#nov2024

Making sure you’re alone on the road, you push it to 57 just for kicks. Even as the dark scenes on either side pass in a blur, the road ahead is clear. The moon hangs low and bright above, reflecting off the filled-in parts of the pavement. 

The song changes and you sigh again upon hearing the familiar tune. It only reminds you of your wife; who should be home and in bed with you, but ended up on night-shift instead after hassling a suspect a bit too hard, canceling your planned evening. 

Which leads you to driving the backroads between Westview and Eastview, hoping the journey will tire you out enough that you can sleep. Instead it lands you in the position of blowing past a hidden cop. 

Just your luck. 

You groan as you turn the music down and pull off the road into a flat area of grass. With the lights, you can’t tell if it's a Westview or Eastview officer at first. You have pretty good chances of getting off with a warning if it's one of Agnes’ coworkers. 

But it’s not one of the regular officers. It’s the Chief’s car. You hit your head against the steering wheel. He’s been riding Agnes’ ass for months and will likely give you a hefty ticket just to spite her. 

While you’re hitting your head against the wheel, there’s a knock on your window. You roll it down without looking, “Look, Chief, I know the deal. You can just write me a ticket and I’ll pay it tomorrow.” 

“Oh, will you now?” 

You pause. 

Looking up in disbelief, “Agnes?” 

“That’s Detective O’Connor to you.” Her face doesn’t change from the stern facade, “You were driving pretty recklessly back there. Have you been drinking tonight, ma’am?” 

Subtly as you can manage, you check your side mirror to see if anyone else sits in the police cruiser. It wouldn’t be unlike the Chief to put Agnes through some insane test. No shadows lurk in the other car. 

You drag your eyes back to Agnes. She’s waiting, still just as stoic, but you see the mischief in her eyes. Well, if she wants to play, why not up the stakes?

Tilting your head and smiling, “Of course not, detective. I’ve been a good girl.” 

A split-second pause tells you she wasn’t expecting that. She licks her lips before the act slips back into place. She scoffs. 

“That’s what they all say. Wait here.” Her hand pats the open window before she’s heading back toward the cruiser. 

You watch her walk away in the side mirror with a grin. Her confident gait stirs something in you, always has. 

For a split second you consider throwing the car in drive and peeling out of here. You’re curious to see what Agnes would do. You hope she’d chase you all the way home; that way when you get there you could finally have a taste of what tonight was meant to be. 

You want Agnes painfully. Between work deadlines on your end and long hours on hers, you’ve been too tired to do more than cuddle, or some heavy kissing on a better day. You miss the connection that comes from baring yourselves to one another. And the orgasms, too, of course. 

Agnes is back at your window, breathalyzer in hand. You make a split second decision. 

“Please, detective, I can’t afford another ticket, and my wife will be so mad.” You plead, using that innocent, wide-eyed expression you know turns her on, “Is there anything I can do to… pay it off, per se?” 

To her credit, she doesn’t crack this time, “Are you soliciting an officer of the law, ma’am?” 

“No, of course not! Unless that’s what you want.” 

“Step out of the car.” 

The commanding note in her voice goes straight between your thighs. You open the door and step out, watching her brows raise at only the long nightgown you’re wearing. There’s a chill in the air that makes you shiver. Her eyes are drawn to your chest before she shakes away whatever is going through her mind. 

While you’re enjoying the game, you do hope she’ll let you get back in the car soon. The cold is unmanageable without more substantial clothing. 

Agnes holds up the breathalyzer, “Open your mouth.” 

You do so without thinking. A blush races up your face. Agnes can’t help but smirk. 

It’s not the breathalyzer that finds itself between your lips, but two fingers that settle on your tongue and press. You jolt at the pressure. Tears come to your eyes as you gag, but the weight of her fingers doesn’t ebb. You fight against your gag reflex to curl your tongue around the digits. 

Closing your lips around them, you swirl your tongue like one would around a piece of candy. Even through blurred vision you can see how Agnes’ eyes darken. She leans forward, staring at your lips. 

Her fingers move deeper, pressing harder, fucking your throat. You swallow around them. 

You find your mouth and throat empty as Agnes pulls out. Her hand grabs your face before you can close your mouth and holds it open, fingers wet against your cheek. She grins meanly. 

“Stick out your tongue.” 

The second you do, Agnes spits in your mouth. You whimper. It’s humiliating and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You leave your tongue in the position she demanded, obedient as ever. 

Agnes laughs, “Swallow.” 

Humiliation, in combination with your startling need for her touch, forces the tears to spill over and down your cheeks. The sight of them seems to please her. She’s always loved seeing you thoroughly debased; loves knowing only she can break you down like this. 

Partners in the past did try. Yet they would hesitate, hold back, believing they knew the limits of your desire instead of trusting you. A few would panic when they saw tears in your eyes and pull out of the scene completely. You often found yourself pretending; toning down your desires to ‘acceptable’ levels and leaving yourself unsatisfied to avoid that worried look in your partner’s eyes. 

But you’ve never had to pretend with Agnes. From that first time, she went as far as she wanted, knowing that you were an adult capable of safe-wording if it was too much; it wasn’t. You had been dripping and needy the entire time. You had cried while she sat back and watched you polish her boots with your tongue, and had nearly come undone from the act alone. It was everything you craved—Agnes was everything you craved; trusting, dominating, cruel when it suited, and the most loving partner you’ve ever known. 

You had vowed then and there that you weren’t letting her get away. And how lucky for you that she put a ring on your finger; the ring that is so much more than a symbol of love; but a brand, too, just as you desire. 

“I wonder what your wife would think of you offering yourself up to me,” Agnes muses, “but you’re so eager for it, I can’t help but wonder if she’s not satisfying you properly.” 

“Only you can satisfy me, detective.” You flutter your lashes. 

That draws a real laugh from her. Something inside you preens. You lean forward into Agnes’ space, angling your head for a kiss, but she pulls back. 

“Be that as it may, soliciting an officer is a crime, as is reckless driving.” Her hands reach for her belt, where her handcuffs rest in one of the holsters, “I’m going to have to take you in.” 

Though the idea of being cuffed and fucked however she pleases excites you, you’re not entirely pleased with how your original plan was ruined. Agnes knew where the line was during interrogations and she crossed it. Knowingly. It’s safe to say you’re a little pissed she acted out. 

A mean-spirited voice in your head considers pushing Agnes away entirely, leaving her wet and turned on for the rest of the night shift while you go home and find solace in your favorite toy. The rational part of you knows that no toy can replace your wife, and it’s her you want. You’re just not going to make it easy for her. 

You fall to your knees before she can work the cuffs off her belt. She jolts at the unexpected change. You slam against the ground pretty hard and wince, but don’t dare stop. 

Your hands find her belt buckle. Deftly, you start to undo it, “Please, I can make you feel good. I’ll do anything.” 

Agnes raises her brows. She doesn’t stop you from undoing her belt or slowly lowering the zipper of her pants. There’s a tenseness in her jaw as she thinks over the request. Intent on sealing the deal, you move your hands from the front of her pants; instead leaning forward to place a kiss where they’d just been. 

Looking up through your lashes, you beg, “Please.” 

“Well, since you’re so eager for it.” 

Ignoring the screaming in your knees, you shoot to your feet, capturing Agnes’ lips in a hard kiss. You attack with lips and teeth and tongue. At the same time, you slip your hand inside her pants and past the waistband of her panties. 

She groans against your lips when your fingers play in her wetness. Your fingers ghost over her clit and you grin into the kiss. Two hands settle on your hips and shove, your back hitting the side of your car; it hurts for a moment before you’re once again lost in the feel of your wife, how she’s using her position to grind against your hand, the obscene noises leaving her throat.

Your clit throbs with every roll of her hips. It’s intoxicating that she’s just taking what she wants, using you as a toy to achieve her own pleasure. But the desire between your own legs reminds you of the end goal. 

Agnes’ hips pick up speed, her usual low groans evolving into panting, high-pitched whimpers. She’s so close. You consider letting her have what she wants. 

Moments before she can fall over the edge you pull your hand from her pants. Hands settling on her chest, you shove her back. She jolts and stumbles. Her fucked-out expression from seconds earlier shifts to confusion, then anger. 

“What the fuck?” Agnes snarls. 

“You’ve been bad, detective.” Still leaning against the car, you cross your arms over your chest, “Or should I say Daddy.” 

Agnes stands straighter. There’s steel in her spine now, jaw taught as darkness comes over her expression. Amusement alights inside your chest. 

Her hands begin to unravel the belt from the loops of her pants, “I’m going to paint your backside blue.” 

“I don’t think so.” Your voice is hard. “You see, I had a lovely evening planned for us. Dinner, a movie, clean sheets for us to spend all night ruining. And we didn’t get to enjoy any of it because someone couldn’t control her temper. So you, daddy, are going to fuck me until I decide I’m ready to forgive you.” 

“It’s cute that you think you’re in control, baby.” 

Agnes steps into your space, belt in her hands. You stop her with a hand on her chest before she can get close enough to do anything. 

“I am in control.” 

“Those with the upper hand don’t usually have to state the fact.” 

You tilt your head, “If you don’t give me what I want, you’re not going to touch me for weeks. I’ll fuck myself and all you’ll be able to do is watch. And I’ll stuff all the pairs of panties I ruin into your bag, your pockets… everywhere you go, you’ll be reminded of just what you’re missing.” 

The smug expression slowly slips from her face. She tries to push forward again, but you’re unyielding; clenching your fist in the fabric of her shirt until she feels the subtle bite of your nails. There’s fury and a small trace of fear in her eyes. 

It’s rare that you have the upper hand. Usually Agnes is twelve steps ahead of everyone—you included. But this time she miscalculated, and she’s going to pay for it. 

“Your choice, daddy.”

She scoffs. Shaking her head, a few pieces of her hair free themselves from her low ponytail. They lay in and over her face before she blows them out of the way carelessly. She hasn’t been taking care of it, you can tell; and briefly, you consider if you can get away with commandeering her into taking better care of herself. 

You likely shouldn’t push your luck. Agnes is going to punish you enough for this stunt, you’re sure. 

The belt is tossed onto the ground a few feet away in a silent show of surrender. Her eyes are dark, churning with a mixture of fury and arousal. A brief moment passes where you wonder if you’re taking this a bit too far, but you shove it down; Agnes is an adult just as you are and will tell you if you cross any hard lines. 

“Is the heat on in the cruiser?” You ask. 

She pauses, taken-aback, “Yeah, of course.” 

“Good. You’re going to fuck me in it later. But first—” 

You open the back door of your own car as wide as it can go, just so you can perch on the seat with your feet still outside. With a smile, you open your legs wide. You hadn’t considered this outcome when you left the house for your drive, so your panties are relatively plain, but it doesn’t matter since they’re soaked through. 

Agnes takes a step forward and you hold up a finger. She pauses. You point at the ground. 

Her face goes red, “Not fucking likely.” 

And then she’s on you. She’s holding herself up with one hand on the seat, the other dragging your face to hers. Her body rests perfectly between your legs. With a low moan, you roll your hips against her front. 

Her grip on your face is painful. Thank god her nails are clipped short. 

Agnes pulls away from your mouth to bite and suck at your throat. You throw your head back, still grinding up against her, moaning with abandon. The friction is nice but it isn’t what you wanted. 

“I want you to eat me out.” You force out. 

“I don’t care what you want.” Agnes growls. 

“Oh? Well, I guess I should be prepared to handle my own orgasms for a while, then.” 

As you say that, you stop grinding, and lay fully against the seat, one of your arms snaking its way down your front and between your thighs. You’ve only circled a finger around your clit twice before her hand catches your wrist in a punishing grip. 

“Try it and I’ll tie you to the bed everyday when I go to work.” 

“I made my terms abundantly clear.” 

“You know what you forgot though, brat?” Agnes taunts, lips right next to your ear, “You’re too greedy to settle for your hand or your little toys. It’s only a matter of time before you get bored and come crawling back to me.” 

“Maybe I’ll just crawl to someone else. Agent Vidal has been hanging around.” 

A hand closes around your throat and you whine. She squeezes, your vision going fuzzy around the edges. You roll your hips. 

“I’ll lock you in the house if you even think about it.” Her voice is hard, promising, “You’re mine, baby.” 

“Prove it.” 

That’s the wrong thing to say. 

Agnes pulls back completely. Her hands leave you, the pressure of her body is gone. You look up and she’s standing just far enough away that you can’t touch her. You growl. 

The look on her face is one you’ve seen a dozen times; the very same one she wears when you’re about to endure something you don’t like. But you vow not to let her have the upper hand. Not this time. This time, you’re going to make her bend. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.” She says. 

The words are like a bucket of cold water over your head. You don’t spend long dwelling on the threat, there’s no time. 

Agnes is halfway back to the police cruiser when you worm your hand into your panties and bury two fingers inside without preamble. Despite being the source of your own pleasure, you jolt, back bowing off the seat. The moan that leaves your lips is exaggerated; pornographic. 

“Oh, yes!” 

You hear her footsteps come to a stop. You don’t dare open your eyes, not yet. The pleasure you’re experiencing is real, even if it is half of what it could be with Agnes’ help, but you have to keep up the act—have to make her jealous of your own fingers. 

Though she hates to admit it, Agnes is jealous in all aspects of life. There’s a bit of healthy competitiveness worked in there that you can admire. Yet some days… some days she comes home fighting mad, hair a mess and muscles clenched tight as she recounts the events that made her that way. And lately they’ve all had the same person involved—

Agent Rio Vidal. 

A loaner agent from the FBI, here to figure out some of the more poignant details of a murder on the Westview-Eastview county line. She’s confident and cutting and painfully attractive. Somehow, she knows how to push every single one of Agnes’ buttons, in work and play. 

You’ve only met her twice and each time Agnes was an animal afterward. The appreciative glances and suggestive words made you blush—and though you won’t admit it, turned you on a good bit—while Agnes could barely hold herself back from attacking the woman. So possessive. So jealous. 

You can use that. 

The door on the other car hasn’t opened and you know she’s watching with rapt attention. You put on a good show, rolling your hips into your one hand while pinching at your chest with the other. You could get off on her watching. 

Another exaggerated, high-pitched moan, “Oh, Agent Vidal!” 

Though the woman is attractive, you can’t imagine anyone but your wife. Agnes doesn’t need to know that. 

Strong hands grab your calves and pull you half-way out of the car. You squeak, eyes snapping open. Agnes looms above you and oh fuck you’re in trouble. 

“You little bitch.” She snarls, hand coming to wrap around your throat.

You try to moan but she doesn’t give you that much air. Another deft hand rips your own from your panties, even going so far as to rip the fabric off completely. There’s the ghost of her fingers above your center. You roll your hips. 

The sensation of loss and blurry edges is usually a huge turn-on; maybe it’s the intense change from oxygen to no oxygen, but you’re struggling more than normal. You tap her wrist three times. 

Agnes pulls away completely. Her hand is off your neck, the other gone from between your thighs. You take in large lungfuls of air and feel your heart-rate slow just a little. A little whine works its way from your throat, though it’s mainly a result of the throbbing between your legs that’s still driving you crazy. 

Your wife’s hands hover over you, eyes concerned, “Honey?” 

“I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.” You assure, sitting up and kissing one of her palms, “The quick change just… startled me. I’m okay.” 

“Should I… Do you need me to take you home?” 

“Oh no, Agnes O’Connor, you’re going to finish what you started.” Spreading your legs offers an obscene picture of just how soaked you are, made even more tantalizing by the ripped panties clinging to your thigh, “Unless you want me to find someone else who can finish the job.” 

It’s like flipping a switch. 

Overwhelming is a word that could be used to describe Agnes in bed—smothering, even. She has a way of overtaking every single one of your senses at once. Your skin is on fire with her touch, with the faint strands of hair tickling your face. The scent of burnt break-room coffee clings to her jacket. You even taste it when her tongue invades your mouth, moaning obscenely against your lips. 

You like being smothered, though. You crave it; aching for anything that will let you turn your mind off and just feel. 

Agnes pulls back. Her breath is hot against your lips, “You’re such a brat.” 

“Only for you, daddy.” You murmur. 

A shudder passes through her at the name. Her grip tightens on you, near bruising. You moan. 

“Where do you want me?” 

“With your mouth between my legs.” 

“Fingers?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Agnes chuckles, “So you do remember your manners. Interesting.” 

You roll your eyes. To your luck, Agnes doesn’t see—if she had, you would have been punished accordingly. Though you realize things are a bit off-balance with your threat hanging in the air; any other time, Agnes would have you bent anyway she pleased, taking all she wanted until you couldn’t handle any more. 

Being in control is… odd. Not unwanted, but odd. You have to be more aware of yourself, confident in every command that leaves your lips. You’re glad that this is Agnes’ preferred role even if you’re enjoying the change. 

Lips kiss the inside of your thighs and you shudder. When she sinks her teeth in, you squeal, jolting at the change. Your hand falls to the top of her head. 

“Not what I meant!” 

“Oh, then what did you mean?” She taunts. 

“If you don’t make me come right now so help me—” 

The heat of her mouth on you is enough to shut you up. Her tongue drags up your slit with agonizing slowness. She teases at your clit for only a moment before repeating the slow drag, making you whine, pressing her head closer. 

You feel the rumble of her laughter and god help you the vibrations feel amazing. Yet when you try to move your hips for more, her hands keep them pressed firmly to the leather seat. 

Another threat sits on your lips that never comes to pass. With the last slow lick, she fastens her lips around your clit and sucks, hard. It’s painful and wonderful and your back bows off the seat, hands scrambling for anything to clench into. The weeks have been long and you know you’re not going to last. 

“I’m going to come.” You force out. 

She laughs again. That, in combination with her attention focused solely on your clit, sends you straight over the edge. You feel wild, unhinged as your hips move without any guidance from your mind, chasing the waves of pleasure that make your every muscle go taut. 

But when the pleasure subsides, Agnes doesn’t stop. She pushes two fingers inside and curls them in that way you like so much. You clench around them, though you ache, not ready for more so soon. 

“I can’t—Please, I can’t.” You beg. 

“One more, baby. You can give me that, can’t you?” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can.” 

And you do. Her fingers know every inch of you well, her mind cataloging every spot that makes you whine, every move she performs that sends you over the edge. She calls on that knowledge as the pads of her fingers rub against that spot inside you with abandon until you can’t breathe, shrieking and moaning loud enough that you worry someone will hear you miles away. 

The pleasure tenses your body so tight that you worry the muscles will never relax again. It hurts in that delicious way only Agnes can bring out. 

When you do relax, she’s licking gently at you, collecting the flavor on her tongue and savoring it like a fine wine. You twitch. The hand you have in her hair pushes as you attempt to slide further onto the seat, away from her mouth. 

“No more,” you beg, “please.” 

“Am I forgiven?” 

You laugh, breathless, “Not quite.” 

You tug her up wordlessly until the weight of her is draped over you. It’s nice, comforting to feel her close. Her warmth helps fight against the cold biting at your lower half. Sighing, you bury your face in her neck, your hand coming up to lazily play with her hair. 

Agnes accepts the touch. She traces little patterns on your hip over the nightgown, soft and quiet. You can still see the red and blue lights from your hiding place in her neck. 

“Why do you have the Chief’s car?” You ask. 

She scoffs, “Mine broke down three hours into the shift. Had to call the Chief and walk all the way to his house to get the cruiser.” 

“What? Agnes, why didn’t you call me?” 

“I wanted you to enjoy your night in, honey.” 

You think about arguing, but you recognize the exhaustion in her voice, and decide not to push it—for now. It’s an argument you can save for later. 

“So what was it, the battery? I thought we just replaced it.” 

“I think the old girl might just be done for. We’ve had her for a while.” Agnes shrugs. 

“But that’s… we brought Nicky home in that car.” You whisper, chest aching. 

Another piece of your life—connected to your baby—that you won’t get to keep. Agnes tenses, her breathing growing ragged, and you feel terrible; she’s likely already thought about this the whole shift, spent all these hours remembering it alone. That’s why she didn’t call you—she didn’t want to drag you bag into the deep end of the pain, too. 

You press a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. No wonder she took the first opportunity to play with you, she needed the distraction. 

“I’m sorry, my love.” You murmur.

“Not your fault, honey. These things happen.” 

She sounds less and less like herself with every moment. You don’t want to shove the grief aside—the grief counselor said that only made things worse—but this isn’t how you want to handle it; Agnes draped over your freshly-debauched form in the backseat of your car. 

This is a conversation, a breakdown for home, where the two of you can take all the time you need to soak in the new loss. You need to distract her away from this. 

“Will the force offer you one of their vehicles?” 

“Yeah. They should.” 

“Where did you break down?” 

“By the bridge on Old Forest.” 

Perfect. 

“Let’s give her a proper sendoff, then.” 

Agnes pauses. The look she gives you is questioning, as if not quite believing your suggestion, but she knows better—knows you’re serious about this. 

“Alright.” 

Which is how you find yourself halfway across town, on a back road with no streetlights, pulling off perilously close to a ditch. Agnes' car is unmistakable even in the dark—from the extra mirror on the hood reflecting the moonlight to the dent in the back bumper she never got fixed. You feel suddenly overwhelmed as you trace your fingers over the body. 

So many memories, good and bad. Your late-night trysts in the back seat. Bringing Nicky home. The back seat full of his stinky sports gear. Agnes’ old case files winding up on the floor. 

Agnes comes up and drapes her jacket over your shoulders. The warmth of her body has seeped into the cloth, now blocking out the chill in the air, “This might not be the best idea.” 

You raise a brow, “Cold feet, detective?” 

“Mine are nice and warm. Yours, however...” 

She looks up and down your scantily-clad form with a worried furrow of her brow. It’s sweet, but not needed. 

“I don’t think our plans will keep me anything but warm.” You smile, leaning back against the car while pulling Agnes close, until every inch of her is pressed against your front. Her hands settle on your hips as she kisses you with a softness belaying the vulnerability she still feels, “Unlock the car.” 

“Honey—” 

“Agnes, would you rather I went home?” You murmur. 

“Of course not.” 

“Then what do you want?”

“Beats me.”

“You know what I want?” 

Using your leverage against the vehicle, you draw one of your feet up the inside of Agnes’ leg, careful to press every part of yourself against her. Her warmth radiates through her flannel and jeans and you smile. 

She raises a brow, “I’m sure I can guess.” 

“I want you to bend me over in the backseat of this car like you did that first time. You remember, don’t you? How pissed you were that I’d been teasing you for five dates.” You laugh at the memory, “You couldn’t even make it out of the restaurant parking lot.” 

“You were so loud we almost got caught.” She recalls, voice low, gravelly. 

“There’s no one around to catch us now.” 

Agnes wraps one of her arms around your waist and uses it to tug you sideways, making quick work of unlocking the car. With the hand not on your waist, she opens the back door, and eases her jacket from your shoulders. She lays it out on the cold seats with the warm side up. 

Not for the first time, you’re moved by her consideration of your comfort. It would be so easy for a partner to disregard the little things if it meant getting to the end goal faster; but not Agnes. You reward her with a long, slow kiss. 

When she pulls away, there’s a fond little smile on her lips. She pats your hip, “On your hands and knees.” 

You obey without question. Crawling onto the backseat, you’re reminded of just how confined the space of a car is. You have to keep your head bowed so as not to hit your head on the roof. It’ll be worth your while, but you know the two of you will be feeling the adverse effects of this choice for days. 

Agnes follows and shuts the door behind her. She works her way into the backseat until not a bit of space exists between the two of you. Every inch of her front is pressed against you, draped over you like a warm blanket. You push your backside back into her crotch, teasing. 

“I should’ve sent you home to get your purple.” You say. 

“Be good and you can have my cock later.” 

Warm fingertips trail up the back of your thigh until they snake under the hem of your nightgown. The soothing heat of her touch is lovely compared to the bite of the cold air. You lean into it. 

“Yes, daddy.” You sigh. 

Her body pulls away from yours and you turn, confused. A sharp slap to your backside makes your breath stutter, your core clenching around nothing. Your toes curl. 

“Interesting that you want to be good now, when you’ve been testing me all night.” 

“What can I say? I’m motivated by rewards.” 

You’re satisfied that Agnes seems to be in the moment, rather than locked up in the memories in her head. Intent on keeping it that way, you lean back into her, arching so you can match her entirely. Her muscles go taut and relax and being able to feel it makes you ravenous. 

Two fingers push your ripped panties aside and begin to drag up your slit, teasing. It should be noted that you are trying to be good for her, offering the control she takes to so well. You like to think she can tell, too. 

When she slips her fingers inside you without torturing you further, you’re sure she knows. 

You push back, desperate. You want more of her and bad. It’s as if the orgasms she gave you less than an hour ago never happened. Every muscle in your body quakes with the knowledge of what only Agnes can give you. And you want it so deeply that it threatens to bring tears to your eyes. 

“Please.” You beg without prompting, “Please, more.” 

A split-second hesitation belays her surprise, but she does slip another finger inside, stretching you even wider. You can’t stop how you move, nor the noises that come out of your mouth. You feel cursed with hunger only she can sate. 

It’s this car, this backseat, and the memories here that are driving you so mad. It’s the life attached to it that you never thought you would get; a family, a future, a wife who loves you despite all the ugly parts others had run from. It’s the years you haven’t had to live out alone, the pain you’ve shared. It’s the fact that this act was once a beginning and now it’s an end. 

Her lips press against the back of your neck, impossibly gentle, so unlike the role she’s meant to be playing. Something inside you breaks. 

“Agnes—“ You choke out. 

“It’s okay, honey.” 

You let go. 

You let go from holding yourself back—fucking yourself on her fingers until you shriek with pleasure. You let go of the ball of emotions in your chest, of hunger and pleasure and guilt. You let go of the pain and let tears spill over onto your cheeks. 

It’s not the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s a goodbye to this piece of your life. It’s an end. And it hurts just the same as it feels good to embrace the potential of something new. 

Agnes holds you, steady as ever. You feel the dampness of her own tears on your neck. 

You turn and lay on your back, welcoming the weight of her. You use your thumbs to wipe away the tears coming from her beautiful blue eyes. 

“Am I forgiven, or do we have to go another round?” She asks.

You grin, not taking your hands from her face, “You’re forgiven, my love.” 

“Thank god.” 

Agnes drops her head until it rests on your chest. You laugh, extracting the hair tie so you can run your fingers through the length of it. Her arms wrap around you as much as they can. 

She presses a kiss to your chest, over where your heart is. You gently work through a knot in between your fingers. The windows are clouded with perspiration. Beads of water reflect what little moonlight peeks through the trees. Moonlight or no, you know every dip and curve of your wife’s form, and could identify every part of her without sight. 

The stale coffee smell has worn off, replaced by the faint undertones of the cologne she wears each morning. It’s deep and musky and comforting. 

Maybe it’s the weight of her head on your chest in combination with the memories that makes you speak, “Have you ever thought about us trying again?” 

She tilts her head so she can look up into your eyes without lifting from her resting place. Her brows are furrowed.

“Trying again?”  

The weight of her beautiful eyes on you almost makes you change the subject. These conversations are so much easier without that layer of intimacy. But you’ve started something and you’ll be damned if you don’t finish it. 

“To be parents.” You whisper. 

“I’m a little past due on that, baby.” Her smile is self-deprecating. 

“I’m not.” 

“You never wanted to carry. I remember that much.” 

“That was then.” You continue smoothing through her hair, “Now… If you want to try again, I’ll do it. I want to do it.” 

You can’t decipher the look in her eyes. She doesn’t pull away, but she’s tense. 

“We don’t need to decide right now. We have time.” 

She nods, “Alright.” 

“You’ll still be daddy, even if you aren’t my baby-daddy.” 

“That was terrible.” 

It doesn’t stop her from grinning, nor does it stop you from laughing. Something in the tension eases. You can’t lean down and kiss her like this, so you press a kiss to the pads of your fingers, and press them to her lips. She nips at them playfully. 

The quiet is nice, but you can feel the cold settling into your bones. You need to be back in a heated car before you get sick. 

“When is your shift over?” 

“In a few hours.” 

You nod, figuring out what time she’ll come home and how it fits into your schedule, “I have nothing after work if you want me to make good on those orgasms I owe you.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

It takes some time, but you and Agnes manage to untangle yourselves and worm your way out of the back seat. She sits, keeping you wrapped in her coat, until the inside of your own car is nice and warm. That earns her a few lingering kisses.