#dark jonathan pine

You pinch your nose and take a deep breath. This isn’t good. Very bad, actually. Extremely, entirely, fucked.

You go outside and pull the branch through the window. You hear a few more shards scatter on the floor. You drag it out onto the lawn and leave it there. You’ll figure out what to do with that later.

You go inside as the wind whistles through the broken window. There’s a few ragged pieces still clinging to the frame. As much as you’d love to take your shoes off, you can’t.

You hurry through the house in search of anything to keep the chill out. You break down a box and grab the packing tape. The roll is almost done. You used most of it when you boxed up what was left of your previous life.

You do your best. Somehow, that’s never enough. You seal the edges of the cardboard along the frame and set to cleaning up the hazard on the hardwood. You gather up the remnants of the window into the dustpan and dump it in another box. 

You set that aside as you hear the wind about to tear through the cardboard and tape. It won’t last the night. You’ll be lucky if the landlord answers and why should they. It’s after dinner time. You’re not in much of a mood to do anything.

Life doesn’t always give you a choice.

You find the contact in your phone. You so kindly labelled it ‘Landlord’. Things have been a bit much. You don’t have the brain space for names.

You dial out and put the phone to your ear. You cross one arm across your chest and stare at the cardboard as it strains with the wind. The line rings and rings and rings. You’re ready to give up. You learned the hard way that sometimes, you just should.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end surprises you. “Hello?” You weren’t expecting an answer. “Ah, missed it–”

“Hello.” You blurt out. “Uh, hi. Is this…” you search your mind. The name at the top of your rent statement flashes. “Mr. Pine?”

“Mr. Pine?” He echoes. “Jonathan’s just fine. You sound familiar. Oh, yes, Creighton Boulevard.”

“That’s the one. Um… I don’t suppose you’re busy?”

“Well, not painfully. I was hoping to pop by the chippie but… it seems you might have something more pressing for me.”

“Uh huh, you could say that.” You bring your hand up to the side of your neck. “It’s breezy today.”

“It is rather windy,” he agrees.

“Mmhm. Well, half a tree’s blown through the window.” You say.

“Oh my,” he intones. “I suppose it is a bit of a maelstrom out here.”

“Yeah, I just got in. It’s just in the front. The one beside the door.”

“The one I only just replaced before you moved in. Of course. That’s how those things go.” He tuts. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“When you can. I don’t mean to spoil your supper.” You say.

“Not much of one. Should probably eat at home more often,” he chuckles. “Well then, on my way. Hold tight.”

“Thanks, Mr. Pine.” 

“Jonathan,” he corrects once more and the line clicks.

You feel bad already. You tell yourself it’s just conditioning. When you ask for something, even if genuinely, it’s so often treated as a burden. You suppose you could’ve insulated a blanket and waited until morning. Yes, probably. You just have to be a bother, don’t you?

It’s as if your mother could sense her own voice in your head. Your phone rings. You stare at the caller ID, debating what’s more worth it? Her rebuke on the voicemail or her passive aggressive questions about what you’ve been doing at work and how things are going since you decided to make a change. Yes, never say anything forthright; it can’t hurt as much when the dagger thrust from behind the curtain.

“Hello, mother,” you answer.

“Oh, dear, I was afraid you stayed late again.” She chimes. “I always said to my employees, if you have to stay late, you aren’t working hard enough. Yes, you should be able to fit into eight hours if you’re doing it right.”

You suppress a growl. You know she’s always said that; she’s repeated in anon.

“No, I’m home.”

“Home? You mean that rental?:

“Yes, the rental,” you confirm. “It’s a roof and four walls.”

“I suppose better than nothing,” she chides. “Well, darling, I know you’ve much to do so let me not waste your precious free time. Your sister’s coming with her children. Your brother too. I think we should have a proper family thing. It’s been some time.”

You nod. “Oh, when?”

“End of next week. I know you’ve not much of a heart for young ones–”

“Mother, I never said so. I only decided I don’t want any. It doesn’t mean–” You stop yourself and stretch your fingers wide as you snarl at the wall. “I can bear them. For you. So, I’ll be there. Don’t fret.”

“You’re the only one that makes me fret,” she hums. “I’m sure you’ll get it together one day, though, you are running out of time.”

“Yes, mother, you remind me. All the time.”

“I’m only looking out for you.”

“Uh huh. Thanks for that. I do have to let you go. Dinner’s in the oven and I’ve a date for one.”

“You know, Darla, she has a nephew…”

“Love you, mum. Goodbye.”

She harrumphs. “Love you, dear.”

You hang up. That was just the boost you needed. You are assured things could certainly be worse. You could be in the same room as your mother.

You check the time. No use in wasting any more time. It will likely be a while before Jonathan arrives.

You move your work bag from beside the door and hang your coat. You trade your shoes for slippers and mop up the mess you left down the hall.

You set to cooking. You could probably skip the meal that night but you need leftovers for your lunch. That batch of berries you were so excited for were moldy when you went to add them to your parfait. It really does feel like the universe is really out for you.

The scent of sauteed garlic and onion fills the air. That alone stirs your appetite from the depths. The noodles boil and you add cream and butter, adding seasoning to cap off the quick alfredo sauce. As you stir the pan, the doorbell rings.

It’s one of those fancy ones that’s supposed to hook to your phone. Just another thing that isn’t as it should be. You turn down the heat and shuffle in your slippers to the front door.

Jonathan greets you with a breathless smile. His nose is kissed red from the cold, his ears too. His blonde hair is windswept.

“Hi.” You greet awkwardly.

“Evening,” he rocks on his heels. “May I?”

“Oh, yeah, erm.” You back up. “It’s this window…”

You point then cringe  He can see. Duh.

He enters and gently shuts the door. He steps up to the window and examines it. The tape blows loose on one side and the wind squeals through. He presses the adhesive down to quiet it.

“Much too cold for that,” he clucks. He turns to you and rubs his ears. “I should know.”

“Ha, yeah, it’s… freezing.”

“I stopped at the hardware shop. Got a board that should fit.” He explains. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of noise.”

“It’s… I really appreciate you coming. Really sorry that you had to.” You say.

“Eh? Unless you put the branch through the window yourself, don’t be,” he waves you off and pauses. He lifts his chin and inhales. “Something smells delectable.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m just cooking dinner,” you say.

“Mm, you’ve a very lucky family.”

You stop from rolling your eyes. “Just me.”

He tilts his head, “even better. You can thoroughly indulge.”

He turns and pulls open the door. You stare after him for a moment. It would be rude not to offer, wouldn’t it?

You go back to the kitchen and contemplate. You’re not sure why just the thought of being polite makes you anxious. That’s the thing about you. You can turn anything into an impossible feat.

You hear him come back in. You busy yourself by draining the noodles and checking that the sauce hasn’t burned. For once, all is perfect.

You linger in the kitchen. You slowly venture back down the hall. Jonathan secures the board into place with insulating tape.

“Should do,” he says as he slides his fingers down the length. “I’ll have a window in tomorrow. I’ll have it done during the day.”

“I’ll be at work.” You say.

“Would it be trouble to have it done while you are?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Actually, it’d be nice to come home to a window.” You scratch the back of your neck. “Um, if… you like linguine, I’ve got some extra. For your trouble.”

“Alfredo?” He wonders. You nod. “I’d love to. Might I wash my hands?”

“Sure. It’s just right down here. Which… you would know since you own this place.” You purse your lips. “I’ll get you a plate.”

He unbuttons his jacket as you spin and head down the hall. You enter the kitchen and pull out two plates. You serve up the noodles and sauce. He comes out and flips on the faucet. As he rinses his hands, you set the dishes on the square island.

“Anything to drink?” You offer. “I’ve got water and grapefruit juice.”

“Water will do. Thank you kindly.”

He dries his hands and goes to the island. You fill two glasses. You put one by his plate as he sits and you claim the seat across from him. You usually eat standing at the island, fork in hand, eyes on a book.

You twirl noodles around your fork. He leans forward to take a bite. You taste it. Not bad for a lazy meal.

“Mm, wonderful,” he praises. “You’re a masterful cook.”

“Not really. It’s a really simple recipe.”

“For some,” he grins. “I’m afraid if it isn’t steak or mash, I’m hopeless.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t help when your tenants have you running all over.” You scoff.

“I bought the property. I leased it. I knew what I was getting into.” He rebuffs. “Albeit, I didn’t expect such tasty alfredo.”

You give a wry smile. “You’re too kind.”

“Only honest. Though I confess, I’ve only had chips as late so I’ve not much to compare it to.”

“Now that sounds good.” You say. “Chips. Bit of gravy.”

“Ah, maybe next time.”

“Hopefully not.” You say. “I mean, hopefully not a next time. I really don’t intend on doing much more damage to this place.”

“Act of nature.” He shrugs. “Only a window. Most fortunate no one was on the other side of it.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Well, it’s in how you look at it, isn’t it?” He twists more noodles around his fork. “You see a hassle coming across town to fix a window; I see a lovely meal for a very simple task.” He scoops up the forkful. “I’d say I’ve won this round.”

🌺

You stop short in the doorway, your gaze landing on Mr. Pine's back as he stands at the credenza, seemingly unaware. Heat builds in your face at the sight of the damp fabric clinging to his toned physique. His blazer lies discarded carelessly over his chair, and damp curls frame his face, water dripping from the towel draped loosely around his neck. The air feels heavier, as though the rain has followed him inside.

It suits him in a way you can’t quite explain—less the polished manager, more like a guest.

“Ah there you are, darling. Take a seat.” He instructs over his shoulder. You nod, averting your gaze in embarrassment, and follow his command as the kettle begins its shrill whistle.

It fades softly as he flips the switch, the harsh nose replaced with the bitter scent of Earl Grey.

“Here you go, my darling—a nice cup of tea on a rainy day always hits the spot,” Mr. Pine offers softly as he nears your side, handing you the steaming cup before you can refuse.

The warmth seeps through your fingers as you offer a soft smile and softer thank you. The comforting feel helps sooth the lingering embarrassment as you take the seat.

“I wanted to discuss your probationary period,” he says, sipping from his cup as he perches at the edge of his desk across from you. “It’s coming to an end. I imagine you’re eager to be a full part of the team.”

“Yes, I really love it here.”

“That’s wonderful. I’ll speak with your former manager and confirm you’ll be staying on nights.” He lifts his cup slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Let us toast. To our new arrangement.”

You blink, a sudden tightness gripping your stomach. “I think… maybe there’s been a misunderstanding. It’s not that—it’s just—when I was put on nights, I was told it would be temporary.”

“Ah, yes, that was the original agreement,” he says, leaning back slightly. “But as I’ve told your former manager, I don’t think you’re suited for second shift. Your conduct on nights has been… less than ideal.”

“What conduct?”

“Oh, darling,” he begins with a sigh, his tone laced with mock pity. “You’re always falling asleep at your station, sneaking off to nap God knows where, or gallivanting with guests. There’s a level of decorum we try to uphold here, but lucky for you, I’m more understanding.”

His words settle over you like a thick fog—heavy, suffocating, surreal. That isn’t how it happened, and he knows it.

“No,” you push back. “That didn’t happen.”

“Didn’t it?” His brow arches, and there’s a glint in his eyes—taunting, daring you to contradict.

“No. I never fraternized with guests. And you—you’re the one who's always pushing me to go take a quick nap. You gave me the keys!” The words spill out, anger rising in your chest, your brow furrowing as his unblinking gaze remains fixed on you.

For a moment, the room seems to hold its breath. Then, slow and deliberate, Mr. Pine swivels his monitor toward you, his fingers tapping lazily at the keyboard.

One by one, frames flicker to life. Timestamps crawl across the screen. Each image twisting like a knife. It's you, that's clear. You stare at your exhaustion ridden face, the camera clings to every movement, but the lens warps it into something else—carelessness, drunkenness. Another frame—shots of you with the bachelor party, Mr. Pine conveniently out of view. Your uneasy smile looks frozen, making it seem like you were part of the celebration.

“This is you, is it not?”

“This is out of context—you know it. Why are you doing this?” Tears sting your eyes, blurring the screen into a smear of shadow and light. His eyes drift to the cup in your hand as you squeeze it. The contents spill, but you ignore the burn, too focused on the accusations spiraling through your mind.

“Calm down, darling. Why don’t you have a drink? It will help calm your nerves,” he suggests, his tone deceptively soothing.

You glance down at the cup, and the unease in your gut churns as your throat tighten. His suggestion hangs in the air, a command cloaked in kindness, as the pieces click together—slow, sickening.

Mr. Pine's welcoming smile each night, always offering you something to drink to help you through the night. It never helps. It wasn't supposed to. He drugged you.

“You drugged me.” The words spill out as you toss the tea away in disgust, unable to bear the touch. The Earl Grey splashes across the floor, spreading in a chaotic mess as the tremors in your hand spread throughout your body.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he says, maddeningly composed, his gaze flicking briefly to the spill before settling back on you—cold and unamused. “You’ve unfortunately depleted my supply, and it will be some time before I can acquire more.”

The frustration in his voice feels detached as though the inconvenience matters than your regard.

“You’re insane. I’m calling the cops.”

The situation feels like it’s spiraling into a nightmare. You make a move to leave, but his hand shoots out, gripping your wrist with the force of a vice.

“Tell me,” he says, his tone disturbingly casual, almost conversational, “what will you say? Who will they believe—your word, or the proof right here?”

His words sink in like cold steel, slicing through the last remnants of your resolve. Fear licks at your nerves as you stare into his eyes—dark, unyielding, the man you thought you knew replaced by something monstrous, a shadow that has haunted the edges of your sleep now fully realized.

He’s right, after all—what chance do you have when his lies are as solid as stone? No one would believe you.

“Fine. I quit,” you whisper, the words hollow. If you leave, maybe you can forget, move on, pretend this never happened.

“Of course, you’re free to quit,” he scoffs as he, the steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “But I wonder… where would you go? What hotel, what employer would take you, knowing this will follow you wherever you go?”

🌺

You don’t understand. Why? Why you? Had you done something—said something—to invite this? The thought claws at your mind, leaving you hollow.

The room feels too small, the quiet unnerving. Your legs tremble as you sink into yourself, holding your head low, hoping to disappear into the floor.

“Darling,” he speaks softly. The word feels wrong now, curling around you like smoke. When his hand brushes your chin, you flinch. Tears spill before you can stop them, blurring your vision. He tilts your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze—calm, unbothered, as if this was all inevitable.

“Stop,” you plea meekly, brushing his hand away and he lets you. You rub your chin with your sleeve, desperate to erase the lingering touch.

“Well my darling what will you do?”

“What do you want from me?” You ask, but you don’t want the answer. The truth lodges in your chest, a weight you can’t accept. 

His grip loosens on your wrist, and you feel the air shift as he moves closer. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze—too dark, too real, too unrelenting.

"Everything."

You tense as his fingers graze your neck while he removes your blazer, his closeness suffocating. You don’t resist, allowing the fabric to slide off your shoulders with a quiet whisper. His hands move to your blouse, unfastening each button methodically.

When his touch reaches the seam of your bra, his fingertips linger, tracing the delicate fabric. He pinches your nipple, and you feel it harden under the fabric of your bra. A breath hitches in your chest as he gently pinches the tender nipple hidden beneath. An unwanted heat builds from it—he knows it, and it fills you with shame. 

“Your body.“

Your body feels heavy, as though made of stone, weighed down by defeat. There’s no way out—no escape from the invisible cage he’s constructed around you. You want to fight, to scream, but your resolve shatters like glass, splintering into pieces that are impossible to put back together.

“Your submission.”

🌺

Mr. Pine guides you around, and you let him, your knees grazing the edge of the heavy desk as you face it. He bends you over with an ease that feels cold, unnatural. The corner of something digs into your ribs—a pen, maybe, or a paperweight—but the sharpness anchors you, a fleeting tether to anything but this.

The faint click of a belt buckle slices through the silence. You silently pray for relief, hoping a guest might pass by, ignoring your sign and offering you reprieve. But your hope fades as fast as the fabric of his pants rustles down, brushing your calves before pooling at the floor.

The air thickens, closing in as his shadow stretches across the desk. You tell yourself it isn’t real—that it’s a cruel figment conjured by exhaustion. But the edges of the moment are too sharp, too heavy to be anything but real.

"Roll your skirt up for me," he purrs. You don’t move at first, a piece of you still unwilling to comply.

“Darling,” he says it firmly and your resistance breaks. Papers scatter and move as you angle back, fringes tremble as you struggle to bunch up the fabric.

Your knees knock against the desk, the sound loud filling the silence uncomfortably.

“I much prefer to do things myself,” he informs, a hint of delight playing at his tone. “It’s like opening a present, but this… I dare say is quite fun to view.”

Your fingers hover at the waistband, trembling, the weight of his presence sinking into your skin. The elastic bites faintly under your touch, a barrier that feels both fragile and insurmountable.

“Just a moment, darling,” he coos, his hands closing over yours, as they hover of the elastic of your panties. The fragile barrier a weak defense against him. “Let me.”

The material whispers against your skin, inch by inch, until it pools softly at your ankles. You focus on the faint metallic knocking of the AC, the cool air brushing over newly exposed skin, anything but this.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” Mr. Pine asks, his tone dripping with smug authority.

The words hang heavy in the air, choking you. You know what he wants to hear—it coils in your stomach, a sickness threatening to rise. Shame floods through you, thick and suffocating, as if the room itself is pressing down.

“F—” The word catches in your throat, splintering into silence. You clench your fists, nails biting into your palms, and push the syllables out. “Fuck me.”

Mr. Pine hums, the sound twisting your stomach. You tense as his fingers knead your flesh, his length gliding over your slickeness.

The sloppy sound of arousal filling the air, the motion making the desk groan in protest softly under his deliberate weight.

“Darling,” he breathes, the words almost reverent. The sensation draws a shudder from you as you bite your lip to keep it from becoming a sound.

When he pulls back, the faint relief is fleeting, swallowed quickly by the shame curling in your chest. The moment stretches, unbearably quiet, until it gives way to a new, sharper panic. You feel the deliberate press of him—slow, unyielding. The pressure building, inch by agonizing inch, sinking deeper, stealing your breath.

“Ah,” you moan, your spine curling instinctively as you push yourself up, his weight pressing deeper as he sinks into you. A surge of conflicting sensations courses through your body betraying you.

“Just as exquisite as I remember,” he purrs, his voice thick with satisfaction as he begins a steady rhythm.

Your body hums in a way that feels familiar yet uninvited—a betrayal that leaves you grappling with a nauseating mix of shame and helplessness.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he taunts haughtily, the words dripping with cruel satisfaction. The sharp snaps of his hips sends a jolts up your spine, each one a collision of pain and bewildering pleasure.

“Please-“ you try and beg for relief, but it doesn’t come. His depravity indulging in your suffering. Your body lurches forward when his hand grips your thigh, raising it to perch on the edge of the desk. A strained sound escapes you as he presses deeper, unbidden whimpers trembling on your lips.

“You take me so beautifully.”

It starts as a flicker, faint and distant, like a spark catching on damp kindling. The sensation coils low, warm and insistent, unfurling in subtle pulses that pull taut with each shallow breath. Your body responds instinctively, muscles tensing, a quiet ache blooming and spreading outward like ripples on still water.

The rhythm shifts, each movement drawing you closer to the edge, the world narrowing to a single point of focus—each touch, each motion an unspoken command.

“I’m going to fill you, my precious darling.” He tells you and you bite down harder on your lip. Pushing out thoughts of how many times he's filled you with his seed.

“I want you like this, stuffed with my cock,” he snaps his hip hard emphasizing each word, a punishment for your silence. “Have my cum dripping down your legs every night.”

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?” Mr. Pine pants loudly, his fingers biting into your soft skin, grounding you.

“Yes!” Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, as the sensation crescendos, a slow, deliberate climb that leaves no escape. The tension winds tighter, until the weight of it crashes over you, wave after wave, leaving nothing but trembling release in its wake.

“Oh darling,” Mr.Pines words are breathless, his rhythm faltering, a tremor running through him. You squeeze him tightly as a low, guttural sound escapes his lips, raw and primal, as his grip tightens. You feel his body tensing around you as warmth blooms deep within your core.

He holds you still, forcing every shudder, every pulse, to anchor you in the unbearable present. When he finally pulls away, your body gives in, sagging as if the strings holding you upright have frayed and snapped, leaving only the weight of it all pressing down.

"Take a moment to clean yourself up before you return to your station.” He instructs as you push your body off the desk, limbs weak as he collapses back into the chair, the frame groaning beneath his weight.

You tug your skirt down hurriedly, fabric catching awkwardly as you bend to retrieve your panties. You don’t meet his eyes, but you can feel his—heavy, surveying the evidence of his violation.

You stumble away, your legs shaky, the sickness in your stomach twisting tighter with every step. His scent clings to you, and the warmth of his release seeps into the fabric of your panties, a humiliating reminder with every movement. At least for tonight, he was done with you.

Until one day, when an anonymous tip came of Jonathan resurfacing, that he was spotted on several occasions in a small neighborhood in Brooklyn, Hank immediately had you shipped off to New York in hopes of finally bringing him in. 

You’re the most qualified for the job, Hank told you when you asked why you were going in alone and you didn’t doubt his judgment for you believed it to be true. With Jonathan gone, you were the top agent of the organization, and you’ve proven countless times your credibility in bringing down some of the most dangerous beings on the planet. But you know that wasn’t the sole reason he chose you, rather the fact that you were once mentored by the rogue agent himself. 

For years, you’ve worked closely alongside him, digesting every fact and feat he would demonstrate in order for you to do your work the best that you can. All the skills he possessed were passed on that you were ranked second to him. And it secretly brought a smile to your face and had you feeling slightly cocky and confident, how the irony that his own pupil would be the one to turn him in and bring him to justice. 

It still pained you though, that it had to come to this point in your career. How much you pitied your former mentor that he’s chosen to use his expertise to harm instead of continuing to protect the greater good. Either way, you won’t let your sentiments muddle your judgment. He’s done bad things and it’s your job to stop him no matter what it takes.

Leaning against the concrete wall of the building—a library, you wait a few seconds before walking in. You pat your hip through your coat pocket, making sure that your weapon is within reach. You didn’t see them upon arriving at the borough yet you’re confident that backup has been prepared and is on the ready in case the situation gets hairy. 

It’s not as crowded as you expected as you walk towards the shelves of books and you don’t quite know if you should see it as a positive; giving you more visual of your surroundings, or a negative; making it slightly harder to blend in, making it easy for Joanthan to recognize you amongst the civilians. But you keep your composure, making the best of the situation and remain at the sidelines, running a hand through the spines of the hardcover while looking for a spot for you to wait. 

With vigilant eyes and light feet, you peruse every aisle, keeping up the act of a college student looking for resource materials. You grab a random book from its hold and flip it open, opting to take a seat on one of the singular armchairs at the corner of the library that give you a good view of the exit as well as the round help desk at the center of the vicinity.

You whisper an update through your comms but frown when faint static plays into your ears before going radio silent on the other end. You repeat your words, hoping for any response of acknowledgment but still get none. The building must be interfering with the frequency, you think, but don’t dwell too much on the fact, choosing to focus instead on the task at hand. 

People pass by in front of you and give extra attention to each dark blond you see. Yet some minutes pass and you can’t help the groan of frustration you breathe out when he’s still yet to be seen. He couldn’t have gotten far, and he wouldn’t think of using any back exits for you’re positive he hasn’t picked up your scent. Still, you remain seated and discard the thought of searching the entire library. You keep your senses on high alert for any telltale signs of his presence while flipping through the pages of the book on your lap. 

“I’m terribly sorry.” You know that voice. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Your head snaps to the side, your heart rate spiking when you see him by the entrance with a book in his hand which he hands to the elderly woman clutching a cane standing in front of him. You take note of his appearance; a grey hoodie hidden underneath a leather jacket. You scoff in amusement when you see no effort into hiding his face. Rookie mistake.

As soon as his interaction with the woman ends, you stand from your seat and casually return the book to the shelf. You feign choosing a new read, counting down to ten before slowly making your way out of the building when he finally leaves.

“He’s on foot. I’m tailing him.” You call into your comms yet still, the line remains silent. 

You maintain your distance while keeping your eyes locked on the back of his head and follow him down the street. You’re positive that he’s heading back to where he’s been holing up, leading you right to him. The image of him taken by shock burns into your mind and you can’t help but smile once he realizes it’s you that’s cornered him like a rat. 

Blood pumps into your ears as your body sings with excitement, keeping your pursuit and grinning when he turns into an alley. Like a rat. You echo in your head and immediately reach for your weapon as you sprint down the path. Once you reach the corner, you keep to the crowd and take a deep breath before pushing into the alley.

You stand stunned in confusion when nothing but an empty backstreet greets you. You don’t understand, you just saw him come in here and yet there are no signs that giveaway any soul coming by. The wired fence up ahead is too tall to scale up fast, the fire escape ladders remain untouched. You jiggle the handle of a lone door at the side of the brick wall but it’s locked and you’re certain he wouldn’t have jimmied it open for you would have, for sure, caught him in the act. 

You tuck your gun back into your holster and huff out a breath as the thought that he’s once more slipped from your grasp fills you. This can’t be! You almost had him! And yet, you are once more met with a dead end, one you don’t understand how it came to be. 

Defeated, you decide to regroup back at your hideout to figure out the next steps to catching him. He couldn’t have gotten far and if you call for the local police force to cord out Brooklyn, it’s no question that he’d be apprehended just in time. 

All of a sudden, you gasp in surprise when an arm wraps tightly around your neck from behind, a solid surface pressed against your back as you struggle to set yourself free from your assailant. Your hands grab the arm that entraps you when it tightens further, the muscle digging into your throat, preventing you from making a sound.

“Looking for me, sweetheart?” The deep baritone that fills your ears is all too familiar. No! 

A stinging pain then blooms at the back of your neck, your breath hitching as you feel a cool, alien liquid quickly run through your veins. You’re then released, a hand pressing at your back and shoving you forward, making you drop down to your knees before you could even catch yourself. 

Your breathing is suddenly labored, your skin tingling and body growing heavy that you slump face first onto the dirtied concrete floor. You fight to push yourself up except a hand grabs you by the shoulder and you’re flipped onto your back, your head cracking against the pavement. A pained groan slithers from your lips and when you open your eyes, your vision is skewed. What’s happening to me? You want to voice out but your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. 

Jonathan’s face comes into view, a wicked grin playing on his lips. You try to stand but it’s no use. Your body feels so heavy that you don’t think you can even move. He says your name, once, twice, you don’t know. Then his face blurs, mixing with the colors of the alley and the stone walls that surround you, his deep chuckle the last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you whole. 

-

Your mind feels all too convoluted when you open your eyes, blinking several times before the world gradually comes into clarity. It’s like you wrestled with a bear with how your body aches, feeling it deep within your bones, making you groan. You try to move, to get off the soft surface you’re laid on but panic quickly runs through your veins when the realization that you’re naked, wrists bound together dawns on you. 

Looking around frantically, you try to take in your surroundings, assessing the situation you were thrust into. You’re on a bed, plain sheets rumpled atop with a lone pillow hanging by the edge. The room is bare of any furniture leave for the singular bedside table with a lamp emanating a muted yellow hue and a singular table at the far end corner. Although, what you notice next makes the hair on your skin stand in fear, the lone dark figure sitting by the desk, a light tapping coming from its direction. 

You’re certain that your captor is Jonathan, that despite your disorientation, he’s the last person you saw before you blacked out. You blink as you fight to steady your vision, your throat tightening as the fear that once took over your senses is replaced by anger. He stands and you groan as you tug on your restraints, bending your knees as you prepare yourself to fight back. 

“What did you do to me?!” You snarl, swiping your legs immediately when he comes closer. “Let me go, you psycho!” Another groan pulls free from your lips when the restraints dig deep into your skin. “I’m going to kill you once I’m free! And I don’t give a fuck about what Hank says!”

A deep chuckle echoes through the room and you narrow your eyes, baring your teeth when his face comes into view. “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere anytime soon, sweetheart.” He scoffs, a grin of amusement playing on his lips before he leans closer. He reaches over to caress your cheek and you quickly snap your teeth at him, barely missing his fingers when he retracts his hand. “Ohh, you’ve certainly gotten tougher since we last saw each other.”

“Better too!” You snipe and thrash against the bed when he nears you once more. “Hank knows where I am, Pine! And once backup comes, you’ll be sorry you ever—”

“Backup?” The mirth in his voice takes you aback, trepidation lacing your nerves as the grin on his face broadens. “You think backup is coming?” He emits a sinister laugh, something you didn’t expect. In an instant, a thought clicks into your head, that something has gone terribly wrong and you’re to receive the brunt of it. 

His shadow leaves you as he strides back to the table he previously occupied, a patch of light illuminating his face in the darkness that shrouds him. The smile is ever-present on his face, a sickening sight and you hear him punch through the plastic keys of the device. A beep interrupts the silence, tension thickening in the air, and once more, he walks back to you, your eyes following his hand, staring down at the flip phone that he places on top of your chest. 

“We got the drive, Pine.” Your blood turns cold when you hear Hank’s voice in the recording. And you don’t understand why he’s calling a fugitive. “We sent her alone so you don’t have to worry about running into trouble. Though we do expect you to uphold your end of the bargain and we will keep ours.” Your ears pique at the words your boss utters. What bargain? What does he mean by all this? “Both your files will be eradicated from the system and you shall never be bothered again.”

That can’t be! This is all a lie! It has to be! 

“Oh but it isn’t a lie.” Jonathan chuckles, plucking the burner phone from your sternum, his response making you realize that you’ve voiced your thoughts out loud. “What you just heard is the cold hard truth. This whole,” he pauses, waving his hand animatedly in the air before he continues. “..operation of yours was a setup. You weren’t sent to capture me. You were simply sent as a means to an end.”

“What are you saying?! That the British Intelligence sold me for your cooperation?!” You spit, gritting your teeth in rage and disbelief, tears welling in your eyes. “They’d be fucking stupid to trust you!”

“Oh, I know. That’s why it was so easy to manipulate them.” The snap of the phone catches you by surprise, seeing the device drop to the floor, broken in half. “But it’ll be too late once they realize that they’ve made a grave mistake.” His cockiness bleeds into his words and you feel even more afraid of what he’s truly capable of. “In the end, they think they got what they wanted and I got mine.”

“Me?” You ask in disbelief and he simply laughs. “Why me?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, your body going rigid when he comes closer. “I have wanted to break you since you walked that ass of yours into the briefing room.” The bed dips from his weight when he climbs atop it. You kick your legs when he grabs them, wince when his fingers dig painfully into your flesh, your legs going slack and easily allowing him to wrap them around his waist.

Your body shivers when he presses a hand against your abdomen, fingers tickling your skin as he trails them up your torso and cups the underside of your breast. You cringe at the sight of his face, how his teeth catch his bottom lip and his sapphire eyes turn a shade darker when he gives your tit a rough squeeze. 

You turn your head away when he leans closer, whimpering at how he buries his nose in the crook of your neck and deeply inhales your scent. 

Tears slowly fall down your face as you gravity of the situation finally sinks in. You were sold, like a slave by the man you trusted with your life. You don’t understand why they would do this to you, why they would throw you in abandon. You did your best in every mission thrown at you, abiding by the rules and following the law, always giving your all. Even if that meant you had to exchange your life for the safety of masses. 

But now, with how everything is crumbling right before your eyes, you start to think if everything you once believed in, about Hank, the organization, was a lie. 

Your breath hitches when Jonathan bucks his hips against yours, the tent growing in his pants pressing roughly against your bare cunt. You cringe, disgust rolling deep in your belly, that he would have such lascivious desires towards you. He growls, his clothed pelvis rubbing further against your clit that you bite your tongue to fight a moan from escaping, cursing your anatomy and how it responds despite your internal protests.

“You don’t have to be shy around me, sweetheart.” He drawls, pulling away from your neck while his hand runs down to your side, stopping at your hip only to grab it and press you down against his erection. “See what you do to me? I had to hold myself back every time when we would wrestle around.” A salacious hum spills from his lips, a smirk forming on his face that is only inches away.

You scowl at him, eyes burning with rage. You push your head back as he attempts to close the distance, but before he could even succeed, you gather up that saliva in your mouth and spit at his face, your nostrils flaring and a smile kissing your face when he wipes his face and looks back at you with equal fury.

“You shouldn’t have done that, sweetheart.” He sneers, anger evident on his face yet you don’t let it deter you from your plans to escape. You just have to catch him off guard and you’ll have the upper hand, his training slowly filling your head. 

He moves to sit up from the bed but you stop him from doing so, locking your legs around his waist tight and groaning loudly as you lean all your weight to the side to topple him over. The loud thud has you grinning in glee, making you pull your leg back to prepare for your next attack. Yet, before you could even launch your foot to kick him, a hand grabs you by the ankle, Jonathan towering over you once again and you freeze on the bed, eyes wide as your breath catching in your throat when the muzzle of a gun is pressed between your eyes. 

“After years of working together, I’d expected you to know me better.” He tuts, cheek twitching when he pulls his thumb back and releases the safety. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“You and me both, asshole.” You hiss.

“You know, I could simply kill you and no one will ever care that you’re dead.”

“Then do it!” The wrath in you bursts in flames and you lean forward, having the metal cylinder press harder against your forehead. “Fucking kill me, you coward!”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I will.” He chuckles darkly. “But not now. Not when I haven’t even had my fun.” 

It’s as if the anger in him dissipates as a sinister smile forms on his face. You shiver when he slowly slides the gun down your cheek, digging it on your chin before running it down the valley of your breasts. He stops at your stomach when he kneels back on the bed, your eyes following the movement of the firearm. You inhale sharply, feeling your heart pound against your chest when he rests the gun against your cunt, rolling the muzzle slowly around your clit. 

You whimper when your body sings in fear, Jonathan adding pressure on your clit as he keeps his torturous act. Then he pulls the gun away, a soft sigh of relief leaving your lips but is soon replaced by a strangled cry when he angles it against your core and pushes the barrel past your folds. 

Your thighs squirm at the sudden intrusion, your pussy walls clamping down on the dangerous weapon on instinct. You try to kick him away but he only pushes the barrel deeper into you, making you halt all your limbs go stiff in fear that he would pull the trigger. 

“Good girl. Stay still.” He mocks praise, pulling back the gun from your cunt only to push it once again, whimpering in horror as he fucks you with it. “I wouldn’t want to ruin this beautiful pussy. At least—not yet.”  

You face the curtains and near one of the large windows draped with pale rose. You push aside the fabric and fine twisted iron bars painted white in front of the glass. They go with the rest of the refined decor but have a more defined purpose; to keep you in.

You back away and turn. It all rushes down on you. Not just the epiphany of his deception but your own naivety. You wanted it to be real as much as you doubted it was. You’re just so tired of trying, you couldn’t think of doing this all over again.

You stop yourself as you approach the bed. You don’t sit. As much as you just want to collapse into yourself, you can’t. You pace, addled and alone, dizzied by this unfamiliar place; by the dire circumstances of it all.

The dull ache in your back stops you. You rub where you landed on the hardwood and the pain sinks in. The agony of the impact and the betrayal twinging together as one. Your lip trembles and your eyes burn, panic boiling in your stomach, bubbling up to your chest.

You throw your hands up, shaking your fingers as if trying to flick away some unseen taint. You gasp and gulp, flapping your hands as your breath scrapes in and out. The realness, the realisation, the rawness crashes down and quakes in your legs. You wobble as you make another course across the room.

You grab the tie knotted loosely at your throat and heave. You try to untie it but your hands are clumsy. You grunt as your anxiety pulses and sweat sears your hairline and nape. Get it off! Get it off!

This can’t be real! It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t!

The room smears in your vision as you teeter weakly. You yank and snarl at the silk. Off, off, off!

You turn and suddenly you’re not alone. The tall figure grabs your shoulders and steadies you. Jonathan follows the lengths of your arms to your hands and forces them to your side. He holds them there until you’re still. You blink at him and whimper.

He clucks and lets you go. He quickly unknots the tie and drags it away. You stagger back and grimace.

“Get away,” you breathe.

He sighs. “Now, darling, I am merely helping you.”

“No, no, you… you… you trapped me!” You lunge forward but cannot get past him.

He growls and catches you with one arm. Easily, so easily you feel like nothing more than air, he hurls you back. You stumble and land on the bed with gasp.

He tuts and smooths the tie with his fingers, staring at the silk as his tongue pokes out. He shakes his head and his eyes flick up to yours.

“You will see what’s good for you.” He spins away and struts out. The door snaps shut and the lock clicks into place. You stare, stunned and speechless, the force with which he repelled you still pulsing in your muscles.

💘

The night passes in sleepless vigil. You sit against the door and stare. You leave the lights on. You don’t intend on letting your guard down. Not again.

Your body can’t keep up with your mind. You start to slump, your eyelids droop, your head thrums. You’re only kept from passing out by the click above you. You look up as the lock twists and the door handle turns. The jerk of the door jars you.

“Darling, I will ask nicely until you press me to other means. Please remove yourself from against the door.” Jonathan commands from the other side.

You hesitate. You should resist. The bruise on your lower back convinces you to listen. You’re weak. You’re terrified.

You drag yourself away and get to your knees. You stand and face the door as he enters. You hug yourself and back up.

He watches you. His face is different. There’s no longer than easy calmness. His jaw is tight and his eyes are intense. You shudder.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You murmur.

“To you? I’m doing this for you?” He intones.

You pout and push your shoulders up defensively. He puts his hands on his hips and exhales. His nose flares and his eyes wander around the room.

“Have you chosen something to wear?” He asks.

You frown. “What?”

“As nice as that dress is on you, it would be prudent to change into something clean.” He insists.

You shake your head. “No, I… haven’t.”

It’s disconcerting how normal he’s acting. He’s pretending like he hasn’t trapped you here. You squeeze your arms and stare.

“Come on, darling. Much to choose from.”

He takes a step then pauses. He turns back to glance at the door then closes it. Your eyes meet his as he faces you again, his brow twitching. You look down guiltily.

“Come,” he nears and extends his hand. You shy away. He flinches but draws back. He gestures you ahead of him.

You turn and he points you to the sliding doors embedded in the wall. He looms close as he opens the left one and reveals an arrow of floral and soft fabrics on hangers. There are shelves of shoes and accessories mounted below and to the sides. A dream closet in any other circumstance.

“What do you prefer? I think this shade of rose would go wonderfully with your complexion.” He touches a frill of sheer pink ruffle. You stare at the spectrum of fabrics, speechless. “Darling…” he brushes your arm.

You wince away. “You choose…”

“It isn’t about what I’d like, it’s about you.” He insists.

“I want… to go.” You breathe.

He clucks then sighs. He takes a hanger off the bar and turns his attention to the shelves. He picks out a pair of elegant blush heels to go with the dainty fabric of the dress. He takes his time in selecting a chain with a single pearl from the jewelry box.

He turns to you and holds up the dress, comparing it to your body. You shuffle back and cross your arms tighter. His brows twitch and his cheeks pinch.

“Darling, don’t be ungrateful.”

You bite down. Your shoulders tense and rise and you lock your arms. You look down, resigned to whatever fate he’s decided for you.

You yipe as he grabs your chin. You look at him, latching onto his forearm in fright. He squeezes until you whimper.

“I said do not be ungrateful.” He snarls.

His long fingers send a twinge through your jaw and your heart pounds in futility. He’s so much stronger. You whine and pet his arm pleadingly.

“Ow, I– I’m sorry. Th-th-thank you.” You stammer.

He exhales and narrows his eyes. Slowly, he releases his grip on you, his fingertips lightly stroking down your neck. You shiver as he caresses your throat and his lips curve.

“Good. Now, you must get cleaned up, darling.”

💘

“I was correct about the dress.” Jonathan says as his eyes scale your body.

Can he not see the pinching cinch at the waist or how your chest is read to the pop free? Or perhaps he enjoys the sight of your discomfort. Or merely doesn’t care. It would make sense to assume that none of this is about what you want.

“Come, sit.” He clasps onto your wrist.

The heavy thunk of the heels is softened by the rug. He leads you to the vanity and pushes out the stool to sit you down. You fold your hands and look past your reflection at the door. So close, so far away. Open.

“Hm,” he brings up two vials and compares them to your face. “It was hard to match with a photo.” You furrow your brow as he considers the tubes of tinted moisturizer. “But it was advised that heavy foundation may be too much. Besides, you have a lovely natural glow.”

You flutter your lashes. The truth sinks into your chest. He planned this all along. Beyond the date. Everything is too prepared, too perfect. That fact adds to your horror.

“Might I borrow your hand?” He gestures with two fingers.

You look down then slowly raise your hand. He turns it over and tests the moisturisers on the inside of your wrist. He hums as he considers the slightly sparkly patches.

“I think we’ve found the one.” He sets one aside and keeps the other. “Close your eyes. Tilt your head back.”

You listen. You drop your hand back to your lap and squeeze until it hurts. He applies the moisturizer with his hands. As your face heats up at his touch, a chill curdles through the rest of your body.

As he finishes, you open your eyes. He twists the cap on then uses a makeup wipe to clean his hands. He sifts through his collection of jars and vials. He turns to you and gently frames your chin. He tilts your face.

“Your brows are lovely.” He praises. “And you won’t need very much touch up overall. Gorgeous…” he purrs. “You’ve a natural beauty… unique.”

His voice is breath, slightly gravelly. He trembles as his thumb rubs your jawline. He shifts his weight in his shoes and clears his throat. He reluctantly draws back and goes back to his search of the makeup.

One hand subtly rests on his belt and he angles awkwardly as his fingers slip down and tug on his pant leg. The tension of the fabric strains at the front as he tries to relieve it. Oh.

“Eyes, just a touch of mascara.” He guides. “Yes, your lashes are the perfect frame for such beautiful eyes.”

He bends to carefully apply a coating with the wand. His gaze boils under your skin. You squirm. He finishes and stands straight. The chafe below his belt is even more obvious.

You look past him to the reflection of the door. He puts the mascara down and takes a stick of blush. He dabs it on your cheeks and blends with a tear drop sponge. He steps back to check his work.

“Now, for the lips. A gloss…” he turns and picks up several tubes.

You stare at the door. He trades two of the tubes and continues his perusal. You turn slowly on the stool. He turns the shades between his long fingers.

You set your feet and slide forward slowly, watching him in the mirror. You shift off the seat awkwardly, keeping your legs bent. His eyes dart to your reflection and you blanch.

Shoot!

You jolt up and race for the door. You trip in the heels and hit the doorframe only to be wrenched back by your hair. You cry out and press your hands to your head to try to ease the tear in your scalp. He hurls you back and you tumble onto the floor.

You heap on your knees and sob. “Jonathan, please.” You beg. “Just let me go.”

“Darlingggg,” he growls. “Do you not see all I’ve done? For you?”

“I’m scared.” You gulp as you keep your head down. “It was one date.”

“Ah, darling.” He circles you. “I paid for much more than one date.”

You flinch and look up at him, lip quivering. “What do you mean?”

He stops and bends his knees, coming closer to your level. He tilts his head as his tongue glides over his lips. He lets out a long breath.

“Darling, get off the floor.” He commands calmly.

“Please, let me go…”

“Be good and listen. Get. Up.” His voice is rigid and raw.

“Please.”

“Get yourself up or I will.” He whispers.

You shake as you put your palms to the floor. You move slowly, steady your feet in the heels and you stand. He rises with you.

He steps closer and runs his hands down your waist. He stretches his thumbs around your hips and squeezes. He hums as he pulls you against him. He jerks his pelvis so you can feel him.

“I’ve never been the type to take it all after one night, but darling, I simply don’t think I can resist.”

He angles your back to the bed and shoves you. You stumble back, flailing, and land on the mattress. You gasp and push yourself up on your elbows, legs splayed under your skirt over the edge. He approaches with a feral glint in his eyes and steelish posture. His fingers are curled dangerously.

“Please!” You shriek and push down on your elbows.

Before you can drag yourself back, he catches you under your knees and keeps you in place. You squeal and writhe, kicking out as he kneels between your legs. He squeezes and slides his hands up your skirt, kneading your thighs as he rumbles.

“I tried… to wait. I tried to be a gentleman.” He growls.

“Please,” you utter one last time but you already know he won’t hear.

He purrs and leans forward. He lurches you as he pushes your thighs up and you fall onto your back completely. He dives under your skirt and presses his lips to your knee, dragging his mouth up your leg as you quake.

You hurl out another gasp as your chest arches. Tendrils coil up to your pelvis and tangle in your core. You close your eyes as they sting with shame and shock.

His nose tickles your thigh as he creeps higher and higher. He nuzzles the thin panties he chose. His fingertip graze the edge of the fabric as he spreads his tongue wide, tasting you through the sheer barrier. He laps and sucks on the fabric as you wet it from the other side.

You squeeze your eyes tight and clench your teeth as you battle your own body. His breath clouds against your lips as a moan escapes you. He traces along the trim of the panties and carefully pulls them aside.

His fingertips graze your coily hair and tender folds. He slowly delves between them, feeling the natural response to his tending. He groans and drags his nose along your cunt. He presses his mouth to you and extends his tongue, little by little, tasting you in a deliberate, tantalizing swipe.

You twitch. He gropes your thigh and plunges in more eagerly. His fingers tease you as his tongue twirls on your clit. Hot pressure centres in the cluster of nerves as he circles your entrance tentatively.

His fingers and tongue work in time. Tugging at your pleasure and fear. He drones as he drinks you in, stretching his tongue further down to meet his hand. He pokes at your entrance, and dips the tip just inside you. You squeak and cover your face.

Your body meets his fervour. You tremble in delight and deceit. He trails back to your clit and toys with it. Your thighs shake as he kneads your flesh, tying you up in knots until all once they come loose. Your body contorts as your orgasm unwinds and plucks at every part of you.

As you writhe through the intense ebb and flow, he dips his finger inside of you. Your walls squeeze him and you bite your thumb to keep from whining. He curls his knuckle and presses, rocking his hand as his tongue keeps its furious pace.

Once more, your insides tangle into each other, stomach tight, thighs bound. You arch as you reach another climax. You whine and whimper as tears of humiliation and helplessness spill down your temples and seep into your hair.

He slips his finger free and draws a wet line down your thigh. He kisses your other, smearing his wet lips on your skin, and flips the skirt from over his head. The fabric fans above your waist, exposing your lower half and the twisted panties.

He rises as you peek out between your fingers. His eyes are dilated and smokey. He grabs your hips and urges you further onto the bed. He bends your legs and settles between them.

He sifts through the skirt and spreads his hands across the bodice of the dress. He fondles you as he nibbles his lip. He folds the cups back so your chest falls out and he bends to nip and nuzzle your naked tits.

His tongue flicks around your nipples, teeth teasing each, lips suckling until you quiver. You whimper as his hands follow your arms to your hands and he guides them to his head. He sits up and leads your touch along his chest and stomach.

You shake as he presses your palms to his button-up. You bat your lashes and snivel. He smirks as he pushes your thumb to a button.

“Do it.” He rasps.

He lets you go. He watches your hands tremble as you undo his shirt, button by button, revealing his trim but muscular form beneath. Your eyes go wide as his chest rises and falls, a patch of thin curls between his pecks. He shudders and grabs your hands again. He pushes them against his taut stomach, moving them all over.

He bends over you and kisses your lips. You smell the tangy but sweet smell of yourself on his breath. Your hands stay on him, gliding along his sides as his tongue invades your mouth. He growls and rocks his pelvis.

“Darling,” he drags his lips down your cheek. “I thought I could… wait.”

He reaches down between you and shifts. He pulls at his belt until the buckle clinks free. Your spine tenses and your shoulders lock. He rolls his hips as he pushes his trousers down and groans louder.

He takes your hand from beneath his shirt, his other arm bent beside your head, and he guides it down. He puts your fingers around his dick as it bobs above the band of his briefs. He shivers as you touch him.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve needed you.” He snarls as he keeps his hand around yours. 

He lowers himself, using your hand to put his tip against your lips. He slides down to your entrance and holds his breath. You feel the tension pulsing in him. He eases into you as he loosens his grip on your hand.

Your arm falls slack at your slide as he dives into you. You squirm and squeal as your walls hug him. You wince and bite down. You don’t know if you can handle it.

He senses the resistance. He rocks his hips slowly, tilting in more and more with each drop of his hips. His shirt tickles you as he steadies his shaky motion. As he bottoms out, he sighs and pets your hair.

You press your hand against your neck, overly conscious of the buzzing din of the restaurant and the shadows moving under hanging lights in low intimate conversations. This isn’t the type of place you’d choose. Black tie only, no prices on the menu, wine by the bottle.

That’s the catch. Lady’s choice when it comes to the match, man’s choice for the venue. You flutter your fingers under your jaw and sigh. You really paid a matchmaking service to figure out why you can’t get a date? You’re not sure even professionals can solve this problem.

You nibble your lip, just for a second, before you remind yourself not to mess up the gloss. He’s not late, you’re early. So anxious that you couldn’t wait any longer to call the cab. The hostess wasn’t impressed but found you a table prematurely after you gave the name on the reservation…

Jonathan Pine. You read his name for the nth time. Right beside the picture that is too perfect to be real. God, the rise of machine learning really is catastrophic. In fact, you’d be better off finding a chat bot and sinking into psychosis.

Retired. At his age? That’s also too good to be true. Interests; classic literature, nature walks, running. The last one isn’t exactly your thing but you could get into it. And a little exercise wouldn’t hurt.

Six foot three. Every man inflates his height. It never mattered much to you. Height can’t make up for a bad personality. Or apathy.

He’s handsome. Blue eyes with specks of green around the pupil, a regal nose and sharp cheekbones. You bite your cheek. You might be wearing a new dress still weighing on your credit statement and that overpriced lip gloss from Sephora, but it’s a poor disguise. You’re out of your depth.

“Excuse me…” the honey-smooth voice startles you and you quickly black the screen of your phone.

You look over your shoulder at the man just within your peripheral. It’s him. You put your phone down and twist awkwardly in the chair. He keeps you from standing with a subtle gesture.

“Please, not on my account.” He pleads. “Did I misunderstand? I didn’t think I was late.”

“Oh, no I’m just chronically… early.” You smile nervously. “Er, um, Mr. Pine.”

He chuckles softly. “Please, Jonathan,” He bends and takes your hand. He gently places a kiss on your knuckles. “I do believe we’ve come on the understood terms, yes? No need for formality.”

“Uh, yes, you’re right.” You agree as your hand tingle, the feel of his large fingers on your hand sending tendrils up your arm. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“That’s quite alright,” he lets you go, fingertips grazing lingeringly. “I must admit I am as well.” He angles around the table to sit across from you. “I also confess that when the hostess first pointed you out, I was… rather intimidated. I had to build my courage.” His shoulders are straight, his posture pristine. “You are even more lovely than your pictures.”

You smile sheepishly and hum, not quite able to get the giggle out. He’s charming. Too charming. Or you’re just paranoid.

“Might I call you…” he enunciates your name, “or do you prefer something else?”

“No, that’s fine… erm, Jonathan.”

“Ah, I’ve never heard it said so sweetly.” He grins then swallows. His long fingers crawl up his tie and toy with the knot. “Well, I do think I’ve left you waiting long enough. Shall we peruse the wine list?”

“Oh, sure. That’s probably a good idea.”

“Where to start?” He slithers as he opens the long folder and sets it before you so the font faces you. “Red or white?”

You slowly move your phone off the table and tuck it in your bag, clasping it as you clear your throat. “I’m not sure. I don’t drink wine very often.”

“Did you prefer a cocktail? They’ve some wonderful seasonal mules.” He suggests.

“Wine is… well, whatever you prefer.” You shift and lick your lips. You cringe then catch him watching. “Pardon.”

You look down and open your bag again. You reapply the gloss carefully. He’s still watching.

“Do you have any ideas? I don’t really know the difference between…Burgundy or Napa.”

“Well, perhaps a white wine. Something lighter. Fruity.” He leans in. The table feels smaller with him there. The light overhead casts a low aura around the two of you, the edges of your vision softened. “Domaine Chardonnay is hard to hate.”

“Right. That sounds okay.” You nod and glance at the menu. You close it, your eye finding the name right before the pages meet. Oh! The price!

“I would say it’s rather delightful. Rather delectable when served fresh from a vineyard in the French countryside.” He muses.

You wince and look at him. “I’ve never been…” you whisper.

His cheek dimples. “Oh, you must think I’m terribly elite. I promise I’m not. It is only my imagination outruns me when I’m in the presence of a beautiful woman. I should think of all the ways I might treat her.”

You chirp out a shrill laugh. “You’re too… nice.”

“You think I’m untrue?”

“I didn’t say…”

“But you chafe with each compliment.” He challenges.

You glance away and shrug. “I’m sorry. Really, I appreciate it. It’s just… I guess I’m awkward.”

“First meeting always are.” He assures as a server approaches.

The server recites the specials. You try to focus on he listens intently. He slides the wine list off the table and hands it over, requesting the Domaine. “We’ve yet to decide on an appetizer. We should know by the time you return.”

“Yes, sir.” The server takes the folder and retreats.

Jonathan opens the menu in front of him. You tap your fingers on the leather cover. He peeks up at you. He’s so handsome. A bit older but not to his detriment.

“Would it be too much to share an appetizer?” He wonders.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” you assure him. You’re not exactly budgeting for five courses. “Whatever you like.”

“I’m more interested in what you like.” He purrs. He looks down and drags his finger along the menu. “Goat cheese stuffed escargot?”

“Escar… snails?” You squeak.

He chuckles. “I’m not a fan myself. Bruschetta on hand made artisanal rye? Gambas al Ajillo?”

You poke your tongue into your cheek and furrow your brow. “I’m sorry, what… was that?”

“Poached prawns in a medley of spices, saffron and the like,” he explains.

“Oh… oh right.” You slowly open the menu. Maybe you should figure it out before you look like a real dummy.

“Something lighter?” He offers.

You look over the mix of Italian, Spanish, and French names. You put on a smile and twine your fingers to keep from trembling. He’s not AI but he might be too much for you.

“You can choose, really.” You insist.

“Oh but you do learn so much from one’s preferences? Do you prefer parmesan? Feta? Shrimp or mushroom? It can tell one a lot…”

You clear your throat and feel the tension braided into your neck and shoulders. “Well, if I’m being honest, I typically get garlic knots and extra spicy cheddar dip.” Your lips slant. “I don’t know what that is in… French.”

He chuckles. “Simple. Quaint. Delicious.” He grins. “Well then, I think the garlic roasted sourdough and aioli might fit.”

“Hm,” you hum.

“Hm?” He echoes with a squint.

He stares at you until you squirm. You sigh softly, smothering the noise in your chest.

“You don’t have to humour me.”

“Humour?”

You untangle your fingers and pinch your index. “You know, those profiles are so easy to make yourself look better than you are.”

“I do not find the measure of people in expenses, if that’s what worries you. If that were the case, I’m certain I’d have found someone easily enough.” He counters. “Forgive me. I only meant to impress you and I see I’ve completely displaced you.”

“Ugh,” you touch your cheeks. “Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all. You suit this place well. And that dress. And those earrings.” He praises as he leans over the table. “And I hope me too?”

You look at him, seared with self-awareness and folly.

“Will you give me a chance? I swear, I’ll tone it down,” he pleads.

Your lips part. He’s asking you? As if you’re not the one so out of your element. You spread your hands wide and wrestle the tightness from your jaw.

“I will,” you smile, easier this time. “You’ll tell me if I use the wrong fork, won’t you?”

He chuckles and reaches to trace your finger with one of his. “Nothing you do could be wrong, darling.”

💘

You survive dinner. You feel utterly ridiculous for being so nervous by the end of it. Jonathan has a way of calming you. His voice, his confidence, his praise. It’s a dream, you’re sure of it. He can’t be real.

“Ah, lovely,” he remarks as a plate of cheesecake is placed between you, dripping in dark chocolate and dressed with cherry halves. “Delectable choice.”

“I never have any trouble choosing dessert,” you giggle.

“Well, you shall have the first taste.” He picks up the fork and slices sideways into the delicate layer of cake and through the dark crust. He’s certain to get chocolate and a cherry onto the tines as well. “Darling?”

He holds out the fork. You twitch. You stare at his offering and slowly lean in. You’re aware of your lips and tongue and teeth as you let him slip the fork in your mouth. You suck it all off and poke the tip of your tongue out to catch the remnants. You seal your lips and chew, humming your happiness.

“It is… good?” He asks.

You chew and swallow, covering your mouth until you are sure there’s no crumbs. “Delicious.”

“Mmm.” He tastes some himself, eyes watching you as his lips drag on the fork. His cheeks pinch as he chews, jaw tensing. “Very. I can think of only one thing that might taste better.”

You smile before you pick up his meaning. Your lashes flick up and you twitch. You reach for your own fork.

“Ah,” he jabs his fork playfully. “Let me.”

He feeds you another bite. This time, he watches you just as intensely. You could melt as easily as the chocolate.

“Forgive me, darling, I draw this out. I only… cannot stand the thought of this night ending so soon.”

You swallow again. You reach for your wine and wash down the richly bitter chocolate. “I know what you mean. It’s been so nice and… surprising.”

“Surprising? Me? I did not disappoint?”

You laugh. “No. Not at all. I… I don’t know. I thought this was a setup.”

“A setup? A con?”

“Who knows? It might still be. You’re too good to be true.”

He tilts his head. “Speak for yourself.” He sits back and exhales. “Perhaps it doesn’t need to end so soon. Another surprise, perhaps? If you would trust me?”

“Surprise?” You arch a brow. He offers another bite of the cake. “Have some.”

“I am more than content to see you enjoy it.” He presses the tines to your lip. You accept.

You gulp it down and meet his eyes. “What surprise?”

“I cannot say, can I? Or it wouldn’t be one.”

“I guess.”

“Just a little longer.” He begs. “Unless you are bored of me.”

You smile and shake your head. “No. Not at all.”

“Wonderful.” He smirks and scoops up more cake. “Please, a pit for sweet things to go unappreciated.”

💘

“Jonathan, what—”

“Shhh.” He hushes you as he undoes his tie. He sits in the driver seat, the console lit up, the streets glowing under the tall lights. “It must be a true surprise.”

He pulls free his silk tie and leans over. He brings it around your eyes and you squirm.

“Ah, be good, darling. Patience.” He drawls and knots the tie at the back of your head, obscuring your sight.

“Jonathan… I don’t know.” Your insides stir. This man is still barely more than a stranger.

“I told you, a surprise and a surprise it will be.” He grazes your cheek.

“I know but… I’m not sure– This is… a lot.”

“Darling, it isn’t far. I promise.” He coaxes. “Hasn’t this night been full of lovely surprises?”

“Yes…” you utter and rub your palms together.

He grabs your hand and squeezes. He lifts it slowly and kisses each knuckle. “Trust me. Have I not proven to be true so far?”

You can’t speak. You just nod. You can’t quite sort out your thoughts. That inner battle of insecurity and caution.

No, no. Just enjoy this one thing. Isn’t this why you paid all that money for this? Why you put all this effort into look human? You can’t hope and then spurn them the moment the answer your call.

“Alright.” You resign. You really aren’t that special. Enjoy tonight because it will likely be the first and last with him.

“Be calm,” he strokes your arm.

You sense him draw back and he shifts into gear. He drives smoothly down the road. You lean into the seat, disoriented by your lack of vision. You even lose track of time, certain it only drags on because you’re anxious and dizzy.

Finally, he stops. He clears his throat. You linger in silence.

“Jonathan?” You murmur and reach for the tie.

He catches your hand. “Stay.”

He lets go as the engine stills. His door opens and his weight leaves the axel. The driver’s side clicks shut. You listen to his soft steps as they approach your side.

He opens the door and unbuckles your seatbelt. You cling to your purse until he takes it from you. You wrestle for a moment.

“You won’t need it.” He says.

You let go. He guides you out of the car. He keeps hold of your hand as your other wanders up. He tuts.

“Not yet.” He warns.

“Please,” your heels drag shakily. “It’s hard to walk without seeing.”

“You must trust me.” He insists.

“I might fall–”

“Darling.” He tisks and stops. Suddenly, he scoops you up. “Now you will be certain not to.”

You wince at the stone in his voice. It’s the first time you’ve heard any harshness in him. You can almost feel it in his hold on you.

“Where are we?”

“We are so close.” He assures.

You breathe through your nose slowly. Why did you do this? No, why are you doubting this? Can’t you just have fun for once? No! Something’s wrong, you can feel it. Ugh, it’s just you and that self-doubt.

He stops again. A door opens. He turns and leans into it. He moves backwards through it and turn again, kicking it shut. The snap jolts you.

“Where?”

“Little more.” He says so quietly, you can barely make it out.

He carries you forward then up and up. The motion of the stairs adds to your vertigo. You wriggle as the uneasiness in your gut mounts. You kick your feet and push your elbow into him.

“Jonathan. Put me down.” You grab the tie and he drops you all at once.

You hit the floor and cry out, writhing as your back aches from the impact.

“I said just a little more.” He hisses and grabs your wrists. “Darling… this could have been so nice if you behaved!”

He lurches you across the floor by your arms. Your legs drag on the hardwood and a rug bunches under your weight. He heaves you across the threshold of some unseen room and flings you up and away from him. You hit something hard and land in a heap.

“You will get your surprise when you have calmed.” He snips.

A door slams and the lock clicks. You whimper and sit up, leaning on the hard shape behind you. Shakily, you reach to pull down the tie. You expect a dark and dingy cell, but instead, you find only an immaculately decorated bedroom.

You have all ready; an outfit you hope your mother won’t criticise, and if she does, she might not have much to say. A purse with painkillers in case any of the children decide to scream you to another headache, though you think you might get one anyway. And the cake. Not pie, as demanded, no, requested by your mother.

You pull on your jacket and the tall leather boots you never wear because the way they make your soles cramp. But they are your nicest shoes fit for the bitter weather. You balance the cake box in one arm, your purse swinging from your elbow, and lock the door.

You turn and carefully descend the steps. As chilly as it is, you’ve yet to see any snow. You bolster yourself against the wind and head for the car. Your feet slip and you scramble to keep from falling. The evening dew has frozen to a thin sheen of ice.

You take small steps and catch yourself on the car, leaning on it as you angle to get around it.

You set the cake on the passenger seat with your purse. You sigh. You could tell your mother it’s simply too icy to drive out. What then? Sit at home with a cake you can’t eat yourself? You know she won’t accept that excuse or any. You’ll only be the source of her gripes for the day.

You get in the driver's side and sigh. You shut the door and buckle the seat belt. You twist the ignition and the car coughs out exhaust. Three jerky puffs before it goes silent. It has to be the drop in temperature. A few times this week, the thing has struggled to flip over.

You try again. A shake but nothing else. You pump the brake and gas. You’re not sure what you’re doing but you try again. Still nothing.

You hit the wheel and hang your head. ‘Yes, mother, my car isn’t running. No I’m not lying. I promise. No, I can’t afford a new one, not after I spent so much time and money on my stupid ex. Yes, I did choose that man so it’s all my fault.’ You ready yourself for self-adjudication as you pull the lever to unlock the hood.

You get out and lift the lid, your heels threatening to slip on the tarmac. You look at the engine and throw your hands up. Okay, you don’t know what you’re looking at. Cool.

It’s too early for a mechanic. And it’s a Sunday. Most aren’t even open. Besides, it would take hours just to get the thing looked at.

Uber. Oh, sure, I’ll just pay out half my rent for that. Shit.

A car passes and you step back, arms crossed, and ponder your predicament. There’s nothing left but to make the call. You shut the hood. It doesn’t catch. You lean on it as you try to get it to lock. Strange. Maybe it’s too cold.

You slide back to the open car door and maneuver yourself into the seat. You grab your purse and fish out your phone. You flip up the lock screen as another car drones down the street. You keep from hitting the dial button as headlights pull in behind you.

You squint at the sleek powder blue car. Is that a Jaguar? Those are expensive. You should know, Steve was obsessed with all those fancy things you never much cared for.

Now, who would that be?

You get out and cling to the car. You watch the luxury vehicle as the driver pops the door. You bite down on a cringe as Jonathn gets out. Oh, great.

“Um, hi,” you greet unevenly.

“On your way out?” He asks.

“Yeah… well… trying,” you say.

He stares at you then blinks. “Oh, do let me explain,” he bats his temple lightly with the heel of his hand in a show of forgetfulness. “I had a call from another property. The temperature is affecting the water metres. I was only making the rounds to be certain it is not widespread.”

“Oh, uh, no issues with the water,” you assure him. You wish the pipes were the problem right now.

“No? Not the water?” He tilts his head as his wander to your car.

“Too cold. Can’t get it to start,” you huff.

“Going somewhere important?” He asks.

“Kinda,” you mutter and your boots slip slightly. You buckle and steady yourself. “Don’t even think I should be driving on these tires.”

“I wouldn’t mind giving you a lift.” He offers.

“No, I think you’ve had enough trouble from me,” you wave him off. “Really, it’s too far.”

“I’ve not any plans. It wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Gas, time, icy roads, I think that’s enough bother,” you counter.

“Well, where are you off to?” He prompts.

You sniff and lean your head back. You look at him. “It’s fine, just family stuff. I’ll have to call and–”

“Family is important,” he argues.

“Yeah…” you shrug.

“Truly, I wouldn’t mind.” He insists. “It would be a pity to disappoint your family. I’m sure they’ve been looking forward to it all.”

You look at him then your phone. Your mother’s number floats on the screen. Nothing you tell her will be anything but a lie in her ears.

“Are you… sure?” You ask.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” he assures. “I could use a distraction.”

“But… what about your other houses?”

“You are the last stop,” he explains. “If anything else comes up, I will call the maintenance company.”

“Oh, but… wouldn’t that cost a lot.”

“If that happens.” He grins. “Are we running late?”

You pause. He is so effortlessly disarming. He can change direction in an instant and you just can’t keep up. That reminds you of Steve but not in the same way he did it.

“I owe you. A lot.” You say. “Let me get my stuff.”

You close the door and make your way around the front of the car. You struggle not to slide back as you do. You go around and cling onto the door as you push it open. You grab the cake and your purse. 

As you shut the door, your feet slip and you frantically fight not to fall. You steady yourself on the mirror as footsteps crackle over the thin sheet. Jonathan approaches and offers his hand.

“Do be careful. It’s rather treacherous,” he says.

You swallow your embarrassment. You’re a whole mess. You take his leather gloved hand and thank him. You let him guide you down the drive to his car, too scared to let go.

“Is that cake?” He asks.

“Um, yes. Vanilla bean and blueberry.” You answer.

“You made it yourself?”

“Painstakingly. Yes.” You answer.

“Is it a hobby then?” He asks.

“It can be,” you say as he keeps his hand on yours and opens the passenger door with his other. “Also my job.”

“Oh, you are a chef?” He intones.

“Somehow I think that would be much more interesting.” You scoff.

“Allow me,” he puts his hand on the cake box and lets you go.

You hand it over and grab onto the inside of the door. You lower yourself into the car and pull your legs inside. He bends to rest the cake on your lap gingerly.

“Not a chef, then?” He asks.

“No. Food science. Quality assurance.” You explain. “Lots of leftovers but not all… palatable.”

“Ah. Hm. I never considered that profession. Despite your doubts, it sounds rather interesting.” He lilts.

“Trust me, it’s not.” You roll your eyes.

“Suppose when it is one’s profession, it does lose a bit of lustre,” he resigns as he stands straight. “Do mind yourself, darling.”

He gently shuts the door and you wince. You pull down your seatbelt, slipping it behind the cake box, and shift around as he strides to the driver’s door. He’s sure on his feet even as he wears shining leather shoes without much tread. Maybe you really are that much of a disaster.

He slides into the driver’s seat and pulls his own belt over his shoulder. He starts the engine and rests his finger on a dial. “Are you very cold? Shall I turn it up?”

“Um, I’m okay, but I don’t mind,” you say.

You spread your hands on the sides of the box. Your fingertips are numb but somehow your palms are sweaty. You exhale through your nose slowly. Not only do you have to face down your mother but you must keep your composure in front of this man who seems to only exist in perfection.

“Oh, wait,” you say as he shifts into reverse. He looks at you. “Jonathan, you can’t drive me all the way to my mother’s. I won’t have a way home.”

He chuckles. “Do you think I would just abandon you without return?”

“Oh, but, not. I’m going to be there all day and– I can’t ask you to hang around with my family. Really. You’d probably rather be fixing frozen pipes.”

“Hm, you’ve much to learn of me. I can bear all if there’s a slice of that cake promised,” he nods to the box in your lap. “A fine payment for my efforts.”

“I couldn’t– No, Jonathan.”

He turns straight and lets go of the break. He backs out and twists the wheel to steer onto the street. You grip the box tighter.

“It’s rather too late darling, my mind is set,” he steps down on the accelerator. “I must have some of that cake.”

🩵

As Jonathan pulls in behind your brother’s minivan, your stomach drops. Your lips tug and your furrow your brow. You stare up at the house as you breath clogs in your chest.

“Has it been some time since you saw them?” Jonathan asks as the engine quiets.

“Hm,” you look at him and exhale. “Oh, not really. Well, a little. Just… it’s complicated.”

“Family always is,” he clucks.

“You really don’t have to do it. I could give you gas money and you can take me back.”

“And waste all your hard work?” He reaches to tap the box gently. “No, I don’t think so.”

He draws back as his seatbelt repels. He gets out and tucks his keys in his jacket pocket. The door shuts and he marches around the car. He makes you feel even less with his easy grace.

He opens your door. You’re surprised at the gesture. It’s very old-fashioned. You get out and he steps back to let you pass. You should probably take the lead on this. You are most familiar with your enemy.

He follows you up the walk and you slow as you approach the front door. You drag your feet on the mat and he does the same. He reaches before you can and he clacks the old fashioned knocker on the door.

You can hear the children from within, hollering and running. You wait, a long time. You swelter as your doubts stir with your self-awaerness. What is Jonathan going to think? Can he evict you for your family being unbearable?

The door opens at last. Your sister, Tabitha, glowers at you as she bounces her toddler, Carissa, on her hip. Her eyes blaze before they flick over to Jonathan. In an instant, a smile brightens her expression.

“Oh, you’re here,” she beams. “You know,” her tone is sour and sweet. “You could let yourself in.”

“Sorry, I was just being polite.” You say.

“Mhmm. So, shouldn’t you have mentioned you were bringing company? I’ve only set the table for us.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I must’ve forgot to tell mum. This is Jonathan,” you gesture to your escort.

A kid runs by behind her and her eyes go round. She turns and chases after her son. “Rupert! Get back here!”

You blink and avoid looking at Jonathan. You step inside and he trails after you. He shuts the door gently as you place the cake box on the glass console table against the wall.

“You can hang your coat,” you point to the rack. “Shoes on the rack.” You lean on the metal frame of the table and unzip your boots. “Don’t step an inch further or my mother will kill you.”

He laughs softly. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You slide your boot off and put it on the rack, then work on unzipping the other. You set it with the left boot and stand. You undo your jacket and face Jonathan.

“Look, I’m just going to apologise now for everything.” You say. He seems unaffected by the sound of chaos behind you.

He hangs his coat and his scarf. He wears a dark blue wool sweater over a grey button up. He looks proper but not too proper.

Jonathan shifts behind you as your heels drag on the floor. He sits with you in his lap. You squirm as his hands run up and down your sleeves. Your head bobbles as you bat your lashes. Nick kneels in front of you and slips your feet from your shoes.

The man beneath you pushes his knees under yours and parts your legs. You arch your back as Nick tosses your shoes. You twitch as he pinches a button on your blouse. Another hand crawls along the top of your pants, still undone from Nick’s intrusion.

Jonathan’s long fingers slip beneath your panties. You gasp as Nick undoes your shirt and pushes it apart. You’re dizzy from the constant touching and tugging. You drone weakly and grip your forehead.

“Relax, darling,” Jonathan coaxes as he slides his fingers between your lips. His other hand comes up to cradle your chin and he kisses your cheek.

Nick purrs as he covers your chest with hands. He gropes you and leans in to drag his lips along your flesh, the edge of your bra tickling his chin. He kneads you through the cups and nips you lightly.

“Delectable,” Jonathan slithers, fingers rolling faster as they send sparks down your thighs.

Nick snickers as you quiver between them. He guides your shirt down your arms and he keeps his face buried in your cleavage. He lets the fabric fall down between you and Jonathan.

As Jonathan pets you to madness, his hips tilt subtly beneath you. You can feel his desire firm against your ass. Nick drags your bra away from your chest and your your arms. He flings it blindly as Jonathan turns your head and smothers your mouth with his. His tongue pushes past your resistance and you gasp into him.

Jonathan slips inside you with one finger. You moan as Nick’s hands frame your torso. His lips graze the curve of you tit and he flicks his tongue around your nipple. You twitch again as he fondles the other side of your chest.

As Jonathan’s finger curls, he rocks his hand and the sudden deep pressure has you clenching. Nick puts his other hand on Jonathan’s to add to the intensity. You murmur past the latter’s tongue as your muscles knot.

Nick bits into your flesh and you pull away from Jonathan. You squeal as you cum, feeling it stain his fingers and your panties. You pant wildly as you try not to explode but the alcohol and the claustrophobia has you in shambles.

You grip Jonathan’s forearm as you buck through your climax. Nick purrs and lifts his head. He reaches behind you and peels off your pants and panties as Jonathan moves you in his lap.

Jonathan pushes another finger into you as he lifts you slightly. Nick strips your bottom half then reaches beneath you. Jonathan winces and hums behind your ear as Nick undoes his fly.

You feel Nick angle the other man along your entrance. You bite your lip, delirious and dozy. Nick rubs Jonathan’s tip between your lips then lines him up against his knuckles.

Jonathan reaches to grip himself beneath you as Nick lets go and grabs your hips. They guide you down onto Jonathan’s length as his fingers stay inside you. You squeal at the fullness as it slowly stretches you.

Your thighs quiver and Nick bends forward. He’s unbothered by the other man as he flicks his tongue between your folds. You shake and brace Jonathan’s hips behind you. His hand curls around your neck and he kisses your jaw as he rocks his hips slowly.

“She’s delightful.” He drawls against your neck. Delicate but tight.”

“I knew it,” Nick rasps against your cunt. “Tastes good too.”

You whimper and close your eyes. Humiliation boils with pleasure, churning your insides. Nick teases you with his tongue, torturing just to the edge before he lets up. He gives one last suck on your clit and parts. He licks his lips with a content hum.

He stands and pulls off his jacket. He unbuttons his shirt and nods sideways. Jonathan moves you with him as he turns to recline against the couch, his head against the arm rest. He puts your head on his shoulder as he keeps his languid motion.

Nick throws away his clothing, one piece at a time. Your leg falls over the edge of the couch as he nears, naked, stroking himself. His broad chest rises and falls as you watch him through slitted eyelids.

He climbs over Jonathan carefully, planting one knee as he keeps his other foot on the floor. He brings your legs against his thigh, hooking his leg under it, and guides his dick with his other hand. He presses against Jonathan’s, prodding at your already stretched entrance.

You squeak and reach weakly to stop him. Your fingers brush down his pelvis. He chuckles.

“Long, slow breaths,” he girds as he slowly wiggles in next to Jonathan.

You whine and it catches in your throat. Your body wracks as Jonathan pets your head and closes behind your ear. “You’re doing good, darling. Breathe out, now.”

You exhale as your eyes roll back. Nick barges in deeper, the tight squeeze straining your walls and tying up your chest. You latch onto Nick’s wrist as he splays his hand across your pelvis, his thumb toying with your clit.

He jerks his hips and sinks in even deeper. He leans his weight into you until you’re sobbing and shaking. Jonathan caresses your chest and drones.

“Darling, that’s perfect. You’re doing just perfect,” he coaxes.

Nick plays with your clit as he eases back. The men work together, timing their thrusts as one. Your toes curl and your blood burns hot. You’re torn in every direction and from the inside.

You arch your back deeper and cling to Nick as he flicks your clit faster and harder. Your voice crackles as you cum. You bite your lip as your tears trickle around your ears.

Along with the robe, you treated yourself to some epsom salts, a nice chamomile lemon candle, and some under eye masks. The latter weren’t exactly a treat, more of a precaution. Though you might have waited too late. Wouldn’t that be so typically you?

You place the curved gels pads under your eyes. You step into your slippers and shuffle out to the kitchen for your nightly tea. You’re stopped by the chime of the doorbell.

It’s rather late. You detour past the kettle and all that tension winds around your neck. So much for a relaxing Friday night.

You dread a first meeting with your neighbours. Did you forget your bins? Or commit some other faux pas? The grass can’t be too long, the frost has it wilted and flat.

You only wish the dang app on your phone would work. You followed the instructions to a T; several times over. You open the door an inch as you brace yourself for an awkward encounter.

It’s Mr. Pine. Jonathan, as he prefers.

“Oh, hi,” your eyes round and you’re suddenly aware of the bright blue pads under them.

He’s in a grey plaid overcoat and a sea green scarf. The shade brings out the blue in his eyes, little specks of yellow near the pupil. His cheeks and nose are red again. He is in desperate need of a hat. Though it does little to detract from his austerity.

“I’ve interrupted?” He intones.

“Um, well, I didn’t expect… I don’t know what I was expecting.” You cringe. “Did something happen? I checked me account, the money transferred–”

“Oh, I apologise. I didn’t mean to unsettle you. No, I’ve only come to check on the window.” He leans back to admire the brand new panes. “No issues? No air seeping through?”

“Nope. I’ve been a bit too afraid to touch it much but it’s held up.”

“Mm, yes. Well, the branch was kindling at best. I’ve decided to have the tree removed entirely so two birds, one stone. Come to check the repair and inform you of work.” He explains. “I’ve the permit from the city for it to be unrooted.”

“Oh, right.”

“And I understand it isn’t quiet work so I thought it might be… of good will to offer some recompense for the disturbance. I’ll cut twenty percent of next month’s rent.” He says.

“Twenty… oh, well, how could I say no?”

“Mm, take the good when it comes.” He agrees.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate the thought. It’s… very nice.” You say. “And for taking the trouble to come tell me.”

His lips curve slightly. “I do suppose it could’ve been a phone call.”

You shift awkwardly. He stares at you. Now you feel guilty. He came all the way here and all to tell you good news. Your mother’s voice needles in your brain. Don’t be rude. I raised you better.

“I was going to have some tea… you look cold.”

His brows pop up and he tilts his head. “Well, it’s been a dastardly winter thus far.”

You almost laugh at his response. His way of speaking is so posh. 

“Wouldn’t mind a warm tea, thank you.” He lilts.

“Sure, uh… I’ll just get the kettle going and…” You pause looking down at your robe. “Some clothes.”

You let him in and leave him to hang his jacket. You hurry off to the kitchen and flick the switch on the glass kettle. You hook around and nearly collide with him as he comes down the hall. He catches you, hands gripping your arms tightly through the thick fleece.

“My oh my, that could’ve been calamity,” he grins.

“Sorry, I… was only going to… get dressed,” you nod past him.

“Yes, of course. I would offer to assist with the tea.”

“Please, I’ll take care of it. You’re the guest.”

“Ah, yes, a guest,” he muses coyly. He drags his hands down the soft sleeves and draws away. “Then I shall be a polite one and await you patiently.”

He nods and steps aside. You pass him and swiftly swoop around the banister and hurry upstairs. The short hallway contains the bedroom, a closet which could easily be another room, and a half-bath. You flit into your room, a set of pajamas waiting on the foot of the bed.

You pull on the flannel; plain, boring. Grey with a white trim. Boring isn’t that bad. You’ve had enough of surprises.

You go downstairs. As you pass the living room, you peek in to see Jonathan standing by the bookshelf. You do need to organise that better.

You go into the kitchen and flick the switch on the kettle. Your phone lights up on the counter and you stare at it as the call flashes silently. Your mom’s number disappears and you grab the cell. She’s called three times. If you let it go again, you’ll never hear the end of it.

She calls again. You answer on the third read.

“Mum,” you greet. “Sorry, I was getting out of the tub.”

“Mm,” she clucks. “I was calling to remind you about this weekend.”

“I didn’t forget,” you assure her.

“You’re bringing dessert, aren’t you? The caterers are all booked up.”

“Uh, yeah, I can do some pies.”

“Cake. The children do not like crust.” She insists.

“Sure, cake,” you agree. If you had suggested that first, she would’ve said it was much too sweet. “Any preferred flavours?”

“I’m certain you can come up with something,” she returns. “Oh, and do you mind showing up early? Your sister and brother will likely be late with the kids and all. They’ve got enough going on–”

“Did you need any–” Jonathan startles you and you spin to face him. He blanches as he stands in the doorway. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on a call.”

You show your palm and give a weak smile. You move to the cupboard and pull down two mugs. He nods and slowly backs out. You sigh and shake your head as the kettle bubbles and steams, clicking off.

“Dear…” Your mother interrupts herself. “Who was that?”

“No one, mother. I’m just making tea.” You pluck up two tea bags, hesitating. You didn’t ask which he preferred. Well, it’s too late for a black tea.

“For who?”

“Mum,” you warn.

“Ugh, why must you always hide things? Are we so shameful that you would hide us away–”

“Mum. Really. It’s not that. Just the landlord.”

“Just the landlord?” She retorts doubtfully. “You know, you are getting older and after all that time you wasted on Steve–”

“I am aware, mother.” You sniff. “He is the landlord.” You repeat. “And I’m not looking.”

“Hm, if he turns out to be more, he’s more than welcome to come.”

“Alright, mum. Well, I’ve got to go.” You rub your temple. “I’ll see you Sunday. Love you.”

“Don’t forget dessert.”

She hangs up. You shake your head and shove your phone across the counter. The twenty-first century cursed you with constant connection.

You take the mugs and go into the front room. Jonathan sits patiently, shoulders straight, hands folded. You set down a cup on the round end table nearest him.

“Thank you kindly,” he says as he lifts the cup. He admires it. “Bone China.”

“Tea tastes best in it,” you blow over the top of your cup. “Thanks again for stopping by. It’s very thoughtful.”

“And yet I so rudely interrupted your night. That sounded like an important call.” He prompts.

“My mother. You know, parents.”

“Ah,” he grins and nods. “Oh, yes, I do have a terribly overbearing duo on my shoulders.”

“It’s… lavender chamomile. I hope that doesn’t put you off.”

He inhales the scent of the tea. “Interesting. Suppose it’s good for nerves.” He blows away the steam and tastes it. “Ah, not bad. I do have a yen for black tea but it is rather late. This English heart is too fond of a breakfast blend.”

You smile and nod. “You don’t have to lie. Lavender is easily overwhelming. I reduced the balance though. Think I just got it right.”

“You made the tea?”

“No. I bought plain chamomile and blended it with the off-the-shelf leaves.” You explain. “Simple fix.”

“Creative,” he muses.

“It’s just tea.” You say.

“Hm, yes, just tea but it is wonderful,” he sips again. He looks up at you. “Please sit, I do feel rather like an imposition.”

“Uh, oh, sorry,” you step around the arm chair. “I wasn’t expecting…” You touch the lapel of your pajamas. “Well…”

“You look cozy.” He praises and peers around. “I’m happy to see this place doing you well.”

“I’m sure you’re happier that there aren’t any dents in the wall.” You scoff.

“That too, I suppose,” he agrees. “Though I must say I envy the… comfort of this place. You’ve made it rather welcoming.”

You look around. There’s a few candles set out; Christmas presents. Everyone got you the same thing. And you hung that set of still-lifes you’ve had since college. Small square frames around delicately painted pieces of fruit. You draped a throw over the couch, more so because your toes get cold, and the fake flows on the mantle almost look real.

“Didn’t want to change too much. Won’t be here forever.”

“No? Big things coming?” He wonders.

“I don’t know.” You shrug.

He nods and peers thoughtfully into his mug. “Would it be too intrusive to ask about… before? Are you new to the city?”

You roll your tongue and bite down. You don’t like to talk about before. You hate even thinking about it.

“No. I lived in Old South Village. A small townhouse.” You keep it vague. The details don’t need to be parsed out.

“Oh, that’s a rather nice area. I spent a year there then converted that property into a lease. I’ve since relocated to Culbert.”

“Culbert? That’s an upgrade.”

“I would hardly know. I don’t see the place much. I always find myself up to something,” he chuckles softly. “My mother always had a time keeping me still and it seems I never outgrew it.”

“Good to keep busy,” you say.

“Yes, but it would be nice to be still.” He intones. “A hot bath and tea… simple but delightful.”

“Boring,” you assure him.

He hums and sit back as he drinks deeply. He pulls the cup away as his eyes scan the room. “The boring seems rather enviable. Warm and calm.”

“That would be the lavender,” you kid.