#ted garcia

You wondered if Joe would ever shut the fuck up. 

He’d just come back to the office and was ranting about Toni from the supermarket forcing his Radical Left Agenda onto him and Fred, apparently ‘screaming’ at them that they needed masks, when you knew perfectly well Toni barely raised his voice at all, wouldn’t even snap at a fly buzzing by.

You kept your head down at your desk, the one furthest from your boss’s, your shoulders curled slightly inward like you could make yourself smaller by will alone, eyes flicking between emails and open tabs without absorbing a word, your body present but your mind already somewhere else, anywhere else. Joe still had you working in-person, like the scab of a human he was. The type of man who treated public health like a threat to his masculinity. Fucker.

Michael and Guy were in there too, shaking their heads while they watched through YouTube videos, scoffing at the mayor’s re-election videos and how the town had gone to hell. You’d stopped trying to argue with them ages ago. You’d needed this job more than you needed to be right, unfortunately. 

Just a few more years of this shithole, you told yourself, the mantra worn smooth with repetition. A few more trips around the sun trapped in this backwater office with this bigoted excuse for a sheriff.  Maybe, by then…maybe, if Joe retired, or died, or choked on a menthol in his sleep, you could finally make a move. You had ideas and hopes for your small town. A sustainability initiative you’d written up in your own time, a vision for a future that didn’t involve draining the entire aqueduct for SolidGoldMagikarp. If you could just get onto the city planning board, even as an assistant, you could finally start pushing it, making your dreams of sustainability as county commissioner a reality. You dreamed of drafting your own legislation, of turning this city around before the data center would wipe it clean. Something greener, smarter, not some sun bleached, drought ridden dump full of men like Joe fucking Cross. 

Better yet, you thought, if Garcia won the next mayoral race, that might open up some board seats in the city planning office. Maybe Joe would get so tired of the man who’d fucked his wife (allegedly, whatever) always stepping over him and succeeding, he’d just pick up his agoraphobic wife and lunatic mother in law and just…leave. 

Wouldn’t that be something. 

A google alert pinged on your email, taking you from your day dreams of greener pastures with a notification.

Position Opening: Junior Planning Consultant — City of Eddington Office of Public Works

Your pulse kicked into high gear as you glanced over your shoulder first. Joe, Guy, and Michael were still clustered together, now huffing about the small group of BLM protesters down the road like they were a personal inconvenience instead of people, before turning back to your screen.

The Office of Public Works is seeking an entry-level consultant to assist with ongoing urban development initiatives. This position will support research, public engagement, and administrative coordination related to municipal zoning, transportation planning, and community infrastructure. Applicants should demonstrate strong organizational skills, familiarity with local government operations, and a commitment to civic growth.

You blinked at the screen, then reread it.

Oh. 

Oh, this was perfect. 

And then, your shoulders dropped as you kept reading. 

Candidates must provide a letter of recommendation from a senior government official with direct oversight of their current position.

Not likely. 

But…but if you somehow managed it, this could be the next step to your future, the next step to getting out of this fucking office and into making real change for your town. The only problem was… Joe would have a god damn field day if you’d ask for a letter of recommendation from him to go work for the local government, because it would mean working with said man who’d fucked his wife all those years ago (allegedly!!!). And to get this job, you’d need his blessing in ink. A glowing, beautiful letter explaining how much you’d worked for the position. Even though you felt like the last woman standing now, the only one left with her head screwed on straight after the deputies who actually made a difference fled to Rio Rancho, and the others were fired in quiet disgrace for excessive force, for misconduct, for things everyone pretended were isolated incidents instead of patterns.

You closed your laptop quickly, shooting up from the swiveling office chair and heading for the door. 

Joe looked up. “Where you off to at this hour?”

You straightened your spine, smoothed your face into something pleasant and harmless. “Lunch,” you said, too sweet, already halfway to the door. He checked his watch like he had to think about it while Michael and Guy both gave you a slow once over with their lingering eyes. And once Joe gave a nod, you headed out. Fuckers.

You pulled your mask from your bag, tucking it around your ears and snug over your nose with your shoulders tight, and headed through the spring heat towards the coffee shop two blocks down, the one where the espresso was always burnt but the wi-fi wasn’t half bad. You sat outside by the window after mobile-ordering your latte, and opened up your laptop. For the next hour, you poured your heart into a new resume, fine tuned a cover letter, and searched for your college essays on public engagement and community trust building. 

It wasn’t a glowing recommendation letter, but it would have to do for now. And when you were done and the application had been sent, you shut your laptop and headed back to the hellhole to finish out the day pretending it all still mattered.

Three days passed with no response. 

You refreshed your inbox until the motion felt automatic, compulsive, like blinking. You checked spam obsessively, looked over the job board again in case the listing had vanished. You even checked LinkedIn, knowing full well hardly anyone in Eddington bothered with it, scrolling through the same stale profiles until your eyes burned.

The longer the silence stretched, the more ridiculous you started to feel for letting yourself hope. That this place—this dusty, underfunded, God-fearing town—would ever take someone like you seriously without a sheriff’s badge or a family name or a church attendance record. 

By the fourth day of waiting, the pit in your stomach had settled into something worse than dread—utter resignation.

You weren’t even pretending to work anymore. You were sitting at your desk, thumb jammed into your cheek, staring down at a blurry Facebook upload of Joe’s latest video, filmed from his truck.

"Is it worth it," he was saying with more punch to each word, “to combat a virus that isn’t even here, if it means bein’ at war with your neighbors? And your family? That’s what community is, isn’t it? A family. Because you can ruin a man’s day, or you can do the right thing, and be kind. And you can free his heart.”

Free his heart? Jesus fucking Christ. This was coming from a man who’d once told a room full of veterans that masks were ‘just another way to keep good people afraid’ and who blamed Antifa for every broken window or tagged wall in town, who believed if you wore a mask in office you were one of them. 

And of course the comments were full of people calling him a hero. Someone had added a bald eagle emoji. You wanted to throw your phone across the room. You even thought you might vomit.

And above the video, suddenly, was a notification. An email to Joe. Your name had been CC’d automatically, since he never bothered to look at them himself. You saw everything that came through to him these days. Ever since the pandemic started, ever since his wife had taken a turn for the worse, you’d been quietly looped into the communications day in and day out. 

From: Ted Garcia To: Sheriff Joe Cross Subject: Congratulations

You clicked before you could think better of it.

Joe, Heard the news. Let’s talk. – Ted Garcia Eddington Mayoral Office 235 Las Cruces Rd, Eddington, NM Paving the Way for a Tech-Forward Future!

You scanned the words again, then again, heart kicking hard into your ribs. Every instinct in you was screaming that what you were about to do was stupid, dangerous, career-ending if anyone found out. 

But your fingers were typing before you could think better of it.

See you at 3. Library lot, side entrance. – Joe Cross

You hovered for half a second, breath held tight in your chest, and clicked send.

The spinning loader circled a few times before pinging with bright confirmation: sent!

Whether it was stupid or smart or something far worse, you didn’t know yet. But you did know this: you needed a way out. 

One way or another.

The park beside the library wasn’t much of a park at all. Just a strip of dried-up grass and a hot iron bench bolted into the ground, an inscription carved into the backrest honoring the family that founded the town, names worn smooth by years of sun and neglect. You sat there beneath a desert willow, fingers interlocked so tightly your knuckles strained, sweat gathering between your spine and the metal slats pressing into your back. You’d chosen the corner closest to the maintenance shed by the side entrance, half in shadow, tucked just out of view unless someone already knew where to look.

You weren’t sure if he’d come, though…you weren’t sure what you’d say if he did. 

But then you heard footsteps, and you jumped towards the sound—not the boots you were used to hearing shuffling around the station or running out the door for a call, but loafers, soft on the sole as they hit the dry, yellow grass at his feet. 

He rounded the bend with his hands in his vest pockets, wearing faded jeans and a button up beneath. His hair was tamed, blowing in a welcome breeze, sunglasses and a mask hiding his expression when he stopped short. 

He looked around, looking for his intended meeting partner, and looked back at you, because you were staring despite trying to seem very calm and collected. You saw how his brow pinched over the rim of his glasses as he took one more look around him. 

“You’re not Joe.” he said uneasily as he approached. 

He didn’t sit quite yet, and you watched him, hands still tight in your lap, “Nope.”

There was a strained silence. 

“I saw your email,” you said then, “I was the one who responded. I work at the station,” your voice was starting to get higher, your words tumbling out, “just the office stuff, answering phones and taking his emails and—”

“I know who you are.”

Okay… noted. 

He still hadn’t sat, but you gestured to the bench anyway, careful not to sound too eager. “Can I talk to you?”

He waited a beat longer than necessary, then eased down at the opposite end. Not close, but not perched at the edge either, occupying the space with quiet confidence. “Mask?” he said. 

You nodded, pulling yours from your pocket and placing it over your nose, and then taking a deep breath, you looked out at the brittle grass.

“There’s a job opening,” you said. “In Public Works. Entry-level consultant for development planning. I applied.”

He didn’t react.

“But I need a letter of recommendation,” you went on. “From a government official. Someone with seniority. It’s part of the requirements.”

Still nothing. You felt the silence stretch between you, starting to sting.

“I know you’re not exactly thrilled with anyone connected to Joe,” you said carefully, “but this isn’t about him. I’m trying to get out, I hate it there. I have a background in environmental policy. I’m not—” You stopped. “I wouldn’t embarrass you. If you were to…write it for me.”

That did it. Just a slight tilt of his head, a brief glance in your direction.

“You’re sure about that?” you heard him say, muffled under his mask.

Your mouth went dry. “Yes.”

“Because a letter from me carries weight around here,” he said. “And if I vouch for someone who turns out to be unqualified, careless, unstable—”

“I’m not any of those things.”

“How would I know that?”

You stared at him. “You just said you know who I am. And I know for a fact you know my mom and dad.”

This time he met your gaze fully.

“I do.”

And that was it. No warmth, no advantage, nothing to be proud of, clearly.

You exhaled once, sharply and tried to recover.

“Okay….I could…” you were looking around, as if the blades of dried shrubbery could give you an answer, “I could pay you.”

He actually laughed at that, short and amused. “Bribing a public official. Great pitch for your career.”

You closed your eyes for a second, rubbed your temple. “It was worth a shot.”

He stood, smoothing the front of his shirt. “If that’s all—”

“It’s not.” You rose quickly after him. “Just… One more thing.”

He didn’t walk away. That was something, at least.

“Don’t laugh,” you said.

“I’ll try.”

You swallowed. You looked at the grass, the shadows of the bench moving as the seconds ticked by, anywhere but his face. To say you were spiraling might be an exaggeration, your brain was whirring around, lungs heaving in shallow breaths, trying to steady yourself. He waited, and you realized then how tall he was. You hadn’t ever been in front of him like this, so close, and some kind of cologne was wafting off of him in the breeze, warm and mixed with some oud wood and tobacco. 

But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t push or fill the silence for you, and you couldn’t leave empty handed, not after everything you’d risked just to be here. Because what would happen if you let this slip through your fingers? If you trudged back into the office with nothing to show for it but a nasty sunburn?

The thought made your stomach twist, because you could already see it so clearly. No letter of recommendation = no chance at that job. No foothold into city planning, or any path forward, no future that looked anything like the one you’d imagined for yourself on those long. There were so many sleepless nights spent lying awake and furious, cataloguing all the ways this town was rotting from the inside out and how you’d fix it, if only someone would let you try.

You looked at Ted then. He was still watching you, expression hidden behind those dark sunglasses, posture easy and unmoved, like none of this touched him at all. Like he didn’t owe you a single thing. Because, in truth, he didn’t.

You wet your lips and told yourself not to flinch.

“There’s one other thing,” you said.

And finally, finally, that got his attention. His head tilted, just slightly, waiting.

You felt the blood roar in your ears.

“I could…I could pay you. In other ways.”

He was watching you silently, and God, you hated those sunglasses. You wished you could reach out and snatch them from his face, just to see what this was doing to him, if anything at all.

“I could…I could send you photos.” you said meekly, quietly. 

“Of?” he asked, head tipping down slightly, as if genuinely puzzled.

“Myself,” you whispered. Then you straightened, spine stiffening as something stubborn took hold of you. If you were going to say it, you were going to say it with your chest. “Naked.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. You wondered if he’d even heard you through the mask, through the noise in your own head. 

And then, as stern and business-like as ever, he said: “Get back to work,” already turning away from you, shaking his head like he found it all so damn ridiculous.

“Is that a no?” you called to him. 

He didn’t bother answering you, nor did he glance back your way as he walked off. 

A few hours later, your phone rang.

An unmarked number. Local, but not saved. Your stomach tightened before you even picked it up, a quiet, anticipatory pull low in your spine, as if some part of you already knew exactly who it was.

“Hello?”

“Send them to this number,” he said, no greeting, no preamble. “Tonight. After work. I want one tonight, and one in the morning. After you shower.”

“I shower at night.”

The words came out before you could stop them, clipped and absurdly practical, like that was the sticking point here. Not the fact that the mayor of Eddington was calling you before your shift had even ended. Not that he was asking for something that could dismantle your life if it slipped even slightly out of your control.

There was a pause on the line. Long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough for your mind to race—was he reconsidering? Had he already decided this was a mistake? Had reality finally caught up to how reckless this all was?

“Then I’d advise that you start showering in the morning,” he said before the line went dead.

You stared at your phone for a second too long before lowering it, heat blooming beneath your skin. Fucker.

And yet, when your shift ended and you stepped out into the evening, there was a lightness in your stride you couldn’t quite tamp down. You told yourself not to analyze it, not to interrogate whether it came from the faint outline of an exit finally appearing, flickering uncertainly ahead, more warning sign than promise. Or whether it came from something smaller and darker and more thrilling.

There was something intoxicating about being naughty.

By the time you reached your apartment above a local restaurant, you were climbing the stairs to your door as your nerves hummed. You fumbled with your keys, hands clumsy, pulse loud in your ears. Inside, you greeted your four-legged shadow at the door, forced yourself through the familiar motions—food, water, routine—letting the normalcy steady you, anchoring yourself to the fact that the world had not yet tipped off its axis.

Only once you were alone again did it catch up to you.

In the bathroom, you braced both hands on the sink and stared at your reflection, your face flushed, eyes a little too bright. Your breathing felt shallow, like you’d just come in from running.

It’s just pictures, you told yourself.

And then, immediately: What if he shares them?

What if he uses them as proof, as leverage, as a weapon—not just against you, but against Joe?

He wouldn’t do that. The thought came fast, instinctive.

But how could you be sure? You’d barely spoken to him before today. Yes, your families knew each other—your mother and him in the same classrooms as kids, your father beside him through years of a high school debate club—but that was history, not trust. And if he told your parents? 

There was too much at stake, too many ways this could end badly.

So you pivoted.

In your bedroom, you went to the back of your closet and started digging, pushing aside clothes you hadn’t touched in years. Your fingers closed around something soft and unfamiliar, and when you pulled it free, you almost laughed.

Lacey and delicate, barely considered clothing with how little there was to it. Just something you’d bought for an ex a lifetime ago, meant as a Valentine’s surprise that never happened because he’d left you the night before, leaving this small, ridiculous relic behind.

It had never been worn.

It was perfect. 

An hour later, you were stretched out on your bed, pillows stacked behind you, the room lit warm and low. Your makeup was done with more care than you’d given it in years, lashes dark and thick, mouth soft and glossy. Your hair spilled loose across the sheets, catching in the fabric as you shifted, every movement hyper aware. You took photo after photo, adjusting angles, discarding most of them immediately, but you felt… good. Confident, even. Excited. Yes, still, beneath it all, there was a faint tremor you couldn’t quite shake, a tight awareness in your chest that kept you alert, careful. You took photo after photo, not frantic or rushing, just adjusting, refining, discarding the ones that didn’t feel right, like you were weighing something valuable before deciding to let it go.

Eventually, one stopped you, and you stared and edited it a bit for the lighting and contrast, before mustering up your courage and hitting the send button. 

And now there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait, you did.

No response, nothing the entire night. The evening stretched on, the silence pressing heavier with every passing minute. You paced your apartment, checked your phone, set it down, picked it up again. You checked the number at least twenty times just to be sure you had the right one. You hovered over the text field more than once, fingers itching to ask if he’d received it, to say something casual, something safe, but you stopped yourself every time. You refused to beg. Refused to show need where it hadn’t been invited.

By the time you crawled into bed, your thoughts were looping, chest buzzing with too much awareness and too many imagined outcomes. You dry swallowed a Xanax just to quiet it as you lay staring at the ceiling until the night finally softened enough for sleep to take you. 

By the time you were back at your desk the next morning, you were vibrating.

Too much coffee, for one thing, but also the undercurrent of exhaustion that made everything feel a half second off, like the world was lagging behind your thoughts. You hadn’t slept worth a damn. Even with the Xanax, even with the ceiling fan spinning slow and steady overhead, your mind had kept circling back to the same questions, the same what-ifs, the same imagined outcomes you couldn’t quite shove away.

You kept waiting for someone to look at you differently.

Joe was already in a mood, pacing near his desk, muttering under his breath about the march downtown, about streets being closed, about “lawlessness,” like inconvenience and injustice were interchangeable things. Every time he spoke to you, your shoulders jumped, a jolt of adrenaline sparking before you could stop it. You tried to keep your face neutral, eyes on your screen, posture loose, like nothing was wrong, like you hadn’t handed over something fragile and dangerous in the form of you, scantily dressed in only your towel this morning.

Your leg bounced under the desk. You kept checking your phone, then forcing yourself to stop, then checking again.

You took another sip of coffee and immediately regretted it.

Maybe you should call Eric later, you thought dimly—Garcia’s kid, once the march wrapped up, once he was done being visible and brave and good in ways that felt impossibly far away right now. You could use more Xanax, or just anything to take this edge off.

The phone on your desk rang, blaringly loud, taking you out of your looping thoughts. You jumped nearly out of your seat, and stared at it like it might bite you.

A local number from a government office. Not unknown, but not one you recognized either. Your stomach dropped hard and fast, the blood rushing loud in your ears as your mind leapt ahead, already assembling the worst possible version of events. He told them. Ted told them everything. Someone put it together. Someone decided to make an example out of you.

Joe glanced over. “You gonna get that?”

You nodded, fingers feeling numb as you picked up the receiver. “Sheriff’s office,” you said, voice miraculously steady.

“Hi,” a woman said on the other end, brisk but pleasant, and then asked if you could connect her with your name.

“Yes,” you said, throat tight. “This is she.”

“This is the County Administration Office,” she continued, and your heart slammed so hard it stole your breath. Fuck, Ted snitched, this was it. Career ending. You squeezed your eyes shut until she went on. “I’m calling regarding your application for the Junior Planning Consultant position.

“We’d like to invite you to interview,” she said, smoothly. “Given current COVID restrictions, our offices remain closed to the public, but we are conducting socially distanced interviews offsite. We can also arrange a Zoom interview, if you prefer.”

Your hand tightened around the receiver.

“In person is fine,” you said, too quickly, then forced yourself to slow down. “In person would be great.”

She took you through the next steps, asked the preemptive lockdown procedural questions in a voice that sounded practiced and distant, like she’d already done this a hundred times that morning. You answered automatically, head nodding even though she couldn’t see you, your pen tracing aimless shapes on the corner of a notepad while your heart beat far too loudly for such a mundane exchange.

When you hung up after a polite goodbye, you sat there for a second, unmoving, staring at absolutely nothing. The office sounds filtered back in slowly with Joe’s voice somewhere behind you, the low hum of the lights, a chair scraping across the floor, but they felt far away, like they were happening on the other side of glass. Your body lagged behind the moment, like it hadn’t caught up yet to what had just happened.

You did it.

You got the interview.

The realization landed unevenly, not as a rush but as a strange, suspended quiet, your chest tight with it, your breath shallow like you were afraid to inhale too deeply and scare it off. You’d been so certain this would end in disaster, so sure that hope was something you’d overreached for again, something that would punish you for daring to want more, and yet Ted hadn’t burned you or panicked or turned you into collateral damage in his quiet war with Joe. He hadn’t exposed you or made a show of it or let this become another small-town spectacle. Instead, he’d done whatever he’d needed to do quietly, without warning you or asking for anything further, keeping his end of a bargain you hadn’t even fully spoken out loud.

It worked. The thought made your stomach flip, relief braided in with a more complicated twist. You still felt exposed, vulnerable, lying in wait for the phone to ring with some nasty truth. 

But still.

For the first time in days, the future didn’t feel like it was closing in on you. It felt, impossibly, like it had cracked open just enough to let you see through.

Pulling into the dusty driveway of the address the receptionist had sent you, a flicker of confusion crept in as you took in the stucco walls and unmistakably residential sprawl of the place. Tan plaster warmed by the sun, thick dark-brown edges framing the structure, low and wide in that mesa style that made houses look like they’d grown straight out of the land instead of being built on it. This was not an office. This was not anything you’d pictured when you’d said in person is fine without thinking too hard about what that might actually mean.

The gravel bit under your heels as you stepped out of the car, sharp and uneven, and you cursed yourself immediately for choosing shoes that had only ever been meant for short, flat walks between parking lots and buildings. You tugged your pencil skirt down as you straightened, gathering yourself, reaching for your portfolio from the passenger seat, the weight of it familiar and grounding in your hands. Essays, résumés, clippings—proof and evidence of your competence. 

Your heart dropped for a half second. 

An SUV sat parked off to the side, dusted with yellow pollen and road grit, a bright campaign sticker slapped on the bumper: Ted Garcia for Mayor! It oddly felt accusatory somehow, like it was staring you down, as if it knew. You forced yourself to breathe as you passed it, it didn’t mean anything. No one knew. You’d only done what you’d had to do, after all. 

Your nerves buzzed as you started toward the front door, each step making you more aware of how quiet it was out here, how far removed from the town center, tucked down along the hills near the edge of pueblo county. You wondered what kind of local government official lived this far out, whether the distance was intentional, just far enough to keep prying eyes away, just far enough to let things happen without being noticed.

You lifted your hand and knocked, the sound firm despite the way your pulse had started to stutter, and immediately wished you’d given yourself one more second, one more breath, anything to slow the momentum you’d already set in motion. The door was flanked by tall panes of glass, reflective enough that for a moment all you saw was yourself: interview ready, portfolio hugged to your chest, expression carefully neutral, and then a shape moved behind it.

A figure crossing the house toward you. The glass distorted them at first, bending light and shadow, but as they drew nearer the outline sharpened, broad shoulders filling the frame, the tilt of a head unmistakable even before…oh fuck— his face came into focus.

No. 

No, no no no no. 

Your hand clenched reflexively around your portfolio, fingers slick with sweat, and then it slipped from you entirely, the folder hitting the stone at your feet with a dull, graceless sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet.

The door opened.

Ted Garcia stood over the threshold of his own house, sunlight spilling in behind him, no mask now, no sunglasses, his expression calm and unreadable as his dark eyes moved over you in a slow, assessing sweep, head to toe, toe to head. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Your stomach was dropping through the ground, your brain hazy and dizzy with a hollow, nauseating plunge that made the tiled entrance feel unsteady beneath your heels. This wasn’t just an interview held somewhere unusual. This wasn’t a workaround for closed offices or social distancing. You were standing on his doorstep, your entire morning suddenly rearranging itself around that fact, the implications unfolding faster than you could stop them.

His house.

You felt absurdly exposed, like the walls themselves could see you, could read the last twenty-four hours written plainly across your skin. Every nerve in your body lit up at once, equal parts embarrassment and alarm and something darker that had your thighs trembling you didn’t want to think about.

You bent automatically, instinct taking over before pride could catch up, knees dipping as you reached for the portfolio where it had spilled open at your feet, papers skewed and peeking out like they’d betrayed you on purpose. Your fingers shook as you gathered it, the motion suddenly clumsy, ungraceful, the kind of awkwardness you could feel all the way up your spine.

Why hadn’t he said anything? Not a hello, not even moving an inch from where he loomed. You couldn’t help it, some itch in your brain to look up, to watch him watch you. 

He stood exactly where he had been, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe, the other loose at his side, watching you with that same infuriatingly neutral expression, his face giving nothing away as you crouched there below him, kneeling on his front step like this was where you belonged. His gaze didn’t hurry or soften or flick away out of politeness. It stayed on you, steady and unblinking, tracking the small, exposed motions of your body as you gathered yourself back together.

Heat crawled up your neck as you straightened quickly, pulling all your papers and dustied binder into the crook of your elbow while you reached out your hand to shake his. 

“Hi, sorry—I’m…” you shook your head, pulling in a deep breath, “I’m here for the interview?”

“Did you take a test?.” he asked.

You nodded quickly, “Negative, a–all good to go,”

His mouth twitched into almost a smile, and then: “Come in,” he said, voice calm and polite.

Ted stepped back just enough to clear the threshold, though not enough to give you much room, and when you moved forward your shoulder brushed lightly against his chest, the contact brief but enough to make you shiver as you stepped into the house. The smell of his aftershave wafted over you, something clean and understated, the awareness of it lingering longer than the touch itself as the door closed behind you.

The space opened up immediately, airier than you’d expected, ceilings rising high above thick plaster walls that softened the light instead of bouncing it back. Terracata underfoot, worn smooth in places, and archways breaking up the rooms without closing them off. The windows along the walls were set deep enough into the walls that the sun never felt harsh. There were signs of care, too. A touch that screamed this was no bachelor pad of a single father, a woman’s touch in places like the woven blanket folded neatly over the couch, the paintings that echoed a western life and local art. The colors, the balance of the rooms….This was a home softened by someone else’s presence, even if you’d known the truth. That his wife left him and Eric earlier that year. 

You realized you’d stopped walking.

Ted stood just behind you, close enough that you could feel him without turning around, letting you look, letting the quiet stretch. It felt intentional, the way he gave you just enough time to take it all in before he moved, stepping past you smoothly, decisively, his shoulder passing close again as he gestured toward a hallway branching off to the side.

“This way,” he said, already leading, assuming you’d follow.

You did, adjusting your grip on the portfolio as you went, the sound of your heels clacking on the stone flooring, your nerves still buzzing but threaded now with something else…curiosity, maybe.

His office was the same as the house, though cluttered with papers around his open laptop, notes strewn around in haphazard messes, government files spread across a large, mahogany desk and nearby surfaces in a kind of organized chaos you couldn’t quite decode, the evidence of a mind that didn’t shut off just because the workday was supposed to end.

He stood leaning back against the edge of the desk, a solid emissary, and gestured toward the chair near the door, a leather armchair worn just enough to look comfortable rather than ceremonial. You moved toward it without really deciding to, body obeying before your thoughts could catch up, settling into the seat and immediately feeling too aware of yourself, of the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs, adjusted your skirt, tried and failed to still the nervous energy skittering through you.

You took him in as he took you in, watching each other for a long moment. His curls seemed more unruly than you’d expected, and without the mask or sunglasses there was nothing to soften the lines of his face: the pretty arch of his nose, the purse of his mouth, the kind of handsome that felt unfair to encounter when you were already this on edge.

“Comfortable?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the chair you were already perched in, voice neutral enough that you couldn’t tell if it was a genuine check-in or a test.

“Yes,” you said, too quickly, then corrected yourself by crossing and uncrossing your legs again, the leather faintly squeaking beneath you. You folded your portfolio onto your lap like a shield, fingers gripping the edge harder than necessary.

“This isn’t how we usually do interviews,” he said, not quite apologetic, just stating a fact. “But with the offices closed and most staff remote, this was the best option.”

You nodded. “That makes sense. I figured it was… a workaround.”

“A lot of things are right now.” His gaze lingered on you, steady, unreadable. “You’d most likely be working remotely to start. Research, drafting, coordination. Once restrictions lift, we transition back into the office. Does that work for you?”

“Yes,” you said. “Absolutely. I’m organized, I keep my own deadlines.”

“I’m sure you do,” he said mildly, and something about it made your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t like.

He reached behind him and picked up one of the papers from his desk, glancing at it briefly before setting it aside again. “You’d be moving from the sheriff’s office into county planning. That’s not nothing, especially with how things are right now. What do you think that’s going to mean for you?”

You hesitated, then answered honestly. “It… probably means tension. Maybe some fallout. But I can manage it.”

“And for your boss?” he asked.

Your jaw tightened. “With respect, what it means for Joe isn’t really my responsibility.”

His brow lifted just a fraction. “Isn’t it?”

You met his gaze, heart hammering now. “Why? Are you nervous about what it’s going to mean for you?”

The question hung there between you, heavier than you’d intended. Maybe it was too prodding or rude, but it was the giant elephant in the room. His political rival, an unruly sheriff who took the law into his own hands and didn’t care about policy or state mandates.

“I suppose we’ll see,” he said.

Your pulse thudded loud in your ears. You wondered, not for the first time, what he really saw when his eyes lingered on you like that…Did he see a stupid girl that worked with the fascist asshole in town? Maybe your résumé and things you’d achieved? Or your carefully put-together outfit? What if it was something else entirely? Or maybe…maybe, the image in his mind was the one you’d sent two nights ago, lace barely covering anything at all, or the one from the next morning, your body wrapped in nothing but a towel, skin still damp from the shower.

You shifted in the chair, suddenly hyper-aware of your posture, your breathing.

He watched you for a moment longer, then said, almost conversationally, “I’m worried about the fact you don’t follow instructions very well.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I—” heat was flooding your face, “Yes, I do. I’m very thorough.” 

“I’m not so sure” He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Because I was very clear.”

What the hell was he getting at? Your mouth opened, then closed. 

“You've barely said anything to me, Mr. Garcia.” you said cordially as possible as your stomach threatened to throw your lunch all over his lap. Your voice was low, as if you should be worried of any intruders privy to your conversation, “I offered something and you accepted.” 

He pushed off the desk and took one slow step toward you, stopping just close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. His voice stayed even and low.

“I asked for naked,” he said. “You sent yourself in some lace get up. And a towel.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, air thick and close around you.

You swallowed. “That—those were—”

“Covered,” he finished for you.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the chair. “I didn’t think—”

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.”

He held your gaze, calm as ever, letting the silence stretch as your nerves buzzed painfully under your skin.

“This position requires attention to detail,” he said finally. “And the ability to follow through exactly as instructed.”

Your heart was racing now, not only with embarrassment but with something sharper, something electric and terrifying all at once.

“I can do that,” you said, just a whisper, barely a breath.

He studied you for another long moment, expression still so god damn unreadable, before straightening again, taking that half step back that returned the balance of the room. You let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding before he went on.

“Over the desk, Miss,” he said, using your last name, his voice calm and even and threaded through with a kind of authority that made it sound less like a suggestion than an expectation.

Your heart leapt into your chest, “What?”

He stared from beside the desk, hand flat against it, a tan where a wedding ring might’ve been, while his other hand lifted slightly, the first two fingers curling inward toward his palm in a slow beckoning that made your stomach drop.

You stared at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, thoughts scattering all at once, your body registering the moment faster than your mind could make sense of it. You felt unmoored, caught between disbelief and a sudden, humiliating pull to comply, and before you could talk yourself out of it you were rising from the chair, legs unsteady as you crossed the small distance to the desk.

His hand came to your lower back, gentle, “Say the word,” he said quietly. “And I will stop.”

“Stop…what?” you whispered.

“You’re trembling, Miss,” he said, using your last name again like it was something official, something clinical, though it did nothing to soothe the knot twisting in your stomach.

“No, I’m not,” you protested, brows knitting as you tried to regain control of yourself. “I’m—I’m just confused.”

“We’re assessing whether you’re right for the job,” he said, tone unchanged, like this explanation made perfect sense to him.

“And what job is that, Mr. Garcia?” you said, quiet as a mouse, your gaze landing and somehow unable to leave his lips. 

A small smile tugged his lips, his mustache twitching with the movement, and for the first time, you could see every naughty thought behind those dark eyes as they lit up with amusement. 

“Coordinator, of course,” he said gently, and the hand on the lower back was very still, not pushing, though you felt his thumb inching under the hem of your shirt to rub at the warm skin there, making your stomach flutter, “I’m going to make sure you know how to listen to direction, assess you’d be the right…fit for me.”

You swallowed. The taste in your mouth had gone thick and strange, and your skin felt tight across your shoulders.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” The words came smaller than you meant them to, your hands now resting on the desk, fingers splayed against the wood as if for balance. Your body had already begun to tip forward, some part of you answering him before your sluggish mind could catch up.

“No.” he said very seriously, “this stays between you and me.”

You let out a breath of relief, and laid yourself across his desk, warm cheek to cool wood, arms tucked at your sides, palms flat. 

“Now,” he said, voice deeper. “First things first. I need to assess you. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

A light slap landed where your thigh curved into your ass, the juncture where your skirt had started to ride up. You yelped a little, though the sting felt…welcome. Like a confession. A truth. Like the feeling inside of you suddenly had a name.

“Yes, sir,” he corrected, “You will call me Mr. Garcia, or sir,” 

“Yes, Mr. Garcia.” you murmured. 

His wide hand soothed over the spot where he’d slapped, fingers dipping too close to your panty line, making you tremble. Your stomach was doing flips, pussy already throbbing with a humiliating need for him to be closer.

Then his hands were at your skirt, dragging it up your thighs, bunching it high at your waist. He let out a light groan of approval as he gripped the globes of your cheeks, massaging them, pulling them apart before pushing them together. He was sort of bent over you, you could feel his body leaning over your lower back from beside you at the desk, eyes looking down over your backside. 

“Yes,” he said, barely a breath. And you realized, where he was leaning against the desk and his jeans dug into your arm, was incredibly thick and hard and…and pulsing, “Yes, this will do just fine,” he kept using your last name, kept saying it. 

“Mr. Garcia?” you asked quietly. 

“Yes?” he stopped, taking his hands away, standing beside you upright. 

You shifted, skin flushed hot, mouth dry. “Would you mind… not calling me that? I hear it all the time at work and—” your voice shook a little, “—I’d rather not... If that’s okay with you.” You swallowed. “Sir.”

“Of course,” he nodded, “What would you like me to call you? A little slut?” his eyes were watching you now, waiting for a reaction, maybe, as he went on, “Or maybe baby? Sweetheart?” His voice softened, teasing the edge of something too warm, too indulgent. “You really are sweet, aren’t you, honey?”

It was like his voice had been dipped in honey, the way the pet names rolled off his tongue, and he must’ve seen what it did to you, because he was smiling, and suddenly, a cooing expression pinched his brows, pursed his lips, “Awww, what a sweet little thing, just wants to be a good girl, doesn’t she?” and as you watched him in silence, his hand came up again to your ass, squeezing it hard, “Answer me.” 

“Yes,” you gasped, his fingers pulling at the trim of your panties. And you could both hear the light squelch of your pussy being pulled, the slick that was already gathered there, “Yes, sir, yes Mr. Garcia, I want to be your good girl.”

“Good job, that’s it,” he nodded, “are you okay with continuing, baby?”

Your knees knocked against the edge of the desk as you shifted, seeking relief that didn’t come, your body already aching for more contact. Your center pulsed with want, feeling neglected between your thighs, gushing thick slick as your breath trembled out of you.

“Yes, sir,” you said quietly, your voice steadying as you spoke. “I’d like to continue.”

He moved around the desk, and the space he left behind felt strangely empty, the loss of his proximity sending a chill across your skin. A moment later, you sensed him behind you. You couldn’t see him, not clearly, but his presence was an unmistakable warmth radiating toward you like a furnace opening.

You tried to look back just as he bent to his knees. His hands returned to your ass with a different kind of touch, careful this time, spreading you open with slow patience, making your whole body hum. His breath drifted over the back of your thighs, warm and intimate, and you shivered.

“Ohhhh,” he sighed, pleased in his tone, “Look at you, already so wet and ready for me.” His fingers pressed more firmly into your flesh as he pulled you apart again, the cotton of your panties stuck to your thick, viscous need, the humiliating sound of the lips soaked in honey. You thought you heard him mutter a quiet fuck under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re a naughty girl, you know that?” Ted said, his tone dipping lower as his fingers hooked into the band of your panties and began to ease them down, inch by aching inch. “Only bad girls show up to a government official to offer their naked little body for a job. Only a really bad girl bends herself over her mayor’s desk like this.”

You were whimpering, thighs pressing together in hopes of any kind of friction, though once your panties were off he was pushing them apart again.

“I’d have never known better,” he went on softly, almost in wonder, pussy stretching with his fingers as he pulled it apart to watch it gush and clench for him. “With you working for that asshole all this time, a little minx with…” his breath stuttered, his voice falling rough, “with the prettiest little pussy just waiting to be taken. Tell me, sweetheart, are you a bad girl?”

“No, sir,” you whispered, heat sparking beneath your skin as you said it. “I’m a good girl. I want to be a good girl for you, Mr. Garcia.”

He clicked his tongue, a slow sound of pity or pleasure, it was hard to tell which, before cooing low and warm, “Ain’t that just sweet.”

You felt the tickle of his mustache first, coarse and warm against your most sensitive skin, and then his tongue followed, flat and wide, cupped like a basin made for collecting, for holding everything you gave him. And as he licked you from clit to asshole in one slow, devastating sweep, the groan that left his throat was long and low, vibrating up through the muscle of his tongue and into his lips where they pressed against you, open and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to spit, the warm glob landing right at your entrance, slick meeting slick. You moaned at the sensation, at the filth of it, at the way his spit joined the obscene wetness already dripping between your thighs. You could only imagine what you looked like, bent over his desk with your cunt drooling and thighs trembling, the floor beneath you surely catching every drop of what he’d coaxed out of you.

His tongue found your clit again with an unrelenting precision, lips sealing over it with a greedy hunger. His teeth grazed, just barely, sending your hips jerking forward before he soothed the sting with an open mouthed kiss, tongue plunging into your cunt like he could taste your obedience there. The sounds were nasty in their clear disdain for anything sweet—wet and messy, echoing against the terracotta tile as he devoured you. He wasn’t gentle. He was eating and taking and devouring every drop you gave, as if you were a little lamb finally caught in his jaw.

“Oh fuck, Ted—oh god—” your voice cracked as you pushed back against his mouth, your thighs quivering with effort, with desperation. His hands gripped your ass so hard you swore you’d bruise, spreading you wide, holding you open while his tongue fucked into you like he could unmake you from the inside out. 

And just as you felt it that sharp, rising crest curling hot in your belly, tight in your thighs, the pressure so sharp it was almost painful, just as you bit down on your lip to keep from screaming his name, tasting the metallic rush of blood—

He stopped. 

Before you could pull in a breath, he was on top of you, leaning over your body, pressing you into the desk so the breath was knocked from your lungs. 

“You’re not going to come,” he growled near your ear, voice rough with authority, “until you learn how to fucking listen, little girl.”

“I’m sorry—please—I didn’t mean to—” The words came out panicked, broken as you began grinding back against his thick length blooming beneath his slacks, your slick soaking through the thick fabric in a shameless, shining smear. “I was so close, please, please, please—”

He chuckled, a sound that vibrated against your back, dark and indulgent.

“Oh, that’s it,” he purred, voice dripping with cruel affection. “Grind that needy little cunt on me, baby. Go on. Show your fucking mayor how bad you want this job.”

Shame crawled up your spine like heat, but your body wouldn’t stop. Your brain was too far gone, thick with need, pleasure mingling with humiliation until you couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked, not teasing anymore. “You want to come on my cock, little lamb? Is that what you’re begging for?”

As filthy and deranged as it was, yes. Yes, that's all you wanted.

“Yes, yes sir, yes Mr. Garcia, please,”

“There she is.” His fingers slid up your jaw, cupping your face until you turned toward him, lips parted as he squeezed your cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, “now listen close, baby.”

His lips brushed yours with every syllable, every word as he went on:

“I’m going to fuck you, and then you’re going to call your swine of a boss and resign. And you’re going to tell him its because Ted Garcia stole you from him. That I’m better than that shit piss of a man. That you’re my girl now. ”

“Ted!” you chastised. 

He had a little wicked grin, and kissed you fully on the mouth, “You know it’s true. But you will resign, and you will come work for me. Do you understand?”

You nodded fervently as he kissed you again, open and wet and possessive, moaning into your mouth. His tongue plunged past your pursed lips and licked behind your teeth, sliding against the wet muscle of your own mouth, taking you, making you taste the honey and musk of yourself.

One of his hands had descended between your bodies, and you heard the sound of his belt buckle clattering, a sound that sent a pavlovian shiver through you, making your legs part without another thought. You sighed into his mouth as he wrapped a hand around his cock, spreading the weight of it through your weeping entrance. He was so wide and heavy and—Jesus, how thick was he? He notched himself at your entrance, just barely, and the stretch had you gasping before he’d even moved.

“Gentle—please—gentle, Mr. Garcia,” you breathed, throat tight and shaking, “I’m—I haven’t… oh god, at least not in a long time.”

His breath stuttered, a low groan dragged from deep in his chest as he pushed in another few inches, his other hand now gently laying around your throat.

“Ohhh,” Ted moaned, leaning his forehead into your shoulder, “but fuck, you feel so—” he pushed in a little further again, the sound of his pleasure nearly a whimper as you clutched the desk. He was stretching you obscenely, thick from tip to the middle of his shaft, feeling never ending as he kept pushing and pushing into you, both of your moans a harmony of pleasure. 

Deeply seated inside, he pushed your back down to arch your ass up a bit more, adjusting his angle to hit just right, the air was rented with only breath—heaving chest against your back. You became aware, all at once, of how poorly dressed you were for this. With your blouse twisted and damp, your bra still on, the lace clinging to your skin. As if reading the thought, his hand slid and tugged at your collar, dragging it down to expose you. He chuckled softly when he saw the lace, then pressed his mouth to the back of your neck.

“You always wear such lacey things to job interviews?” he asked. 

You exhaled a shaky laugh, grateful for the flicker of levity. “Only when it involves the mayor of Eddington.”

He hummed like that pleased him as his hand moved from your neck to push your hair to the side to continue his assault on your neck, kissing and licking and biting, grinding his cock up into you again, up and up and up, making you whimper, your brow pinching. And as he pulled out only a few inches, you hissed through your teeth.

He barely gave you a moment’s reprieve from then, and you let out a little yelp as he slammed his hips into your ass. 

He set a relentless pace, the contrast stark in the way he fucked into you hard, over and over, while his hands stayed gentle, cradling your breast, holding your body close. He had you laid flat on the desk again, arms wrapped around you now, keeping you steady as you turned your head toward him, mouths meeting in a gasping kiss.

Open mouth on open mouth, panting, moaning, your skin slick with sweat, the heat and friction and everything blurring together. It was euphoric. It was everything.

“This isn’t going to last very long,” he said into your mouth, “You feel like fucking heaven, sweetheart.”

The praise went straight to your lower belly, where your lost orgasm had been quietly rebuilding, a bramble of nerves now tumbling fast toward the cliff’s edge, making your legs shake as they did their best to stay standing. 

“Mr. Garcia—” you moaned, “please, let me come, I wanna come all over your cock, sir,” 

His lip curled back into a growl as his head stayed beside yours before he kissed you again, his entire body eclipsing yours from behind. The room was full of the slap of skin and your moans as the sun shifted across the tile floor, unnoticed.

“Tell me who you belong to now,” he commanded, “whose pussy is this, baby? Who are you gonna work for from now on, hm?”

“Y–you, Ted—fuck, fuck, fuck—!”

He’d suddenly hooked his palm beneath your knee, dragging your leg up onto the desk, opening you wider, and somehow he fucked you—unbelievably—deeper. His balls slapped snugly against your clit with each thrust, and the pressure made you wail.

“Yeahhhh,” he growled, pace never faltering. “Yeah, who’s fuckin’ you this good, huh? Say it. Say my fuckin’ name, baby girl. Takin’ my cock so goddamn good—c’mon, say it and I’ll let you come.”

“Ted! Fuck, Mr. Garcia! You are!” you were wailing, past the point of caring at how humiliating it all was. You’d never felt like this, so fucked out and drunk on a cock so perfect it felt like it had been made to split you open. It filled every inch of you, kissed your womb, made your pussy clench tight around him as you held the orgasm back, your stomach aching, your thighs trembling.

“What a good listener you are." he said in your ear, "Come for me, sweet angel girl. Let me feel her.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head, sparks of galaxies being born and rebuilt bursting as your cunt squeezed him like a fist, fluttering and locking down around him, your leg that still held you up suddenly turning to jelly. Only he held you upright now, thick, banded arms around you, pushing you into the desk so you wouldn’t fall as your body broke open.

He was grunting his praise into your hair before he seized up, body taut and hips punctuating every groan, and you could feel his come pooling into you in thick ropes, each twitch of his hips pushing him deeper into you, sealing the two of you together. 

And once again, the room was full of nothing but breathing. Heavy sighs and thick inhales, the hissing of teeth when he finally pulled his spent cock from your velvet walls after a few long moments. You heard him adjusting himself, letting your leg down from the desk gently, smoothing your skirt back into place.

You felt his spend already dripping from your fucked cunt, oozing down over your clit, still sensitive and twitching from your climax. Hardly able to stand, you just watched him from where you lay face down on the desk, boneless, dazed, neither of you saying anything for a moment.

“You all right?” he asked, voice low like his throat felt thick.

You nodded. Or maybe you made a sound, you weren’t sure which in the hazy cloud of post coitus. 

He went around his desk and pulled some papers out of a drawer, suddenly so professional it felt taboo to be thinking of his cock just splitting you in half. The image of him inside you was still blooming warm between your legs, that euphoric, syrupy high of it still glowing behind your ribs like an ember.

He laid down a paper in front of you. 

Employment Agreement: Junior Planning Consultant City of Eddington – Office of Public Works

“Is this…” you asked, eyes squinting sleepily as you sat up on your elbows.

“I was serious.” he said, serious indeed. “If you have any questions, you can—”

You hummed dreamily, interrupting, “I do have a question, as a matter of fact. For you.”

He paused mid-motion, buckling the metal clasp of his belt, adjusting the waist of his trousers. “Oh?”

“Is fucking on the job a one-time thing,” you said, a little more confident and sly, “or a regular perk?”

His shoulders dropped, a real smile finally pulling his mouth, molasses eyes crinkling at the corners, “I believe we can make something like that work. On one condition.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, looking around and picking up a nearby pen, clicking it so the ballpoint became visible. When he didn’t say anything, you looked up again at him. 

The sun had shifted, haloing behind him in the narrow pane of the stucco arched glass window. The light caught the pollen dusted on the glass, diffusing into a soft glow that backlit him completely. His hair damp and tousled, sweat still catching in the hollow of his throat, his hands braced in fists against the desk as he leaned forward, close enough to exchange air.

“I don’t share.”

Your breath hitched.

“If you take this position, you’re mine while you’re in it.” He didn’t look away from you, holding your gaze, making your throat tighten. “And that means no one else can fuck you.”

There was no smile on his face anymore.

“Understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Garcia.” you whispered. 

The words tasted like submission, like something permanent, and yet…You could feel yourself softening where you lay, spine bending under the weight of his command, and there was no fear in it. Only a warm ache of surrender, slow and… and welcome, like something inside you had been waiting for this exact moment. It made you feel secure, wanted…valuable.

His eyes softened, his left hand coming up to drag his knuckles gently over your cheek before he stood straight and pulled away. And as if suddenly remembering, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and tossed it onto the desk in front of you.

“Joe is on speed dial.”

You, too, are teetering at the edges, unable to bear the constant friction. Sprawled across the bed, you stare up at the ceiling, the same song and dance every night now. Downstairs, the television roars to life, Ted’s infuriating tactic to burrow under your skin. The news blares at full volume, each word a deliberate jab, a challenge to your patience.

You roll your eyes, pressing a pillow over your face to muffle the noise, but his persistence tonight is relentless. Your frustration grows, and you hurl the pillow across the room, letting out a groan loud enough to pierce the den below. When the television’s volume spikes even higher, you bolt upright, fury propelling you toward the door. You’re ready to slam it shut, to seal yourself off from him — but no. Not tonight. You refuse to let him win this round.

Ted notices the absence of your retaliation, the silence unusual. He’s grown accustomed to your fiery comebacks, not this eerie quiet. He finally decides to dial down the television, sitting there a moment, waiting for your stomping to return. Before he can call out, you appear, descending the stairs in the sheer babydoll lingerie he gifted you for your birthday. The sight steals his breath almost instantly. You glide past, the delicate fabric clinging to your curves, your bare skin teasingly visible underneath, the fabric barely covering the underside of your ass cheeks.

“What are you doing?” he growls, brows knitting together, his grip tightening on the remote. “Why are you wearing that?” His voice climbs, laced with tension.

You ignore him, sauntering into the kitchen, your movements deliberately provocative. You rummage through the cabinets, searching for a snack… or nothing at all. The act is really just secondary to your true intent, which is to make him ache, to torture him.

“Just looking…” you mumble, your tone coy.

“Liar,” he snaps, striding from the living room to the kitchen in a heartbeat. His eyes don’t leave you, like a predator stalking its prey. His knuckles blanch as he grips the counter. “Why are you wearing that?”

You turn to face him, a slow grin curling on your lips. The sheer fabric reveals the hardened peaks of your nipples, your body a tantalizing photograph of curves and shadows. “To fuck with you,” you say, your voice sharp with aggravation.

Ted steps closer, towering over you, his gaze locked on the way the lingerie molds to every dip and curve of your beautiful body. His eyes linger on your nipples, his desire for you now almost palpable.

“Is that so?” His response is low and rough as his thumb grazes one of your hardened peaks.

“It’s working…” he confesses, his breath warm against your skin as he dips in closer.

A soft sound escapes your lips, evidence that he’s making a mess of you between your thighs. But you steel yourself, keeping your back straight, refusing to let him see how his touch fucks with you. 

Just when you think you have it under control, his massive hands grab your breasts, squeezing them, pushing them together so he fans his hot breath through the fabric. “You wanted to fuck with me, yeah? Win our little argument?” he teases, kissing down your breasts, pulling a nipple between his lips as he sucks on it through the fabric.

“How about I just fuck you…” he mumbles, a promise as he sinks his teeth into your skin, a teasing nip that sends shivers racing down your spine. He pulls back, eyes much darker with hunger and spins you around, pressing you forward until your hips meet the edge of the kitchen counter, your heart pounding with anticipation of what's to come next.

“I’ve been wondering when you were gonna wear this,” he groans, while his hands undo the drawstrings of his sweats. “Strutting around, teasing me, getting me so damn hard I can’t think straight — ready to fuck you senseless in it.” His sweatpants hit the floor with a soft thud, then his briefs follow. “Why do we even fight, baby? Why don’t we just… lose ourselves in this… fuck our problems away…?”

His hand slips beneath the delicate hem of your babydoll lingerie, fingers seeking your eager cunt between your thighs. He plunges two fingers into you, mapping the walls of your slick warmth. Each slow, deliberate pump draws a gasp from your lips and his satisfied hum vibrates through you. He pulls his fingers free, licking them clean with a wicked gleam in his eye, before aligning his cock at your entrance.

“Don’t hold back, baby. Scream for me.”

With those words, he thrusts deep, shoving his cock deep in one fluid motion. The shared moan that erupts is electric, a current that binds you together in the bubbling ecstasy. Ted’s hips move with relentless precision, rocking into you as he grips your waist for leverage, anchoring you to him. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through you, your body trying to match his rhythm.

Your eyes flutter, threatening to roll back as he drives into you harder, each stroke a testament to his need and… love, for you. The moans you release — sharp, desperate, echoing with every plunge into your wet mess of a pussy — are raw and unfiltered. You just wanted to provoke him, to stoke his anger with your teasing, but those plans dissolved quickly. You knew it would end this way, that the petty arguments over dishes would be forgotten, replaced by Ted’s fiery love-making.

His hand slides up to encircle your throat, firm but careful, pulling your head back just enough for his lips to graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear. His cock glides in and out with devastating accuracy, his balls slapping against your ass, the rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the open kitchen. The air feels alive, you feel like you’re on cloud nine.

“Did you really think you… fuck— could wear this and not drive me crazy?” he growls, his voice a mix of frustration and lust, each word punctuated by a hard thrust. “That I wouldn’t take you like this, right here, right now? Goddamn, you drive me wild, you crazy fucking woman. I should fuck you in the ass just for attempting to tease me...” His filthy words cut through you, making you crave him more, making your pussy even wetter.

Ted tugs your head back further, his fingers tightening around your throat, feeling the pulse of your carotid throbbing beneath your straining neck. His gaze is wild, loving the way your heartbeat betrays your obvious surrender.

“I’m gonna cum all over your pretty little outfit, baby,” he hisses, a final wicked punishment for your attempt to win the argument with your teasing lingerie. Backfired, leaving you a trembling, aching mess, and your pussy thoroughly fucked.

With a low groan, Ted pulls out of your drenched cunt, his hand stroking himself swiftly. His grip on your neck remains firm, tilting your head back even further as he lets out a loud moan, his cum spilling hot and messy across your babydoll lingerie, staining the delicate fabric. 

“B-But, I wanna cum too…” you whimper, your voice a desperate plea. But your words are ignored as Ted gazes down at you, his half-lidded eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and adoration. He leans in, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip of your nose, enjoying how miserable you look.

“Oh, you wanna cum, huh?” he laughs, his breath hot against your lips, while he wallows in mock pity. “Sorry, baby girl, you lost this round.” You nod, frantic, your body aching for his cock, his fingers — anything. But he denies you, cleaning the tip of his cock along the hem of your sheer lingerie, smearing the fabric with the last of his release.

“Now be a good girl and change out of this,” he says, commanding, “so Daddy can fuck you right.”

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