"As I live and breathe"

“What?”

“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”

He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.

You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“But what about the rules?”

“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”

The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.

And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.

All you have is his word.

You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…

Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.

So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”

He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.

Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.

You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.

The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.

So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.

The forest.

You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.

Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.

You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.

And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.

So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.

Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.

Fuck.

The forest swallows you whole.

You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.

But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.

You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.

You almost smile.

“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”

His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.

You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.

“How-” you start.

“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And the worst part is… it does.

You run.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.

You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.

You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.

Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.

You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.

You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.

Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.

You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.

The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.

You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…

…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.

Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.

You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.

You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.

The impact comes from the left without warning.

He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.

You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.

Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?

“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.

He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.

“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”

“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”

You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.

The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.

He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.

You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.

He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.

His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.

Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.

“Still want to run?” he asks.

The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.

“Yes,” you snap.

And you mean it. Mostly.

Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.

He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.

There it is.

You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.

He falls for it.

Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.

He thinks he’s finally broken you.

That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.

It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.

Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.

And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.

You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.

You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.

The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.

“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”

After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.

You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.

By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.

He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.

You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.

Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.

Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.

You shiver.

So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.

And yet, here you are.

A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.

The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.

You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.

“You look beautiful.”

And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?

There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.

“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”

He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.

“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”

You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.

“But you left me no choice.”

Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.

But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.

The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.

“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.

You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.

His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.

The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.

It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.

Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins.

“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.

Then the lawyer turns to you.

“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

And there it is.

You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.

The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.

You take a breath.

“I do.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.

“The rings,” the lawyer says.

And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.

“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.

You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.

Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”

Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.

Then he’s on you.

It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.

The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.

Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.

“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.

And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.

The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.

Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”

Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.

“Take the dress off. Slowly.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”

That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.

He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.

“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.

He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.

When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.

“Titus, fuck—”

“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”

He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.

You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much-ah, Titus—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.

“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.

It’s working. God, it’s working too well.

His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.

“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”

“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”

“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.

He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.

For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.

But he’s far from finished.

After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”

He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.

“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”

He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.

You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you rest for long.

By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.

“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”

You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.

With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.

Jack tilts his head to meet your gaze and smiles softly. His eyes drift over your face like he’s memorizing every inch. He’s close enough that he could count each individual lash if he wanted to. 

When he lifts his hands to cup your face between his palms, you melt into his touch. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. 

Your skin heats under his hands, blood rushing to your face. The timid smile on your face tugs at Jack’s heartstrings.

“So beautiful,” he repeats tenderly. 

He means it. 

You misinterpret it. 

When you stand on your tiptoes to kiss him again, there’s more heat to it—the kind that leads to places you haven’t been to with him yet.  He keeps you steady, your face still held by him.  His lips fit against yours like two puzzle pieces.

The weight of him leads you towards the couch naturally. He doesn’t guide or force but simply leans in until you sink onto the cushions, him braced above you. 

Your hand drifts down from his chest to his stomach. Through his shirt, you still feel the way his muscles flex under your touch.  He breaks the kiss to look at you, an almost dopey curve to his mouth. 

“You’re ticklin’ me,” he mumbles. 

“That’s on purpose,” you reply. 

He grins, then catches your hands in his own.  “Is that so?” he whispers. “Anything else you want to confess?”

You let a few seconds pass, just for dramatic effect, before you nod.  “Yeah,” you mumble, “I’m also trying to take your shirt off right now.”

Jack chuckles softly.  “You don’t say,” he teases. “Any reason for that?”

You roll your eyes fondly.  “Take a guess.”

A gentle laugh spills from him, originating deep from his chest. You feel the vibration travel through him until it reaches your hand, too. 

“I think I can help out with that.”

He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up, then over his head. Your eyes are glued to every inch of sun-kissed skin that’s slowly exposed. For a moment, you hesitate before you reach out to rest your hand on his chest, feeling the heat radiating from him. 

When you’ve had your fill of touching him—though you’re not sure you’ll ever get enough of him—you take off your own shirt. You had planned in advance and worn a black lace bralette, but you hadn’t told Jack, so you could trick him into thinking that you’re always this put together.  The matching panties waited for him under the skirt, which you were eager for him to pull off of you. 

Jack can’t look away—and doesn’t want to. You’re surprised that for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re being ogled. 

No, Jack admires. 

His fingers drift over your breasts up to your neck, then rest on your face. 

“Like I said,” he whispers. “Beautiful.”

Instead of answering, you lean in to kiss him again. As your lips press against his, you reach for his belt buckle and open it. Jack hums into your mouth, a small roll of his hips encouraging you. 

He helps you take off his jeans. Jack talked to you about not wearing his prosthetic at home around you a few days ago, but right now, he still has it on. He seems a little nervous as his pants fall away, and you get a full glance at it for the first time.

You don’t mind at all. 

The next barrier that falls is your skirt. Jack undoes the zipper at the side carefully, then slides the fabric down your legs. He makes a sound you can’t quite categorize when he sees the thin lace panties you picked out for tonight.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “How are you this perfect?”

Again, you forgo an answer with another kiss. 

Jack notices. He cups your face, then pulls away a little just to look at you. His brows knit together slightly. 

“Hey,” he mumbles.

You haven’t been together that long yet, but he knows you well enough to see that you don’t feel like talking about this right now.  Still, for a moment, he chews on his bottom lip in contemplation before he asks, “Wouldn’t you rather take this to the bedroom?”

You shrug softly. “I don’t mind the couch. Whatever you want.”

The divot between his brows deepens.  “But I’m asking you what you want,” he counters. “If… if we’re doing this right now, I want you to be comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” you reply. 

He nods reluctantly.  “Alright,” he mumbles.

The next kiss feels a little different—not in a bad way, just more careful. Jack waits, lets you chase him instead of taking the lead. So you do. 

You reach behind you to unfasten the clasps of your bra. As the lace falls away, Jack watches with amazement. He almost manages to throw in another compliment for you, but you don’t give him the chance. You stand up from the couch and hook your fingers into your panties, then slowly slip them off.  Jack’s breath hitches. He leans into the back of the couch to watch as you step out of the fabric that fell to your ankles. This time, he truly stares. 

When you step closer, he pulls you in by your hips until you’re seated on his lap. Your bare cunt brushes over the bulge in his boxers, causing both of you to moan. 

You roll against him once, then twice, then kiss him again. The heat between the two of you is unbearable. You don’t understand why he hasn’t taken off his underpants yet and wonder if he maybe just needs a little bit more encouragement, so you grind down against him again. 

Jack hisses at the contact, his fingers tightening on your sides. 

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Then let me help you,” you chuckle and reach for the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips to help you slip them off—and you swallow hard when you see what you’re working with. The grey happy trail you’ve been eyeing since his shirt came off leads down to his thick cock. The size of the bulge makes more sense now. He’s veiny and flushed a dark red, almost a little purple at the tip. 

“Jesus,” you whisper.

Jack chuckles, maybe even a little self-consciously so. 

“Yeah, it’s um… it’s been a while for me,” he admits. 

Your mouth falls open—you hadn’t expected that. A man with his looks, a doctor at that, too?

“Really?” you ask. “I mean… that’s okay. I don’t mind. Just… tell me what you like.”

He shrugs softly. 

“I like you.” 

His answer is so sappy that it makes you grin. 

“Shut up. No, really, tell me what you like.”

Jack looks at you and pulls you closer again. 

“I’m serious,” he mumbles. “I just want you, however you want. Why? What kinda stuff do the kids like these days?”

Your face warms a little.

“I don’t know,” you mumble. A total lie.  “We can try some stuff, you know?”

“Like what?” he asks. “You want me to tie you up?”  He chuckles like the idea is absurd to him. 

“Would you want to tie me up?” you counter. 

Jack’s brows furrow again. 

“I don’t think that’s my thing,” he says quietly. 

You nod slowly.  “What about…”

Saying it out loud feels, for lack of a better word, cringe, so you take his hand and place it on the base of your throat. 

Jack doesn’t pull away immediately, but his fingers don’t wrap around your neck either. He looks up at you, his jaw set tightly.  Then he shakes his head and cups your face instead. 

“I don’t think so,” he says softly. “How about… we just take things slow and figure it out as we go?”

When you nod, Jack kisses you, and it tastes like relief.  He surprises you when he switches positions with you—you’d have thought he would want you to stay on top.  

Jack braces his weight on his forearms as he hovers above you, his face just inches away from you. Then he lowers his head, but his lips don’t meet yours—they trail down over your chest. His tongue swirls around your nipple, making you gasp as the sensation tingles through you. 

He cups your other breast, squeezing and kneading the flesh gently, then places a kiss on the valley between your breasts before he descends further.  To your ribs… then your navel… then your hipbone. 

Your breath stills completely when his fingers come to rest on your thighs. He doesn’t push them open yet.

“May I?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

He parts your legs gently, his eyes still focused on you until he lowers his head and—

Your world tilts a little. 

When his tongue drags through your drenched slit, and Jack moans out loud, you arch towards him. He holds your hips in place, fingers digging into the flesh—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you feel him. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, “You taste so fucking good, baby.”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, licking upwards until you see stars.

“Jack-“ you moan, trying… you don’t know what you’re trying to say. Your fingers find purchase in his hair, tugging slightly at the grey curls.  He sucks your clit into his mouth, causing you to cry out in pleasure. 

He laps at your cunt like a starved dog, and you can’t believe that “it’s been a while” for him, not when he’s eating you out like that.

“I—oh God,” you sigh dreamily.

Your legs quiver, your hips twitch—your entire body is shaking with pleasure. 

“That’s it, baby,” Jack murmurs, his words muffled. “Fuck—please, just let me make you feel good.”

The sounds of your arousal mixing with his saliva are unholy—a wet overflow of moisture between your thighs. Jack seems to be right where he wants to be. He moans into your flesh, his hips bucking and pressing into the couch below like he is trying to alleviate the ache, the buildup of his own need. 

When you come apart, he guides you through it, not stopping until your brain is overflowing with oxytocin and your thighs won’t stop shaking. 

Both of you are panting when he comes up.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles devilishly. 

“God… we’re so doing this again,” he declares softly. 

You’re at a loss for words. You haven’t come like that ever. All you can do is nod and reach for him. 

Jack plants his arms on either side of your head and kisses you deeply. You taste yourself on his tongue, the sweet, tangy flavor erupting in your mouth. 

His leaking cock presses against your tummy as his lips graze yours.

You reach between you and stroke him, making him groan into your mouth. 

“Jesus,” he mutters when he pulls away to look at you. “You—”

He thrusts into your hand instinctively, and you realize just how pent up he is. 

“Your turn,” you whisper. 

Jack tsks softly, half amused, half… something else.  He cups your face and kisses your jaw tenderly. 

“Believe me, that was my turn,” he says lowly. “But if you want to keep going, I’m sure as hell not saying no.”

--

The bliss afterwards is indescribable. But it’s also foreign.

You still sense every press of his hands on your body without feeling tender, every brush of his lips without a single mark on your skin, and every thrust of his hips without that residual feeling of having been used. 

Jack was nothing but gentle. 

And god, it was incredible. 

The sheets underneath you are crumpled and slightly damp with sweat and sex, but you don’t mind. Not when Jack’s arm is wrapped around you, your back pressing against his chest. He kisses the side of your neck where your pulse still flutters with excitement. 

“You were incredible,” he whispers.

It must be so obvious that his words fluster you because he smirks when you hide your face in the sheets. 

“Barely even did anything,” you mumble. 

Jack makes a sound you can’t quite discern. 

“Right,” he chuckles. “Except that thing where you got really tight when you were about to come again or—”

You whip around and press your hand over his mouth, your eyes wide and embarrassed.

“Jack,” you complain, half-serious, half-playful. 

He kisses your palm and smiles. 

“Hey, I’m just teasin’,” he retorts. “But I really meant it. It was really great for me.”

“Yeah, for me, too,” you mumble. 

You’re not used to any kind of pillow talk, so the words feel thick, like they don’t quite want to leave your mouth. 

Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He just pulls you closer against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head. 

As the minutes pass, he tells you to go pee and promises more cuddles later on. 

In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. The haphazardly buttoned-up shirt you’re wearing belongs to Jack and falls to your mid-thigh. Your hair is a mess from how often he ran his hands through it. A few hickeys begin to gain color and paint your neck a soft purple.

You can’t help but smile. 

“Hey, sweetheart?” Jack calls out. “Your phone keeps vibrating. I think someone really wants to talk to you!”

“Yeah, just a sec,” you reply. 

When you return to his bedroom, Jack is sitting up, his brows drawn together slightly. Your phone is in his hand, the screen facing up. 

“Sorry,” he says as he passes it to you. “I didn’t mean to spy on you or anything, just wanted to bring it to you.”

You take your phone and glance at the messages—and feel your face heat up.

“Oh.” Your laugh comes out stiff as you quickly shut off your phone. “Sorry, um—they’re joking, of course. Like, uh…”

Jack looks at you quietly, watching as you fumble nervously with the edge of your phone case. There was a light flush to his cheeks now, too. 

“No, no, don’t worry, I shouldn’t have read it anyway, I just looked at it ‘cause it kept… vibrating,” he explains. 

The awkward silence that follows feels detrimental. 

You wonder if you should explain more, or if maybe stammering another apology would make it worse, but then Jack breaks the quiet first. 

“Not to sound my age, but… I assume cracking means… uh… hooking up?”

You press your lips together uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Like, um… yes.”

He nods once. Then he tilts his head to catch your eyes. 

“It’s not the… nicest word, is it?” he asks. 

“It’s just, like, a TikTok thing,” you answer. 

“Hm,” is all he replies. 

Then he takes your hand and guides you back onto the mattress. You meet his gaze hesitantly. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper, just like the furrow between his brows. He doesn’t seem angry, just serious.

“I… I kind of would prefer it if you didn’t think of what we just did as… “cracking”. It’s not the word I would use,” he says slowly.

“It’s just a word,” you mutter. 

“Not to me,” he argues softly. “It’s… words have meanings. And cracking sounds like… like I’m doing something to you, not with you. I don’t mean to be… all old man and, like, police your language. But… I don’t want you to think of sex with me that way. Or… with anyone else for that matter, even though, ideally, I would like this to be a long-term thing.”

His hazel eyes don’t leave your face for even a single moment, and it’s almost overwhelming—if it weren’t for the sincerity in them. 

“I’m sorry—" you begin, but Jack shushes you.

“No, sweetheart, I don’t- I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to be comfortable with me. I wanna make sure you… you feel respected by me,” he explains. 

“I do,” you reply quickly. “Really. Like, no one else has ever… been this kind to me.”

Jack’s face falls. 

“Oh, no, I mean, like… you’re a gentleman,” you elaborate.

He shakes his head softly. 

“No, baby, I’m… this is… this is the bare minimum. Christ.”

Jack’s hands find yours, and he leans in to kiss your forehead. Then he wraps his arms around you. 

“At the risk of sounding like your father, I think you kids need to put down your phones and go out in the real world.”

You collapsed onto the couch next to him with a huff, knocking his crutches to the floor as you ripped your bag off your shoulder with more force than necessary.

Jack had never seen you like this. In the four months you had been dating, he'd seen you cry more times than he could count—videos of dogs reuniting with their owners were your kryptonite—and had seen you lose your cool less than a handful of times. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of trepidation stepping into this unknown territory.

Before he could start running through any events or anniversaries he may have missed, you found your rightful place—wrapping your arms around his right one, curling your body into his side with a sigh. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, closing his eyes as he inhaled your comforting scent.

Some of the tension eased from your shoulders, your body conditioned to relax in Jack's presence. He rested his cheek atop your head, his affection diluting the annoyance thrumming through your veins.

"What's going on, doll?"

"My bra broke. Right at the start of my shift." You grumbled, nuzzling further into his warmth.

"Okay," he dragged out hesitantly. "That's annoying."

"Yeah, you could say that," you huffed. "The wire was digging into my skin for twelve hours straight," you whined, resembling a petulant child. "I could feel it every time I moved. Do you know how uncomfortable that is?"

He lifted his head off of yours, tilting your chin up to shoot you a look. You had massaged his leg enough to know that was a stupid question.

"Right, sorry, don't answer that." One hand moved from clutching his bicep to his right thigh, tracing patterns with your index finger. You let out another sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. "It was my last decent one. Now I only have sports bras that aren't even near the realm of sexy."

"So just buy a new one."

Jack regretted the words as soon as they slipped out, his body tensing and eyes squeezing shut.

Your annoyance returned tenfold. You ripped away from his body, levelling him with a scolding glare.

"Do you know how expensive bras are, Jack?" You started, diving into a gesticulating monologue. "Especially if you've got big boobs—it's just capitalism once again profiting off of women's struggles! The bigger you are the more expensive everything is because they're trying to make us feel bad—"

"Honey," Jack tried, his voice dropping to the authoritative tone that never failed to make your ears perk up like an obedient puppy. Well, that never failed until now.

You pressed a finger into his stupidly beefy chest. "You're a man, you don't get to speak right now."

He held his hands up in surrender, his dick twitching from you giving him attitude—at the thought of fucking it out of you. An interesting revelation that he was looking forward to exploring later.

You removed your finger, continuing your rant. "No bra ever fits right—unless you go to a boutique and spend at least three hundred dollars on a custom made one."

Jack was drawn in by the fire in your eyes, the outrage and passion you were exuding making you even more beautiful.

"The amount of money I waste on fabric that barely does the job it's meant to do is insane. At this point it'd be fucking cheaper to get a breast reduction." You fell back against the couch, your chest heaving slightly from your tirade.

He rested an arm over your shoulders, his thumb rubbing circles on your upper arm. "You're not getting a breast reduction."

A searing glare burned the side of his face. "Oh, so now you're telling me what I can and can't do to my body?"

A thrill raced down Jack's spine—another side effect of your newfound attitude.

"No," he said placatingly. "I'm just remembering the conversation we had last week." His mouth ticked up with the beginnings of a smirk. "Y'know, the one after I made you look at yourself in the mirror while you came on my cock."

The hand on your arm slid away slowly, featherlight fingers caressing across your chest before making their way to your nipple, circling the pert bud lazily. Your breath stuttered, a whine lodging itself in your throat from your boyfriend's touch.

He dipped his head towards you, his husky baritone filling your ear as his lips brushed along the sensitive skin. "You remember how good you looked, baby? Couldn't stop staring at yourself, could you?" He tugged your earlobe between his teeth. "Looked like a fucking goddess—you always do."

Heat blossomed across every inch of your body, a familiar insatiable need jolting your core at the memory. You had been entranced by the image in the mirror—lidded, glazed eyes staring back at you, Jack's hand around your throat keeping your attention secured on your reflection, your tits bouncing as he drilled into you from behind.

Jack's keen eyes caught the way your plush thighs squeezed together, how your chest was rapidly rising and falling beneath his hand.

"You've made your point," you whispered, lust thwarting your annoyance.

He hummed, pressing faint kisses along your jaw. His free hand trailed up your thigh—a fingertip tracing the seam of your pants inducing a shiver. "I'll pay for it, for the bras. I'll buy you a whole closet full of 'em."

"Okay," you relented, suspicion rising in Jack at your quick response.

He moved his head away from yours, an eyebrow quirking up and deepening his wrinkles. "…That's what you wanted all along, isn't it?"

"No," you murmured, pressing your face into his bicep. He would've believed you if it wasn't for the smile he could feel stretching against his skin.

"Uh-huh, sure."

He grabbed your chin, pulling your face away from your hiding spot and seeing the twinkle in your eyes instantly. He huffed a laugh, leaning in to kiss you softly.

"You know you could've just asked," he mumbled against your lips, teasingly nipping your bottom lip.

A giggle slipped from your mouth into his. "Where's the fun in that?"

"So you admit this was all just an act." He grasped your hips, effortlessly lifting you to straddle his lap. You gasped out at the bulge pressing against your core. "You think threatening to take these away from me is funny?" His hands drifted from your hips, creeping underneath your top and up your sides until they cupped your heavy breasts.

You whimpered at his calloused fingers stroking and pulling; one of them brushing along the tender, irritated patch the wire from your bra had left behind.

Jack noticed the spot straight away—he had every inch of your skin memorised, his fingers knowing your body better than your own. "Let's look at the damage, hmm? Can't have my pretty girl hurting."

You nodded, your brain already turned to mush from his light teasing.

He moved his hands back down your body to reach the hem of your scrub top—a whine leaping out of you from the brief loss of his touch. He lifted your top over your head, moaning once your tits were on full display for him.

He swore he died and went to heaven whenever he saw you like this—sat prettily on his lap, hazy eyes fluttering, full breasts begging for his hands and mouth. He revelled in how your hips would grind against his absentmindedly; his pretty, needy girl desperate for her silver fox from the smallest touch. Your unyielding desire did wonders for his ego.

He brought his hands back up, relishing the sight of your tits overflowing in his large hands. Your eyelids drooped and your lips parted, breathy sighs falling from them. His thumb moved to brush along the tender spot on the side of your boob.

"Poor thing," he muttered, leaning forward to press light kisses to the irritated skin. "Won't happen ever again—not while you're mine." Molten gold eyes stared into yours. "And you're always going to be mine."

His tongue licked the sensitive skin before he blew cold air on it, causing goosebumps to erupt across your body with a gasp slicing the air. Your hips rocked harder against his, your core growing wetter with every touch.

He covered your boob in kisses and spit, sucking and biting to leave behind marks he adored—his marks. His rough hand pawed at your other tit, pulling and twisting the nipple—making you mewl above him, your hips moving faster as fire raced down to your pussy, igniting embers along the way.

His mouth latched onto your neglected nipple, his tongue drawing circles around it and sucking harshly. You let out unabashed moans, his own starting to vibrate against your skin and through your chest. He was rock hard beneath your hips, precum leaking into his boxers as your movements grew frantic. He could feel the flutter of your pussy, the heartbeat in your clit, even through your layers of clothes.

His free hand moved to your ass, giving it a smack. Your responding yelp dissolved into a moan, your hips jerking forward and finding the perfect position that had your clit pressing directly onto his bulge.

He pulled his head away from your chest, admiring his perfect girl using him for her pleasure. He wanted to spend the rest of his life worshipping at your altar—to bask in your divineness until his dying breath.

His hand trailed up from your breast to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, catching a bit of drool. God, he loved how he could unravel you just as you did him.

But before he could help you reach your release, he needed to remind you of something—to correct a statement you made earlier, one that had been eating away at him.

He tilted your head until your unfocused eyes meet his—his cock jumping at how utterly fucked you looked from a bit of dry humping.

"Let's get one thing straight, doll. The lace and bows are nice, but they're not what are sexy. That's all you, baby."

── ⋆˙⟡

Your grey scrub top was slightly twisted and riding up, exposing a sliver of your stomach that he itched to trace. A cute pout had taken your face hostage—your lower lip jutting out and brows furrowed, making it difficult for him to suppress a smile. All humour vanished as his eyes fell to your chest; your full breasts hanging without support, pebbled nipples calling for his mouth. The tightening of his pants was immediate, along with the jealous fire that heated him from the inside out—who else had seen you in this state?

JACK ABBOT BOOB LOVER THAT’S TRUE THAT’S TRUE!!! i also love jealous abbot so much omfg im sooo hes soooo

"Honey," Jack tried, his voice dropping to the authoritative tone that never failed to make your ears perk up like an obedient puppy. Well, that never failed until now.

You pressed a finger into his stupidly beefy chest. "You're a man, you don't get to speak right now."

He held his hands up in surrender, his dick twitching from you giving him attitude—at the thought of fucking it out of you. An interesting revelation that he was looking forward to exploring later.

INCREDIBLE. AMAZING STUFF HAPPENING HERE SWEET GOLDI. ohm y gooddd i have to have him WALK HIM LIKE A DOG SIS!!! 

"You remember how good you looked, baby? Couldn't stop staring at yourself, could you?" He tugged your earlobe between his teeth. "Looked like a fucking goddess—you always do."

STOPPPP WAIT IM HORNY…ohhhh my god something about jack abbot calling his curvy gf a goddess that just makes my heart sing

He pulled his head away from your chest, admiring his perfect girl using him for her pleasure. He wanted to spend the rest of his life worshipping at your altar—to bask in your divineness until his dying breath.

BARRRS BABE omg i’m literally sobbing jack abbot where

You let out a breath, pulling the perfect quenelle and laying it on the plate. “I’m a little busy at the moment. Service,” you set the plate up on the pass before grabbing another.

“And I did tell him that. But he says he knows you and that you invited him here.” Trina says, the edges of her words lifting. “Very hot, intense eyes.”

This is what makes you finally stop. There’s only one person you invited to the restaurant at all recently. And it was a joke, almost. In the way that if he didn’t want to come, you wouldn’t take it personally. But you would really want him to come. And now he’s here.

You take stock of the tickets on the board, dwindling after a slight rush, and recalibrates. “Just, uhm, give me a minute. Tell him he’ll have to wait.”

Trina’s eyes widen. “Holy shit you do know him.”

“Trina, please,” you bristle.

Trina backs away, her eyes not leaving you reddening cheeks. “Oh, we are totally talking about this after.”

“Bye Trina.”

The young server bounces away, an extra swing in her ponytail after learning something that you didn’t want to share.

It takes a second, but you regain your composure. The heat coming up your neck is surely due to the heat of the kitchen. It takes just a few minutes for you to knock out the next few tickets before starting on the last one. The dish you will deliver yourself. You take stock of your prep, what you have left over and what you can put together. You barely know the man, and now your trying to put a dish together that you think he may possibly like. But after a deep breath, you're in it again. This is your world. And you're good at your job.

A slice of vanilla bean Basque Cheesecake, plated with cherry compote and crushed salted almond brittle. Simple, but elegant. Something he could dig his fork into.

“Taking fifteen,” you nod to the Garde-Manger chef. He’ll watch your station while you step away. You remove your spare towel and apron, smoothing down the flyaways that have surely formed. On your way out, you catch your reflection in the metal door. You wipe under your eyes, trying not to look totally exhausted, and step out into the dining room.

There are eyes on you immediately. Hard not to notice the whites, pristine and folded at your elbow, and sticking out in the dim lighting and lively chatter. You make your way to the bar, and it takes all of about three seconds to see him. Broad shoulders, cinnamon sugar curls. He’s chatting with the bartender, who is completely enamored in their discussion.

You slip the plate in front of him and take the stool next to him. “I hope you didn’t already order dessert. This seat taken?” you ask.

Jack Abbott’s eyes drop to the dessert in front of him, but quickly find your face. His eyes find yours immediately, and his smile softens, “All yours.” You can feel your ears redden. Thank God for the dim dining room lighting.

“Thank you, Louis,” you nod at the bartender, “I hope this gentleman didn’t take up too much of your time.”

“Nah,” Louis shakes his head, “this guy has some crazy stories.”

“I’m sure he does,” you reply, but your eyes don’t leave Jack’s.

You wait for Louis to step away, taking care of someone else down the bar. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you lean back in the stool.

“I think I should be asking that,” Jack nods down at the plate. “What do I have here?”

You tell him about the dessert. “Not on the menu, by the way. Chef special.”

A smile pulls at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I’m honored.”

“I’m surprised to see you here, what with you working nights and all.” you shrug.

“I do get days off, you know,” Jack raises an eyebrow. “And I’m not one to turn down an offer for a great meal.”

“Well, it is because of you that I can even still make any desserts,” you wiggle your fingers at Jack.

On your left hand are two scars that make a perfect line across your middle and ring fingers. A late night and an intense argument in the kitchen, because when are they ever not intense, and a careless mistake with your best knife landed you in the ER in the middle of service. It wasn’t deep enough to nick the bone, but enough for you to have to sit out of service for almost a week, saddled with limited prep, and your Executive chef still won’t let you live it down.

“How are you holding up?” Jack asks, reaching for you. “No lingering pain, I hope.”

You let him take your hand and turn it over in his, inspecting his handywork. His hands are warm and calloused, and his grip is gentle, as if the already healed scars will burst open again at any moment.

“No pain,” you muse, watching him, “thank you.” Jack releases his grip, much to your dismay. You prop your head up with your other hand.

You open your mouth to say something, but there’s a hand at your back before you can start. “Chef, I’m sorry to interrupt.” It’s Casey, a long-standing server. He nods at Jack and gives a strained smile. “There’s a really big table with a birthday, and no one in the kitchen will write on the desserts.”

You deflate a little, your head sagging in your hand. You groan. It took less than 5 minutes for your 15 minute break to be cut short for something that you know the guys in the back are capable of. Writing “Happy birthday” with melted chocolate in a squeeze bottle is not rocket science, they just don’t want to do it. So they sent Casey- sweet, kind Casey, who would never be on the receiving end of your ire- to fetch you.

“Okay, Case, I’ll be right there,” you nod and the server is gone as quickly as he appeared, muttering a small ‘thank you’ as he leaves.

“Duty calls?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you groan, sliding off the stool.

“No, don’t be,” Jack assures you. “You’re working. I have no doubt if you came to visit me during a shift at the hospital, it wouldn’t look much different.”

You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating. It’s not terribly late, and he did come all the way out to see you. “Tell you what,” you start, leaning against the bar, “service is going to end in like an hour. It’ll take me a little bit to clean up my station after that. If you want to wait, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. If you don’t want to, no harm. Leave your number with Louis and I’ll be sure to make it up to you.”

“Deal,” Jack smiles, and you notice a dimple on one of his cheeks. Your stomach flips. “Besides, I’ll be busy here for a minute, dessert’s just been served.” He pulls the plate closer to him.

“Right, I’ll make sure to get your feedback after.” you smirk. You flag down the bartender, “Louis! Make sure Dr. Abbot is taken care of over here, as long as he’d like. On me.”

“Heard,” Louis gives you a knowing grin, that you promptly ignore.

With one last look, you push away from the bar and head back into the kitchen. It wasn’t a particularly busy night, even for a Wednesday. You continue to push out the last few tickets, while half of them don’t even have dessert, motivated by just the possibility of ending the night with Jack.

Thirty minutes later, Trina comes bouncing back to your station, a grin plastered on her face. “The hottie at the bar would like to send his compliments on the dessert.”

Without looking up from your plate, you nod, “Thank you, Trina.”

“So, like, who is he?” Trina leans in.

“Thank you, Trina,” you say, firmer.

“Boo, you’re no fun.” Trina pouts and turns away.

But the compliment sends heat up your neck, and you fight back a smile, instead chewing on the inside of your cheek. You hope you don't have to explain yourself to the guys who definitely all heard that exchange.

It doesn’t take you long to clear the tickets, and you start cleaning your station immediately, cater-wrapping leftovers and storing sauces and garnishes. You wipe down the stainless steel surfaces, trying not to think about Jack, and if he stayed, which ultimately ends with you thinking about him anyway.

“Damn,” the Sous Chef stops by your station with a sanitation bucket, not caring how it sloshes everywhere, “you got some place to be?”

“Get lost, Miller,” you deadpan.

Scottie leans his hip on your station, crossing his arms. “I’m just wondering if your incredible speed and attention to detail tonight has anything to do with the guy waiting around at the bar for you.”

You try not to give anything away, but you stiffen, just slightly. Jack waited. He stayed at the bar for over an hour, just waiting for you.

Scottie notices. “Gentlemen!” He hollers to the rest of the kitchen, “We've got a hot date over here tonight!” The kitchen erupts in hoots and laughter, and completely inappropriate questions ranging from who is he to have you fucked yet.

You remove your spare towel and apron, throwing them in Scottie’s face. “Just because you are in a bout of involuntary celibacy, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

Scottie tosses the linens on the floor. “Hey, if you’d bother to bring any of your lady friends around-”

“Sorry, my friends like to orgasm when they have sex,” you scrunch your nose and push passed him, and the rest of the kitchen lets out a string of ‘ooohs,’ laughing and shoving Scottie back to his station.

It’s jokes, mostly. You have grown accustomed to the inappropriate and invasive atmosphere of the kitchens you've worked in. There’s another woman on the crew, Rose, but your shifts hardly ever line up, with one of you on prep during the day and the other on service at night. So you try to blend in in the ways you can, and be better in every other way. Wittier, smarter, faster. Don’t give them a reason to think you're the weak link.

“I’m out,” you call, walking towards the locker room. “See you losers tomorrow!”

In the locker room, you hang up your whites, and slip a crewneck on over your tank top. It’s not sexy, but it beats the dingy, worn straps of the camisole. You slide off your bandana and try to tame the flyaways it produces.

There’s a fine line between looking like a complete slob, and looking like you're trying way too hard, and you aren't sure how to stay on it. After fiddling with your appearance for way too long, you grab your bag and push yourself out into the dining room.

Sure enough, Jack Abbot is still waiting for you. He’s scrolling through something on his phone when you approach. Louis is nowhere to be found, probably refilling syrups.

“You waited,” you smile, coming up next to him.

Jack’s gaze immediately snaps to you, and his shoulders drop, like he’d been nervous about something. “Hey, yeah,” he smiles. “I’m a night owl, obviously. Had I gone home, I probably wouldn’t have gone to sleep, anyway.”

“Well, this place is just about closed,” you nod to the lingering guests, the servers gathered around a table, rolling silverware for the next day. “Would you want to head to a bar and grab a drink?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Jack slides off the stool.

The cool breeze is a balm to your flushed cheeks and nervous energy. It’s late August, so the nights are finally becoming cooler in Pittsburgh. The two of you walk to a bar that’s less than a block away. Your arms bump together as they walk, but neither of you overcorrects to stop it from happening again.

It’s not a bar that you have been to often, but whenever you need a drink without the watchful eye of your own staff, you head here. The bartenders are to the point, not bothering you with stories and questions when you clearly just want to zone out, and you tip well, so it’s mutually beneficial. You and Jack slip into an empty booth, each with a cold beer.

“So, Dr. Abbot, if I may call you that-” you settle into the booth, dropping your bag on the worn vinyl.

“Jack, please,” he interrupts, with a grin on his face.

“Jack,” you roll his name around in your mouth. “Have you been a doctor long? And always in the ER?”

Jack takes a long sip of his beer before answering. “I’ve been an attending for about 20 years, give or take.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows slightly, “20 years. Long time.”

“Alright, alright,” Jack laughs, raises his palms towards you in surrender, “get the age jokes out now.”

Even though you are doing the mental math to try to figure out his age, you shake your head. “No, not in like, an age way. I just can’t imagine having the same job for that long. I’ve never stayed anywhere longer than 3 or 4 years. I was starting to think I was cursed.”

“What’s the matter? Commitment issues?” Jack eyes you, teasing.

“Ha, no.” you deadpan. After a moment, you shrug, “I don’t know, it’s the nature of the industry, I guess. There’s not a high overhead in restaurants, and a pastry chef is often let go first when things start to go south. They decide that they’ll just start getting shitty cakes from the restaurant service groups instead. And then there’s the egos, the tempers…”

You hate explaining this part, it always comes out wrong. You try to find the right way to explain that it’s not a lack of loyalty, but the never ending search for something better. “I’ve learned something in every kitchen I’ve ever worked. But when I feel like I’ve absorbed all I can, I move on.”

“All in Pittsburgh?” Jack asks.

“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I’m not from here. I’ve, uh, moved around a lot. Been that way since I was a kid, so I guess it carried into adulthood.”

“Military brat?”

You purse your lips, “Yeah.”

Jack nods, considering. “I was a combat medic. Before. I understand the lifestyle.”

“But,” you try to save yourself, “I’ve been here for like 8 months, and I really like Pittsburgh. I like working at Brindle Bay. I’m hoping this is it, at least for a while.”

“Me too,” Jack smiles. “Otherwise, Pittsburgh would be woefully deprived of your creations. And that is a crime.”

“You’ve tried one of my desserts, Jack. I don’t know that you have a good frame of reference. Besides, it’s not like I’m saving lives, if anything I’m sending people to an early, sugary grave,” you let out a chuckle.

“Oh, I beg to differ. The cheesecake had me seeing God. In a good way. That is life saving,” Jack shoots back.

“You liked it?” you scrunch your nose. You can’t help yourself.

“Loved it. I sent compliments back, didn’t I?” Jack replies. He’s having fun watching you squirm, clearly.

“You did, but- ugh. You’d think I’d be better at hearing people talk about my food by now, but it’s still hard to do face-to-face.” You could go on about how a cheesecake is totally not hard to make, especially a Basque cheesecake, or how a child could make a cherry compote. But fighting that self-deprecating urge is what got you here in the first place. Owning your talent is how you made it this far.

“I’m usually a very downhome guy,” Jack presses his palm to his chest. “Give me a slice of chocolate cake, I’m good. But that cheesecake was incredible. You clearly love what you do, and you’re very talented.”

“What about you?” you ask, looking at him from down the beer bottle as you take a sip. “You still enjoy being in a doctor after 20 years?”

Jack sighs. He has this look in his eyes, and for just a brief moment, you can tell that he’s a million miles away. “You know, it has its moments. There are times when I think I want to leave it behind, but I just can’t stay away. It calls me back.”

“I think I know what you mean,” you nod. “I’d probably go nuts if I slowed down enough to leave the restaurant. I already need a million hobbies to keep my mind busy.”

“I volunteer as a SWAT medic in my off hours, keeps me busy."

Your jaw drops. Literally. “Seriously? Fuck, you are a glutton for adrenaline.”

“I’m good at it,” Jack shrugs. But he’s grinning, because he knows exactly what it sounds like.

“No,” you shake your head. “People are good at knitting. People are good at gardening. You pick a hobby that could get you killed. Like a crazy person.”

“You and my therapist would get along very well,” Jack retorts, not unkindly. It’s your turn to watch him squirm.

The conversation continues, and when the beers run out, you order another round. You tell Jack about all the places you've lived in your life, and Jack shares some of his most interesting medical cases. His eyes light up when he talks about near misses and good saves, and you can see why Jack just can’t walk away. There’s a passion in him that could never be satisfied doing anything else. It’s really hot.

Eventually, you come back to yourself long enough to notice that the already sparse crowd in the bar has all but disappeared, leaving the two of them and the closing bartender. You check your phone, 12:30 am. You’ve been sitting, lost in conversation for two hours.

“Shit,” Jack mutters, noticing your phone and checking his watch. “It is late. You’re probably exhausted.”

Even after all of these years working in the kitchen, the shitty floor mats still do nothing for your feet, which feel like rocks at the end of your legs. The weight of the day catches up to you all at once, and as much as you want to keep the night going, you're not sure how much fun you'll be in another 20 minutes.

“Yeah, I should probably head home. Take a long shower, you know.” you grab your bag, slipping out of the booth.

Jack leaves some cash on the table, and the two of you receive an appreciative nod from the bartender. Jack’s hand hovers over your back, just at your waist, and they slip out into the crisp night air. Even though it’s barely a touch, you can feel the warmth of his hands through your crewneck, and you start to think about all the other places you'd like Jack to put his hands.

“Where’s your car?” Jack looks down the street, and you snap right back out of your head.

“Oh, it’s fine-”

“Nuh-uh,” Jack furrows his brow slightly, teasing. “There’s no way I’m letting you walk back alone in the middle of the night.”

You don’t argue, just lead the way. “Thank you again. For tonight. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure if you would take me up on it. Coming to the restaurant, I mean.”

“I told you,” Jack nudges your shoulder with his own. “I am not one to turn down a good meal from a beautiful woman.”

“Uh, no,” you smile. “You conveniently left out that last part.”

“Thought it was implied,” Jack shrugs, that stupid grin on his face. His eyes seek out your, and you tug your bag closer.

When you reach your car, you round to face him full on. “This is me,” you nod back.

“I can see that,” Jack shoves his hand in his pocket. He fishes his phone out and hands it to you. “Maybe we can see each other on a day that neither of us has to work.”

“I think that sounds great.” you enter your number in and when you hand his phone back, your fingers brush for longer than could be considered a coincidence.

You are not one to deny yourself. You indulge in your pleasures, and go for what you want. Which leads you to step just a hair closer to Jack. Almost too close for normal conversation. “I’m going to say something.”

Jack follows suit, stepping closer. Definitely too close for normal conversation. “I’m sure I’d love to hear it.”

You hesitate for a moment, giving yourself an out, and promptly deciding that you don't want it.

“I really want to kiss you, Jack,” you are a breath away, your gaze dropping down to Jack’s mouth, and back up to his hazel eyes.

“Thank God,” Jack smiles. His voice is low and thick. “I thought it was just me.”

Jack’s hands settle in a firm grip on your hips. When you kiss, you bring your hands up to his jaw, brushing your thumb over his cheek and stubble. It’s a grounding, full kiss, that spreads heat through your entire body. Jack’s hands move over your back, pressing you fully against him. When you pull back, he still doesn’t let go.

“You say goodnight to all of your patients like that?” you bite your bottom lip.

“Just the ones that make really good cheesecake,” Jack teases, brushing his nose against yours.

“Right, cheesecake.” you wink and step out of his grasp. You step off the curb and slide into your car. Jack watches you, his hands flexing at his sides. “Goodnight, Doctor.” you call.

“Goodnight, Chef,” Jack nods. He steps away from the curb just as you pull away.

"Mama... Hurts... Mama, tummy hurts..."

You bolt upright, the heavy haze of exhaustion vanishing in a second. Slipping out of bed, you hurry to your daughter's room. When you open the door, she’s curled into a tight little ball under her blankets, clutching her knees to her chest, her face flushed and tear streaked.

"Oh, sweet girl, what’s wrong?" you murmur, lifting her into your arms. She feels slightly warm, but it’s her belly that’s rock hard and tense.

She lets out a sharp wail, burying her face in your neck.

You try to think. Did she eat something bad? A stomach bug? Your mind scrambles through the medicine cabinet, but you’re terrified of giving a toddler the wrong dosage or medicine.

Needing help, you grab your phone and dial the one person who always has the answers.

Over at the hospital, the emergency department is in its usual state of controlled chaos. Jack stands at the central desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

When his phone vibrates, he sighs. But seeing your name on the screen, he steps away from the desk into a quieter corner.

"Hey, baby," Jack says. "Everything okay?"

"Jack, I need help," you say, and the panic in your voice immediately puts him on high alert. In the background, he can hear the distinct crying of your daughter. "She woke up screaming. She’s clutching her stomach, a-and it's completely rigid. She’s... I think she's in so much pain and I don't know what to do. What medicine can I give her? P-Please tell me what to do."

"Okay, baby, hey, take a breath. Is she vomiting? Does she have a fever?"

"No fever, she’s just a little warm from crying. No vomiting yet, but she's crying so hard she might. She keeps saying her tummy hurts."

"Is the pain on the lower right side? Does she flinch if you press gently on it?" Jack asks. The fear of appendicitis is always there.

"No, it seems like it's her whole stomach. She's just curled up." Jack pauses, trying to piece every thing you say together. "Jack, did she eat anything unusual today? Anything out of the ordinary when you two were out?"

Silence hangs on the line for a second. And then, the memory of their afternoon grocery run hits him.

The grocery store.

The coke can.

He remembers her sitting in the cart, proudly holding her little juice box, while he grabbed a can of Coca-Cola. He remembers her finishing the juice in five minutes flat, and then pointing her finger at his red can.

“Want that. Daddy, please?”

“No, baby. That’s Daddy’s. It’ll make your tummy hurt.”

But she had been stubborn.

She pouted, she whined, she reached for it. And later, when they got home, Jack had set the open can on the low coffee table while he was distracted trying to put the groceries away.

He remembered the sudden silence in the living room.

When a toddler is quiet, they’re up to mischief.

By the time he had walked back into the room, she was sitting on the rug, the red can tipped back, a dark ring of soda around her mouth.

She had swallowed nearly half the can before he snatched it away. He had cleaned her up, checked her over, and when she seemed fine, he figured they’d dodged a bullet.

He hadn't wanted to worry you, so he kept it to himself.

God, he was an idiot.

"Jack? Are you there?" your voice breaks through his thoughts.

"Ye- yeah, I'm here," Jack whispers, a guilt washing over him. He leans his forehead against the hospital wall, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. It’s my fault."

"What? What do you mean?"

"This afternoon... when we went to the store," Jack confesses. "I got a can of Coke. She wanted it, and I told her no, but... I got distracted. I left the can on the table. She drank almost half of it before I realized. I thought she’d be fine, but... her stomach can't handle that. It's a massive gas buildup and a caffeine crash."

There’s a beat of silence. "Jack... she's a toddler. Half a can?"

"I know. I know, I’m so sorry," Jack says, his voice cracking. He feels utterly incompetent. He couldn't protect his own daughter from a stupid can of soda. "I should have been paying attention."

"We can deal with that later," you say, pushing your frustration aside because your daughter is still sobbing against your shoulder. "Do I give her medicine?"

"No pain meds yet," Jack says. "Do you have any pediatric gas drops? Simethicone?"

"Yes, I think we have some."

"Okay, good, give her the recommended dose of that. After that, don't lay her flat. Keep her upright against your chest. Rub her back firmly to help her pass the gas. And try to get her to take small sips of water to flush her system, but only if she wants it."

"Okay," you breathe, writing it down mentally. "Simethicone, upright, rub her back."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, or if she develops a fever, you call me immediately and bring her here. I'll have a bed ready. But it should start to pass in an hour or two once you give her that." Jack's voice is calm, trying to sound clear, so you understand the indications and calm your nerves. "I am so sorry, honey. I’ll come home. I’ll get someone to cover the rest of my shift—"

"No, Jack, don't do that," you sigh. Your anger softens. "It's okay. I can handle this. Just... stay on the phone with me while I give her the drops?"

"Yeah," Jack chokes out. "Yeah. I'm not going anywhere. Put me on speaker so I can talk to her."

-

When the clock reads 4 AM, Jack finally finds some minutes to check on his family. Because every time he had to suture a laceration or look at a patient’s chart, his mind drifted back to his little girl sobbing because of his carelessness.

He hates himself for calling and potentially waking you if she finally fell asleep, but the agony of not knowing is eating him alive.

You answer on the second ring, your voice sounded exhausted. "Hey."

"Hey, beautiful," Jack breathes."Did I wake you? Is she... how is she?"

"You didn't wake me. I was just sitting on the floor next to her, watching her," you say softly. "She threw up about an hour ago, but she's okay now."

Jack’s stomach drops. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tight. "God. I'm so sorry. I should have come home. Was it bad? Did she choke? Is she—"

"Jack, it's okay," you interrupt gently. "She’s okay. Honestly, I think throwing up was exactly what she needed to get the thing out of her system. Right after it happened, she let out a huge sigh, drank a few sips of water, and went straight to sleep. Her stomach isn't hard anymore."

Jack lets out a long breath but the relief doesn't completely wash away the bitter taste of self reproach.

"I feel like a terrible father," he confesses. "I was right there and I let her get hurt."

"Jack, baby," you say. "You are not a terrible father. This things happen. Maybe you didn't think she would do it. And it's okay."

"That's not an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse, it's reality," you cut in softly. "Toddlers are like tiny silent ninjas. You can look away for three seconds, and they’ve climbed onto the counter. It happens to everyone. Literally everyone."

Jack swallows hard. "She was crying so hard, honey."

"And she’s sleeping peacefully now," you reassure him. "These things happen, baby. Yesterday it was a Coke can. Next week she’s probably going to eat my lipgloss. We do our best, we mess up, we learn, and we keep going. You made a mistake, and then you stayed on the phone and walked me through exactly how to take care of her. You're incredible."

Jack listens to your calm voice, and the anxiety on his chest starts to melt.

"How did I get so lucky with you?" he whispers.

A soft chuckle comes through the receiver. "Because you're a good man, Jack Abbot... Even when you leave carbonated drinks within arm's reach."

He laughs weakly. "I'm throwing all the soda in the house in the trash the second I get home."

"You better..." you say, a playful lilt finally creeping into your tired voice. "We are completely fine here. I promise. Sleepy but fine."

Jack catches the slight shift in your tone.

He can picture the teasing smirk on your face.

He leans back against the wall, a smile appearing on his face.

"You're really annoyed with me, aren't you, baby?" he asks.

"Maybe... A little," you reply instantly, letting out a hum just to provoke him. "I mean, my sleep is completely ruined now but we're okay."

"I know, I know. I'm at your mercy," Jack chuckles, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "How can I make it up to you? Name your price, Dr. Abbot will deliver."

"You are absolutely stopping to grab breakfast on your way home," you dictate, though there's no real heat behind it. "The good stuff. The biggest caramel latte they can legally sell you. Consider it the 'bad dad' tax."

"Done, beautiful. Consider it ordered. I'll bring your favorite. And morning kisses too. Special breakfast for my woman." Jack says smiling like an idiot.

"Good, handsome," you murmur as you look over at your daughter, who is now snoring softly. The storm had passed, and everything was going to be fine. "Get back to work. And, Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. We love you."

"I love you both, honey, so much," he whispers, his heart swelling with warmth. "See you in a few hours. Go to sleep."

As the call clicks shut, Jack takes a peaceful breath, knowing he has a warm home, a recovering little girl, and a wonderful wife waiting to share breakfast with him.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Ever since you’d moved in, pink was suddenly all that Jack saw. 

Your pink towels were always fluffy and warm next to his hanging-by-a-thread navy ones on the bathroom rack. Your pink slippers sat dutifully next to his crutches while the two of you were working the night shift; you up in pedes, him down in the third layer of hell. Your pink hair ties scattered in various places: his bedside table, his side of the sink, one in the shower, a few in his vehicle, and he swears he stepped on one in his garage. 

However, no matter how many pink hair ties he saw in his dreams, nothing could have prepared him for your actual addiction: lip gloss. 

As a man, Jack thought that you’d maybe have two or three. One to go in your makeup bag and one to go in your purse and one to leave in your locker at work. 

Oh, boy, was he wrong—dead wrong. 

If he thought you had too many hair ties and too many earrings and too many claw clips that he always had to remind you to take out of your hair before a drive, their number (combined) held no candle to how many lip glosses you had. 

It felt like every trip to the store ended a new lip gloss added to the cart. And that didn’t even compare to the ones you bought online. Jack’s head went dizzy with the, what he felt to be innumerable, list of brands that you swore was better than the last. 

Rhode, Kylie Cosmetics, Summer Fridays, Glossier, Refy, Dior (Jack did like that one because he knew you used his card for that), Clinique, NYX, Eadem: the list went on longer than a receipt from CVS. 

Jack didn’t know how you could keep up with all of them. One minute you were yacking his ear off about the newest sparkly nude shade while the next you were raving about a deep berry shade that would match your dress for the next medical gala. And then in two days, a new box would show up with your name on it, and he could only bet that the four cardboard walls held a brand-new lip gloss. When he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen you finish one push tube before ordering a new one. 

But that really never mattered; he didn’t care what you bought with your money as long as he got to take care of everything else you needed. 

One time when he asked why you bought so many, you had simply told him that buying a new lip gloss felt like a reward. Whether you got one after a good night with lots of cases with happy results or after a bad shift where the world just felt impossible, you could always find a smidge of joy in buying something pretty to put on your lips. 

Jack understood a little too well. While he didn’t spend his free time scouring the shelves for a new plumping formula that held the smallest of shimmers, he found that same smidge of joy in spending time with you and slowly learning that down time didn’t mean he had to fill it with adrenaline-rushing activities. 

Now, even if the only downside to your lippie addiction was that your bank account went down by almost $25 each purchase, there were a lot of upsides to it as well. One of Jack’s favorites being that you’d get to test each of them out . . . on him. 

Jack became the heart eye emoji every time you swiped the same gloopy-looking lip gloss across your lips. His hazel eyes tracked the back-and-forth motion, and most times he’d run his tongue across his own lips in preparation for what came next. Your lips, now glossy and catching the light in whatever shade you’d gotten, would stretch into a smile as you looked at him expectedly. He never failed to look away, face sometimes leaning in inch by inch before you even finished applying the gloss. 

“Calm down, boy,” you’d said, nose scrunching at his eagerness. “You’ll get your kiss in a minute.” 

“I’m being calm,” he replied cooly like he wasn’t a breath away from your face, eyes taking in each freckle and smile line on your face. If he inhaled deep enough and if your gloss came scented or flavored, he’d be able to smell it on your lips. “You’re just so pretty.” 

“You’re such a flirt.” 

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his cheeks before pulling him into a kiss. Jack never minded the feeling of the gloss transferring over to his lips. He remembers how his late-wife’s favorite wine-red matte lipstick would always leave a few prints behind and even on his teeth depending on how long he stayed connected to his lips. But now it seemed as though glosses were more popular than lip stick, and Jack would die happily with his lips between your smooth ones. 

His lips would move languidly across yours like he was savoring the feeling. His hands would also rise and hold your face so you couldn’t escape the onslaught of his kisses. And the few times that the gloss was indeed flavored, he’d make sure to finish with a swipe of his tongue to the point a string of saliva would connect your lips together before your giggles started sounding off at the sight of his lips covered in sparkles or stained dark pink. 

A boy would hate the fact, but Jack was a man, and he wore the color with pride. 

_______________________

“Brother, you got a little something, riigghhttt there,” Robby drew out while poking Jack in the cheek before handing it over his friend. “Second thought, I think it’s doing something to bring out the rosiness of your cheeks.” 

Jack smacked his hand away. “Knock it off. I thought you’d be out of here by now?” 

Robby shook his head and chuckled. “You should know by now that I haven’t left on time in years.” He leaned against the nurses’ station. “Is that a new color? Pretty sure we saw this shade two weeks ago.” 

“Can’t ever have enough shades,” Jack repeated from the multiple times you had told him the same. “But yeah, it’s a new one. There was a summer drop, and you know how she gets.” 

And he did after witnessing the near meltdown of the 2025 Rhode summer launch that you thought you had missed out on before Jack casually mentioned he’d been able to get every single product while Robby sat in the chair chuckling the entire time. 

“Did you say summer drop?” Victoria’s voice suddenly sounded, pitch a bit too loud for someone coming down after twelve straight hours of traumas after traumas. 

The corner of Jack’s lips twitched into a smirk. “My partner’s very into those. Between the two of us, we spent a minimum of $400 just to get that damned towel.” 

And it wasn’t even pink Jack thought. But a summer drop was a summer drop. 

Victoria’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you talking about the Rhode drop?” 

“Yeah. Next week’s the popup in New England, and thankfully it happens on my day off.  I don’t want to think what would happen if we failed to get a hoodie.” 

“Damn, Dr. Abbot,” she said, jaw dropping slightly. “I didn’t expect you to be someone so into makeup.” 

Jack looked up from the tablet in his hands with furrowed brows. “Huh?” 

Because to Jack, anything you were into swiftly became everything he was into. By himself, he didn’t have a lot of interests outside of the ER and some yoga he did in the mornings. You’d brought a fresh air to his life with your hot Pilates on the weekends and your farmers markets and movie watching and book reading that included matching Kindles. So for Victoria to be confused as to why he knew exactly when the next Rhode pop-up would be, his chest flared with a feeling of invalidation. 

Victoria must have picked up on his inner turmoil by the face he was making because she quickly backtracked. “Oh, uh, that wasn’t meant to be a negative thing, Dr. Abbot. I just mean that a lot of guys really aren’t into something like that. So it’s kind of refreshing to see.” 

“I see.” Jack turned back to the tablet. “It’s a good thing I’m not being piled in with the rest of the male population.” 

“So,” Victoria began again, now looking like she wanted to delve into Jack’s personal life. “I’m guessing your girlfriend likes lip gloss?” 

Robby answered for her with a large smile. “You have no idea.” 

“Who has no idea?” Trinity asked on her way out. However, she paused and smirked at the sight of the glossy kiss-shaped splotch on Jack’s cheek that he hadn’t wiped off. “Ooooo, Dr. Abbot, you got something—” 

“Thank you, Santos,” Jack gruffly said. “I’m very well aware that I have something on my cheek. And I’d prefer that everyone stopped pointing it out. If I wanted it gone, I would have wiped it off when I noticed it before I got out of my car.” 

Jack paused. He’d said too much, and he knew that Victoria and Trinity caught on it.

“Wait,” Trinity said, “does your girlfriend come to work with you? Does she work in the Pitt?” 

Victoria looked around with wide eyes like she’d be able to find something hidden in plain sight. “Is she here?”  

“I wonder if she knows Dr. Barbie. She also likes lip gloss.” 

Robby looked over at Jack knowingly. 

The two girls, despite their excitedness, had made a few errors. 

Jack had said partner, and they clung to the idea that he had a girlfriend. But if the absolute rock of a diamond he put on your finger followed by that thin band had anything to say about it, you were far from being woman who deserved the juvenile title of girlfriend. Plus, much to contrary belief and your affinity for all thinks pink, you were only five years his junior. He absolutely loved the way you now wore your hair with gray licking at your roots. 

Second mistake was automatically thinking you worked in the Pitt. Even if you’d worked in an ER well before meeting Jack, you’d shuffled departments around until you ended up specializing in pediatrics to help your reign in your small bouts of baby fever after deciding that children weren’t something you ultimately wanted in life. 

Yet, that didn’t mean you weren’t unknown in the Pitt. To his knowledge, the younger kids had started calling you Dr. Barbie because of the number of pink scrubs you wore into work. 

See, just another bit of pink that Jack welcomed into your shared home. 

They knew you were married, often opting to let your ring flash as you walked through. So the idea of Jack having a girlfriend while you had a full husband meant that they didn’t make the connection. 

Well, that was until the elevator dinged and you stepped out, pinks scrubs, hair falling in those beautiful curls you got with an over-night curler, and, most importantly, lips shining with your first gloss of the day. 

“Dr. Barbie is so pretty,” Victoria mentioned almost dreamily. “Her time management must be insane if she manages to look so good all the time.” 

Trinity hummed in agreement. “If she wasn’t married, I’d be in line in a heartbeat.” 

Despite their comments, Jack smiled as he watched your eyes scan the room until they landed on him, and a bright smile plastered onto your face once you started making your way over to the nurses’ station. 

“Jack!” you called. “Just the man I was looking for.” You stopped right in front of him, mouth open to continue whatever you were saying, but you stopped, cocked your head, and narrowed your eyes. You clicked your tongue and stepped forward as you licked a finger. “Honey, you should have told me I left that on your cheek.”

It was as if all else faded into the background, and Jack quickly dodged your finger. “Hey!”

“Jack, just stay still for one second.” 

He caught your outstretched hand. “Knock it off.” 

“I can’t let you go the entire night walking around with Macadamia Butter lip gloss on your face.” You managed to get your hand free and gently wipe the kiss mark off. “There.” You watched Jack’s face fall. “Don’t pout.” 

He sneered playfully. “I’m not pouting.” 

He was definitely pouting. 

You warmly smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll just come down later and refresh it, yeah?” 

Jack hummed lowly before he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in the middle of the emergency department not caring who saw. He ran a quick tongue across his lips after he pulled back. “Is that the hot cocoa one?” 

Your smiled turned into a bashful one. “I’ve turned you into a lip gloss connoisseur.” 

“It’s not like you have over twenty in the house plus the extra five in the truck along with the seven you keep in your locker—” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you giggled right as your pager went off. “Looks like I’m being called away. I’ll see you later?” 

He nodded and smirked down at you. “I’ll see you later for my reapplication.” 

You turned away and yelled over your shoulder. “Fig sauce is going to look great on you!” 

Once you were out of sight on the elevator, Jack turned around to see the shocked faces of Victoria and Trinity. His chest puffed out just a bit, knowing he had shown them at what a good husband he was. 

“Fig sauce,” Robby chuckled. “Man, you’re so whipped. I’ll see you in twelve for my reapplication, Dr. Abbot,” he teased while walking away. 

Jack couldn’t help but laugh softly until he remembered that Robby wasn’t the only member of his audience. He eyed the two women carefully. 

“I’ll get you each three glosses from whatever brand in return for your silence.” 

Oh, yeah, Jack Abbot was indeed a lip gloss connoisseur. 

But he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

  “well i’m definitely not making this easy!” he trots up towards you and you tilt your head to the side. “this bag is heavy. can you handle it?”

  “you poor thing,” he says under his breath as his hand slides under the strap, brushing your shoulder. he meets your gaze. “i can handle it.”

  the smile on your face is equal parts delighted and sheepish, and you burrow slightly into your scarf, leaving only your eyes visible to him. but, his eyes still flick down to where your mouth would be, anyway.

  things had changed between you. in subtle ways– but you could feel the difference. everything felt charged with a high level of energy, like at any moment, either one of you may just make the decision to throw yourself at the other. there’s a part of you, a prideful part that may be slightly avoidant, that has held yourself back from leaning into your whims in the way that you would truly want to. you don’t know why that is. if anyone would take proper care of your heart and your feelings, it would be abbot. he is particular about most things in his life– you don’t imagine he’d be reckless with your emotions.

  but, still. dead wife, missing leg, adrenaline junkie who has worked through his shit, yes, but… there’s still work to be done. there’s always work to be done. you rationalize that that’s true for you, too. it’s why you and jack got along in the first place.

  night crawlers. that’s what he always called you and your motley crew. the weirdest and the wildest. and it was true. it was true about you, ellis, shen, vivi, crus, mateo… you were all a little odd. during turnover, day shift usually looked at you a bit like a caged zoo animal– half fascination and half disbelief. you didn’t take it personally any more.

  “ready for this shit show?” abbot asks as you begin your trek towards the hospital.

  “yeah, i have miriam house sitting my place. told her i didn’t know how long yet.” a friend of yours– jack has heard all of the stories. even met her, once. not that anyone else at PTMC needs to know how interwoven jack has become into your life. not their business. “i slept for, like, five extra hours before coming. i hate sleeping here.”

  “well,” jack looks over at you. he has a beanie tugged onto his head, little grey curls poking out at the sides around his ears. his scarf is a deep brown, and it looks expensive, like maybe his sister got it for him for a nice christmas or birthday gift. he looks good enough to eat. “i got dana to pull me a favor.” you raise an eyebrow at him. “she put us on our own floor.”

  you can’t help it– you laugh. “you’re shitting me.” he shakes his head. “aren’t people going to be suspicious? like, where did we run off to?”

  jack raises an eyebrow at you. “what do you think they’re gonna say?”

  “what they’ve been saying.” you both stop in the ambulance bay. “that there’s something going on with us.”

  abbot hums. “let ‘em talk.” he shrugs his shoulders. like it’s all just so easy. “and… are they so wrong, anyway?” he smirks, but there’s something else hidden in it. a genuine question. a seeking of confirmation. your jaw drops at him and you hit his arm, convincing yourself that he’s just messing with you. jack messes with you often. he catches your wrist, and his thumb slips under your mitten, rubbing at the soft skin of your wrist, where your veins are. “are they?” he asks, and his words are soft, earnest.

  your mouth opens to say of course they are but you’re interrupted by the squeal of ambulance sirens and the flood of day shifters coming out to get started on a trauma. you and jack shuffle out of the way and into the ED, but you can still feel him glancing over at you.

  once you’re inside, there’s very little time to stop him and say yes, i feel it too. i felt it in the shower with you a few weeks ago and i feel it every time that we smoke together and i feel it when we lay on your couch and i feel it when we’re on opposite sides of a person that we couldn’t save and i feel it when someone takes a gulping breath because we did save them.

  once you break through into the stairwell, there’s a familiar quiet. and on the third floor landing, when jack is panting, just a bit, with the weight of your duffel bag on his shoulder, you stop him with your hand on his arm. “they’re not wrong.” you take the duffel bag back and take your turn shouldering the weight of it.

  if jack was a hastier man, he might’ve kissed you in that moment. but he’s patient, and although he looks down again at your mouth, his eyes find their way back to yours. “gonna be a long couple of days,” he says. he swings open the door and pokes his head down the hall.

  –

  you take your time wiping down the room that you’re staying in. you know what goes down in these rooms– and, to be fair, you’d wipe down a room at the ritz-carlton. that’s just how you are. out the window, you see fat flurries falling from the sky, faster and faster. the news had projected that things would start amping up around this time. you wonder how long until the hospital is relying on the emergency generator– the rumor was the floors that were housing staff would be cut off from power, to conserve it for everywhere else. on one hand, you understand. on the other, you can’t help but feel it is a perfect reflection of how these hospitals treat their staff.

  clad in your most comfortable and soft clothes, you peek out of your door and look down the hall. one room over, a faint glow emits from below the crack in the door, and you hear green day playing. you knock once on the door and it opens for you like he was just waiting for you. he puts a hand on his hip and smirks at you. “took you long enough. ready for our walk?” he reaches behind him and tosses a tube at you. you glance at it and grin.

  jack puts his coat on and follows you back to your room where you grab your puffer. you’ve already put those ridiculous pink mittens on– and he takes it upon himself to zip you up into your jacket, to put a beanie on your head. his touches are careful and gentle, and it makes your heart turn over itself. “it’s like you’re wrapped in bubble wrap,” he says with a laugh under his breath.

  “it’s cold!” you exclaim back.

  jack leads you out to the smoking area. it’s not the best look for two physicians to be there, you know this– but you think you’re incognito enough that maybe it doesn’t matter. you huddle together on the stone bench, hip to hip. you shiver still and jack looks over at you with concern. “c’mere, get closer.”

  “i don’t think i can get any closer without sitting in your lap.”

  the implication weighs heavy in the air. jack’s mouth opens and for a moment you think he’s going to tug you into his lap– but he doesn’t. he just looks at you and leans in closer. “how do you expect to smoke with those monstrosities on?” he asks with a glint in his eye.

  “what, you’re not going to help me?”

  “i can help you.” jack takes the tube back from you and pops it open, putting the joint between his lips. he fishes out his zippo from his pocket and lights it, blowing out the first puff. once it’s got a good, burning cherry, he looks to you. you part your lips slightly and he places it for you. the ring of fire reflects in his eyes, that do nothing but stare at you with purposeful intent. you blow the smoke out over your shoulder. everything feels hazy and slow.

  and then, everything goes dark.

  the streetlights. the inside of the hospital– all of it. only for about ten seconds before the emergency generator powers up and resuscitates the most important parts of PTMC. when you drag your eyes to the third floor, where you and jack share a wall and will rest your heads tonight, you see that it has, as promised, remained dark.

  “shit,” jack sighs. “that didn’t take very long, did it?”

  “nope.” you lean a little closer into him, your head resting on his shoulder. “what was already going to be a shitty nights sleep just got worse.”

  jack is quiet, and you look up to see him with the joint between his lips. he says around the smoke, “stay in my room with me.” he exhales fully.

  you’re hazy from the weed and tired and ready to lay down and, yes, you’re ready to lay down beside him. it wouldn’t be the first time. “okay.”

  he tips your chin up so that he can give you another hit off the joint. it’s all slow and easy, and you feel the anxiety that you’ve been having over staying at PTMC slowly dissipate. because, regardless, jack is here. the same jack that lets you sleep on his couch and pays for your breakfast when you go to the little diner you like. familiar jack.

  the crunching of steps in the snow hit your ears. you lift your head, barely, and see princess and perlah with their arms laced. princess gives you a little wave and winks.

  jack chuckles. “that didn’t take long.”

  –

  it feels like you’re getting ready for prom. that giddiness– the unknown of what’s to come, but the wanting for something grand to happen to you. jack has always made you feel a little bit like a girl with a crush. he has that effect on everyone. princess always loved to joke that a crush on dr. abbot was a rite of passage, and that everyone had to just ride the wave. you rode the wave, certainly. you’re not sure if you ever got off the wave, and that’s the problem.

  there’s already a chill on your floor. when you come to his door, you’re holding a pillow and an extra blanket you had stuffed in your duffel from home. you have slippers on. he answers the door and looks you up and down. “you look cute.”

  “shut up,” you grumble with warm cheeks, brushing past him. “the hospital air makes me feel gross. i swear i get ugly when i stay here too long.”

  jack scoffs. “no, but it makes you crazy, apparently.” he shuts the door. someone had come by to drop off candles, and they’re burning all over the room. an almost certain safety hazard, but that’s the least of your worries now. “i’ve never seen you look ugly.”

  “i wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

  “you don’t have to fish. i’ll give them up freely.”

  he watches you sit, tuck your legs underneath you on the bed and shiver. “it’s only going to get colder,” you remark, looking out the window. the snow is coming down and coming down and coming down. you suspect it’ll get bad, and soon. it’s only a matter of time before your pager goes off, a desperate cry for backup needed. you yawn and glance at the clock. 9:07pm. you don’t usually go to bed so early– of course not, being night shift. but it was your day off tonight, technically. and abbot’s.

  “can i…” jack clears his throat. “we can lay down. might help stay warm.”

  “yeah. yeah, good idea.” you pull the covers back and slide beneath them, and abbot comes to the other side of the bed and does the same. the candlelight flickers across his face and you swear that he’s not even breathing, not until he lays down beside you. he’s stiff, arms at his sides– but they’re warm. he’s warm, burning like a furnace, and it’s instant relief to the bonedeep chill that you feel.

  “how are you so warm?” you ask. your hand runs down his arm and you fight the urge to pull him closer.

  “i run hot,” he says simply. it’s so quiet in this room– you’re not used to such quiet. the pitt is a cacophony of sound, and it runs over into your dreams. but this floor is so hushed, and peaceful, that it feels almost like a dream. hell, maybe it is. jack lays his arm out. “come here.”

  it’s a command, but it isn’t, at the same time– jack only does it because he understands that it’s what you want, but what you won’t ask for. you oblige immediately. your arms wrap around him, and he shivers when your hand skims his skin. “you are cold,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. one hand goes to the back of your neck and your eyes shutter closed. “c’mere.”

  your legs tangle together, three flesh and one metal. you’ve slept in a bed together, but you’ve never intertwined yourselves in this way. the hand that doesn’t cradle your neck rubs circles into your back. you shiver again, but not because you’re cold. not this time. his hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely. “is this okay?” his lips are against your ear. “just want to warm you up.”

  you nod, fervently. “yes.” there’s a desperation that you feel. his hand presses against your skin, sliding up your back. it lands in the center. your eyes can hardly stay open because it feels so good, but it feels like it would be a robbery of your pleasure to fall asleep with his hands all over you like this. you want to savor every last moment.

  his hand travels to your hip, and he squeezes. you gasp and run your foot up his calf, the one that’s there in full. he freezes and pulls back, almost instantly. your pupils are blown and you put a hand to your hammering heart. “did i– did i do something–”

  “no,” he swings his legs over the bed, and leans forward. you scramble up behind him, your hand to his back. “no, i just–” he sighs, and you can feel the frustration, and maybe, just maybe, insecurity. “a prosthetic isn’t exactly warm. i didn’t even think to take it off.”

  “jack…” your hand travels up and to his shoulder. you settle, just behind him, positioned so as he turns his face to you, you’re right there. “i don’t mind. i don’t mind anything. i just– i just want you to be comfortable. that’s all.”

  there’s something raw in his eyes. raw, wanting, and so real. he doesn’t say anything. he goes back to focusing on freeing his leg from the prosthetic, groaning once it’s off. he rubs for just a moment at it, before he turns back to you. warm cheeks, a hand on his back, face open and gentle and it breaks him down a bit.

  he pushes you back down into the mattress. not forcefully. he’s careful as he does it.

  he’s careful when he leans forward and he kisses you.

  it’s slow. it’s methodical. it’s the kiss someone gives when they’ve thought about it for a very, very long time. your hand goes to the back of his head and you wish, more than anything else in this world, that you could freeze this moment in time and live in it for the rest of forever.

  when he pulls back, he clears his throat. he’s hovering above you and you’re staring up at him like he’s just changed your life, which, it would turn out, he did. your hand goes to his face and your thumb skims the crows feet you love so much. he turns his face into your palm and breathes it in, kisses the skin there. “thank you,” he says, his voice a bit unsteady.

  you breathe in deep. “come here,” you echo his previous sentiment. he goes back to the position you’d been in previously, and you feel a little bolder now– like the writing that was on the wall is now common knowledge. like a bubble has burst and neither of you have to pretend anymore. you don’t even have to speak the words, not really– you’ve always known and understand each other a little too well, when it didn’t quite make sense to. when you were just passing figures, before you got on night shift.

  even then, you remember you would be pouring out your coffee cup in the break room while jack was filling up his. there were these little pockets of conversation that you two would get stuck in. whether you were talking about music or a case or whatever else it was– the ease of familiarity had been with you both for a long time.

  that’s why there’s no grand confession on your lips. not right now, anyway– it’s just the quiet of you both together, the four walls of this recovery room, and jack’s hand back on your hip. your lips skim across his collarbone and you feel the sharp inhale. you laugh a little bit and press a kiss there, just to see what he’ll do. you feel the heat radiating off of his body, and you see the flush that is blossoming all over him, keeping him honest.

  it’s exploratory. all of it is– you dance your finger along his side just to see what he does. he tugs a bit on your hair and smiles when you gasp a little bit. his lips kiss yours but they also trace down your jaw and to your throat, and when your hand claps against the back of his head, he takes satisfaction in knowing that he’s found one of the most sensitive parts of you.

  “you feel so good,” jack says and it melts you into a puddle until you’re just a nodding head.

  a pager goes off. you’re unsure if it’s yours, or his.

  jack groans, deep from inside of himself, and you press your thighs together. he pushes his hair back and looks down at you, as though he’s been walking the desert for hours and finally found an oasis. “i don’t know if i can leave knowing you’re here, like this.”

  “you’re sort of obligated to, doctor.” you pull him down, finding this new found familiarity of touch so easy to replicate over and over again.

  he hovers above you and kisses you once more. it’s hot– it’s not as delicate as the first. he parts your lips with his tongue and he kisses you in way that’s not sloppy but not so demure– it’s just right.

  if his pager went off first, yours goes off next.

  jack rises from the bed and settles back into his prosthetic. the pair of you change into scrubs and are brushing your teeth at the same mirror, jack just behind you. you stare at each other in the mirror and he puts your stethoscope on your neck. you clip his badge to his pants, and his hands flex at his sides.

She surprised you before you’d fully opened the cubicle curtain.

“Please don't tell me I'm pregnant. I don't care about the rest, just please - Wait, you’re not the cute farm boy from before.”

According to Whittaker's hurried handover, the girl was 19, a freshman in college. She had spent hours in the blazing sun at cheer practise, had tumbled and felt a twinge in her ankle, but assumed it was nothing and carried on with her day, until a combination of pain and exhaustion had got the better of her and she fainted whilst trying to hobble down the steps outside the library. Meaning, that as well as a sprained ankle, she was also on concussion watch, sported two scuffed knees and a grazed elbow, and an open wound on her calf from a rogue shard of glass, resulting in her needing a tetanus shot and stitches. Whittaker claimed she was handling it well, which you didn't doubt, but Whittaker was young too. You knew from experience that the brave faces of college students nearly always wore off over time. They were still kids, after all. You wouldn't baby her, but you'd go gentle.

“Oh, and she's a bit of a livewire,” Whittaker added, right before dashing off.

The girl only needed to utter one sentence for you to know what he meant.

You gave her a smile. “Hi Josie,” you said warmly, introducing yourself. Dr Whittaker has been pulled into another case, but he's asked me to take over your care and stitch up your leg. I’m no cute farm boy, but if it helps, I'm known for being a bit of a seamstress around here.”

“Girl, you can patch up my leg however you like. Just tell me I'm not pregnant.”

It was pretty obvious from her blood work. “You're not pregnant.”

The girl sank back on the bed, relieved.

“Thank fuck. The last guy I slept with was some asshole hockey player; I do not want to be responsible for continuing his bloodline.”

“It's nice to be the bringer of good news,” you laughed. “And good to know college hockey players still have a bad rep.”

You gave Josie a quick rundown of her test results and the treatment you were proposing for her injuries, then started to prepare your suture kit.

“Oh! Can I take a picture first?” she asked excitedly, pulling out her phone (pink glitter case with charms and all). “My dad will want to see a before and after.”

You wheeled your seat back for a moment, not wishing to end up in her TikTok or Insta. “Go ahead.”

When the photo shoot was complete, you got to work.

You liked doing stitches because they were methodical. They were a straightforward, visual representation of doctoring; you could see how your medical intervention healed someone in real time.

If only parts of your life could be stitched together in the same way. If only you could sew a string from your heart to Jack's.

The fleeting moments you shared with Dr Abbot during the changing of the guard were a craving. You often arrived at the ED early and stayed late, just to make sure you would see him at handover. You’d exchange a few jokes, flirt a little, and pocket each other’s smiles. The perfect start and finishing knot to begin or end every day with. Mornings when you missed him were troubled, the day tainted because it didn’t get off to the right start. But the evenings without him were worse. You hated being sent out into the night, having not heard his voice or seen his face, your thoughts loose and frayed, untied.

You were desperately hopelessly in love with him, and you had no idea what to do about it. No idea where to place the next stitch in the fabric of your life.

“Are you single?” Josie asked suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts. You briefly wondered if the girl was a mind reader.

“I-”

“Because you're actually kind of hot.”

Oh. This was new; you had never been hit on by a teenage girl before.

“I can think of many reasons why things wouldn't work out between us,” you responded dryly. You’re my patient. You’re too young. You're in college and don’t have your shit together. I'm not attracted to women (though sometimes I wonder if life would be easier if I were). I’m hopelessly in love with a man who probably never gives me a second thought. Need you go on?

“Oh, God no.” Did she really need to sound so repulsed by the idea? “I mean, sure, if you were like, waaaay younger, I totally would. I’m an equal opportunities employer.”

Were you supposed to say thank you?

“I was thinking about my dad. He's suuuper single. It’s like chronic at this point. I keep telling him to put himself out there again - Mom wouldn't have wanted him to stay lonely and celibate forever after she’s gone. Plus, he needs someone to distract him from his weird-ass hobbies.”

“I see. Well, it's nice of you to think of me, but-”

“You're taken, aren’t you?” she said despondently. “I should have guessed.”

“Not ‘taken’ as such, not officially, I mean.”

Disappointment turned to sympathy (or was it pity?)

“I get it,” she said solemnly. “Your heart's taken. The guy is just slow on the uptake, right? They always are.”

“Something like that.” You didn't know what else to say, so you fixed all your attention on the stitches you were making.

“Hurts though, huh? Unrequited love.”

“Thought I was the medical professional here, yet you're diagnosing me.”

She shrugged.

“I'm a doctor's daughter. The skills must be genetic.”

You wanted to ask more about her family’s medical lineage, but she was clearly much more interested in talking about you.

“So, tell me, what's the guy like? Is he hot? He better be, to deserve a chance with someone like you. Is he older? Younger? How did you meet him?”

You felt strangely compelled to answer, as if you were one of her college friends and you were cosied up in a dorm room together, gossiping about crushes. You missed that. What was the harm in playing along? You’d keep things professional; just give her enough details to whet her appetite.

“Yes. He's hot. Gorgeous, actually. He’s older, but not by much, I don't think. And…” Brace yourself, Josie; here comes the juiciest slice of gossip. “We met at work.”

She squealed. “He works here?! Get it, girl. A workplace romance, I love that for you. Do you get steamy in the call room? Wait - was there some professional rivalry? A clash over a patient’s case that boiled over? Enemies to lovers, that kind of thing?” Her eyes brightened. “Ooooh! Is he here today? I bet I can work out who he is-”

Thank God Jack wasn’t working today. There was a good chance Josie would still be around at shift change, and you wouldn’t hold up a straight enough poker face to not give the game away.

“I really don't think-”

“Is everything OK in here?”

Of course, Robby would pick this precise moment to do his rounds. You collected yourself and gave him a smile, putting back on your ‘I’m-a-very-professional-doctor-who-definitely-wasn’t-gossiping’ voice.

“Joise, this is Doctor Robinavitch, Chief Attending Physician here in the ED.”

The girl gave him a wave and looked him up and down. “Clock it. I'm honoured… Chief.”

Her sarcasm made it evident that, for whatever reason, Robby didn’t impress her much.

You soldiered on, giving Robby a quick rundown of Josie’s injuries and proposed treatment. “I'm just finishing up the stitches on her calf now, and then we'll get the wound properly dressed and arrange for an ankle boot and some crutches.” You handed Robby the iPad so he could glance over the test results. “There was nothing abnormal in bloods or the CT-”

“Not pregnant, praise be,” Josie cut in, pointing her fingers to the sky.

“- And the fainting spell appears to be a one-off, likely brought on by overexertion in the heat and not drinking enough water.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I won’t be forgetting my Stanley cup again.”

Robby smirked and nodded at you, agreeing with your prognosis, then handed back the tablet. He peered at your almost finished sutures, and you couldn’t help but feel proud of your work.

“Perfection, as always,” Robby said. “You know, I still have that tear in my jacket if you ever feel like -”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “In your dreams, manchild.”

Robby chuckled. “Was worth a shot.” He turned to Josie. “You got someone to take you home?”

“Why, are you offering?” she said glibly.

Thankfully, Robby just gave her the silent treatment, accompanied by his trademark look of disappointment over the rims of his glasses until the girl caved.

“My dad,” she mumbled, picking at her stick-on nails. “I wish he was here already.” Her lip wobbled, and tears were near.

“He will be soon, I’m sure. I bet he’s speeding down the highway as we speak. And he’s not going to believe the picture you took earlier is actually your leg when he sees how good the after looks.”

Josie saw right through what you were doing, but gave you a soft smile regardless.

“I'll leave you to finish up,” Robby said, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket. And then he was gone.

“Is that him?” Josie asked eagerly when the coast was clear. “The guy you have a crush on?”

“No! No. He's my boss - He’s…he's not good with commitment,” you added, feeling a bizarre need to over-justify why you weren’t attracted to a man who felt more akin to your benevolent yet complicated uncle, yet you somehow were attracted to his pseudo brother in arms, who was almost exactly the same age.

“I get it. Those types of guys are the worst,” she agreed. “Great for a bit of fun though…”

Thankfully, you had just tied off the final stitch.

“Okaaay, I'm all done here, so I’ll grab a nurse to dress the wound and head out to find those crutches and ankle boot I’ve been promising.”

-

You checked back in soon after, wielding the spoils of a victorious quest.

“The only crutches left down here were those pink ones covered with stickers,” you explained. “I can get a porter to hunt down another pair from upstairs, but who knows how long that will take. And I figured these would actually kind of suit you, so…”

Josie gave you an eyebrow raise and an ‘I'm too cool to care’ shrug, but you caught her examining the stickers and smiling whilst you booted her up.

You helped her out of bed and showed her how to situate herself on the crutches, then, once she was more confident, she set off on a practice loop around the ED.

Inevitably, you got pulled away for a few minutes. When you eventually circled back, you found Josie court at the nurse’s station.

“Hey Doc! I’m getting the hang of things, look!”

She hopped towards you a few metres, then stopped in her tracks, noticing someone enter the ED through the doors behind you. Her face lit up with childlike joy, and she transformed into a little girl right before your eyes.

“Daddy! You're here!”

You could feel your heart glow warm inside your chest. Happy reunions were your favourite part of the job.

So why did the nurses look like they'd seen a ghost?

You spun around in time to watch Josie hop past you and throw herself into her father's arms.

Jack Abbot’s arms.

Josie told you she was a doctor's daughter. But never did you think it was that doctor.

“Hey sweetie, they patched you up good, huh? How are you feeling?”

“I feel great; everyone has been so nice.”

Jack looked over his shoulder at the staring crowd. It had grown. Robby and Dana were both looking at him expectantly now, too, eyebrows raised, arms folded.

“You didn't tell him, did you?” Jack said to Josie.

She shrugged. “They never asked.”

Jack presented her to the group. “This is my daughter, everyone,” he said proudly, with a tinge of defensiveness. “I will not be taking any further questions until I get the rundown on her care,” he added firmly. “Besides, I'm sure you all have plenty of patients to be seeing too.”

He turned to Josie. “Who was your doctor, sweetie?”

“That would be me,” you volunteered.

Jack's relief was palpable. Which made you feel a little giddy.

“I knew it. Those stitches are damn perfect. Seamstress perfect.”

You showed Jack Josie’s test results (noting that Josie didn't mention not being pregnant this time around) and walked him through your recommendations for Josie’s care over the next few weeks, doing your best to treat Jack like any other concerned father, despite the fact you knew he knew everything you would say before you said it. But he listened intently, stepping into his role as Josie’s Dad, not her doctor.

“So, I have every confidence Josie will make a full and speedy recovery. She’ll be back to her cheer squad in no time.”

“I keep telling her cheer squad is damn dangerous,” Jack muttered.

You and Josie looked at each other and rolled your eyes. Josie opened her mouth to chastise him, but you got there first.

“Look who’s talking,” you snorted. “The pom poms are damn sight safer than ‘gun guns’.”

Josie guffawed, and Jack smirked, taking a step closer, honing all his attention on you.

“Is that so?” he said, folding his arms, as if he thought accentuating his devastatingly gorgeous biceps would throw you off your game. Not this time.

You hummed. “I was head of my cheer squad in college, you know,” you boasted.

He cocked his head slightly, and his eyes swept up and down your body – fleeting, but obvious. It made you want to be daring.

“You picturing me in a short skirt, Abbot?”

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he didn’t take the bait.

“Just surprised, that’s all…”

“Oh really? And why is that?” you teased. “What about me doesn’t scream cheerleader to you?”

The tete-a-tete between you continued. You were completely oblivious to the world, as you always were when Jack’s eyes were yours for any amount of time, no matter how short. For a few short golden minutes, you and Jack were wrapped up as a pair and tied together with a bow.

So, you didn't notice Josie hovering in the background, watching her dad flagrantly flirt and listening to you laugh and putting two and two together. You didn't hear her jaw hit the floor when she came to her final realisation.

She taped her crutches to the floor, popping the bubble you and Jack shared.

“I told you I'd work it out!” she cried with jubilant smugness. “The guy you've got a crush on is my dad.”

------

A needy grunt passed Jack’s lips. Your hot velveteen mouth enveloped his throbbing length again; was this the third – no – fourth time you’d taken him tonight? He’d lost count, his ability to remember the evening’s events in chronological order completely addled by the deep spell you had him under. All Jack could concentrate on was the addictive sensation of your lips wrapped around his cock, the luscious wet warmth of you, the undulating pressure of your tongue, the heavenly constriction of your tight throat as you swallowed around him…

It had been too easy for you to coax him to the precipice of completion time after time, waiting until his desperation to come had clouded his judgment and made him forget the game you’d both agreed to play. Again and again, he’d convinced himself, surely this time you’d let him orgasm, it was an inevitability… and yet. You knew him too well. You’d release his cock with a wet pop and leave him glistening, saliva slicked and aching, then give him a sweet smile and kiss your way back up his naked body, giving undue attention to parts of him that didn’t need it (his thighs, his abdomen, his neck) on your journey to his lips. You’d stretch out and snuggle your lace and velvet-clad figure into his side and whisper unholy promises into his ear, in between stealing a magnitude of slow, tongue-filled kisses until you’d lured him into a false sense of security. Then, like a charmed serpent, your soft hand would snake between his legs to fondle his leaking cock, and the whole torturous pleasure would begin once more.

I won’t fall for it this time, Jack told himself. He’d enjoy your teasing for what it was, but he wouldn’t allow himself to believe…

“Fuck!” Jack’s eyes rolled back to the ceiling, and his mouth gaped open as he groaned. “Just like that, oh… god.” A particularly heavy suck from your hollowed cheeks took him by surprise. You hummed in satisfaction around his length (you’d always been a generously noisy giver, and an equally vocal receiver), and the vibrations sent another surge of blood to his already raging cock. His hips thrusted upwards involuntarily – he had no desire to choke you, but he was desperate to feed himself deeper, as deep as you could handle because he fucking needed this, he might actually be driven mad if you denied him again – but you had him pinned with your body weight.

You were unfazed. Control was yours. His orgasm was yours to command. And you weren’t finished.

If Jack could just hold you, wrap his fingers around the base of your neck (careful not to dislodge the pretty crown you wore, of course) and keep himself lodged in your mouth for long enough to finally spill his release into your throat…

He went to move his arm but found only resistance. His wrists were held fast, tied together and to the bed frame with his own leather belt. He cursed.

The book. That damned book.

The muscles in Jack’s arms stretched and contracted. Your knot was unbreakable. And he didn’t want to break it, not really. Because he knew you were loving this, he knew that you’d get a kick out of watching him squirm a little; he’d seen the giddy delight sparkling in your eyes and heard how the thrill of the power trip gave new melody to your voice. He would remain tied up and at your mercy for as long as you pleased, because he loved it too.

You dragged your mouth from him and crawled up over his body slowly, your chest rising high and falling low as you drank in the air you’d previously gone without. Your perfect lips hovered above his, the warmth of your slightly ragged breath fanned across his sweat-dampened face.

“I want to do something different now, my Prince.”

“We’ll do whatever you please,” Jack promised.

“We will. I’ve been good to you, but I’m tired. I think it’s time you returned the favour.”

“Of course.”

Your voice hardened. “Of course, what?”

“Of course, My Queen,” Jack replied obediently. His words dripped with abundant reverence, all of it honest and true.

You almost giggled, the mask of charade nearly slipping. You dipped to kiss him sweetly and whispered, “I love you, Jack”, against his lips. Then you sat up straight, straddling his chest, resuming your position of regal authority.

“A queen needs a throne,” you declared.

Jack’s mouth spread into a grin, and he began to salivate, yearning for the taste of your cunt and the smothering heat of your thighs.

“She does indeed,” he concurred. “My Queen will have to come to me, though.” Jack beckoned you closer with a raise of his chin. “I’d come to you, but I’m a little tied up…”

-

Where had it all begun?

You were chilling out on the couch together one weekend; he was lazily flipping through the sports channels, hoping to find some tennis, while you were nose deep in your newest romance novel. Your legs were draped over his thighs, and he was gently massaging your calves when he felt you twitch under his palm, a shiver rippling through your body.

Jack’s first thought was to offer to grab a blanket, but then the look on your face told him you didn’t need one.

Your eyes were wide and eagerly scanned the pages; you couldn’t devour the words fast enough. And your pupils were dark, as if they were absorbing the ink directly from the paper. Your mouth was open in a delicate ‘O’ shape, then came the tiniest of gasps, and your tongue crept out to wet your lips before you tugged the bottom of your cupid’s bow between your teeth.

It wasn’t a shiver from the cold. It was a shiver of pleasure.

Jack gave your calf a slightly firmer squeeze.

“Good book?”

You squeaked in surprise, then swatted his arm with the paperback in response to his knowing smirk.

“Very good.”

“What’s it about?”

“Um - I guess it could be loosely classified as historical fiction?”

“Ah. So, it’s educational then?” Jack teased. He knew the kind of books you favoured. Pure filth, the lot of them.

“Hmm. Enlightening might be a better word.”

Jack peered at the cover: a field of deep purple bordered with vines of ivy woven amongst chains. In the centre stood a shadowy silhouette of a couple embracing, the man clad in armour, shield discarded, sword still sheathed at his side, the woman dressed in an opulent robe and wearing a crown atop her wild, windswept locks. Embossed gothic-style lettering heralded the title: The Night Prince by Aurora Dark. ‘A violent, seductive twist on one of history’s most famed fairytales’, claimed the blurb.

Intriguing.

“You know, if you wanted to fulfil any ‘Night Prince’ related fantasies, you don’t need a book, not when you’ve got the real thing right here,” he drawled.  

You snorted and rolled your eyes.

“Is that so?”

“I’ve been called Prince of the Night Shift before.”

“By who?”

“Dana. Robby.”

“I don’t think they meant it as a compliment.”

“They didn’t. But I can choose to interpret it however I please.”

You laughed at that. A shimmery, magical sound that made Jack want to pull you close and succumb to whatever enchantment you wished to cast on him.

“I’m just saying, if you’ve got a fantasy of me rescuing you from a tower or saving you from a fire-breathing dragon, then I’m all for it,” he promised.

You hummed in acknowledgement, not quite believing him yet. “This isn’t your typical fairytale romance, Jack; the prince is the one who needs saving.”

Now things were getting interesting.

“I could switch it up,” Jack shrugged. “Sometimes even the most heroic of princes need rescuing from time to time. Especially if their saviour is an absolute smoke show like you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed all the same.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” you said. You sat forward and took Jack’s face into your hands, planting a kiss on his lips. “So much.”

Jack kept you close. His fingers circled your wrist, and he pressed his mouth to your pulse point there, feeling the life throbbing in your veins against his lips and inhaling the heady, floral scent of your perfume mixed with the taste of your skin.

“I mean it. If there’s anything you want to try, bedroom-wise, inspired by your book. I’m open to it.”

“You are?”

Jack nodded.

You placed a bookmark between the pages and clutched it to your chest. One chapter closed, a new chapter opened. “So…it’s probably not quite what you think…” You tilted your head, considering the best way to begin. “The Night Prince is a notorious rogue – he’s exiled from his own kingdom, and there’s a bounty on his head. But then he hears the legend of the Sleeping Beauty, and the reward that awaits anyone who can rescue her. But the Sleeping Beauty is locked away in an impenetrable castle fortress, guarded by a terrifying forest, a fearsome dragon and a cursed army of the castle’s former inhabitants, all controlled by a ruthless sorceress queen with a thirst for vengeance. I don’t want to spoil too much of the plot because there are so many incredible twists and turns, but the long and short of it is, the Night Prince falls into the Queen’s clutches and, well, she seduces him and has her wicked way with him.”

Jack murmured a sound of acknowledgement. He’d been listening intently, mesmerised by how you glowed with vivid excitement as you recounted the tale.

“So, you would be the Night Prince and-”

“You would be the Queen?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly does ‘having your wicked way with me’ entail?” Jack enquired, leaning ever closer.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, like they always did when you had one of your ideas, and you placed the book into Jack’s waiting hands.

“I guess you’ll have to read it yourself to find out.”

-

Jack closed the book and blew a shot of cool air up his face. He’d finally reached the passage that had set his first foray into dark romantasy literature in motion. And he needed a moment to compose himself.

It was obvious why you’d found the concept of playing a powerful queen seducing her roguish prince so arousing. Jack was definitely aroused, titillated (flustered, even) whilst reading it. And now he’d read it, he’d be able to think of little else but doing it.

He thought he’d have more time. He knew he’d have to wait for you to finish the book first, of course, but you finished it the very next day. You were a quick reader, sure, but he knew you’d read it faster on purpose. You were positively gleeful when you handed it over to him, as if it were some kind of key to a hidden chest of treasure he’d been waiting for years to open.

“It’s all yours, Jack. I can’t wait for you to finish it too – it’s given me so much to think about,” you’d purred, dragging your palm across his chest, feeling for the muscles under his scrubs.

Jack volleyed back by making a show of slipping the book into his work bag. He was on a double that day. “Something to read on my break.”

And once he’d started reading, he could hardly stop.

He read the chapter again, except this time, he fully imagined himself in the prince’s place, and the queen wore your features…

Splashing some water into his face did nothing to help cool him off, and you weren’t home to capitalise on the raging hard on he was now sporting. All he could do was take a cold shower and fist his cock under the spray, unable to overcome the thought of you overcoming him until he finally came.

Over the next few days, he took more of an analytical approach, breaking the most erotic scenes into chunks to identify what he most wanted to try and determining if any elements made him uncomfortable. A couple of the more adventurous positions were a write-off because of his leg. They wouldn’t have been impossible, with various apparatus or adjustments, just impractical. And Jack didn’t feel like dealing with too many logistics on this occasion. Besides, there were so many other possibilities to explore.

Did he want to dress up for you? He couldn’t quite explain why, but donning any kind of princely paraphernalia felt a step too far from his comfort zone. Embarrassment was the least sexy of all emotional states. He was more than happy to be naked, though. And, if you wanted to lean into the dark-fantasy-seductive-queen aesthetic, he was all for it. In fact, he’d looked up some cosplays for the character online, and they were hot with a capital H. Plus, he knew you already had a few similar pieces from your Ren Faire trips with Mel and Langdon. If Jack spent too long imagining you draped in velvet or adorned in black lace… he’d need to jump into an icy lake.

The blindfold was a maybe. Being tied up, he could handle. He trusted you, and he wanted to give himself to you. He wanted you to have him in every way you needed him. The idea of letting you loose on his body, to indulge in your deepest darkest desires, to touch him and tease him and fuck him to your heart’s content was goddamn intoxicating.

Only a few more chapters to go. Then Jack’s fantasies could finally become a reality.

-

You heard Jack come home around 7:00 PM. He didn't have a shift that evening. He'd been at the courthouse most of the day today, testifying in an armed robbery trial as a medical witness. Five of the alleged victims and perpetrators had ended up in his ED one night.

He'd messaged to let you know he was on his way home (a habit you’d finally drilled into him. “Think about how much you worry about me if you don't know where I am. That’s how much I worry about you. And I'm not the one who hangs out with guns for fun”). He sent a photo from his seat on the bus. You could see his slightly shiny black dress shoes (the only smart pair he owned) next to his rugged camo backpack. Resting on his lap was the book and the accompanying message read: 23 chapters down. 2 to go.

You couldn't quite believe how ‘all in’ Jack had become since the conversation on the couch a few weeks ago. He’d never made you feel embarrassed by your obsession with fantasy novels or your proclivity for the more risqué side of fiction. In fact, you were currently sitting in your library, Jack’s old spare rooms/study/dumping ground for random shit. You came home one day to find him putting up shelves, which now covered two walls, floor to ceiling, and he’d bought you a cosy armchair and set up a desk by the window (“In case you ever make good on all your story ideas”). Your library was your favourite place in the world, except for the bed you shared with Jack, and you’d spent many an hour there, cosied up by candlelight with a mug of cocoa, kept company by all manner of characters when Jack was asleep or healing the souls that wandered the Pittsburgh night.

Jack had been encouraging of your hobby (an enabler, you called him), but never in your wildest dreams did you think he'd be interested in reading one of your books. At first, you wondered if he was just humouring you. He'd read a few chapters, jump to the part that made you horny and be done with it. But no, he read the whole thing. Every word. You’d had discussions about the plot, the character’s motivations, and the themes underpinning the narrative. And he read it in public, on the bus and in the break room at the ED (Javadi claimed she would never look at him the same way again).

God, he'd never been sexier to you.

Only two chapters left, his message had said. Two chapters left, and you could finally act upon the reason he'd been reading the book in the first place.

From your cosy corner, you could hear Jack pottering about the house. There was no point calling out to him, though; he’d know where you were. He’d unpack his bag, shake off the last few hours as best he could, then come and find you for a ‘honey, I'm home’ kiss when he was ready to start the next chapter of his day.

The one he would spend with you.

You devoured another 20 or so pages of your latest fix, then Jack appeared in the doorway. He leant against the frame, the casualness of his pose in direct contradiction to the dark suit and polished shoes he still wore. His crisp white shirt, a little crinkled after a day of wear, was still stretched taut across his thick chest, and his salt-and-pepper curls were lightly gelled into a perfectly styled mess. Absolutely delectable. The mob boss or billionaire CEO of your dreams.

You were about to ask him about his day when he revealed what he held behind his back.

The book.

“You finished it?”

“I finished it.”

He pushed off the doorway and gently lobbed the paperback your direction. You caught it and smoothed over the embossed cover with your fingers.

Jack took the chair from under your desk and dragged it to where you sat, so he could face you. The relief he felt from taking the weight off his legs was evident.

“I want to do it,” he began, his tone gruff with desire. “I want you to take charge and do whatever you want to me. I want you all over me. God - the thought of it is fucking intoxicating to me now.” He visibly swallowed. “But there are a couple of things we’d need to change to make it feel comfortable for me.”

“Anything,” you vowed, reaching for his hands. “I’ll do anything you need to make it good for you. I want you to feel comfortable, Jack, always.”

Jack soothed you with a soft hand upon your cheek. “I know, baby. You always take care of me. But” - he paused, considering his words - “I want to make sure we’re keeping the parts that make the scene exciting and arousing for you too. I don’t want my adjustments to water shit down so much that what you want gets lost.”

You shook your head and wrapped your arms around Jack’s neck. “We wouldn’t be watering anything down, I promise. We’d be making it ours.”

“I like the sound of that.”

You climbed into Jack’s lap and kissed him deeply, but the moment you felt him take the lead a little bit, purely by instinct, you tugged him away.

“You in the mood tonight?”

Jack nuzzled his nose against yours. “I’m always in the mood for you.”

A happy pulse of anticipatory pleasure throbbed at your core.

You’d allow him one more kiss, then give your command for Jack to eat and shower, then get naked and meet you in the bedroom.

Whilst you luxuriated in the languid workings of Jack’s tongue, his hands got down to business. In no time at all, his belt was no longer around his waist. Instead, the dark strip of leather was wrapped around his fist. When your lips parted, your eyes caught the silver buckle shining in the glow of the lamp. Jack's face was shadowed, his eyes dark, yet they burned with a deep intensity that changed the temperature of the room.

“So, you want to tie me up?”

------

Jack had a theory about you. A confident one at that. But, as a doctor, he knew not to officially diagnose before doing the right tests.

A praise kink was a serious condition after all.

His suspicions were first raised a couple of weeks ago. He was standing with you outside a lecture theatre. Behind the double doors was a waiting crowd of esteemed medical professionals who'd gathered to hear you present your research findings. It was how you and Jack had first met - the Pittsburgh ED had taken part in one of your studies. Jack liked to joke that he was your favourite specimen, to which you'd replied with a grin: “And I have no qualms about storing specimens’ body parts in jars if they’re uncooperative.”

Such captivating wit, intelligence and charm, yet the prospect of public speaking had you quaking in your boots.

“I don't think I can do this, Jack. I'm not ready. I should have added a few more trials to back up my hypothesis. I should have-”

Jack clasped his hands over yours, for comfort and to stop them shaking (the plasticky wobble of your binder could probably be heard all the way down the hall).

“Honey, your research is impeccable, and your conclusions are watertight.”

“But-”

“You've got this. I've heard your presentation about 50 times now and learned something new every time. You're going to blow them all away, I know it. I'll be right there at the front, cheering you on, and I'll personally sing your praises to every doctor in that room until I turn blue if you need me to.”

“Jack.” You sighed and gave him a withered shake of your head.

He squeezed your hands again.

“Tell me you've got this.”

“I've got this.”

“That's my good girl. Now go knock ‘em dead.”

And you did. But before you went, you exhibited a few surprising symptoms. Wide eyes, dilated pupils, fast repetitive blinking. You let out an adorable little gasp and crossed and uncrossed her legs on the spot. Plus, you weren't able to say another full word to Jack before ducking into the lecture theatre. All because he called you ‘his good girl’.

Thus, Jack's theory was formed.

-

The second time Jack called you ‘his good girl’, it was very much on purpose. He'd been biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment. All in the name of research, he told himself. He had to establish if there was a pattern in your responses or if it was just an anomaly. You would’ve been proud of how thorough he was being, if you knew.

You were in Jack’s kitchen cooking dinner together. At your request, he was showing how to make the pasta sauce he’d wooed you with the first time you stayed over.

“And then you turn down the heat and work in the butter and the parmesan until everything’s combined,” he instructed. You obliged, and the sauce started to come together nicely, getting that perfect silky texture and glossy sheen you claimed you could never achieve when you made pasta sauce on your own.

“It worked!” You were so adorably pleased with yourself, Jack wanted to smother your face with kisses and sample the sweetness of your joy. But he had an experiment to complete.

“That's my good girl. You made it perfect.”

Your stirring stuttered. Your figure of eight spiralled and then started going in the other direction. Jack even heard your breath hitch; he was sure of it, and your pretty tongue poked out to wet your lips. Then the wooden spoon you were holding was turned in the direction of his mouth, and you were giving him a pointed look through narrowed eyes. Jack couldn't quite put his finger on it. Was it suspicion? Or were you just expectantly awaiting his verdict after a taste test?

The sauce was exceptional, better than ever because it had been made by you.

The praise kink experiment, though? Still inconclusive.

-

The third time was completely unintentional on Jack’s part (honest) but revealing all the same.

“God – honey, that feels so good – fuck - I think you’ve found your true calling.”

Jack couldn’t help but groan and grunt with blissful satisfaction under the tender loving care of your hands. The hard knots in his back that had been coiled there for years finally felt like they were loosening, thanks to the firm healing precision of your fingers.

“Maybe this can be my new study,” you mused, “The Positive Effects of Massage Therapy on Salt-and-Pepper Haired ED Attendings That Don’t Know the Meaning of the Word ‘Rest’.”

Jack was about to reply that the title of your so-called study wasn’t narrow enough because Robby would meet the criteria too, but he was cut off by the sound of his own moan. You’d found a particularly tender spot between his shoulder blades.

“You're sure I'm not hurting you?”

Jack shook his head. “It’s the best kind of pain, I swear – oh - I need this. Don’t stop.”

You started to work the spot over. The repetitive, addictive, tender ache and sweet release of each movement made Jack’s brain go soft and fuzzy.

“You can be a little firmer, honey, please - Wow - that's perfect. That's my good girl.”

He didn't know he’d said it at first. He was too high on the massage-induced endorphins. But your reaction told him everything. Your palms slid up over his shoulders and down his bare chest, warm and loving. You pressed your body close against his back and kissed his stubble-dusted cheek, one perfect little smack of your lips after the other. Next came a cheeky squeeze of his pecs and a nibble at his ear.

“These hands are at your command, Jack,” you whispered. “I'll put them wherever you want them.”

-

Jack had built a strong portfolio of evidence. He was confident he could defend his diagnosis if he was ever questioned. But he needed to do one more vital test to be conclusive. And, as luck would have it, he found himself in the perfect scientific conditions to conduct his final experiment.

You’d sweet-talked him into bed after he’d complained about a particularly hard shift. Time with you was always the perfect remedy for any of his ailments. So now he was lying on his back, cocooned by the many pillows you claimed the bed needed, enjoying the magnificent display of your gorgeous body bouncing and writhing above him and the luxurious sensation of your slick velvet cunt pulsing around his cock.

Jack knew you were spoiling him, but you'd insisted.

“Let me take care of you, Jack. You work so hard, and you always take care of me.”

The soft, doughy flesh of your hips and ass was so ripe for squeezing. Jack loved the way your face would contort in ecstatic pleasure every time he did so. You’d found a perfect tempo, bucking and rolling and grinding combined with lethally tight clenches of your core, all speeding him down the fast lane to heaven.

“Do you like that, Jack?” you asked, your voice luscious yet breathless. “Or do you need something different? You've gotta tell me if I'm treating you right, baby.”

It was almost like you were begging him to say it.

“God - yeah, honey, you're treating me right - You always do - Gonna blow my load any second - You're doing perfect – fuck – better than perfect - That's my good girl.”

You both pretty much blacked out after that.

He had never seen you come so ferally hard. It was a sight and sound so magnificent that he finished like a freight train, thrusting up into you like his life fucking depended on it until you were both spent and you melted onto his chest, smothering with him with your warmth.

“If you wanted to know if I have a praise kink, Jack, you could have just asked.”

Ah, so you were on to him.

“I took a leaf out of your book, honey. Did my own research.”

“I see. And what's your conclusion?”

“You definitely have a praise kink. I'm afraid it's terminal. There's no cure.”

You giggled and snuggled into his chest.

“You’re such a sweetie, Jack. Conducting your own little study, all for me.”

Jack tensed slightly. Your hand had gone wandering and found itself wrapped around his half-softened cock. He cleared his throat.

“Learned from the best.”

You hummed thoughtfully and moved your lips to the shell of his ear.

“That's my good boy.”

His cock stirred.

Shit.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tell me what to do to make it up to you.”

Your ex would throw those words in your face with bitter exasperation whenever you dared to be upset with him, as if his apology was somehow your responsibility. Your emotional needs were just another shopping list he expected you to write (and he’d still call you from the store asking what type of milk to get, despite you buying the same carton every week for three years). Being a considerate partner was just another reminder you were supposed to give him, or an appointment you needed to make on his behalf (because, of course, it would be your fault if he forgot and didn't show up).

But Jack was a little older than the men you'd dated before. You hoped he’d be better at this whole relationship thing. Or, at the very least, he'd have his shit together enough to manage grocery lists and schedule life admin. Thankfully, he’d proved you right for the most part. He planned great dates without needing to consult you 20 times about simple details. And he always kept you in the loop if you weren't on the same shift and things at the ED got crazy. He remembered stuff, even offhanded comments about things you liked or wanted to try. Your coffee order. The names of your friends and family. The new sushi bar that opened up in town.

He’d really fucking annoyed you today, though.

“You undermined me, Jack!”

You couldn’t keep your frustration bottled up anymore. It had simmered inside you through the last hour of your shift, handovers to the day team and the journey home in Jack’s car. But the second you were safe in the confines of your apartment, away from the prying eyes of the Pitt and the outside world, you blew.

“You undermined me and took Robby's word over mine. Never mind that I’d spent half the night with the patient and her family, you let Robby swoop right in off his motorbike so the two of you could play heroes together.”

“We made the right call,” Jack replied, confusion evident in his voice. “She pulled through. Thanks to all of us: you, me, Robby, everyone-”

“I know it was the right call. It was my call. Except I didn't get the chance to make it because I'm just a lowly R4 to you compared to the great King Robinavich-”

“Whoa - That's not fair.” Jack knew what was happening now, clearly. “You're making out like I just blindly follow Robby into battle when you know damn well I would challenge him if I thought he was wrong. I do it all the time. You've been there-”

“You didn't today.”

“Because he wasn't wrong!”

“NEITHER WAS I!”

Jack flinched. He looked like he was going to speak again, but then he thought better of it and took a moment to stew. You decided you didn't care about what he was going to say next. You didn’t want to hear another excuse or find out how he’d was going to twist the blame back onto you.

You brushed past him and headed to your bedroom.

“I'm going to bed. I’ll see you at work later, I guess.”

You expected to hear the front door click anytime soon. Your ex always ran after a fight, then came back hours later with an ugly, garish bouquet, only to get mad when you didn't fawn over him like a soldier returning from war.

Tell me what to do to make it up to you.

You sighed and collapsed into bed. Maybe Jack would at least have better taste in flowers, you thought, before sleep pulled you under.

-

Barely a few hours later, you woke again. You’d tossed and turned too much for your liking, and your fragmented dreams all featured Jack.

Your throat was dry, so you padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, only to be met with a surprise.

Jack was still there. You'd never heard the front door click.

He was lying on your couch in just a T-shirt and boxers. His scrubs had been shoved into his bag, and his prosthetic leg rested against the coffee table. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. The dark shadows under them told you that if he had gotten any sleep, it couldn't have been much.

“Jack? Why are you still here?”

“Didn't think I should leave.” His voice was thready, but he made it sound so simple. So obvious. He sat up slowly and made sure to look straight into your eyes. “I don't run when things get hard.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You didn’t know where the conversation would go next. No one had given you a blueprint for this before.

Jack patted the spot on the sofa next to him. You hesitated, then your tiredness made the decision for you. You sat, curling your legs underneath your body. Jack shifted to face you and gently took your hands in his.

“I'm sorry for undermining you during our shift. It was never my intention, but that doesn't matter; how you felt about it does. As your Attending, I should have trusted you as my resident to lead your patients’ care. I should have insisted on it, not let Robby jump in and then ride his coattails.”

Oh.

“And, as your partner, I should have listened to you properly and tried to understand your perspective, instead of jumping straight on the defensive. You shouldn’t have to spell shit out for me like that. I’m sorry.”

Tension lifted from your body. Turned out, your anger was easy to quell – Jack was just the first man to figure out how.

Sensing the lowering of your defences, Jack pulled you closer so that you were draped around him.

“Now,” he said, nudging your nose with his. “Tell me what I can do to make things up to you.”

For the first time ever, that infamous phrase didn’t fill you with dread or make you bristle. Because Jack was the only man who’d really wanted to know the answer.

You caressed his cheek. “I don’t need anything else. You apologised, and you meant it. That's enough.”

Jack shook his head. “That’s the bare minimum. I don't settle for the bare minimum,” he said firmly. “So, now you get to tell me what you want, what you need from me right now, so I know for next time.”

“Next time?” you teased.

His words didn't worry you. You weren’t naive enough to think your relationship would be frictionless from now on. You’d both make mistakes. But knowing Jack wouldn't keep making the same ones gave you hope.

Jack grunted a laugh into your neck. “Hard as it is to believe, I ain't perfect. But I promise to always try.”

The way Jack's hands were roaming over your sides made it easy for you to relent.

“Hmm…in that case…” You sighed as Jack started to kiss along the column of your throat. “…I like bougie chocolate boxes. The ones that look all sleek and are tied up with ribbon. Dark chocolates are my favourites. Oh, and champagne truffles…”

Jack slipped the loose neck of your sleep shirt over your shoulder, giving him more skin to worship.

“Dark chocolate and champagne truffles.” A kiss. “Got it. Anything else?” Another kiss. “How about flowers? Can’t have chocolates without flowers.”

“I like flowers. But keep it simple and sophisticated. Like… a few white lilies with some greenery, or a bunch of white and blush pink roses, not overly fussy bouquets with too many colours.”

“Of course. You’re a sophisticated woman.”

Somehow, some way, Jack had rid you of your shirt and had begun trailing more kisses along the slope of your breasts.

You were on a roll now. “I'm not big into jewellery either. Necklaces and bracelets kind of annoy me. I think it's a sensory thing - and I don't have my ears pierced. You would not believe the number of guys that have bought me earrings.”

Jack scoffed. “Schmucks, the lot of them.”

In the progressively dreamy haze of Jack’s touch and increasingly ardent kisses, you drifted to a reclined position, finding yourself resting against the arm of the sofa with a cushion nestled behind you (courtesy of Jack). Slowly and sensually, his lips and hands made their way down your body, taking your sleep shorts and cotton underwear with them.

“You know, if you really want to get me in a forgiving mood, you could just buy me a Hermes handbag.”

Jack’s eyes met yours from his newfound position between your thighs.

“Could I really?” he replied, mirth dancing on his tongue.

“Uh huh. Though maybe you should save that for a bigger sin, they cost a pretty penny.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Jack promised. “But is there something I can do for you right now instead?”

He kissed along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, alternating between nipping lightly with his teeth and greedily lapping up your taste with broad strokes of his tongue.

"Please, let me make things up to you, baby…" A deep, throbbing heat pulsed at your core in response to the desperate tone of Jack’s voice. Desperate yet dominant, imploring you to give him his orders so he could play the obedient soldier. The ritualistic way he was practically on his knees, grovelling at your feet, kissing up up up from your ankles to your calves to your thighs – every one of your exes would have found it humiliating, but the fire that blazed in Jack’s gaze told you he loved this, he loved playing at being under your heel and the seductively sinister promise of what would come after.

His face hovered dangerously close to your cunt, and his chest rose and fell as he inhaled your scent. Those big, broad hands of his gripped your thighs, holding you open wide so he could inspect the ever-increasing evidence of just how aroused you’d become in a few short minutes.

“Think I might know what you need, baby, but I want to hear you say it, loud and clear.”

The pounding pulse of your heart swooped down your spine and found a new home at your core.

“Your mouth, Jack!” you blurted. “Give me your mouth.”

A salacious grin spread across Jack’s lips.

“That's my good girl.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking at your naked body in the dressing table mirror, you could see evidence of every single one of your years. Having reached a certain age, you and your body had come to a friendly kind of truce. You refused to be ashamed of the multiple decades’ worth of smiles and laughter that had created the lines of your face. You no longer cared if every curve was smooth or if there was a lump or a bump in a less-than-optimal place. You didn’t give a damn if your breasts hung too low, if your ass was too big or too small, or if your stomach was too soft. You were you.

A memory of a line from Eat, Pray, Love sprang to mind. When Julia Roberts says to her friend, “In all the years you’ve undressed in front of a gentleman, has he ever asked you to leave? …He doesn't care. He's in the room with a naked girl. He's won the lottery.”

She was correct, of course. No man had ever cared.

Jack wouldn't either.

It was your kids who’d convinced you to try dating again. “You’re ready, Mom,” they said when you tried to claim otherwise, but deep down you knew they were right. Your divorce was so far in the rearview you could no longer see it, and you were winding down at work, having grown a successful enough team that your business practically ran itself these days. Both your children were away at college, reaching for their dreams and excited about what the future might hold. And they wanted you to be happy, too. So, with your daughter's assistance, you set yourself up on a dating app. She showed you how to build a profile and vet prospective candidates, and, on your very first solo swipe through, you found Dr Jack Abbot.

You’d been seeing him for a couple of months now. Things were going well. It hadn’t been easy arranging dates around both your jobs and commitments, but the effort was worth it.

Jack was a revelation. Whenever you did meet, you never wanted to part. He'd been open with you right from the first date; his leg, his late wife, therapy, and how much his roles in the ED and SWAT teams meant to him. Which you found remarkably refreshing. You responded in kind, cards on the table. This is who I am, take me or leave me.

He was fun too, and flagrantly flirtatious. He could make you giggle like a teenage girl and feel like the sexiest, most desirable woman on earth at the same time. His kisses were hot, hungry and full of promise.

A promise you’d decided it was time to fulfil.

You'd invited Jack for dinner and a bottle of wine and told him your spare room was all his, should he wish to stay. Thankfully, the evening had progressed in such a way that you knew he would almost certainly be sleeping over, but there was no need whatsoever for the extra bed. You’d slipped away to undress, under the guise of changing into something more “comfortable”. Jack was downstairs, awaiting your cue.

You flashed a smile at your naked twin, pleased by the confidence boost she gave you.

“Jack? You can come up now.”

-

He appeared in the doorway and let out a slow whistle. He allowed his gaze to wrap around your figure slowly, taking time to commit every glorious naked inch of you to memory. His steps deeper into the bedroom were leisurely, skirting the line between an art lover admiring the Venus de Milo and a wolf circling their prey.

Finally, he came to a halt between you and the bed.

“Fuck – baby...” his voice failed him. All he could do was shake his head in awestruck bewilderment and carry on staring.

You’d not yet known Jack to be at a loss for words. But that was fine. You were the one who’d tabled this meeting, so to speak. It was your responsibility to open negotiations.

“I thought, since we've been getting on so well, it was about time I showed you more of what I have to offer,” you explained.

A smile tugged at the corner of Jack's lips (the left corner; he always spoke more from the left side of his mouth than the right, to a uniquely mesmerising degree).

“We have been getting on well, haven't we?” he agreed. “And though it goes without saying, I am very interested in what I've seen so far.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you stood a little taller. Shoulders back, chest forward.

“I'm glad to hear that. But I know from my experience in business never to go into a deal blind. I'm sure you understand.”

“I should have known you’d strike a hard bargain.”

“Hard?”

Jack ducked his head, trying to hide the laugh that threatened to blossom on his face.

“Incredibly.”

You hummed, trying to mask your own smirk. “I hope you don't think I'm not playing fair?”

Jack’s eyes returned to yours, his pupils like two dark magnets drawing you in.

“It’s about time I show you what I have to offer, too.”

-

It began with the click of a buckle, the swish of leather gliding from around his hips, and the dull thud of his belt hitting the carpet. Then came his shirt, buttons undone one by one. His white T, whipped over his head in a flash, biceps flexing, to reveal his chest (you vowed to end the night with your head laid against his expansive pecs). He sat on the edge of your bed and slipped off a shoe and a sock, then reached for the hem of his jeans.

“Can I?”

Your words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. Jack's eyebrows lifted, and he regarded you carefully. The moment stretched on. Then he nodded.

You settled on the floor, and Jack gently talked you through removing his prosthetic. You would have followed his instructions to the letter, except his voice faded away when he realised you already knew what you were doing. You’d only seen him take it off a few times before, but you’d watched attentively, pocketing the information for the future in the hope that one day he’d let you do it for him. Not because you thought you could do it better, or that he needed the help, but because you wanted him to know he didn't need to do everything by himself anymore. Especially not when he was with you.

If Jack had exhibited even the slightest hint of discomfort, you would’ve stopped in an instant. But instead, you saw relief.

“Thank you,” he said when you were done. His voice was a little thicker than before.

You stood and leant the prosthetic against one of the bedside tables should Jack want it later, and made a mental note to ask how you could make your home easier for him to navigate - perhaps he could keep some crutches here, and you could get a chair for the shower - then you returned to your previous spot, on proud display for him in the centre of the room.

You nodded pointedly at the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark denim of his jeans.

“I believe you were going to show me what you have to offer?”

“I was. And I will. I should warn you, though. What I lack in feet I make up for in inches.”

You guffawed, completely thrown off guard. The most unsexy of spluttered snorts burst from you without warning.

“God dammit, Jack!”

You were about to say how lucky he was that, despite such a diabolical comment, you still planned to fuck him regardless, but the words died on your tongue.

Jack Abbot was naked and appeared to you like a god sitting upon a throne; his fist around his thick, swollen cock.

“C’mere, baby.”

Your loins thrummed with desire.

Yes, Doctor. Anything you say, Doctor.

Jack slid himself further onto the bed and beckoned for you to join him. The frame creaked a little as you crawled across the mattress; it wasn't used to taking two. You met in the middle, and Jack reeled you in for a deep, languid kiss. In the closing of your eyes and the meeting of your tongues, you expected to land with him on the sheets, but Jack had other plans. He used your kiss-drunk surrender to spin you 180 degrees, still on your knees, and pin your back against his chest. His arms coiled around your figure like two unyielding vines, and his hands began to grope and squeeze wherever they dared.

Your eyes snapped open and met his in the dressing table mirror.

“Oh!”

You couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of your two naked bodies entwined at last.

“Now that is a happy accident,” Jack purred smugly, then began to pepper hot, indulgent kisses along the length of your neck.

You blinked as if you’d just woken and hadn't yet adjusted to the brightness of the light. You watched realisation dawn on your own face, in real time, and felt the unmistakable flood of lust pooling at your core as it became obvious what Jack was proposing.

“Christ, Jack,” you said with shaky breath.

He chuckled warmly at your surprise, and you felt the soft tremors of his laugh against your back. His lips blessed your cheek softly, then he gave your reflections a filthily rakish wink.

“We may be getting older, baby, but we're not dead.”

-

You watched, entranced, as the whole debaucherous display unfolded before you. Captured in a frame of gold, the mirror’s reflection broadcast every scene of a pornographic masterpiece, which Jack was expertly directing for your eyes only. Each beat of the plot was full of tropes that were uniquely intoxicating to you, setting your mind and body aflame with a delicious kind of buzz.

In all the nights you’d spent fantasising about what sex with Jack Abbot would be like, never had your imagination come close to the thrilling beauty of the real thing.

First, Jack treated you to his fingers. With one arm braced across your chest (a hand at your breast, the course pads of his thumb and forefinger teasing your perking nipple), the other travelled south to the heat of your core, finding you ripe and ready for the taking. He spread you open and grinned with satisfaction at the luscious wetness he found there, immediately coating his digits in your slick and tracing ever-tightening circles around your throbbing clit before sinking two, then three, fingers into your needy cunt.

You could have stayed in such a state of perpetual bliss forever, but then Jack adjusted himself (to find a softer landing for his knees, no doubt - you had to trust that he’d tell you if he was truly uncomfortable) and suddenly the imposing outline of his solid cock was pressed even more firmly against your ass.

Your priorities shifted.

“Fuck me, Jack”, you pleaded, grinding back against him. “I need you to fuck me. Right now.”

“See, this is why I like you. You're a woman who knows what she wants.”

Jack's fingers slipped from your pussy, and you whined at the loss.

“You sure you’re ready for me?” he added, just as the tip of him notched at your pulsing entrance.

“Yes!” you cried. “Yes - I'm so fucking wet right now I could take ten of you ten times over, please!”

“God, and you say I'm the one with the dirty mouth.”

“Well, it’s a common lesson in the art of negotiation. Sometimes you have to speak the other person's language to get shit do-OH FUCK!”

Jack split you open on his cock, the pressure firm and unrelenting. The sensation of being stretched and filled by him was so searingly divine that you couldn’t help but cast your head back against his shoulder, neck slack, eyes fluttering closed.

But Jack was having none of it.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded.

When you didn't obey right away, he gripped your face, angling it forward again, and smushed your cheek against his.

“I'm not putting on a show without an audience, Baby. You’re going to watch yourself take what I give you, and you’re going to enjoy the view.”

You did as you were told and fixed your gaze straight ahead, focusing on the scene in the mirror. You saw Jack’s big, broad hand splayed across your abdomen. The wet sheen that glistened from his fingers to the prominent veins of his forearm was the same that painted your inner thighs. You saw how your chests rose and fell in unison, one entity with a shared breath. You saw the muscles of his thighs flex, and his hips draw back. And then you stared, transfixed, as he thrusted into you, hard and deep, and took a bite out of your neck.

Jack was right. You were going to watch him fuck you, just like you wanted, and you were going to fucking love it.

-

Exhausted, slightly delirious, but thoroughly satisfied, you collapsed into each other’s arms, surrounded by crumpled bedsheets. Your tired limbs were grateful for the rest, and Jack’s body heat and the comforting feeling of his skin against yours only added to your contentment.

In the moment of stillness, you took the time to trace your fingers across his face. You mapped out each line and crease, from his sweet crow’s feet to the faint valleys on his forehead and the crinkles between his soft, grey brows. You followed his jawline, feeling the roughness of the stubble he wore, then counted his freckles and sunspots with care. You contemplated how age must have changed him, just as it had changed you, how each mark told a story you couldn't wait to discover.

When, lastly, you tugged the curled hairs at the nape of Jack’s neck, he groaned and palmed your ass possessively, pulling you closer.

“If I were 15 years younger…” he said wistfully. “I’d keep you in this bed for days. Fuck… the things I’d do to you...”

That sentence alone would fuel your fantasies for weeks to come.

You kissed him warmly. “And if I were 15 years younger, I'd let you do everything you wanted and more.”

His softened cock stirred against your thigh, but you both knew nothing would come of it. And you didn't mind. You didn't feel like you were missing out or yearn for the past versions of yourselves that never got to meet. Because today, Jack was yours. And today, you were his. The same would be true tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that, for as long as the sands of time would allow.

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Jack once told you that the most beautiful night skies he'd ever seen were those he'd witnessed in Afghanistan.

You'd only been together a few months, but things were pretty serious. Love was a word that passed frequently between your lips, and thoughts of moving in together, marriage even, had started to form.

Sitting on the roof of your apartment building, sharing a beer and searching for the few stars visible above the city’s glow, Jack shared more of his time as a combat medic, adding missing chapters to the story of his past. A tale that, so far, he’d been slow to tell.

During the endless hours he'd spent in perpetual alert patrolling in darkness, he'd found solace in the onyx expanse overhead. A lustrous, glittering blanket, the true Star-Spangled Banner, a black painted canvas pricked with holes for the heavens to shine through.

“I miss it”, he confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“I miss it. Afghanistan, the Army, all of it. I’ve never felt more alive.”

The admission shattered you.

Because how could he possibly still yearn for a time that had taken so much from him? How could he look back fondly on days that were marred by terror and destruction, when he’d finally found a real chance at safety and life?

Even now, he was hell-bent on seeking danger in chaos with SWAT and the night shifts. You tried so hard every day to show him he didn't need to dance with death and crawl through the darkness anymore. But it was no use. There was nothing you could do. Not even the promise of a future you could build together was enough to draw him to the light.

“It's who I am!” Jack bit back when you tried pleading. The usual soft huskiness in his voice gave way to crisp determination. “All the shit from my past you say you hate; it's a part of me. It happened to me. Not to you, not to ‘us’, to me. I’m dealing with it the only way I know how, and it's not something you can just dig out of my chest and heal over, so I need you to stop fucking trying to. And if you can't learn to live with that… then I don't know what we're doing here.”

-

Things weren't easy between you for a while. What once was solid ground had turned into thin ice. But you tried. You bit your tongue and held your nerve because you knew Jack needed you to. You did your best to ask questions without judgment and listen without reproach. Slowly, you found yourself on a path to understanding. Though if you were truly honest with yourself, you didn't fully understand until you witnessed Jack work for the first time. Not at the ED fixing up a broken leg, but taking control in a crisis.

You were on a date one night when a drunk driver lost control of their car and came crashing through the front window of the restaurant. Thankfully, neither of you was hurt, but you were shaken, shell-shocked and dumbstruck amongst the chaos of broken glass and rubble, sirens and screams. But Jack was in his element. He acted immediately, grabbing the restaurant’s first aid kit and treating the wounded with calm, reassuring authority, taking command of the scene around him as if he were the director of a play.

“It's who I am.”

In that moment, you finally saw him clearly. And your love for him became exponential.

-

Now, years later, seeing Jack in his SWAT fatigues made you smile. You would draw him close by the collar and kiss him good luck, be safe. You teased him gently before a night shift, swooning into those big buff arms every evening; “There goes my lover, Captain of the Nightcrawlers. When oh when will he return?” (never had a nugget of gossip from Dr Ellis given you so much joy). And, on the rare but treasured nights when Jack was yours and only yours, the two of you would lie in the hammock you'd set up on the balcony of your shared home and gaze up at the sky.

You couldn’t give him Afghanistan. But you could give him the moon.

“I think this might be my favourite time of day,” you admitted once.

Jack held you tighter and pressed his lips to your forehead.

“I think that makes you a Nightcrawler now, too, Mrs Abbot.”

-

Today was Jack’s birthday. You’d been up half the night preparing. You wanted to make everything perfect so you could celebrate your man in the most fitting way possible when he got home from his long shift. He deserved it. He deserved a day that was all about him, where you got to dote on him and spoil him and remind him how much you loved him.

Jack didn’t like big celebrations – which meant no surprise parties or decking the house in decorations. He did his utmost not to make his colleagues aware of the date of his birth (claiming he had a reputation for being a ‘man of mystery’ to uphold), lest they bring in a shit store-bought cake and subject him to chirpy well wishes all night (god help anyone who dared to sing at him). No, a slow, quiet day at home involving his favourite movie, a cold beer and a well-cooked steak was all he needed to consider a birthday a success. So that’s what you were going to give him. With a few… added extras. Free of charge.

He’d been so good to you lately. He was the only reason you’d kept your head above water for the last few months of grad school; a life raft when you thought you might drown in the pressure. He’d made you dinners and packed you leftovers, run hot baths and played with your hair while you trauma-dumped about your papers and exams. He’d tucked you up in bed with a kiss every night and didn’t hold it against you that you hadn’t had sex for weeks now because there was barely any time and you were always exhausted - even on days when you’d promised but fallen asleep before he could so much as think about getting his dick wet. But you were out of the deep end now. School was done, and you had some time off before you started your new job. Time that would be Jack’s and only Jack’s.

His gifts were wrapped and sitting atop the kitchen counter: the next book in the series he was reading, a sleek monogrammed leather case for his ‘readers’, a new good-quality chef’s apron and a trio of handcrafted kitchen knives from the swanky homeware store in town. Plus, the refrigerator was stocked with everything he’d need to make his favourite meal, steak with garlic butter sauce, green salad and homemade fries.

Which, on the face of it, didn’t sound much like a gift at all. Surely Jack shouldn’t need to cook his own dinner on his birthday? But Jack enjoyed cooking. It served as a way for him to decompress after a long shift, due to the time and patience it took to make every element just right. You would be his sous chef. His glamorous assistant.

Besides, you were more of a baker, and you were hiding away a batch of homemade cupcakes just as you heard Jack’s key turn in the lock.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he sighed, stepping into the kitchen and inhaling deeply. “Tell me I can smell something delicious and I’m not just delirious after 12 hours of crawling the night.”

You slung your arms around Jack’s neck, and his hands immediately found purchase on your waist. Home.

“You're not dreaming, baby. I've been baking. Heard it was somebody's birthday today.”

“Hmm. Must be a lucky bastard if he gets to come home to the smell of freshly baked cake and the pretty sight of you in this sexy number,” he murmured, toying with the apron ribbon tied behind your back and grabbing a good amount of your ass he did so.

You smiled and reeled him in for a slow, time-stopping kiss. His mouth moved against yours with firm sureness, tried and true.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered against his lips. “Do you want to know what I've got planned to celebrate?”

“Sure do.”

You couldn't resist another peck of his lips.

“Alright. First, you're going to have a nice hot shower - and make sure you use the fancy soaps we got from the spa that time, OK? I don't know why you insist on rationing them, but today is a special occasion.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Second,” you held your hand up, counting fingers, “you're going to open your presents and marvel at what an excellent gift-giver I am.”

Jack chuckled. You could feel the warm mirth rumbling through him, from his chest to yours.

“Third, you're going to rustle us up a delicious steak dinner/breakfast.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And what are you going to be doing whilst I’m slaving over a hot stove?”

“I will be delighting you with my sparkling wit and dazzling personality.”

Jack laughed and gave your ass another squeeze. “Sounds fair.”

“Fourth, you're going to eat as many of my signature lemon and poppy seed cupcakes as you damn well please.”

Jack moaned with bliss, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as if he could conjure up the taste of them already.

“Did you make them with the lemon curd?” he asked eagerly.

You scoffed. “Of course I did. It's your favourite. I topped them all with cream cheese frosting too, plus a little extra special something.”

Jack captured your lips again, his kiss seasoned with awe, happiness and gratitude.

“How did I get so lucky?”

Your cheeks warmed. You were never quite sure how to react when Jack put his adoration of you on display so openly.

You decided the easiest thing to do was to carry on with your list. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll like the fifth part best,” you said, trailing your hands from his neck to his shoulders, then flat-palmed to his chest. “We’ve both got the next day and night off, which means we can spend hours and hours in bed together. Sleeping…not sleeping…”

Jack hummed knowingly, his imagination filling in the rest as your words trailed off. “You're making me want to skip right to number 5,” he said playfully, waggling his gorgeous grey-tufted eyebrows.

You gasped with mock surprise. “No way, mister.”

You slipped out of his grasp and wiggled away before he could use his sexy silver fox wiles to seduce you into thinking otherwise. Jack needed to rest first, to leave the night behind, to shower, cook, eat and be merry. Then, over the course of the next couple of hours, you were going to seduce him. You’d keep the heat low and slow, so the air sizzled between you. Then, you were going to lay him down in bed, pepper his entire body with kisses, maybe even massage his leg for a while, and let him marinate in the feeling of being wanted, cherished and cared for before you let him sink into the molten heat of you…

“Minx,” Jack bit back playfully.

“I try. Now go shower; I'm hungry.”

Jack accepted your command with a smirk and strode towards the bathroom, but not before whipping off his shirt and using it to punctuate his exit with a cheeky whip of your ass as he passed by.

-

Anyone would have thought it was your birthday, the way the morning panned out. You got to sit back and sip wine while Jack took command of the kitchen, looking every inch the hot chef of your dreams (wearing a fresh white T, grey sweatpants and his new ochre canvas apron).

He was very impressed with his new set of knives and picked out the perfect one to chop the potatoes and salad with. His glasses sat safely in his new case, and he’d even held the new book up to his nose, inhaling the scent of the fresh yet unturned pages.

“You know me too well,” he’d said softly, by way of a thank you.

In addition to your front row seat to your boyfriend's culinary prowess, you were privileged enough to be his kitchen hand, fetching and delivering when required. It saved him from having to roll back and forth too much. Jack often preferred his wheelchair to his crutches after a long shift, and though he could manoeuvre around his adapted kitchen (with its lowered countertops) with relative ease, he appreciated help when he was tired. And you loved feeling like the two of you were a team.

Plus, you’d negotiated that Jack would give you a kiss for every item you retrieved.

“Butter and garlic as requested, chef,” you reported, giving him a sloppy salute.

Jack repaid you with one peck to your cheek and another to your lips.

“There are three cloves of garlic there, Jack. You owe me two more kisses.”

He obliged.

“I'm looking forward to handing you the salt and pepper. I wonder if I'll get a kiss for every granule and peppercorn.”

Jack snorted. “You’ll have to count them first.”

You shimmied back to your seat, swaying to the music you’d put on low in the background to accompany the sounds of Jack at work. The playlist you'd lovingly called ‘Oldies for Jack.’

He’d baulked when he first saw the title. “These songs from the early 90s,” he reasoned, scrolling through your choices, “you can hardly call them oldies.”

“Sure I can.” You read out some of the song titles and years of release. “These songs are older than me. I wasn't even a twinkle in my father’s eye when most of these hit the charts.”

“And don’t I know it.”

-

While you ate, the two of you settled into easy, casual conversation. Food had always been one of the greatest connectors for you both. It was how you met, after all.

You'd been in your first year of grad school. You’d worked for a few years after leaving college, but hit a wall with your professional development, so you returned to studying. Baking had always been a hobby of yours, so you started selling your wares at a local market to make some extra cash. And along came Jack. Once he’d had a taste of your baking, he couldn't come back for more fast enough. A few weeks later, once he’d had a taste of you, well, it was the same story.

“Are you ready for dessert?”

“Sure am.”

“Close your eyes then.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I thought you made the lemon and poppyseed cupcakes with lemon curd and cream cheese frosting?”

You could have sworn you saw his lip quiver like a child's, as if the world might collapse if these cupcakes turned out to be a figment of his imagination.

“I did…”

“Then I know what those look like, sweetie.”

“Hmm. But I also said there was a little something extra special,” you reminded him. “So, close your eyes.”

Jack obeyed. You fetched your sweet culinary creations - already arranged on a fancy plate but covered with a cake tent. You gently placed the plate on the table and removed the cover, then adjusted a couple of the cakes so Jack got the perfect view.

“Tada!”

His eyes blinked open, and he gorged on the delicious sight before him: 12 perfectly baked yellow sponges, fluffy and flecked with black poppy seeds, made plump from oozing lemon curd. Each was crowned with a perfectly piped swirl of white frosting and finished with a curl of candied lemon rind, a sprinkle of lemon zest and the ‘something extra special’: miniature photos of Jack printed on edible sugar paper.

“I'm calling them my ‘Lemon Snack-a-Jacks” you said proudly.

Jack laughed, the sound rosy and full.

“I love them.” He leaned closer, examining the little pictures. They’d all been taken by you during your relationship, and each one sparked warm nostalgic chatter about the memories they contained.

Throughout the course of reminiscing, you ended up on Jack’s lap, gently scratching at his neck while his hand rubbed comfortingly at your thigh.

“Which one is your favourite?” you asked.

Jack picked up the cupcake with a picture of him in a smart dark suit. He was in the process of putting on a tie, getting ready for Whittaker's wedding.

“This one.”

“You look so handsome,” you cooed, caressing the greying stubble on his cheek. “And happy.”

“Happy because of who I was looking at when the picture was taken.”

Your cheeks warmed. He'd been looking at you. And he was looking at you the same way now. The soft adoration in his gaze almost made you cry. But you cleared your throat and selected a cupcake of your own.

“This is my favourite.”

It was a photo of Jack shirtless. You’d taken it unawares whilst he was dressing for work one evening, early on in your courtship. He looked a little bemused, as if he couldn't quite understand why you'd want a photo of him at that precise moment, not realising that you wanted a photo of him in every moment, so, long into the future, you could always look back at the man who had made you so gloriously, incandescently happy.

“It’s my favourite because you’ve got your tits out and they're your best quality,” you teased.

Jack gave your hip a firm squeeze of warning.

You nodded at the cupcake in Jack’s hand. “Go on, baby,” you urged. “Taste it. I know you're dying to.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

You both took bites at the same time.

“Fuck me, that’s so good,” Jack moaned. Your chest swelled with pride. Everyone always says food is the way to a man’s heart, but knowing that your food was the way to your man’s heart was the most gratifying feeling on earth.

Jack reached out to swipe a smear of crumb-covered icing from the corner of your mouth and couldn't resist cupping your jaw and drawing you in for a kiss. He hummed with satisfaction, like you were another delicious morsel of lemony cupcake goodness.

It only took him two more bites to finish his cupcake. The first few times you’d baked for him, Jack did his best to savour things, out of respect for the effort he knew you’d undertaken, but your lemon and poppyseed cupcakes were just too good. They were a revelation, he’d said. He apologised for wolfing his first one down so fast, but there was no way you’d accept his apology. You were flattered. You loved that he loved your food. “I baked them for you, Jack. You can have as many as you want.” Now, he knew that you’d always let him have another one, and another one, until he was satisfied.

You finished your cupcake too but saved the miniature photo for last. You caught Jack’s eye, then stuck out your tongue, placing the tiny topless image of him to it, letting him interpret the gesture however he pleased. Much to your delight, his response was to wrap a hand around your jaw and flatten his tongue against yours, dissolving the sugar paper; then he sucked your tongue into his mouth and turned the occasion into a deep, dizzying, drawn-out kiss.

Despite your original intentions for the morning, lowering the current temperature never crossed your mind.

Soon, one of Jack’s hands found its way into your shorts and under your panties. A whimper passed your lips as his fingers slipped amongst your silken folds.

“Jack,” you whined. “You're spoiling my plans. I was supposed to be seducing you.”

“You are seducing me, sweetheart. You seduce me every moment of every fuckin’ day.” His voice had grown deeper, gravellier, like it always did in these kinds of moments between you. He shifted his hips. “Can you feel that? Can you feel how seduced I am right now?”

You could. You could feel the solid length of his thick cock under you, demanding and urgent, just like Jack could be sometimes.

He was kissing you again, infusing your mind with thoughts of nothing but him. You melted into his touch, and your cunt pulsed needily around the fingers he pushed into you, but he pumped them only a few torturous times before pulling away and gathering the slick wetness that oozed from your core.

“Fuck, sweetheart. All of this, just for me?”

All you could do was nod dumbly as he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and smeared your desire all over his lips. He slipped his fingers into his mouth, using the last drops to coat his tongue.

“You wanna taste?”

His voice was rough, his breath heavy, and his eyes were dark, burnt from desire.

Your whole body quivered with longing. “God, yes.”

His lips sealed over yours. The flavours of lemon and lust exploded on your tongue and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. This time, Jack kissed you slow. You were something to be savoured.

“You’re the real snack here, sweetheart,” Jack whispered against your lips. “Juicer than a steak and sweeter than all the cupcakes in the world. Can't wait to dine on you for the rest of my life.”

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