The day on set moves in its usual chaotic rhythm. Cameras whir, crew members shout directions, and Johnny moves through it all with that unshakable energy that draws everyone’s attention. You stick close, pretending to help with props or handing him water, but really, you’re watching his hands, how they grip the pole before a stunt, the way he adjusts his gloves, the casual flick of a wrist as he jokes with someone.

Every small touch sets your nerves alight. When he laughs and slaps your hand lightly in a playful reprimand for holding a prop wrong, you can feel the heat pooling low in your stomach. You bite your lip to keep from reacting too obviously, but it’s hard when every motion, every glance from him, seems to tease something deeper inside you.

During a break, he sits beside you on a crate, stretching his legs out lazily. You can’t resist letting your eyes linger on his hands as they rest on his knees, fingers curling slightly. He notices, of course. Johnny always notices.

“You like looking at these, don’t you?” he asks softly, tilting his hand so you can see the knuckles and scars more clearly. The teasing in his tone makes your pulse quicken.

“I… maybe,” you whisper, trying to sound casual but failing.

He grins, leaning closer, letting his hand hover near yours, just close enough to make your skin tingle. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, and you can feel it—not just the thrill of his proximity, but the slow, simmering heat that builds whenever his hands are near yours.

As the crew calls everyone back to set, he grabs your hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in your mind like fire. All day, you catch yourself sneaking glances, imagining those strong, familiar hands tracing over you when no one is looking.

By the end of the shoot, your thoughts are entirely consumed by him. His hands. How they move, how they feel, and the way he seems to know exactly how much to tease without crossing the line—except in your imagination, where the line doesn’t exist.

You catch him watching you as you walk back to the trailer. His eyes glint with mischief, and you know he’s already aware of the effect he has on you. A small, private thrill rushes through you at the thought. One day soon, you’re pretty sure he’ll do more than just tease. And just the idea makes your pulse race as you picture what might happen when those hands finally get your full attention.

The next morning you’re back on set, and it’s the same chaos you’ve come to expect—props scattered, cameras being adjusted, everyone buzzing with energy. Johnny’s already in the middle of it all, cracking jokes, hyping everyone up, that familiar reckless smile plastered across his face.

You try to focus on the stunt board in your hands, but your eyes betray you the second you see him pulling on his gloves. The leather creaks under the strength of his grip, and the veins along his forearms stand out as he flexes his hands, stretching them before another wild idea takes shape.

You swallow hard.

Johnny catches you. Of course he does. His dark sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re not even pretending to hide it anymore,” he calls out, loud enough for a couple of crew members to glance over in confusion.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face in the clipboard.

He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes everyone else around him grin, but his attention doesn’t leave you. As the crew disperses to set up the next shot, Johnny wanders over, leaning his weight on the crate beside you.

“You know, most girlfriends stare at their boyfriend’s ass or chest,” he teases. He holds his hands out deliberately, wiggling his fingers in front of your face. “But not you. You’ve got a thing for these beat-up paws, huh?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your pulse betrays you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re busted.” His voice drops lower, just for you, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I swear, every time I catch you looking, it makes me wanna—” He cuts himself off, grin widening. “Well. Maybe I shouldn’t finish that sentence out here.”

Your stomach knots at the way he says it, casual but heavy with suggestion.

The day moves on, but Johnny doesn’t let it drop. Every chance he gets, he teases you with those hands. Passing you a bottle of water, he lets his fingers graze over yours a beat too long. During a break, he stretches, making a show of cracking his knuckles. When you hand him a helmet, he deliberately brushes his thumb across your palm as he takes it.

By the time the last stunt wraps, you’re wound tight with tension.

Later, when the crew clears out for the evening, you find yourself lingering in the quiet. Johnny is leaning against the hood of a beat-up production van, his hands shoved in his pockets, hair messy, sunglasses gone now that the sun’s dipped lower. He looks relaxed, but you know better—he’s waiting.

“You gonna come over here, or you gonna keep pretending you don’t want to?” he asks, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. He smirks as you step closer, until you’re standing between his knees. His hands slip free from his pockets, and your breath catches automatically.

“God, you’re predictable,” he says, watching the way your gaze drops instantly. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Say it.”

Your voice shakes. “I like your hands.”

His grin is wicked. “I know you do.” He trails the back of his knuckles slowly down your cheek, and the simple touch is enough to make your knees wobble. “You’ve been staring at them like they’re the only thing holding you together.”

You bite your lip, your breath quickening as his fingers trace your jaw, feather-light, before brushing down the side of your neck.

“Maybe I should put them to better use,” Johnny murmurs.

The words hang between you, thick with promise. His hand slips behind your neck, tugging you closer until your foreheads touch. You can feel the warmth of his breath, the slow drag of his thumb across your pulse point, the tension strung so tight it feels like a wire about to snap.

And just before he kisses you, he pulls back with that infuriating grin. “But not out here. Gotta give the crew something to wonder about.”

He lets go, slipping his hand back into his pocket as he walks off toward the trailer, leaving you breathless, buzzing, and already imagining what’s going to happen when he finally stops teasing and gives you exactly what you’ve been craving.

By the time you make it back to the trailer, your chest is tight with anticipation. Johnny has that effect on you—leaving you wound up, flustered, desperate, but still laughing through it all. It’s infuriating, and addictive.

The trailer door creaks open, and you step inside, the faint scent of cigarettes and leather lingering in the air. Johnny’s already there, sprawled across the couch like he owns the world. He glances up from whatever he’s fiddling with, that slow grin spreading across his face when he sees you.

“Knew you’d follow me,” he drawls. His voice is lazy, cocky, but the spark in his eyes says he’s been waiting.

You shut the door behind you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

Johnny pats the spot beside him. “Come here, darlin’.”

You move toward him, but before you can sit, his hand shoots out and catches your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful, and the simple feel of his fingers curling around you makes your breath stutter. He watches your reaction with that same mischievous glint.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, tugging you closer until you’re standing between his knees. His thumb brushes lazily against the inside of your wrist, dragging across your skin like he’s testing how far he can push. “You’re shaking already. Just from this?”

You swallow hard. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.” He chuckles, low and warm. “You’ve been eye-fucking my hands for weeks, and now you can’t even stand still when I touch you. You’re so easy, baby.”

Your cheeks burn, but the heat in your stomach only coils tighter.

Johnny leans back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands settle on your hips, heavy and commanding. You bite your lip as his fingers dig in, dragging you closer against him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “All this over a pair of busted knuckles and calluses.” He lifts one hand, holding it up between you like evidence. The skin is rough, a faint scar cutting across his index knuckle, veins rising as he flexes. “This what you’ve been drooling over?”

Your eyes lock on it before you can stop yourself, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. You’re hopeless.”

But instead of teasing more, he presses that same hand to your cheek. The contrast of rough skin against soft makes your whole body tremble. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, tugging it down just slightly.

“Open.”

The command is soft, but you obey instantly. His thumb slips past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and your eyes flutter shut as the taste of salt and skin fills your mouth. You suck gently without even thinking, and the groan that rumbles from Johnny’s chest makes your thighs clench around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s what you want, huh? You wanna suck on my fingers like a good little slut?”

You nod, cheeks heating, your lips wrapped tighter around his thumb. His grin is wicked, approving. He slides another finger into your mouth, stretching your lips around them both, and you moan at the sensation.

“That’s it,” he says, voice roughening. “Look at you. So fucking needy for my hands.”

His other hand slides down your spine, pressing you firmly against his lap. You can feel him hard beneath you, the heat radiating through his jeans. Every shift of his fingers in your mouth, every subtle scrape of calloused skin against your tongue, only makes the ache between your legs sharper.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, a strand of saliva connects them to your lips. He smears it across your cheek with a grin. “Messy girl.”

You can barely catch your breath before his hand closes around your throat. Not tight—just enough to hold, to remind you who’s in control. His thumb rests against your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispers, leaning in close. “Every time I touched you, every time I passed you something on set. You were practically shaking with it. I’ve been dying to see you like this.”

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond. The kiss is rough, hungry, all teeth and tongue, his hands framing your face, holding you still like you’re something precious and breakable. Your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate to anchor yourself.

Then those hands are everywhere—on your jaw, sliding down your throat, gripping your waist, sneaking under your shirt. Each touch is deliberate, worshipful in its own filthy way, and you can’t decide if you want to melt or explode.

“Take this off,” he growls, tugging at your shirt. You yank it over your head, and his palms are instantly on your bare skin, dragging over your ribs, cupping your breasts through your bra. His thumbs flick against your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth.

“God, I love how responsive you are,” he mutters. “I barely touch you, and you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod breathlessly, grinding down against him.

“Prove it.”

Before you can ask how, his hand is between your thighs, palming you through your jeans. The pressure makes you whimper, and Johnny smirks. “Thought so.”

His fingers make quick work of your button and zipper, sliding into your waistband. You arch into his touch, desperate, as he drags his rough fingertips over your panties. The friction is unbearable, perfect.

“Johnny—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me take care of you.”

His hand slips inside, finally pressing against your wet heat. You moan, clinging to his shoulders as he teases you, circling your clit with maddening precision. His fingers are so much bigger than yours, thicker, stronger, and every stroke feels like it’s pulling you apart piece by piece.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your ear. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for. My hands all over you, exactly where you need them.”

When he slides two fingers inside, the stretch makes you cry out. He groans at the sound, pumping them steadily, curling just right to make your whole body tremble. His palm grinds against your clit with every thrust, and you can’t hold back the shameless moans spilling from your lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “You’re gripping me so tight. Bet I could make you come just like this, huh? Just from my fingers.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes—please, Johnny—don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His pace quickens, the wet sounds filling the trailer as he fucks you with his hand. He keeps his eyes locked on your face, watching every reaction like it’s the best show he’s ever seen.

“That’s it, darlin’. Take it. Take my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.”

The filthy words make your walls clamp down harder, and you’re spiraling, your body strung so tight it’s about to snap. His thumb circles your clit with ruthless precision, and you break—crying out his name as you come, shaking around his fingers.

Johnny growls, dragging it out, fucking you through it until you collapse against his chest, panting and trembling.

He pulls his hand free slowly, deliberately, and holds it up between you. His fingers glisten with your release, and his grin is feral.

“Look at that,” he says. “All from these hands you’re so obsessed with.”

Before you can recover, he pushes those same slick fingers into your mouth. Your eyes roll back as you taste yourself, sucking greedily. Johnny watches, groaning low in his throat.

“Fuck, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

When he finally pulls his hand away, he cups your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His kiss is softer this time, almost reverent, but his words are anything but.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “These hands? They’ll ruin you if you let me.”

Working at a bookstore wasn’t usually thrilling.

Until Johnny Knoxville walked in.

You knew he was coming, obviously—the staff had spent a week prepping for the Q&A and signing event tied to the release of his memoir, Broken, Bruised, and Loving It. But no amount of emails or floor plans or advance copies could prepare you for the real thing: 6 feet of chaos, swagger, and bruised-up charisma in a denim jacket and chipped sunglasses.

He entered like he owned the joint, and maybe in a way he did—half the crowd here tonight was buzzing for him. You watched from the staff counter, silently reciting all the ways you were not going to lose your cool. You weren’t going to fangirl. You weren’t going to blush. You definitely weren’t going to tell him that you used to rewind the “rocket sled” scene like it was your favorite film.

Then he looked right at you.

“Hey,” he called out, pointing from across the room like he recognized you from a dream or a mugshot. “You look like you’ve seen someone fly into a tree before.”

You froze, halfway between setting out bookmarks and forgetting how to breathe. “I, uh… maybe once or twice.”

He smirked and kept walking, but your hands shook for five minutes after.

⸻

The Q&A was chaos in a can. Knoxville told stories like a drunk uncle on a roll—animated, inappropriate, wildly entertaining. He balanced on the edge of a display table, flirted with elderly fans, and mimed multiple stunts with what looked like real trauma in his eyes. The crowd was in love.

So were you, kind of.

Not in the poster-on-your-wall way you’d been in high school. This was worse. This was adult-level infatuation—the kind that came with deeper tension, heavier curiosity, and the unbearable awareness of his mouth when he licked his lips after laughing.

And worse? He kept glancing at you.

Not just once. Repeatedly. Like you were the only calm thing in the whole damn room and he couldn’t stop circling back to it.

⸻

After the signing ended and most people had filtered out, Knoxville lingered behind, sipping from a bottle of water and flipping through a poetry book someone had gifted him.

“Hey,” he said again, sidling up to the register where you were half-cleaning, half-hiding. “You a fan or just immune to weirdness by now?”

You looked up, pulse spiking. “I grew up on your stuff. The old DVDs. The MTV reruns. I watched Jackass 3D in the theater like three times.”

He grinned. “So you’re telling me I was part of your sexual awakening?”

You nearly dropped the pen in your hand. “I—no—what? That’s not—”

“I’m just messin’ with you.” He leaned on the counter, smile wicked but eyes sincere. “Mostly.”

You swallowed. “You want me to get someone to box up the extra copies for you?”

“Nah. I came over to talk to you.”

That pulled your gaze up.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” he said easily, no accusation, just fact. “But not like the others. You weren’t waiting for a selfie. You weren’t screaming. You were just… there. Calm. Cool. Smart.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “You got all that from how I arranged a stack of books?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had enough concussions to develop weird instincts.”

A beat passed. You watched each other.

Then he asked, gently, “You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m asking if it’d be wildly inappropriate to ask you out while I’m technically on a book tour.”

Your heart thudded. “Not inappropriate. Just… unexpected.”

He leaned in, voice a little lower. “You’ve got this whole… sweet and dangerous vibe. Like you’d blush if I said something filthy but you’d remember it word for word.”

You were absolutely blushing.

He grinned. “See?”

You hesitated, then blurted, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Worked in a bookstore?” he teased.

“No.” Your voice was soft now. “Like… this. The flirting. The being noticed. The maybe saying yes.”

His teasing eased off instantly. “Shit. You serious?”

You nodded.

He straightened, less wolfish now, more curious. “Okay. Alright. So you’ve been flying under the radar and I’m your first close call?”

Something in his voice made the hair on your arms rise. You felt exposed but not unsafe. Nervous, but not panicked.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he added. “Not tonight. Not unless you want it. I just… don’t meet people like you often.”

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe you should ask.”

His eyes lit up.

“Would you,” he said carefully, “like to grab a drink with me? Somewhere quiet. Somewhere you can still say no to anything you want, but maybe… maybe yes, too?”

Your lips parted, a smile creeping in despite the racing in your chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I would.”

⸻

Johnny picked the dive bar like he’d been born in it.

It was tucked three blocks down from the bookstore, half-lit and humming with the low murmur of locals nursing drinks. No cameras. No screaming fans. Just a jukebox, a dartboard, and a worn booth in the back that looked like it had survived a few bad decisions.

You slid into the seat across from him, pulse still high.

“Alright,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Now that we’re off the clock, you can tell me what it’s like working at a bookstore full of dusty hardbacks and horny college kids.”

You laughed. “Mostly quiet. A little chaotic during finals. Occasionally I have to stop someone from reading smut aloud in the corner.”

His eyes lit up. “Wait—people do that?”

“More than you’d think.”

“I knew bookstores were kinky,” he said, grinning wide. “Something about all those dog-eared pages and unspoken tension.”

You sipped your drink, raising a brow. “Is that your professional analysis?”

“Babe, I’ve been launched into the air in a porta-potty. I majored in unspoken tension.”

You smiled, but your fingers were still trembling slightly around your glass. It wasn’t nerves exactly—it was that awful, wonderful feeling of anticipation. Like your body already knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Johnny noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, all the playfulness gone soft around the edges.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

“Tell me what’s in your head. I got time.”

You paused. “I guess I’m trying to figure out why you’re even interested in me. You’re—you know—you. And I’m just… the girl who alphabetizes Bukowski collections and secretly watches your movies on sick days.”

He leaned in, folding his arms on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“I’ve had a lot of girls scream for me,” he said. “A lot of parties. A lot of noise. It’s easy to get lost in that. But you—” he tilted his head—“you looked at me like I was real. Not just a dude in a shopping cart with fireworks taped to his ass.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat thudding.

“And if I’m being honest,” he added, “it’s been a long time since someone made me want to slow down.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with meaning.

You barely noticed the way your hand drifted across the table—until his fingers brushed yours, warm and rough and strangely reassuring.

“I’m not good at this,” you said softly.

“I don’t care if you’re bad at it,” he replied. “I just care that it’s real.”

⸻

By the time you stepped out into the night air again, you weren’t ready to say goodbye. He wasn’t either.

So when he asked if you wanted to walk back with him to his hotel, you said yes.

Not because you were sure. Not because you felt like you should. But because something about him—about tonight—made you feel safe in the mess. Seen.

The walk was quiet. Comfortable. The occasional car passed. The city hummed around you. And Johnny, somehow, didn’t fill the silence with jokes. He just matched your pace and held the door for you like he hadn’t once jumped off a roof for a laugh.

⸻

His hotel room was too nice for someone like him. Sleek. Minimal. Very un-Jackass.

He dropped his keycard on the counter, turned to you, and scratched the back of his neck.

“This part’s always awkward,” he admitted. “The, uh, figuring-out-what-happens-now part.”

You swallowed. “I know I said I haven’t… done anything like this before, but I’m not scared. Just…”

“New,” he finished.

You nodded.

He walked over slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you didn’t. You stood your ground as he reached out and gently took your face in both hands.

“I’m not gonna rush this,” he said, eyes flicking between yours. “You say stop, it’s stop. You change your mind, it’s cool. But if you want me to kiss you—”

“I do,” you whispered.

And he did.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss you expected from someone like him—wild, erratic, full of adrenaline. It was slow. Focused. His lips were softer than they had any right to be, his hands steady as they cradled your jaw. He kissed you like you were the only thing holding him to the earth.

You sighed into it, letting your arms slide around his waist.

He deepened it just a little—just enough to make you feel it in your knees—before he pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I could get used to that,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled, heart pounding. “So could I.”

His lips were still brushing yours when you whispered, “I want this.”

Johnny paused.

Not because he didn’t believe you. But because you were trembling just enough for him to feel it through your clothes.

He pulled back slowly, resting his hands at your hips, like he was anchoring himself there. “You sure?”

You nodded, heart pounding in your throat. “I’ve thought about it before. Not just… sex. But with someone who makes me feel something.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “And I make you feel something?”

You laughed softly. “Johnny, you make me feel everything.”

That grin faltered for a second, replaced with something deeper—something almost reverent.

He kissed you again, slower this time. No urgency. Just the weight of possibility passing between you.

Then he whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

You found yourself being guided gently toward the bed. Johnny’s touch never rushed, never forceful—just steady, warm, patient.

“You good?” he asked, hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I trust you.”

That did something to him. You could see it in his eyes—how careful he became. Like the weight of that trust mattered more than anything.

He tugged your shirt over your head, pausing only to kiss the bare skin just above your heart. Then he let his hands drift down your arms, eyes tracing every inch like he was memorizing you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

Your breath hitched. “You’ve probably said that to a lot of girls.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, kissing the top of your shoulder. “But never like this.”

His fingers worked at your jeans, slow and precise, giving you time to breathe, time to change your mind—but you didn’t want to. You wanted to see where this went.

He kissed every inch of exposed skin as he helped you out of them, his palms firm but gentle at your hips, down your thighs.

When you stood in front of him in nothing but your underwear, he stepped back just slightly, looking you over with genuine admiration.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “How the hell am I supposed to behave now?”

You bit your lip. “Maybe don’t.”

That made him laugh, low and warm, as he reached for the hem of his own shirt. You watched, spellbound, as he peeled it off—revealing that lean, wiry frame you’d seen a hundred times onscreen, now real and right in front of you.

Faded bruises. Scars. Tattooed chaos.

And still, something soft in the way he looked at you.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you close again, skin to skin.

The first time his chest pressed against yours, you gasped at the heat of it, the feel of him—all bone and muscle and heartbeat.

He kissed your temple. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

The bed dipped beneath you both as he climbed in, settling beside you instead of over you. His touch stayed exploratory—not demanding.

“You nervous?” he asked quietly, fingers tracing your ribs beneath the curve of your bra.

You nodded. “A little.”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your neck. “No pressure. No rush. Just me, and you, and this.”

Your fingers dug lightly into his back as he moved lower, lips trailing warmth down your collarbone.

He whispered everything he was doing—where he was touching, why—like a guided meditation with a dirty mouth. And God, it worked. It grounded you. Made you feel like this wasn’t just happening to you—it was something you were doing together.

When his hands slid beneath your bra and cupped your breasts, he groaned softly into your skin. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

You tilted your head, flushed. “You imagined this?”

“Babe,” he said, grinning into your cleavage, “I’ve been imagining it all day.”

You laughed, breathless, as he undid the clasp and tossed your bra aside.

Then he paused, just for a second—eyes meeting yours—before he leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out softly, hips twitching at the sudden spike of pleasure. He groaned at the sound, sucked a little harder, then switched to the other side, hand trailing down your stomach.

“Still good?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you gasped.

He smiled against your skin. “Then hold on, baby. ‘Cause I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“Relax,” Johnny whispered as his hand slid down between your legs. “Let me feel you.”

You were already soaked, the cotton of your underwear clinging to you in a way that made him groan against your neck.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw. “You’re so wet. You been holding onto this for a while, haven’t you?”

You couldn’t speak—could barely think. You just nodded, hips rocking into his palm.

He touched you through the fabric first, slow. The pad of his finger traced the shape of you, finding your clit with practiced ease. He didn’t rush—just circled, barely-there pressure, teasing you until your thighs started to shake.

“You’re doing so good,” he said softly. “Let me take these off, baby.”

You lifted your hips and let him slide your underwear down your legs. When you were finally bare beneath him, he took a second—just looked—and exhaled like the sight physically did something to him.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured, fingers dragging gently through your folds. “All of you.”

Then his mouth replaced his hand.

You gasped—loud—as he licked a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then did it again, like he needed the taste.

“Oh my God—” you panted, hips lifting.

He grinned against you. “You taste even better than I imagined. Think I could stay here all night.”

And he almost did.

His tongue moved in slow, teasing patterns, sucking and flicking until your moans filled the room. He didn’t rush your build-up—just watched you unravel, voice full of praise every time you whimpered his name.

When you started to tighten, he slowed down.

“Not yet,” he said, voice gravel over honey. “I wanna be inside you when you come.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and trembling. “Are you sure? I—what if I’m not good?”

He smiled, the kind of soft, warm grin that made your chest ache. “There’s no such thing as bad when it’s real.”

Then he kissed you—deeply, like you hadn’t just had his mouth on you seconds ago—and when he pulled back, you felt stripped down to your soul.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He reached into the nightstand, rolled on a condom, then came back to you—slower this time, gentler. He hovered above you, arms caging your head, eyes locked on yours.

“I’m gonna go slow,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Tell me if it hurts. I’ll stop.”

You nodded.

Then he pushed in.

Your breath caught—stretch, pressure, a little ache—and your hands fisted in the sheets.

Johnny didn’t move.

He just kissed your jaw, whispered praise, waited until your muscles stopped clenching around him. He was warm, solid, grounding.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Just… full.”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, baby. You’re perfect like this.”

When he started to move, it was so slow—shallow thrusts, hips rocking just enough to make you feel everything. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, grounding you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured. “you’re taking me so well.”

You moaned at the words, and he grinned. “Oh, you like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” you gasped.

“Good. ‘Cause I’ve got a lot more where that came from.”

He began thrusting a little deeper, the stretch easing now, your body melting beneath him. The ache had turned into something else entirely—hot and thick and needy.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and strained. “Can’t believe this is your first time. You feel like a fucking dream.”

You whimpered, pulling him closer. “Johnny—please—”

“I got you,” he promised. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

It hit like a wave—your orgasm crashing through you, sharp and sweet, clenching around him until he groaned deep in his chest and buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel so good—I can’t—”

He followed with a loud, broken moan, hips jerking once, twice, then stilling.

He stayed inside you for a while, kissing your cheek, your temple, brushing your hair back from your sweaty face.

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, still dazed. “I feel amazing.”

He pulled out carefully, kissed your knee, then got up to grab a towel and clean you gently.

You watched him move—naked, sweet, ridiculously tender—and felt something deeper than lust settle in your chest.

When he came back, he crawled under the sheets and pulled you into his arms without a word.

You curled into his chest, fingers tracing the ink on his ribs.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked down at you, brow furrowed like you’d said something wild. “For what?”

“For being so…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. “Kind.”

His grin was soft this time. “Hey. You made it easy.”

You fell asleep on his chest, his arm around you, his fingers idly stroking your spine. For a man who once got punched by a bull on camera, he held you like you were made of glass.

     The towering facades of the Las Vegas strip passed above your head as you stuck it out the sunroof of your new boyfriend’s car. Palm trees and flickering lights melted into the hazy pink sky as the sun began to set. The air smelled like gasoline, cigarettes, and vacation. You felt the cool leather of your seat press into the back of your bare thighs as you strained slightly to see more of the strip. A particularly bumpy speedbump caused you to lose your balance, sending your lower half into your boyfriend, who drove with one lazy hand slung on the wheel.   

     “Oops, ha…sorry Johnny,” you giggled nervously and looked down at your boyfriend. You tucked your windswept locks behind your ear and bit your lip. You two were still so new, and your man just had an air about that made your insides squirm. It drove you crazy, in a delicious sort of way. 

     Johnny just smirked, his eyes never leaving the road. His canines pressed into the toothpick he had nestled between his smiling, coy lips. His free hand slid up the back of your legs. You felt the calluses and rings on his fingers press softly against you, making your heart pound and goosebumps prickle along your skin. 

     “Don’t be sorry, darlin.” Johnny’s hand continued its pursuit up, up, up your legs until it was beneath the frilly fabric of your mini skirt. The same one he had bought for you on Rodeo on your second date. You looked down at him, breathless as he watched the cars ahead. His hand found the round, supple skin of your ass, which was barely covered by your favorite pair of panties: baby blue silk with black lace trim. Ever since you had impulsively picked them from the shelf at Agent Provocateur at the start of the summer, life just seemed to be better. 

     Johnny’s right palm was massaging and playing with the silky fabric now as he drove you to the Tropicana Resort and Casino, your destination to celebrate one month of being his girlfriend. You were almost vibrating as you stood over his center console, hands bracing on the hot metal roof of the car. Johnny’s arm pulled you selfishly closer so you had no choice but to lean into him. You gasped softly as you watched him turn his chin to press a kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. Again, those eyes never breaking focus and keeping you safe. 

     “Mmmh…” Johnny groaned under his breath not so discreetly, fingers gripping your ass and slipping just barely beneath your panties. You felt that warm heat pool in your stomach and fought pathetically against the ache that was now blossoming between your legs. You looked up at the blue sky and back down at Johnny’s lap, his hard-on taking form beneath his dark grey pants. His chest rose and fell more quickly beneath the faded Rolling Stones t-shirt, which clung to his chest in the Vegas heat. 

     “Why don’t you come back down here, just for a second, sugar…” Johnny requested in a self-assured tone that made it obvious he wasn’t really asking. He let his hand slide out from under your panties and down the back of your knees, tickling and teasing. You obeyed without a second thought, eager to get closer to him. He chuckled as you let your butt land delicately down onto the passenger seat. His hand instantly went to hold your leg again as you settled, the tips of his long fingers trapped happily in the hot space where your thighs met. Your legs spread slightly on their own accord, Johnny’s effect on your body almost Pavlovian. 

     “Thank you baby, Daddy missed you.” Johnny praised and made a slight right turn onto a long, palm-tree lined driveway. You blushed and played with his fingers, his hands much bigger than your own. When you looked up through the sun-drenched windshield of Johnny’s Porsche, you saw the creamy white tower of the Tropicana, the neon pink letters of its sign buzzing one by one as if welcoming you both right away. 

     “And here we are,” Johnny said with boyish excitement, looking over at you and putting his car in park. Your legs shook slightly as you stepped onto the baking pavement, the heel of your Jimmy Choos pressing sporadic kisses to the ground. Johnny tossed his keys to the young valet driver with a wink and a smile.

     “If you dent her, at least film it,” Johnny called out to the kid and slung his arm around your waist, escorting you into the building. His laughter filled the lobby of the hotel and his breath was minty as he pressed kisses into your cheek. You felt as though you were floating with giddy anticipation. 

     “Alright sugar,” Johnny squeezed your waist and trailed his hand down to yours, lacing your fingers together. 

     “What’ll it be first?” He asked and tilted his head, eyes searching your face, glancing down at your glossy pink pout. 

     “Well…” you began hesitantly. You never were the type to call the shots. But ever since Johnny started taking you out, you got more practice with it. He would encourage you to find your voice. He insisted, really…

     “I like when you boss me around, baby girl.” Johnny said with heavy eyes on your first date, lids weighed down with lust. You blinked up at him, your own pupils blown out and nose beautifully numb. The little white baggy at the bottom of your Chanel bag to blame. 

     “I’ve never gambled before…” you offered, your free hand tugging at your hair. 

     Your boyfriend’s handsome face twisted into a sly grin. Reaching down into the front pocket of his Dickies, Johnny pulled out his wallet, beaten up and nearly busting at the seams. 

     “Let’s make some bad decisions then, sweetheart.” 

You nearly squealed with glee as you let Johnny lead you across the smokey, sparkling carpet of the casino and straight to the bar. 

    Two double shots of vodka, four Long-Island iced teas, and three handsy cigarette breaks later, both of you were nearly falling off your stools with laughter at the blackjack table. Your lips were buzzing and bitten, your lemon drop stung them sweetly. The dealer nodded to Johnny, waiting for his call. 

     “Fuck it, I must have found my good luck charm, I’ll hit.” Johnny told the dealer, his hand resting high on your thigh. You were tipsy and blissfully aware of how close the large pad of his thumb was to your crotch. The thumping base of No Doubt’s “Hella Good” trickled along your ears, the musky scent of Johnny tickling your nostrils. 

     “Am I that good luck charm?” The liquid courage flowing through your veins swam the flirtations through your mouth. Johnny loved it.

     “Sure are, doll.” 

     And he seemed to be correct, because the dealer placed a Queen of Hearts card face up in front of you,  her beady little eyes cheering you on. 

     “Oh my god!” You jumped up and off your seat, Johnny following suit, throwing his arms over his head. 

     “Fuck yeah!” 

     Hit after hit, painful stay after stay, doubling down and risking it all with nearly 5K in chips, Johnny had won, again. 

     “Good game, sir.” The dealer said in that tone you’d only seen rich, powerful men inspire. Your boyfriend was both.

     “Why thank you,” Johnny’s southern accent lilted with polite cockiness. That sweet, hot ache settled itself back into your core. You stole yourself and squeezed your thighs together, almost moaning quietly as you watched Johnny gather the chips with one hand and take you into his arms with the other. 

     “Come on, my lucky girl. It’s time to spend all this money on you.” 

     Johnny had taken you out for the most divine dinner of your life, the food melting on your tongue and filling your stomach wonderfully. He sat and swirled his whiskey as he listened to your crazy college stories, holding his stomach and doubling over with laughter.  He caught on to every joke, playing off of your witty teasing and tossing it back with wicked quickness. He made you almost pee your lucky panties as you giggled and wiggled in your seat.

     He paid for every single glass or fork that touched your lips, held open every door that you wobbled through on your heels, and lit every cigarette that you smoked. Now, as you swayed your hips to the pulsating music beneath the strobe lights, Johnny even held onto your purse. The tiny Chanel hung off his bicep as you grinded into his crotch, fingers lost in your own hair. His large hands held onto your hips as if they were trying to memorize every curve, dip and dimple. 

     “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous baby,” Johnny spoke into your ear, his right hand snaking up from your hip, riding up the slide of your waist and inbetween your breasts. His hand curled around your throat as you leaned into him, your butt rubbing tight and hard circles against his belt buckle. His left hand disappeared behind your skirt, fingers brushing against the  now very wet center of your lucky pair. You gasped, your now smeared lipstick-clad lips parting. Johnny took his chance to slide two fingers into your mouth. You couldn’t help but swirl your tongue against his digits, relishing in the sugary sweat that prickled on his knuckles. 

     The deep rouge lighting of the dancefloor washed over your skin, Johnny’s silhouette framing yours like a blood moon. 

     “You’re soaked, baby doll.” Johnny’s canines tugged at your earlobe as his hands gripped and worked you, following each wave and roll of your body. You giggled and bit down in a smile on his fingers, teeth pressing just hard enough to make him wince. He bit his lip and dug his hand under your panties, just for a second to give your bundle of nerves a tease. Your naughty smile disappeared as you moaned brattily at the absence of his fingers on your now soaking pussy. 

     You felt Johnny smirking against your neck. 

     “Little kitten likes to bite, huh?” Johnny squeezed your throat slightly tighter at a torturous pace, breathing in as he held your own breath from you. He never squeezed too hard, just enough to make you feel the same euphoric high as the little blue pills for a split second and then released. He turned you around as you savored your head rush, falling into his strong chest as if he owned you. You felt more and more that maybe he did. 

“That’s it doll, I can’t take it anymore. Let’s get you up to the suite.” Johnny bent down and literally swept you off your feet in a bridal hold, causing you to scream and clap your hand over your mouth in shock. The music throbbed down your spine and you felt as if you could explode with happiness. 

     Your heels dangled from your hands, clasped around Johnny’s neck as he carried you all the way to the elevator. You both laughed shamelessly and made dirty jokes as older, slots-addicted tourists gave you dirty looks. As the shiny gold elevator doors shut, Johnny set you down gingerly before pushing you into the mirrored walls. His large body crowded your much smaller frame, the cold glass pressing into your almost feverishly hot skin.  

     Your bodies stumbled out of the elevator doors as it dinged. Johnny led you with his hungry hands and kisses to your penthouse suite. You dropped a heel without noticing as you bit down on his bottom lip, pressure building in your body as you tasted the little dots of blood. Johnny didn’t break your contact as he reached down to pick up your shoe, tugging you into him as he riffled for the room key in his back pocket. You pulled at his hair and pressed sloppy, wet, red kisses along his jaw. Johnny looked over once to gauge the lock before shoving the card inside the cold metal slot. He closed his eyes and turned to plunge his tongue into your needy mouth. 

     And then you fell right down on top of him and into the foyer of your glittering, glamorous, top floor suite. 

     “M’sorry,” you mumbled into his mouth, the door swinging shut behind you. Johnny looked up at you as you straddled him on the floor, propping himself up on his elbows and taking a moment to drink you in. One of your straps had fallen over your shoulder, two purple hickeys already blossoming on your neck. Your hair was a tangled mess and tossed over your right eye, framing your beautiful face in a smattering of youthful innocence. 

     “What’d I say about saying sorry, doll?” Johnny smiled at you, reaching out to push the hair from your face and pulling you closer to his lips. You went to press a kiss to his lips, already starving for their taste. Johnny didn’t let you, however, the hand in your hair now gripping just hard enough to keep you in place. Right where he wanted you. 

     Johnny’s eyes studied your love drunk pupils, then your open and silently begging mouth. He chuckled darkly and tugged you in closer by the back of your hair. His next few words went straight into your parted lips.

     “You always get what you want, lucky girl.” 

     Johnny had you on the very edge of the king sized mattress with your knees pressed desperate and shaking against his ears. Your fingers were lost in his hair, knuckles turning white as his tongue swirled across your clit. 

     “Fuck, Johnny…” you moaned like a fucking porn star, back arching off the Egyptian cotton sheets. Your toes curled as Johnny literally laughed against your leaking pussy. 

     “Love hearing you say my name, baby.” Johnny pressed his thumb right onto your puffy clit, making you damn near leap off the bed and further into his face, your slick now spread in an obscene stripe along his jawline. The sight of you so worked up just made Johnny chuckle more.

     “So…enthusiastic.” He breathed from in between your drenched thighs. Your cheeks were dusted with pink as you grasped at anything to hold on, shamelessly near ruin at the hands (and tongue) of this man. 

     “Don’t be shy, doll…” Johnny said as he stood up from his knees and pushed your knees apart. You held onto your breasts and bit your lip as you watched him stand over you. His right hand massaged the skin of your inner thigh, his left unbuckled his belt.        

     He looked down at you with nothing but loving filth behind his eyes. 

     “You’re so beautiful…mine…my fucking beautiful little doll,” Johnny spoke slowly and reverently as he pulled out his dick, the length and thickness making you salivate and stain the baby blue cotton. 

       “Look at you,” Johnny cooed, leaning down and sliding your right leg over his shoulder. He pushed into you at a nearly admonishing pace, the stretch of your position sending dirty words tumbling out of your sex bitten lips. When he finally bottomed out, you clawed at his hips to get as much as you could. You felt both impossibly full and hungry at once.

     Johnny laughed and wrapped his arms around your leg, yanking you in and starting to fuck into you devastatingly deep. You practically sobbed as he hit your cervix, his thickness dragging inside of you perfectly. 

     “That’s it baby, let it out. Cry on daddy’s cock. I’ve got you, babydoll.”

     That familiar, hot coil of pleasure was starting to pulsate in your belly. Johnny slid his hands down, one landing on your clit, the other snaking around the back of your neck to make you arch, sending his cock somehow deeper. He was fucking you so hard and fast now, you knew you were close to careening off that edge he’d perfectly held you at all night. 

     “Daddy, I-I’m gonna cum. Can I please cum?” you asked eagerly, voice breaking as tears prickled your lashes. His fingers worked tight circles, his dick hitting your g-spot over and over and over. 

     Johnny gripped the back of your head as he held and slammed into you, your foreheads now pressed together. His breathing was going ragged, and you knew he was close as well. 

     “Together, okay baby? Can you do that for me?” Johnny kissed your nose and then your flushed cheeks, never once slowing his pace. You could barely think or speak, but managed a huff and a moan that sounded somewhat like “Yes daddy.” 

     It was good enough for your boyfriend as he continued to push you to the edge and encourage you. 

     “Good girl…that’s my good fucking girl. Okay baby…cum with me,” Johnny guided and commanded you, both with his words and his body. Your eyes clamped shut so tightly you saw fractals of stars behind your lids as you let go. Johnny carried you through each wave of ecstasy as he  also came deep inside of you, the headboard knocking against the wall of your suite. 

     The floor to ceiling windows cast the sparkling Vegas skyline over your bodies as you both came down, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. Johnny stayed inside of you and held your face delicately, savoring. He pressed small kisses against your forehead, and you swallowed in his scent. 

     “Happy anniversary, baby,” Johnny spoke against your skin. You giggled for the millionth time that day and kissed his chest. 

     Johnny drew you a bubble bath, ordered chocolate covered strawberries from room service, and popped open a bottle of Dom Perignon. As the bubbles flew around your head and you splashed Johnny in the warm water, sipping from the crystal, you couldn’t help but think that maybe you were the luckiest girl in the world.

My Bam Fic - 2 Punks in Love (actively updating, chaptered fic)