#older leon

The woman on the other end of the phone begins rattling off names of boutiques you frequent, the salon you visit bi-weekly for touch-ups to your nails and hair, the one store you always drag him into, and the other so he can watch you try on lingerie in front of a tri-fold mirror (he doesn’t mind going into that one with you, for obvious reasons).  

Thousands of dollars spent over the course of a few hours. It’s impressive really, and if he wasn’t so mad at you, he’d admit that it must be some sort of talent you possess, being able to drain his bank account in such record time. 

This must be your way of getting back at him for the comment he made last night as the two of you argued back and forth over something so trivial and stupid, he can’t even remember. Or maybe that’s just because he’s getting old. 

What was it again? Did he say you…fuck, he really can’t remember.

“It’s fine. I recognize those.”

“Are you authorizing these charges, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Yes, yes,” he says quickly, dismissing her concern. “That was me.” 

“Alright, then. Have a great day, Mr. Kennedy, and thank you for trusting Capital Bank for all your financial needs.” 

“Yes, yeah, you too.” Once the line is dead, he leans back in his rolling desk chair, stretching his arms back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Fuck.” 

You sit in the living room, with one recently waxed leg crossed over the other, anxiously shaking your recently buffed and polished foot, flipping your recently dyed and blow dried hair over your shoulder as you wait for Leon’s return. There’s a mountain of shopping bags, stuffed with items you neither need nor particularly wanted, still wrapped up in tissue paper and tied with satin ribbons blocking the front door. You hope it’s the first thing he lays eyes on when he walks inside. Which, you glance down at the glittering watch on your wrist, should be any moment now.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Leon’s shoulders fall as he crosses the threshold, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door, his folded jacket onto the hook beside it. His eyes fall to the massacre around his feet, and he kicks the bags and boxes out of his way. “Where are you?” 

You don’t answer, letting him take another step down the hall to meet your eyes across the living room.

“Are you serious? Almost ten thousand dollars in four hours. What the fuck?” Voice as exhausted as it is thick with incredulity, the whiny sound almost makes you feel sorry for the man. “Are you insane?” 

You stay seated, your arms crossed over your middle, waiting patiently for him to approach. Maybe when he gets close enough, you’ll kick him right in the balls. He deserves it. For what? You can’t exactly remember…

Did you accuse him of cheating? 

Perhaps he forgot your birthday?

Or an anniversary?

It made you mad last night, though, and you were still pissed when you woke up to buttery sunshine and chirping birds this morning, so it had to have been something serious…right?

“Ten thousand dollars,” he repeats, loosening the silk tie around his neck. Before he can get to close, you jump out of the chair and trudge down the hall, toward the stairs. “Don’t you walk away from me, young lady,” he calls out after you. 

“Can’t hear you,” you shout back, beginning your trek up the stairs. He nearly catches you, taking the steps two at a time, forcing you to quicken your pace, rounding the corner of the landing until you run to refuge in your bedroom. 

His stride is much longer than yours, however, and he’s hot on your trail, storming into the room after you. 

“Ten thousand dollars.” Almost. “Why? What could possibly have made you think that was okay?”

“You–you are never home, Leon,” you say, trying to improvise on the spot. It surprises you just how easy it is to fall back into the argument that took place last night, all the puzzle pieces finally fitting together. “You’re always away, off getting shot at, thrown around my mutant creature-things. Do you want to get yourself killed?” 

His eyes widen as he fumbles with the buttons at the top of his dress shirt. “I did today after I got that call from the bank. Damn near put in a request for another assignment once the lady told me how much you spent.” He’ll probably have to save another relative of the president to recoup the cost of your adventure.

You roll your eyes. “See? Everything’s a joke to you, huh? Can you not be serious for one moment?”

“You’re returning all that shit tomorrow,” he barks back, ignoring you completely, making quick work of his belt, sliding the leather through the loops of his slacks.

“I am not,” you say, folding your arms, jutting out your hip. 

“Yes you are.” He takes another step toward you, unfastening the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt so he can roll the sleeves up his forearms. 

“No, I’m not.” 

He groans, tossing his head back, muttering to himself. “What the fuck have I done in my life to deserve this?” But save people, save his country. Maybe you’re his karma for some deed that went unnoticed, unpunished. 

A delicious punishment, indeed. 

Except Leon doesn’t punish. He loves. He doubles down on his affection, smothering you with his gentility and compassion until there’s nothing left for you to do but relinquish your obstinance. 

You step to move past him, but his hands are too quick, snatching you up by the waist, grabbing you into his arms. He’s too strong, and you know better than to think you could successfully evade his grasp, but you try anyway. Unrelenting, you squirm around, trying to sink to your knees to duck away but his forearms wrapped around your back keep you on your feet.

Futile…of course. 

“Stop it,” he growls, forcing a kiss onto your lips. It’s ferocious and almost violent the way he presses his face against yours. You can almost feel the lines and ridges of his teeth through the skin. He groans into your mouth, the vibrations tickling your lips. “Let me love you.” There is such sincerity in the plea that it elicits pinpricks of tears in the corners of your eyes, softening your hardened heart. “All I want to do is love you. Why won’t you let me?” 

He places you onto the bed, flipping you over onto your front, your breasts squished between your weight and the cool fabric of the comforter, no place for your face to go but left or right. You screw your eyes shut, bottom and top lashes glued together by a smear of salty drops, and you rely on your other senses to betray the scene behind you.

Leon manually lifts your hips to place a pillow beneath them, and you hear a rustling of his dress shirt as he lifts the cloth of your robe, as he pulls your panties down the trembling flesh of your thighs. 

With his knuckles, he nudges your legs apart just an inch so he can bury two fingers inside of your aching cunt. 

“Are you gonna let me take care of you, baby?” He asks, plunging his digits in and out of you as his sugary words meet your ears. So soft. “You must have forgotten how much I love you. That’s why you acted out like that, huh?”

You nod against the mattress, unable to produce any sound beyond your soprano cries of pleasure. 

“Let me remind you then.” 

His other hand comes to the small of your back, pressing your lower stomach further into the mattress. The simple touch magnifies the intensity a hundred fold, the pressure on your front wall hurrying your approaching climax. He’s aware that this little trick is a guaranteed way to have your legs shaking for hours after your height of pleasure. 

“Leon,” you cry, grappling at the sheets above your head, searching for something to tether you to the earth, certain that if you don’t, you’re at risk of ascending to the heavens. 

He hardly has to move his fingers, only crooking them at the knuckle to push the spot behind your clit to shove you over the edge. Your first orgasm hits you like a wave, your abdomen tensing and releasing, your walls clenching around his digits, your toes going numb.

You cry out his name, lips stained with spittle and the swears that pass through them as your next climax already starts to build.

Leon chuckles darkly behind you, perfectly content with how you’re melting beneath him, putty in the palm of his hand. Yet he’s still not satisfied. 

“It’s not fair, baby, you know that. I work so hard to give you everything you want–anything you could possibly need to be safe and happy.” You can sense him shaking his head in disbelief as his fingers continue to dive rhythmically into your pussy. “The only things I want to do in my silly little life are to love you and make you happy. It’s just not fair when you go out and try to punish me like that.” 

You sob into the sheets, your second wave of pleasure cresting over you, this one far more intense and demanding. It has your thighs quaking and your stomach contracting, muscles already sore. 

“I can’t, Leon,” you manage to shriek, trying to shift your hips beneath his heavy hands, to crawl up the bed. He doesn’t let you, instead, keeping you pinned to the mattress. 

“Yes you can, sweetheart,” he assures sweetly, though his ferocious fingers are anything but. “One more, baby. Just give me one more. I want to make you feel good, remember?” 

But it doesn’t feel good. Pleasure quickly bleeds into pain as your throbbing clit refuses any more stimulation. And yet, a third orgasm slams into your body, somehow more violent than the last. It has you quivering from head to toe, and you lose feeling in your fingers. 

“No more,” you whimper, tears cascading down your numb cheeks. “No more.” Your bottom lip is swollen and bruised, no doubt a mirror image of your clit, which is being stabbed with aftershocks. “I can’t.” 

Leon removes his fingers from your pussy, and you use the last morsel of strength you have to glance over your shoulder, watching as he licks the evidence of your pleasure from them. He flips you over onto your back and bows down to press a nimble kiss onto your clit, still so red and sore, you yelp at even the lightest touch. 

He situates himself near the headboard and pulls you along the mattress into his arms, covering your sullied body with the curtains of your robe. 

“I feel so bad,” you cry into your hands, shaking your head against your palms, your tears lubricating the movement. “I’m so sorry, Leon. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Leon can’t stand to see you cry. For every unhappy tear you shed down your sweet, soft face, a crack in his old heart deepens. He just can’t take it. The sight makes him sick to his stomach, and he’d do anything–anything–to make you feel better.

“Shh, baby, baby, baby.” He pulls you further into his chest to cradle you in his arms, and you let him pet your head, smoothing your hair, playing with the strands between his fingers. “It’s alright, baby. You’re okay.”

“I don’t know why I did it. I can’t even remember why we fought in the first place,” you admit through another violent sob. “Not really.”

“Please don’t cry,” he pleads, cupping the side of your face. “I hate seeing you cry.”

You sniffle, wiping your wet eyes on the back of your hand. “I’m sorry.”

After a few minutes of him holding you like this, among the silent calm of the bedroom, Leon finally speaks. “If you want us to take that vacation we’ve been planning, you know you’ll have to return some of that stuff. Doesn’t have to be everything.” He shrugs. “Just a few things.” 

You nod against him, sticky tears drying down on your cheeks. “I know.” 

“Just not that lingerie, got it?” The corner of his mouth lifts into a half-smile, and the sight makes your heart skip a beat or two.

You break out into a giggle, the first time you’ve genuinely laughed since your argument last night, and it feels good. A sweet release.  

The glass doors of the Kennedy Global headquarters didn’t just open; they hissed with a quiet, expensive precision that suggested everything inside was perfectly under control. For a woman who had spent the last four years clawing her way through business school and internships, that sound was more than just mechanical. It was the sound of arrival.

She stepped onto the polished marble floor of the lobby, her heels clicking with a steady, rhythmic confidence. She liked the way her reflection followed her in the dark stone, sharp, professional, and entirely composed. Her strength had always been her ability to watch and learn without being noticed. While others in her orientation group were busy trying to out-talk one another or impress the HR coordinators with loud questions, she remained silent. She observed the way the senior partners moved, the subtle hierarchy of who held the elevator for whom, and the way the air seemed to grow heavier and more serious the higher the floor.

By the third day, she felt like she was finally starting to map out the internal geography of the place. The office was a labyrinth of frosted glass, dark wood, and the constant, low-level hum of high-stakes productivity. It smelled faintly of expensive coffee and fresh toner. She had spent the morning running through protocols and memorizing the digital filing system, and now, she was taking a moment to explore the executive wing on the top floor before her official assignment began.

The hallway was quiet, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sound of her footsteps. She was looking down at a stack of orientation memos, flipping through a page about security clearances, when she turned a sharp corner near the executive lounge.

The impact was sudden and solid. It wasn't like hitting a wall; it was like hitting something warm, firm, and immovable.

"Whoa, oh," she gasped as her hands flew up to steady herself.

The papers in her grip didn't stand a chance. They fluttered through the air like wounded birds, scattering across the dark carpet in a chaotic white fan. She stumbled back, her heart hammering against her ribs, and immediately dropped to one knee to gather the mess.

"Sorry, I didn’t see you there," she said, her voice breathless but still maintaining that core of professional politeness she had practiced for years. "I was miles away."

"It’s a long hallway to be lost in," a voice replied.

The voice was low, smooth, and carried a weight of authority that made her hands pause for a split second. She gathered the last two sheets of paper and looked up, ready to offer a standard corporate apology.

The words died in her throat.

The man standing over her was tall, his frame filling the hallway with an effortless, commanding presence. He was dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that emphasized the broad line of his shoulders. But it was his face that stopped her breath. He had sharp, handsome features and a head of dark blonde hair that fell slightly over his forehead. Most striking of all were his eyes, a piercing, crystalline blue that seemed to see right through the surface level of her apology.

He wasn't moving to help her, but he wasn't being rude, either. He was simply standing there, watching her with a faint, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked like a man who was rarely surprised and never hurried.

She felt a flush of heat creep up her neck, but she didn't look away. Instead, she stood up slowly, squaring her shoulders and smoothing her skirt. She decided to lean into the confidence she usually used as a shield.

"I guess I’m a little clumsy this morning," she said, offering him a subtle, knowing smile. She tilted her head just a fraction, her eyes meeting his. "You must be used to people rushing into things around here."

The man didn't blink. His smirk widened by perhaps a millimeter, a silent acknowledgment of her boldness. He didn't speak immediately, instead letting his gaze drift down to the papers in her hand and then back up to her face. The silence wasn't awkward; it was charged. She felt a quiet thrill, a spark of electricity that had nothing to do with her job description.

"I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important," she continued, her voice gaining a playful edge she hadn't intended. "Although I suppose some interruptions are worth noticing."

He finally moved, shifting his weight slightly and crossing his arms. The movement made the fabric of his suit jacket pull tight against his chest.

"Not at all," he responded, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Just unexpected."

She stepped a bit closer, just enough to be within his personal space without being unprofessional. "Unexpected can be… interesting."

He let out a short, quiet huff of a laugh, more of a breath than a sound, and his smirk became a full, knowing smile. He didn't ask her name, and he didn't tell her his. He simply stood his ground, observing her with a level of focus that made her feel like the only person in the entire building.

"Get to where you're going," he said softly, though it sounded more like an invitation than an order.

She nodded, her heart still racing, and walked past him. She could feel his eyes on her back until she turned the corner. She didn't know who he was, but she knew she wouldn't forget those eyes.

Over the next few days, the memory of the encounter stayed with her like a low-grade fever. She saw him again, though never as close. Once, he was a shadow behind a glass wall in a high-level meeting, leaning back in a chair while three other executives gestured wildly at a screen. Another time, she caught a glimpse of him in the executive kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee, looking entirely too relaxed for a man in such a high-pressure environment.

Each time, she made sure he saw her. She would offer a faint smile, a lingering glance, or a subtle tilt of her head as she walked by. And each time, he noticed. He would pause, his blue eyes tracking her movement, that same smug, quiet smirk appearing on his face. He was studying her just as much as she was studying him. She noted the way he carried himself, the jaw tilt, the narrowed eyes, the way he moved with a controlled ease that suggested he was always the most dangerous person in the room.

The tension was building, a secret language shared in the hallways of a billion-dollar company. It was a game, and she was enjoying it far more than she should.

On Monday morning, her supervisor called her into the main office.

"You've done excellent work on the data entry and the preliminary reports," the supervisor said, not looking up from her tablet. "The executive branch is short-staffed this month. You've been tapped for a direct assistant role. It's a trial, but if you do well, it’s a massive career jump."

She felt a surge of pride. "Thank you. Who will I be reporting to?"

"Leon Kennedy. He’s the Chief Operating Officer. His office is at the end of the hall on the fiftieth floor. Don't be late."

The name hit her like a physical blow. Leon Kennedy. She had read the name in the company handbook, seen it on internal emails, but she hadn't put a face to it. Until now.

She walked toward the fiftieth floor with a sense of impending doom and exhilaration. When she reached the heavy mahogany door at the end of the hall, she took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and knocked.

"Come in."

She pushed the door open. The office was massive, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Behind a desk carved from a single piece of dark wood sat the man from the hallway.

Leon didn't look up immediately. He was signing a document, his focus intense. But as she stepped further into the room, he raised his head. His blue eyes locked onto hers, and within a second, that familiar, faint smirk appeared.

She froze. Her pulse spiked, a heat rising from her chest to her cheeks. The realization crashed over her: she had been flirting, subtly, but definitely flirting, with the COO of the company. The man who held her entire future in his hands.

She forced a long, professional exhale, trying to regain her footing. "I… I’ll get started," she managed to say, her voice slightly higher than usual.

Leon leaned back in his leather chair, his smirk widening. He didn't look mocking; he looked like he had been waiting for this moment. He didn't say anything about their previous encounters, letting the silence stretch out until the air in the room felt thick enough to touch. He was fully aware of her discomfort, and he was clearly enjoying it.

Finally, he tapped a stack of files on his desk. "Alright. I’ll walk you through the basics. Filing, tracking reports, managing communications. Accuracy is key, not speed. Understand?"

She gripped her notebook, her knuckles turning white. "Yes, absolutely."

He stood up and walked around the desk. As he moved closer, the sheer physical presence of him became overwhelming. He was tall, and he smelled of sandalwood and expensive soap. He began pointing out the different filing cabinets and the digital organization system he preferred.

"Active projects go here," he said, his hand hovering near hers as he pointed to a drawer. "Completed reports there. Keep everything labeled and timestamped."

He moved with a controlled ease, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms that were surprisingly toned for a man who spent his days in boardrooms. She tried to focus on the labels, on the dates, on anything other than the way his voice vibrated in the small space between them. But her eyes kept drifting, to the line of his jaw, to the way his watch caught the light, to the strength in his hands.

"Do you… always keep them organized this way?" she asked, desperate to say something that sounded intelligent.

Leon glanced at her, his eyebrow arching. "It saves time and confusion. Precision is important."

She nodded quickly. "Makes sense. You seem… very precise." She paused, the word intimidating hovering on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back just in time.

Leon didn't miss the hesitation. He turned fully toward her, leaning one hand against the filing cabinet, effectively pinning her in place with his gaze. "Intimidating?" he asked, his voice a low, knowing purr.

She felt her heart thudding against her ribs. She shrugged, trying to look casual despite the fact that she was vibrating with nervous energy. "A little. But in a good way. Keeps everyone on their toes."

He didn't respond. He just stood there, observing her. The weight of his gaze was heavy, physical. He was looking at her the way a predator looks at something it has already caught, but there was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flip. She felt her focus fluttering, her professional mask slipping just enough for him to see the fluster beneath.

"Good," he said finally, his voice dropping an octave. "I like people who stay on their toes."

He turned back to the desk, but the tension didn't leave the room. It stayed, coiling around them like smoke. He continued giving instructions, explaining the nuances of his schedule and the way he liked his briefings summarized.

She struggled to keep up, her pen flying across the page of her notebook, but her mind was a whirlwind. Every time he shifted his posture, every time he leaned in to point at a line of text, she felt that same quiet thrill she had felt in the hallway. Only now, it was amplified by the realization that he was her boss.

He paused, resting his arms on the desk as he looked at a calendar. The smirk was still there, lingering like a secret. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he had noticed her distraction. He had seen the way her eyes lingered on his arms, the way her breath hitched when he stepped closer, and the way she was currently fighting to keep her hands from shaking.

She took a slow breath, trying to steady herself. On the outside, she looked like the perfect, professional assistant, back straight, notebook ready, expression neutral. But on the inside, she was a mess of heat and nerves.

Leon Kennedy wasn't just a boss. He was a challenge. And as he looked up from the desk, his blue eyes catching hers with a look that was both a question and a promise, she realized that her worst behavior in the hallway was only the beginning. He knew exactly what she was doing, and he was going to make sure she knew he was watching every move she made.

"Any questions?" he asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm.

"No," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "No, Mr. Kennedy. I think I have everything I need."

"We'll see," he replied, and the way he said it made her feel like the real test hadn't even started yet.