The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon candles and pumpkin guts, a mix of cozy and messy that only Halloween night could bring. Orange pulp clung to your fingers as you scooped out the insides of your pumpkin, wrinkling your nose at the slimy strands.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Matt teased from across the table, his deep focus on the pumpkin in front of him. He was meticulous, already sketching out a design with a marker before even picking up the carving knife.

You flicked a handful of pumpkin guts in his direction. “Please, mine’s gonna look way better than whatever you’re overthinking.”

He looked up slowly, that crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “Overthinking? This is precision.” He jabbed the marker against the pumpkin. “Yours is gonna look like a five-year-old did it.”

“Better than looking like a math problem,” you shot back, tongue poking between your teeth as you exaggerated your scooping.

Matt chuckled, low and under his breath, before finally reaching for the knife. “We’ll see about that.”

The metal caught the glow of the candlelight for just a second. You felt the tiniest shiver skate down your spine, but you shook it off, rolling your eyes and going back to carving.

“Don’t cut your hand off,” you teased, tongue poking out in concentration as you hacked at the crooked grin on your pumpkin.

Matt snorted. “I know how to handle a knife.” He said it casually, but the way he dragged the blade through the thick shell, slow, steady, deliberate. He made it sound more like a warning than a reassurance.

You glanced up, meaning to throw back another joke, but he was already watching you. Not your pumpkin. You. His smirk tugged lazily at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you asked, heat crawling into your cheeks.

He tilted his head, knife still in hand. “Nothing. Just funny how you talk all that shit while yours looks like it’s melting.”

You grabbed a pumpkin seed and flicked it at him. “Shut up.”

He caught it against his chest, grinning. “Make me.”

The playful challenge made your stomach flip, though there was something in his eyes that lingered, something intense beneath the teasing. It had you shifting in your chair, pretending to focus harder on your carving just so you wouldn’t get lost staring back.

“Here, let me help,” Matt said suddenly, standing and stretching like he’d grown bored of his own pumpkin. The knife was still in his hand, glinting faintly in the glow of the candles.

You laughed, suspicious. “Help? Or sabotage?”

He came around behind you, the solid heat of his body brushing your shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to trust me.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring,” you muttered, though your lips curved into a grin.

Matt leaned down anyway, his breath grazing your ear. One of his hands settled on the edge of the table near yours, steady and casual, but it boxed you in all the same. The hand holding the knife rested lazily against his thigh, like he wanted you to notice it without him having to say a word.

You shifted in your chair, bumping into his chest as you tried to angle your pumpkin toward him. “Fine. Show me, Mr. Precision.”

His chuckle vibrated low against your back. “Don’t sound so skeptical. I actually know what I’m doing.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned closer anyway, tilting toward the pumpkin in front of you. His shoulder brushed yours again, then lingered. Warmth pressed in from behind, making you acutely aware of every inch of him, of the way he didn’t bother to step back.

And then, too close. The cool slide of steel against your skin was subtle at first, almost an accident. Your brain barely registered it before the pressure shifted, deliberate. Just enough tilt of the blade to let you know he meant it.

Your breath stuttered in your throat, the scrape of metal making goosebumps ripple over your arm. A beat later came the sting. Sharp, quick, unmistakable.

You froze. “Matt—”

But he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t apologizing. He was watching. His eyes were darker now, locked on your arm where a bead of blood welled and caught the candlelight. His lips parted slightly, tongue darting over his bottom lip before he even moved. Then, slow as if savoring it, he reached out. His thumb dragged across your skin, smearing the blood before lifting it to his mouth.

You stared, unable to look away as he closed his lips over his thumb, sucking it clean. The hollow of his cheeks caved just slightly, his lashes lowering for a moment before his gaze snapped back to yours.

He didn’t look ashamed. Didn’t look like he was joking anymore. He looked fascinated. Hungry. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve said something, anything, to break the spell of it. But instead, your pulse pounded in your throat, heat unfurling low in your stomach, the air between you thick and wrong and electric.

You couldn’t move at first. Couldn’t think. The warmth of his chest was still pressed against your back, steady and solid, while your arm burned where the blade had kissed it. The cut itself was shallow. Barely there, really. But it pulsed in time with your heartbeat, every throb making you hyper-aware of the bead of blood he’d just licked from his thumb.

Your breath came shallow, uneven. You tried to tell yourself it was the candlelight, the closeness, the strange intimacy of it all. But no, it was him. The way Matt looked at you like you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. Like he was already planning his next move.

“Matt…” you whispered again, softer this time, but the word came out more like a plea than a warning.

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving yours. The mask of his smirk was gone now, replaced by something heavier, darker. Something you didn’t have a name for but felt coil low in your stomach, pulling tight. 

The silence stretched. You swallowed, shifting in your chair, your thighs pressing together instinctively under the table. The scrape of wood against the floor sounded loud, too loud, in the thick quiet between you.

You thought about standing. About stepping away, brushing it off, making some joke to force things back into safer territory. But the thought fizzled almost as quickly as it came, because the truth was, you didn’t want to move. You wanted to see what he would do next. And maybe that was the most dangerous part.

Matt’s thumb drifted back to your arm. You thought he’d just wipe the blood away, maybe brush it off like a stupid accident. But instead, he pressed directly into the shallow cut, slow and deliberate.

You gasped, your whole body tightening at the sharp sting. His eyes flicked up instantly, drinking in the way your lips parted, the way you squirmed but didn’t pull away.

“Still bleeding,” he murmured, almost to himself, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the mark until the red smeared across your skin. Then he brought it to his mouth again, tongue curling around the taste like it was sweeter than anything else on the table. Your chest rose and fell too fast. You couldn’t look away, caught between horror and heat.

Then he shifted. The knife, still in his hand, turned so the flat, dull side pressed cold against the bare skin of your thigh. The pressure was firm but not cutting as he dragged it higher, slow, deliberate, tracing just under the hem of your shorts.

His lips curved. Not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Maybe,” he whispered, tilting the blade against your thigh, “I should carve you instead.”

The words slid over you like the knife itself. Wrong, dangerous, and intoxicating all at once.

“Matt…” you breathed, trying to sound firm, but it broke halfway through, thin with nerves. His smirk deepened, his thumb stroking idly over your arm where the blood had already dried.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, quieter this time, almost coaxing.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You hesitated, lips parting, silence stretching out until it felt unbearable. His knife edged higher, just a fraction, enough to make your skin prickle.

“Yes,” you whispered finally, the sound trembling, barely there.

His gaze darkened, heat flashing behind it. The knife tilted, tracing another slow drag up your thigh, not breaking skin this time, just enough pressure to make your body tense. Your breath came fast now, chest rising and falling. The neckline of your shirt shifted with it, collar tugging lower, and Matt’s eyes flicked down, sharp and hungry.

He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Good girl.” The praise, rough and low, sent a shiver straight down your spine.

Between your thighs, wetness gathered, the ache sharpening into something desperate. You shifted in your seat, but it only made the friction worse, your body giving you away with every twitch and tremble. Matt noticed. His eyes lingered on the way your knees pressed together, the way your chest heaved, the faint flush spreading down your neck. His tongue swept over his bottom lip as if savoring it.

The knife lingered at your thigh, cold and insistent, until it finally slid upward, catching on the hem of your shirt. Matt’s eyes never left yours as the blade angled just enough to slice. The sound was soft but unmistakable, fabric giving way under steel.

You gasped, jerking in your seat, but he held you steady with the press of his body behind yours. The cut was clean, a strip of your shirt falling loose, brushing over your skin before pooling in your lap. He tilted his head, calm, collected, like this was nothing more than another part of the game. The knife tip traced the edge of the torn fabric, grazing your stomach now, threatening to go lower.

That was when it hit you. He wasn’t messing around. Every teasing smirk, every dark flicker in his eyes, was real. The blade in his hand wasn’t a prop, and the hunger on his face wasn’t just for laughs. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering, body caught in that sharp, impossible place between fear and arousal. And Matt just watched, patient, like he was waiting to see what you’d do now that you knew he meant every second of it.

Matt shifted, his free hand braced against the back of your chair, keeping you caged in place. The knife moved slowly, deliberately, the flat of the blade tracing shapes across your stomach. A shiver chased its path, your muscles tensing under the cold steel. He dragged it higher, the edge just grazing between your ribs before sliding down again, circling your navel, dipping lower.

Your breath hitched when it curved toward your inner thigh. He lingered there, pressing the dull side against tender skin before tilting just enough to let the point bite shallow. You gasped, thighs twitching closed, but he pushed them apart with his knee, steady, insistent. Thin red lines bloomed where the blade kissed your flesh. He admired them like an artist admiring his work, eyes half-lidded, tongue wetting his bottom lip before he bent down.

The first brush of his mouth stole your breath. Soft lips against burning skin, followed by the warm drag of his tongue. He licked a line clean, groaning low in his chest at the copper tang before lifting his head to press another kiss just above it.

You trembled, torn between flinching and leaning into him as the knife traced higher, grazing the swell of your breast. Another shallow scratch, another mark claimed. His mouth followed again, lips and tongue alternating between worship and hunger. Every sting was soothed by his tongue, every smear of red swallowed down like he couldn’t get enough.

His hands were a mess, slick with pumpkin guts from earlier and now streaked with blood. When he palmed your hip, the mixture smeared warm and sticky across your skin, staining you with the same chaotic blend as the table between you. You felt painted by him, pumpkin pulp, blood, sweat, all tangled together. Marked and ruined, yet dizzy with how much you wanted more.

Matt stepped back just enough to hook his hand around your wrist. Before you could even find words, he tugged, hauling you up from the chair and turning you so fast your back hit the edge of the table.

Pumpkins wobbled around you, one nearly toppling before Matt pressed his palm flat to your chest and pinned you against the wood. The sticky mess of pulp and seeds smeared into your skin, cold and wet, but all you could focus on was the weight of him crowding closer.

The knife pressed under your chin, tilting your head back with chilling ease. Your throat stretched, pulse pounding against the flat side of the blade. Matt’s eyes glittered as he took you in, hair ruined, shirt torn, lips parted on shallow breaths. A smirk ghosted over his mouth, sharp and hungry.

“You look so pretty lit up for me,” he murmured, the knife nudging higher, forcing your gaze to meet his.

A whimper caught in your throat, though your body betrayed you with the way your thighs pressed together, trembling against the edge of the table.

His lips brushed your ear, his voice dropping lower. “Might gut you open like a pumpkin and see what’s inside.”

The words were wrong. Filthy. Terrifying. And yet your whole body shivered with something that was not fear. Your chest rose and fell too fast, each breath more shallow. Your skin tingled where the blade touched, where his body pressed you into the mess of smashed pumpkin flesh.

You were trembling now, part fear, part overwhelming arousal, and Matt could feel it. He fed on it, knife steady, eyes drinking in every twitch and shake, every hitched breath like it was proof of his control.

Matt let the knife drag lower, slipping from your throat down the center of your chest. The tip traced along the torn edge of your shirt before he flipped it, pressing the flat side over your breast. The cold steel shocked against your nipple, hardening instantly under the pressure. You gasped, your back arching without permission, a moan breaking loose before you could swallow it down. His smirk deepened. He lingered, dragging the blade in a slow circle, flattening it against your peak until your breath came out shaky and desperate.

“Sensitive,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

The knife slid to your other breast, repeating the same agonizing tease, cold, hard pressure against another aching nipple. Your head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as your chest arched into it, needing more despite the danger.

But then, it was gone.

The blade pulled back, leaving your skin bare, your body thrumming with frustration. You blinked up at him, panting, lips parted in a soundless protest. Matt tilted his head, watching you squirm against the table. He twirled the knife once in his hand, slow and practiced, then leaned in close enough for his breath to fan your lips.

“You want it back?” he asked, voice low and rough, teasing the words like a dare.

Your cheeks burned, pulse hammering. You should’ve said no. Should’ve pushed him away. But your body craved this, chest heaving, nipples hard, thighs clenching around nothing.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He hummed, the sound low and pleased, though he didn’t move the knife closer. Instead, his free hand slid along your thigh, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

“Not good enough,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours but never closing the distance. “Beg me.”

Your skin prickled, need twisting tighter with every second he made you wait.

“I…please, Matt,” you breathed, shame and arousal bleeding together in your voice. “I want it. I want the knife on me again.”

Matt’s smirk widened just slightly, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. But still, he didn’t move. The knife dangled at his side, glinting in the candlelight, while his thumb brushed idly along the inside of your thigh, so close, yet maddeningly far from where you needed him.

“Mm,” he hummed, studying your face. “That’s a start. But you can do better.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, nipples still peaked from the chill of the steel, aching with the loss of it. You shifted against the edge of the table, the sticky smear of pumpkin guts beneath you only adding to the mess of sensations crawling under your skin.

“Matt…” you whispered, voice breaking on his name.

The knife lifted then, but not to your chest. He traced the flat side along your jaw, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his stare. The blade was cold against your skin, the command in his eyes even colder.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” he said, low, deliberate, every word meant to dig under your skin. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You swallowed, throat tight. Heat pooled between your thighs, slick spreading where your body couldn’t lie. Your hands curled uselessly against the edge of the table, nails biting into the wood.

“I…” you hesitated, pulse thundering in your ears. “I want the knife back. On me.”

His head tilted, slow and mocking. “Where?”

Your cheeks burned hot. Your nipples ached, your thighs pressed tighter together, trembling with need.

“On my—” you faltered, but his stare held you, unwavering, until you whispered it out. “On my nipples. Please, Matt.”

The corner of his mouth curved again, slow and satisfied, as if your desperation was worth more than the taste of your blood. He lifted the knife, slow enough that your breath caught, eyes following every flicker of steel in the candlelight. You arched toward it instinctively, chest rising, nipples straining for the cold press you craved. But instead of giving in, he tilted the blade at the last second, dragging the flat edge over your collarbone instead.

You whimpered, frustrated, the sound tearing out of you before you could bite it back. He chuckled low, dark satisfaction vibrating from his chest into yours as he leaned closer.

“Impatient,” he murmured, tracing lazy patterns along the hollow of your throat, the blade never dipping lower. “You’re not used to working for what you want, are you?”

Your thighs clenched, body betraying you with the way it shivered under his touch. “Matt, please—”

“Please what?” he interrupted smoothly, the knife pressing just enough under your jaw to make your pulse hammer against it. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips trembled, shame and hunger tangling in your throat. “Please,” you whispered, louder this time, needier. “Please put it on me. On my nipples. I need it, Matt.”

For a beat, he just stared at you, gaze heavy, taking in every ounce of your desperation.

Then, finally, he moved. The blade slid lower, tracing a deliberate path down the valley of your breasts until it flattened over your nipple. The shock of steel made you gasp, back arching, your whole body tightening with relief. Matt watched intently, his smirk breaking into something hungrier as he pressed harder, dragging the knife in a slow circle until you were panting.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Knew you’d beg for it.”

Matt’s smirk widened at the sound of your gasp. He gave your nipple one last slow circle with the flat of the blade before pulling back, eyes gleaming.

“Think you’ve earned a little more,” he muttered, pushing you further onto the table. Pumpkins rolled and thudded around you, one rolling off the table at the shifting weight, seeds spilling across the floor.

Matt’s hands went to your hips, rough and unyielding as he tugged at the waistband of your shorts. The fabric resisted, sticky with pumpkin guts where it clung to your thighs, but he yanked harder until it slid down. The cold air hit your damp skin, making you shiver.

Your panties followed, dragged slow over your legs, the blade still glinting in his other hand as he worked them off. The mix of danger and vulnerability left you breathless, laid out against the table, fully bare, the knife catching the flicker of candlelight as if it was watching too.

Matt tossed the fabric aside carelessly, the thud of it on the floor lost beneath the sound of your uneven breaths. His gaze flicked down between your thighs, pupils dark and heavy with hunger.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, almost reverent. The knife tilted in his grip, a constant reminder of how sharp the moment had become.

He lowered himself between your thighs, spreading them open with a firm push of his hands. The knife stayed poised in one, hovering at your stomach, pressing flat enough to make you hyperaware of its presence every time your chest rose and fell.

You barely had time to brace before his mouth was on you.

The heat of his tongue was a shock after the chill of the blade, lapping over your folds with a hunger that made your head fall back, a cry spilling out of you. The contrast was dizzying. Cold steel against your skin, warm mouth devouring you below.

Just when you were melting into it, the knife slid away, replaced by a sharper sting at your thigh. You gasped, hips jolting, as he drew a shallow cut into your skin. The pain was sharp but fleeting, chased instantly by his mouth as he bent lower, licking the blood clean. His groan vibrated against your skin, feral and unrestrained, before he moved back to your clit, tongue circling mercilessly.

The pattern repeated: cut, lick, pleasure.

Thin red lines bloomed across your thighs, each one marked by the heat of his mouth, his tongue soothing the sting before darting back to your swollen clit. Every shift between steel and lips, between pain and wet heat, made your nerves spark brighter until you were trembling against the table.

You couldn’t tell if the tears pricking your eyes came from the sting of the blade, the overwhelming drag of his tongue, or the impossible mix of both. But you couldn’t stop the moans spilling from your throat. Pinned beneath his knife and his mouth, you were unraveling piece by piece.

Matt’s tongue slid one last, devastating circle around your clit before he tore himself away, chest heaving, lips wet with you and streaked with the faint copper tang of blood. He stared up at you from between your thighs, eyes blown wide, mask of control cracking just enough to show how badly he wanted more.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasped, voice rough, desperate. His hand tightened around your thigh, the knife pressing harder into your stomach for a moment before he pulled back. “Now.”

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over, your palms smacking against the sticky wood of the table. The mess of pumpkin guts squelched beneath your hands as your cheek pressed against the cold surface, seeds sticking to your skin. Pumpkins toppled and rolled with the force of his movement. The smell of raw pumpkin and candle smoke thickened the air, dizzying as his body crowded up behind you.

You barely had time to brace before he was shoving your torn top aside and driving into you in one hard, hungry thrust. A moan ripped from your throat, the table shuddering under the force of it, wood groaning as another pumpkin collapsed beside your body. He filled you completely, the ache sharp and perfect, your body giving way to him just as it always did, only this time, the danger of the blade never left your awareness.

Matt kept the knife pressed flat to your throat, tilting your head sideways against the table. The steel was cold against your skin, the sharp edge threatening as he thrust deep, setting a relentless pace that made your whole body jolt with every slam of his hips.

“Fuck—” he growled, leaning over you, sweat dripping from his temple onto your back. His free hand dug into your hip hard enough to bruise. “Look at you. Bent over like this, bleeding, dripping—” His thrusts punctuated his words, sharp and unforgiving. “You’re mine to carve up.”

The filthy words sank into you like the knife itself, making your body clench tighter around him. You whimpered, nails scraping over the table, dragging seeds and pulp across the sticky surface. Your cheek smeared against the wood, mixing sweat and mess, the scent of pumpkin and copper filling your lungs.

Matt groaned low, dragging the flat of the blade up your cheek now, pressing it so you felt the cold steel with every shallow breath. “Such a good girl,” he muttered, voice dark with satisfaction. “Taking me so fucking well. Taking the knife. Taking everything I give you.”

Your thighs trembled as he pounded into you, the mess beneath you only adding to the chaos. The wet squish of smashed pumpkin, the sharp sting of shallow cuts still burning on your thighs, the constant cold kiss of the blade at your throat. It was overwhelming. And you couldn’t get enough.

Matt’s hips slammed harder, his breath ragged against your ear. “You love this,” he hissed, his pace unrelenting. “You love being fucked up, marked, ruined. Don’t you?”

Your moan was the only answer you could give, your body too consumed to form words. But that was enough for him. He groaned, deep and guttural, thrusting harder, the table rattling, another pumpkin sliding off and bursting on the floor with a wet splatter.

“Fuck,” he snarled, hips slamming into you, the blunt force making your body jolt forward against the wood. His cock stretched you open to the hilt, each thrust hitting deep, dragging a cry from your throat that was muffled against the table.

Your whole body burned with sensation, the sting of shallow cuts along your thighs still raw, the stickiness of pumpkin pulp smeared across your skin, the hot ache of his cock pounding into you. It was too much, dizzying, your clit throbbing with each rough slam forward. You were close. So close it scared you.

And then, he slowed.

His pace faltered deliberately, dragging himself almost all the way out before snapping back in with one brutal thrust that had you gasping. Then he did it again, slower this time, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he held you still. “You feel that?” he growled, pressing the knife harder under your chin until your throat bobbed against the steel. “That’s me keeping you from cumming. You don’t get to finish until I say.”

The denial tore through you, your body clenching desperately around him, trying to chase what he’d stolen away. You whimpered, nails clawing at the table, dragging through pumpkin slime, your thighs trembling with need.

“Please,” you choked, your voice breaking on the word.

Matt’s chuckle was dark, ragged. “So needy. You’d let me gut you open just for a chance to cum, wouldn’t you?”

He pulled almost all the way out again, the sudden emptiness making you cry out, before slamming back in so hard the table lurched forward. You sobbed his name, body convulsing, clit throbbing, every nerve screaming for release.

Matt groaned, hips snapping faster now, his breath hot against your ear. “God, you’re tight when you’re begging. Say it again.”

“Please,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “Please, Matt, let me cum—”

He growled, deep and feral, and fucked into you harder, the relentless pace shaking the table beneath you. The knife stayed pressed to your cheek now, dragging just enough to leave a faint sting, a warning you couldn’t ignore.

“Good girl,” he panted, hips slamming into yours. “Cum for me. Ruin this fucking table for me.”

Your body gave out under his command, pleasure detonating so excruciating it was almost painful. You screamed, nails scraping deep grooves into the wood as your orgasm ripped through you, thighs shaking, clenching tight around him.

Matt groaned, voice breaking as he drove into you, using your release to push himself closer. The knife rattled in his grip with the force of it, but he never let go, never stopped pressing steel against your skin.

Sweat dripped from his face as his thrusts grew frantic, desperate. “Mine,” he snarled through gritted teeth, his cock twitching deep inside you. “Say it. Say you’re mine while I fill you up.”

“Yours,” you gasped, choking on the word as another wave of aftershocks shook you. “I’m yours, Matt.”

His growl tore out of him, guttural and raw, as he spilled inside you. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing deep, filling you as his whole body pressed you harder into the table. Blood, sweat, cum, and pumpkin pulp all smeared together, the sensory overload wrapping you in filth and heat until you could barely breathe. He stayed like that for a long moment, chest heaving against your back, the knife still cool against your cheek as your pulse pounded in your ears.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the quiet drip of pumpkin pulp sliding off the edge of the table. Your body trembled beneath his, still pinned, still wrecked, but his hands softened. The bruising grip on your hips gentled, his chest pressing to your back more like a blanket than a restraint.

The knife was the first thing to leave. Matt set it down on the table with a dull clatter. He knew it had no place in what came next.

“Hey,” he murmured against your ear, voice husky but careful now. “You okay?”

You nodded, cheek still sticky against the wood. “Yeah. Just…holy fuck.”

That broke him into a laugh, rough, low, and startled, but real. He pulled out of you slowly, making you wince at the drag, then turned you gently onto your back. Pumpkin guts smeared your skin, seeds sticking everywhere. The table was a disaster, a graveyard of collapsed jack-o’-lanterns.

You both stared at it for a beat before laughter bubbled up from your chest, too.

“Guess we’re not winning any carving contests,” you whispered, voice cracked but playful.

Matt grinned, crouching down beside you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your sticky cheek. “Doesn’t matter. You’re prettier than any pumpkin.” You rolled your eyes, but your chest warmed anyway.

He grabbed a rag from the counter, wetting it quickly, then returned to you. The knife play was gone from him now, every movement gentle, reverent. He wiped the blood from your thigh with slow circles, pausing every so often to bend down and press soft kisses to each shallow cut. Each kiss was a balm, whispering wordless apologies into your skin.

“You did so good for me,” he said quietly, kissing just above your knee. “So fucking good.”

His care was disarming after everything you’d just done together. You lay still, letting him clean you, his touch feather-light where before it had been bruising. When he was done, he set the rag aside and grabbed a lighter.

One by one, he lit the candles inside your carved pumpkins. Some lopsided, some half-collapsed, but all glowing warmly in the dim kitchen. The flickering light painted the mess you’d made in soft gold, turning chaos into something strangely beautiful.

Matt sat beside you on the table, pulling you into his lap, heedless of the pulp and blood smearing between you. His arms wrapped around your waist, his lips pressing into your temple.

“Messy night,” you teased softly, resting against his chest.

“The best kind,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your hairline.

You both sat there, sticky, sore, glowing in the warm light of ruined jack-o’-lanterns, laughter and tenderness filling the spaces where sharp steel and rough words had been only moments ago. You felt safe, not because the chaos was over, but because he was the one holding you when it was.

kinktober taglist: @ariestrxsh @conspiracy-ash @sturnskiss @courta13 @grace-sturnz @div1nefem1ne @noellesturniolo @sorrybirds @spookysturniolo @sturntiolo @sophsturns @editzzlvrrr

if you want to be added to my kinktober taglist, comment on my kinktober post!

add yourself to my regular taglist 🫶

You don’t plan it. You never do. It happens the same way every time: a restless evening that tastes like spoiled sugar, a playlist you shouldn’t have pressed play on, and a text you swore you’d never send again. Your thumb hovers, then betrays you.

bring me some coke. and a little weed.

if you're close by.

Three dots bloom and disappear like they’re ashamed of themselves. When his reply finally lands, 'on my way', you feel the tiny, traitorous flare of satisfaction you always hate yourself for.

While you wait, the apartment hums like a partially remembered song. The AC rattles. A cracked mug sweats on the coffee table. You sit cross-legged on the rug, sweatshirt sleeves shoved over your fists the way you used to when you’d steal his hoodies and he’d whine about never getting them back. You tell yourself you’re calm and in control. And you are, for the most part. Still, the old film reel flickers when you close your eyes. First night, first joke, first kiss in the back stairwell when the party was too loud and he kept looking at your mouth like you were the only real thing left in the building. After that, it was all gasoline. Fast, bright, and too much oxygen. You were ridiculous together, dizzy and mean with how hard you wanted. He called you ‘his problem' and you laughed because he was right.

The end was ugly in that ordinary way heartbreak always is. No screaming, just the sound of something trusted collapsing. A photo you weren’t meant to see. A girl you didn’t know in a bathroom you’d recognize by the ugly tile alone. He stammered excuses that sounded like static. ‘I was— I was messed up. I know you gave me just one chance, and I—‘ He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. ‘I had one chance and I fucked it up. I was fucked up.’ He said it like an incantation might undo itself if he said it softly enough.

You didn’t forgive him. And you still don’t. But there he is, every time you call, your ex-boyfriend like a stray orbiting your doorstep, gravity and guilt braided tight. You don’t have to offer anything. You don’t even have to try and be nice. He comes anyway, like a penance he can carry in paper bags and folded bills.

Headlights rake across the ceiling. You stand, smoothing your sweatshirt, and feel that familiar click somewhere behind your ribs, the place where power sits when you decide to keep it.

He knocks once and then doesn’t come in until you say, “Door’s open.”

Chris steps inside with a little plastic bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other. He’s wearing a plain black tee you want to wrinkle and a jacket you want to make him take off just to prove you can. The air shifts, an old ache, a new rule.

“Hi,” he says, voice small around the edges. He doesn’t look at the couch. He looks at your face like there’s a test written on it.

You let your eyes drag over him, slow and uninterested on purpose. “Put it on the table.”

He obeys immediately, sets the baggies down next to your mug. His fingers linger, then draw back like you burn. He smells like nights you don’t talk about. Cologne and rain and the inside of an Uber with the windows down.

“I can get more if you—” He catches himself, rubs the back of his neck. “If you needed more. I can get it for free.” The words come out in a rush, apologetic and proud at once, like he’s offering proof he still knows how to be useful.

“Mm.” You make a noncommittal sound and watch him squirm.

He hates that you’re good at silence. He always did. You used to weaponize it in fights, now you use it like a leash. He fidgets, glances at your mouth, then away. You lean your hip against the table, the picture of calm, and tear the top corner of the bag open just because you know he’ll feel it.

Chris swallows. “You, uh—you doing okay?”

You lift an eyebrow. “We’re doing wellness checks now?”

“No, I just—” He exhales. “You look…you look good.”

“You look nervous.”

A miserable smile. “Yeah.” He nods once, honest to the bone in the ways that don’t matter. “You got me fucked up.”

You let the line hang there, thick and sweet. It’s unfair how much you like hearing it. “I know.”

Something loosens in his shoulders, like acknowledgment is the only mercy he was hoping for. You don’t give him more. You don’t give him anything he didn’t earn.

He digs in the paper bag and pulls out a lighter without being asked. You take it from him, your fingers not touching his on purpose. The joint you roll is muscle memory. Your hands didn’t forget how to do any of it. Smoke curls up like a question.

He stands there with his jacket still on, waiting for instruction. That’s new, kind of. That’s not who he was when you were together. Then, he was loud and thoughtless and the center of every room. Now, he’s a cautionary tale with a heartbeat.

You tilt your chin toward the hook by the door. “Jacket.”

He moves fast, shrugs it off, hangs it neatly, like if he’s careful enough the past won’t clatter to the floor. When he turns back, you’re looking at him the way he once begged you to. Openly, unkindly, like he’s yours to appraise. The attention hits him like a touch. He shivers.

“Why do you keep coming when I call?” Your voice is soft, but you’re not kind. “You don’t even ask what it’s for.”

“I don’t—” He stops, searching for an answer that won’t embarrass him. Fails. “I don’t wanna tell you how I feel.” He laughs at himself, a breathy, broken sound. “But you know.”

“Say it anyway.”

He licks his lips. The truth wobbles. “I…I could be whatever you want me to be.” He meets your gaze and doesn’t look away. “I could do whatever that you wanted from me.”

Heat prickles under your skin. Not lust, but power. The memory of what it felt like when you didn’t have to wonder if he’d listen, because he never did. You take another drag, slow enough to make him watch your mouth, then thumb ash into the tray.

“You think that fixes what you did?” You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. “You think doing tricks earns you back a seat at my table?”

He flinches. “No…no. I just—I want to make it right. However you’ll let me.”

You study him for a long second, long enough that the nervous twitch in his jaw starts and stops twice. The truth is ugly. The want is still there, mean and undeniable. It always lived in the quiet moments anyway. The ride home with the windows down, the way he’d hold your thigh under restaurant tables, the rasp of his voice when he’d lean in and tell you to come here. You smother that memory under your heel like a spark in dry grass.

“Take off your shoes,” you say.

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does, because he does it without a sound. He tows them neatly to the mat, folds himself smaller in a way that makes the room feel bigger around you. When he straightens, he doesn’t step closer. He waits.

“This isn’t a date.” You flick your gaze from his mouth back to his eyes. “You come when I need something. You leave when I’m done. That’s it.”

He nods, throat working. “Okay.”

“You don’t touch me unless I say.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

“And you don’t look at me like that unless you can afford it.”

That takes him a second. The corner of his mouth lifts, helpless. “What’s the price?”

“You don’t get to ask that.” You tip your head toward the couch. “Sit.”

He does, hands on his knees like he’s afraid to wrinkle your cushions. You set the joint down, pick up the baggie, and tap a neat line onto a coaster just to make him watch. You’re aware of the performance you’re putting on, the way slow movements read like promises. You’re not promising anything. You’re proving a point. He watches, breathing a little loud in the quiet. When you lean over the coffee table, he instinctively leans back to give you space. You could laugh, but you don’t. You drag a knuckle under your nose and breathe in. There are a dozen lines you don’t cross sober. You intend to keep them.

He wets his lips. “Do you want—I can—” He gestures, offering to cut, to line, to serve, to be the pair of hands that always shake a little less than yours.

“No.” You slice the word thin. “You can sit there and be good.”

Color climbs his cheekbones. He’s beautiful when he’s humiliated. You hate that you remember that. He stares at your fingers until you tuck your hand back into your sleeve.

He breaks first, voice quiet. “Can I say something without you…without you taking it as me trying to—” He flails for the word. “Get something?”

You narrow your eyes. “Try.”

He takes a breath that shakes. “I know I don’t deserve to be here. I know that.” His hands flex on his knees. “But I’m—I’m better at being near you than I am at being away from you. Even like this.” He swallows. “Especially like this.”

There it is. The soft center of him, messy and unguarded. The part that makes you meaner because it makes you weak.

“You’re not here for you,” you say.

“I know.” He nods quickly, relief and dread shivering together. “I’m here for you. However you need.”

You step closer then, just enough that he has to tip his chin up to keep your eyes. You look down at him the way you’ve taught him to love, measured and merciless. His lashes flicker. His breath hitches. Your shadow cuts his collarbone in half.

“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to. The room knows who’s holding the leash. Behind your ribs, something warm and ugly purrs. It sounds like victory. It sounds like an old door opening on rusted hinges. You’ll decide how far to let him go. For now, you let him sit there and want, and you let yourself like the wanting.

He looks up again, not quite managing bravery. “If you…if you wanted more—”

You tilt your head, slow as smoke. “You’ll do whatever I want.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. “Whatever you want.”

“Good,” you say again, tasting the word. You pick up the lighter, flick it just to hear the sound. His eyes follow the flame like it’s a star.

“Stay,” you tell him, finally turning away to fetch a glass of water you don’t need. The command is casual as a shrug. It makes his shoulders drop like you’ve just given him air.

“Okay,” he whispers, like a vow he’s relieved to keep. Then, softer, as if he forgot he wasn’t allowed words like this, “you got me fucked up.”

You smile where he can’t see it, small and cruel and yours alone. The night stretches ahead, long and pliant. You decide you’ll shape it when you’re ready.

You sip your water slow, throat working while Chris sits perfectly still on the couch like a dog waiting for the next command. When you set the glass down, his eyes dart to your hands, then away again like he’s ashamed of being caught watching.

You lean against the counter. “So that’s it? You just bring me whatever I want, don’t even ask what it’s for?”

Chris shifts. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I’d rather not know. I just—” His voice hitches, low and rough. “I could do whatever you want me to do. Doesn’t matter what it is. No questions asked.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, you push off the counter, pace a few steps closer. He watches your feet like they’re dangerous.

“You don’t even ask for money,” you remind him. “Not even gas money. Not even for this—” you nudge the little baggie with your knuckle, “and you expect me to believe you’re not still trying to buy me back?”

His throat bobs. “I’m not—I’m not expecting anything. I don’t want you to think—” He breaks off, rubs a hand over his mouth, voice muffled. “I just want to be here. However you’ll let me,” he repeats.

The ache behind his words is real, raw. You hate that it cuts through you, sharp as glass under bare feet. You can’t let him see that, though. You smirk instead, cruel and practiced. “Pathetic.”

His head bows. He doesn’t argue.

The silence hums, heavy. You move closer until you’re standing right over him, forcing his chin up to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, breath unsteady.

“Do you remember,” you murmur, tilting your head, “the night you fucked it all up?”

He flinches, like you’ve struck him. “Yes.”

“You should,” you say. “Because that’s the night you decided a bathroom quickie with some stranger was worth more than everything we built.”

“I was—” His voice cracks, desperate. “I was fucked up. You don't know how fucked up I really was. I wasn't in the right state of mind. I know I fucked it up, okay?” The same words he says anytime you mention that night. His words spill out like confession, like prayer. He stares at you as if absolution might slip from your mouth if he begs hard enough.

You take a slow breath, reach down, and fist the front of his shirt. Tug just hard enough to pull him forward, to make him stumble to his knees at your feet. He doesn’t resist. He never does anymore. You look down at him, savoring the view, Chris kneeling, jaw tight, eyes wide with shame and want.

“That’s right,” you say softly. “You fucked it up. And now you get to live with whatever I give you.”

Your words send chills down his spine.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word rushes out of him, breathless. 

The corner of your mouth lifts, slow and dangerous. You tug his shirt harder, seams straining under your grip. “Good. Because I haven’t even started yet.”

You pause, eyes locked on his, grip unrelenting. “You remember your safe word?”

His throat bobs as he nods quickly, voice wrecked already. “Yeah.”

“Tell me,” you demand.

“Yes. I remember.” His voice cracks, but the certainty in it is clear.

The fabric gives with a satisfying rip, a jagged sound that splits the quiet room. His shirt hangs loose at the collar now, threads frayed where your fist tore through. Chris gasps, eyes darting up to yours, caught between shock and hunger.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.

“You already ruined yourself,” you remind him, and hook two fingers under the torn edge, yanking again. The neckline splits wider, exposing the slope of his shoulder, pale skin begging for your teeth.

He swallows hard, hands flexing against his thighs. He doesn’t move. You haven’t told him to.

“Take it off,” you say finally, low and sharp.

Chris obeys instantly, tugging the shirt over his head and balling it in his fists before realizing he doesn’t know where you want it. He hesitates. That hesitation is its own kind of gift.

“Floor,” you instruct.

He drops it, fabric pooling at your feet. His chest rises and falls quick, nerves and anticipation carving lines down his torso. You let your gaze linger deliberately, dragging your eyes over him.

“You’re still so eager,” you murmur, stepping closer until your knees nearly brush his shoulders. “After everything, you still kneel here like you’re waiting for scraps.”

Chris shudders, looking up at you through his lashes. His voice is ragged. “I could be whatever you want me to be. Anything you want.”

The words are almost pitiful. Almost. You reach down, grip his jaw, tilting his head back until he’s forced to hold your gaze. His breath comes faster under your touch, mouth parted.

“You’ll be what I make you,” you tell him. “That’s the only thing you’re good for now.”

A broken sound slips out of him, half whimper, half laugh, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You push him back, firm, until he topples onto the couch. He sprawls there, caught off guard, hair mussed, lips swollen from biting them. Before he can catch his breath, you straddle his lap, pinning him with your weight. His hands twitch like they want to grab your hips, but you slap them down against the cushions.

“Did I tell you to touch?”

“N-no.” His voice cracks.

“Then keep them there.” You grind down once, slow and punishing, watching his head tip back against the couch. He lets out a strangled groan, thighs trembling under you.

Chris whines low in his throat, nodding frantically. His chest rises and falls under you, breath catching every time you grind your hips down, slow, deliberate, punishing.

“You want this that bad?” you press, leaning in until your lips ghost his throat. His pulse hammers beneath your mouth, desperate. You bite down just enough to make him flinch, then soothe the mark with your tongue.

He shudders under you, his head tipping back against the couch, a broken groan spilling free.

“Every time you come here,” you whisper against his skin, “you hand yourself over like you’re nothing. Like you’d rather bleed than let me go.”

His nails dig into the couch cushions, knuckles white. You drag your nails down his chest, this time sharp enough to leave angry lines in your wake. He arches beneath you, breath catching, a sound of both pain and relief tearing out of him. You smirk, pulling back just enough to watch his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. He’s wrecked already, and you haven’t even decided how far you’ll take him tonight.

“Good boy,” you say softly, cruelly.

You keep him pinned beneath you, straddling his hips, watching the tension ripple through his chest as he struggles to stay still. His wrists twitch against your grip, instinct begging him to touch you, but he doesn’t dare. You can feel it, the way he’s straining not to disobey.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice heavy with disdain. “I barely touched you and you’re already shaking.”

His jaw clenches. He tries to swallow down a sound, but it leaks out anyway, low and needy. You smirk, rolling your hips slow against his lap. His breath stutters, lashes fluttering, and you know he feels how deliberate you are, how cruel you can be. You drag your hips once more, the pressure sharp enough to make him gasp.

“Please…” he manages, voice ragged.

“Please what?” You tilt your head, pretending not to understand. “Be specific.”

His mouth opens and closes, embarrassment burning across his face. His eyes flick up to yours, glassy, pleading. “Please—just let me—”

You grind down harder, cutting him off with a sharp gasp of his own. His whole body arches beneath you, desperate for relief he isn’t allowed to chase.

“Pathetic,” you breathe against his ear. “All it takes is a little pressure and you fall apart.”

He shudders. “I’m sorry—”

The apology makes you laugh, cruel and sharp. “Sorry doesn’t fix anything. You think saying that word erases what you did?”

His eyes squeeze shut, shame written across his face. “No.”

“Exactly.” You release his wrists and immediately tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging his head back so he has no choice but to look at you. “But maybe,” you add, slow and deliberate, “I’ll let you make yourself useful.”

Hope flickers in his eyes, fragile and bright.

“Back on your knees.”

Chris scrambles to obey, sliding off the couch until he’s kneeling in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’s been starved. His hands hover uncertainly at his sides, trembling with restraint. You spread your knees, lean back against the cushions, and watch his breath catch when he realizes what you’re offering.

“Go on,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair. “Earn it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls your cotton shorts to the side, his mouth on you instantly, hot and eager. You let your head fall back against the couch with a sigh. His tongue moves frantically at first, desperate to please, until you yank his hair hard enough to make him still.

“Slow down,” you snap. “You don’t get to rush this. You’ll take your time, exactly how I want.”

Chris whimpers against you, muffled and raw, but he obeys. His tongue drags slow now, deliberate, and you reward him with a sharp tug of his hair that makes him moan into you.

“That’s better,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded as you watch him. His face is flushed, jaw tense with effort, hands fisted tight against his thighs as if he’s holding himself back from grabbing you.

Every few moments, he looks up at you, desperate for approval. You give him nothing but silence, forcing him to work harder, to keep guessing. When his tongue finally hits the right rhythm, you let out a soft moan that makes his whole body jolt like he’s been shocked.

“Yes,” you murmur, grinding against his mouth. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans, the sound vibrating through you, and it makes your toes curl. You pull his hair harder, forcing him closer, until he’s choking on the pressure but refusing to pull away. He’d suffocate before he’d disappoint you, and the thought makes heat flare through your chest.

When you’re close, closer than you mean to be, you yank him back abruptly, ignoring his muffled protest. His lips are swollen, chin slick, and he looks wrecked already.

“You think you deserve my cum?” you snap.

He shakes his head instantly, panting. “No.”

“Exactly.” You wipe your thumb across his mouth, slow and mocking. “You don’t get that yet.”

The desperation in his eyes is intoxicating. He’s trembling, every inch of him begging, but he won’t move without permission. You lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, watching pretty red lines bloom across his skin. His breath catches, a whimper spilling free, and you smirk.

“Get back up here,” you order.

Chris scrambles onto the couch again, hovering nervously, waiting for instruction. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. You straddle him once more, pressing your mouth to his neck, sucking hard until a bruise blossoms under your lips. He moans, hips bucking helplessly against you, but you press down harder to keep him pinned.

“You don’t move,” you hiss into his ear. “Not unless I tell you.”

“I—I won’t,” he promises, voice trembling.

“You better not.” You drag your nails down his back, sharp enough to make him arch. “Because if you do…I’ll leave you like this.”

The threat makes him whine, pathetic yet sweet, his breath hot against your shoulder. And you smile, because you know he’d let you ruin him and come crawling back for more.

You drag your nails down his chest once again, harder this time, watching him twitch beneath you. His breath hitches as more lines rise red on his skin. His hips jerk up instinctively, seeking friction, and you slam your palm against his shoulder to pin him flat.

“I said, don’t move.”

“I—I’m sorry,” he gasps, shame and arousal tangled in every word. His hands go back to clenching the cushions, desperate to hold on.

You grind down against him deliberately, rolling your hips with punishing slowness. The friction makes him choke out a groan, head tipping back, throat bared. You nip at it, hard enough to make him gasp again, then soothe the sting with your tongue.

“You’re already so close,” you murmur against his skin, cruel and mocking. “Pathetic. I could make you come in your jeans if I wanted.”

He whimpers, face flushed, thighs trembling beneath you. “Please…please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You sit up, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t ruin you yet? Don’t make you humiliate yourself before I even let you inside me?”

He shudders, words stumbling. “I’ll be good. Please. I’ll be good.”

“Prove it.” You yank his jeans down rough, shoving them past his hips. He groans in relief, already straining, leaking, pathetic. You climb off him only long enough to strip yourself down, deliberate and unhurried, making him watch. His eyes devour you, wide and reverent, and you smirk.

“You don’t get to touch,” you remind him as you climb back onto his lap, your hand wrapping around him once, just enough to make his whole body shudder. “You sit there and take it.”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, anything.”

You line him up, dragging the head of his cock against you slow, teasing, and his breath stutters like he’s about to break. “Please,” he begs, voice ragged, “I need—I need you.”

You sink down in one smooth, brutal motion, taking him all the way in at once. His cry tears through the room, raw and desperate, his nails clawing into the couch cushions as his hips buck up against your weight.

“Fuck,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Oh my god—”

“Stay still,” you hiss, gripping his shoulders hard. “Don’t you dare move.”

He bites his lip so hard you’re sure it’ll bleed, trembling violently under you as you grind down slow, making him feel every inch. His eyes roll back, chest heaving, sweat shining at his hairline. You ride him deliberately, pace slow, drawing it out until he’s sobbing with the effort of holding still. Every roll of your hips makes him gasp, every squeeze makes him whimper.

“You feel that?” you taunt, leaning in close, your mouth hot against his ear. “That’s what you ruined. This is what you threw away.”

His whole body jerks under you, broken moans spilling out. “I’m sorry,” he babbles. “I’m so sorry—please, I can’t—”

“You don’t get to cum until I say.” You rake your nails down his back, even harder this time, leaving fresh welts. He cries out, the sound shattering, but his hips stay pinned, obedient despite the shaking.

“Good boy,” you breathe, mocking and sharp. “Maybe you’re not completely useless.”

The praise breaks him further. He keens, eyes glassy, begging incoherently. You grind harder, faster now, feeling the tension coil tight between your thighs. Your fingers dig into his hair, yanking his head back so you can bite at his throat again, marking him as yours.

“Say it,” you order, breathless. “Say what you are.”

“I’m—” His voice cracks, tears spilling into the corners of his eyes. “I’m yours. I’m nothing without you. Please—”

The confession makes you clench around him, dragging a sob from his chest. You ride him harder, using his body, taking what you want. He writhes beneath you, wrecked and pliant, every sound pouring out like worship.

When you finally allow yourself to tip over, it’s with your nails sinking deep into his shoulders, your body trembling as waves crash through you. You ride it out mercilessly, grinding down on him as he sobs under the force of it, begging for release.

You pull back just enough to look at him, flushed, shaking, tears on his cheeks, mouth open in broken pleas. You decide to grant him mercy. “Come for me,” you command, sharp as a whip.

He doesn’t last a second. His whole body arches off the couch, hips jerking helplessly as he spills inside you with a cry that sounds like both agony and salvation. You ride him through it, squeezing every drop from him until he collapses, boneless and shaking beneath you. His eyes stay fixed on you, glassy and adoring, like you’re both the executioner and the only thing keeping him alive. You lean back, catch your breath, and smirk down at him. “Pathetic,” you whisper again, just to watch him flinch and melt at once.

His head falls back against the couch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks ruined, glassy-eyed, lips swollen, trembling under your weight. But you don’t climb off. Instead, you shift your hips and start moving again.

His eyes fly open, panic and pleasure colliding all at once. “W–wait—” he gasps, voice wrecked. His hands twitch against the cushions like he doesn’t know if he should fight or surrender. “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you cut him off, your tone sharp enough to slice through the air. You roll your hips deliberately, grinding down on him until his whole body jerks with a strangled moan. “You’ll take it. You’ll give me what I want.”

He whimpers, head tipping back, exposing his throat. “It’s too much—”

“Good.” Your nails bite into his shoulders for balance as you ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His whines turn broken, incoherent, every thrust pulling him apart a little more. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and you smile at the sound of his voice breaking.

“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Please, I can’t—”

“Shut up,” you snap. His cry fills the room, raw and guttural, and the noise only spurs you on.

You grind down harder, pace unrelenting, your own climax building fast. You cling to him, pressing your mouth against his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise as the heat coils in your belly.

“I’m not done,” you pant against his skin. “I want to come again. You’re going to make me.”

His eyes roll back, tears slipping free, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. He nods frantically even as his body trembles under the relentless pace. “Anything,” he chokes. “Anything you want—”

Your nails dig in deeper, sharper, until you feel the thin skin of his shoulders break under your grip. Hot blood beads beneath your fingertips, streaking red down his back. His whole body seizes at the sting, a sob tearing out of him, and then he’s gone. He convulses under you, crying out as his second orgasm rips through him, messy and uncontrolled. His release pulses inside you again, thick and hot, his body twitching violently as the overstimulation drags him to pieces.

The sight of him undone, the tears on his cheeks, blood under your nails, his body jerking helplessly, pushes you over the edge. Your climax crashes down, raw and brutal, your nails digging deeper into his torn skin as your hips grind hard against him. You ride out every wave, using him, taking what you want while he sobs beneath you.

When you finally slow, breathless, you stay seated on him, your nails still pressed into the welts you carved. He’s a wreck. His chest soaked with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around broken whimpers. Blood smears across your fingertips, bright against your skin, and you trail them down his chest just to watch him shudder.

“Look at you,” you murmur, cruel and satisfied. “Bleeding for me. Falling apart for me. Twice.”

Chris blinks up at you, pupils blown wide, tears still clinging to his lashes. He looks wrecked. He looks worshipful. He looks like he’d let you do it all over again if you asked. You smirk, leaning down until your lips graze his ear. “Pathetic,” you whisper, and feel him shiver under the word like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You stay on him until the twitching stops, until every last pulse of his release fades into trembling silence. Then you climb off slowly, deliberately, ignoring the way his body sags in relief under you.

Chris collapses against the couch, a boneless wreck. His chest heaves, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, red lines slashed across his back, chest, and shoulders where your nails left him open. He’s still hard, still leaking, but too spent to move. You don’t look at him. Instead, you bend to grab the paper bag he brought, pluck a preroll from the bottom, and light it with the cheap lighter. The first drag fills your lungs, smoke curling out of your lips like a sigh. When you finally glance at him, he’s watching you like you hung the moon, wrecked and worshipful, blood streaked down his spine, tears drying at the corners of his eyes. He looks ruined. He looks addicted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say flatly, exhaling smoke in his direction.

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. His voice is a whisper, hoarse and cracked. “I can’t help it.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch, joint balanced between your fingers. “Pathetic.”

He takes the word like a knife to the gut and a kiss on the mouth at the same time. His lips part, trembling, and then he says it again, the thing he always says, the thing you’ll never let him forget. “You gave me one chance, and I fucked it up.” His voice breaks, chest rising fast. “I was fucked up. I ruined it. I ruined us.”

You take another drag, hold the smoke in your lungs until it burns. When you blow it out, the cloud drifts between you like a wall. “You’re right.”

His breath stutters. He swallows hard, looks down at his ruined hands, fisting the couch cushions. “I’d do anything,” he whispers. “Whatever you want. However you want it. Just to stay here.”

The desperation in his voice grates against something soft inside you, and you crush it quick. You stub the joint out in the ashtray, lean forward, and press your palm against his chest. He startles at the touch, eyes darting up, but you shove him back down into the cushions with a smirk.

“You don’t get to stay,” you tell him. “Not unless I say. You come when I want something. You leave when I’m done. That’s all this is.”

Chris nods quickly, frantic, even as his eyes shine with something heavier. “Okay,” he whispers. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” You stand, tugging on your sweatshirt like nothing happened, like you didn’t just rip him open with your nails and take him apart twice over. You head for the kitchen, refill your water glass, and leave him sitting there, ruined and quiet.

When you return, he’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, waiting for scraps. You hand him his shirt from the floor. The collar is ripped, the fabric streaked with sweat and a smear of blood. He clutches it like it’s a gift. You sit back down, cross-legged on the couch, glass of water in one hand, joint in the other. You look at him like he’s nothing. You look at him like he’s everything.

“Go home,” you say finally, voice soft but sharp.

For a moment, you think he won’t move. Then he nods, slow and heavy, tugging his ruined shirt back on. He winces at the sting of fabric against the fresh scratches, but he doesn’t complain. He never does.

At the door, he pauses, fingers tight on the handle. He glances back once, eyes glassy and wrecked. “You know I’d bleed for you,” he says quietly.

You exhale smoke, let it drift toward him like a wave goodbye. “I know,” you murmur, and turn your head away before he can see that some part of you loves it.

The door clicks shut, and the apartment hums again. You sit in the haze of smoke and silence, heart beating steady, skin still buzzing, the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. You don’t let yourself think about what it means. You don’t let yourself admit that you’ll call him again. You already know you will.

add yourself to my taglist 🫶

back to masterlist or au masterlist ✨

The day had carried a different weight. You could feel it in the way Matt and Ava moved through the house when they came back from their first counseling session. Not fighting, not cold exactly, but quieter. Usually, Matt would pause in the kitchen first, loosen his tie, kiss the kids’ heads, steal a bite of whatever you were finishing on the stove. Tonight, he barely looked up. His shoes carried him straight past the chatter, past the smell of dinner, up the stairs without a word. The study light flicked on a moment later, and that was it. A door half-shut. Silence where his presence should’ve been.

Ava tried. She slid into her usual seat at the island, glass of wine in hand, smile carefully balanced. She asked about school, listened when the kids talked over each other, even laughed once when Leo knocked over his juice. But her gaze drifted toward the ceiling every time the conversation lulled, as if she could still feel him pacing above her.

You kept the rhythm steady, or at least as steady as you could. Dinner on plates, cartoons in the background, the usual chaos of spilled milk and too much ice cream after they finished eating. The kids didn’t notice a thing. They never did. They were blissfully, mercifully untouched by the quiet fracture that seemed to live in the walls tonight.

When Ava finally stood, she touched your arm in passing. “I’m going to bed early,” she murmured, voice light, tired at the edges. The scent of her perfume lingered after her as she disappeared up the stairs, robe trailing behind. That left you with the kids. Still awake. Still buzzing with leftover energy. You gathered plates, wiped sticky fingers, let the noise fill the hollow places he and Ava had left behind. From upstairs, the faint creak of the office chair carried through the vents, a reminder that Matt was still awake. Still working. Still somewhere else entirely.

The house softened by degrees as the night wore on. Plates rinsed, counters wiped down, cartoons fading into background static. The chaos dwindled until only the small, familiar requests remained. “One more episode,” “five more minutes,” “can I have water?”

By the time the clock blinked past nine, the weight of the day finally began to settle over the kids, their energy dimming. You gathered them upstairs, the hush of the hallway wrapping around all of you like a blanket. Leo was the first to fold. He climbed into bed with his stuffed dinosaur tucked under his arm, eyes still bright but body already sagging with sleep. You pulled the blankets up, settled beside him with a book, and let your voice fill the quiet.

Leo curled close to your side as you opened the book, his small fingers tracing the illustrations even though his eyelids were already heavy. The lamplight painted the room in soft amber, shadows spilling long across the carpet. You read slowly, letting the words sink into the hush. He whispered along with the parts he remembered, voice slipping in and out like waves against the shore. By the third page, his hand had stilled on your arm, the weight of it warm and trusting. You smoothed his hair back, watching the way his lashes fluttered, his breathing deepening with every sentence. Your voice softened, tapering until the words blurred into rhythm more than story.

By the time you reached the last page, his dinosaur had slid to the side, gripped loosely in one slack hand. His mouth parted, a tiny sigh leaving him as he finally surrendered to sleep. You stayed for a moment longer, sitting there with the book closed in your lap, just listening to the steady sound of his breathing. There was something grounding about it, the simplicity of a child’s sleep, the way it ignored everything heavy that lived outside this room. Gently, you shifted the dinosaur back into the crook of his arm, tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Your fingers lingered in his hair one last time, smoothing it from his forehead.

The house was hushed now. Only the low hum of the AC moved through the quiet, the kind of silence that felt thick, watchful. You rose carefully, easing the lamp off with a soft click, and pulled the door shut until only a thin seam of light from the hallway remained.

The door latched with a soft click, leaving you in the dim stretch of hallway alone. For a moment, you just stood there, hand still resting against the wood, listening to the hush that followed.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty so much as heavy, thick with everything the day had carried. Ava asleep down the hall. The kids tucked safe into their beds. 

You drew in a slow breath, bare feet padding quietly against the rug as you started back toward your own room. For a brief second, you let yourself feel it, the strange loneliness of being awake when the rest of the house had already given up its fight. The weight of wanting things you couldn’t name. The pulse of something unsettled in the stillness.

You slowed when you reached the bend in the hallway. Matt was there, just outside the master bedroom. He wasn’t moving, not reaching for the door, not heading anywhere else. Just standing, shoulders set like a man carrying too much weight. His collar was undone, tie gone, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Even from a few steps away, you could see the tension knotted through him.

He didn’t notice you at first. His gaze was fixed on the door, jaw clenched, something unreadable pressed into the set of his face. But then his eyes lifted, and they caught yours in the low light. It was a small thing, a glance, a beat too long, but it landed heavy. Like every unspoken word from the last week had pooled between you in an instant.

You stopped where you were, the hush of the house pressing in. He didn’t look away. Didn’t step inside. Just held his eyes on you there in the thick silence, as if the air itself had turned into a question neither of you could answer.

You shifted under the weight of his stare, the silence wrapping tighter the longer it stretched. Finally, you took a small step backward, forcing a polite smile. “I should—” you started, tilting your head toward the guest wing.

“Stay.”

The word came out low and much rougher than he meant it to. His hand lifted, not to touch you, just enough to stop you in your tracks. For a second, he looked like he might regret saying it, but then his jaw tightened. “Just for a minute.”

You hesitated. The right thing would’ve been to keep walking. To leave him to his silence, to the door he still hadn’t opened. But his eyes were too heavy on yours, and your feet stayed rooted where they were. He turned before you could answer, moving down the hall. Toward the guest room at the end. A neutral space, untouched, stripped of her and their shared history. He pushed the door open, glanced back once to see if you’d follow.

You did.

The door didn’t close all the way, just a quiet click against the frame without the catch of the latch. Reckless. Both of you knew it. He braced a hand on the edge of the desk, his back half-turned, chest rising hard with a breath he didn’t seem able to let out. When he looked at you again, his voice was lower, strained. “I can’t fight it anymore.”

He didn’t move toward you at first. Just stood there, braced against the desk, like the weight of his own body was too much to hold. His hand dragged over his mouth, then up into his hair, restless, as if he could scrub the thoughts away.

“I’ve spent weeks trying to fight this,” he said finally, voice low and uneven. “Telling myself it’s nothing. That I can keep it clean. Keep it controlled. If I stay upstairs, if I keep my head down, if I don’t let myself look at you too long…” He broke off with a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t work. It never works. Every time you’re with them, every time you walk into a room, it’s like—” His gaze snapped to yours, heavy, desperate. “I lose the fight before it even starts.”

He exhaled, harsh and quick. “I sat in a room today and talked about saving a marriage I can barely hold together. Thought maybe it’d make me feel lighter. Stronger. Like I was doing the right thing.” His shoulders lifted in a sharp breath, then dropped, defeated. “But it didn’t. It just made me feel trapped. And then I look at you, and—” His voice cracked off, raw in the quiet. “You’re the only thing that makes my chest stop caving in.”

The air pressed thick between you, heavy enough you could feel it in your lungs.

“It isn’t just wanting,” he said, quieter now, eyes locked on yours. “It’s you. The way you are with them. The way you are with me, even when I don’t deserve it. I’ve told myself a hundred times to stop, and I can’t.”

For a beat, neither of you moved. His confession hung there, fragile, dangerous, but real, and when he finally pushed off the desk and crossed the last step toward you, it felt inevitable.  Your chest felt tight, every word he’d just confessed still buzzing in your ears. The weight of it pressed down until you couldn’t take it anymore. You shook your head, taking a small step back into the room, putting just enough space between you to breathe.

“Matt…we can’t.” The words were barely more than a whisper, fragile and trembling in the quiet.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unflinching. “I know,” he said, voice rough, like the admission scraped his throat. He stepped forward anyway, reclaiming the space you’d tried to put between you. “I know we shouldn’t. But I can’t stop.”

The room felt smaller instantly. He lifted his hand, hovering near your jaw, fingers flexing once as if he didn’t have the right. He didn’t touch you yet. Waiting, watching. Your pulse jumped. You should’ve moved again, should’ve left while you still could. Instead, you tilted your head just slightly, leaning into the space where his hand lingered. A fraction. Barely anything at all. It was enough. His breath caught, restraint snapping clean through. His mouth found yours like a man testing the edge of fire. Tentative at first, the faintest brush, soft enough that you almost thought he’d stop there. But then the restraint slipped, and the kiss deepened, hungrier, carrying every unsaid thing between you. Your breath hitched, and before you could think better of it, your hand fisted in the front of his shirt, clutching him closer. He groaned low against your mouth, the sound rough, guttural, like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

The kiss moved fast, from careful to desperate, from cautious to claiming. His hand cupped your jaw, steadying you, angling you into him, while the other gripped your hip as if to remind himself you were real. There was nothing polite left in it. Only the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the ragged drag of his breath as he kissed you like he’d run out of time.

His lips moved against yours with a heat that startled you, the kind of hunger that didn’t belong in quiet rooms like this. And yet he didn’t rush it. Even as the kiss deepened, he kept pausing just enough that you felt the pull of restraint underneath, a stutter in his breath, a slight loosening before he came back harder, as though he was fighting himself with every pass of his mouth.

The rhythm built quickly, heat spiraling higher with every drag of his body against yours. Nothing between you had crossed the line yet, not really, clothes were still on, but the touches were skirting the edge. It was dangerous, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. The kiss broke just long enough for him to drag in a breath, his eyes burning into yours, and then his hands were on your waist. Firm, steady, guiding. He walked you backward until the backs of your thighs hit the mattress.

Before you could catch yourself, he pushed gently, lowering you onto the bed. Not rough, not careless, just enough pressure that you felt the intent behind it, the quiet stay here in the weight of his palms.

Your back met the mattress, breath catching, and then he was above you, braced on one arm, his body covering yours without crushing. His mouth claimed yours again, hotter this time, as though the shift in position had stripped away the last thin layer of restraint.

The first grind was slow, deliberate. His length hard and thick through his slacks, dragging over you where you were already aching. The friction lit through your nerves like fire, sharp and dizzying, your hands flying up to pull him closer. A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. Too loud. His mouth tore from yours, forehead pressing to yours, his palm sweeping up to cover your lips.

“Shhh,” he breathed, voice rough and trembling. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, not harsh, but warning. “The kids…they’re just down the hall.”

Your chest rose fast against his, the heat of him pressing harder with every second. You nodded under his hand, and that was all he needed.

He rocked into you again, this time with more urgency, his free hand gripping your waist, anchoring you against the bed as his hips ground down. The friction stole your breath, fabric dragging, the lines of your clothes twisting as you moved against each other. Every thrust grew more desperate, his breath breaking into low groans against your cheek. You clung to him harder, fingers fisting his shirt, tugging him closer as if that would ease the ache building inside you.

The rhythm picked up, messy and frantic, nothing but heat and restraint colliding. His slacks rasped against the thin cotton of your sleep shorts, every drag more intoxicating, every rut deeper. The bed creaked faintly under you, the sound drowned by your muffled gasps and the guttural sound he made as he pressed harder, chasing relief he could no longer hold back.

The bed dipped with every shift of his body, his weight bearing down on you, keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you. Each roll of his hips pressed cock against you, dragging over your clothed core with enough pressure to make your stomach clench.

You gasped into his palm, thighs parting further instinctively to meet him. The friction was brutal and perfect, clothes twisting, fabric biting in all the right ways. Every drag of his cock through his slacks slid against the damp spot spreading quickly between your legs, and the heat of it made your head tip back, eyes squeezing shut.

“Fuck…” he hissed against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours. His voice was a rasp, ragged with restraint. “You feel that? God, you feel so fucking good—”

You whimpered, muffled under his hand, but the sound was enough to make his hips snap harder, grinding you deeper into the mattress. His free hand fisted the sheets beside your head, knuckles white.

“I want you,” he groaned, the words spilling out broken, desperate. “You don’t know how bad—” He kissed you again, swallowing your gasp, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he pulled back just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, wild, every trace of discipline gone. “I want to be inside you so bad it’s driving me insane.”

The admission sent a sharp pulse through you, heat flooding low in your belly. You arched up against him, grinding back, chasing more of that friction until your whole body trembled with it. His jaw clenched, his breath catching hard as he felt you move with him, not just letting him but meeting him stroke for stroke.

“You’d take me so well,” he whispered, voice frayed, his hips grinding down harder as if the words themselves were undoing him. “I think about it all the time. Filling you, fucking you until you can’t—” His mouth crushed back onto yours, the rest of his words lost in a groan. Your body burned under his, every nerve alive, the sharp edge of pleasure coiling tighter with each frantic rut of his hips. Your nails dug into his back through the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, keeping him there even as your mind screamed that you should stop.

There was no stopping. Not anymore.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he rasped, his hand slipping lower, pressing the fabric between your thighs to feel it for himself. His touch made you jolt, your cry muffled under his palm when he covered your mouth again. “Shhh,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t wake them, baby. Just let me have you like this. Just for tonight.”

The words sent you spiraling. You clung to him, nails scraping down his back. The friction grew unbearable, the drag of his cock against you sharper, wetter, the ache coiling low until it snapped. Your climax hit in a rush, your body trembling under him, thighs clenching as heat flooded through you. The muffled cry against his hand was swallowed by his mouth a second later, his kiss stealing every sound as your hips bucked helplessly into his.

Your release left you shaking, thighs clamped tight around his hips as the sharp waves tore through you. The friction didn’t stop. If anything, he ground harder into you, riding out every spasm of your body against his own.

Then it hit him, his orgasm tearing through every ounce of control he had left. He let out a guttural groan, low and ragged, his hips locking hard against you as his cock jerked violently inside his slacks. The first hot gush flooded out in a thick, messy spill, soaking straight through the fabric, spreading heat instantly between your bodies.

He gasped against your throat, the sound broken, almost pained. His cock kept twitching, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic spasms, each one harder than the last. You could feel it drag through the thin barrier of your shorts, the wet warmth spreading in a hot, sticky bloom.

His breath tore uneven from his chest, groans muffled into your skin as he ground down helplessly, rutting, like his body was trying to push everything deeper into the ruined mess of his pants. “Fuck,” he rasped, his cock throbbed again, jerking against the soaked fabric, releasing the last heavy gush of heat into the dark stain spreading across his slacks. His thighs trembled, muscles giving out, his weight sagging over you as the orgasm wrung through him.

When it finally ebbed, his cock still gave small, weak pulses inside the sticky ruin of his pants, twitching against you with aftershocks. Each little throb made him groan softly, almost involuntarily, his body refusing to let go even after it was over.

He buried his face in your neck, sweat dampening your skin, his voice hoarse and wrecked when he whispered, “God…I’ve never cum that hard.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Matt’s weight was heavy over you. His breath sawed raggedly against your neck, damp with sweat, every exhale shuddering like he hadn’t found solid ground yet. You let your hands rest against his back, still holding the fabric of his shirt, still feeling the heat of him pressed into you everywhere. The silence wrapped tight around the both of you, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the uneven rhythm of his breathing. When he finally lifted his head, his face was flushed, hair mussed, mouth swollen from your kisses. His eyes met yours, and for a second, you didn’t see the CEO, the husband, the father. Just a man who’d come completely apart in your arms. 

But the look didn’t last.

Guilt slid in, sharp and unmistakable. His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering down to where your bodies still touched, to the wrinkled clothes, the damp heat pressed between you. He shifted back slightly, just enough to breathe without dragging against the mess he’d made, but not enough to let go of you entirely.

You felt it too. The guilt. The wrongness. The ghost of Ava’s voice earlier in the week, thanking you for all your help, calling you a lifesaver. The echo of her footsteps going upstairs tonight, trusting you to handle everything else. Your chest ached with it, tangled with the rush of what you’d just felt, with the memory of his mouth on yours, his body grinding into you until you unraveled.

Matt’s hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your skin as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching you, even now. His voice was quiet, frayed at the edges. “I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “I know.”

But neither of you pulled away.

Matt finally eased back enough that his weight wasn’t pressing you into the mattress, though his body still hovered close. You could see it wash over him, that sudden drop, the crash of clarity that you knew would come after. His eyes flicked down to where your clothes were wrinkled and damp, to the mess clinging between you, and his jaw clenched like the sight alone was enough to shame him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What the fuck did I just do?”

The words cut through you. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but the raw honesty stung.

He shook his head, gaze locking on yours again, voice breaking softer this time. “I can’t stop wanting you. I’ve tried, and it’s eating me alive. And now—” His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach for you again. “Now I’ve done something that I can’t take back.”

You swallowed, your own throat tight. “Matt…”

He leaned closer, his forehead almost brushing yours again, as if he couldn’t decide between pulling away or burying himself in you. His words spilled out low, ragged. “I think about you all the time. In this house. In my office. At night in my own bed, with her next to me. And I hate myself for it. I fucking hate it.”

The confession lodged in your chest like a blade. You wanted to tell him you felt the same, that you thought about him constantly, that he made it impossible not to. Instead, you whispered, “We can’t do this to her. Not again. She trusts me. She…she trusts you.”

“I know,” he rasped. His eyes closed for a beat, pain carved into the lines of his face. “This can’t happen again.”

But even as he said it, his hand came up, brushing your jaw, thumb lingering at the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t let go.

Your voice cracked in the quiet. “I don’t want it to stop.”

His breath caught. For a second, you thought he might kiss you again, drag you back under. Instead, he exhaled hard, forehead pressing to yours like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread.

“Neither do I,” he admitted, voice torn. “But that’s a problem.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with everything you’d both confessed and everything you’d both denied. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until it became too much. Matt finally pulled back, the loss of his warmth immediate, like a door slammed shut. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, tugging your shirt back into place, fingers fumbling with the hem as if the fabric could erase what had just happened. The mess between you clung as a reminder stamped into your skin.

Matt let out a long, ragged exhale and straightened, running a hand through his hair. His slacks were ruined, his shirt wrinkled where your fists had clung to him. He looked nothing like the man who usually came home in pressed suits and crisp lines. He looked raw. Human. Ruined.

“This can’t…” he started, then stopped, his voice frayed. He swallowed, forcing himself to look at you. “It can’t happen again.”

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “I know.” Your chest ached with it, because the truth was still burning hot in your blood.

He stared at you like he knew it too. His hand flexed against his thigh, restless, torn between reaching for you again and pushing you away completely. “You should go,” he said finally, softer, steadier than before. “Before I make this worse.”

You stood on shaky legs, smoothing your shorts, your palms clammy. Neither of you moved toward the door right away. You hovered, caught in the pull of him, knowing that if he asked you to stay, you would.

But he didn’t.

You slipped past him quietly, the air still charged, his scent still clinging to your clothes. The door eased shut behind you with the faintest click. The hallway was dim and still. Only the hum of the AC filled the silence. You padded back toward your room on unsteady feet, your chest tight, your body still thrumming with the echo of what had just happened.  

Behind you, still in the guest room, Matt sat in the dark, staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them. His release clung to his ruined slacks, a mess he couldn’t clean as easily as the one in his chest. And down the hall, Ava slept, untouched by the secret that had already shifted the bones of the house.

add yourself to my taglist 🫶

back to masterlist or au masterlist ✨

The house feels different after that night in the guest room. Not louder, not broken, but as if every sound now carries weight.

At breakfast, Ava is trying. You can see it in the way she leans forward at the island, in the careful, deliberate questions she asks Matt. They’re the kind you’ve heard therapists suggest on podcasts. All open-ended, grounding, meant to invite rather than accuse. 

“How was the meeting you had yesterday?” she asks gently, passing him the butter. “Do you want me to block out time for you this weekend? We could take the kids to the park, just us.” Her voice stays steady, her hands busy with pancakes, her smile constant even when his eyes stay glued to his coffee.

He nods sometimes. Offers clipped answers. But the connection she’s trying to build slides right off him. 

“Fine.” “We’ll see.” “I’ll let you know.”

You sit across the counter from them, cutting Em’s strawberries into halves, pretending not to notice the tension that strings between husband and wife like a too-tight wire. Ava makes eye contact with you once, as if to say, ‘See? I’m doing what they told me.’ You smile, and guilt burns under your ribs because you know she is. She’s trying.

And you, you’re remembering the way Matt had braced you to the mattress, the sound of his groan muffled against your mouth, the sharp drag of his hips.

It continues to get worse in small ways.

You catch yourself in the mirror before breakfast, spending more time on your hair than you need to. Smoothing flyaways with careful fingers, adding a little shine serum you haven’t touched in months. At first, you tell yourself it’s habit, self-care maybe. But when you notice the extra five minutes you spend choosing your panties, when you realize you’ve chosen the lingerie with the lace trim even though you both agreed it wouldn't happen again, shame rushes hot through your chest. By the fourth morning, it’s undeniable. You’re dressing for him, even if it’s buried in your subconscious, even if he doesn’t look at you anymore. Especially because he doesn’t.

At breakfast, Ava is glowing with effort. She has makeup on at 7:30 a.m., a swipe of mascara, gloss that makes her lips shine when she laughs at Em’s knock-knock joke. She asks Matt about his schedule, nudges his arm when he doesn’t answer quickly. You see the flicker of something like annoyance in his jaw, the way he sets down his mug a little too firmly before excusing himself with a flat, “I should get going.”

The garage door groans, his car pulls away, and the kitchen deflates. Ava straightens the napkin under Leo’s plate even though he’s still using it. “He’s tired,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “We’ll get there.”

You nod, heart caught in your throat. ‘We.’ As if she and Matt are on the same side, rowing toward something together. And maybe they are. Maybe they still could be. You shouldn’t be in the boat at all.

Evenings are the worst.

You make family dinners, roast chicken, salad, ice cream sundaes. Ava pours a glass of wine but keeps it light, laughing more than she feels, filling the silence with questions for the kids. “What was the best part of your day? Tell me something funny your teacher said.” You clear dishes, wipe counters, stay in motion. Because if you stop, you’ll remember Matt’s mouth against your throat, his hand spanning your waist like he owned it.

Most nights, Matt doesn’t make it home in time for dinner. Ava still insists you set a plate for him, warming it in the oven, glancing at the clock. When she sighs, she catches herself, pastes a smile on quickly, and says something upbeat to the kids instead.

One night, after you’ve tucked them in and now rinsing dishes, she lingers in the kitchen doorway. “He used to be home for this,” she says softly. Not angry. Just tired. “He used to sit right there and steal bites before the kids were done.” 

You force a smile, throat tight. “Work’s busy.” 

“I know.” She exhales, shoulders falling. “I just thought…after counseling, he’d try harder.”

Your stomach twists. Because you know exactly where he was two nights ago, pressed against you, whispering how badly he wanted to be inside you.

By the end of the week, the pattern is set. Ava keeps leaning into the therapist’s advice, trying with a kind of earnest determination that hurts to watch. Matt keeps shutting down, burying himself in his office, clinging to late nights and work that never seems to end. And you’re left in the middle, carrying a secret that makes every one of Ava’s efforts feel like a knife to the gut.

At night, when you lie down, the lace on your hips feels less like something pretty and more like an accusation. You untwist your braid and catch your reflection in the mirror, shame twisting hot in your chest. Because she’s trying. And you’re the reason it isn’t working.

Matt’s absence becomes a routine all its own. At first, you think maybe it’s coincidence. One long night at the office, then another. A late meeting, a call that ran over. But by the end of the week, it’s obvious. He isn’t just working late. He’s staying away.

The house shifts around his absence. Ava tries to keep dinner lively, but her smile strains at the edges. She asks questions she already knows the answers to. “Did you learn a new song in music class?” “Who did you play with at recess?” Then laughs too brightly when the kids tumble over each other to answer. She sets a plate at Matt’s spot every night, slides it into the oven to keep warm, and then scrapes it into Tupperware before bed. You watch her tuck the leftovers away like she’s tucking away hope. Every sealed lid feels like proof.

On a Tuesday morning, it slips out.

The kids are squabbling over cereal boxes, Ava is fussing with Leo’s shoelaces, and Matt is standing at the island with his phone in one hand, coffee in the other. His tie isn’t knotted yet, hanging loose around his neck like he put it on out of obligation. His eyes are on the screen, not the room.

Ava looks at him for a long moment, lips pressed together. Then, softly, like she doesn’t mean for you to hear it, “You used to be home for dinner.” The words are quiet, almost tender, but they land hard.

Matt’s thumb stills on his phone. He doesn’t look up. “Things are busy.”

“That’s what you always say.” She ties the loop of Leo’s sneaker tighter than necessary, her fingers a little too quick. “We’re supposed to be working on this. Together.”

He exhales hard, finally lifting his eyes to hers. “I know.” But it sounds more like dismissal than agreement.

The silence that follows is heavy. The kids don’t notice, lost in their own chatter. You keep your eyes on the counter, cutting apple slices into neat wedges, wishing the air didn’t feel so sharp.

When Matt finally leaves, Ava lingers in the doorway, her expression folded in on itself. She shakes her head once, like she can shake it off, then straightens with practiced resolve. “Okay, shoes on, backpacks ready. Time to go.”

Tonight, the pattern repeats. The oven hums with another untouched plate. The kids watch cartoons while Ava sips her wine slower than usual. Her phone buzzes on the counter. She picks it up, reads, and her mouth flattens. “He’s staying late again.”

You don’t ask what excuse he gave.

Ava sighs, setting the phone down. “I’ll put the kids to bed tonight.” She glances at you, her voice softer now, tired in a way she doesn’t usually show. “Would you mind taking him dinner? Just something easy. I’d like to be the one who tucks them in for once.”

Your heart stutters. There are a hundred reasons to say no. A hundred excuses that might work. But her eyes are already on you, hopeful, weary, trusting.

“Of course,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

“Thank you.” She exhales like the word is more than relief, like it’s gratitude and apology wrapped together. “I’ll pack it up for you.”

You help her gather leftovers into neat containers, every snap of a plastic lid puncturing your chest. She thanks you again when she hands over the bag. Then she’s gone upstairs, her footsteps soft against the carpet, leaving you alone with the weight of it.

The food feels heavy in your hand. So does the knowledge of what you’re about to do, what you’re about to risk just by walking through his office door. You step out into the night with your heart pounding hard enough to echo in your ears.

The office looks different at night. No polished boardroom energy, no sharp edges of daylight. Just the dim glow of a desk lamp spilling over papers, casting long shadows across the floor. His jacket is slung over the back of a chair, shoes abandoned near the window. The air smells faintly of coffee and cedar, sharper now that the rest of the building is empty.

Matt sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie undone and hanging loose around his collar. His hair is mussed like he’s run a hand through it too many times. He doesn’t look up when you step inside; he just drags a palm down his face, staring at the spreadsheet on the screen like it might rearrange itself if he waits long enough. You clear your throat gently. “Ava wanted me to bring this.”

His head lifts, slow, eyes shadowed. For a second, he just looks at you, unreadable, before his gaze drops to the bag in your hand. “Thanks,” he says finally. His voice is rougher than usual, lower, like it’s been ground down by the day.

You set the bag on his desk. He doesn’t move to open it. Doesn’t even glance inside. Just leans back in his chair, shoulders sinking with exhaustion, his eyes sliding away from yours. The silence stretches, heavy.

You fidget, smoothing the hem of your sweater. “She wanted to tuck the kids in.”

That gets a reaction. His jaw flexes, a muscle twitching. He nods once, still not looking at you. “Good.”

It should end there. You should tell him goodnight, slip out of the office, drive home with the relief of a task finished. But you don’t. You linger. Because he looks…ruined. The man who always walks into a room crisp, calculated, untouchable now looks like he’s unraveling, thread by thread.

“Long day?” you ask softly.

He huffs a humorless laugh, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “They’re all long.” His voice carries something heavier beneath it. A truth he won’t say.

Your hand hovers before you even think. You reach across the desk, fingertips brushing his wrist where it rests on the wood. Warm skin. A pulse under your touch. He freezes, eyes snapping up to yours.

The silence between you changes. Not empty. Charged. Matt studies you for a long moment, eyes dark, searching your face like he’s making a decision. His wrist shifts, turning just enough that his thumb grazes the side of your hand. The smallest, deliberate movement.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says finally, voice low, gravel rough.

Your breath stutters. You should pull your hand back. You don’t.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze fixed on yours. “If you wanted…” He pauses, the weight of it heavy in the quiet. “…you could help me relax.”

The words land like a stone in your chest, sinking deep. There’s no mistaking what he’s asking, even though it’s said soft, subtle. Not a command. Not a plea. But an invitation. For a beat, you can’t move. Your mind flashes images you shouldn’t hold onto, his mouth at your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress, the broken sound of your name on his lips.

“Matt…” The protest dies on your tongue.

He doesn’t push. Just waits, gaze steady, his hand still brushing yours. You exhale hard, trembling as you lean across the desk, closing the gap between you. His breath ghosts your lips, warm, unsteady. And then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you kiss him. The moment his mouth meets yours, all the air leaves the room.

The kiss doesn’t stay soft for long. His chair scrapes back against the floor, and he’s on his feet, dragging you in by the waist. Your hip bumps the edge of his desk, papers rustling, but he doesn’t care. His body pressing flush to yours is all that matters. His mouth is hot and desperate against yours, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been waiting for years. His hand fists in the fabric at your lower back, hauling you closer, groaning your name against your mouth like it hurts him to keep it in.

“God—” he rasps, lips dragging down to your jaw, the corner of your mouth, back again. “You—” His breath breaks, catching on a sound that’s almost a growl. He kisses you harder, hungrier, until your knees go weak and you’re clutching at his shirt just to stay steady.

The taste of him is dizzying, coffee, heat, and something sharper underneath, like restraint burning itself out. He mouths at you like he’s trying to memorize every angle, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, groaning when you meet him with equal need.

Between kisses, his words slip out, wrecked and low, each one a confession he swore he’d never make. “I can’t—” another kiss, teeth catching your lip, “—I can’t stop thinking about you—” he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide, “—on your knees for me.”

Your stomach clenches, heat flooding low. His hand drags up your side, cupping your face now, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he can’t stand not to touch every part of you. His forehead presses to yours, breaths uneven.

“Every night,” he admits, raw and hoarse. “I picture it. You, here, looking up at me. Your mouth—fuck—” His eyes squeeze shut, like even saying it might undo him. “I need it.”

The words hang in the charged air, heavy and dangerous. His chest heaves against yours, his thumb trembling where it rests near your lips, like he’s imagining them wrapped around him already. You’re still close enough to taste the word need on his mouth when he crushes another kiss to you, deeper, desperate, his groan vibrating into your throat.

Your mouth is still pressed against his when the thought strikes like a knife: Ava.

She’s at home right now. Tucking the kids in, the way she wanted. She’s been trying so hard. She’s asking questions the therapist told her to ask, setting plates at dinner, forcing laughter so the kids don’t see the cracks. And here you are, in her husband’s office, his hands on your waist, his tongue still on your lips. Guilt surges sharp enough to make you falter. Your fingers twitch against his shirt, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer.

But then Matt groans into your mouth, low, broken, the kind of sound that feels stolen from his chest. His body presses harder against yours, and you feel it, the thick, unyielding line of him straining against his slacks. It makes your stomach drop and your thighs ache in one dizzy rush. Whatever protest you had withers under the heat of it. He feels too good, tastes too good. And the way he says your name, like it’s the only prayer he knows. There’s no way to fight that.

So you don’t.

You let yourself sink. Slowly. Deliberately. Your lips break from his, your hands trail down his chest, and then you’re lowering to your knees on the carpet. The room tilts around you, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. His breath catches the second he realizes what you’re doing. His hand hovers in the air like he’s afraid to believe it, then finds your cheek. His thumb strokes the line of your jaw, reverent, before his palm cradles your face. He exhales a single, wrecked word.

“Fuck.”

It rumbles out of him like a confession, like he’s been holding it back for too long. His other hand clutches the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. Your gaze stays locked on his as your fingers rise to his waistband. You work the button loose, slow, deliberate, never looking away. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted. He looks like he might break apart just from the sight of you kneeling there.

And inside his head, he’s gone.

She’s perfect. Too perfect. God, look at her. On her knees for me, in my office. The way her eyes hold mine while she undoes me—fuck, I’ll never get this image out of my head. I don’t want to. She looks like she belongs there. Like this was always where she was meant to be.

When you tug the zipper down, the rasp of it cuts through the silence, sharp and obscene. His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek again, gentler this time, as though grounding himself in the reality of you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, voice rough, torn between awe and despair.

And still, you don’t look away.

You tug his slacks down over his hips, slow, savoring the drag of fabric loosening around him. He lifts his hands from your shoulders just long enough to help you ease them over his thighs, then lets them pool around his ankles. The sight alone makes your breath catch. Matt, undone, suit pants bunched at the floor like he doesn’t care who could walk in.

His boxers cling to him, darkened at the front where he’s already straining against them. The outline is thick, heavy, the kind of promise that makes heat pool low in your stomach. You lean in without taking him out yet, pressing your lips to the fabric first. The shape of him is solid under your mouth, heat radiating through cotton. He groans instantly, deep, low, guttural, his hips jerking before he forces them still.

“Christ…” he breathes, head tipping back, hand flying back up to brace against the edge of the desk. His other stays on you, fingers stroking your hair like he needs the contact to survive it.

You drag your mouth slowly along his length, fabric catching faintly against your lips. You don’t give him what he wants, not yet. You let him feel the tease of it, the slow pressure of your kiss over the head, the way your breath seeps hot through the thin barrier.

“Fuck—” His voice shatters into the air, raw, needy.

Your tongue flicks out, tracing the line of his waistband. The taste of clean cotton and salt meets your mouth. He groans again, louder this time, his stomach clenching under the soft trail of your tongue.

“Baby…” His hand flexes in your hair, not tugging, just holding. He looks down at you with eyes half-shut, dazed with need, the corner of his mouth slack as if words are failing him.

You glance up through your lashes, lips brushing the damp outline at his tip. The look you catch on his face nearly undoes you. Undone, reverent, like he’s staring at something he’ll never deserve but can’t let go of. He doesn’t try to rush you. Doesn’t guide your head or urge you faster. He just lets you take your time, lets you drag it out, because every second feels like eternity and he wants to live in it.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, voice frayed, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

When you finally tug his boxers low enough, he springs free, thick, flushed, heavy in your hand. Your breath catches. Even though you’ve felt him hard against you before, seen the outline straining, the reality still makes your pulse stutter. He’s gorgeous, long and veined, the head swollen, already damp with precum.

You curl your fingers around him and just hold for a second. The heat of him, the sheer weight in your palm, makes your mouth water instantly. He hisses through his teeth, his whole body tightening as if even that small contact is too much.

“God,” he groans, low and ragged, “you have no idea what that does to me.”

Your thumb swipes across the head, smearing precum over the ridge, and his hips twitch. You lean forward and press your mouth to him without warning, a kiss right over the slit through the taste of salt and heat. His breath tears out of him in a curse. Then you drag your tongue flat up the underside, from base to tip, savoring every inch of him, every thick vein under your tongue. He makes a strangled sound in his throat, like he’s trying not to break apart too soon.

When you wrap your lips around him and sink down an inch, he nearly folds. One hand flies to the desk for balance, the other tangles in your hair, his grip trembling. “Fuck—baby, your mouth…” His voice breaks on your name, muffled into his palm when he covers his mouth to keep quiet.

You build slowly, letting him feel the tease. Lips stretched around him, tongue pressed flat against the thick underside as you slide down. Your hand twists at the base, stroking in time with your mouth. When you hollow your cheeks and suck, hard and wet, his whole body jolts.

“Oh, fuck.” His thighs tense, muscles twitching. “So good. Feels so fucking good.”

You hum around him, the vibration making his knees buckle. He bites down on the heel of his hand, muffling the groan that still rumbles out. You pull back until just the head is in your mouth, tongue circling, licking under the ridge, teasing the sensitive slit. He’s leaking steadily now, salty and warm on your tongue, and you swallow it down with a low moan that makes him shudder.

Then you take him deeper. Inch by inch, wet and sloppy, spit slicking your lips until you’re drooling down your chin. You gag lightly when the head nudges the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You stay there, swallowing around him, eyes watering as you do your best to breathe through your nose.

His reaction is instant. A strangled, guttural moan tears from his chest, half-smothered by his fist. His hips jerk before he forces them still, thighs trembling violently. “Baby, ohmy—you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You glance up through your lashes, your lips stretched wide around him, throat working as you swallow. The look on his face wrecks you. His eyes are blown black, locked on yours, his jaw tight with restraint. He looks like a man both worshiping and being worshiped, undone just by the sight of you.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice shaking, muffled by his own hand. “Don’t—please—don’t stop.”

You set a relentless rhythm, your hand stroking the base, your mouth sliding wetly up and down, tongue swirling and pressing in counterpoint. The sounds are obscene. Wet suction, spit bubbling as you swallow, the sloppy glide of your lips over his cock. The office fills with it, every sound a reminder of exactly what you’re doing to him.

Spit dribbles past your chin, smearing across your hand as you twist your fist in time. You bob faster, harder, your tongue dragging under him on every stroke down, licking over the vein that makes his stomach clench.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” His words are broken, fractured between groans. His thighs shake around you, his abs tightening, the muscles under his skin twitching uncontrollably.

You gag again when you push deeper, throat clenching around him, and he swears like a prayer. His head tips back, neck taut, sweat beading at his temple. “Baby—your throat—fuck—”

You pull back only to spit on him, saliva slicking over his length, then swallow him down again, sloppier, wetter. He’s gasping now, muffling the sounds against his fist, but it doesn’t hide the desperation in his voice.

“God, you feel—” His voice cuts off into a low groan. His hips buck once, sharp and uncontrolled. “So fucking good. So fucking perfect.”

His hand is shaking in your hair, trembling with the effort not to push, not to force, just to hold on. His thighs are trembling too, muscles jerking with every pass of your mouth. He looks down at you again, eyes glassy, jaw slack, and you know he’s memorizing this—the sight of you on your knees, lips red and swollen around his cock, spit dripping down your chin.

And you, looking back at him, see everything he can’t say. The hunger, the awe, the ruin.

You push down on him again, swallowing as far as you can take. His cock fills your mouth, thick and heavy against your tongue, the head pressing against the back of your throat. Your jaw aches, spit spilling everywhere, but you don’t care. You want him wrecked.

His entire body is trembling now, thighs jerking, stomach muscles clenching tight. His hand fists in your hair, not guiding but anchoring, the other still pressed hard over his mouth to trap the sounds tearing out of him. It doesn’t work; his groans still leak through, broken and guttural, vibrating against his palm.

“Baby—” his voice cracks, muffled, “I’m—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

The warning only makes you suck harder, tongue pressing insistently along the underside, stroking the vein that makes him twitch every time. You twist your fist around the base, stroking fast, messy, in rhythm with your mouth.

His hips buck helplessly, breaking the restraint he’s been clinging to. He swears against his hand, voice raw, “Fuck, oh fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

You gag again, throat spasming around him, and that’s it. His body seizes, every muscle locking as his orgasm tears through him. The first hot pulse floods your mouth in a thick gush, salty and overwhelming. He groans loud into his fist, hips jerking as his cock throbs violently against your tongue. You swallow, choking on the sheer force of it, and he moans again, broken, the sound of a man unraveling.

Another pulse, harder this time. His cock twitching deep in your mouth, spilling more hot cum down your throat. His thighs are shaking so badly that you press your palms to them to steady him.

“Baby, oh god—” The words are ragged, spilling between gasps. His hand grips your hair tighter, trembling. His whole body is shaking with the release, his hips jerking with every spasm.

You keep sucking through it, relentless, tongue swirling, milking every drop. Each time he pulses, more heat gushes into your mouth, and each time, he groans like he’s being dragged under.

“Fuck—please—” His words fall apart, his chest heaving, sweat dampening his hairline. His hand braced so hard on the desk you hear wood creak under the strain.

The orgasm drags out, long and messy, his cock twitching and spurting, again and again. He’s ruined by it, voice wrecked, thighs trembling violently under your hands. Even when the spurts slow to thick dribbles, his body still convulses with aftershocks, every weak spasm forcing a groan from his chest.

When you finally pull back, lips swollen, spit and come smeared across your mouth, he looks down at you like he’s never seen anything so devastating. His chest heaves, eyes dark, jaw slack. He looks wrecked, undone, trembling still as he lowers his hand from his mouth.

“God,” he rasps, voice hoarse, raw. “You just—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Oh my fuck.”

He’s still twitching faintly, cock softening but not fully, glistening with spit and release. He looks like he could collapse if you pushed him, every muscle spent. And the way he looks at you, like he’ll never get this image out of his head, makes heat crawl low in your stomach, guilt and want twisting together until you can’t tell them apart.

He’s still shaking when you ease back, lips swollen, chin slick, your breath ragged in the charged quiet. His cock twitches once more against your fist, a weak spasm that drags another broken groan out of him. He looks ruined. His hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, chest heaving like he’s run miles.

For a long, stunned moment, neither of you moves. The office hums faintly with the desk lamp, the world holding its breath around you. He looks down at you with eyes dark and dazed, as if he can’t decide if what just happened was real.

Then the weight of it hits.

His gaze flicks away, jaw tightening as the spell cracks. He clears his throat roughly, stepping back, tucking himself away with shaky fingers. He buttons up, movements too sharp, too quick, like order will erase the mess between you. The sound of fabric snapping into place feels louder than it should.

The silence turns sharp, cutting.

“This can’t keep happening,” he mutters finally, voice frayed and hard, like he’s forcing the words through clenched teeth.

The guilt is sudden and vicious, carving across his face, written in every line of his shoulders. You feel it too, like a wave crashing down. Ava’s voice echoes in your head, her soft thank you before you left, her trust in your hands while she tucked her children in.

The contrast is unbearable.

“This can’t keep happening,” he repeats.

The words are sharp, but his voice isn’t steady. It cracks on the edges, frays where it should be firm. His jaw locked like he could keep the guilt from spilling out if he just clenched hard enough.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, breath still uneven, and suddenly the air feels thin. The silence is brutal. The desk lamp hums, a soft electrical buzz filling the spaces neither of you can. Matt drags a hand down his face, shoulders sagging. The raw desire you saw just moments ago has been eclipsed by something darker. Guilt.

You can see it carve across his features as clearly as if it were written there. His gaze flickers to the bag of food on the desk, still untouched, and his chest rises on a ragged breath. “She—” His voice breaks. He clears his throat, softer now. “She’s at home. Tucking them in. She’s been doing everything the therapist asked her to.”

The image slams into you. Ava, kneeling beside Leo’s bed, smoothing his hair, whispering goodnight. Ava, softening her voice at the island that morning, asking open questions, trying to make space for Matt’s answers. Ava, tired but still trying. And you, on your knees in his office, swallowing the sounds he didn’t want her to hear. The memory of her smile when she pressed the bag into your hands hits hard. ‘Thank you,’ she’d said, warm, grateful. ‘I’d like to be the one to tuck them in for once.’

Your stomach twists so violently you feel sick. Matt sinks into his chair, elbows braced on his knees, face in his hands. For a moment, he doesn’t look like a CEO or a husband or even the man who just came undone in your mouth. He looks wrecked. Human. Broken open by the weight of what he’s done.

“I can’t—” His voice is muffled, low, torn. “I can’t keep doing this to her. To them.” His hands clench over his face, knuckles white. “To you.”

Your throat tightens. “Matt…”

He looks up sharply then, eyes glassy, jaw tight. There’s anger there, not at you, but at himself. At the hunger he can’t control. At the way he’s dragged you into it. “I told myself it was one time. That I’d stop. That I could bury it.” His voice roughens. “And then you walk in here, and I—” He shakes his head, furious at his own weakness. “I wanted it. I wanted you. More than I’ve wanted anything in years.”

The words hit you like fire and ice at once. They’re burning with how much you want to believe them, freezing with how wrong they are.

“I hate myself for it,” he admits, voice breaking softer now. “I hate that I can’t look at her and feel what I’m supposed to feel…what I feel for you. I hate that she’s trying so hard, and all I can think about is you.”

Tears sting hot at the back of your eyes, but you force them down. Because you can’t be the one to cry here. Not when Ava’s at home, tucking the kids in, fighting for her marriage with every ounce she has.

The guilt is unbearable.

You force a shaky breath. “She trusts me,” you whisper. “She gave me this job, this home. She asked me to help her tonight. And instead—” Your voice falters. You can’t finish.

Matt closes his eyes, pained. “I know.”

The silence between you sharpens again, jagged and suffocating. He leans back in his chair, dragging both hands through his hair until it stands on end, eyes squeezing shut like he can’t bear to look at you anymore.

When he does, it’s with a resolve that feels colder than the guilt itself. “You need to go.” His voice is low, tight, almost breaking. “Now.”

You nod, even though every cell in your body screams to stay, to reach for him, to make sense of what you both just confessed with your mouths and your bodies. Instead, you stand slowly, smoothing your sweater down with shaky hands. The walk to the door feels endless. The carpet muffles your steps, but the silence is still deafening. You grip the handle, hesitate for just a second, and glance back.

He’s still in the chair, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands like he doesn’t recognize them. He looks destroyed. And still, beneath the guilt, beneath the distance, you see it. The hunger. The want he can’t bury. The want that mirrors your own.

It doesn’t make you feel better. It makes everything worse.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice barely carrying across the room.

He doesn’t look up. “Goodnight.”

The word is shredded, torn from his chest, more like a plea than a farewell.

You slip out quietly, the door closing with a soft click that feels final. The night air hits your skin as you walk to your car, your heart pounding so hard it aches. And the image won’t leave you, Ava’s soft smile as she turned away to tuck her children in, Matt’s body trembling in your mouth, and the raw guilt etched across his face after.

They collide in your chest, sickening and inescapable.

By the time you start the car, you’re shaking.

a/n: the whole part before going to the office was like 3x longer than this before i accidentally deleted all of it. i was too sad to try to remember all of what i wrote, so that was a shitty summary of what i really wrote. i hope the rest of it is still good. maybe ill go back and fix it at some point lol

add yourself to my taglist 🫶

back to masterlist or au masterlist ✨

The house has a way of holding its breath, especially at night.

You notice it first in the little pauses between sounds, the tick of the thermostat, the far-off hum of the pool filter, the water heater shuddering and settling. You’re in your room at the back of the guest wing, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a small, accusing mountain of laundry, pairing socks by feel more than focus. Your phone lies face down beside you. You’re too tired to scroll and too wired to sleep.

That’s when you hear it. Not a crash. Not a shout. Just voices, upstairs. Low. Tight. The kind of clipped, knife‑clean syllables that aren’t meant for anyone’s ears. You freeze with one sock half inside out. You don’t mean to listen. You never mean to. But the house carries certain sounds, like secrets, funneling them down vents and stairwells and into the hollow places where silence pools.

“…you’re never here,” a woman’s voice says, the words soft but razor‑edged.

There’s a beat. Footsteps moving, back and forth. Floorboards answer with a tired creak.

A lower voice, flat with exhaustion, “This isn’t fair, Ava.”

“It’s not working,” she returns, and even through the distance, you can hear how hard she bites down on not raising her voice. “It’s not working like this.”

Another beat. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight. You set the socks aside, stare at the pattern of light on your floor. Your chest feels like it’s bracing for something even though you know it won’t be loud.

Matt says something you can’t quite make out. You catch only the last piece as it lands in the quiet, “…I can’t do this every night.”

A door closes, not slammed, not gentle. Firm enough to be final. Your heartbeat stumbles. A drawer. The whisper of fabric, maybe a robe. Footsteps again, sharp, purposeful, down the hall, across the landing, and then the echo of footsteps on the stairs as someone descends. You sit as still as a held breath, hands in your lap, listening to the sound of the front door open and close. Keys. A car ignition. The crunch of tires rolling off the gravel into the street.

Silence crawls back in on soft feet. The house exhales. You don’t.

You stare at your laundry for a long moment, the shape of your reflection dull in the dark window, then tell yourself you’re just getting water, just stretching your legs, just moving. The quiet is too loud to lie in. You stand, tugging your t‑shirt down over your bare thighs, and pad into the hall. 

The guest wing feels like a shadow of the rest of the house at night. Same lines, quieter bones. Your footsteps float over the rug as you cross into the main corridor. The kitchen lights are mostly off except for the hood lamp, a warm gold filmed over stainless steel and quartz.

The kettle’s where you left it at dinner. You reach for it, something to do with your hands, something normal, and that’s when you see him.

Matt is leaning against the far counter like he meant to sit and changed his mind halfway through. Sleeves rolled. Collar open. The sort of posture that would read relaxed if his jaw weren’t tight and his eyes weren’t fixed on nothing.

You stop, fingers still crooked around the kettle handle. “Oh…sorry. I thought—”

His gaze lifts, finds you in the soft light. The edges of him smooth a fraction. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. Neutral. Quiet.

You swallow. “I could ask you the same.”

A corner of his mouth does a tired thing that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. He nods toward the stove. “Tea?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out softer than you intend. “Do you want some?”

He hesitates. It’s small, maybe a breath. Maybe the thought of saying no and retreating upstairs to the room that smells like lavender and a conversation that’s already been had. But then he nods. “Sure.”

You fill the kettle, set it on the burner. The click‑click‑click of the igniter and the brief flare of blue feel too loud, too intimate. You fetch two mugs: his is heavy and white, with a hairline crack through the handle that he chooses never to replace; yours is the pale blue one, the kids insist is “your color,” and a tin of tea bags from the pantry.

He doesn’t say anything while you move, and somehow that makes every movement feel like a conversation anyway. When the kettle starts to whisper, you reach for the mugs and he reaches at the same time, passing one to your hand. Your fingers brush.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Mm.” He watches the water arc into his mug, the tea blooming like ink. When he takes it from you, his hands close around the ceramic, lingering a second longer than he should. The light catches on his wedding ring when he lifts the mug, then slides away as he lowers it again. For a second, it’s all you can see. Proof of something you shouldn't be standing this close to.

He looks different without the guarded distance he wears during the day. Not younger, just less engineered. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes look tired instead of stern. His mouth looks human, not strategic.

You rest your hip against the island. Neither of you mentions the voices that traveled down like weather just a few minutes prior. Neither of you says her name.

“So,” you say after a sip, because the quiet between you is too much, “tomorrow’s science day for Em. Baking soda volcano?”

He huffs, not quite a laugh, but it skims closer than anything has in the last hour. “I’ll clear the boardroom.”

“She’ll only need the kitchen.” You tip your mug toward the marble. “And an industrial-sized tarp.”

“Noted.”

You talk about safe things first. The grocery list you left on the counter. The way Leo finally learned to snap his fingers and won’t stop doing it with both hands, offbeat and delighted. You mention the neighbor’s dog. He mentions the garage door that’s started making a whale noise when it closes, and you tease him that it’s been doing that for two months. He pretends to be offended, but his mouth loosens.

The talk shifts like the kettle does, from a whisper to a hum to something that curls warm and steady. “Some nights,” he says eventually, and it lands so softly you almost miss the weight of it, “it feels like the only time this house is calm is when everyone’s asleep.”

You watch him over your mug. He’s not looking at you; he’s looking at the way the tea stains the inside rim as it tilts. “When it’s quiet,” you say, “you can hear yourself think.”

A muscle ticks high in his cheek. “That’s part of the problem.”

You don’t fill the silence with anything.

“It’s exhausting,” he adds after a moment, more to the steam than to you, “pretending everything’s fine.”

The truth of it lands between you like the softest possible thud. You set your mug down and don’t offer advice. You don’t know the shape of their marriage, not really, and you aren’t a confessional. You are a person with two feet on kitchen tile, who listens.

“Do you ever—” He stops. Starts again. “Do you ever feel like you started running in one direction and only realized three miles in that it wasn’t the road you wanted?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on the right road and still want to pull over.”

He looks up then. Not at your mouth. Not at your hands. Your face. He looks like he’s reading something in you that he didn’t know was there, and it makes something low and private inside you sit up straighter.

“What would you do,” he says quietly, “if you could do anything?”

You laugh, a breath through your nose. “That’s the hardest question anyone ever asks.”

“It’s the only one that ever matters.” His voice is different now, it's stripped of the polished, practiced cadence you’ve heard over speakerphone. He sounds like a man too tired to pretend, asking because he needs the answer to be real.

You let the thought linger, then say it anyway. “Kids. My own. A big house with space to fill. Mornings full of light, a yard full of noise, love in every corner. And a husband who wants that life with me, who chooses it every day.” You laugh under your breath, almost like you’re trying to make it smaller. “It’s probably too much to ask.”

“It’s not.” His voice drops, warmer, heavier. “You’d be incredible with your own.” His gaze lingers in a way that makes your pulse skip. “You’re already good with mine.”

Your mouth twinges at the corner. “You’ve said that before.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it.” He pauses, his gaze steady on yours. “And you’re…grounded.”

It’s not the kind of compliment you’re used to, and it hits differently, like a warm hand pressed between your shoulder blades. “You make it sound like that’s rare.”

“It is.” His mouth twists faintly, eyes dropping to his mug. “I used to be like that.”

The words linger between you, heavier than they should be, and you feel that little ache in your chest, the one that comes when he lets you see past the careful version of himself. You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking like this with him, not when the air feels this close and his wife’s presence still lives in the walls. Guilt tugs at you, but so does something else, something warmer.

You clear your throat, pushing it down, reaching for safer ground before either of you tips any further, asking about the trip the kids have been daydreaming over. The beach, the crooked picnic tables at the campsite. His face softens as he tells you about a night a storm rolled in, a tent pole gave out, and his son somehow slept through it all with a gummy bear stuck to his cheek. The mental picture pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it, loud enough that you cover your mouth. He’s quiet for a beat, just watching you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes the sound feel noticed. Important. When your laughter ebbs, the silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s charged, like the room is holding its breath, waiting to see what either of you will do next.

You glance down at your mug just to break eye contact, but it doesn’t help. You can still feel him watching you, that quiet weight in the space between. The air feels thick, like moving through it will give something away. Part of you wants to say something, anything, just to cut through it. The other part isn’t sure you want it cut at all.

You reach for the tea tin to put it away, your fingers brushing the counter to keep from fidgeting. He moves close enough that the heat from him cuts through the space between you. His hand comes into view, holding out the lid, closer than necessary, long enough that your fingertips graze his before you take it. The contact is small. It’s nothing, but it’s also everything.

“Thanks,” you say, and your voice doesn’t sound like yours for a second.

He doesn’t move back. He leans a hip against the counter beside you. His cologne is faint, worn down to softness over a long day, but it clings to the open line of his collar, the cotton at his throat, the inside edge of his sleeves.

He says your name, just your name. But his voice drops one octave, and your stomach flips. You look up. The light carves his cheekbones sharper and leaves his mouth in a soft shadow. His forearm flexes when he tightens his grip on the mug, a small vein lifting like a wire under his skin. You wonder what it would feel like on your hands. You hate that you wonder and that you can’t stop. There’s a pause long enough to be a question. Neither of you answers it out loud. Neither of you pulls back.

He wets his lips, a tiny, automatic thing that shouldn’t be a signal and is. “Do you ever think about,” he says, eyes on yours, voice careful like stepping stones over a creek, “what you really want?”

He isn’t asking about the sunlight in the mornings or a backyard.

“Yes,” you say, because the quiet insists on truth. Because your mouth is half a second away from saying his name and you need to say something else, or you will.

His breath goes out slow. You can feel it in the way his shoulders soften and in how the room seems to tilt an imperceptible amount toward the space you’re occupying together. Your knees almost brush. Your hip shifts a fraction, like your body decided before you did that closer is the only direction that makes sense.

The silence turns thick. Not heavy in a bad way. Heavy like velvet. Heavy like a curtain that’s about to drop.

You both glance toward the dark mouth of the doorway at the same moment, as if there’s a part of your brains that still seeks safety even as another part is reaching.

He says, softer than steam, “You’re easy to talk to.”

You swallow. “It's easier at this hour.”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “That tracks.”

Your wrist rests on the island beside your mug. His hand moves, slow enough to stop, sure enough not to. His fingers brush your wrist, a touch that feels accidental until it lingers. He doesn’t lace your fingers. He doesn’t catch. He just lets his thumb draw a small line where your pulse beats, like he’s confirming something he already knows.

The shift is unmistakable. Your breath goes shallow. He steps closer, enough that his thigh ghosts your hip. Then his hand lifts, hesitates, and rises again, cupping the side of your jaw. It isn’t a rough grip. It isn’t even firm. It’s a question with an answer he can feel in the way your mouth parts as his thumb grazes the corner of your lip.

“Okay,” he breathes, not for permission. He has that. But as if his body needed the word to cross this line.

He doesn't rush it. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He leans in slowly, close enough that you catch the faint scent of cedar and tea on his breath, close enough for your pulse to trip. When his mouth finally meets yours, it’s slow, warmer than you expect, softer than you were ready for. He kisses you like there’s a truth he can’t say out loud, mapping the edges of the restraint he’s still clinging to. And when your lips part for him, it’s instinct, inevitable, like you’ve been holding this want too long and it’s finally spilling loose.

His other hand plants on the counter beside your hip, bracketing you in without trapping. The cool bite of stone catches under your fingertips, anchoring you to a room that suddenly feels like a secret.

“God,” he murmurs against your mouth, a word and a groan. “You—”

You don’t ask him to finish. You pull him closer by the open edge of his collar instead. The line of his throat is warm under your mouth when you let your lips chart a small, careful path there, kissing where his pulse beats against the hinge of his jaw. The sound he makes is quiet and wrecked. You feel it in your own chest. He kisses you again. Not testing now. Taking. You can taste tea and something that’s just him, and when his tongue slides against yours, your knees soften like they’ve been waiting to be told what to do.

He presses you back into the counter in increments, a negotiation your body conducts without consulting your pride. His hand, the one not caging you, slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, under the edge of your hair, warm and steady. The other lifts to your waist, spans it like he was made to measure you, and squeezes. Just enough to make heat flicker low in your belly.

“Tell me if—” he starts, pulling back half an inch to search your face.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, the truth crowding out anything else you might have said.

Something loosens inside him. He nods once, small, decisive, and his mouth is back on yours, hungrier, the quiet kind of desperate that makes you think of doors locked and lights off and the way people learn to be loud without sound when there are sleeping children upstairs.

His hand slides under your t‑shirt. The first touch of his palm to your back is almost chaste. Warm skin on warm skin, a line of heat, and then he skims up your spine to the clasp of your bra. He doesn’t unhook it. He palms the soft line of lace and breathes a word into your mouth that sounds a lot like a prayer. “Lace?” His voice is a rasp against your lower lip. You feel his smile, dark and surprised, rather than see it. “Of course.”

You want to be embarrassed for half a second, caught in a ritual you’d never admit to, but the way his thumb strokes the edge where lace meets skin makes heat flood your face and throat and lower.

“Pretty,” he says, quieter, like the word isn’t for you so much as for the thing in his chest that just got worse. “You always—”

“Not always,” you manage, dizzy with the way his body crowds yours. “Most days.”

His hand slides around your ribs, fingers splayed. He doesn’t grope. He lifts, just enough, and your breath hitches as his palm curves under the swell of your breast through lace and cotton. The sound you make is small and impossible not to hear. He swallows it with his mouth, deepening the kiss until the kitchen tilts.

“Matt,” you say, and feel him shiver. His name in your mouth does something that makes him hold you closer. His thumb strokes across a nipple as he kisses you, slow and precise, and the rush of heat that chases that touch makes your back arch. You feel the counter edge bite your hips. You feel the doorways of your body unlatch in the quiet. His hips find yours in a line that isn’t the friction you crave, but isn’t remotely innocent. You inhale, sharp. He exhales, rough, eyes closed for a second, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you. When he opens them, they’re darker.

“I keep thinking I should stop,” he admits, voice a low scrape. “And then you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” It comes out breathless, unwisely curious.

“Like my hands are exactly where you've been wanting them,” he says, and the honesty of it burrows into the place you’re already aching. “Like I’m not the only one who—”

You cut him off with your mouth because the confession is too much and not enough, and you’re going to come apart in the quiet if you let him finish. He groans, low, and lifts you an inch with his grip at your waist, a hungry, careful adjustment that brackets you tighter between his body and the island.

Your t‑shirt rides up. His knuckles graze your bare stomach, sending chills through your body. He drops his mouth to your throat, kisses there, teeth gentle, and you gasp before you can stop yourself. He shushes you without thinking, a soft sound against your skin, and the intimacy of it makes your eyes shut. His hand slides lower over the thin cotton of your sleep shorts, fingers curving at your hip. He doesn’t push them down. He doesn’t reach between your legs. He holds you there, thumb stroking the hem where it meets the band of your underwear. Lace again. He feels it and curses softly into your throat, a word that breaks on a breath.

“Of course,” he says again, half‑strangled, half‑awed. “Of course you’re wearing—”

“Don’t make fun of me,” you whisper, smiling despite how close you are to shaking. “I like…pretty things.”

“I’m not making fun.” He lifts his head enough to look you in the eye, his thumb still ghosting the edge of lace like a man about to step over sacred ground. “I’m losing my mind.”

You open your mouth to tell him he’s not alone, maybe to tell him what you’ve done alone in this house with his name in your mouth, but a sound slices through the room so gently you almost think you imagined it.

A far‑off hush. Tire on gravel. The faintest crunch.

Both of you still.

The quiet holds its breath again. The sound comes once more, closer this time. The softened grind of a car easing into the curve of the drive. Headlights sweep in a pale ribbon across the far wall, low and slow, then slip away. Matt’s hand stays where it is for the span of two heartbeats. The look in his eyes shifts all at once from hungry to something like clear. Not cold, just awake. You feel the cool air on your stomach where his palm was as he pulls his hand back, slow, careful, like reversing a spell.

The garage motor hums to life, distant and unmistakable. A signal sent into the bones of the house.

His forehead drops to yours for one stunned, suspended second. You can feel his breath, see the shape of his mouth when he swallows a sound that wants to be a curse and a prayer at the same time.

“Ava,” he breathes. Not a warning, just a fact returning to a room that had no windows for it a minute ago.

You nod, small, automatic. Your hands are still curled in his shirt. You force them to let go. You tug your t‑shirt down with shaking fingers. The hem scratches your thighs in a way that makes your skin feel too new.

He steps back half a pace. It feels like a mile.

The garage door finishes its low thrumming, and the clicks settle. Keys jingle. The house inhales the invisible scent of outside air and asphalt, and oranges from the tree by the side gate. You turn toward the sink because you have to turn toward something. You set your mug beside it with care, like noise might break the bubble of not being caught. Your throat tastes like tea and him.

“Go,” he says, and the word is quiet and useful, not harsh. His voice is wired tight with the effort of being calm. “Please.”

You want to argue that it’ll look stranger if you vanish into the guest wing like a ghost. You want to stand your ground and also drop to your knees and also rewind six minutes, but also never forget a single one of them. Instead, you nod again. You slip past him. The move brings you briefly into the heat of his body, and he goes rigid, trying not to reach for you. Your shoulder grazes his chest. You feel the thud of his heart like a warning or a promise.

The door from the garage clicks open somewhere down the hall. The soft hush of a purse set on a bench. He straightens, one breath, two, runs a hand down his sleeves like that will fix anything. In the mouth of the corridor, you glance back without meaning to. He’s watching you go, jaw tight, hands braced white‑knuckled on the counter. You slip into the dim hall and disappear around the corner just as a voice, careful and tired, floats into the kitchen on quiet feet.

“You’re still up?” she asked, tone calm but carrying that trace of suspicion people get when they’re already wound tight.

Matt’s hand curled around the handle of his mug like it had been the only reason to stand there. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Her gaze swept over the counter, the two mugs, the open tea tin. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I was busy,” he said. Not sharp, but final.

“Busy,” she repeated, a small, humorless laugh under her breath. “Right. Always busy.”

He set the mug down, letting the ceramic clink lightly against the marble. “We’ve had this conversation before, Ava.”

“And nothing changes.” She put her shoes on the stool by the island, crossing her arms. “Do you even notice when I’m gone? Or is it just quieter for you?”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t rise to it. “I notice.”

“Then maybe show it. Once in a while.” The sigh she let out was tired more than angry. “I can’t keep coming home to this…this wall you put up. You’re either locked in your office or sitting here like a ghost.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely. “And you? You leave in the middle of the night after a fight. Come home smelling like…” He shook his head, stopping himself. “You think that doesn’t build walls?”

Ava stared at him for a long beat, something flickering across her face. Hurt, maybe, or just the recognition that they were too tired to dig out the roots tonight. She dropped her arms. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

She paused at the doorway, studying him. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. “Don’t take too long,” she said, and disappeared into the hall.

Matt stayed where he was, eyes drifting to the pale blue mug still sitting on the counter. His fingers traced the rim once, like he could feel the warmth you’d left behind. He didn’t pick it up, didn’t put it in the sink. Just let it sit there.

Down the hall, you were in bed, covers pulled up, heart still tapping against your ribs. You had heard the faint murmur of their voices from the kitchen, too low to make out words, but heavy enough to fill the spaces in your mind with guesses.

You turned on your side, facing the wall, the ghost of his hand still warm on your waist. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Footsteps on the stairs. Silence again. You closed your eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Not with the echo of his breath against your mouth, the rasp of his voice saying your name, and the knowledge that whatever line almost got crossed tonight hadn’t gone anywhere. It was still there. Waiting.

a/n: why am i so scared of posting things that dont have smut???

add yourself to my taglist 🫶

back to masterlist or au masterlist ✨