#eric love

The dinner rush was finally over, leaving the restaurant in a state of sticky, exhausted quiet.

Every table had been wiped down, every chair flipped onto its surface, but the air still smelled of sauteed onions and the lingering ghost of a thousand customers.

Your shift had been a disaster from the start. You’d fumbled a tray of drinks, gotten an order wrong that sent the kitchen into a tailspin—which pissed everyone off, and spent the last six hours feeling like you had two left feet and a head full of cotton, and you didn’t know why.

The tight black material of your uniform dress felt like a cage, and the tights underneath were suffocating. You needed something to break the tension, a hard reset to jolt you out of your own head.

You needed Remmick.

You hesitated outside the office door, a flimsy piece of plywood with a frosted-glass window etched with “R. O’CONNOR – OWNER.” Remmick was the only one left. Taking a deep breath, you knocked softly.

“Yeah,” his voice called out, a low, gravelly rumble with the honeyed drawl of the South.

You pulled the door open. He was sitting back in his worn desk chair, boots propped up on a stack of invoices as if he were waiting for you. He had shed his apron for the day, leaving him in a white tee, black pants, and his work boots. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the curvature glowing a faint orange in the dim lamplight. He didn’t look surprised to see you. He just took a long drag and blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

“Close the door,” he said, voice even.

You did, the click of the latch echoing in the small room. You stood there, wringing your hands, the words catching in your throat. “I… I messed up today. Bad.”

He hummed, a low sound in his chest. He took the cigarette from his lips and studied you, his cobalt eyes dark and unreadable.

“I noticed. You were all thumbs out there. Looked like a scared little rabbit in a den of foxes.” He gestured with the hand holding the cigarette towards the space beside him. “C’mere.”

Your feet moved before your brain could protest. You went around his desk and stopped a few feet from his chair.

“Closer,” he commanded softly as he turned to you, bringing his feet flat onto the floor. “On your knees.”

A shiver, hot and sharp, went down your spine. This was it. This was the distraction you’d been craving, the punishment you felt you deserved.

Without a word, you sank to your knees on the scuffed linoleum floor and sat back on your haunches, eye level with his lap. The position was instantly grounding, the hard surface a stark reminder of your place.

“Good girl,” he murmured. The praise sent a jolt straight to your core. “Now, you’ve been a real disappointment today. Cost me time, cost me money. A useless little thing, aren’t you?”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to yours. The smell of smoke and his own scent filled your senses.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Yes, what?” he prompted, tone sharp.

“Yes, sir.”

“Better.” He sat back again, a slow smile spreading across his face. He took another drag of his cigarette. “But even useless things have their purpose. Lift your dress. Let me see those thighs.”

Your hands trembled as you reached for the hem of your uniform. You bunched the black fabric up, folding it neatly until it rested on your hips, exposing the sheer black tights that hugged your legs.

“All the way up,” he instructed around the cigarette. “And roll those tights down. Past your knees.”

Your fingers fumbled with the tight waistband of the tights, hooking into it and peeling the tighter material down your legs. You rolled them carefully, creating thick rings of nylon that settled just below your knees.

The cool air of the office kissed your now-bare thighs, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. You were exposed, vulnerable, and the feeling was intoxicating.

Remmick watched your every move, his gaze heavy and possessive. He took one last, long pull from his cigarette, then held it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on your exposed flesh.

“Hands behind your back and hold still,” he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

As you placed your hands behind your back, he brought the glowing tip of the cigarette close to your thigh and, with a practiced flick of his wrist, tapped the ash. It landed in a soft, warm sprinkle on your skin. The heat was fleeting, a tiny spark that made you gasp.

“There we go,” he cooed. “That’s a good place for the mess you made. You’re just a little ashtray for me, hm?”

He repeated the action, tapping more ash onto your thighs, never aiming for the same spot. Each tiny spark was a point of focus, pulling you deeper into the moment.

“A pretty, clumsy thing on her knees where she belongs. And you’re takin’ it so well. Such a good girl when you stop thinkin’ so damn hard.”

His words washed over you instead of stinging you. They felt like a blanket, muffling the noise in your head.

He was telling you that you were useless, but his voice was so calm, so in control. He was telling you that you were a mess, but he was the one cleaning it up, marking you as his.

The contradiction was a dizzying, delicious spiral. A warm, hazy fog crept up on you slowly and sweetly. Your breath hitched, and a low thrum of arousal began to build deep in your belly.

Remmick’s eyes, sharp and perceptive, didn’t miss the subtle shift in your breathing or the way your thighs seemed to tremble and press together with a new kind of tension.

He let out a low chuckle, a sound that vibrated right through you.

“Well, now,” he drawled. “Looks like somebody’s enjoyin’ their punishment. All that fussin’ and frettin’ all day, and this is what you needed, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He slowly lowered one of his work-worn leather boots, planting it firmly on the floor between your knees, forcing them apart. The worn leather was cool against your heated skin. Then, with deliberate pressure, he slid his foot forward until the laces of his boot pressed against the thin cotton of your panties, right against your cunt.

A choked moan left your lips. The pressure was perfect, a solid, unyielding weight right where you needed it most.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “That’s it. You’re soaked, ain’t you? Drippin' all over my boot like a little bitch in heat. You’ve been such a good little ashtray, I think you’ve earned a reward.”

With a slight tilt, he lifted his foot and firmly pressed his boot against your clit, the rough texture of the laces sending shockwaves through your body. You couldn't stop the shaky whimper that escaped you.

“Go on. Get yourself off on it. Grind that needy little pussy against my boot. Show me how sorry you are for bein’ so dumb today.”

Your hips moved of their own accord, rocking against the firm pressure of Remmick’s boot. The friction was exquisite, a delicious grind that sent sparks shooting up your spine. You felt your body shudder with each grind of your slick cunt, making a mess of your panties and his boot.

Without permission, you braced your hands on Remmick’s calf, your head falling forward, forehead resting against his knee, tendrils of hair slipping out of your ponytail.

Usually, Remmick would punish you for moving without asking, but he only responded with an amused huff, letting you off the hook this time.

The world shrank to this small, dimly lit office, to the smell of smoke, the sound of his voice, and the feel of his boot between your thighs, the quivers that ran through you with every quick roll of your hips. Your jaw fell slack—moans and unintelligible murmurs left your throat as you felt yourself go dumber and dumber each second that passed by.

His voice, a hypnotic tone, encouraged you, “That’s it, girl. Ride it. Work for it. Show me you can do somethin’ right. Such a messy, pathetic little thing, but you look so damn pretty fuckin’ my boot. Look at you, takin’ what I give you. So good. So good for me.”

He took another drag from his cigarette, the fury flaring brightly as your movements grew more frantic, more desperate. You were so close, the coil in your belly wound tight, ready to snap.

You leaned back, head tilted down, placing your palms on the floor behind you. As you felt the first wave of your orgasm crest, you choked out, “M’close!”

Remmick leaned forward, his cigarette snug in the corner of his lips. He took hold of your chin, bringing your focus to him.

“Ask me.”

Your pussy throbbed at the demand.

You licked your lips, about to ask for permission, but you weren’t quick enough for Remmick.

He released your chin and slapped you—swift, sharp, bringing tears to your eyes. Your face turned aside before he seized your chin and forced you to meet his gaze again.

“Ask me,” he ordered again.

A whine rose from the back of your throat as you kept eye contact with the older man.

“Can I—Can I come?” You stuttered out while your half-lidded eyes flickered down to his lap. The rough denim stretched over strong thighs and tented at his crotch. Your hips, which had slowed to a slow roll, twitched at the thought of Remmick getting off to the sight of you.

Your eyes fixed on him again.

“Please?”

With his thumb, he gently traced the shape of your lips as a satisfied grin tugged on his own.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the haze.

And you did.

Your body seized, you let out a strangled whimper as it all washed over you in a cleansing wave. You shuddered against his boot, your thighs clamping around it as the last of your tremors subsided.

You slumped forward with a huff, boneless and spent, leaning into his touch. He guided your head to rest on his thigh. The room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

After a long moment, you felt his hand in your hair, his touch gentle as he stroked your head.

He sits on the floor between your thighs with his back against the couch, knees bent, broad shoulders tucked neatly between your legs as though he belongs there more than he belongs anywhere else. 

The flat is quiet except for the soft buzz of the clippers and the low murmur of some late-night program neither of you has been watching. Outside, the streets are damp from evening rain, orange lamplight smeared across the window glass, but inside everything feels close and warm, full of the smell of shaving foam, your body lotion, and the takeaway cartons still stacked on the coffee table.

Eric had shown up with dinner and clippers in each hand and that tense, stubborn look on his face, pretending he only needed a trim when you both knew it was more than that. 

New job tomorrow. First proper thing he’d had lined up in ages. Warehouse work, early mornings, steel-toe boots, some supervisor who apparently “talked like a prick” but gave him a start date anyway. 

He had shrugged when he told you, like it didn’t matter, like he had not been pacing the kitchen for half an hour before finally admitting he wanted to look decent for it.

“Just don’t make me look like a mug,” he had muttered, dropping down in front of you.

Now, his head tips slightly when your fingers guide his chin. He lets you move him without complaint, which is still something that gets you sometimes, the quiet permission of it. 

Eric Love, all hard edges and restless hands, sitting still because you asked him to. Letting you clean him up. Letting you care.

“You keep moving and I’m gonna nick you,” you say, dragging the comb through the short hair at his crown, nails scraping his scalp just to watch him shiver.

“I ain’t moving.”

“You are.”

His mouth twitches, though he tries to hide it. “You always got somethin’ to say.”

“And you always come to me when you need fixing.”

That shuts him up for a moment. Not in a wounded way, not quite. He just lowers his gaze to where your bare feet rest on either side of his hips, your toes brushing the worn fabric of his joggers. His hands wrap around your ankles slowly, thumbs pressing there with absent affection.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter. “S’ppose I do.”

The clippers go silent when you finish the last pass along the back of his neck. You brush the loose hair away with your fingers, careful, gentle, and he leans back into the touch before he seems to notice himself doing it. 

There’s something almost boyish in the way he accepts the attention, a hunger he tries to disguise as impatience. You know better by now. Eric can take a punch, a threat, a door slammed in his face. Tenderness is what makes him go still.

You set the clippers down and rub your palm over the fresh cut, smiling when he tilts into it like a cat.

“There,” you murmur. “Handsome.”

He scoffs, but it comes out rougher than usual. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Proper cleaned up. Might even fool them into thinking you’re respectable.”

His fingers tighten around your ankles, and when he turns his face, his mouth presses against the inside of your knee. 

It starts as nothing, just a kiss against warm skin, but the pause afterward is too long. His lips move again, slower this time, dragging along the soft place above your knee while his hands slide up your calves. 

You look down at him, and he’s already looking back, eyes dark under the harsh yellow lamp, jaw freshly lined, mouth softened by wanting.

“You gonna keep taking the piss,” he asks, voice low, “or you gonna let me say thank you?”

Your stomach pulls tight. “Depends how you’re saying it.”

Eric turns fully between your legs, pushing the towel off his shoulders so it falls in a heap behind him. The haircut has left tiny dark flecks clinging to the back of his neck and the collar of his shirt. He looks rough and newly made at once, familiar and devastating, his hands sliding higher until his thumbs press into the soft insides of your thighs.

“Like this,” he says.

Then his mouth is on your thigh again, open and hot, kissing his way upward with a patience that does not match the tension in his body. His lips brush the hem of your shorts, and he looks up at you from between your legs with that bruised intensity he gets when he wants too much and does not know how to ask cleanly.

“Eric,” you breathe.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, rough palms kneading your thighs wider. “Been thinking about it all evening, sitting here with your legs ‘round me, acting like I ain’t meant to do nothing about it.”

You lift your hips enough for him to drag your shorts down. He does it quickly but not carelessly, pulling them over your thighs and tossing them somewhere near the coffee table. Your underwear follows, hooked down with two fingers, and the air touches your bare cunt for only a second before Eric is spreading you open with his thumbs, thumbs digging into the slick, puffy lips of your pussy and holding you wide so he can just stare at how wet you already are for him.

The first lick is slow enough to make your breath catch, his thick, flat tongue dragging from your leaking hole all the way up through your folds, collecting every drop of your slick like he’s starving for the taste of you. 

He groans deep in his throat, the sound vibrating right against your cunt as he does it again, messier this time, lapping broad and sloppy, coating his lips and chin in your juices until they’re shiny. His fresh, barely-there stubble scrapes hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, rough enough to sting in the best way while his mouth works you open, tongue pushing inside your tight hole, fucking in and out in slow, filthy strokes that make wet noises fill the room.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, fingers gripping the nape of his neck.

He groans when you tug him closer, the vibration pushing through your throbbing clit. 

His tongue circles it slow and deliberate, then flattens wide, dragging over it again and again while he sucks the swollen nub between his lips, pulling hard enough to make your hips jerk. 

He doesn’t tease for long. Eric has never been graceful with wanting; when he wants something, it comes through in his hands, his mouth, the hard press of his body. He buries his face deeper, nose grinding against your clit while his tongue spears back into your cunt, licking deeper, slurping loudly at the fresh gush of wetness that leaks out around his mouth. 

Your thighs start to shake around his head, slick running down his chin, but he just grips you tighter, fingers bruising into your flesh, holding you open so he can devour every inch of your dripping cunt.

“Look at me,” he rasps against you, mouth shiny, breath hot. “C’mon, look.”

You force your eyes open, and the sight of him nearly undoes you: Eric between your thighs, hair cropped clean by your own hands, face flushed and shining with your slick, eyes fixed on yours while his mouth lowers again. 

He licks you slower once he has your attention, filthy and thorough, tongue sliding over your clit before he sucks it hard again, slurping sounds filling the room beneath the forgotten television. He keeps going like that for what feels like forever, alternating between long, slow drags of his tongue through your folds and sudden, greedy sucks on your clit that have you grinding shamelessly against his face, soaking him even more.

“That’s it,” he mutters, words muffled against your cunt. “Give it here. Let me have it.”

Your whole body is trembling on the edge, cunt clenching and fluttering around nothing, but he suddenly pulls back just enough, mouth hovering, warm breath teasing your soaked pussy while he looks up at you with that dark, wrecked stare. 

His mouth and chin are slick, eyes heavy, chest rising hard beneath his shirt. He looks almost drunk on it, pupils blown wide, a little dazed by your taste. When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, it only smears the mess across his skin.

“You’re foul,” you whisper.

Eric laughs under his breath and rises onto his knees, pushing between your legs until his body crowds yours against the couch. “Yeah? You complaining?”

You pull him down by the front of his shirt and kiss him. 

He comes easily, almost too easily, mouth opening against yours with a groan that has your belly tightening all over again. You taste yourself on him, salt and heat and spit, and he kisses you like he means to press the whole night into your mouth. His hands slide under your top, palms rough over your waist, your ribs, up toward your chest.

Eric’s restraint thins out when your tongue strokes his, when your fingers skim down his stomach and find him already hard and swollen in his joggers. He grunts into your mouth as your palm closes around him through the fabric, hips jerking once, betraying him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Don’t start unless you mean it.”

You smile against his lips. “C’mon, then.”

His hands fumble with his waistband, impatient now, breath coming heavier as he shoves his joggers and boxers down enough to free himself. His cock’s thick and flushed, heavy in his hand, the head glistening with precum. 

No matter how many times you’ve had him, the sight still makes something low in your stomach flutter. He’s obscene in the warm light of your living room, and the way he watches you take him in makes his jaw clench.

“Stop looking at it like that,” he says, voice strained.

You meet his eyes. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to make me lose my head.”

You reach down, wrapping your fingers around him, and his hips press forward before he can stop himself. “Maybe I am.”

He kisses you again, rougher this time, pushing you back into the couch cushions while his cock slides hot and heavy against your thigh, smearing precum across your skin. 

There’s no elegance in the way you shift for each other, only urgency and familiarity, your legs opening wider, his hand guiding his cock through your drenched folds with a sharp inhale, sliding the thick head up and down your slit, bumping your clit until you’re whimpering into his mouth.

“Shit,” he groans, dragging the head of his cock against your clit again and again. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ dripping down my cock already.”

“You did that.”

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a second the hunger softens into something warmer. Pride, maybe. Affection. The aching, wordless thing he tries to hide but keeps handing you anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. 

He pushes in slowly at first, not because he is patient but because he knows he has to be. The stretch steals the breath from you, thick and burning, your fingers curling into his shoulders as he feeds his cock into you inch by thick inch, your slick cunt stretching around his girth until he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed tight against your ass. 

Eric’s forehead drops against yours, his mouth parted, his brows drawn together.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, voice rough with the effort of holding still. “I’ve got you. I know, love, I know.”

The pet name slips out when he is not guarding his mouth, and it makes you clench around him hard.

He curses softly, hips stuttering. “Don’t do that yet.”

“You called me love.”

“Shut up.”

But he’s smiling when he says it, breathless and overwhelmed, and then he kisses you so you can’t tease him any further. 

He starts moving in slow, deep strokes, his cock dragging through you with a heavy fullness that makes every thought blur at the edges, pulling almost all the way out so you feel every veiny inch before slamming back in, wet and loud. 

The couch creaks beneath you, springs complaining under the shift of his weight, but neither of you care. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into him, pulling him closer until his body covers yours completely, sweat already starting to slick between you.

Eric fucks you like he’s trying to stay gentle and failing beautifully. Each thrust grows messier, wetter, his hips snapping harder when your nails scrape down his back, the sound of his balls slapping against your ass filling the room. 

He keeps kissing you through it, mouth finding yours again and again, sometimes missing and catching your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. His breath comes in harsh bursts against your skin, his hands sliding beneath you to grip your hips, holding you steady while he drives into you until your body takes him with slick sounds, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls.

“Gonna go in tomorrow looking all respectable,” you manage, voice shaking. “And no one’s gonna know you were on my couch tonight like this.”

His laugh breaks into a groan. “Don’t.”

“No one’s gonna know I had you between my legs after your haircut.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck as his hips punch deeper, cock hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over. “Mouth on you.”

“You like my mouth.”

“I like all of you.”

It comes out too quick to be planned—too honest to take back.

The room seems to quiet around it, even with his cock still buried inside you, even with the wet slap of his hips and your breath catching in your throat. 

Eric lifts his head, and there it is again, that naked look he hates giving anyone. The one that says he has already imagined something past tonight and tomorrow morning and the job he is terrified of ruining.

You touch his cheek, thumb sliding over the damp shine near his mouth. “Yeah?”

His pace slows, not stopping, just turning deeper, grinding his cock into you in slow, filthy circles that make your toes curl. “Yeah.”

“Even when I’m bossing you about?”

“Especially then.”

“Even when I cut your hair uneven?”

“It’s not uneven.”

You tilt you head, studying him. “It might be.”

“I’d still let you do it again.”

Your chest warms painfully, and he sees it. Eric notices more than he admits, stores tenderness away like contraband. His mouth lowers to yours, softer now, though his hips keep working you open with steady, pounding pressure, cock dragging against every sensitive inch inside you.

“I’m gonna do it right,” he says against your lips. “This job. I’m gonna keep it.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

His jaw flexes, and for a moment he looks almost angry with how badly he wants to believe you. “Could get a better place eventually. Not massive or nothing. Just somewhere decent. Somewhere you ain’t got to listen to pipes banging all night.”

“With room for your clippers?”

“With room for your mouthy self to cut my hair and chat shit while you do it.”

You laugh, but it breaks into a moan when he angles his hips and hits deeper, cock slamming into that spot that makes sparks burst behind your eyes. 

Eric’s hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit with wet, clumsy pressure. He rubs you in tight circles while he fucks you harder now, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on your face as your pleasure climbs again, your cunt squeezing his cock like it never wants to let him go.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Come on.”

You cling to him as it builds, your body tightening around the relentless drag of him, the couch shifting beneath you both. 

He keeps talking to you in that low, broken voice, half filth and half devotion, telling you how good your cunt feels gripping him, how he’s got you, how he’ll look after you. 

The words blur together until you’re coming hard around him, hips trembling, mouth open against his while the pleasure pulls through you in deep, helpless waves, your pussy pulsing and gushing around his cock.

Eric follows soon after, thrusts turning ragged, his whole body tensing over yours. He groans your name into your neck as he comes, cock pulsing inside you, flooding you with thick spurts while his hands grip you like you’re the only solid thing in the room. 

For a while afterward, neither of you moves. His weight settles careful. Your fingers drift over the back of his fresh haircut, feeling the neat shape of it beneath your palm.

“You’ll be alright tomorrow,” you whisper.

He kisses your shoulder, then the side of your throat. “Yeah.”

“And when you come home, I’ll fix anything that got messed up.”

His mouth curves against your skin. “Hair or me?”

“Both.”

Eric goes quiet at that. Then his arms tighten around you, and he breathes out slowly, all the fight leaving him for a moment.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Both sounds good.”