#dilf steve

He’s always had an easy smile for you, or a friendly word. 

But right now, his smile is gone, replaced with a helpless sort of expression. The top buttons of his coaching polo are undone, and his hair looks mussed, like he’s been raking his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish. “Sorry to just show up like this, I—”

Something in his gaze shifts, and his lips part as he takes in your outfit. His eyes rake over you. From your stylish updo, to your sultry eye makeup, to your tight dress, and finally settling on your high heels. 

“Oh—wow. You look…really good. I mean—” He huffs an unbelieving breath. Like he’s just remembering where he is. “I’m interrupting. I can go. I’m going. Sorry!”

You rush to stop him. 

“Hi, Mr. Harrington! No, it’s okay. Do you want to come in?” You step aside, motioning inside. 

“God. Steve. Please. Uh, no, I—” He glances back towards his house. “It’s just…well, you’re a girl, right?”

You chuckle. “Last I checked. Is everything okay?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. Your eyes catch on his long, tapered fingers, tanned by the summer sun.

“God, this is embarrassing. That came out bad. Yeah everything’s fine, it’s just my daughter, Lily,  has a ballet recital tonight. And she’s supposed to wear her hair up in this…scrunchy donut thing? And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and anyway, I’m sorry. You clearly have a date.” He sighs, then his eyes widen. “Or—plans. I didn’t mean to assume—shit, I used to be better at this.”

“What? Asking for help.”

“Talking to pretty girls.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, that too.”

You know you should feel bad for him. Stressed, overworked single dad, trying to make it to his daughter’s recital on time. But really, with every rake of his hands through his hair, and every shift of his feet, you can’t help but be amused. 

It’s actually, really cute. 

“Relax, Steve,” you say with a smirk, closing your door and stepping down onto the steps with him. “I’m happy to help.”

Relief floods his face. “Oh my God, really? Are you sure? I mean—”

“Really, I don’t mind,” you assure him with a gentle hand on his arm, already pulling up your phone to message the guy on Tinder. “My date seemed boring over text anyway.”

Steve turns away, but as your hand falls from his warm skin, you catch a small, crooked smile starting on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm. Shit texter? Huge red flag."

You smile. “Right. So, where is this ballerina?”

“Oh, she’s inside. Finishing up her dinner. But I have all the supplies…if you wanna come over and save me from completely ruining her life.”

You smile. “I’d love to.” 

Ten grassy steps later, Steve opens his front door for you.

When you step into his home, heels clicking on his polished wood floor entryway, your heart does a little flip. 

There are girl toys everywhere. 

Pinks, and purples, and glitter, and…is that a play castle?

“Daddy?” a little voice calls from somewhere deeper in. 

“Yeah sweetheart, I’m back,” Steve replies, motioning for you to follow him. "Sorry for the mess, we just got back from practice."

The first thing you see when you round the corner into the kitchen, is a tutu—pink frills stuffed up on a barstool, little legs swinging. But where you expect to find ballet slippers dangling, instead, you find dirty baseball cleats.

Steve’s daughter, Lily, looks over her shoulder as you both enter the open doorway. She looks sweet. 

Very sweet—given the jam smeared around her lips, a messy PB&J in her hand. 

She smiles at you, her brown curls a little mussed, just like her dad’s. And on top of her head, rests a princess hat. It’s one of those long cone ones with a ribbon train hanging down her back. 

Upon seeing her state, Steve surges forward and swipes a paper towel. “Honey, you’ve got jelly all over your face—hey, c’mon.” His voice softens as he leans over to wipe her cheek. “Okay, listen, this is our neighbor—” He pauses and looks up at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

You tell it to Lily, because for some reason, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can hardly get a word out. 

“She’s going to help you with your hair for the recital, okay?” Steve adds, a little more upbeat, cleaning the last of the sticky sweetness from his daughter’s face and standing up straight again. 

Lily’s eyes light up. “Can I knight her, Dad? Please?”

He looks over at you and rubs the back of his neck. “We’re in a bit of a medieval phase, lately. Lots of fairytale books from the library, and now it’s…a whole thing.” 

“I love fairytales,” you say. Then you turn to Lily and curtsy as well as you can in your little black dress. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

Lily lets out a delighted squeal and slips off the stool, vanishing into the next room. She’s back seconds later, clutching a glittery wand topped with a star. 

You don't miss the way Steve glances at his watch and grimaces.

You slip off your heels and kneel on the cool kitchen tile just as Lily marches up to you, bowing your head solemnly. 

“My lady,” you say, voice hushed for the ceremony, “as my first act as knight, it would be my greatest honor to do your hair.”

Lily lifts her chin, wand raised. 

“Granted,” she declares.

From across the room, Steve sends you an appreciative look. It turns your stomach all warm and melty. 

You stay perfectly still as she taps the plastic star first to your left shoulder, then your right. “I dub thee…Knight Neighbor.”

You lift your head slowly, like you’ve been entrusted with something of great importance. Lily giggles. Then, you stand and gesture to the kitchen table. 

“Amazing work, Your Majesty,” Steve plays along, nudging Lily towards the chair. “Alright, sit tight, and here, look, I have a mirror you can hold." He turns to you, holding up a handful of supplies.“Here, I’ve got a hair tie and the—uh—donut thing. Do you need anything else?”

You nod. “I’ll need a hairbrush. A fine-tooth comb would be best. And some hair gel if you have any.”

Steve disappears down the hallway, and you turn your attention to the little girl sitting in front of you. 

“Lily, I’ll have to take this off to do your hair. Is that okay?” you ask, tapping her cardboard hat. 

“Oh. Yes.” She spins around in her chair to face you. “But I forgot to tell you, you have to call me Princess Lily.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

She turns back around and picks up the mirror. You gently remove her hat and set it aside, careful to place it somewhere it won’t accidentally get stepped on.

“So, Princess Lily, how old are you?” you ask. 

“Five.”

“Wow. So, you run a kingdom, do ballet, and you play baseball?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Dad says girls can do both.”

You smile behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “He's right. Girls can do everything.”

Steve’s footsteps thump against the wood as he returns to the kitchen.

 “Okay, I found the comb, but I don’t have gel. Will hairspray work?” he asks, handing you the supplies.

You shrug. “Probably.”

You take a second a second to lay out your supplies, but once everything’s arranged on the kitchen table and you’re expected to start on her hair, you find yourself hesitating. 

The only sounds are the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere in your neighborhood, and the whisper of tulle from Lily’s tutu as she shifts in her seat. There's nothing wrong, it's just...

Here you are, in your tight date-night dress, barefoot in a kitchen that smells like peanut butter and jelly. 

But it’s not that you feel like you don’t belong here. 

It’s that you feel like you do. 

It’s ridiculous, and completely unreasonable, but you feel it all the same. 

Suddenly, you seem to remember they’re on a time crunch, so you take a steadying breath and quickly smooth back Lily’s hair. 

It’s soft and warm between your fingers as you brush it through. When you spray the hairspray, you guard Lily’s eyes with your hand. She giggles and pretends she’s gone blind. The spray creates a little haze that gathers in the sun beam streaming through the window. 

“This is nice hairspray,” you say dumbly. Partly because it is, but mostly because you don’t know what else to say to fill the silence. You hope Steve can’t hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat. 

“It’s Daddy’s,” Lily says, 

You look up. Steve’s sending her an incredulous look in the mirror. “I don’t use it that much.”

“You did today,” Lily points out, tilting her face up to look at him. “And you buy girls’ hairspray for yourself!"

She laughs and covers her mouth, like she's just spilled a giant secret.

“Stay still, kid.” Steve scolds, but his hands are gentle as he places a palm on each cheek, turning her to face the mirror again. 

You chuckle softly and look over at him. “You do have nice hair.”

But as the words leave your lips, a blush steals across your cheeks, and you return your gaze to your work. It’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel Steve’s eyes on you like a physical, tangible touch. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

The hair tie snaps into place, breaking the tension as you secure Lily’s slicked back ponytail. 

“There,” you breathe. “That’s the hard part. Now, let me show you how to use the scrunchy donut.” 

Steve watches intently as you instruct him in the wild ways of a ballet bun. He nods along, hands on his hips, his breath ghosting your bare shoulder. You show him how to pull the ponytail through and gather her silky strands around the edge, explaining how it makes her hair look fuller. You even show him how to smooth back fly-aways around the edges. But when you finish wrapping her hair, the stubborn ends don’t tuck underneath quite right.

You struggle with it for a minute, then ask, “Do you have any bobby pins?”

Steve exhales, thinking. “Somewhere. I could look around for some—”

“That’s okay. Here—” 

Without thinking, you reach up into your updo and pull the pins free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders, and Steve makes a sound behind you, but you’re too busy perfecting Lily’s hair to pay close attention to him. 

You sigh, content, as you step back and review your work. 

“It looks perfect,” Steve says, awe in his voice. “Seriously. Thank you. What do you think, Lil?”

But she’s already slipping off the chair, mirror forgotten. 

“Hey, easy—careful,” he says as she jumps down, half-laughing. 

“Your Majesty, if I may…” you say, stopping her in her tracks. You glance down at her footwear and her eyes follow yours. “Listen, I’m not knocking the shoe choice. But as your knight, its my duty to inform you, that it might be difficult to pirouette in cleats.”

Lily seems to consider this for a long moment. Her little brows furrow together and when her lips twist to the side to think, she looks exactly like her Dad. Something in your chest tightens. 

Steve hurries over and hands her some mini pink ballet flats. “These might work a little better, huh?” He crouches slightly. “You good, or you need backup?”

She shakes her head with a determined tilt of her chin. “No. I can do it.”

“Okay, but hustle, alright? I’m going to walk our knight out. Can you tell her thank you?”

Lily wobbles on one foot as she yanks her cleats off, but it doesn’t stop her from beaming up at you. “Thanks. Bye. And next time you come over, you’ll have a place in the castle!”

You chuckle. “Promoted already, huh? Wow. Knighthood is amazing.”

“Yeah, my dad’s the king, and I’m the princess, so all we’re missing is a queen!” 

You freeze. Your eyes find Steve’s for one charged second before you look away at the same time. 

 Lily nods along to her plan, completely oblivious to the tension in the room as she plops right down on the kitchen floor to slide her flats on. “Sides, your dress is too fancy to be a knight anyhow.”

Steve’s throat bobs on a swallow, and his gaze holds yours for just a second too long. 

“I agree,” he says, finally. “Queen it is.”

“So, King Steve, huh?” you tease him as you slip your heels back on.

Steve tips his head and chuckles, like there’s more to the story and you don’t know the half of it. You wish you could ask him, talk more with him—but he’s already late as it is. 

So, you let him walk you to the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting that perfect golden glow over everything. 

Steve leans on his doorframe and crosses his arms.  You can’t help but notice the way his brown eyes turn to molten honey in this light. 

A heat gathers low in your stomach. Like butterflies, but heavier, and softer. Something you haven’t felt for a long time. 

He sighs, then looks at the ground. “Listen, I’m really sorry I made you miss your date.”

You shake your head. “Trust me, it’s really okay. Dry texter. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I still feel bad. I know how…difficult the whole dating thing is.”

“Me? I’m sure it’s difficult for you.” Your eyes widen. “Not that Lily makes difficult or anything, just that—”

He holds up a hand to stop you, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” He tilts his head and looks out at the sunset. “It’s…different, I guess. But honestly, I think it just makes you a little more careful. Wait for the right person instead of just…going through the motions. You know?”

As he turns back to you and your eyes connect, you know exactly what he means. 

Ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, you turn towards the steps. “Well, have fun tonight. She looks perfect, and I’m sure—”

“Please,” Steve interrupts, reaching for you but stopping himself just in time. “There’s got to be some way for me to repay you for this. You know, according to medieval rules, you’re not supposed to let a knight leave without a token—”

You wave him off. “No token needed.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little closer, playful but intent. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck. Like, for a really long time.”

He holds your gaze. A mourning dove coos, hidden in the branches of a tree in his yard, and suddenly, you realize arguing with him about this is fruitless. You aren't leaving his front porch without something.

And if you somehow manage to, it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live. If he’s as insistent as you think he is, he’ll leave flowers at your door, or you’ll pull up and find him mowing your lawn…better just to get it over with now. 

“Alright, fine,” you concede with a laugh and a gentle roll of your eyes. “What’s the traditional token for knights, huh? A handkerchief? A free beer—” 

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his. Your stomach flips as he tilts his head in an unspoken challenge.

“What do you say?” he murmurs. “Will you accept?”

You can’t stop the way your eyes drop to his lips. Even if you tried. 

 “I will.”

He casts one hurried glance over his shoulder into the house, but the coast must be clear because when he turns back to you, his eyes simmer with heat. 

Your breath hitches as his arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night to do it. You’re close enough to smell the grass on him from the baseball field, the hairspray in his hair.

His breath caresses your lips, and you feel your eyes slip shut as he leans in. Your noses bump, and you both laugh softly. You’re still smiling when his lips brush yours. 

It’s a hesitant, soft thing. A thank you but in kiss form—genuine and warm. 

But when your fingers find his shirt, and you tilt your chin, inviting a firmer touch, he sighs into your mouth. 

It’s a relieved, desperate sound, as if he hasn’t been touched in ages. Something twinges deep in your chest, and your hand reaches up, threading into his hair and pulling him closer. 

That earns you a deep groan, and when his tongue brushes yours, your ankle buckles in your high heel. 

God, the man can kiss. 

Slow and steady, but hot and needy all at once. It’s so good it makes your head spin. 

“Daddy?” Lilly calls from inside. “I’m ready!”

This kiss breaks, both of you pulling back at the same second. 

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. His hand finds the back of your neck, slipping under your hair, and you swallow hard. You linger there, nose brushing again. Like you’re both barely holding yourselves back from falling into each other again.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, his voice raspy now. And somehow, you know he means for more than just Lily’s hair. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmur breathlessly.

The soft pitter-patter of ballet slippers coming closer finally has you taking a step back. 

His hands slip from you reluctantly as you step down the stairs.

“And if you ever need anything else…” you wink over your shoulder, just to make sure he catches your drift. “Your knight is right next door.”

a/n: listen, my friend was telling me her husband didn't know how to do a ballet bun for their daughter's dance recital, and she hadn't even finished speaking before my fingers were FLYING typing this up in my notes app.

divider by @cursed-carmine | steve masterlist | come yell at me

"what did you do, david?," steve asks so lowly his voice is almost as finely ground as those little pills david handled earlier.

"what?" - david's still playing innocent - "is there a problem?"

steve just tilts his head down a little, to whisper against the side of david's neck, as though his teeth are a gun he's setting a target for. "i think you know very well what i mean."

david's curt hum at the accusation comes out just a little too smug, a little too telling.

really, it's no surprise the dishes end up forgotten, the dining table swiftly cleared, so steve can pin his perverted little son down onto it and fuck him like he wanted. and it's no surprise david loves it so much, either. not when it's so glaringly obvious with how hard he was when steve stripped him for the act, all on his own accord, like just the satisfaction of feeling steve's stiff cock against the small of his back earlier had already made his twitch.

"don't do that again," steve groans right up to david's ear when they're done.

You’d been his babysitter for a few months, watching over little junior on the occasional evenings Mr. Harrington (Steve? You still weren’t sure what to call him) went out. Most times the routine was the same, you’d be paid for the full four hours he’d hired you for, but he’d never last longer than two. It seemed rude to pry but, eventually, the ice was broken. One of those rare nights you’d actually gotten junior to bed before Mr. Harrington’s arrival, he came in and promptly opened a can of beer while counting out the bills to hand you. And then he sighed, and said it hadn’t gone well. You’d nodded, scrunched your mouth up in a look of friendly pity. It hadn’t been so clear what the right thing to say was, so you’d lingered just a little longer than usual, sitting in the heavy silence.

So you were shocked on the late November evening that Mr. Harrington remained out far past the time you’d put junior to bed, leaving you almost dozing as you watched Seinfeld reruns on his couch. When the clock read eleven, you muttered an impressed “go Mr Harrington,” thinking the date must’ve gone well. There was a gnawing in your gut, one that you wished would go away. But you could never get out of your head those threads of memory that stirred something inside you. The heat of his hand when it brushed yours to hand you cash, the mole on that slip of skin you could see when he lifted his arms to stretch, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke to his son… All your friends teased you for having a crush on the guy you babysat for to make some extra cash. And while it was probably pathetic and ridiculous, you didn’t want to give it up.

Sometime around midnight the door clattered open. You pursed your mouth, prepared to wolf whistle at his apparent success, but the light mood was broken when your gaze landed on him. His eyes were downcast and there was no joy on his face. His entrance to the living room was accompanied by the wafting smell of alcohol. Not his usual cheap beer, the smell of liquor, maybe whiskey? You stood, taking a step to meet him.

“Mr. Harrington, are you alright?”

“Steve.” He gritted, rubbing his eyes with a heavy hand.

“Right, er, Steve…” it felt intrusive to repeat the question, but he’d leaned onto the island between the living room and kitchen, his back facing you. “It’s late?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, I’ll pay you more than usual.”

“No, it isn’t that.” He hadn’t moved, so you took a few steps closer, not quite close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just realizing I’m probably going to screw up every date I ever go on,” he straightened up, meeting you with a sarcastic nod, “but yeah, totally okay.”

You blinked at him. You’d heard sarcasm from him before but never meanness.

He deflated, all the air in his chest leaving him in a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, y/n, I’m being a dick.” He shook his head at himself, walking around to the other side of the island, toward the fridge. “Do you want a beer?”

“Sure.” You placed your palms on the island. Most nights you’d say no, knowing that he was only asking to be polite as he got one of his own. That night, a deep sadness exuded from him. And maybe he needed a friend, you thought. You were halfway through the can before you decided to break the silence. “What happened?”

He shrugged, exasperated. “The same thing as always.”

“So, she didn’t like you?” You asked, hoping to rip through the pain as easily as one could, like a band-aid.

He quirked an eyebrow at you. “No. She liked me.”

“Oh.” You took a sip of beer. “You didn’t like her?”

“No, she was fine.” He approached the fridge. “Real pretty, and smart.”

He placed another beer next to you before cracking his own, despite you having more than a third of the first one left.

“Well, what, then? Did something happen?” He’d clearly been out much later and been either at someone’s home or a bar. “Was the sex bad?"

He choked on his beer, looked at you wide-eyed. Then, slowly, “You think I’m having sex with all these women?”

You shrugged, nodded your head. Didn’t feel right to add that you thought he only got that far sometimes.

“Well, as much as that flatters me, no. I’m not.”

“Why not?” He was hot, relatively well off, and funny. It made no sense why he’d struggle making it with the ladies. He wasn’t even really that old—only thirty-six.

“Well,” he turned to you, his face animated as though he had so much to say, but then stopped. Stopped so abruptly that his mouth hung slightly open. “Well, I don’t know.”

“Is it because you can’t bring them here?”

“Of course not. They usually want to have a nightcap at their house. Or a hotel.”

“And you say… no?” He was really starting to confuse you.

“Well, yeah, I just tell them I have to get back because the babysitter has to go home.”

“But I never have to go home. I could do overnights, if that helps. I’m sorry if you’ve been afraid to ask me.” Your words came out too fast.

“I know. No, I-“ he sighed again, leaned an arm against the counter and the other hand on his hip. “It’s an excuse.”

“Thanks for this.” You were opening your second beer. “Why don’t you want to sleep with them?”

“They’re just, I don’t know, I used to have no problem but since I’ve had to have a sitter for junior it just…” he made a waving gesture, “complicates things.”

The way his eyes looked slightly up at you from under his brow—something was different. You felt like his eyes were seeing way more of you than usual. A prickling heat rose up your neck, between your thighs. It couldn’t be that he… “I don’t understand.”

“Ah fuck, nevermind, y/n, I’m s—I’m sorry I let myself unload on you like that I’m just having a rough night. Thanks for getting junior to bed.” He leaned back against the counter and was looking worse for wear. Tired, and you could tell these beers were closer to his last than his first.

You felt the absence of his penetrating gaze so fully that you reached out. Placed a hand on his arm.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, face gone pale. And then he took off toward the bathroom to unload the night’s debauchery. You followed with a cup of water. He was on the cream tiled floor, flushing just as you approached. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t done this in years. You should go home.”

Instead you sat down on the closed toilet lid, extended the glass to him. “I put junior to bed, I can put you to bed, too, Mr. Ha— Steve.” He groaned, leaning his head on the lip of the pedestal sink.

He protested but let you follow him to his room. It was messier than you’d expected. The rest of the house was always pretty tidy but he had clothes strewn about and on the floor. It was a bad idea, you knew. You were stepping into the bedroom of your employer that you had the major hots for. But he was letting you, and seemed maybe like he was looking for the same thing. As you stared in wonder at the room you’d never let yourself peek into, Steve plopped onto his bed.

“Is that how you sleep?” You asked.

“Huh?” He looked down at himself. Then back up at you. “No.”

This was a turning point. You could turn back. It was probably the last chance before you ran the risk of losing your weekend gig with the sweetest kid and his sweetest dad and the best pay. But the beer was warm in your belly, and you didn’t drink often, which made your brain feel all the more beautiful and fuzzy when you did.

“You should get comfortable.”

Slowly and with a frown, as if he expected at any moment you would yell at him to stop, he pulled off his sweater and the t-shirt below it at once. He was fit, as though he’d once been really lean but had gained an extra covering of flesh. It was nice. And his chest was harrier than you’d expected—very 70s. Then he dropped and kicked away the jeans he’d been wearing, leaving him in his boxers. You nodded at the bed, and he climbed under the comforter. A weight lingered in your gut, heavy mass of all the fear your body wanted you to feel. But your mind was so light and happy, and you wanted to, so you stepped forward, dropped your own jeans to the ground, and climbed into the bed next to him. Clad in the huge t-shirt you’d worn, you were still hidden from sight but the message you’d given was very, very clear: you can do me now, Mr. Harrington.

One hand rested over his eyes as you laid side by side, both facing the white ceiling above.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t sleep with your dates.”

He groaned, moved his hand and turned onto his side to look at you. His sleepy gaze pinned you where you were, only your face turned to look at him. Touch me, touch me, touch me, your skin screamed.

“I can’t sleep with them. I can’t when I know I’m coming home to you.”

“Steve.” You reached up a hand, brushed one finger along his bottom lip. His eyes closed at the contact. You moved your hand down, dipping below the covers, and found his hardness there, straining against the fabric of his boxers. He sucked in a breath.

“Y/n, don’t… you don’t have to—“

“Jesus, shut up Steve.” His eyes went wide. You’d never spoken to him like that. Of course you hadn’t, you were his babysitter. “I want to.”

His eyes searched as you turned toward him, letting your hand press into him while the other found his chest. You could feel the whorls of hair there, softer than you’d have expected. His cock, on the other hand, was so hard and so hot. He ground into your hand at the contact, and then lost whatever composure he must’ve been maintaining even while drunk.

“Fuck, I want you.” His hand were like fire trailing down your waist, catching on you like tinder, grabbing tight. And then they climbed up, grasping your tits. He groaned, brows raised and looked at you in surprise at the lack of barrier. As if he hadn’t ever noticed that you never wore a bra to babysit at the Harrington’s, when you knew damn well he had. Your t-shirt was a pile on the floor seconds later, and his hands splayed on your back, holding your chest to his face. He was so involved with them that he didn’t seem to notice when he sucked just hard enough to elicit your mewling. He held tight as his tongue flicked against the hard point of your nipple. “So soft.”

And then he was trailing down the plane of your stomach below the comforter, toward the part of you that was pressed now between your thighs in anticipation of the pleasure. And then he stilled and stopped. And started to laugh.

“Steve, what’s going on?” You whined. Oh god, your stomach dropped, what was so ugly that he was laughing?

“Well, I’m kind of concerned. You know it isn’t Monday, right?” He poked his head out from below the covers, looking smug.

“Oh god.” You plopped your hands over your face. You’d stupidly thought it was safe to wear a not-cute pair of panties today, opting for the clean “Monday” pair, which was white with green flowers printed on it.

“No, I like it.” He tucked a finger under the elastic, ran it between the edge and your skin. “It’s cute.”

You wanted to protest, but then his face was pressed to the white and green cotton, hard. He breathed deeply, sucking in the smell of you and providing enough pressure to bring you right back to attention.

“You smell so good.” He crooned, and started to tug the garment off you.

“Steve I’m, er, I didn’t shave.” You said, voice small.

He poked back out, flashing a grin. “That’s great, I love bush.” And winked. Jesus, what an idiot.

Your legs were gently, fuck, so gently, spread, and there was a moment free of sensation. Desire stirred at your core. He was looking right at it.

“So beautiful.” His voice made a sound escape your throat. A finger ran over your slit. “And so wet.”

His mouth was insane. He kissed your cunt up and down with a reverence you would have imagined to be reserved for spiritual practices. He breathed you in, each time with a groan, placing kisses on your thighs and folds until you thought you were going to burst. And then, just a moment before you would’ve begun to beg for it, he ran his tongue lightly over your clit, and your legs spasmed in response.

You reached above your head to grasp the wooden headboard and screwed your eyes shut as Steve responded to your movements. He was so in tune with your cries, kept steady when you squirmed, moved on when you’d gone more quiet. There was a building pressure coiling in your pelvis somewhere, tightening with every minute that he languorously stroked at the point of sensation in you. Your panting intensified as the coil neared the point of snapping. And then you heard Steve fucking Harrington’s ridiculous moan, and it all let go. All of the pent up pleasure released like a flood through your every limb. You thrust your hips forward, chasing the orgasm for as long as the wave would carry you. And when it was over, you lay in its wake, panting still.

You were distantly aware of Steve standing up, putting on some music.

“I doubt we’ll wake him, but I’d rather not scar the kid for life.” He said, appearing next to you in bed. He was propped on one arm, smiling down at you, when you opened your eyes to get a glance of him. “Hey, beautiful.” His lips were slightly more red than usual.

“It lasted forever. That was the longest orgasm I’ve ever had.” You said, giggling, still in awe over it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

He grinned down at you, lowering his eyes to your lips as he began singing in a half-whisper to Love my Way by The Psychedelic Furs.

“I love this song.”

His singing became a hum when his lips found the soft planes of your jaw, your neck, the line of your clavicle. His wonderful hair fell forward, brushing like butterfly kisses on your skin.

You lick the mess clean when there's nothing left but the little wooden stick and when you're done, you make your way to the pool, hips swaying with each step. You dip into the water and wade leisurely while the kids tire themselves out, patiently counting down the minutes until the man peering at you finally cracks. It doesn't take Steve much longer to appear downstairs, standing at the entryway with his hands on his hips. "Alright, get inside, get changed and get started on your homework", he calls out to the kids, brushing off their protests and grumbling with a firm look that told them there would be no negotiating. "The grown ups need to have a little talk", he adds, eyes landing on you in a quiet warning. You exit the pool once the kids trudge inside and race to their rooms, readjusting your suit to hike it up your hips and let more of your ass show through the cuts. "Is there a problem, Mr. Harrington?", you blink up at him sweetly, knowing it would work him up even more. He looks conflicted. Like he's restraining himself, scanning your wet body, following the droplets trailing between your cleavage, eyeing the suit clinging to you like a second skin.

"Pool house. Now", he lets out in a low growl.

Your back is to the wall as soon as you're inside and the door's shut. Steve corners you there, one of his palms planted on the wall by your head and the other sliding down your waist. "Little tight on you, don't you think?" he observed. It was. You'd purposely gone a size down to make sure it hugged you perfectly. "You think so? I hadn't noticed", you countered playfully, content on playing dumb a little longer.

He sighs, "last night wasn't enough? need more already?", you shy away from his gaze at the mention of that, focusing on his belt which you wanted to undo instead. Maybe you were being a little greedy but you couldn't help it. The sneaking around was exhilarating and the sex was nothing short of addictive. "First you snuck into my shower last night and begged me to fuck you before I took you home", he reminded as your cheeks warmed. "Then I come back home after a long day at work, hoping to relax and this is how I find you", slipping a finger under your suit above your hip and pulling the damp material until it snaps back against your skin.

"And that bit with the popsicle? not very subtle was it, honey?"

A shiver runs through you, full of anticipation because you know he's not really annoyed. He's not anywhere near fed up because you know this is his way of trying to keep it together. Trying to subdue how badly he wants to fuck you stupid all the time without having to worry about people finding out. "It's hot out today... I was only trying to cool down", you cover meekly.

He scoffs, "bad liar too, huh?"

You pout, feigning a wounded look.

"Well you've got my attention now", he lets up, pulling the strip of material between your legs aside to expose your pussy and swipe his fingers through your slick folds.

"Tell me what you want"

You give in instantly, uncaring of how desperate it might seem because right now, that's exactly how you feel.

"Need you to fuck me, Steve", you clutch at the front of his shirt, tugging him down until his lips are ghosting over yours. The hand at your waist slips down to squeeze your ass, his stubble scratching lightly against your chin as he licks over your bottom lip, still sweet with strawberry.

"We don't have much time" he circles your clit, watching you closely as you mewl and squirm under him.

"Gonna have to be quick".

You knew what that meant. With Steve you learned that 'quick' really meant hard.

"Turn around" he commanded and you pressed yourself against the wall, arching your back and popping your ass out for him as he undid his belt. He rubs his bare cock over your ass a few times, the cherry red swim suit still wet and soft enough for him to glide it over with ease.