep her up. And every time she slips unexpectedly, he sinks so deep they both cry out. He can’t last much longer like this.

His forehead falls against her collarbone and he pistons shakily, unlearned, inexperienced. But this is it, he’s sure of it. The mechanics are second nature. He almost thinks he could go on like this forever, in the space between nothing and pure thunderous release.

Her body seems to be in on the joke though, it clenches and unclenches around him as he thrusts her into his old wood dresser. Frustrated, overwrought, and out of his mind. The sounds of her moaning and her body taking him over and over is so obscene and absurd to him at the moment that he almost laughs.

He leans back slightly to readjust and finds a small resistance inside her, the angle tightening her depth around him until it’s suffocating. Sweat trickles off his brow and he dissolves into whimpers, jerking his hips with untamed and uncoordinated impulse.

He loses control and she slides down his thighs. His grip goes. His knees buckle. And they both go to the floor with a heavy grunt.

Connie’s hands claw him back on top of her and he slides into her so fast his breath puffs out of him. She sobs with joy. And he almost comes.

He has to focus on how they’re laying in his dirty laundry on the floor. Focus on the birds chirping outside his window. Focus on the cramp threatening the bottom of his foot. Focus on anything but how fucking good her pussy feels.

He goes boneless on top of her, feeling his energy draining, his weight dropping. But god, she sobs again and he’s right there. So close. He doesn’t want to come. He doesn’t want this to end. He strains and sobs himself. Panting. Whimpering. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” He trembles and moans wetly, open mouthed, as she cradles him against her breast.

At the height of it all, those three words come to his mind again. A nasty ear worm since he was eight years old. I love you, I love you, I love you. His thrusts punctuate the thought. He’s never wanted to say something so bad in his life.

Connie’s thighs squeeze his hips until he’s sure his pelvis is blushing her with bruises. She hums. And sucks in a breath. “I missed you.”

A tingle of pleasure turns his body to stone. And it shoots down his spine and into his thighs. They feel weakened from her words. It rips through him so quickly, so violently. Tears prick his eyes. The tension mounts and he feels his balls pull up like never before.

He comes so hard he almost loses consciousness. Feels it shooting, that flow of sensation, tugging, twitching. And he cries into Connie’s neck then, like he just lost everything. She holds him, petting his damp head like a mother does a child. The pathetic hiccup and crack of his own voice stops him. And he lies, panting, waiting for the sensory overload to pass.

A blanket of sleepiness falls over him so he nuzzles her neck trying to rouse himself but he can’t open his eyes. “I missed you.” He repeats her words back to her.

She tilts her head down and their noses bump. “I’m gonna miss you more,” she says and sounds sad. He knows why but he puts it away somewhere else in his mind. Not now, Major, don’t you even fucking knock.

He dozes slightly and awakens to her finger tracing his lips. Back and forth, the shape of a wide M. He smiles and her pattern flattens out.

“Are you gonna miss me?” she asks, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear.

Of course, he will. How could he not? He would’ve missed her before but now it’s gonna be torture. Shit, maybe the Major will have to release him instead because he’s pretty sure he can’t walk now. The laugh he wants to have never materializes. He knows come tomorrow he’ll have his energy back and he’ll be in his mothers car heading upstate.

He sighs into the soft skin of her chest. “I will try,” he jokes and his face shimmies with her laughter. “I know, I know, I’m an asshole.”

She pushes him off of her into the bigger heap of his dirty clothes and he turns onto his back to watch her. She leaps off the floor like a jungle cat and sways those gorgeous hips back into her underwear. Her gray eyes hypnotize him and he swears blood begins to swell his dick again. God, he’s totally fucked.

The sound of tires on the driveway startles him and he’s barely off the floor before the first car door slams. Mom’ll have groceries. Right? He doesn’t remember. He picks up his pants and stumbles into them, forgoing the boxers, as the second car door sounds. Please, have more in the trunk, he begs some force bigger than himself.

Connie laughs at him knowingly. If he could just shove her out the window, he would. He can’t look his mother in the eye after that, not while Connie is still here.

The front door opens and closes but Connie ignores it, grabbing his shirt collar and kissing him deeply with tongue. He’s definitely hard again. So hard.

“Should I go help Ginnie with the groceries?” She raises an eyebrow and he whines dramatically. “You stay up here and recover.”

“Ha. Ha.”

He smiles mockingly at her when she laughs heartily, then watches her leave. He wipes his face and fans his shirt, trying to cool down and get rid of the stubborn stiffy. Trying desperately to go back to being normal. But he doesn’t think he ever will be again.

The morning dawns and he curses God that he didn’t wake up dead. Oh, soon, boy, the evil voice in his mind whispers. He goes through breakfast on auto pilot. Checks his bag, adds sunscreen and his hat. It’s almost time to leave and he’s starting to disassociate.

His shoes feel abnormally heavy as he steps onto the front lawn. He slept like shit. Maybe that’ll be the thing that gets him. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The hour strikes and the car engine revs.

Connie slides across the dew-covered grass in her Mary Jane’s and right into him, arms thrown around his neck and tightened like a boa constrictor. He glances at his mother, who looks quietly irritable.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Connie tells him, voice pitched high and wet with sorrow. “I just . . .”

She thought about not coming. He’s sure. But she did, so he tries not to think like that. He knows it’s hard. She’s sending him off to the cemetery essentially, he doesn’t expect complete composure.

He pulls her away so he can look at her, good and hard, really commit every mole, blemish and pore to memory. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, but it feels hollow. Not enough.

“You’re gonna win this, Ray. And I’m gonna make you the happiest man alive when you get back. Just one more tomorrow, that’s what I want you to think of every day. One more tomorrow. It’ll go fast.”

His mother tuts and honks the horn.

“I’m coming!” Ray shouts, then turns in on himself. Unraveling. Begging. “Just a minute.” That’s all he asks, all the whispered prayer amounts to. He rubs Connie’s arms up and down and his heart breaks for the tears in her eyes. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Her mouth opens, chin trembling. He knows she wants to say it back, to echo his words and have them be true. But it feels like a jinx. She doesn’t say it.

He squeezes her shoulder and nods, tight lipped, then turns around. His footsteps drag as he makes his way to the car. His mother puts it into gear prematurely. He grimaces. He falters.

Jesus, what is wrong with him!

He turns around and sprints back to Connie, grabbing her up and kissing her until he’s out of air. He wants to taste her. Breathe her. Take her with him. But he can’t.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs against her lips. “I love you.”

And that’s all he can do. He rushes back off, tears streaming down his face faster than he can wipe them off. He gets in the car and slams the door but Connie’s voice is still there, like a bell, like heavenly angels singing.

“I love you! I love you, Ray Garraty! I love you, too!”

The car begins to roll and his mother clicks her tongue again at the rear view mirror as they drive away. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even glance at the mirror. He can’t. It’s all he can do to keep from blowing this whole thing.

He thinks about her voice, that chant of confession and yearning. It’s a song he’s waited for his entire life. He hears it as his mother drops him off. He hears it on the front line. He hears it in the first few miles. But when McVries turns and asks him about his girl, he tells him a lie. No one else gets to have her in this place, on this godforsaken road, on the descent into hell. Only him.

And she walks with him. With that lilting, wind chime voice. I love you, I love you, Ray. It stays even when his exhausted mind can think no more, when his feet can do nothing else but walk. Walk. Walk. And at the very end, her voice is clearest. When he’s stumbling, falling down, and getting the last of his warnings. He’s not afraid to say it anymore. I love you. When the guns draw and he passes the point of no return. Her voice is what he hears when it happens.

“I’m his personal assistant,” she tells Sheila, walking ahead of her, not even turning to give her the respect of attention. It’s cold. “You’re his Chief of Staff. Stopping him is your job.”

Sheila’s head droops and she hugs her midsection, mumbling to herself. He imagines it’s something like ‘rude bitch’. Or maybe he’s just thinking that.

Mayor Fisk orders construction workers nearby to fill the giant hole in the middle of the street and Daniel idolizes him for it. He says as much, even when it earns him a side-eye from Sheila and an irritated glance from Hawke.

Christ, he wonders what her first name is. He bets it’ll taste delicious when he finally gets to say it.

Sheila stomps over to him and flicks him in the arm. “Keep your eyes on your future, Blake.” For a moment he’s confused on what the hell that means until she adds, “And off his assistant’s ass.”

His eyes shoot to her and he swallows hard. “I didn’t even . . . I wasn’t . . .”

“There are plenty of other women in the world. Keep your sights off that one.” The way Sheila spits the last two words makes him heat uncomfortably, embarrassment and shame probably coloring his skin.

Immediately, as if he knows not what he does, his gaze falls back to the woman in front of him. She’s wearing a tight black dress this time, full hips swaying, soft curves outlined solid beside her pale arms. Jesus, he’s actually getting . . .

Fuck! Not right now.

He turns around abruptly. “I’m gonna head back to the car.”

Sheila huffs, unknowing. “Good idea.”

Before he can make it back, the mayor has finished his show of authority and is catching up with him. Followed, of course, by his lackeys, Buck Cashman and the other assistant currently causing problems for his slacks. Sheila gains on him, too, but she keeps a distance from all of them.

For a moment, he’s distracted by the mayor’s enthusiasm for change and impressed by how he’s getting shit done with heft and punctuality. It’s the best he can do to forget the problem in his pants. “Sir?” he blurts.

“Yes,” Fisk grumbles.

His eyes are drawn to Hawke. She’s looking at him, waiting for him to speak. He can’t breathe. “Solid hole work. You know, filling in that hole.”

Fisk walks into his sightline saving him from her reaction. “Ah, thank you, Daniel.”

He takes that opportunity to bolt.

As soon as he’s back at the SUV, he slips into the passenger seat and turns away from the driver. And prays to anything and everything holy that no one notices the tented front of his pants.

Later in the day, Daniel is on his way to the mayor’s office with none other than the up-and-coming journalist he’s had a minor crush on, BB Urich. His ego is a little crushed figuring out moments ago that their number exchange was purely a ploy for more information. He should’ve known better.

He decides to call her out on it. But she has an answer for everything. “I’m a journalist, bro. Besides, we can kill it here as friends with political benefits,” she explains, and her mouth keeps moving after that but he starts to tune out.

Women seem to like him for whatever it is they want to use him for—cleaning their garage, helping them with paperwork, bringing them lattes across town, and now, he guesses, political benefit. And he’s the loser who’s gonna take what he can get. Sometimes it leads somewhere, a thank you in the form of a chaste kiss, and if he’s extremely lucky, which is damn near never, a handjob. That only happened once.

BB doesn’t seem the type to pay someone back with sexual favors. Which at the end of the day is probably a good thing. He needs a friend in this weird political sphere he’s gotten himself into. It’s best not to mix business and pleasure. Although, what would he know?

He takes her phone and slips it into his pocket. “Look, play softball in there, okay? I’m calling in a favor.” He’s trying not to get his ass booted before he’s even gotten anywhere.

“Wait, I thought you said you were his guy.”

“I am.” He sighs. “I might’ve embellished a little.”

“Wow. You know, I can’t tell if you’re an idiot or an operator.”

As he stands in front of the mayor’s door, knocking like a pathetic yes-man, he realizes he doesn’t know the answer to that any better than she does. “Well, maybe, I’m . . .” he starts but either way, he’d be lying. “I don’t know what I am.”

Buck opens the door and Daniel follows BB inside the stuffy old room. Before the door shuts, Hawke joins them, carrying a stack of papers. The last person on earth he wants to see right now. Her hips still sway hypnotically and it takes everything in him not to look as she pushes past him.

Don’t look.

Don’t look.

Don’t. Look.

Damnit. She stops in front of him and her eyebrow arches as she sizes him up. The breath in his lungs feels like it turns to stone. He shouldn’t have looked.

“You gonna close the door?” Her voice is soft but it hits him like a train. She’s talking to him. Holy shit. “Are your ears malfunctioning, Blake?”

He gets the impression she spits on homeless people. She was the last one through the door, why didn’t she shut it? He frowns. How can someone that fuckin’ hot be so damn mean and miserable? She flaps her hand at him like you’d shoo away a naughty child, as if they're all meant to go along with her orbit. He rolls his eyes at her but does as she asks anyway.

If that isn’t humiliating enough, BB decides to get into topics she shouldn’t. He watches her with a pressure in his chest, tapping his foot anxiously. Every word that comes out of her mouth grates his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. What happened to softballing it?

Mayor Fisk has his hackles raised too and that makes Buck look uneasy. Hawke is the only pillar of calm in the room. She stands against the window, backlit by the afternoon sun like an angelic figure. If he weren’t about to shit himself he might laugh. She is no angel.

He wants to reach out and strangle BB for being a good journalist but he keeps his sweaty palms to himself. Fisk shuts her up for him, telling her prematurely that they’re out of time. And Daniel doesn’t follow her out.

Instead, he jumps to his own defense. “Sir, I am so sorry. She was not supposed to ask about your wife.”

“It’s okay, Daniel,” Mayor Fisk says, and the lack of anger in his tone relaxes him somewhat.

He’s used to being gripped by the back of his neck and tossed away like an untrained puppy when he fucks up. People in power are always yelling, always angry. But Fisk doesn’t do any of that. He actually excuses her behavior. For a moment Daniel feels weak for apologizing and he glances at Hawke. She gives no indication she even notices him at all. And for whatever reason, that stings more.

He turns onto his back, still asleep, and his thick, naked upper body is so warm when she slides in next to him. It makes her shiver deliciously having come out of the cool spring weather. He breathes deeply but doesn’t snore and is so still she thinks he must die when he sleeps only to rise again seven or eight hours later. So she allows herself to get comfortable.

She’d taken her heels off at the front door for this reason and chose a wrap dress so she wouldn’t be hindered by restrictive fabric. Although, she doesn’t plan to do all that much, other than surprise him with the knowledge of waking up to her in his bed. It won’t become a habit—if she can help it—but it is very nice to tease.

There’s certainly a bit of a lapse in her self control, she admits, because she shouldn’t even do this once. And she really shouldn’t peek under the covers to see if Daniel’s lower half is as nude as the top. Disappointingly, it’s not. She shouldn’t walk her fingertips over his arm to rouse him either. But in his bed, there is no should or shouldn’t. There is only what she wants.

He turns slightly, almost waking. This new position brings new sights and she has to bite her lip to keep from making any noise. His chest is covered in dark hair. It makes her giggle because for some reason she’d figured he couldn’t grow any. The covers shift and she follows the hair down his stomach. The throb between her legs starts early. There must be a God, because otherwise, how did she get this blessed?

He makes a muffled mewling noise and turns toward her. His heat is almost suffocating under the covers but she wants to curl up in it and fade away. Damn it, maybe this will become a habit. A very bad, very addicting habit. But she supposes she might as well enjoy it.

There’s a peaceful look on his face and for a moment she can envision how he looked as a child. His hair is a mess across the pillow, pink lips slightly open, and the view of him alone causes some great feeling to swell in Teresa’s chest. Something she can’t name. Something that isn’t just attraction. A new feeling, a scary one.

She ignores it and brushes the locks of hair off his forehead gently. Then reaches down and runs her knuckles across his chest, thumb over his nipple. Her hands must be cold because he stirs at that feeling. His eyes flutter open and she does it again.

“Whatdaya—how,” he mumbles, trying to grasp onto reality. His face scrunches up and he looks so adorable she chuckles at him. “You’re not in my bed.”

She pets his chest and arm as he stares at her, still coming around. “I am in your bed.”

“Oh.” His lids slowly flutter and fall closed and he moves closer under the covers. “That’s good. I like that.” His eyes shoot open. “I’m naked.”

A laugh breaks free. “Not completely.”

He makes a face. “You checked? How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Why are you here? In my bed, I mean. Not to sound ungrateful because I don’t mind.” He cringes at his own rambling. “I’m just curious.”

“Curious. That’s a good word. Maybe that’s the answer.” She sits and gathers her dress up, pushing him onto his back and slinging a leg over his hips. “But you’re gonna have to get a better security system if little ol’ me is able to break in.”

He’s gone completely silent and looks uncomfortably stiff like he’s trying not to move.

“You okay?” she asks, smiling because she knows. The heat of his body seeps through her clothes and the hottest part is between her legs, in the shape of something suggestive, right against the two pieces of thin fabric that separate them. “Am I ruining your beauty sleep?”

He trembles, not breathing. “No, ma’am.”

She settles a little, slowly easing her weight onto the blatant arousal between them. They both take a shuddering breath as she lines her cleft perfectly against him. He’s extremely hot and hard through the barrier of their underwear.

His hands fly to her hips. “No,” he whines.

“No?” She laughs, reveling in the way he jumps and throbs right against her center. It makes her throb too, soaking the little patch of fabric between them.

“Please, don’t make me—holy shit—” He moans as she rolls her hips. “Don’t make me come in my boxers again. Please. I can—”

She puts her finger to his lips. “I didn’t make you do anything, Mr. Blake. Buuut . . . That does sound very tempting.”

The second she begins to move, his mouth is open and bargaining. “Please. Anywhere you want. Anywhere!” But she doesn’t stop, holding him down by the shoulders, tormenting him with the rhythm of her hips and the lure of how close the wet haven of her body is to his aching erection. “Please, not, not . . . I’ll—ohmygod—please—Anything! I’ll do anything you want. I promise. I’ll make you come instead. I will eat your pussy so good. Oh, Christ, please! I promise!”

She slaps a hand over his mouth and slows despite loving the way those dirty words come unfiltered from his pretty lips. “You’re that close already?”

“No, I just . . .” But his cheeks betray him, blood blooming into his face instantly.

“Aw.” She leans down and kisses him, her dark hair falling around them like a veil. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” he answers on a hiccuped breath.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“I . . . I’ve done . . .”

She grins against his lips before sitting up and letting herself sink back over his hardness. She knows the answer but wants to hear it anyway. “Tell me.”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’ve had, like, handjobs or whatever. I’ve touched a girl before, sorta. And I’ve had my mouth on a woman . . . You, I mean. I had my mouth on you.” He shakes underneath her, hardly able to breathe for his own rambling and the constant pressure over his cock. “But I can keep up. I can do it any way that you like it, if you tell me how.”

Oh, yes. The boy is very astute. And she knew she was his first the very second his tongue touched the tender flesh between her legs. Men who’ve had it all are never eager to please. But she never imagined she’d get to be his first in more ways than one. Now that she knows she has to savor it and take things slow for him.

She draws her fingertips over his chest. “Would you like to take my instructions, Daniel?”

His cock jerks as if answering. “Hell yeah,” he says so softly she almost misses it.

The bed sways as she throws off the blanket and swings her leg over the side to stand. She pulls him up with her and mourns the loss of contact between her legs. This’ll be as much a torture for her as it will be for him.

All she wants to do is reach out to the tented front of his boxers and tug him to completion. Ruin those underwear, she wants to say, come for me like you did, untouched. But she must have some self discipline. More fun comes to those who wait.

He stands there confused, hands lifted slightly like he wants to touch her. And boy, does she want to let him. Too bad. She has other plans.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“Uh, that door there.” He points.

She slips her hand into his and leads him to it. When she pushes open the door, she’s amazed at how spacious it actually is—much larger than her own despite his place being mostly unimpressive. White tile lines the wall all the way into the shower and the glossy tub is huge, cut in half by a pane of glass. This’ll be perfect. Some day she’s going to come back to take a nice long soak in this gorgeous place. But right now, all she wants is her boy naked and in the shower.

She turns and goes for his underwear, dipping her fingers under the waistband and squeezing his ass. He laughs and falls into her a little but groans when she does it again.

“Let’s get you out of these,” she says.

“You helping me?” He laughs again. “Feels like you’re just stalling.”

She takes them down quickly, sinking onto her knee. With lips nearly touching his leaking tip, she looks up. “Maybe you’re impatient.”

He sucks in a breath, shaking his head.

“You didn’t mention whether you’d had a woman in this position before.” She blows along his shaft as she leans in to kiss his stomach. Her hands roam up his shaking calves to his thick thighs. If he thinks she’s teasing him, she’s really only teasing herself. “Have you, Daniel?”

“I . . . I haven’t.”

“So you’ve never ever been inside a woman?”

“No.”

Teresa stands, licking her lips as she devours him with her eyes. She would’ve lost her edge if she let herself taste him. She would’ve folded and let him take her right here on the edge of the sink. The fun would be lost to both of their impatience. Sometimes it’s good to look and not touch. Yet.

“Okay,” she says with another hum. “You can get in the shower.”

He glances at the stall and half smirks, half furrows his brow. Knowing him he’s thinking about bending her over and having her up against the glass but he will be doing no such thing. He trips out of the boxers hooked at his ankles and climbs into the tub.

“Turn on the water,” she tells him.

There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in his movements. He turns the tap and a generous spray shoots from the silver head above him. It hits his shoulder, rivulets running down his chest and soaking the hair. Down, down the water flows and her eyes follow the droplets to the evidence of how aroused he is.

He waits, patient and still. But she can’t stop staring and admiring his beautiful, thick body. Her nails dig into her own thighs to stop herself from moving.

“You aren’t joining me,” he says in realization instead of questioning.

“No, Daniel.” She strides over and sits on the edge of the tub, leaning back against the tiled wall to get comfortable and stretch out. “I want to watch.”

“Is this because . . . I almost came?”

She smiles but she’s surprised. “You think this is punishment?”

He looks down and scratches the back of his head. Warm water sprinkles over her legs with the movement of his arm. It feels nice. So she gives in halfway, putting one foot in the tub so she’s straddling the edge, and starts working open the knot at the front of her dress. Daniel watches, abandoning his borderline pout for aroused intrigue.

They meet eyes and she decides maybe he deserves a little something. “Do you want to undo this for me?” she asks, playing with the long strings that keep the dress closed and decent.

He nods, coming to kneel in front of her. His wet body drips all over her but she doesn’t care, she brought a change of clothes for the shooting range anyway. And the way he’s getting her soaked is having the same effect between her legs. She’d love to give in so very badly.

His shaking fingers fumble with the tie. “Can I touch you when it’s off?” he asks, pulling the loops apart so forcibly she’s yanked toward him.

Oh, he’s eager.

“It will be open, not off,” she gives him a non-answer to see what he does.

He glances up as he undoes the last loop. “But I’m getting you all wet,” he says, practically salivating with anticipation.

“Yes, you are.”

He looks up again and licks his lips. “Can I please kiss your pussy again?”

“No.” She shakes her head, smiling. “You can open my dress but my panties stay on.”

The edge of his mouth turns up slightly and she knows he’s about to lose his good boy privileges before he even speaks. “I could still kiss you with your panties on.”

She runs her fingers into his hair and tugs a little. “No. I said I want to watch, not feel.”

A crease appears between his brows but he nods. Slowly, with the hesitance of someone trying not to rouse a sleeping tiger, he unlaces the two strings and sets them aside. The fabric parts slightly on its own, revealing a sliver of skin between her breasts, down her stomach, to the stark white of her panties. His hands are unmoving, probably because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to help it along or touch her.

She leans back against the tiled wall and spreads her legs apart, drawing the fabric away with it. It opens like a robe, inching away until more and more of her is bared to his unfed gaze. She lets him look, relishing the way he can’t find a place to put his eyes.

“What do you want, Daniel?”

He sighs heavily. “Can I please touch you?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want me to.”

“Where do you want to touch me?”

“Your tits, uh, your . . . your breasts.”

Teresa tries not to laugh. He seems dumbfounded by his own simple guy brain but it’s adorable so she doesn’t discipline him for it. “With your mouth or your hands?”

He smiles bashfully, cheeks pretty pink. “Both.” He remembers his manners. “Please.”

She cracks a smile. Might as well have a little fun. “Go nuts.”

He laughs on the descent to her chest, open mouthed and greedy as he kisses the bottom of her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her bosom. He grabs a handful of her breast and she shivers as his cool, wet fingers squeeze and caress. Then his warm, slick mouth finds the other side and she comes undone.

Her head falls back against the wall and she arches into the feeling of him hungrily pressing his face against her. She moans as his tongue slides over her nipple and he answers with a moan of his own. It’s as if he wants her pleasure more, like he can't help but feel it when she voices her enjoyment of something he’s doing to her. That alone makes her hum dreamily again.

He pins the tip of her nipple between his fingers and massages her with one hand, while the other hand toys with the elastic of her underwear at her hip. His mouth moves in unison with his undulating grasp on the other breast, kissing and licking. The sensations make her stomach free fall and the unattended center of her arousal pulsates ravenously.

“Oh, yes,” she mewls, thinking how easily he could make her come if he so much as brushed a knuckle against her right now. But she doesn’t clue him in. She likes to ride the wave as it builds, going nowhere but always rising.

He sucks her sensitive bud a little harder and pulls away with an audible noise. They both groan excitedly at that.

He pulls in a lungful of air. “Does it feel good?”

“You make me feel very good, Daniel.”

He keeps his eyes on hers as he dips his head back down and wiggles his tongue over her tender nipple.

“Yes,” she whines, wrapping her fingers around his hair. She tugs and his lips latch around her, suckling. “Good boy. Oh, God, yes, Daniel. Don’t stop. You’re so good at this.”

His eyes roll back in his head as his lids close and he lets out a sound like he’s been kicked in the stomach. But it doesn’t deter him one bit from the service he’s providing.

“You’re so handsome, loving on me like this,” she whispers, moving to caress his face and nape of his neck. She’s losing her mind. “My sweet boy. So good.”

He whimpers and tries exceedingly hard to earn more moans, more praises. And he does. Everything he does is perfect.

Her sex throbs until it aches. She wants him inside her so bad she’s willing to break all her rules. But one thing keeps her from doing it—she wants him to give his virginity somewhere safe and warm and special. This isn’t it. So it has to end before one more of his beautiful sounds turns her into the version of Teresa who caves.

She tugs him by his hair until he releases her and comes away with a glossy wet mouth. “Okay, get off. You’re wasting water.”

He blinks at her and is slow to stand. His cock looks so pathetically and painfully unused, the flushed tip weeping, that she feels sort of bad for it. But she needs a minute to come down.

“Wash your hair,” she tells him.

He makes a humph kind of noise as he moves backward into the stream and tilts his head back. His neck looks delicious. Hell, his entire body does. It’s no help with the high still buzzing through her from his mouth on her. Watching was supposed to be the goal and now the watching is torture.

He lathers his hands with shampoo and she shudders as he lifts his arms to scrub his scalp—even his damn armpits are keeping her turned on. She’s sure her panties are soaked through by now. But she keeps watching, an ultimate test of control, as he rinses and repeats the motion with the conditioner.

When he’s done he shakes his hands, wipes the water out of his eyes, and frowns. “You know what, my dick hurts. I successfully kept my shit together this time but it’s . . . very hard.”

She laughs. “I never said you couldn’t touch yourself.”

He sighs heavily. “You’re torturing me.”

“I’m sorry. Am I being mean?” Her voice dips into seductress territory. His eyes fall from her lips to between her legs. “What are you looking at, Daniel?”

“The best thing I’ve ever tasted.” His voice turns from eager to frustrated when he adds, “The place I’m dying to be inside of.”

Her depths clench around nothing, yearning, aching. “You can have that. Someday. But you gotta listen to me first.”

For a moment, she thinks he may be done with behaving. She thinks he might be fed up with the humiliation of standing here in front of her, naked and so hard he’s about to cry about it. It seems he only needs a minute to recover from that lapse of sudden rebellion. But his voice is still bratty when he says, “Whatever you say.”

“That’s a cute tone on you.”

He smiles incredulously. “I am simply awaiting instruction, mistress.”

She lets out a cackle at that. “Oh, okay. Then you can wash your body now, my servant.”

To her surprise, he actually grabs the bar of soap and does exactly as she says. At this point she doesn’t care if it’s spite or obedience, she’s impressed. She watches with a swell of pride and admiration in her chest as he soaps his entire body, never breaking eye contact.

“Rinse off,” she demands.

“Yes, ma’am.” Still, his eyes remain on hers.

Once she’s decided he’s had enough, she relaxes against the cool tiled wall and takes a deep breath. “Touch yourself, baby. Show me how you get off when you’re alone.”

He sighs, defeat and relief both coloring his features. She knows how badly he wants it to be her hands on him instead. In time, sweet Daniel, she thinks, I will give you everything you want.

“May I make one request?”

His voice is so precious she has to comply or she’ll combust. “Yes, you may.”

“Please, do it with me.” He wraps his fingers around himself and does one slow tug. “I wanna watch you too, not just imagine it for the millionth time.”

There is no need to think about it but she wants him to wait. She hums and sways her leg back and forth, pretending to ponder his request. When she looks up at him, he’s breathing shallowly, trying so damn hard to be patient.

“Do you want my panties on or off?”

He nearly shakes as he makes another pull off that gorgeous cock. “Off,” he says, then quickly adds, “Please.”

The room is filled with steam so her skin is moist when she lifts up and rolls her panties down her thighs. Daniel watches with an intensity she’s never seen on another man. His hand moves languidly, fingers barely curled around his length. It has her pausing momentarily on her way getting out of her underwear. He’s so beautiful it hurts and she knows he has absolutely no clue.

With her back against the wall again, she angles herself toward him so he can see what he asked for and he doesn’t take his eyes off of her for a second. He’s been a good sport about everything so far so she decides to loosen the reins a little.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks, running a hand down her stomach.

His gaze moves back and forth from her face to between her legs. “You want me to tell you?”

“Yes.” She laughs.

He swallows harshly and steps forward, wasting no time. “Take your left hand and play with your tits,” he says, eyes wild as they search for a place to focus and can’t find one. She has to smile, it sounds so silly coming from him, yet the dirty command makes her tingle. She goes to touch herself. “My left,” he corrects.

“Oh, of course. My bad.” She switches to her right hand and squeezes each breast for him. “Like this?”

The pace of his tugging quickens, which is an answer enough without his words. “Fuck yes. Holy shit . . . You are so fuckin’ hot.”

A little thrill goes through her that this alone has him worked up. “And what would you have me do with this hand, Mr. Blake,” she teases, drumming her fingers over her lower belly.

He looks at her as if he’s forgotten it’s his choice and seems overwhelmed by possibility. “Uh . . . Suck your fingers and then . . .” He must lose his train of thought when she does exactly that, his eyes going glassy at the mere sight of her with her fingers in her mouth.

The whole broad frame of his body trembles and the hand on his cock tightens. Sleepy, approving eyes bore into hers suddenly. “Rub your pussy for me, Teresa.”

Oh. Kay. This is a Daniel she’s never met. His request is firm but not at all dominant. The ‘for me’ sounds more like a plea than a demand. Coming from his sweet mouth it’s all desperation. And she does it, all for him.

She sighs shakily and presses her fingers over her wet sex, spreading herself and finding the swollen bundle of nerves that keeps throbbing miserably from lack of attention. The first touch almost hurts and it makes her whine. With two fingers, she draws lazy circles over the most sensitive part of herself and bites back the sounds that want to break free at how good it feels to finally let go.

Daniel goes with her rhythm, trying to match every move. He groans on each pull. It’s almost too much for her to bear—those thick thighs tensing to hold him upright, the hair on his chest and stomach darkened by the water, the muscles in his arm working as he strokes himself. His other hand slides over his stomach and down to cup his sac. It’s the most arousing thing she’s ever seen in her life.

Her head falls back against the wall with a thud and she keens like she’s in heat. Her sex feels raw and overstimulated but she can’t stop, won’t stop from doing what he wants. It works her up knowing how hard this is going to make him come. As predicted, Daniel moans in response and she can hear the sounds of his wet cock in his hand now.

“Please,” he rasps, panting. “Put your—oh, Christ, fuck—put your fingers inside.”

Her head swims as she slides her hand down and takes two digits no problem. There’s never been a time in her life she’s done that on the first try. “God, Daniel, you’d love how this feels.”

His hand stutters. “I can’t wait.”

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she pumps her fingers in and out, her other hand grasping her breast roughly. Her back arches against the slick tile and she cants her hips forward so he gets even more visual access.

He moans like he’s about to go off like a gun and his fist tightens so hard on the next few strokes his knuckles turn white.

“Careful with my cock,” she blurts, thinking selfishly, only I get to bully that beautiful part of you.

“Then tell your cock not to come yet,” he says breathlessly, holding the base with one hand and tugging with the other.

It strikes her then that he’s edging himself and it has her clenching around her own fingers. His thighs shake from the force of his self control. Without warning her own will snaps. The feeling erupts until she sees white and she just keeps coming and coming in quivering waves, crying out again and again.

When her eyes open, she finds him standing so still, both hands wrapped around himself, his poor florid cockhead dripping hopelessly. Every inch of him shakes and shudders like he’s about to lose himself to the pleasure before he’s ready.

“Please,” is all he says and she’s off the edge of the tub before she can even form a thought.

She wraps an arm around his neck and pushes him back into the warm spray of the shower and against the shower wall. Her dress is drenched instantly and the weight of it molds her against him. Her other hand pries his rigid fingers away from himself.

“Are you going to learn to be nice to my cock?” She brushes her lips against his and he chases her mouth for a kiss. “Tell me with your words, Daniel.”

“Yes,” he agrees desperately, eyes closed, still waiting for her to put her mouth on him. “I’ll be good to your cock from now on. Promise.”

“You promise to be a good boy?”

“Yes. I do. Please.”

She takes him in her hand and he hisses at the contact. He’s so overstimulated this will be easier than breathing for both of them. Very slowly she begins to stroke him, pulsating the loop she’s made with her fingers up and down the hard stalk jutting from his body. He shivers and groans, head tilting back and forth like he can’t control the way his body moves anymore.

“Fuck, oh, fuck.” He takes harsh and uneven breaths and trembles so violently she’s afraid he’ll collapse. But she doesn’t stop. “Please . . . Please . . . Please . . .” he starts repeating the mantra over and over, dissolving into whimpers.

“Move into my hand, Daniel,” she whispers and licks the water from his neck before sucking the skin. “You’re doing so good. Go ahead, baby, let yourself come.”

“Ah . . . Shit,” he gasps and moans woefully. “No, I . . . Fuck, I don’t want . . . Oh, God.”

She’s completely fascinated, damn near drugged, by the sight of him fighting it. His face is screwed up in pain but also pleasure and it shocks her to see actual tears rolling down his cheeks. It turns her into another person.

She caresses his face, wiping away his tears. “Look at me,” she tells him and waits until he does. His teary sparkling eyes stab her right through. Oh, look at her pretty boy. “Relax. All I want is for you to let go now. I don’t need you to last. Will you do that for me?”

He nods. Even his open mouth trembles. And as her hand begins to quicken, his hips follow suit. “That’s good. Fuck my hand. Just like that,” she coaches and he leans his head back against the tiles but keeps those heavy eyes on hers. His mouth stays open in one continuous whimper as they work together to get him there.

The fight leaves him and the rush of his orgasm comes quick, mounting fast under her fingers until his rigid flesh is pulsating and tightening. The seconds tick by and she waits for the perfect moment.

“Come for me.”

His hips jerk his cock through her fist in one swift motion and she feels warmth spatter across her stomach. He sobs, his head falling back as he humps into her hand. She looks down and moans herself. The desperate, idle thrusting makes her dizzy with want and it takes everything in her not to ruin his orgasm.

He comes to and grabs the sides of her face, kissing her and moaning into her mouth. If it were any other time he’d need to be disciplined but right now she allows it. Because she wants it too. He kisses her until she is breathless and needy again.

When he pulls away and looks between them, he grunts unhappily. “I didn’t mean to get it on you,” he says, voice sleepy and worn. “I’m sorry.”

She ruffles his wet hair back off his face. “It’s alright, handsome.” He closes his eyes and leans into the comfort of her caress. “In a minute, you can go get dressed. I’ll wash off.”

He hangs his head against her shoulder, still catching his breath, then looks at her longingly with those sweet puppydog eyes.

“What is it?”

“You’re . . . I dunno.”

“Am I overwhelming you?” she asks seriously. She doesn’t want to push his boundaries too far and she hasn't been that good about recognizing where his line is yet.

“Not in a bad way.” He heaves a sigh. “I’ve just never . . .”

“I know.” She smiles and rubs his cheek with her knuckles. “You tell me if I’m too much.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not.”

“But you will tell me if I am,” she demands instead of asking. He nods swiftly. “Daniel.”

“Yes,” he all but whimpers.

“I think you redeemed yourself.”

He lets out a rough laugh. “Yeah, I did.”

“Yes, you did.”

Another laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head back and closes his eyes. This is a big deal for him so she just leans in and kisses on his neck, running her hands up and down his body as a way to bring him back to reality softly. She won’t rush him because he deserves the aftercare.

She’s been in that sort of headspace before and it can be emotional. Extremely exhausting as well. That’s why she prefers the inverse. The hand that guides instead of the one who follows. Although, she feels his weariness. They’ve done something that binds them, that changes them, and it’ll hit her later, the responsibility of that.

“Go get dressed,” she finally tells him.

He rinses and grabs a towel from the rack. While he dries off, he watches her through the glass. She strips off her dress and hands it to him. He stares. “You are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”

She shakes her head with a laugh and shoos him. “Go. Get. Dressed.”

“I’m going!” He raises his hands in mock surrender and pads out of the bathroom with the towel around his waist and a giddy smile on his face.

Her own smile fades as he leaves her alone in the running shower. This is the most her that she’s ever felt and the simplicity is new. Nothing this good has ever come easy and when it did there was always a catch. She could pretend that they’re only having fun, that it all comes down to sex, but it would be a lie. She has feelings for Daniel. And whatever they are, they scare her.

She rinses off and pats dry with one of his towels before throwing it and her underwear into his laundry basket. When she peeks into his room, he isn’t there. His phone is buzzing on the nightstand so she picks it up. A notification reads LAUNDRY. Well, the basket was full so she’ll have to add that to the list of to-dos today.

When he doesn’t return fast enough, she ventures out into the apartment. They meet in the middle. He’s dressed now in some black joggers and a Steely Dan t-shirt.

“You’re . . . naked in my hallway,” he says with a huge grin.

“I will continue to be naked unless you go out to my car and grab my bag.” His smile is contagious so she lets her own form. She pokes his chest where a year is printed on the shirt. “You weren’t even alive in ‘93, were you?”

He smirks. “I have a lot of old shirts. They’re vintage. Kinda like you.” Before she can even react, he’s sprinting away from her and out the door, laughing his ass off.

If it were anyone else she’d have to kill them but instead, she stands there naked and cold and laughing in disbelief.

When he comes back in with her duffle, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh but also a little guilty. “I didn’t mean that,” he offers and extends the bag to her as he looks her up and down. “You’re gonna punish me for it, aren’t you?”

She takes the bag and narrows her eyes. “Hmm. Define punish.”

“To cause suffering for a crime or to enforce disciplinary action,” he jokes but he’s not laughing. He nods solemnly. “I deserve it.”

She smiles and puts her arm around his neck, leading him back into the bedroom. He humphs like he’s about to get spanked and has accepted it. It almost makes her cackle. “Okay, Mr. Blake, it’s laundry day,” she says, and lets go of him. “Gather everything up while I get dressed.”

He’s confused until he sees his phone flashing. “This isn’t a punishment though, this is a responsibility.”

Now she laughs. “I never said I was going to punish you. Do you want me to?”

“No. Nope. You’re a fuckin’ goddess and I am totally unworthy of even being in your presence,” he says without a beat. And somehow she knows he means that.

The air feels thick with a tension she wasn’t part of and it turns her stomach. He’s too damn jolly and she’s in too much of a mood to play nice. All that anger bubbles to the surface, blazing across her chest and face like a wildfire.

“What was BB doing here?” she asks, watching the way he reacts, looking for a waver or a tell that he’s lying.

He knows from her flat tone that this is serious and promptly wipes the grin off his face. He leans against the desk in front of her and looks like he’s trying to read her. This will be new territory for both of them if she blows up and she’d rather he didn’t see that.

“I was doing what you said to do,” he confesses carefully. “I’m not letting her take advantage anymore.”

She narrows her eyes, but keeps her thoughts to herself because she knows they’re crazy and not like her. At least the her that he’s met.

He shrugs. “I was giving her the opportunity to be a team player.”

Her jaw clenches involuntarily so she opens her mouth to take a deep breath and another sip of her drink before she speaks. “You’re not in a position to give opportunities.”

“Okay, not an opportunity, but . . . I guess we had a conversation.” He squirms under her attention. “Maybe I wanted to call her out for the whole Mayor Garbage thing. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Fuck. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. And right now nothing is going to please her.

She paces across the room and takes the large pin from her hair, letting the waves tumble down her mid back. That was starting to give her a headache on top of everything else.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His voice cuts her deep. He’s so obedient and careful, and as bad as she craves that, it makes her feel worse. Sad. Because he’s struggling to find his place now, struggling to please her, because it’s about regulating her emotions and not about teasing this time. She can tell he’s done that before. Hell, he’s probably done it his whole life, made everyone else around him happy to protect himself. That’s why he’s the loyal dog who doesn’t complain, because even abused animals still love their owners.

She turns around and goes back to him, sucking up her own feelings and shoving them back into Pandora’s box. “No, you’ve done everything right,” she says the thing she’s always wanted to hear and never has.

He slowly lets loose a crooked smile. At least he recovers quickly. “I missed you today. Fisk sorta made it sound like we had plans.”

“We did. They fell through.”

Oh, boy.

He missed her? Damn it, no. Now she’s going to think about it, about how no one has ever said that to her before, about how no one has probably ever felt that for her before. Why did he have to go and say something stupid like that? And he doesn’t even mean it. He can’t.

She moves closer so that they’re touching and digs her thumb nail into the soft flesh of his stomach until he doubles over then knocks his leg out. He lands on his hands and knees, breathless.

“What are you doing?” he asks on the end of a cough, looking up at her with betrayed watery eyes so perfect she almost folds.

She just wants to know how far she can push. That’s how she was taught. “You’ll need some self defense training,” she says, voice foreign to her own ears.

He starts to get up but she sticks her high heel between his legs, pushing down ever so slightly. Whether he believes it or not, she isn’t trying to cause him pain. She only wants him to learn what she needs from him. Which he does quickly, settling back onto his knees and waiting for instruction. Oh, he’s her favorite thing in the world in this position, gazing up at her with those big brown eyes.

It’s time to do the reckless thing.

She leans back against the desk, kicking her heels off, and letting her legs part. Daniel’s mouth falls open slightly as his gaze is drawn downward and he makes no effort to correct himself. He looks shamelessly but is well behaved enough to know not to touch.

With both hands, she fingers the hem of her dress, slowly sliding it up her thighs. It’s intoxicating the way he watches with the look of a man who hasn’t eaten in days. God, she hopes he’s never done this before, hopes she’s the first to feed him.

“Has the anticipation worn off, Danny-boy?” she asks, knowing when he had said it earlier it was bullshit.

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, and his chest rises and falls quickly as he looks up at her, eyes heavy with lust. “Fuck no.”

He’s so pretty down there—all broad shoulders, thick thighs, and soft hair she wants to grab ahold of. It drives her crazy to know she’s going to have to take this slow, to give a little to get. She made a promise after all. It’s his reward, not hers. And shit, he deserves it after the way she’s let her mood get the better of her and the way he’s been able to appease her. But perhaps that means she deserves it too.

Her dress rides further and further up her thighs as she spreads her legs until the lace of her panties finally has its debut.

The noise Daniel makes is both adorable and completely arousing. If he were a different man he’d rise off his knees and take her right here on the boss’s desk. But he’s not, and she feels blessed beyond belief for that. He waits for her word because he’s so well behaved already.

She beckons him with her finger and he shuffles forward until she can feel his hot breath panting against her exposed skin. But still he waits, hands on his knees, digging in like he has to so he won’t reach out and touch her.

“What do you want to do, Daniel?”

He groans almost painfully. “I wanna take those off,” he says, entirely enthralled by the strip of fabric between her legs.

“Go ahead.”

He hesitates like he’s waiting for her to pull the rug. Then finally raises his hands, placing his palms to her knees first, sliding tantalizingly slow toward his destination, thumbs pressing into the meat of her thighs as he makes his way. Up, up, up they go, and her hips pitch forward to meet him involuntarily. His fingers curl into the thin waist band and gently pull her panties down. He stops breathing, waiting and watching as they slide the length of her legs. She kicks them to the side when he finally gets them all the way off.

For a moment, he closes his eyes. She has to smile at him for how sweet that is because she knows he must be as eager as she feels. His hands tighten in the notch below her hips and she shivers at the slight coolness of his pinky ring against her skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out.

“Aw.” She bites her lip to keep from laughing, and runs her fingers through his soft hair. “You’re too kind.”

He looks up at her as if she’s an altar, like he’s finally been given the chance to do the one thing he’s wanted to do his entire life and is petrified to lose it. He pleads with those sweet puppy eyes and it drives her nuts.

“What do you want now, Daniel?”

He holds her eyes and squeezes her hips deliberately. “I wanna kiss you here.”

“Yeah? What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please, may I kiss your pussy?”

She does a whole body shudder at those words, rolling her hips into the pressure of his fingers. He listens like he’s afraid to miss a single breath. It unravels something deep within her and she’s sure she won’t recover from this but there is no going back now. “Yes,” she agrees, voice fraught with need. “Show me what you want to do.”

His hands slide down from her hips, to the tops of her thighs where he gently pulls them even further apart. There’s an unsureness in the way he moves, testing the waters, waiting for her to stop him, maybe to tell him it was all a sick joke. When she doesn’t, he goes forth slowly, like a fledgeling feeling his way. He glances up one last time then buries his head between her legs.

The first touch of his lips to her bare skin is strangely innocent. A real kiss. He’d meant what he said, not a fabrication to make the act sound nicer. He places another, moving down, just soft little pecks that have her impatient with want.

Then his mouth opens, tongue dipping, searching. She closes her eyes to the sensation as it sparks. He licks one long stripe up then back down and she imagines he looks up at her as he does this but she can’t open her eyes to confirm. It would be too much.

He squeezes her thighs again and nuzzles his face further against her, lazily lapping in a rhythm now. She can’t help herself. She looks.

His lashes fan out over his cheeks as he flicks his tongue, completely occupied by devotion to her pleasure. What a beautiful boy. She grips his hair and throws her head back with a moan. He echoes it against her, thrusting forward to lave and suckle and nip the sensitive flesh between her legs.

“Is this what you hoped for when—” The question breaks from her lips with another moan.

“Mhm,” he mumbles against her, knowing what she means to say.

She’s so wet and desperate she aches inside, her tightness throbbing with each heartbeat. It's a beautiful kind of torment to have him between her thighs, sending her over the edge, because he wants to and not because she’s asking or demanding. He does it for himself too, moaning and rocking against her.

And it’s his sounds that push her even further—the eager little uh, uh, uh as he jerks his chin, stiffly licking her until the sound is as lewd as a dirty film. The burst of pleasure is so quick it surprises her and she loses balance, fisting his hair. He moans for her, his messy mouth still giving and giving and giving.

“You’re doing so good, Daniel,” she whispers. “You’re gonna make me . . .”

His hands dig into her thighs and he groans, nudging eagerly forward to chase her orgasm. She rides his face, fingers so tight in his hair they hurt. It’s so close. She arches and jerks, and he presses on, whimpering as if it feels just as good to him. Then all at once it snaps.

She cries out, coming so hard that stars zing across her darkened vision. And he licks her through it until she’s overwrought with sensation. She buckles and grabs his shoulder. “Slow.”

His brown eyes glisten as he looks up, tongue idly moving through her wetness.

“Come here,” she murmurs.

Instantly he’s off the ground, albeit a little wobbly, so she grabs him by this collar to hold him steady and kisses him. It’s heated, intense, almost bruising, but it feels so good.

He groans into her mouth, fidgeting. “T-Teresa . . .”

“Yeah, baby,” she says, pulling away to look at him and brush the sweaty hair from his forehead.

“I . . .” He looks haunted. And he’s holding her away from his body with shaking hands.

For a moment she’s confused until she looks down and sees the wet spot in the front of his slacks. She meets his eyes again and he looks so damn embarrassed, cheeks flaming red. It can’t be helped, she bursts out laughing and cuts herself off by pressing her mouth to his.

“Oh, you are such a good boy,” she purrs, kissing him until he moans and she breaks away with one of her own. “Have you ever come untouched like that?”

“No,” he says with a shaky breath. “You’re not mad?”

She holds his face in her hands and looks him in the eyes, wondering where the hell he’d get that idea. “No, I’m not mad.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “You must think I’m, like, a pathetic pervert or something. I didn’t mean for that to . . .”

“Look at me,” she says and he does. “I like it. And I’ll maybe even give you a chance to redeem yourself if you want it but I like it, Daniel. I like that you feel my pleasure.”

He looks down but a smile tugs the edge of his lips. “Next time I want to at least get out of my pants.”

She laughs. Next time. Oh, she looks forward to that but she must pace herself. They say that flames this hot burn out quick.

“It’s late,” she tells him and herself.

“Right. You should go.” He bends down on one knee and, like a gentleman, helps her back into her panties. He shimmies her dress back down too and lets out a little noise as if remembering moments ago. He shakes his head. “You really gotta go. ‘Cause I would do that again right now if you asked. I’m already . . .”

Wow. He recovers quickly. But no such luck of getting rid of her. “We carpooled, remember? You gotta come with me unless you wanna ride in the back of a stinky cab with a visible stain on the front of your pants.”

He gapes for a second. “Yup. I’m going with you.”

The front seat of Teresa’s car is so comfortable Daniel nearly falls asleep on the way home. He’s starting to think there’s some sort of melatonin shooting out of her air vents. He would quickly descend into slumber if it weren’t for the sticky situation in his boxers. He’ll be hopping in the shower first thing. But Christ, he’s exhausted. From adrenaline probably. He nearly passed out from the rush the second he had his head between her thighs.

He can still smell her on his skin, taste her if he licks his lips. If he had the courage, he’d jump her as soon as they got to his apartment and eat her out all night long. The sounds she makes, the way she pulls his hair until it almost hurts, it all makes him burn with want. Hell, he came in his pants untouched which he hasn’t done since he was a teenager watching late night adult channels in his parents basement. That goes to show what kind of effect she has.

They pull up to his apartment and he’s surprised when she unbuckles her seatbelt too. Is she coming in with him? He doesn’t dare ask and lets the universe handle his fate. Sure enough, she follows him to his door. And all the way inside. Is he pushing his luck if he hopes she’ll join him in the shower too?

She stops in the tiny entryway. “Is it alright if I look around while you shower?”

Damn it. Shouldn’t have wished. “Uh, yeah. And there’s some drinks in the fridge if you want something.”

“Thanks,” she says, ignoring him for the many boring sights of his crappy apartment.

He nods. “Cool, I’m gonna go, uh, do that.” And he takes off before he can let self consciousness kick in.

If he thinks his showers every morning are quick, this one beats them by a landslide. He’s out and pulling on gray sweats and a t-shirt in practically half the time it would take him to get sluggishly undressed.

He looks in the mirror and pats his hair dry with a hand towel but it’s already dripped all over his shirt. It’s the most laid back he’s looked in front of her besides the night at the club, but this feels different—a bit like being naked in front of her. He grimaces at himself and leaves before he can even ponder what that would be like.

Half way down the hall, he smells something. What the hell? Is she cooking? He rounds the corner on a little faster stride and finds her leaning over the counter with some sort of sandwich on a plate. She pushes it toward him.

He’s not even sure where she found ingredients to build one, let alone how she did it so quickly. “Alright, chef Hawke, what did you make?”

She smiles, shrugging happily. He has to focus because all he sees is the way her breasts push together when she moves hanging over the counter like that.

“You didn’t have much to work with. Eggs, some spices, toast. Oh, and an avocado that was about to go bad.” She walks around the side of the island and props her hip against it, gesturing over the sandwich in an exaggerated motion. “Come. Eat!”

He swaggers over and slips onto the stool next to where she’s standing. It smells pretty good for an egg sandwich and he’s worked up quite the appetite. Mayonnaise and hot sauce squeezes out when he picks it up to examine it.

“My college go-to.” She points at it. “Beats a ramen packet.”

“You’re not having any?”

“No.” She laughs like that’s an absurd question and he gets a little nervous about being poisoned or that it’ll be terrible.

“So, you’re just gonna watch me?”

“Yes. Yes, I am, Daniel.” Her voice dips. “I like watching you eat.”

He thinks of himself, sloppy and uncoordinated, shoving the sandwich into his mouth like he did in her car. Then realizes maybe she means the other thing. And in that case, he loves to eat. He’d do it all night if she asked and she could watch him, grab his hair, scratch his scalp, and moan and moan and . . .

“Try it,” she instructs.

The first bite is a little dry and she notices immediately, grabbing a mug from his cup rack and filling it with tap water. He nods a thanks and gulps it. “Five star,” he jokes.

She steps closer. “Keep eating.”

He does and she observes.

It’s an excruciating kind of observing, humiliating for whatever reason, as she analyzes him down to the core. It’s as if she’s downloading his brain into her own just by watching him take bite after bite. And fuck it, it’s kinda good. The sandwich, at least, maybe not the staring. Strange combination of flavors for sure but it works and he’s had a lot worse.

She keeps moving toward him as he devours her sandwich until she’s close enough to reach out and brush the hair from his face. He looks up, feeling mayonnaise drip onto his lips and chin.

“Napkin,” he says around a mouthful.

“Manners.”

“Please.”

She reaches across the island counter and grabs one from the holder. Instead of handing it to him, she wipes his face herself. It’s erotic for no reason. Every second with her since the night at the club has been sexually charged but there’s still a level of separation and curiosity like they’ve never even touched. She’s mysterious and it drives him nuts never knowing what she’s thinking.

Her other hand comes up and brushes the hair off his forehead once more. He’s noticed she must like that—he’ll have to remember to keep it messy for her. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it too. He can’t hide when leans into it like a giddy dog.

“Didn’t want you going to bed with an empty stomach,” she says softly, hand falling to his shoulder. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re fed.”

He sighs. Her hands on him have an effect like no other. If only they’d touch him there again. “Thank you,” he says, sighing some more.

“Now I want you to get some rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.” She caresses his cheek, and lets her eyes wander all over him. He’s hard instantly. And she’s well aware of it because of the thin gray sweats, her suggestive smile says as much. “You can take care of that first if you’d like.”

How about you take care of it, he thinks but isn’t brave enough to say. If he were more assertive or fearless he would tell her to jerk him off right here in the kitchen, to get on her knees and to serve him because it’s only fair, right? But that’s not who he is. Begging comes easiest. He doesn’t do that either though. Heavy breaths of silence is his only response.

“Do you need some inspiration?”

His heart seems to stop and start again. “What . . . What do you mean?”

Her hand slides down his arm slowly, seductively, raising goosebumps in its wake, until she reaches his hand and picks it up. He watches in awe, swallowing harshly, as she draws his hand to her lips and sucks two of his sauce-coated fingers into her mouth. If it weren’t for his earlier accident, he’d go off in his pants again right now. Shit, he still could.

It’s a perverse kind of agony plaguing him, making his dick so hard he feels the weight of it jump against his thigh. He could actually cry begging for her to touch him but he doesn’t. He waits. He wants to be her good boy.

The inside of her mouth is wet and warm as she fellates his fingers, one hand holding his wrist, the other rubbing over the hair on his arm. He doesn’t know where to look—her mouth, her eyes, the swell of her breast—but he almost decides when she lets go of him with a pop.

“Now you know what the inside of my mouth feels like,” she says, lips shiny with spit.

He almost comes.

Then with a weird regret, he thinks, why the hell didn’t he put his fingers inside her earlier? Another voice that sounds a lot like hers reminds him that she didn’t ask him to do that.

She leans down and kisses his cheek. “Goodnight, Daniel.”

Then she leaves him there, swaying those gorgeous, grabable hips on her way out, and he’s stuck there on the stool, shocked and hard and confused.

He is absolutely going to ruin his sheets tonight—thankfully he’s already taking everything to the laundromat tomorrow. She’s right, it’s gonna be a long fucking day.

After a moment of silence to recalibrate, he gets up and puts his plate in the sink. That’s when he notices something odd next to the stove. Huh, he laughs. She rearranged all his spices in alphabetical order.