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You needed a job that would give you a little more independence. Alfie needed a new baker. As the attraction grows harder to ignore, you’re both left wondering whether some lines are worth crossing.
warning/tags: smut and fluff, minors DNI, Alfie is down bad, mentions of miscarriage, slowburn, Alfie is yearning and Ollie is done with him, pet names (angel, good girl, love) unprotected piv, mutual masturbation, oral (f!receiving), infidelity, creampie
Alfie’s bakery itself was not much to look at from the street, it was nothing but a modest front of brick and glass with the name painted in gold that had started to flake, but everyone knew it was only ever half the story. The real money never came from loaves. The real money came from the rum barrels tucked away, from the horses, and the shipments whose contents were merely whispers. The bakery was a convenience, a respectable face. Somewhere men could come and go without drawing the wrong kind of eyes.
Alfie sat behind his wooden desk, his bulk filled the chair like a man who had never learned the art of taking up less space than he was owed. His coat was open, his waistcoat strained across his middle, and the gold chain of his watch winked every time he moved his arm.
He was tapping one finger on an irregular rhythm against the wood. Ollie hovered near the door that led out of his office, nervous in the way he shouldn’t be after working for Alfie for so long. “Come on, Alfie,” Ollie said, pitching his voice low so the hopefuls waiting beyond the door wouldn’t hear the impatience in it. “Everyone’s waiting. Some of them have been standing out there since before sunrise. They’re starting to look like they might riot”
Alfie did not look up, instad he placed the glass of whisky he’d been holding on the desk. When he spoke, each syllable sounded chewed and considered. “Ollie, my boy… I don’t see why I need to bother with this. You see, I could put a donkey out there to bake the bread and I still wouldn’t give a shit. The lads would still buy it because they’re hungry and they’re not particular and this is Camden, not the fucking Ritz.”
Ollie shifted his weight from one polished shoe to the other. “So should I… just point? Pick someone? There’s a big bloke with big arms who looks like he could knead dough for twelve hours straight without blinking.”
Alfie’s head came up at last. “Just choose the one who looks the more competent,” he said, waving one large hand in a vague circle. “Competent. You know the word? Means they won’t burn the place down or poison the customers or, god forbid, start getting ideas about unions. If they look like they’ve ever thought a complicated thought in their life, send them packing.”
Ollie hesitated, and the silence stretched. “But we told everyone to bring something freshly baked,” he said carefully. “That was the whole point, Alfie. So you could taste it. So it—”
“Holy fuck, Ollie.” Alfie’s voice rose without quite becoming a shout, it never needed to, the way he said it was enough. He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “You know what? Tell them to come in. One by one. Go.”
Ollie went. He opened the office door and the murmur of voices from the shop floor swelled for a moment, the men shifting impatently, people who needed work and they’d been forced to waste an entire morning in this shithole. It all cut off as Ollie cleared his throat and called the first name.
The man who entered Alfie’s office was broad across the shoulders and thick through the middle. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle in both hands, stopped a respectful distance from the desk and waited.
Alfie regarded him in silence for a long moment. Then he made a small gesture with two fingers. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Show us what you’ve brought, my son.”
The man unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers. Inside lay a round loaf, still faintly warm. The smell that rose from it was good enough, of yeast and a hot oven. He set it on the table and Alfie tore a piece free with his fingers. He brought it to his nose first, sniffed once, then again with suspicion. Then he put it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, his face remaining carefully blank for three full seconds. Then he twitched the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He chewed once more, swallowed with effort, and set the remainder of the bread down.
“What,” he said, very quietly, “in the name of every living, suffering creature, is this supposed to be?” The man opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger, and the man closed it again. “I have eaten things in the trenches that had more dignity than this. I have eaten things that tried to eat me back and still managed to leave a better impression. This—” he poked the loaf with one finger “—this is an insult to the very concept of bread. Worst thing I have ever put in my mouth, and I have put some deeply questionable things in my mouth in my time, let me tell you. Fuck off. Take your sad little brick and fuck off.”
The man’s face went from red to a blotchy purple. He snatched up the remaining bread, muttered something that might have been an apology or a curse, and retreated so quickly he nearly collided with the doorframe. Ollie ushered him out with the face of someone who had seen this particular performance from Alfie before, many times, and still found it freshly exhausting.
The door closed. The room settled back into its warm, yeasty quiet. Alfie wiped his fingers on a handkerchief that had seen better decades and muttered something under his breath about the decline of standards in the baking trades.
Ollie opened the door again.
“Next,” he called. You stepped through, and the change in the air was immediate, though neither Alfie nor Ollie could have said exactly why. The heat of the room seemed to pause as you carried your own cloth-wrapped offering, the warmth of it still seeping through the fabric into your hands.
Alfie looked up and whatever cutting remark or theatrical sigh he had been preparing died somewhere between his chest and his throat. His blue eyes, usually so quick to narrow in suspicion or amusement, widened by a fraction. He sat very still, watching something unexpected that had just walked into his kingdom.
You looked, to him, like something that did not belong in the back room of a Camden bakery that doubled as a front for darker enterprises. The light from the high window caught you just so, turning the edges of you luminous, almost lke a halo. An angel, he thought, with sudden clarity. He forgot, for several long heartbeats, that he was meant to be hiring a baker, he simply looked at you.
You could feel the heat of the place settling onto your skin, but you kept your shoulders straight, and your chin lifted just enough. “Good morning, Mr Solomons,” you said. “I’m here for the baker position.”
Alfie’s mouth twitched in something both softer and more dangerous than a smile. He sat back slowly in the chair, and regarded you as if you had just walked out of a different century entirely.
“And what’s your name, love?” he asked. You told him and the sound of it hung there in the room for a moment. Alfie roamed his eyes over your face as if he were committing the shape of it to memory. “Beautiful name,” he said. “Beautiful.” The second time his voice came out quieter, like he was saying it almost to himself. He cleared his throat. “Well then, let’s see what you’ve brought me. Don’t just stand there looking like a painting, show us the goods.”
You stepped closer to the table and set the cloth-wrapped parcel down with care. You unwrapped it slowly, revealing the poppy seed cake beneath. The scent rose immediately, the sweetness of a cake baked that morning and no earlier. Alfie leaned forward, reaching out for it with one hand and tearing a piece free with surprising gentleness. He brought it first to his nose, sniffed once and then put it in his mouth.
The change in his face was almost immediate, the scowl that lived around his mouth eased, and his eyes half-closed for a moment. He chewed slowly, and when he swallowed, he looked at the remaining cake as if it was offensive to taste so good.
“Fuck me,” he muttered. Then, louder, “This… this tastes like the one my mother used to bake, the exact same. She used to make it on Fridays… haven’t tasted anything close in years.” He looked up at you. “Proper little miracle, this is.”
You felt heat rise in your cheeks. You’d been complimented for your baking a million times, but somehow this felt more personal than any other nice word you’d received. “I’m glad,” you said simply.
Alfie tore another piece, smaller this time, and ate it with the same thoughtfulness. He wiped his fingers on the handkerchief and sat back. “So, why d’you want the job, love? Pretty thing like you. Could be doing a hundred other things that don’t involve getting flour up to the elbows”
You met his gaze and went with the most honest answer. “I’m seeking a little more independence.”
The word seemed to amuse him, he let out a sound, close to a laugh, that rumbled out of his chest. “Independence?” He spread his hands, the heavy rings catching the light. “Well I’m all about women’s independence, ain’t that right, Ollie?” He glanced toward the door where his assistant still hovered. “Tell her, Ollie. Tell her how progressive I am. How I believe a woman should be free to earn her own coin and stand on her own two feet and not have to ask some useless bastard for permission every time she wants a new hat. Go on.”
Ollie cleared his throat, internally rolling his eyes with disdain. “Yes, Alfie. Very progressive. You’ve said so. Many times.”
“See?” Alfie turned back to you. “Independence. Beautiful word. Almost as beautiful as your name. Almost.” He tilted his head, studying you. “You married, love?”
You moved your right hand without conscious thought, brushed the simple band on your ring finger. You let your fingertips rest there a moment longer than necessary, making sure he saw it. “I am,” you said. “Is that a problem?”
Alfie’s gaze lingered on your hand. Specifically on the ring, not too big, not too shiny or flashy. And he saw the way you curled your fingers protectively around it. “No,” he said slowly. “Not a problem. Happily married, are we?”
The lie came easier after being said so many times before. “Yes.”
Alfie made a small sound in the back of his throat. He looked down at the cake again, tore another piece, and spoke around it, low enough that you couldn’t hear. “We’ll see about that.”
He chewed, swallowed, and set the rest of the piece down with care. “I’m not gonna lie to you, love,” he said, louder now, businesslike again. “Your cake is excellent. Proper excellent. But look at you.” He gestured with one hand, encompassing all of you from the crown of your head to the hem of your skirt. “Look at those arms. You think you can knead bread for hours on end? Proper kneading. You think you can haul sacks of flour up from the cellar when the delivery comes? This is a working bakery.”
You straightened your shoulders, lifting your chin with the stubborn defiance that had carried you this far into the room. Ever the little fighter, determined not to let this opportunity slip away, you met Alfie’s gaze. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Alfie studied you for a long moment. “I don’t want to discriminate on account of your sex, believe me,” he said at last. “I am a modern man. Progressive, like Ollie said. But we’ve always had male bakers here. Big lads who can lift and carry and sweat without anyone batting an eye. A woman like you…” He swept his gaze over you again, slower this time, lingering in ways that had nothing to do with assessing upper body strength. “A woman like you could be out front, smiling at the customers. But sadly all those positions are taken, and I don’t see how putting you in the back is anything but a waste of something that looks like it belongs in a different sort of room entirely.”
You stepped closer to the table, close enough to smell the rum scent lingering in his clothes. “Please, Mr Solomons. I’ll work harder than any of those men out there will. I can assure you of that. Harder, and better. I won’t complain, I won’t show up late, Iwon’t drink on the job or pick fights. Give me the chance and I’ll prove it. Every single day.”
Alfie watched you, drumming his fingers once against the wood, then twice before he stilled. “You know what,” he said slowly, lifting the corner of his mouth. “I like your attitude. There’s fire in you. Didn’t expect that, not with the face of an angel."
Ollie raked his eyes over you with suspicion. His voice, when it came, was deliberately unfriendly. “Do you have any references from previous employers?”
You met his gaze without flinching. “No. I haven’t worked before. But I’m very responsible, I learn quickly, and I brought the cake so you could judge the work for yourself.”
Ollie turned his head just enough to catch Alfie’s eye. The look he gave him was a silent don’t even think about it. The kind of look that said this was a bad idea, that a woman with no references and a pretty face was more trouble than she was worth.
Alfie ignored the look completely. “Ah, references,” he said, the word rolling out like it was something ridiculous. “Who needs references, Ollie? What am I supposed to do with a letter from some old bastard who thinks she knows how to bake? I don’t need a prick telling me she’s good. I can taste it in the cake. References.” He snorted. “References are for men who can’t trust their own tongue. I trust mine. And my tongue is telling me this woman knows what she’s doing. She’s hired.”
Ollie opened his mouth. “Alfie…”
But Alfie was already looking at you again. “Welcome to the bakery, love. Try not to let Ollie’s worrying rub off on you. He means well… mostly.”
Behind you, Ollie made a strangled sound. “Alfie… there’s like fifteen other people out there. Don’t you want to talk to them first? The one with the big arms is still waiting. And there’s a fellow who used to work at that place up in—”
Alfie did not even turn his head, his eyes remained on you. “Shut up, Ollie.” The command was soft but absolute. “The lady here is hired. End of discussion. Tell the rest of them to fuck off and find honest work elsewhere. Or dishonest work. I don’t care. Just get them out of my bakery before I decide to start charging them rent for standing around.”
Ollie opened his mouth, but he thought anything he could say was simply pointless when his boss’s head was set around something, so he closed it, nodded once, and slipped out the door.
You stood very still in the suddenly quieter room, feeling your heart beating steady and hard against your ribs. “Thank you so much, Mr Solomons,” you said with a wide smile adorning your face.
Alfie waved the gratitude away with one hand, though the look in his eyes said he was filing the sound of your voice saying his name somewhere private. “We expect you here in the morning. Every day. Four a.m. sharp until two in the afternoon. Sixty shillings a week. How does that sound?”
Sixty… The number was generous, more than generous. You knew it, and he knew you knew it. “Excellent,” you said.
The door opened again, and Ollie, who had clearly been listening to the conversation, hovered on the threshold, looking like he'd aged five years in the last two minutes.
“Alfie,” he said carefully, “we paid forty the last one. And he worked three hours more every day. Forty shillings and he was grateful for it.”
Alfie finally turned his head. The look he gave his assistant could have made some people piss themselves. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up, Ollie? Or do I need to write it down? Big letters, so even a man like you could understand. The lady is hired. Sixty shillings. Four until two. And if I hear one more word about the previous arrangement or the previous baker or any other previous fucking thing, I will personally see to it that your next position involves a great deal more lifting and a great deal less talking. Clear?”
Ollie swallowed. “Clear, Alfie.”
“Good.” Alfie turned back to you, and the irritation melted out of his face as if it had never been there, replaced by something softer. He gestured at the remaining cake with one thick finger. “Take the rest home with you, love. No, no, leave it. I’ll finish it myself and think of my mother and the way things used to taste before the world got bloody and full of people who can’t bake for shit. Either way.” He sat back. “Six a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late. I hate lateness.”
You thanked him again, the words soft but sincere. “Thank you, Mr Solomons. Truly. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you that.” With one last small nod, you turned toward the door, and stepped out, your heart still racing from the weight of the moment.
Minutes after you left, Alfie tore another piece of cake free, and ate it slowly, with his eyes half-lidded, tasting memories and not just the sugar and butter. Ollie closed the door with more force than necessary and turned. For a moment he simply stood there, then he folded his arms.
“Progressive, huh?” he said. The words were laced either an edge of accusation. “You’re a progressive man?”
Alfie did not look up. Instead he chewed, swallowed, and reached for another piece of cake.
“I can be,” he said around the mouthful. “I contain multitudes, Ollie. Depths. A man can evolve, a man can look at the world as it is and decide, on a Tuesday afternoon, that perhaps the old ways are not the only ways. Women earning their own keep, women standing on their own two feet. Yes, I can be progressive. Watch me.”
Ollie took a step closer, making the floorboards complain under even his light weight. “Sixty shillings. You’ve lost your mind.”
The piece of cake in Alfie’s hand was forgotten, crumbs clinging to his waistcoat. “Don’t talk to me like that, you little shit. That woman was something special. I could see it in her eyes. I think it’s gonna be good to keep her around. Useful…. decorative, possibly both. And if I want to pay her sixty shillings a week, then that is my business. My bakery, my coin, and my progressive fucking principles.”
Ollie let out a short, incredulous breath. He glanced at the closed door as if the fifteen rejected men might still be pressed against it listening. “You wanna know what I saw?”
Alfie waved his hand in a lazy and dismissive arc. “Nah. Not really. I find that most of the time when people offer to share what they saw it turns out to be something tedious and moralising and ultimately none of their concern. Spare me the sermon, Ollie.”
Ollie did not spare him. “That you want to sleep with the woman,” he said, each word precise. “That’s why you gave her that ridiculous payment. That’s why you didn’t even look at the others. That’s why you’re sitting there eating her cake like it’s a religious experience and talking about her eyes like she’s the first pretty face that ever walked into this place. You want her. Plain and simple. And you’re dressing it up as noble intentions and women’s independence so you don’t have to admit that you just got his head turned by a married girl.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Alfie set the remaining piece of cake down with exaggerated care. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers one by one, and then he leaned forward. When he spoke, the voice that came out was wounded and theatrically offended.
“What?” He let the single word hang there. “You’re saying,” he continued, “that my noble intentions of employing a young woman in seek of her financial independence are merely the result of me wanting to get between her legs? That the sixty shillings, a fair wage, a progressive, right? Progressive wage, a wage that says ‘here is a woman who will not be underpaid simply because the world has decided her labour is worth less’ is somehow a bribe? A down payment on future fornication? That I, I, looked at that angel-faced creature and thought only of tumbling her into the nearest flat surface like some common beast in heat?”
“That’s exactly what I saw,” Ollie said.
Alfie’s eyes were wide with manufactured horror. “You got a sick mind, Ollie. Proper diseased. You disgust me. Truly. I am sitting here trying to do a good deed in a wicked world, and you reduce it to base carnality. I am wounded, I am wounded in my progressive soul. My mother, God rest her, would be spinning in her grave if she could hear the filth you just poured into this sacred place. I hope you can imagine the depths of my distress.”
Ollie opened his mouth, but Alfie raised one finger. “No. Do not speak. Do not compound the obscenity by trying to justify it. I have hired a baker, a baker whose cake has temporarily restored my faith in the concept of home and family. That is all, if she happens to have a face that could make the sanest man go absolutely mad, that is incidental, purely incidental. And if I choose to pay her what she is worth instead of what the market has decided a woman is worth, that is called being a man of fucking principle. Principle. Look it up, it’s in the dictionary.”
He picked up the last piece of cake, bit into it and chewed with defiant pleasure, the poppy seeds cracked between his teeth. “Now, go and make sure those rejects have properly dispersed. I don’t want them lingering here. And Ollie?”
Ollie, who had gone a mottled shade of angry red. “Yes, Alfie?”
“If you ever again suggest that my interest in that woman’s employment is anything other than pure and high-minded and deeply, almost spiritually progressive…” Alfie smiled then. “I will introduce you to a concept called unemployment. Clear?”
“Clear, Alfie.”
“Good boy.” Alfie waved him off with the hand that still held the final crumb of cake. “Fuck off and be useful. And by the way, her cake is indeed a religious experience, you should buy a slice tomorrow afternoon.”
Ollie fled, leaving Alfie sitting alone in the room. His eyes had gone distant, fixed on the place where you had stood only minutes before. He murmured to the empty room. “Happily married. We’ll fucking see.”
***
You woke before the sun had risen, dressing quickly and buttoning up your dress with steady fingers even though your pulse was not so steady. You pinned your hair back, simple and practical, nothing that would get in the way. The streets of Camden were quiet at that hour, you walked with your coat pulled tight and a cloth bag with your clean apron.
The bakery blinds were already open when you reached it, a yellow light spilling from the high windows onto the pavement. You pushed inside, and Ollie was waiting for you with an expression of lingering disapproval.
“You’re early,” he said. “Good. Alfie hates lateness. Come on then. I’ll show you the lay of it before the real work starts.”
He took you through everything with efficiency, as if he had done this too many times and still found it tedious. The big brick ovens along the back wall, the flour sacks stacked in the cellar, the schedule chalked on a board. “Don’t skimp, he’ll know. The knives are sharp. If you cut yourself, try not to bleed into the dough, it puts the customers off. Apron on, hair up, sleeves rolled. Questions?”
Before you could open your mouth, Ollie was already turning around, leaving you to it with a muttered “Don’t burn the place down” and disappearing toward the front to deal with the early delivery men.
You tied your apron, rolled your sleeves, washed your hands in the stone sink, and then you began. The rye bread came first. You mixed by what felt right more than the measurements that were written on the board. Your hands knew the work, push, fold, turn, push again, until the dough stopped fighting and began to mold under your palms.
The first hours passed in a blur, feeling physical satisfaction of work that asked something real of your body. By the time the clock on the wall showed half past five, the bread loaves were rising in the ovens and the honey cakes were cooling on the racks. You had moved on to the next batch, your arms ached in the good way, and flour dusted your forearms and the front of your apron, with a streak of it that had somehow found your cheek.
You had just finished with the onion rolls for the afternoon orders, when the fine hairs on the back of your neck lifted. Someone was behind you, close enough to hear their breathing. You spun, feeling your heart slamming hard against your ribs, a sound catching in your throat before you could stop it.
Alfie stood there in the middle of the kitchen, filling the space between the benches. “Calm down, love,” he said. “It’s just little old me.”
You pressed a floury hand to your chest, trying to slow the frantic beat. “Sorry, Mr Solomons. You scared me.”
He tilted his head, fighting back a smile. “Am I seriously that ugly? Proper frighten the pretty ladies, do I? Make small children cry at the mere sight of my face?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could catch it. “No. No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting you here. It took me by surprise.”
“And why is that?” He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the heat of him mixed with the heat of the ovens. “I wanted to see how my newest employee is adapting on her first day. Call it quality control.”
You wiped your hands on your apron, leaving white streaks on it. “Everything’s going well so far. The batches of bread are ready. The honey cakes are cooling. And now I’m on the onion rolls for the afternoon orders. The dough’s almost ready for its second prove.”
Alfie breathed in deep, expanding his chest and half-closing his eyes for a moment. “Wonderful. Fucking amazing. This place smells great. You’ve got the gift, love. I knew it the second I tasted that cake yesterday. My mother would have approved, and she didn’t approve of much. Especially not me.”
You felt the flush rise again, part of it was pride, but the other something you couldn’t quite name. “You won’tregret hiring me. I promised I’d work harder than any of those men. I meant it.”
He waved one hand. “We’ll go on, love. I’ll let you work. Don’t let the presence of management put you off your stroke.” He said it, and then he did not leave.
You turned back to the onion rolls dough because the alternative was to keep staring at him like a fool. You floured the bench, turned the dough out, and began to knead again. The muscles in your arms and shoulders felt the work even while every nerve ending remained painfully aware of the man standing three feet behind you. You could feel his eyes, the weight of them, how they tracked the movement of your hands, the line of your back, the stray curl that had escaped your pins and now clung to the damp skin of your neck.
Minutes stretched, finally you spoke without turning, keeping your voice carefully light. “Am I doing anything wrong? Or is this an evaluation of some sort?”
Alfie’s reply came thoughtful, the words rolled around his mouth. “Just observing how you handle things, love. The way you touch the dough. I am expanding my mind.”
You kept kneading, though your hands had gone a fraction less sure. “I just know you’re a busy man. I imagined you had more important things to do than watch someone make onion rolls at six in the morning.”
“Nonsense.” The word was firm. He moved then, you heard the creak of the floorboards, and came to lean against the edge of the bench beside you, close enough that his coat brushed your skirt. “Nothing more important than this. The bakery is the face we show the world. So yes, watching you work is important. Critical, even.”
There was a pause, you felt him studying your profile. “So,” he said, quieter. “You know about me, huh?”
You glanced sideways. “A little. I mean… everyone does.”
“And aren’t you afraid?”
The question hung between you, but you kept working, pushing the dough into itself, feeling it grow silkier. “No,” you said with honesty. “I’ve heard the good things too.”
Alfie raised his eyebrows in what was a sceptical lift. “Yeah? What good? Don’t spare my blushes, love. I can take it, I’ve got a weak sense of shame.”
You hesitated only a moment. “I had a cousin who came back blind from the war. Last year he got a dog, a guide dog, trained, from that Blind Jew charity. Everyone knows it was thanks to one of your donations. He walks free now because of it.”
For a long moment the only sounds were the roar of the ovens and the rhythmic slap of the dough against wood. Alfie looked away, drumming his fingers once on the edge of the bench. “Oh. That?” He made a dismissive gesture, but it lacked conviction. “That’s nothing. Loose change. Don’t go making me into a saint, love. Saints don’t last long around here. That’s not goodness. That’s just… a clear conscience for five minutes.”
He fell silent. You kept kneading because your hands needed something to do. The dough was ready now, you shaped the rolls and set them in the oiled bowl, covered it with a clean cloth. Only then did you look at him fully, Alfie was watching you with an expression you had not seen on him before. Something that looked almost like hunger, though whether for the honey cakes cooling on the rack or for the woman who was standing in front of him was impossible for you to say.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured. “Turn up with a cake that tastes like my childhood. Refuse to be afraid and quote my better deeds back at me.” He dropped his eyes briefly to your left hand, then lifted again. “Happily married. Still sticking to that story, are we?”
You did not answer, and so Alfie pushed off the bench with a grunt. “Right. I’ve taken enough of your time, love. Carry on, make me proud, make the neighbourhood weep with joy at the quality of their morning loaf. And if anyone gives you trouble, the lads, the customers, Ollie with his little disapproving face, you come find me. I’ll sort it. Personally.”
Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps fading toward the back, where the real business was done, leaving you alone in the heat with flour on your cheek, dough under your nails, and the distinct certainty that nothing about this job was going to stay simple for very long.
***
A week later, Alfie was already half out of that chair of his office. The gold chain of his watch winkled as he checked the time, like he had somewhere far more important to be than his business meetings.
Ollie stood between him and the door like a particularly anxious gatepost. “You can’t go now,” he said. “Thomas Shelby just arrived for the meeting, remember? You were gonna discuss the price of the—”
“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted his hand with the fingers spread in a theatrical gesture. “Save your words, Ollie. Husband them. I don’t care. Tell Thomas Shelby to wait. Tell him Alfie is engaged in matters of critical importance. Tell him whatever pretty little lie floats through that head of yours. Just make him wait.”
Ollie’s face did something complicated, a grimace of disbelief. “Alfie, he came all the way from Birmingham. I can’t just tell the man to wait.”
Alfie paused in the middle of buttoning his coat. He turned fully, and the smile that spread across his face was slow and deeply unimpressed. “Oh, come on. He’s not gonna slice your throat with his razor blade, not over a few minutes. Thomas Shelby is a busy man, same as me. He understands the concept of priorities. Entertain him, sing him a little song, do him some magic tricks. Pull a fucking rabbit out of your arse if you have to. Offer him a honey cake, the new girl’s honey cakes.”
Ollie took a step closer, lowering his voice even though the door was shut and the walls were solid. “You can’t go see her every day, Alfie. We need you here. We need you handling what needs to be handled. The little problems that turn into big problems if they’re left unresolved. Not distracted. Not… whatever this is.”
Alfie went very still. His hat dangled from one hand, for a long moment the only sound was the distant sound of the men working outside.
Then Alfie laughed. A laugh edged with genuine delight at the absurdity of being lectured by his own assistant. “Well,” he said, spreading his hands. “I suppose I should just hand you the whole fucking business, shouldn’t I? Keys, ledgers, the combination to the safe. Seeing as you know it all, Ollie. Seeing as you’ve got the entire operation running so smoothly in that clever little head of yours that you can spare the time to tell me where I can and cannot point my own two feet.”
Ollie flushed, but he did not back down entirely. “What’s so special about her anyway? I get it, she’s pretty. But there’s a thousand other pretty women out there, and you’ve never been like this before, not over any of them. Disappearing every chance you get, watching her kneading dough like it's a spectacle. What’s different?”
Alfie set the hat down on the desk with deliberate care. He planted both thick hands on the wood and leaned forward. His voice had softened into something quieter, almost as a confession. “Ollie, my boy. You wouldn’t recognise special if it walked up and hit you square in the face. That woman…” He paused, searching for the words. “She’s got something, let me tell you that. Not just the face, though the face is a fucking miracle, I’ll grant you. It’s the eyes, the way she looks at you and doesn’t flinch, the way she talks about independence, the way she baked a cake that tasted like my mother’s cake and then stood there and told me she wasn’t afraid of me. Do you know how rare that is? In this life? A woman who looks at me and decides the rumours are less interesting than the man standing in front of her?”
He pushed off the desk and began to pace the short length of the office. “She draws me in like a magnet. I go there for five minutes to check the ovens and an hour disappears. She’s not any woman I’ve seen, and I find I cannot stop tuning myself to it. Is that clear enough for you, Ollie? Or shall I draw a diagram? ‘Alfie’s inexplicable gravitational pull toward the new baker’ would that help?”
Ollie dragged a hand down his face. “Alfie, we need you on planet Earth. Not on the moon.”
Alfie stopped pacing and turned, looking at Ollie with a smile that split his face, a ittle unhinged around the edges. “Oh but I am on the moon, Ollie.” He spread his arms as if encompassing the absurdity of it. “She’s got me swept away. I’m walking around up here in the thin air of whatever delision this is, and I find I don’t particularly want to come down.”
He snatched the hat back up, settled it on his head with a tug and moved toward the door, deciding the conversation was over. “Keep Thomas Shelby waiting,” he said over his shoulder. “Give him a drink. Give him a cake. Tell him Alfie will be along when Alfie is good and ready and not a moment before.”
He pulled the door open, Ollie made one last desperate sound. “Alfie—”
“Entertain him,” Alfie repeated, already halfway down the hall. “Magic tricks, Ollie. I have faith in you. Somewhere under all that anxiety is a man who can keep Tommy Shelby occupied for twenty minutes without losing a finger. Prove me right, or don’t. Either way I’ll be back when I’m back.”
A few minutes later, Alfie came through the kitchen door, he didn’t announce himself with any of the theatrical booming that usually preceded him, he simply crossed the floor, snagging a sturdy wooden chair from against the wall, and setting it down beside your bench. Then he sat, making the chair protest under his weight.
“How are you doing on this beautiful morning, love?” he asked, spreading his knees and tipping his head back slightly, breathing in the air.
You kept kneading, though every nerve had gone aware of the man now sitting close to you. “I’m doing good,” you said. “What about you?”
Alfie reached out without asking and snagged one of the still-warm beigels from the rack, turning it over in his fingers with the appreciation of a man examining a rare jewel. “Business is a shitshow,” he confided cheerfully. “Tommy Shelby’s in my office and Ollie’s having a nervous breakdown because I left him to play host. Everyone wants a piece of me. But—” he tore a piece of the beigel free and pointed it at you like a teacher making a point “—now I’m doing better. Dramatically better. The second I came through that door and the smell hit me, the entire shitshow receded. Funny how that works.”
You smiled and nodded at the beigel in his hand. “You want to try it properly? They’re best when they’re still warm. I made the dough last night so it could have a long prove.”
“I’d love to,” he said, and bit in. The sound he made was obscene in its sincerity, an appreciative groan that seemed to come from somewhere in his chest. He chewed slowly. “Fuck me,” he murmured once he could speak again. “It’s amazing. I’ve never, and I mean never, met someone who cooked exactly like the food I tasted as a child.” He took another bite, larger this time, and spoke around it. “Where did you learn to cook like this, love? Because this isn’t ordinary talent.”
You pushed the dough away for a moment, wiping your hands on your apron. “From my nana. We used to spend the afternoons together baking when I was small. She’d pull out this little book, battered thing, every recipe had a little note in her handwriting. A touch that was just hers. A pinch more salt here, a longer prove there. I know all of them by heart now”
Alfie went still. “God bless your nana,” he said quietly, what remained in his voice was completely sincere. “God bless her hands and her little book and the afternoons she gave you. May her memory be a blessing. Because whatever she put into you… it’s still here. I can taste it. I can fucking feel it.”
A startled laugh escaped you, bright and sudden. It rang off the high ceiling, Alfie watched the sound leave your mouth, and something softened in his expression. “You’ve got the laugh of an angel,” he said. “Celestial. Makes a man want to say stupid things just to hear it again.”
Heat flooded your face so fast it was almost dizzying. You turned back to the dough with more force than necessary, kneading it hard. Your ears were burning, you could feel him watching your nervous smile and the way your hands had gone suddenly less certain.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to be merciful. “You’d mentioned your cousin served. The one who came back blind. Did you have many family sent over to France, love?”
You kept your eyes on the dough. “Most of them,” you said. “All my cousins. And my brother.” A breath. “He didn’t make it. They never found enough of him to bring home properly.” You swallowed and kept working. “My husband luckily stayed in London. He managed a military warehouse here. That kept him out of the trenches.”
Alfie made a low sound of understanding and set the half-eaten beigel down on the edge of the bench with surprising care.
“Right,” he said. “Guess some lads were luckier. Didn’t have to be sent over to drown in the mud and the gas. Lucky.” He studied you sideways. “Anyway, what does your husband do now?”
“He works in a factory. He’s a machine operator.” You didn’t particularly enjoy talking about your husband with Alfie. You hated the way his questions about him, about your marriage, made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. Lying to Alfie felt heavier, somehow more difficult, than lying to anyone else.
Alfie’s eyebrows rose, he leaned in a fraction, making the chair creak under the shift of his weight. “And he doesn’t make enough money that he has to send his wife out to work?” The question was mild, almost idle. But his eyes were anything but. “Pretty young thing like you, hands made for miracles, spending her days covered in flour. Seems curious.”
You laughed againm, shorter this time, edged with the defensive spark he seemed to enjoy pulling out of you. “I told you. I just like being financially independent. Earning my own money, feeling like I’m being productive. I don’t like staying in the house doing nothing. This—” you gestured at the dough, the ovens, the cooling beigels, the entire room “—this makes sense to me. And the money is mine, fairly earned.”
Alfie watched you for a long moment. “And you don’t have children, do you?”
The question was careful. As if he already knew the answer and still needed to hear you say it. You met his eyes. “I don’t,” you said.
“No children,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. “Independent, productive, laugh like an angel, and a husband who works long factory shifts. Interesting… the things a man learns when he bothers to sit down and eat a beigel with his newest baker on a beautiful morning.”
…
The days began to blur in the best and worst of ways. Mornings belonged to the bakery, before the first light touched the windows, you were already floured to the elbows. And every day, without fail, Alfie appeared sometime before mid-morning, shrugged out of his coat, and dragged the same scarred chair to the exact same spot beside your bench, staying for two hours, sometimes three, as if the rest of his business could wait indefinitely on the pleasure of watching you work.
He talked. God, how he talked. His voice rolled out in long rivers while you pushed and folded and turned the dough. He told you about the horses, about the meetings with the Italians, about his mother. He asked questions too, about your grandmother’s little book, about the brother you lost, and the shape of the life you claimed to have waiting at home. And every time you answered, every time you laughed or fell quiet or wiped flour from your cheek with the back of a wrist, something in the air between you got warmer.
Sometimes he fell silent for long stretches, tracking the roll of your shoulders with his eyes, the flex of your forearms, the way the dough yielded under your palms. Once, when a strand of hair escaped your pins and fell across your eyes, he reached out without thinking and tucked it behind your ear. His fingertips were warm, and they lingered half a second too long against the shell of your ear.
The bakery became the only place that felt real, because home was something else entirely. You returned each afternoon to the small flat, and the moment the door closed behind you, the warmth of the ovens and Alfie’s voice drained out of you. Your husband would already be there more often than not, home early from the factory.
“You’re late again,” he would say, not looking up from the newspaper. “Third time this week. I had to get my own lunch. Again. What am I, a fucking orphan? I’ve got a wife, haven’t I? Or did I imagine the whole wedding?”
The fights were never dramatic, because that would have required passion, and passion had left this marriage years ago, carried out with the tiny body you had lost and never properly buried. The fights were mean. Him listing every way your absence inconvenienced him, you answering too calmly at first, then with rising heat when he started in on how no decent woman left her husband to fend for himself so she could play at being a baker for some gangster.
“They’re talking,” he said one night. “Down the pub. About you and him, about how Solomons’ new pet never goes home on time. About how he’s always down there watching her like a dog with a bone. You want to be one of his whores, is that it? That why you’re never here? That why the flat’s empty and my belly’s empty and I’ve got to listen to every bastard with a mouth making jokes about my wife’s extra duties?”
You stopped answering after a while, there was no point. The truth, that you were saving every shilling of the sixty he paid you, that the tin under the loose floorboard was growing heavier every week, that you were counting the days until you had enough for a room of your own and a clean break and a life that did not smell of his resentment, would only make it worse. So you let him talk himself hoarse, you washed the few dishes, and you lay on your side of the cold bed waiting for sleep that never came easy.
He had stopped touching you after the miscarriage. That was the cleanest way to say it. One day there had been a child,, hoped-for and already named, and then there had been blood and pain, and after that your husband’s hands never found you in the dark again. He looked at you like you had failed at the one thing you were put on earth to do, like your body had betrayed him personally. The whores started sometime after that, you heard the whispers the way every wife in the neighbourhood heard them, the sideways glances at the market, a soft laughter that stopped when you passed, the occasional “friend” who felt obligated to tell you what everyone already knew. He did not even bother being careful anymore, some nights he came home smelling of cheap perfume and simply fell into bed with his back to you, as if daring you to care. You had cared, once. Now you only cared about the tin.
Every Friday Alfie pressed the week’s wages into your palm, sixty shillings, always with an extra little something pressed on top. You thanked him, and every night you knelt on the floorboards, lifted the loose one, and added to the growing hoard. You calculated rent on a clean room somewhere far from this flat, you needed to leave so you could be happy again.
Happiness had become a place that existed only between the hours of four and two, in a warm room that smelled of bread, with a dangerous man who looked at you like you were something worth keeping.
At the bakery, Alfie grew bolder in small ways, placing a hand at the small of your back as he moved past you in the narrow space between benches. A quiet you look tired, love when the shadows under your eyes grew too dark to hide. A long look when you laughed at one of his more ridiculous stories. But at home the fights sharpened, your husband started waiting up and smelling your clothes for rum and the smell of man’s cologne. He started throwing the word whore around when the whisky loosened his tongue. “You’re never here,” he snarled one night, blocking the bedroom door with his body. “I come home to a dark kitchen and an empty bed and the knowledge my wife is off playing house with a gangster. You think I don’t know what men like him do with girls who need money? You think I don’t hear what they say?”
One rainy morning, in the office, Alfie was once again sitting behind his desk with a faraway look in his eyes. He looked like a man wrestling with something far more complicated than the usual calculations of business negotiations. Ollie hovered near the door, holding papers in hand, his expression already pinched with the particular exhaustion that came from trying to keep Alfie on task.
“Alfie,” he ventured carefully. “The Italians. The proposal. We were supposed to be thinking about—”
“Shh. Shhh.” Alfie lifted one large hand without looking up. The gesture was absent, almost gentle. “Ollie, my boy. What do you think about silk stockings?”
The silence that followed was so complete you could have heard the bat of a fly’s wings. Ollie blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Silk stockings,” Alfie repeated, slower this time. “For a woman’s legs. You know the ones. The kind that make a man forget his own name. What do you think?”
Ollie’s face went through several stages of disbelief. “They’re… pretty?”
Alfie finally looked up. “No, you idiot. I meant if it’d make a good gift. For my angel. Something delicate, something that says I see you. Silk stockings, proper ones, not the cheap rubbish.”
Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they did not fall out of his head. He dropped the papers onto the desk with a slap. “Alfie. You were supposed to be thinking about the business proposal the Italians made us, not stockings”.
“I’ve been thinking about her legs,” Alfie confessed, almost dreamily. “ And I keep picturing them in silk, in dark silk. I think they’d look prettier. I think the entire world would look prettier if those particular legs were sheathed in something worthy of them.”
Ollie made a strangled sound. “How have you been thinking about her legs? You’ve never seen that woman’s legs, not once. She’s buttoned up to the chin half the time. You’ve seen her hands and her face and the occasional flash of wrist when she rolls her sleeves. That is the full inventory, not even her ankles.”
Alfie waved the objection away. “Ah, Ollie boy. I don’t need to see them to know they’re beautiful. I can imagine them. I’ve got a very vivid imagination when properly motivated, and that woman motivates me. She walks past and my brain helpfully supplies the rest. It’s become a proper problem, I close my eyes and there they are. I open them and I’m still thinking about them. It’s affecting my concentration, my sleep, my ability to give a single shit about Italian proposals.”
“You’re not her husband. You can’t just buy her stockings. She’d think it's scandalous.”
Alfie leaned back in the chair. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re right. She’d think it's scandalous. Can’t have that. Can’t have my angel thinking old Alfie just wants to get between her legs.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a thick roll of notes, and tossed it across the desk to Ollie. “Right, change of plan. Go out and get me a perfume bottle. An expensive one, something that smells like vanilla. None of that chemical rubbish, and don’t come back until you have it.”
Ollie stared at the money as if it might bite him. “Alfie. You’re not expecting me to go out and buy perfume. That’s not my job. I’m your assistant, not your bloody personal shopper. I handle the books, and the meetings—”
Alfie’s voice dropped into that particular register that brooked no argument. “Your job, Ollie, is to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. Today that happens to be buying perfume. Expensive perfume, for a woman who deserves something that smells like heaven. Now go. Go, boy. Before I start thinking about what else might look good wrapped around her ankles.”
Ollie opened his mouth, and closed it. He snatched the money, knowing he had long ago accepted that working for Alfie required a flexible definition of dignity. “Vanilla,” he muttered. “Right. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Alfie waved him off without looking, already rising from the chair. He reached behind the desk and picked up the bouquet he had bought earlier that morning. He walked to the front of the building where the bakery was.
You looked up as he entered the kitchen. The small smile that always appeared when he walked in, the one you tried and failed to hide. Alfie crossed the floor without hesitation, holding the flowers out in front of him like an offering. He stopped beside you and presented the bouquet with a small courtly bow.
“Beautiful flowers,” he said, “for a beautiful woman. Seemed only right, the world’s been grey enough lately, figured you deserved a bit of colour to brighten up.”
You stared at the flowers. They were stunning, but your hands, still dusted white, hovered uncertainly above them. “Thanks, Alfie. These are beautiful. But I… I can’t have them.”
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes like he was preparing arguments. “Of course you can. They’re flowers, love. Not a proposal of marriage. Just flowers for the woman who makes this place smell like my childhood and my future all at once. Take them, they’re yours.”
You reached out despite yourself, brushing the red petals with your fingers. “I can’t show up home with these,” you said quietly. “A married woman can’t come home with flowers another man gifted her. It’s already bad enough as it is.”
The last part slipped out before you could catch it, an admission you had kept locked behind your teeth for weeks. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and quickly your hands returned to the dough.
Alfie didn’t move, he simply stood there. “What do you mean ‘bad enough,’ huh?” he asked. “Is your husband the jealous type? The kind who sits at home imagining all sorts of things that aren’t happening just because his wife has the audacity to earn her own coin?”
You kept your eyes on the dough, pushing it harder than necessary, as if you were trying to escape the conversation. “It’s nothing… It’s just… he thinks I spend too much time here. And he’s heard what some people say. Gossips, maybe from the ladies at the front… that you spend too much time with me back here. In the back… alone.”
Alfie let out a short laugh, he set the bouquet down on the edge of the bench and leaned in closer. “So he’s an insecure little cunt with an inferiority complex who thinks his wife would cheat on him just because there’s a man close to her,” he said flatly. “A man who can’t keep his own house in order so he points the finger at the bakery instead. Pathetic, truly. Some men are born with small minds and even smaller pricks and they spend their whole lives trying to make the world feel as cramped as they do.”
“Alfie. That’s not nice to say.” His sincerity caught you off guard, it left you feeling even more embarrassed. He was hitting dangerously close to home, unearthing truths you had buried beneath layers of practiced smiles and half-spoken excuses.
He waved a handd. “Nice has very little to do with the truth, love. I’ve met a thousand men like him. They talk loud and wonder why their wives start looking for doors. Tell me the truth.” His voice dropped, softer now but no less serious. “Does he ever hurt you more than with words? Does he dare put a hand on you? Because if he does, if that sorry bastard has ever laid so much as a finger on you in anger, you tell me right now. I’ll rearrange his face personally, until not even his mother could recognize him.”
You shook your head quickly, too quickly, making the loose curl of hair bounce against your temple. “No. No, it’s not like that. We just fight a lot. He yells and says things… ugly things. About me being here, about you, about how a proper wife should be home making his lunch instead of… whatever he imagines I’m doing back here with you.”
Alfie felt his jaw tighten, he reached out without thinking and brushed a streak of flour from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “He yells at you? What does he tell you? Don’t spare me the details, love. I’ve heard worse, I’ve said worse. But never to a woman like you.”
You hesitated, but eventually the words came out in pieces, quiet and ashamed. “He tells me that people whisper about us being here for hours… that I’m making him look like a fool. A fool who has a whore for a wife.”
Alfie listened without interrupting. His expression darkened with every word you said. When you fell silent, he let the quiet stretch for a long moment. “A man yelling at his wife such things,” he said at last, almost wistfully. “I’ve always thought it should be the other way around. A man making his wife scream, and not in anger exactly.”
Your face burned scarlet, making you turn back to the dough with fierce concentration, kneading as if your life depended on it. “We’re just going through… a rough patch,” you managed. “That’s all. Marriages have them. It’ll pass.”
Alfie made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Rough patch my arse. That man doesn’t love you if he treats you like that. If he can look at this face, sculpted by god himself on one of his better days, and this smile that lights up the whole fucking room, and still chooses to yell?” He shook his head. “No, that’s not love. You deserve better, love. You deserve someone who sees you and thinks the sun rose just to have something to compete with.”
You swallowed hard. “It’s not appropriate that I talk of these matters anyway,” you said. “They’re private. Between a husband and wife. I shouldn’t be… burdening you with them.”
Alfie stepped closer. The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, until the scent of him wrapped around you. “Love, you see I’ve grown quite fond of you. More than fond, proper attached. And I can see the little sadness you try so hard to hide in your eyes, the way it flickers when you think no one’s looking. And it makes me think that you deserve a man who can make you scream with joy. Who’d never let you shed a single tear unless it was from laughing too hard or feeling so much pleasure so hard you forget your own name. A man who would burn the world down before he let it dim that light in you.”
The bakery kitchen felt suddenly too small. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it over the ovens. You wiped your hands on your apron, and forced your voice steady. “Thanks. But like I said… my husband and I are going through a rough patch. Things will get better.”
Alfie studied you for a long moment, the way your fingers twisted in the edge of your apron like they needed something to hold onto. He didn’t look convinced. The moment stretched until a knock sounded on the door that led from the kitchen to the back.
“Alfie,” Ollie’s voice came through the wood, full of exasperation and something close to panic. “Sabini is here for the meeting. He’s waiting, and he’s not the patient sort. You know how he gets.”
Alfie did not turn immediately, he simply let out a theatrical sigh. “Entertain him, Ollie,” he called back. “Magic tricks, remember?”
You could hear Ollie’s muffled groan through the door. “Would you stop playing house and come handle business like you did before all of this nonsense? The whole bloody business is waiting back there while you sit down here watching her knead dough.”
Alfie snapped his head toward the door. His expression darkened in an instant. “Ollie,” he said, dropping his voice to a low and dangerous register, “I’m gonna start shooting at the door, so you’d better not be standing there in the next ten seconds. Count with me, my boy. Ten… nine…”
Footsteps retreated rapidly down the corridor, and the knock did not come again. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, it broke some of the tension, though not all of it. “I think Ollie’s not particularly fond of me. Every time he sees us back here he looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”
Alfie turned back to you, the storm in his face clearing as quickly. “He just thinks I’ll give his job to you,” he said, twitching the corner of his mouth into a crooked smile. “Poor Ollie. Loyal as a dog and twice as anxious. He sees you here and he imagines you’re gonna take his place. Can’t blame the lad, really. You do have that effect.”
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the blood still warming your cheeks from the earlier conversation. “Tell Ollie he has nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t take his job. I’m happy here. With the dough, with the ovens. With…” You hesitated, then finished softly, “With the way things are in this room.”
Alfie reached out and brushed another stray streak of flour from your cheek, his thumb lingered there this time, tracing the line of your jaw with a gentleness that felt at odds with the man who had just threatened to shoot through a door. “I should give you a rise,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
You blinked, feeling surprised. “Why? I’ve only been working here a month.”
“A month is enough,” he replied. “More than enough. The sales in the bakery have doubled. People are talking, the best bread in Camden, they say. It’s all thanks to you, love. You walked in here and you changed the whole bloody atmosphere.”
You smiled then, a real one, shy but genuine. Alfie went very still, dropping his gaze to your mouth, then lifted again, looking hungrier.
“God,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That smile again. That fucking smile that makes a man think things he should have no right to be thinking about. Things that end with my hands in places they’ve got no business going.”
He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you vanished. His body pressed forward until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Alfie lifted his hand, cupping the side of your face with surprising tenderness, brushing your lower lip with his thumb.
“I’ve been driving myself insane ever since you walked into my life,” he said with devastating honesty. “Tell me you feel the pull between us too. Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind. Tell me—”
Before you could answer, before you could even draw breath, Alfie grabbed you. He slid his large hand to the back of your neck, pulling you in with undeniable strength. He wrapped his other arm around your waist, pressing your body tight against his solid bulk. The kiss was hungry, full of desperation. He devoured your mouth like a man who had been starving for weeks, sweeping his tongue in with heat, his lips claiming yours with a groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
The taste of him, of rum and desire, flooded your senses. His body was unyielding, holding you flush against him, splaying one hand across your lower back as if afraid you might vanish. For one dizzying moment you melted into it. Into the warmth, the strength, the way his mouth moved like he had been dreaming of this exact kiss since the day you first brought him that poppy-seed cake.
Then reality crashed back. You pulled away, gasping, pressing your hands against his chest. Your lips felt swollen, and your heart hammered wildly. “I can’t do this, Alfie,” you whispered, though your voice was shaky. “I’m married. I’m still married… and this is wrong.”
Alfie did not release you immediately, he rested his forehead against yours, still holding you close with his arm around your waist. “Your mouth,” he murmured, tracing your lower lip again with his thumb, “is better than I even thought about. Softer, sweeter, like it was made for this. A glorious experience, love. A fucking revelation. I could spend the rest of my days kissing you and still die wondering how I ever lived without it.”
The words sent another rush of heat through you. But you stepped back, putting the bench between you once more, though it felt like far too little distance. “Please stop saying these things,” you said, barely above a whisper. You touched your lips instinctively, as if you could wipe away the evidence of what had just happened. “I can’t… we can’t.”
Before either of you could say more, the knock came again, sharper this time, more insistent. Ollie’s voice filtered through the door. “Alfie. Sabini’s getting impatient. And he’s brought men. You need to come up. Now.”
Alfie let out a frustrated growl. He straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with hands that still trembled slightly from the force of the kiss. “I won’t stop thinking about this,” he said quietly. “Not for a second. Not while I’m back there dealing with Sabini and his bullshit. Not tonight when I’m alone in bed. Not ever, love. You’ve ruined me for anything less.”
He turned toward the door, pausing once to glance back at you, at your swollen lips and the way your hands had returned to your apron like an anchor. Then he was gone, leaving the kitchen suddenly too quiet, but far too full of the ghost of his mouth on yours and the flowers still sitting on the bench.
The walk home from the bakery felt longer than usual that evening. Your feet moved on autopilot along the familiar route, but your mind was miles away, or rather, still back in the bakery kitchen, pressed against Alfie’s solid chest with his mouth claiming yours like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
The kiss replayed in relentless detail. The way his large hand had cupped the back of your neck, the heat of his body pulling you flush against him. The taste of him, the groan that had vibrated from his chest into yours. For those few stolen seconds you had felt wanted. Not only wanted, but desired and seen. Not as a convenience or a disappointment or a body that had failed at its one expected duty, but as something precious, something worth devouring.
You had been lying to yourself for weeks, you realised now, as your key turned in the lock of the small flat. Hiding how good it felt to have a man look at you the way Alfie did, like you were the centre of the room, the reason he lingered for hours watching your hands move through dough. It had been so long since anyone had made you feel wanted and cherished in even the smallest ways. Your husband’s touch had vanished years ago, as if your body had become a reminder of failure rather than a source of comfort or pleasure. But Alfie made you feel like a woman again, like someone worth the risk of a hard kiss in the back of a bakery while the world waited.
God, you felt the pull between you too whenever he stepped close. The way your skin remembered his fingertips on your cheek, the way your laugh came easier around him. But you were still married. The ring on your finger was a fact. You needed to focus on saving, on getting your own place and redoing your life from the ground up. Love, or whatever intoxicating thing this was with Alfie, could wait until you were free. Until you stood on your own two feet without needing to explain yourself to anyone.
The flat was quiet when you stepped inside, you set your bag down and rolled up your sleeves, moving through the familiar evening tasks. You tidied the small kitchen, filled the basin with cold water and began washing the clothes that had piled up.
That was when you saw them. Lipstick stains on the collar of one of his shirts. A cheap red that did not belong to you. Another smear lower down, near the buttons, as if someone had pressed his lips there, lingering for a moment. You stared at them for a long moment, the cold water dripping from your hands onto the floor. You were used to this, the whispers, the late nights, the way he came home reeking of other women and still had the nerve to accuse you of the same.
You wrung the shirt out with more force than necessary, watching the water run pinkish-red down the drain. Why, you wondered, were you still loyal to him when he had never once been loyal to you? Why did you cling to the vows when he treated them like suggestions? And still you stayed, still you washed his shirts with another woman’s lipstick on them.
You finished the laundry in silence, hung the clothes to dry and prepared a simple supper you knew he would barely touch. Night fell fully, after changing into your nightdress, you slipped into bed, the sheets felt cool and lonely on your side. Sleep came in fits, haunted by the ghost of Alfie’s mouth on yours and the memory of how safe and alive you had felt in his arms.
Hours passed before the door finally opened. Your husband stumbled in later than usual, the familiar scent of cheap perfume clinging to him. He did not look at you, he never did anymore on nights like this. He simply shed his coat, kicked off his boots, and fell into bed on his side with his back to you, the smell of another woman filling the small space between you.
You lay there in the dark, staring at the crack in the ceiling. The question turned over and over in your mind. Why were you refusing Alfie’s advances when your husband had never refused any whore?
The kiss burned in your memory again, the way Alfie had held you like you were something precious, the way he had looked at you afterward, like the entire world could burn and he would still choose your mouth. He saw you, wanted you, made you feel desired in a way your husband had not in years. And yet here you were, loyal to a marriage that had become nothing but a cage of resentment.
***
Alfie sat alone in his office long before the first grey light touched the rooftops. Sleep had become impossible, the bedroom had felt like a trap where every shadow still carried the ghost of your mouth against his.
The office door opened, and Ollie stepped in, holding papers under one arm, already mid-sentence.
“Alfie—”
Alfie had his fingers steepled under his chin, with an almost beatific smile spreading across his face. The smile was wide enough to show even his teeth at the back. “Shut up, Ollie.” The words came out soft, almost dreamy, without the usual bite. Alfie did not open his eyes. “I’m thinking.”
Ollie stopped and stared at the expression on his boss’s face. Working for Alfie, Ollie had grown accustomed to most of his eccentricities, but this was a face he’d never seen before. “Thinking about what? Why are you smiling like that? Is it because of what Sabini said yesterday about the docks, or—”
Alfie opened his eyes, they were slightly unfocused, as if he were still somewhere else entirely. He raised one hand in a grand gesture that took in the entire room. “What? Sabini? No. God, no. I’m smiling because of something much deeper, my dear Ollie. I’m smiling because today the birds are singing a better melody, because the sun rays are warmer in this miserable city. Because the air is fresher and the flowers are brighter. I’m smiling, Ollie, because yesterday I tasted the sweetest lips I have ever had the privilege of putting my mouth on.”
He stood, in two heavy steps he was around the desk and had one arm draped around Ollie’s thin shoulders, pulling the younger man into a half-embrace. “I had an epiphany yesterday,” Alfie continued. “Proper revelation. She’s the woman of my life. She’s the one. The absolute, undeniable, end-of-the-fucking-story one. I looked at her and I thought, Alfie Solomons, you bastard, you’ve been wandering around this earth collecting debts and breaking bones and all this time the actual point of the whole exercise was this woman.”
Ollie stood rigid under the arm, holding the papers crushed against his chest. “What? Wait… what lips? Did you… did you kiss her?”
Alfie released him only far enough to place both hands on Ollie’s shoulders and look him dead in the eyes. The smile had not faded, if anything it had grown wider. “It wasn’t a kiss, Ollie. Let’s not diminish the thing with ordinary language. It was a revelation, a fucking sacrament. It was the moment the universe stopped pretending it was indifferent and decided to hand me something worth keeping.”
Ollie blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. You kissed her or not?”
“Yes,” Alfie said, simply. “I kissed her.”
“Okay, fantastic. Congratulations. But we still need to sort the—”
Alfie waved the interruption away, already pacing again. “And I fear it’s not enough. One kiss only made me thirstier. That woman has me bewitched, Ollie. A touch of her lips and I can’t stop until I’ve had the whole thing. Do you think she wants me too? The same way I do? With the same stupid, helpless, all-consuming hunger?”
Ollie looked like he'd been asked to solve an equation in a language he did not speak. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Well, go ask her,” Alfie said, then immediately held up both hands. “Wait, no. Don’t go. I need to give her time to think. She pushed me yesterday when we kissed. Of course she didn’t mean it like that. It wasn’t a ‘get away from me you ugly bastard’ push. It was a nice one, a little reluctant. She feels it, I know she does.”
Ollie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe she pushed you because she’s a married woman. Out of all the women in London, you chose a married one.”
Alfie stopped pacing. He turned, and for a moment the theatrical light in his eyes dimmed into something colder. “What if we kill her husband?”
Ollie considered it with weary professionalism, like he'd heard worse suggestions. “Well… I guess we’ve killed men for less.”
Alfie nodded slowly, as if filing the option away for later. Then the softer expression returned. He stepped closer again. “Ollie, be honest with me. Am I worthy of her? Look at me and tell me the truth. This face, this body, tese hands that have done things I don’t always like remembering. Am I the sort of man a woman like that could look at and think, yes, him, I’ll take him if it means being looked at the way he looks at me?”
Ollie hesitated, he glanced at the door as if calculating the distance to escape, then sighed. “…Sure. Why wouldn’t she like you too?”
Alfie’s face lit up again. “I knew it. Yes. I knew it by the way she kissed me. She feels like I do.” He clapped his hands together once. “I’m gonna write her a letter. Telling her how I feel. And then you’ll go down there and give it to her, personally. Watch her face when she reads it and report back.”
Ollie rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in his head. He turned toward the door, already defeated, already calculating how many more hours of this madness he would have to endure before the day improved.
“Tell me when you’re done,” he muttered with his hand on the doorknob. “And try not to propose marriage in the first paragraph.”
Alfie sat at his desk for nearly an hour. The ink blotched on places where emotion had made him press too hard. When he finished, he read it twice, folded it with care, and sealed it simply with a drop of wax from the candle on his desk. He called for Ollie without raising his voice much above a murmur. The younger man appeared in the doorway looking like he had already aged another year.
“Take this down to her,” Alfie said, holding out the folded letter between two fingers. “Personally. Give it to her when she’s alone and watch her face while she reads it. Then come back and tell me everything. I want to know if she smiled, if she touched her lips, or if she cried”
Ollie took the letter like it might explode. “You’re really doing this.”
“I’m really doing this,” Alfie confirmed, the smile from earlier still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Now go.”
Ollie walked though the hallway with the air of a man marching to his own execution. The bakery was in full swing when he pushed open the door to the back kitchen area. You were at the central bench with your sleeves rolled high and your hair pinned back with a few rebellious hairs escaping to cling to your damp temples.
Ollie stopped a few feet away, holding the letter between thumb and forefinger. “Alfie got this for you,” he said with disapproval. There was no warmth in it, just the weary resentment of someone who had watched his carefully ordered world tilt toward chaos because of you
You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. “What is it?”
“A letter,” Ollie said as he extended it toward you. “Obviously. From him.”
You took the letter. The paper was thick, good quality, still faintly warm from Alfie’s hands. Your name was written across the front in his bold script. Your fingers trembled slightly as you broke the seal.
Ollie lingered for a moment, watching you, then muttered something under his breath about “playing house” and retreated to the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He did not leave entirely, he was waiting to see your reaction, only to report back with the precision Alfie would demand.
My dearest angel,
Or should I call you love? Because that is what you have become to me in these short weeks… love. Not the cheap or easy kind, but the one that’s real. The kind that makes a man sit in his office with his eyes closed and smile like a fool because the world suddenly feels worth inhabiting again.
I kissed you yesterday. I have not stopped thinking about it since. Your mouth, God help me, was softer than I had any right to imagine. It tasted like the best parts of my childhood and all the things I never knew I was missing until you walked into my bakery. When I pulled you close I felt the whole of Camden disappear, none of it mattered. Only you. Only the way you fit against me for that brief and perfect moment before your conscience reminded you of the ring on your finger.
I have kissed women before. I will not insult either of us by pretending otherwise. But I have never kissed a woman and felt the entire architecture of my life rearrange itself around the simple fact of her existence. That is what you did to me in the space of one kiss. One glorious, incomplete, far-too-short kiss.
I know you are married. I know it and I hate it. I have thought: this woman deserves a man who sees her as the miracle she is. A man who would burn the world down before he let anyone dim that light in her eyes.
You feel it too. I know you do. Tell me I am not imagining it. Tell me that when I kissed you, you kissed me back for more than just a moment. Tell me that the push was not because you wanted me gone, but because you were afraid of how much you wanted me to stay.
I am not a good man. I have done things that would make angels weep. But for you I could try to be better, or at least better at the things that matter. Take your time. Think. I will not rush you, but know this: every morning when I come down to that little kingdom you have made of my bakery, I will be hoping. Hoping that one day you will look at me and decide that the ring on your finger is not worth more than the way I look at you.
Until then, I remain yours in every way that matters,
Alfie
You read it twice. Then a third time, more slowly, tracing the ink with your fingers as if you could feel the heat of his hand through the paper. Your heart was beating too hard, you could feel it in your throat, in the tips of your fingers, in the space just beneath your ribs
You felt wanted. Properly, fiercely, unapologetically wanted. Not as a convenience, not as a body that had failed to produce a child, not as a wife who was expected to make dinner and warm a bed while her husband chased other women. Alfie looked at you and saw something rare, something worth the risk.
Ollie cleared his throat from the doorway, his arms still crossed. “Well? Are you going to stand there staring at it until the bread burns, or should I tell him you’ve gone speechless like every other woman who reads one of his letters?”
You folded the letter carefully, pressing it against your chest for a moment as if you could press the words into your skin. When you finally looked up, your voice came out softer than you intended, almost shy.
“Tell him this is really… thoughtful,” you said, still prssing the letter gently against your chest, as if you could press the sincerity of his words into your skin. “And I will think about it. Tell him that. I need time. But… it’s thoughtful. I liked it.”
Ollie nodded once, though his expression suggested he would rather be doing almost anything else. “Right. Thoughtful. I’ll pass it along.” He turned on his heel without another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a click.
Upstairs, Alfie was not waiting patiently. He paced the length of his office like a caged animal. The letter had been a risk, an honest outpouring that left him more exposed than he had been in years, and the waiting was torture. When the door finally opened and Ollie stepped through, Alfie was already at the threshold, grabbing the younger man by the shoulders with both hands before he could even cross the room properly.
“Well?” Alfie demanded, searching Ollie’s face with ferocious intensity. “What did she say? Did she like it? Did she cry? Did she smile? Did she press it to her chest like it was something precious? Tell me everything, Ollie. Every single detail. Leave nothing out.”
Ollie pried himself free with a long-suffering sigh, smoothing his jacket where Alfie’s grip had wrinkled it. “I do not appreciate being an errand boy between the two of you,” he said with irritation. “I handle the books, the meetings. I do not handle love letters. This is beneath me. This is—”
“Shut up, Ollie,” Alfie interrupted as he began pacing again. The energy rolling off him was almost tangible. “Tell me what she said. Exactly. Word for word if you can manage it. I need to know. I need to know if I’ve scared her off.”
Ollie exhaled through his nose with resignation. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms once more. “She said it was really… thoughtful. And that she will think about it. She needs time, that’s it. She looked a bit overwhelmed. And yes, she pessed the letter to her chest and read it more than once. But she didn’t cry, not that I saw. So I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.”
Alfie stopped pacing, he turned slowly, the wide smile from earlier creeping back across his face. “Thoughtful,” he repeated, tasting the word. “She said it was thoughtful. Not terrifying, not inappropriate. Not ‘how dare you, you mad cunt.’ Thoughtful, that’s something, Ollie. That’s more than something, that’s a crack in the wall She’s thinking about it. She pressed it to her chest, my words against her heart. She’s going to think about it.”
He dropped heavily into his chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “One kiss and she’s thinking. God, Ollie. That woman. She’s got me by the throat and she doesn’t even know it. I’ll give her time. A day, maybe two. Then I’ll find another way to remind her that there’s a man who looks at her like she hung the moon and who would rather die than make her shed a tear of sadness.”
Ollie pushed off the desk, heading for the door. “Just… try not to burn the place down while you’re mooning over her. Or get us all killed, some of us still have work to do.”
Alfie waved him off without looking, already reaching for another sheet of paper, already composing the next message in his head.
Two days later, the frantic rhythm of preparation before Shabbat had you working longer than usual. The trays slid in and out of the heat as the front of the shop bustled with last minute customers seeking the last fresh loaves before the sun dipped.
By the time the light outside began to soften, your shoulders ached, your feet burned, and your mind was a tangled mess of the memory of the kiss you'd shared with Alfie days ago. The words written in his love letter still echoed in your mind, but Alfie had not come down since you both kissed, not once. The absence had felt louder than his presence ever did, it left space that made you wonder whether he regretted the press of his mouth on yours, or whether he was simply trying to forget the way you had pulled away.
You untied your apron, folded it neatly, and reached for your coat, ready to step back into the grey streets. But the door to the back room opened.
Alfie’s eyes found you immediately. “How are you doing, love?” he asked as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a click. “After... everything that happened between us.”
You busied your hands with the last of the trays, avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “About to go home.”
Alfie crossed the room slowly and stopped close, leaning one hip against the bench where you had stood kneading only minutes before. The flowers from three days ago were still there, slightly wilted now but stubbornly bright. He picked one up, turning the stem between his fingers as if it held answers.
“The kiss,” he said, slow enough to taste every syllable. “I don’t regret it for one second. Not one. Your lips, love… they’ve been the only thing I’ve been thinking about. They consumed me. The softness, the way they gave under mine like they’d been waiting. Like they knew exactly where they belonged. I’ve sat in my office all day and all I could see was your mouth, all I could taste was you. Tell me you’ve thought about it too, don’t lie to me, and for fuck’s sake don’t lie to yourself. I felt the hunger in your mouth. You were starving for it, same as me.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs, you turned away, folding the apron again though it was already neat. “Alfie, we need to pretend that didn’t happen. We have to. I’m married. This… this can’t go anywhere. It’s wrong.”
He let out a rough sound, like a growl of laughter. “Pretend? Oh, love, that’s a good one. Tell me you’ve thought about it too. I saw it in your eyes when you pulled away, I felt it in the way your hands pressed against my chest but didn’t pushh, not really, not like you meant it. Your husband, does he let you starve like that? Does he have this pretty thing all for himself, this woman who bakes like an angel and laughs like heaven, and still lets you go hungry?”
The words hit too close, you remembered the lipstick stains, the empty bed, the nights he chose other beds. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Alfie… this… we shouldn’t.”
He moved then, faster than you thought a man his size could. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he pulled you close against the solid heat of his body. He slid his other hand into your hair, tilting your head as his mouth found the side of your neck. The kiss there was hot, open-mouthed, grazing your skin with his teeth just enough to make you gasp. He held you pressed tight, devouring the curve of your throat.
“Tell me the truth,” he murmured against your skin. “Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself. I can see the sadness in a woman’s eyes, love, I can feel the hunger in her mouth. A woman who’s not happy at home, who’s not satisfied. Who lies awake wondering why the man who vowed to cherish her treats her like an afterthought. He makes you deeply unhappy, I see it. Every day I see it, and it makes me want to burn the whole fucking world down until someone treats you the way you deserve.”
The memory of the shirts flooded back, the cheap red lipstick, the cloying perfume on his clothes the other night. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “It’s not just the fights,” you whispered. “He… he stopped loving me after I lost our baby. Stopped looking at me, stopped touching me. Like it was my fault, like my body had failed him and that was the end of it.”
Alfie stilled against your neck, then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his large hand cupped your face with surprising tenderness. The dark with lust eyes were soft now, almost pained. “I’m so sorry, love,” he said, gentler than you had ever heard him. “You didn’t deserve that, not one bit of it. No woman deserves a man so weak he lets her suffer alone in her grief and then blames her for her own sorrow. A real man would’ve held you through it. Would’ve crried the weight with you instead of turning away like a coward. You lost a child, and you carried that pain. He left you to carry it alone, that’s not a husband.”
The tears pricked at your eyes, you tried to blink them back, but one escaped anyway, tracing down your cheek. Alfie brushed it away with his thumb. “I know he sees other women,” you continued, barely above a whisper. “That’s why I took the job, that’s why I’m saving every shilling. To leave, to have something of my own. To stand on my own feet without him.”
Alfie tightened around you in an act of protectiveness. “Why be loyal to someone who doesn’t respect you?” he asked. “Why tie yourself to someone who treats his vows like they’re optional, who comes home reeking of other women and still has the nerve to call you unfaithful for standing in here? Loyalty is a two-way street, love. And he’s been walking the wrong way for years. You deserve better, you deserve someone who sees the miracle in you every single day. Who would rather burn than let you carry that sadness alone.”
He kissed you then. Not the hard, devouring kiss from days ago, but something slower. His mouth claimed yours with hunger, tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue until you opened your mouth for him. He kept one hand at the small of your back, pressing you tight against the warmth of his body, while the other cradled your face like you were something fragile and infinitely precious. For long, dizzying moments there was only Alfie, only the heat of him, only the way he kissed you like he had been waiting lifetimes for exactly this.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly. “Tell me you feel it too,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not the only one going mad in here.”
“You’re not.”
Alfie’s hands moved then, sliding one palm down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your dress, pressing you tighter against him. The other hand roamed lower, cupping the swell of your hip, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His mouth found yours again, not so gentle this time, but hungry, as if he could drink down every hidden longing you had buried for years. He kissed you like he owned you, like every inch of your body had been waiting for his claim. His hands explored without shame, brushing the undersides of your breasts through the layers of cloth, then down again to grip your thighs, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
“Fuck, love,” he growled against your mouth. “If I told you all the things I’ve thought about you… all the filthy, depraved little fantasies that have kept me awake at night since the day you walked in here… you’d probably slap me across the face and call me a degenerate. A proper degenerate. But God help me, I can’t stop. Can’t stop imagining these hands of yours wrapped around me. Can’t stop seeing you bent over this bench, moaning my name while I show you what a real man can do.”
He grabbed you then, effortlessly lifting you with a grunt of effort and setting you on the edge of the wide wooden bench. You parted your legs instinctively as he stepped between them, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Your legs followed, locking around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs as if your body had decided for you. He was hard already, you could feel the line of his erection pressing against you through his trousers, insistent and hot. Alfie groaned at the contact, rolling his hips forward, grinding against your core in a slow motion that made you whimper into his mouth.
“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look down at the way your body had opened for him. He ran his hands up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher and stroking the sensitive skin just above your stockings. “Your body’s been starving for this, love. Starving for a man who sees it, who wants it. Who’s been mad thinking about how soft you’d feel under him and how wet you’d get just from a kiss like that.”
“I want you,” you whispered, the words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice was shaky with all the need you felt from years of denial. “So much, Alfie. God, I want you.”
A triumphant sound rumbled in his chest. “I know, angel. I know you do.” He tightened his hands on your hips, holding you in place as he rocked against you again, the friction sending sparks up your spine. “And I’m gonna show you how a real man treats a woman, how I’d treat you every single day if you were mine. Slow when you need slow, hard when you need hard. I’d worship this body until you forgot every cold night that bastard ever gave you”
His fingers found the buttons of your dress, the simple row running down the front. With a growl of impatience he ripped them open, the delicate fabric giving way with a series of sharp pops that echoed in the kitchen. The cool air kissed your skin as he pushed the dress off your shoulders, tugging it down your arms until it pooled around your waist. You sat there in your brassiere and knickers, the garters and stockings still clipped neatly in place, the lace and silk suddenly feeling far too exposed under his gaze. Alfie stepped back just enough to look at you fully, his eyes raking over every inch.
“Fuck me,” he breathed the words. His hands returned, running all over your body with hunger, sliding his palms up your sides, hooking his thumbs under the edges of your brassiere to trace the swell of your breasts, then down over the curve of your waist and hips. He cupped your breasts through the thin fabric, squeezing them gently, circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. “You’re even more delightful than any image my imagination ever created. Such a beautiful creature, so fucking appealing. Soft where you should be soft, strong where you’ve had to be strong. Look at you, like you were made to drive a man mad. You’ve got my cock so fucking hard it hurts, love. Proper aching for you. Been aching since the first day.”
He leaned in again, his mouth finding your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone, nipping at the tops of your breasts as his hands continued their exploration. Alfie slipped one hand between your legs, cupping you through the thin knickers, feeling the heat and dampness there with a groan of pure satisfaction. His fingers stroked you slowly, pressing the fabric against your most sensitive spot until your hips jerked against his hand.
As if he couldn’t wait another second, Alfie hooked his fingers into the fabric of your brassiere. With a growl, he pulled it down, freeing your breasts to the air. “Fuck, look at these,” he murmured, cupping them immediately, lifting and squeezing them with just the right pressure, circling the sensitive peaks with his thumbs. “Perfect. Fucking perfect. Been dreaming about these tits since the first time I saw you. So soft, made for my mouth.”
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard enough to make you arch against him with a sharp cry. His tongue swirled, licked, teased in wet circles that sent sparks down to your core. He massaged the other breast with his hand, rolling the nipple between fingers, pinching just enough to border on pain before soothing it with his palm. All the while his other hand stayed between your legs, cupping your cunt and pressing the heel of his palm against your clit in grinding circles that matched the rhythm of his mouth.
You rocked against his hand desperately, grinding down on the pressure, chasing the friction as your hips rolled in needy little movements. Alfie groaned around your nipple before he switched sides, sucking the other breast deep into his mouth while he kept working you, cupping and stroking, feeling the growing wetness soak through the fabric.
“Tell me,” he rasped against your skin. “Tell me how much you want me, love. Say it. I want to hear it from that pretty mouth while you’re grinding on my hand.”
The words spilled out of you, breathless between soft moans. “I want you so much, Alfie… everything aches for you. My whole body… it’s been so long… I need you. Please.”
A satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He released your nipple with a wet pop, looking up at you with glittering eyes. “That’s my good girl. I know, angel. I know you do. And I’m gonna soothe that ache, every bit of it. When I’m done with you, the only thing that’s gonna hurt is gonna be your throat from screaming my name.”
Hie moved his hands lower, tracing the tops of your stockings, hooking his fingers under the clips of your garters one by one, undoing them with care. The silk whispered against your skin as he rolled the stockings down, peeling them off like he was unwrapping something precious. His palms followed, stroking every inch of newly bared skin, your calves, knees, and the soft insides of your thighs, as if he could not get enough of touching you.
“You’re a vision,” he murmured with awe. “Such a beautiful creature. So soft and ready for me. Look at you, all laid out for me like a feast I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to taste.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your knickers and slid them down your legs, baring your cunt completely. The air hit your slick and dripping folds, making you shiver. Alfie stared, transfixed, as he traced the seam of your pussy with one finger, gathering the wetness that had already coated your thighs.
“Fuck me, you’re soaked,” he groaned. “So wet and slick and dripping for me already. This pretty little cunt is weeping for attention, love. Been neglected for far too long.” He looked up at you, his eyes were a dark shade of blue now, full of lust. “You want me to eat this cunt, don’t you? Want my mouth on you?”
You nodded frantically, twitching your hips toward his hand. “Yes… please…”
He smiled. “Ask me nice, angel. Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want.”
A whine escaped your throat, the need was louder than the embarrassment. “C-could you… could you eat my cunt, Alfie? Please?”
“With pleasure,” he dropped to his knees on the wooden floor in front of the bench, a man of his size and power willingly kneeling for you. He gripped your thighs and spread them wide, opening you completely to his gaze.
His breath ghosted over your exposed pussy, making you tremble. “Keep them open like this,” he ordered in a commanding tone. “Wide for me. Scream if you need to, pull my hair, wrap your legs around my neck and ride my face. But don’t you dare close these thighs. I want all of you, every drop. Understood?”
You nodded breathlessly, bracing your arms behind you on the bench as you watched him. He started slow, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your knees, then higher along your thighs, his beard scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin. He kissed your mound, lips brushing the soft curls there, then lower, feather-light kisses along your outer lips, teasing and tasting the slick that had gathered there.
Then, he finally dragged his tongue slowly up your slit in a long and broad stroke from your entrance to your clit that made your back arch and a broken moan tear from your throat.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he groaned against your core. “Sweet and wet. Been starving for this too, haven’t you, love? This pretty cunt hasn’t been properly worshipped in years. But I’m here now. Gonna take my time, gonna lick every inch until you’re shaking.”
He sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, flicking his tongue in circles. Alfie ate your cunt like a madman, ravenous, unrelenting, completely lost in the taste of you. He sealed his mouth over your dripping folds with wet sounds that filled the quiet kitchen, thrusting his tongue deep inside you before dragging it back up to circle your swollen clit with firm strokes. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, then lapping slowly as if he could not get enough of your taste.
He used his large hands to grip your thighs with bruising strength, digging his fingers into the soft flesh to keep them spread wide open for him. No matter how much you trembled or tried to close them instinctively from the overwhelming sensation, he held you firmly in place, refusing to let you hide even an inch of yourself from his mouth. “That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, the words sounding muffled. “Keep these pretty thighs open for me, love. I’m not done feasting, not by a long fucking shot.”
You were moaning openly now, shameless sounds spilling from your lips as your hands fisted in his hair. “Alfie— oh God, don’t stop… please don’t stop…” The words came out broken and desperate, it was years of denial pouring out of you in a flood.
As you bucked his hips against his face, chasing the pressure of his tongue, you looked down, and the sight nearly undid you completely, Alfie on his knees between your spread legs, his eyes half-lidded with lust, his beard glistening with your wetness, and his mouth buried in your cunt like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He looked up at that exact moment, locking his gaze with yours while his tongue continued its devastating work, sucking hard on your clit. The eye contact was intimate, you saw the raw hunger there, the possession, and it made your walls clench around nothing.
The intensity pushed you over the edge of control, and you started grinding slowly on his face, rolling your hips in needy circles, using his mouth, his tongue, his beard for friction. The coarse hair tickled and scraped deliciously against your sensitive folds and inner thighs. With a broken cry, you let yourself fall back onto the wooden bench, spreading your arms out above your head, arching as you gave yourself over completely.
Alfie groaned in approval, sliding his hands under you, grabbing your ass with both palms to squeeze the soft flesh, kneading it as he lifted your hips higher, bringing your dripping pussy even closer to his face. He held you there like an offering, devouring you with ferocity.
You were whimpering louder now, the sounds turning into high cries that echoed off the walls. “Alfie— fuck— I’m so close… don’t stop, please don’t stop…” Your thighs shook violently around his head as the orgasm built, ready to explode. Every nerve in your body felt alight, years of neglect and loneliness unraveling under the assault of his mouth.
He growled and moaned into your cunt, the vibrations pushing you right to the edge. “Cum for me, angel,” he rasped against your folds. “Cum on my tongue like the starving girl you are. Give it to me, let me taste how much you’ve needed this.”
The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was intense, shattering, the first one you had experienced in years. Your whole body seized, your back bowing off the bench as the pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your cunt clenched around nothing, gushing wetly against his mouth as he continued licking and sucking you through every pulse and aftershock, drinking down every drop like a man dying of thirst.
Alfie held you through it all, his grip on your ass firm, never letting your hips drop, never stopping the soothing laps of his tongue as the pleasure finally began to ebb. He kissed your swollen folds gently, murmuring praises against your skin between soft licks. “That’s my good girl… fucking beautiful when you cum for me. Look at you shaking and dripping and mine. First of many, love. I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
You lay there on the bench, with your chest heaving and your body limping and trembling, as Alfie continued to kneel between your spread thighs, pressing worshipful kisses to your inner thighs and mound.
Alfie finally rose, towering over you. He wiped his glistening beard with the back of his hand, looking down at your spent form spread out on the bench.
“Eating this cunt is a biblical experience, love. Proper fucking revelation. I thought nothing in this godforsaken world tasted better than those cakes you bake. But this?” He dragged two thick fingers through your slick folds, gathering your wetness and his saliva, then brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with an obscene groan. “This cunt is better. Sweeter, wetter, more addictive. I could die wondering how I ever lived without the taste of you on my tongue.”
You were still catching your breath, but something wild and long-denied had broken loose inside you. You sat up, grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. Your fingers worked frantically at the buttons, popping them open one by one until the fabric parted to reveal the broad, hairy expanse of his chest. You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and ran your hands all over him, tracing the muscle of his shoulders, the softness of his belly, the hair that covered his chest and trailed down toward his waistband.
Alfie chuckled against your mouth, the sound amused and utterly pleased. “Look at you,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip. “Someone’s in a rush, huh? Greedy little thing. One taste and you’re ready to devour the rest of me. I like that, fucking like that.”
You kissed him harder, tangling your tongues together in a kiss that grew messy and desperate. While your mouths moved together, you dropped your fingers lower, fumbling with his belt. The leather gave way, and you popped the button of his trousers, tugging the zipper down and shoving both trousers and underwear down his thighs in one eager motion.
Alfie’s cock sprang free, thick, and already leaking at the flushed tip. It was substantial, veined and hard, with a thatch of dark hair at the base that made your mouth water. You stared for a moment, as it bobbed heavily between you.
Alfie watched you looking, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You like what you see, love?” he asked. “Go on, don’t be shy. Give it a stroke, feel what you do to me.”
Your wrapped a hand around his shaft without hesitation. He was hot and smoothl, pulsing in your grip. You stroked him slowly at first, up and down, swirling your thumb over the leaking head on every pass to spread the wetness. Alfie groaned, tipping his head back for a moment, half-closing his eyes in pleasure as he let you work him. He rocked his hips gently into your fist, fucking your hand with lazy thrusts while he simply enjoyed the feeling.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl. Look at that pretty hand wrapped around my cock.”
While you continued stroking him, finding a steady rhythm that made his breath hitch, Alfie moved his hand back between your legs. His fingertips gathered the slick mixture of your juices and his saliva that still coated your pussy, and then he slid two fingers deep inside you. He curled them, stroking that spot inside while he circled your clit in lazy spirals with the pad of his thumb. He opened you slowly, scissoring his fingers to stretch you.
Your hand continued to pump his cock while his fingers fucked you open. You moaned into his mouth as you kissed again, sliding your tongues together. Your strokes on his cock grew faster and tighter, making Alfie groan into the kiss and jerk his hips.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to look down at where your hand worked him and where his fingers disappeared inside your cunt. “So tight and wet. This pretty little hole is sucking my fingers in like she knows exactly who it belongs to now. Gonna make you feel so full when I finally give you this cock, gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
Then, with a growl, he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. At the same time, he closed his other hand firmly around your wrist, stopping the movement of your hand on his throbbing length. You looked up at him with your lips parted in a moan, and your eyes dark with need. Alfie held your gaze, his own eyes overwhelmed with lust.
“Do you want my cock inside you, love? Because all of this, my mouth, my fingers, that’s been foreplay. Beautiful, filthy foreplay. But if I put my cock inside this pretty little cunt… things won’t go back the way they were. You’ll be all mine. Once I’m buried deep, there’s no pretending. No going back to that cold bed and that useless husband. You’ll be mine. Say it, tell me you understand what you’re asking for.”
The words hung in the warm kitchen air. Your heart hammered wildly at the thought of belonging to Alfie. Years of loneliness and a body that had been ignored rose up in a desperate wave. You nodded frantically. “I want you,” you whispered, then louder, more desperate. “So much, Alfie. Please… Please fuck me. I need you inside me.”
A satisfied smile spread across his face. “Look at you,” he murmured, brushing your swollen lower lip. “You’re so beautiful when you beg. You’ve got the face of an angel and the voice of one too, it’s fucking celestial. Begging for my cock like the dirty girl you are.”
He stepped closer, until his thick cock was nudging against your slick entrance. “Wrap your legs around my waist, love. Hold me tight, I want to feel you clinging to me when I finally sink into this heaven between your thighs.”
You obeyed instantly, locking your legs around his hips, digging your heels into the back of his thighs and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The position left you completely open to him, your cunt pressed right against the head of his cock. Alfie gripped the base of his shaft with one hand, the other arm banded tight around your lower back, holding you steady.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Right here. I want to see that first second when I get inside you. Want to watch your face when this cock stretches you open and fills that hungry little hole for the first time.”
You locked eyes with his, and then Alfie pushed forward. The thick head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching you slowly and inexorably. You gasped sharply at the burn and the fullness, your walls fluttering around the invasion as he sank deeper inch by inch. He was thick, so thick, and long, filling you in a way you had never been filled before.
Crescent marks painted his shoulders when you dug your nails into it. You let your body adjust, clenching and relaxing around him. Alfie groaned deeply but his eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of pleasure as he pushed forward, until he was buried to the hilt, with his heavy balls pressed against you.
“Fuck… so tight,” he growled, holding perfectly still for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him inside you. “This cunt is gripping me like it never wants to let go, like it knows exactly who it belongs to now.”
Then he began to move, holding you tight against him with an arm around your waist and the other braced on the bench as he thrust deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a powerful snap of his hips. Each thrust was deliberately hitting your g-spot, making stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Alfie! Oh God, yes, deeper—” you gasped, digging your nails harder into his arms, leaving red trails down his skin. You tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper with every thrust.
He kissed you hard, using his tongue to fuck your mouth in the same rhythm as his cock pounded into your cunt. The bench creaked beneath you as he fucked you with increasing force, snapping forward, making the length of him drag against every nerve inside you. His balls were sapping against your ass with every deep thrust, and the hair at the base of his cock rubbing deliciously against your clit.
“That’s it, angel,” he moaned between kisses. “Moan for me, let me hear how good it feels to finally have a real man inside you. This tight cunt was made for this cock… made for me. Gonna fuck you until you forget every lonely night, until the only name you remember is mine.”
Alfie watched your face the entire time, drinking in every expression, the way your lips parted on a cry, the way your eyes fluttered half-closed in ecstasy. “Beautiful,” he growled, slamming deep and grinding his hips in a circle. “Fucking beautiful when you’re taking my cock like this. Look at you, all spread open and dripping for me. My angel.”
The pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling in your belly as Alfie’s rhythm grew punishing. You couldn’t help the way your walls fluttered and clenched around him with every stroke, the grip of your cunt pulsing and rippling along his length as the pleasure increased. The sensation of being so full, so stretched, so completely claimed by him was overwhelming
Alfie cursed, his hips stuttering for a moment as your cunt clenched particularly hard around him. “Fuck—! stop doing that with your cunt, love,” his voice came out rough with the effort of holding back. “Squeezing me like that… you’re gonna make me cum too soon. This tight, greedy little hole is trying to pull the life out of me. Slow down, angel, or I won’t last.”
“I can’t help it,” you whimpered high and broken, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts desperately. “It feels too good… I think I’m gonna cum again, Alfie— oh God, I’m so close…”
A satisfied chuckle rumbled out of him, turning into another deep groan as your walls fluttered around his cock once more. “You’re gonna make me cum, angel,” he growled. “Gonna pull it right out of me with this perfect cunt. But not yet… not until I feel you fall apart around me again.”
His hand found your clit with unerring accuracy, and he rubbed circles over the bundle of nerves, never slowing the pounding rhythm of his cock driving into you. The dual stimulation was devastating, the pressure on your clit was pushing you straight toward the edge again.
Alfie leaned in and kissed you hard, swallowing every cry and whimper as he drove you higher. “Cum for me again, love,” he rubbed faster. “Let me feel this pretty cunt pulse and flutter around me. Squeeze my cock while you fall apart. That’s it, good girl, cum on my cock like you were born for it.”
The orgasm crashed over, even more intense than the first. Your whole body seized as the pleasure ripped through you in shattering pulses. Your cunt clenched hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing rhythmically, milking him with squeezes as you came with a loud scream of his name. Slick gushed around his cock, coating his balls and dripping down onto the bench beneath you.
“Fuck yes! That’s my angel.” Alfie’s voice was strained as he felt you cum apart around him. He kept thrusting through it, fucking you through every pulse. “So beautiful when you cum for me. Squeezing me so tight… gonna make me fill this pussy. I’m gonna finish inside you, love. Gonna pump every drop deep into this greedy cunt. Mark you from the inside so you remember who you belong to now. Gonna fill you up until you’re dripping with me for days.”
His thrusts grew more erratic as he chased his own release. His cock swelled even thicker inside you, until with a final and powerful snap of his hips, Alfie came. He flood you with thick ropes of cum as he emptied himself completely. He kept thrusting through it, making sure every drop stayed buried inside you, filling you until you felt impossibly full.
He collapsed forward, stroking with his hand up and down your back, tracing patterns along your spine, then sliding around to caress your sides, your ribs, the curve of your waist. His other arm held you securely against his chest, keeping you pressed close as if he feared you might slip away.
“Does your throat hurt, love?” he asked quietly, a gravelled murmur against your skin.
You let out a breathless laugh, the sound hoarse from all your moaning. “A little,” you admitted, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. “But it’s a good hurt.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you where you were still joined. “That’s a good sign, angel. A cunt filled and dripping with my cum, and a throat sore from screaming my name. That’s how a woman should be, love. Thoroughly loved, thoroughly pleasured, thoroughly claimed. That’s how it would be every single day if you were mine, I’d wake you up with my mouth between your thighs. I’d make you cum until you couldn’t remember your own name. You’d go to sleep every night with my cock still inside you and my cum leaking down your thighs. Loved, cherished, worshipped like you deserve.”
You tightened your arms around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Alfi’es hands continued their slow exploration, sliding down to cup your ass gently, then back up to trace your sides and the curve of your breasts where they pressed against his chest. “Your cunt was a holy experience,” he murmured after a long, contented silence. “I saw God for a moment there, love. Nothing in this world, nothing has ever felt like being buried inside you. I’m not sure I can live without it now, I’m not sure I can live without you. Ever since you walked into this place with that cake and that smile that lit up the whole room… you’ve ruined me, angel. Ruined me for anything less, I look at you and the rest of the world feels grey and small and pointless.”
When you lifted your head, you saw his eyes, your own still hazy with pleasure. “Maybe you won’t have to,” you whispered.
“You’re not going back to that cunt of a husband you’ve got,” he said. “Not after this, not after the way you came for me, not after I felt this perfect cunt. You’re done with that life, love. I won’t allow it.”
A tired, but genuine smile painted your face, and you rested your forehead against his. “With this Friday’s payment… I saved enough to rent my own place. I’ve been putting every shilling I could away.”
Alfie’s expression softened further, something almost tender breaking through. He kissed you slowly. “Smart girl, saving and planning. I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. More than okay. You’ll have that place, you’ll have safety. And you’ll have me, whenever you want me, however you want me.”
You stayed wrapped around him, with your legs locked at his waist and your arms around his neck, your face tucked into the warm curve of his shoulder. Then came the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
“Alfie?” Ollie’s voice echoed down the corridor, with that typical frustration and an edge of exhaustion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Please don’t tell me you’re still in there watching her knea—”
The door to the back room swung open and Ollie stopped cold in the doorway, his words dying in his throat. His eyes widened, taking in the scene before him: you on the bench, with your dress bunched around your waist, brassiere pulled down and breasts exposed and marked with the evidence of Alfie’s mouth. Alfie still buried between your spread thighs, his trousers around his ankles and his shirt open, the two of you flushed and unmistakably tangled.
Alfie reacted instantly, wrapping one arm around your back and pulling you against his chest to shield your bare breasts from view, while his other hand tugged the front of your dress up as best he could. “Jesus fuck, Ollie!” he barked with exasperation. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to knock? Get the fuck away from here. Now. Before I decide your eyes need a permanent reminder of what happens when you walk in on things that aren’t your business.”
Ollie’s face went a mortified red, he spun on his heel so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, muttering something that sounded like a urse. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang, and you heard his footsteps retreating rapidly down the hallway.
The silence that followed was broken only by your sudden, breathless laugh. Alfie’s chest rumbled with a chuckle that turned into full laughter. “Poor Ollie,” you gasped between giggles.
“Serve him right,” Alfie said, still laughing. “Walking in like he owns the place. Should’ve knocked.”
You stayed like that for a few more minutes, wrapped around each other. But eventually, with a reluctant sigh, Alfie pulled back just enough to look at you, as he slowly eased his softening cock out of you. You whimpered at the loss, feeling the warm trickle of his cum leaking down your thighs.
“Come here, love,” he murmured, helping you down from the bench on shaky legs. “Let me take care of you.”
He dressed you with surprising gentleness. First he slid your knickers back up your legs, settling them into place and smoothing the fabric over your still sensitive cunt. Then he adjusted your garters and rolled your stockings back up your thighs, clipping them neatly. He helped you back into your brassiere, cupping your breasts as he did so, brushing your nipples one last time before covering them. Finally, he buttoned what remained of your dress, straightening the fabric and brushing flour from your shoulders and hair with tender strokes.
“There,” he said quietly, stepping back to look at you. “Presentable again. Though I much prefer you the other way.”
You smiled, still a little dazed, and leaned into him. Alfie wrapped his arms around you once more, holding you close. “This Sunday,” he said after a long silence, “you’re gonna bring in the money you’ve got saved and a bag with your belongings. I’m gonna help you find your next place to live. Something far away from that useless bastard. You won’t have to do it alone, love. Not anymore.”
You nodded against his chest. “This Sunday,” you agreed softly.
For the first time in years you are not bracing yourself for the walk home, thinking of a cold bed, and an even colder husband. You think of the mornings still to come, waking up without dread and walking the streets knowing the ring on your finger is gone, and the weight it carried is gone with it.
A/N: Omg guys, I think it’s finally up for good!! After getting flagged like 10 times, I think I finally figured out what the issue was. I swear I’ve been so stressed over this whole thing. So if you enjoyed it, I’d absolutely love it if you could help me out with a reblog. It would mean a lot to me and help the fic reach more people after everything it’s been through.
This fic actually started out as something much angstier. My original idea was that Alfie and reader met because she worked as a seamstress and he’d bring her clothes to be repaired. Reader’s marriage was also supposed to be a lot darker. I even had about a page of it written in google docs.
But then, while looking for pictures on pinterest, I came across a photo of a bakery and suddenly thought, wait… wouldn’t it be adorable if reader worked as a baker and Alfie was completely gone for her?😭 So I scrapped everything I’d written and started over from scratch. This time, I decided not to make it quite so dark and instead added a bit more humor and lightheartedness to it.
And somehow, this is where all of that ended up. It had been such a long time since I’d written for Alfie that I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it🩷
head (a!receving), bush, bottom!abby, edging, not proofread
a/n: this definitely isn’t a sneak peak into a future work or anything like that…
another slutty moan is pulled from deep within abby’s chest as you press your face deeper into her pussy. abby’s strong hand resting on the back of your head, her thumb rubbing small circles.
your tongue traces tight quick circles around her pulsing clit, her thick bush doing little to muffle the sounds of her soaked pussy. every few moments you go to press your tongue inside of her which makes her scream out. her strong legs trembling and clenching around your face. you can feel how close she is but not yet; you know she’s been waiting all day and want to make it worth it.
“ah..fuck don’ stop…” abby mewls, throwing her head back. “feels fucking amazinggg…” her hips buck up into your mouth. she is a whimpering mess in beneath you, her body chasing what you’re so wickedly withholding.
“pl…please i-i need to cum!” abby’s hips hesitate to rock forward, but she has very little restraint left. “we, we need to…get back.” these weak attempts being her best efforts to convince you to show her poor cunt some mercy.
“mm mm,” you tisk, “i’m not done.”
abby gives you a desperate look, an ocean of “please,” “they’ll know we’re gone,” and “i need it” washes over your deaf ears.
you go back to slowly eating her pussy, this time licking flat long strips. abby digs her heels into the old carpet beneath you, her eyes glaze over as she fucks your face. her pace uncaring and rough; she needs this and she no longer cares how she has to get it.
she was so cute like this, you love having her so desperate, and if you could she’d be like this until nightfall. but you decide to be nice. grabbing her hips you focus your tongue entirely on her overtly sensitive clit.
“oh g-god!” abby screams out, her back deeply arching, “yes, yes, don’t f-fucking stop~” her brain completely broken. not being able to think of anything besides how skillfully your tongue slides over her bundle of nerves. how she’s never felt so good before. her abs tighten right as the pressure breaks; cumming all over your face.
“o-oh, wow i’m so embarrassed…” abby pulls her bottoms up, avoiding your intense gaze.
“don’t be,” you lick whatever you can off of your lips and chin and wipe away the rest, “you needed me.”
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Hello! Huge fan of Dark Blue, it's so amazing. Wondering if you could write a Sandor x Reader where reader is a highborn lady, and she is already experienced but everybody think she is an innocent lady. And she seduces/flirts with sandor eventually leading to some smut 😋
Tags: SMUT, 18+ content, Sandor is turned on by trust, romcom, PiV, fingering, arranged marriages, swearing, prone-bone, Sandor is an asshole, no use of y/n, rough-ish sex, reader has hair, WILL CONTAIN MISTAKES
Summary: Lady Ruttiger never faced any issues luring men into her bed. The rules are simple, and with an innocent enough face and a kind disposition her reputation has gone unchanged despite her amorous pursuits. It seems, however, that the rules of seduction do not work for her husband, Sandor Clegane.
Warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT: MDNI!!! thank you.
A/N: Guys I am back... and i think i lost some of my polish,.... Thank you to lovely anon for the compliments also :))))))
“Gods be good!” Ser Raynard Ruttiger rubs his palms over his face and groans loudly. He looks, for a moment, to be melting in his papers, like the candle stubs lining the wooden edge of the desk.
“Of all houses, House Clegane! They will think I hate my own dear daughter,” he says, his eyes flying over his paperwork, without ever truly reading a single word.
His nephew, Eustace, smiles under the thin line of his mustache, and throws another knife at the edge of the nearby screen. He is sitting on a chair before the desk, one leg thrown over the armrest.
“Oh, you worry too much uncle, worse matches have been made. It is not Gregor you are considering, whose wives die so easily, but his brother.”
“Well, who knows, Sandor’s brides could die just as easily! We do not know because no lady would have him” screeches Lord Ruttiger.
“But Lady Ruttiger would,” points out Eustace, adjusting in his chair.
“She is a fool! One I raised.” Raynard rubs at his nose.
Eustace thinks him a it ridiculous for worrying so much about a match he meekly accepted without any complaint. The matter of Lady Ruttinger’s marriage is quite easy, and requires no such whimpering. Lord Ruttiger engaged his last daughter to the first eligible man their overlords, the Lannisters, offered. He had plenty of time to call off the wedding, or think the arrangement over when the news was fresh. Yet he simply agreed.
Eustace stands to tug his knives free from the screen.
“She is a strong lady, and quiet when she has to. She will fare well, dear uncle. Now—“ he grabs his bow from the corner of the dark room and sends a dashing smile Ser Raynard’s way “-I am going hunting” he announces.
“And leaving like so!” Ser Raynard shoots up in his seat, so fast Eustace reckons it looks as if a snake must have bit his arse. In truth he is the same color of a poisoned man. He dispels the thought with a shake of his head and shrugs.
“The day is good, and my brother had our servants pack the tents already” he says. Before he can turn to leave Ser Raynard rushes to him, the sound of his heavy belt buckle and the coin purse at his side make his steps rattle like a handful of silver stags.
“If you happen to see my daughter…try to spy in her heart, just to be sure she is not making decisions too suddenly, and she is not too afraid of the man she ought to marry,” he says. A peculiar flavor of guilt paints itself across his features, turning his face an unpleasant color.
Eustace nods slowly, hands tucked in his belt where the throwing knives hang heavy.
“Of course, if I happen to see her…I will” he says, patting his uncle’s hand until it dislodges from the fold of his tunic. The man nods slowly, swallowing heavily, but not quite regaining color.
“She is just a poor dear maiden” complains Ser Raynard, going back to his desk while rubbing his palms over his creased forehead, unable to quite erase the lines of worry etched there.
“Do not fret, dear uncle, it is no good for your health” says Eustace, before ripping open the door and rushing out of the study, leaving Ser Ruttiger alone and sweaty at his desk.
——————
The pier expands beyond the interior garden, branches spill into the arcade and guide the soft sunlight on the flagstone below. The orange tint of the walls colors the light, highlighting the folds of Lady Ruttiger’s fine dress.
Suddenly a movement is heard among the bushes, and a leather boot steps out of the greenery to settle on the low wall enclosing the arcade, where Lady Ruttinger is sitting.
She gasps, but the sound turns to a chuckle when she lifts her eyes to catch her cousin Eustace stepping out of the branches, his face pulled in a gallant smile, and his hands grasping the thin stone pillars to keep himself upright.
“Eustace!” She gasps, her face turning a happy color. She sets her embroidery aside and cranes her neck to look at her cousin better, where he stands above her. “I thought you were out hunting, with all the other men. Have they left you behind?”
“Left me behind?” He asks, then smiles brightly, “If they have their wits about them, they won’t. No hunting trip can be successful without my bow.” He points with his thumb to the bow on his back, his smirk widening even further.
Lady Ruttiger shakes her head softly, pleasantly exasperated, and looks at him better once he hops down to the floor and faces her fully.
“But it is not me who is leaving,” Says Eustace, looking at his cousin with an intelligent glint in his eyes.
To him, she looks nothing different from the little girl he used to play with in his youth, but the more he hones his attention on the details of her face, the more the signs of aging become loud, and are impossible to erase fully. Her face has taken shape, and her eyes are now smaller, more pointed, and handsomely placed on the face of an adult woman. Gone is the child he knew, just like the boy she remembers.
“You speak of my marriage,” She smiles. Just as Lord Ruttiger had said, not one inch of her expression reveals fear, despite the threat of an union with a Clegane hanging above her.
“Of course,” says Eustace, tilting his head to spy her better, yet she turns back to the pier, hiding her expression from view. “Do you not worry? That you will marry a Clegane, and exchange your fair name for his?”
“I only worry about not marrying. That matter has aged my father, and left me without any company. Of all the girls I once knew, none remains unmarried, and my sisters, and cousins, all bear the name of a husband.” She says softly. The words finally betray some worry but her face is placid when she allows him to see it again.
“I grew bored of my singularity.” The finality in her tone makes Eustace sigh.
“Your father worries: to send a maiden to such a… brute.” Says her fair cousin, adjusting his belt and puffing out his chest.
His face suddenly gains the seriousness men adopt when attempting heroism. Lady Ruttiger’s eyes widen, and the more she looks at him the more her chest struggles to contain laughter.
At last she covers her mouth and hides her head between her shoulders, shook by a bubbling of giggles.
Eustace’s face melts in an expression of surprise, his shoulders drop and his head tilts.
“Why do you laugh? My dearest?” He asks, he lowers his head to look better at her, but she hides further into her chest, her shoulders shaking in laughter shield her pink face from view. Eustace blinks, stupor written over each one of his features. He stands back up, shoulders straight and eyes wide in concern.
“I see nothing humorous in what I said,” He comments, nudging her foot with his own leather boot. Feeling a bit left out from the joke he thinks himself dumb, and grows a bit irritated by the laughter.
When Lady Ruttiger simply waves him off with a delicate hand and wipes her face from amused tears, Eustace frowns, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Ach! You women and your strange ways. You will make me go mad as you have done your father,” he mutters, but, despite his annoyance, a grin splits his expression apart, unable to be crossed at his cousin for too long. His gloves hand lifts to rest on her back and Lady Ruttiger looks back up at him, her face soft with what remains of her laughter.
“I will miss you, my dear cousin.” He says. She smiles.
“Contrary to what my father may say, I will not die, nor be ripped apart by any monster.” She says, and her fingers graze over his hand on her back.
“Go now, else your brother really will forget about you, and we will have no game for the wedding feast.” She murmurs.
Eustace smiles, nods, and rushes off in a hurry.
—------------------
Sandor is fearsome. That much Lady Ruttiger knew even before the marriage. Much is whispered about him, much idiotic gossip she knows she will soon be part of. She wonders what sort of role she will take in the stories wisewomen spin for young brides.
She would like to have the part of a brave she-knight who takes on the terrible monster, yet, she struggles to walk uphill on sunny days and can barely lift her clothing chest when empty. She attempts to think of something else, perhaps the dutiful wife who suffers much but is rewarded with a seat next to the Mother in heaven. Her nose wrinkles. How ridiculous.
Then perhaps the beautiful and good noble soul who melts the heart of the giant–
“What are you looking stupid for?” Sandor, her new husband, sits uncomfortably on the seat opposite to her in the tiny garden of Clegane Keep. The sun is high and it filters through the vine above her. There are flowers, tufts of them, seemingly recently planted in heavy ceramic pots that look much like those farmers use to plant small trees in.
“Looking stupid?” she asks. One of her legs is crossed over the other, and her foot bobs lazily under the heavy hem of her skirt.
Sandor spreads his legs and leans back in his chair.
They have been married scarcely two days and Sandor is yet to lay in bed with her. He is crude, and she knows he must not like her very much. It is not shyness that drives him away from the marriage bed, far from it. Nothing in his vocabulary or his demeanor is timid. He simply seems to resent their marriage, even if it granted him possession of his father’s abysmal land.
On the night of their nuptials he said he did not ‘put his dick inside dry cunts’ and that she better ‘choose the prettiest swine herd if she wanted to have fun’ before leaving the room with a flagon of wine, drunk and angry, to sleep gods only know where.
She sat for a long time, blinking stupor and rigid as a broomstick, in their wedding bed, looking at the unlit fireplace in the dark. It was a long and lonely night, yet she felt no shame or anger. She imagines many nuptials end similarly among nobles, and perhaps she was lucky, considering how drunk and angry he was, that he simply stormed off.
She looks at him now, in the fresh air of the gardens.
She has seen him not-scowling before, but she reckons he doesn’t look much different when he is frowning from when he is at complete ease. His expression is heavy on his features, just like the scars, which she observes studiously to dispel any fear she has of them.
When looking at them long enough, and when really reading between the grooves, they look like nothing but skin, as any other part of him.
“There you do it again, you witch. What is it you want from me?” He barks. In his irritation he seems almost calm, and in calm he looks troubled. She thinks it strange, yet intriguing. She has never seen a face so naturally predisposed to ire and sorrow.
“I was lost in thought, if it answers your queries, my lord.”
“My lord” He mocks, spitting the words out with a frown “You truly are a daughter of nobility,” He mumbles, chewing on the words with all his teeth. Lady Ruttiger tilts her head to the side, tapping her pointer on her lips.
“I take it the title Lord does not please you, as does Ser, so what am I to call you?” she asks, unmoved by his crassness.
He shakes his head, the hair sticking to his scarred side look, for a second, like dark veins filled with angry blood, popping up on his forehead and shiny with sweat.
“I am a dog, my lady, not a man but a dog” He tells her, openly mocking, yet not to her, but rather to himself.
The inflection shakes her out of her politeness for a moment and her face opens up in an honest expression of surprise. He seems to notice she picked up on his self-depreciment and looks off to the land around him, the splatter of yellow grass he inherited even as a cadet son.
“Is that so? I think a smaller dog would befit a lady,” She comments. His face twitches, and for a moment she thinks the gossip may come true, that he is about to launch at her and rip her to shreds, or drag her by the hair to the closest river and drown her.
Instead he straightens up slowly, opening his legs and resting his back on the chair, his face shifts to openly amused. The one eyebrow he has left lifts before falling heavily back down on his good eye, shedding an alluring shadow on his expression. It makes something in her stomach thrill.
“They told me you were a refined lady, not a mummer” He mutters. She lowers her eyes timidly, a shy twitch of her mouth attempts to betray a smile.
“Then they lied” She says, and plucks at her dress “I am not Lord Ruttiger’s daughter, but his jester.”
“Aye, I reckon that is true, if they married you into my house.” He says. Some of the lighter tone bleeds away from the air, and tension returns. She misses the near sensuous look in his eyes, now that it is replaced by a strange anger.
“Are you unhappy, then? Did you want a lady of finer words and better manners?” she asks. Sandor shakes his head no.
“Bugger all of that” He grunts, reaching for the wine in his cup where he sat it next to his feet. She looks at him, drinking it, the length of his throat bobs with the movement and the strong tendons along the muscles work below the beard.
For once she is glad to hear his honesty, and not shaken by it. Then, if she is not to bleed on her wedding night, and if he is to ask her if she laid with others before him, perhaps he will not be offended.
She tucks one stray hair back in her headpiece and looks at the rolling hills below the gardens. The kennels are a distant dot, yet she can hear the howling of dogs all the way up the hill.
Perhaps, now that the air is light and Sandor looks less cross she could tell him. But… something holds her back, an old fear. It makes no sense to fear now, when she was fearless before in inviting men into her bed, and so liberally as well. But now hesitation stops her.
She loses herself in thought until Sandor stands, adjusting his sword belt.
“I need more wine.” He grumbles, stepping back towards the keep without pleasantries, nor any hint he wants to end the conversation well. She cares not, lost in a reverie of her own.
Now left to her own devices she starts thinking of her new husband, and all sorts of thoughts swim in her head.
She thinks of how he may be in bed. A brute, just like a wild animal. Is that too bad?
“I don’t think so” She hums to herself, cupping her chin in thought. “No, surely, it must be fun in its own way”
She can now truly imagine herself as a she-knight, thanks to a strange thrill of courage suddenly taking her. A sweet sort of bravery, that is almost indistinguishable from need. She straightens up in her chair like a victorious queen, her stomach rumbling with desire.
It must be nice, it must, to share a bed with a man his size. He must be sizable all around, and strong enough to do whatever her mind can conjure. And who cares if he is ugly, from her recollections she knows the fair ones are far from the best among bachelors. The ugly ones often apply themselves much more, and are less vain and selfish.
She imagines there must be no place for empty pleasantries in his bed, that he will take her with the crassness of a client and a whore. That he enjoys touch, perhaps and squeezing skin in his palms, rubbing the fat on her body, burying his face in the soft expanses of her stomach and between her legs. And if he does not know how, then she would teach him.
If truly he is a dog then he can be trained.
She slams her palms on the seat of the bench she is sitting on, determined, all of a sudden, and smiling with that same unashamed heroism that commands men into battle.
Men all look brave, but enjoy being led in the dark of their chambers. She has seen it before, and found no shame in it when she chose her parmours.
Suddenly, a great need to discover how Sandor acts during passion pervades her every thought. She tries to imagine it, but can scarcely think of such a great body in all his nakedness, or the sounds he must make in the throes of passion.
Her face glows hot, and her cold hands are not enough to soothe her skin. She smiles, giddy. Her thoughts turn skin colored, and warm. She imagines all sorts of things, some of which she is sure she is the first to think about.
She is married now, and she must not hide her need anymore, it is nothing but justified as a married woman to want her husband.
She nods to herself.
“Of course,” she confirms. Her eyes slip over the hills below Clegane Keep. She is the lady of this castle, and she will have her husband, as the gods command.
——————-
A good occasion for seduction presents itself two nights later, in the dining room.
The food is decent, and Sandor has downed more wine than she has seen any man consume and still stand. He shrugs off the tiredness of the day from his shoulders when he stands to leave the table, she grabs his hand before he can move away.
“My lord” her tone is sweet like the finest honeydew, she adjusts in her chair to make her stature look even more timid. “-will you, tonight, sleep in our chambers with me? I slept in the same bed as my sister for many years, and I am not used to falling asleep alone, my lord,” she says, her head turns to the side in a well practiced movement. Polite, graceful, and mostly very good to show off the length of her neck and the expanse of her chest.
His eyes rake down her neck to her tits, where the dress pushes them up and apart to make them stand out.
He doesn’t look moved.
Usually men like this specific act, they want to console her, and placate her misery. Above all, they like to be told they are the only solution to a problem, especially when in view of a nice body.
Sandor seems not to drink the lie, sniffing the air like a dog looking for a scent. He looks cross for a moment, then smugness replaces his expression of annoyance.
“Ye are not kidding anyone, vomiting out what your Septas told you,” He says, the darkness of the dining room makes him seem ever more threatening, and it sends a pleasant shiver down her back. But irritation follows it. Her plan is not working.
He places a hand on the back of her chair, and walks to stand right behind her seat. She doesn’t look back, eyes on her plate.
“Trust me, girl, you do not want to lay with the Hound.” He says, his voice simmers like flames, tiny ambers he rolls in his mouth, that heat up his words and force her back to straighten. She shakes her head no, tightening her grip on her handkerchief where it rests on her lap.
“Why not, my lord? You are my husband under the law of men and gods” She attempts. He groans.
“My lord! My lord! My lord! All this cheeping. I thought it was clear I don't like that,” He says “Are noble women not obedient either these days?” He asks. The contempt in his voice is not quite directed at her, yet she stiffens and turns sharply. Her need is making her angry on top of lustful.
Does he not like her? Is he blind to her charms? Is she to be chaste as a wedded woman? She stands quickly, and he moves away out of stupor.
“My lo– Hound! The marriage bed is meant to be shared, I say!” She complains. Was she not fretting over the collar of her dress she would see him smirk salaciously under his mustache.
“This is– This is impolite and improper of you to refuse me.” She whines. He groans, just to hide a chuckle.
“What distresses you so much? You are angry I didn’t tear you apart with my teeth like a beast the first night? Did you have a death wish then, when you accepted to marry me?” He asks.
She whines, high and low.
“You are so unfair, Hound! You put words in my mouth! And I am not asking to be killed at all, for I know you wouldn’t do that!” She starts to prattle, squeezing her handkerchief like she is squeezing water out of it.
“What do you ask for then?” He interrupts her, she doesn’t detect his tone shifting into real curiosity.
The room grows quiet, and she stands still, unsure if she should continue to play innocent, or if it has no effect on him. Sandor starts circling her like prey, forcing her to hang on the seat of the chair.
She spies him in her peripheral.
“You do not know what you are asking for, girl. It is not as your Septa told you, it isn't sweet nor romantic.” He says, tucking his thumbs in his belt.
He lifts his head, proud like a lion from the Lannister Blazons, and less like a dog. He looks down at her, as she imagines he does men in battle when wanting to scare them, with a strange smile that curls his face into an unattractive shape.
She stares at him, then some passion fueled vexation rises in her chest.
“Oh! By the gods!” She lets out, forcing him to drop some of his smugness.
“I did not learn this from Septas at all–” She complains. It was never this hard to convince a man to lay with her, they always accepted, i n the dark of their encounters, with shaking hands and excited smiles, all ready to keep the secret if it meant a good night with a fair lady.
She stiffens when his eyes turn sharper.
“Then who from?” He asks, and the genuine tilt in his voice gives her pause.
“I-... Oh well! I am no maiden, Lord Clegane,” She says at last, too wound up to care anymore.
He blinks at her, then seems to look her up and down, up and down, from the intricate hairstyle to the silk slippers at her feet many times, as if trying to calibrate his entire view of her.
“You? Not a maiden?” He asks, so confused that he forgets to bark at her for calling him lord.
She blushes and her arms shoot away from her body, making the handkerchief flutter madly in the air.
“Is it so surprising?” She asks.
“Yes.” He answers, tone mellow, and not at all the angry jealousy she expected. She almost feels embarrassed, her aggravation melting away into a strange sort of disappointment. She cups the sides of her face and blinks uselessly at the floor.
Surprising? She asks to herself, looking at her fine dress. It is the one with the lowest cut she owns too.
“You are telling me you took cocks before,” His hands are now on his hips and he leans towards her with a strange mocking tone. She never has seen him quite this jolly.
Her eyes go as wide as saucers and she stiffens.
“Why would I lie?” she quips, voice rising high and embarrassed at his bluntness. What an awful way to put it! She made love, she took sweet men in her bed, and shared passion with them. She didn’t just take cocks.
She is sure some servant must be hearing them right now, but her worrying is overshadowed by the bickering.
Sandor looks pleased with himself.
“To convince me to buy the wares” He says. Her nose flares, and her mouth pulls down in a displeased curve.
“You!” she jabs a finger at him and he catches her hand in his. “You are so crude! You really are an animal!” if she had her fan with her surely she would hit him, instead she only has the handkerchief and whipping it in his face does nothing to wipe that smugness off of him.
“Didn’t you want me to bed you but a second ago, girl.” He says, the slit of his mouth, between his neat beard and the mustache reveal a mean set of teeth. His smile makes her shake her head wildly to refuse the ridicule.
“Maybe I changed my mind! Maybe you are not worth the trouble at all!” She says.
“What trouble? I see a woman who wants, wants to much she is ready to fuck a dog.” He says.
“Not a dog! Her husband.” is her quick rebuttal.
“Her husband,” Rumbles Sandor, again close to laughter. He takes her by the waist and pulls her closer. The air is heavy with their gazes, she lets the handkerchief fall on the chair and tucks her hair behind her ear, now a bit more timid.
“Look at my face, girl, and tell me this is the man you want to lay with.” He demands, giving her body a tiny jerk to force her into motion.
When she lifts her eyes the ruined side of his profile is in full light, the scar tissue, the discoloration, the features that almost look inhuman. Any other woman would have tucked tail and run. A face like this is the object of so many nightmares and so much pity across the courts of Westeros.
She looks at it well, until she can count every large bump of skin, and see the glimmer of his eye under the fold of scar tissue that hides his eyelids. She feels like a she-knight now, and she fears nothing, but wants all.
“Is it that surprising?” She murmurs. His eyes narrow, then burn with something hotter than mockery. She shivers.
“Yes.” He answers.
Suddenly she feels him pull her into him and his hands go to her buttocks. She lets out a gasp that stutters its way into a chuckle.
“Oh my!” She mutters, then leans further into the wine-smelling tunic in front of her when he lowers his head to be level with her. He strokes his hand down to her leg and lifts it up to his hip, forcing her to lean more into him.
She hooks her arms around his neck and, although her face grows hot, no bashfulness can be found in her gaze. She looks at him, so close, shed in the shadows of the dining room her looks intimidating. She smiles, giddy. At last it worked it seems.
“The lady said she laid with others, but is as shaky as a virgin,” says Sandor, his hand squeezing her leg through the layers of skirts.
“I just.. would rather not have the eyes of servitude on us.” She murmurs.
She shakes her head no when he attempts to pull her against his cock, then looks at him with enough tenderness to make his skin itch. Her eyes are pure, and sweet and kind, despite all the venom he has been spitting. Sandor almost feels bad enough to let her go.
The self-preserving selfishness he is so used to prevails, and he leads her to his chambers instead.
—-------------
Of all the men she has known he is the hungriest. Not an inch of her goes without being squeezed or licked, even when she attempts to undress.
“Oh– By the gods!” She mumbles as he attacks her neck when she lowers her shift over her chest. His hands grab and squeeze the softness of her hips, and rub lines from her navel to her ribs.
He is big, hairy, and far from delicate. Whereas her previous partners treated her with refined care, handling her with the carefulness reserved for porcelain and gold, Sandor moves her about in a tangle of limbs that feels much more war-like.
She huffs when he tosses her to the bed and lays atop her prone form. He licks the nape of her neck and buries his nose in her hair.
“Mph–” He groans “You are a pretty thing, no wonder those cunts wanted a piece of you-” He says “ever so generous to give it to them,” he adds.
His hands lower to spread her legs, without hiking her up. So she lays stomach down, adherent to the bedding with her legs spread to make space for his knees.
One of his big hands makes sure she lays to the bed by holding her in place. He splays his square palm between her shoulderblades and looks at her from above.
“Oh Sandor–” She asks, enjoying the pawing well enough, but hungry for more touch.
She peers at him from the bedding and he moves her hair off her face to look at her more openly. Then, that same hand lowers to between her legs, testing the wetness between her thighs by slipping the tip of his middle finger in her cunt.
He chuckles, as mean as usual, when he finds her wet, and lowers his face to her ear again.
“I don’t fuck dry cunts.” He reminds her and she smiles timidly in the bedding.
When Sandor undoes his breeches and pulls them down to his knees his cock springs free and hard. It is dark, and it pulsates strongly to escape the loose skin around its head. His stones hang heavy and Lady Clegane manages to get a good look at them when Sandor cups them while giving himself a few powerful tugs.
He groans again, and the hand between her shoulderblades returns there. He mounts up behind her, his thighs over her legs, her stomach hot where it presses to the bedding.
She was expecting his cock, but gets two fingers instead. They slip inside her and spread her around, searching her walls and rubbing on the slick tissue. She tightens rhythmically, moan after moan pulled out of her, until she is singing all sorts of notes and his name over and over.
“I have the biggest, and the scariest cock in all of the Westerlands, did they tell you?” He asks, lowering his lips to her ear before retracting his fingers from her cunt.
“I will open you unlike any other, and you will think of nothing but my codpiece for days, girl.” He says. She scoffs, equally parts amused and exasperated by his vulgarity.
“Oh, please– Please Sandor, just go on with it!” She demands, one foot bobbing against the feather bed.
Just like that, ever the loyal dog, Sandor obeys, and sinks his cock, inch by inch inside her. His hands move to the pillow, caging her into his elbows. He irks up a leg until he has the right leverage to thrust while laying atop her.
She feels her breath get kicked out of her when part of his weight lowers on her back. She closes her eyes, and focuses on the exquisite stretch of his dick inside her.
He grunts, and makes such noises she never heard from any paramour. His front scratches her back with hairs, and the cage of his arms around her neck is a warm one, making her face heat up like a furnace.
But it is so good.
Sandor’s body is pure force, every thrust she feels her whole lower half tingle and tense in rhythm. He mouths the back of her neck, biting the skin and sneaking one hand underneath her to squeeze her tits hard.
His index rolls her nipple until she mewls into his next thrust and lifts her buttocks enough to press on his lower stomach. He presses his hand to her arse, pushing it back down, level with the rest of her.
She rolls her hips side to side, until he is groaning loudly.
“So your lovers did teach you something,” He says, spitting the words out from between his teeth. Instead of a verbal answer he gets another rotation of her hips that almost forces a moan out of him.
He grabs her hips and starts to really hammer his thrusts into his woman, making her melt in the covers and pant like a dog. Breathy, choked wheezes escape her at every pump of his hips against her buttocks.
When Sandor feels like he is about to release he slips a finger beneath her and rubs her enough to feel her come first. It doesn’t take long before she is squeezing his life out of his cock.
He manages enough strength to pull himself out, fighting against the need to bury deeper and deeper into the heat, and finish over her fine back. His cum splatters in a neat line over her spine and across her shoulders.
The pearly white cum looks almost like an elegant stroke of color on such soft skin. He laughs to himself, then pats her arse two times to have her move over. She lifts herself slowly, body still cramped up from behind squished under his weight.
“Oh Sandor!” she says, gathering the sheets to cover her chest, “This was the best I have ever felt.” She says.
It is sweet, even if she says it when he is wiping the cum off her back.
“You will have plenty more whenever you want, my lady.” He says, tone mocking, yet sweetened by the sex. He pulls one of her locks of hair to make her squirm, just to assure her he is teasing.
“I hope so,” She murmurs. Sandor lowers himself into bed and looks at her, covered only by the bedsheet. His mouth splits in an ugly grin.
“I think you will see to that yourself.” He adds, giving her a look. She blushes.
“Don’t make me into a sex crazed animal,” she demands, for once truly demure.
He wipes his cock off with the bedsheet and shakes his head no, scratching his stomach with blunt fingers.
“Then do not assume I spit on women for enjoying men like men enjoy women.” he says.
She beams, then shakes her head, and slips her hand on his thigh, pulling on the hairs there mindlessly. Then she scoots closer on the feather bed until she is sitting right by his side, her head tilts up and she kisses his chin.
They both know this will be far from a boring marriage.
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Robby has never been a fan of birthdays. This year, loneliness drives him to download Tinder on an impulse, only to come across the last person he expected to find there: his favorite resident.
warning/tags: minors DNI, p0rn with little plot, masturbating, sexting, pet names (sweetheart and good girl) robby loves talking you through it, unprotected piv, pussy eating, multiple orgasms, body hair, fingering, creampie, handjob, kinda softdom!robby, age gap (I imagined reader being in her 20s or 30s but could be in her 40s too, tried to keep it broad)
For those of you who read it the first or second time I uploaded it: during the days the fic was down, I expanded some scenes, added a bit more dialogue, and made it a little kinkier along the way. You might want to read it again for some extra content
He knew this was stupid, plainly a terrible idea. On any other day, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but today wasn’t any ordinary day. Today was his birthday. Fifty-five years old, and he had never felt more lost in his own life. Nothing had turned out the way he’d once imagined it would. If someone had told him, back when he was a resident, that he would still be coming home to an empty apartment at this age, no wife curled up on the couch waiting for him with a tired but loving smile, no chorus of small feet thundering toward the door, shoving drawings into his hands and saying “Look what I made for you today, daddy!” he would have laughed in their face and called it a cruel joke.
Yet here he was. No relationship had ever survived the weight of the hours and the way his mind stayed trapped in the ED long after he left it. He couldn’t be present anymore, not the way a partner deserved. The job had hollowed him out in ways he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
It had been almost a year since he ended things with Noelle, not long after he returned from his sabbatical. He’d told himself it was the right thing to do. Maybe it really was better this way. At this point in his life, trying again felt pointless, almost selfish. He was saving whatever good women were still out there from the inevitable complications of loving Michael Robinavitch.
But today the emptiness hit differently. The apartment felt quieter than usual, and his thoughts were louder, circling like a vulture. He knew it was the birthday doing this to him. Birthdays had a way of dragging the sorrows out into the light, every missed milestone, every abandoned version of the life he thought he’d have. Jack had tried to pull him out of it, offering a beer after shift, but Robby had politely declined. He wasn’t in the mood for forced cheer, for anyone raising a glass to another year of the same.
He’d made it clear to the whole department that he didn’t want any birthday cake, no cards, no presents, nothing. Still, the well-meaning murmurs had followed him all day: “Happy birthday, Dr. Robby,” each one met with a progressively wearier smile until the words blurred together. By the end of the shift, he was only managing quiet nods of acknowledgment, the kind that said thank you and please stop at the same time.
So here he was, in an apartment that was too big for himself, lying on a couch that felt even bigger, downloading Tinder on his phone. He rubbed a hand over his face, he’d tried Tinder once, maybe two years ago. Downloaded it, swiped for a week, then deleted it when the superficial nonsense started bothering him too much.
He started with the basics. Photos. Robby opened his gallery and scrolled slowly through the meager collection. Most of the images were work-related, grainy screenshots of charts, or blurry shots of trees and roads he’d taken during his bike rides. After a long hesitation, he picked a silly selfie he’d sent Jack a few weeks earlier. He was holding up the book the two of them had been texting about, half-smiling at the camera like he felt ridiculous even taking it. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed. He looked… friendly. Approachable, maybe.
Next, he chose one from the department barbecue he’d actually forced himself to attend last summer. He was wearing the sleeves rolled up on a button-down shirt, and holding a beer in his hand. He didn’t hate it, it showed a version of himself that still showed up for people, even when he didn’t feel like it. The last one was from the hospital fundraiser gala two years ago. He looked elegant in that photo in a black suit, but he had to crop Jack out of the frame, his face was still half-visible over his shoulder. Three photos, not exactly a compelling portfolio, but they were honest, he wasn’t pretending to be anyone other than himself.
He moved on to preferences. Gender: Women. Age range… His thumb froze. At first, he set it to 50–60. Women at the same stage he was, maybe divorced, maybe widowed, or just tired of feeling alone. But then something flickered in his chest, part curiosity and part desperation, and before he could talk himself out of it, he dragged the lower end down. Twenty to sixty. The wider net felt reckless, almost embarrassing. But what if the love of his life existed somewhere in that range? What if he missed her by something as stupid as a single year on a slider?
As if the love of your life was sitting on Tinder on a Sunday night, he thought. Don’t be fucking stupid, Robby.
He stared at the screen for a long moment, and with a quiet sigh that sounded too much like surrender, he tapped confirm. Now it was time for the bio. Robby stared at the blank field for a long minute. What the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t looking for anything specific. Company? Distraction? Someone who wouldn’t mind a man who came home at crazy hours, sometimes covered in blood and whocarried more baggage than he could carry?
He typed slowly what felt the most honest: “ER doctor in Pittsburgh. Love long bike rides to clear my head and 70s rock. Not entirely sure what I’m looking for here, but if you can handle sarcasm and odd hours, we might get along.”
He read it back. It sounded stiff, after all, he wasn’t used to this. But it was him, and so he hit save before he could overthink it more. The app prompted him to start swiping. Robby leaned back against the couch as the profiles began loading, smiling faces, pictures of holiday destinations, and bios full of lists of requirements. He swiped left on most without much thought.
Left. Left. Left. Some of the women seemed nice, but nothing pulled him in. He kept going until the endless scroll of faces started blurring together. No one stuck, just the same hollow feeling that had driven him to download the damn thing in the first place.
But then your profile appeared. Robby’s entire body froze. The photo loaded first: you, one of his own residents. You were standing in scrubs outside the Pitt with the same smirk you got after a particularly chaotic shift. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the heat crawled up his neck. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling right now.
At work you were talented and dedicated, but still green enough that he rode you hard during shifts. And here you were on Tinder, of all places. The thought that you, or anyone else from the department, might stumble across his profile made his stomach twist with embarrassment. He could already imagine the gossip: Dr. Robby on Tinder. How pathetic.
He should swipe left immediately, delete his profile, and pretend this never happened. Instead, curiosity won. Robby tapped on your profile, telling himself it was just… professional concern. Making sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. He cared about his residents. Yeah, that was it.
Your bio loaded beneath the main photo: “If you like girls who will force you to watch her Letterboxd top four and then talk your ear off for hours about the hidden meaning behind her favorite songs, then I’m your girl. Emergency med resident with zero free time. Not looking for anything serious, just fun, meeting people, seeing where it goes.”
Robby let out a chuckle despite himself, the sound was unexpected in the quiet of the moment. He had only ever seen you in the chaos of the ED, running on adrenaline and too little sleep. But this version of you felt… different. He found himself thinking about how little he actually knew you. How little he’d allowed himself to know.
He didn’t know where you were from, or what your family was like, whether you had siblings who called too often or parents you tried to make proud. He didn’t know what you did outside of the hospital besides the occasional beer in the park, or what made you laugh until your sides hurt. All those small and ordinary pieces of a life that existed outside the emergency department.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing you like this. Like stumbling across a part of you he wasn’t supposed to have access to. A version of you that wasn’t filtered through the hierarchy of resident and attending. Up until now, you had been “his resident”, contained within the professional boundaries he’d carefully maintained.
He started swiping through your photos. The second picture was you laughing in what looked like a group hike, with your hair windblown and your eyes bright. You looked undeniably pretty. Objectively, he’d always known you were attractive. The kind of natural attractiveness that turned heads in the hospital corridors even when you were exhausted and covered in sweat. But once again, he’d never thought about it. You were a resident, he’d gone down that path before, and it’d ended badly. That made you off-limits, end of story.
The third photo was of you in a cozy sweater, curled up with a book and a mug of coffee. It was cute, almost sweet. The kind of image that made the loneliness in his chest ache. He kept swiping until the last photo hit him like a defibrillator. You were on a beach somewhere sunny and sandy, wearing a bikini. Your skin was glowing under the sun, and you were smiling at the camera in a confident pose, the kind of effortless beauty that could stop any man cold. Holy fuck, your body barely contained by the fabric of the bikini, the photo capturing the gentle swell and the way the light played across your body.
Robby’s mouth went dry, the heat flooded his face and then lower down his body. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t let himself imagine you like this, outside the hospital, undeniably a woman and not just one of his residents. His pulse kicked up, the nervousness made his hands shake and his grip slippery. He fumbled the phone, trying to swipe left fast. Swipe left, damn it, he thought.
But he accidentally jerked his thumb the wrong way, to the right, and the screen lit up with that unmistakable animation.
It’s a Match!
On the other side of Pittsburgh, you had been lying in bed, still trying to unwind after another brutal twelve-hour shift. Sleep felt miles away, so you’d given in to the guilty habit of late-night Tinder scrolling. Sure, swiping at 1 a.m. probably looked desperate to anyone else, but who cared? It wasn’t like you had much of a life outside the hospital anyway.
You swiped left with efficiency. Guy whose entire bio was just a link to his podcast. Left. Gym mirror selfies and nothing else. Left. Self-proclaimed “entrepreneur in the crypto market” with a Lamborghini in the background that probably wasn’t even his. Left.
How was it this difficult to find someone even remotely decent? You weren’t expecting to meet the love of your life in this digital dumpster, but was it really too much to ask for a man with basic social skills and a profile that didn’t scream immediate red flags? Someone whose opening line wasn’t just “u dtf?”
Guy who still clearly lived with his mom. Another left. “No feminists” in the bio, followed by a rant about “high value woman.” Left.
Then your thumb froze mid-swipe. Michael Robinavitch. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was, Dr. Robby, looking straight into the camera in one of the photos, that familiar half-smile you’d seen a thousand times in the ED, only now it was on a dating app.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly wide awake. What the hell was Dr. Robby doing on Tinder? You’d scrolled through this app for weeks and never seen him before. He must have created the profile recently. The man you’d been quietly (and not-so-quietly) thirsting over since your very first day of residency was right here. One match away.
How could you not like Robby? He was everything you’d ever wanted in a man, strong, steady, impossibly smart, and so damn capable it made your legs weak every single time he gave you a calm and yet authoritative instruction in the middle of a trauma.
You’d lost count of how many times he’d gently reprimanded you for being distracted while charting. He always assumed you were just tired from the long hours. He had no idea that you kept getting lost in vivid daydreams about him: running your fingers through the silver-flecked hair and that coarse, greyish beard, feeling those big hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close.
You loved the way his eyes crinkled warmly behind his glasses when he smiled, the way his voice dropped into that gravelly register when he needed to command attention in the ED… it did things to you. Dangerous, addictive things. Sometimes getting in trouble with him felt more exciting than it had any right to.
His Tinder bio was unexpectedly adorable. He looked a little lost, like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged on the app but was willing to put himself out there anyway. That bike is not the only thing I’d like to ride, you thought, as a little smile tugged at your lips.
His pictures made you melt and sigh at the same time. That warm, contagious smil, the glasses that struck the perfect balance between hot and endearingly sweet. The silver threading through his beard that made you press your thighs together at the mere thought of feeling it against your skin, between your legs, specifically.
You swiped slowly through the rest of his photos. Those wide shoulders, that tall and solid frame, that soft belly under the button-down shirt… you wanted him in a way you had never wanted anyone before.
It was almost pathetic the way your heart did a little skip every time he complimented your work on a tough case. The way your thighs squeezed together almost involuntarily whenever he stepped in close during a complicated procedure, guiding you step by step, his voice low and patient near your ear. “Yeah, grab the blade like that… make a two-inch incision, softly, very gently.” “Hold the tube with your left hand, tight, don’t move it.”
It made your mind wander to dangerous places. Was he like that in bed too? The kind of man who talked you through it, calm and devastatingly attentive? In your fantasies, he absolutely was. Late at night, alone in this very bed with nothing but your hand and your imagination, you could almost hear his voice murmuring against your skin: “Keep your legs open for me, nice and wide… just like that.” “Look at you… already making such a mess. I’m gonna start with one finger, okay? Think you can be good and take it for me?”
Should you swipe right? It felt like the only logical choice. If he swiped left, which seemed like the most likely outcome, he would never even know you’d swiped on him. But if he did swipe right… then maybe, just maybe, you could end up in Robby’s bed.
Your hopes stayed low. Never in a million years did you actually expect Robby to be attracted to you the way you were to him. You would’ve noticed something by now, maybe in lingering stares, subtle flirting, or any shift in the way he treated you. But he didn’t. He treated you exactly like the rest of the residents: a young doctor he needed to teach, who could sometimes be frustratingly distracted.
Still, you couldn’t contain the tiny, thrilled scream that escaped your lips when the screen lit up:
It’s a Match!
Robby had matched with you. He wanted you too.
“Shit!” Robby dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him. It bounced once and landed face-up, the match confirmation still glowing on the screen. He and you had just matched on Tinder. All thanks to that goddamn bikini photo and his clumsy, nervous fingers.
He stared at it, feeling his heart hammering harder than it had during the worst trauma cases. This was mortifying. You’d seen his profile, you’d swiped right, and now you were going to see that he’d swiped right as well. Part of him, the tired and lonely part that had downloaded the app and widened the age range, wondered what you’d think.
A dozen what-ifs tumbled through his mind. What if you saw his profile and laughed? That disbelieving laugh when something genuinely surprised you. What if you messaged him first? Maybe it had been a mistake on your end too. Maybe your phone had slipped, or you’d been swiping too fast after a long shift, half-asleep and a little buzzed. Or maybe… maybe you’d swiped right on purpose, just to tease him. He could already picture the text popping up on his phone: “Oh my god, Dr. Robby. What are you doing on Tinder? lol.”
Robby ran both hands through his hair, exhaling sharply. He picked the phone back up, looking straight at the Send message button. He shouldn’t. The responsible thing would be to delete the app, pretend this night never happened, and go back to being your attending, not your Tinder match.
Instead, he opened your profile again. Robby tried to move past it, he really did, but his eyes lingered on that last photo far longer than they should have. You in a bikini, your skin glowing under warm sunlight. He couldn’t believe that was what you looked like underneath the baggy scrubs you wore every day in the ED.
It felt wrong. Like he wasn’t allowed to see you like this, like he was intruding on something deeply private, crossing a line that should never even be approached between an attending and his resident. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it wasn’t enough to make him look away.
His body reacted anyway, a sudden heat stirring unwanted, a throb of arousal he hadn’t felt this sharply in longer than he cared to admit. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hating himself for it even as the reaction deepened. What the hell is wrong with you, Robby? he told himself, but the self-reproach did nothing to dull the pull. What could he do? You were a woman. A beautiful one, and for the first time, he was seeing you not just as his resident, but as someone undeniably, breathtakingly desirable.
Before he could delete his account and go to bed as he should, your message popped up.
You: hii :)
Robby’s breath hitched in his throat. For a split second, he swore his heart actually stopped. Then it slammed back into rhythm, pounding so hard he could feel it in his ears, in his temples, in the tightness of his chest. The little smiley face stared back at him from the screen, innocent and cheerful, as if it hadn’t just flipped his entire night upside down.
You had matched with him. At eleven at night. On his lonely fucking birthday. What the hell was he supposed to say to you at 11 pm. after accidentally matching with her on Tinder? “Hey, funny seeing you” here felt pathetic. “This is wildly inappropriate” felt like a lie because the rush of heat still lingering in his veins said otherwise.
He set the phone down on the coffee table for a moment, dragging a hand over his face for the millionth time. Part of him wanted to delete the match immediately, pretend it never happened, and go to bed like the responsible, professional attending he was supposed to be. But another part, the part that had been sitting alone on his fifty-fifth birthday, couldn’t bring itself to swipe left on this one unexpected connection. So he picked the phone back up and stared at the blinking cursor in the message box.
Another message came through a minute later.
You: robby? it’s me from work... guess you saw my profile too haha
Robby let out a long breath, he couldn’t avoid it now that you’d initiated a conversation with him. It was better to be direct, explain the mistake to you, and shut this down before it got any more awkward.
Robby: hey
yeah, I saw it
listen, this is embarrassing as hell, i was messing around with the app, dropped my phone and it must have swiped right by accident
sorry about that, didn’t mean to make things weird
He hit send and immediately regretted how cold it sounded, but it was the truth. The phone stayed quiet for a moment that stretched too long. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for your reply so he could shut down this awkward conversation and delete this stupid app before he accidentally matched with anyone else from work.
You: oh. so it was a mistake? damn, i thought you had swiped right on purpose. bummer.
Robby’s eyes widened. You were being direct, not beating around the bush or deflecting by saying it had been a mistake on your end as well. He could practically hear your voice saying it with a teasing edge.
Robby: Sorry about the confusion
i know it might be awkward finding me on here. probably the last person you expected, i don’t usually do this.
You: honestly it was surprising. didn’t peg you as the tinder type at all.
but hey, we all have our moments i guess
Robby: i’m not the type
this is my second time ever downloading it and i already regret it, should probably delete the whole thing before i make an even bigger fool of myself.
You: yeah i get it. i thought the match was mutual so i figured i’d say hi. sorry for texting if it was just an accident. didn’t mean to make it weirder
Robby read your message twice. Thought the match was mutual. The words echoed in his brain. You had swiped right on purpose, not as a joke, not out of morbid curiosity about your boss’s sad dating life. You had chosen him willingly. The realization of what that meant sent a confusing rush through him. You liked him, that had to be it. The thought of you… having a crush on him made a warm feeling run through his body, one he immediately tried to shove down.
Robby: What do you mean you thought it was mutual?
You: idk... i saw the notification and figured you wanted to match with me since it happened. that’s why i said hi right away. didn’t want to leave it hanging if we were both curious
He stared at the screen, his heart beating a little harder. You were so honest and blunt about your feelings, he found himself almost intimidated by it. Some rational part of his brain was trying to tell him this had to be a big joke, there was no way in hell you could like him. You were… you. What would you see in a man like him?
Robby: you wanted us to match? seriously?
You: lol yeah i did swipe right, didn’t i? your profile was actually really nice. the book pic is cute and the 70s rock mention made me smile. plus... i don’t know, you’re interesting. figured why not. no pressure though
Robby: i thought maybe you did it out of curiosity
or just to see if I’d swiped on you didn’t expect you to actually want that
You: well i did. but if it was an accident on your end then no big deal. we can pretend this never happened and go back to normal tomorrow. i won’t mention it at work or anything. promise
Robby let his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes for a long moment as he exhaled heavily. He knew exactly what the responsible Chief of Emergency Medicine should do right now: unmatch immediately, delete his profile, and pretend the entire night had been nothing more than a lonely fever dream.
But tonight… tonight he didn’t want to be responsible. He didn’t want to be Dr. Robinavitch, the attending who had sacrificed nearly every personal connection, every version of a fuller life, on the altar of the ED. For once, he wanted to be Michael. Just Michael. The man who had matched with you on Tinder. The man who was currently staring at his phone with his heart hammering like he was twenty years younger.
Before he could piece together a polite but firm way to end the conversation and retreat back into the safety of professional distance, another message appeared.
You: i think your profile’s part of the reason i swiped right. the book pic’s really nice
He smiled faintly at that, a rare genuine twitch at the corner of his mouth. Robby leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Robby: your profile’s pretty good too, better than most of the ones i’ve seen tonight
You: aww thanks. your’s so much better than the usual bullshit on here which is not that hard to be
but still finding you here is a nice change :)
Robby: you on this app a lot? seems like you’ve got the profile down
You: not really. i’ve been on a couple dates from here but it’s honestly exhausting. hard to find someone decent in this city. most guys are either looking for hookups with zero conversation or they’re boring as hell. you know how it is
Robby: fair enough.
your age range must be set pretty high if it pulled me up
fifty five isn’t exactly the usual crowd for you or is it?
You: haha yeah well
i like older men
Those four stupid words hit him square in the chest like a defibrillator. “I like older men.” Robby reread them slowly, feeling a dangerous warmth bloom low in his belly and spread outward through his chest. He was an older man, and apparently, that fit exactly into your preferences. Was that flirtation? Were you subtly implying that he was the kind of older man you liked? Or was it just a casual, throwaway comment, something you’d say to any guy on the app who happened to have a few gray hairs?
No. He was spiraling too deep, overthinking it the way he always did. Your words didn’t carry some hidden, special meaning meant just for him. They couldn’t. And yet… No matter how hard he tried to talk himself down, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of validation that lit up inside him. He felt desired, really desired. Not just by anyone, but by you: someone younger, and so strikingly pretty it almost hurt to look at your photos for too long. Someone who, in his mind, was clearly way out of his league.
Robby: It’s okay to have preferences
everyone does.
You: yeah exactly. i just find older guys more attractive than the ones my age. they’re usually more mature, know what they want, have actual life experience. it’s... hotter, i guess. plus the conversations are better
He swallowed hard, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He could practically see your face as you typed those words, maybe biting your lower lip in that teasing way you sometimes did right after nailing a difficult procedure.
Then the bikini photo from earlier flashed unbidden through his mind, and the heat in his body flared hotter. He pictured you exactly as you’d looked in that shot: sun-warmed skin, curves barely contained by the fabric. The thoughts he had no right to entertain came rushing in anyway, pulling him deeper. Thoughts of having you all to himself, of finally being able to run his hands slowly over every inch of that bare skin, tracing the line of your waist, sliding up your ribs, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. Of putting his mouth on you and every sensitive spot until you were trembling beneath him.
Robby: makes sense
i usually go for women closer to my stage of life
we have more in common that way
You: do age gaps bother you?
Robby: in what way?
You: like as a concept. are they a problem for you?
Robby: i’m okay with consenting adults doing what they want
as long as everyone’s on the same page it’s not my business.
You: have you ever been in an age gap relationship or anything like that?
Robby: i once dated a woman a bit younger than me
but usually around my age
He paused before sending the next part, he shouldn’t keep engaging in this deeply unprofessional conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him. And you were simply so easy to talk to that he couldn’t stop himself from letting his walls down a little.
He typed before he could second-guess himself.
Robby: how much older are we talking anyway?
the men you usually like i mean.
Your reply came fast, like you’d been waiting with the phone in hand.
You: usually over fifty up until their sixties or so. around that range. but it’s just a preference, nothing crazy. i feel like older men usually treat you better. they’re more gentlemanly, know how to actually listen, and they tend to understand what a woman wants... in every way, if you know what i mean ;)
Robby read the message twice. Three times. Four. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck me. You weren’t just being polite or making casual conversation. That winky face, the implication hanging there about “every way”. You were deliberately flirting with him, there was no other way to see it. He shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of his own body and the fact that it had been a long damn time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
He took a slow breath and replied, trying to keep some semblance of control.
Robby: do you date men closer to your own age too?
or is it mostly the older crowd?
You: i have tried guys closer to my age. some of them are sweet but a lot are still figuring their shit out. you should try dating a woman younger than you sometime though. maybe it’s exactly what you need.
Robby didn’t know what to say. The words hung there, full of possibilities around them. He was still wrestling with a response when another message from you popped up.
You: anyway sorry again for the confusion earlier. i’ll leave you alone so you can keep scrolling through profiles. i’ll go back to robbing the graves haha (joke, get it? because i like older guys... sorry that was sooo bad)
Robby chuckled despite the whirlwind in his head. The joke was cheesy, so perfectly you that it cut through some of the tension. But it also gave him an out, you were offering to back off and let this weird moment fade into nothing before tomorrow’s shift made everything awkward as hell. Part of him wanted to take the exit ramp, wish you a good night, unmatch, delete the app, and pretend none of this happened. But another part, the one that had been sitting alone on his birthday didn’t want the conversation to end.
He tapped over to your photos again, almost against his will. There it was the last one. You on the beach in that bikini, with the perfect swell of your tits catching the sunlight. Holy fuck. He wanted you, the realization hit him all of a sudden, making him switch back to the chat and move his thumbs almost on autopilot.
Robby: Nothing to apologize for
honestly you’ve kept me better company tonight than I expected
You: see? younger women can be good company too :) you shouldn’t close the door so fast. you could meet someone nice if you give it a chance
Robby: you shouldn’t close the door on guys your own age either
there are decent ones out there, you’ll find someone who can keep up with you
You: out of all the guys i’ve matched with here... you’re easily the best one. no contest
Robby: Really? that can’t be right
you’re selling yourself short.
You: no i mean it. you’re exactly the kind of man i’d usually go for. tall, older, smart... and hot
The word hot hit him harder than it had any right to. His face flushed deeper, his clothes felt constricting, his pants uncomfortably tight. Robby’s cock was already half-hard, thickening and pulsing insistently against the zipper of his jeans with every new message.
All because you’d called him hot. Just a little cheeky, playful comment, and it was enough to unravel him. The touch starvation wasn’t helping. It had been so damn long since anyone had looked at him with real interest, longer still since he’d felt this fluttering feeling low in his stomach. This rush of ego, this sharp need to be close to someone, to be wanted, to touch and be touched.
Robby: thanks i guess
you’ll meet someone worth your time, you’re a good girl
The message was sent before he could fully reconsider the wording. The second it went through, Robby winced. It sounded weirdly sexually charged, maybe it was because he was feeling sexually charged, painfully so. A Freudian slip at its finest.
You: good girl? 😏
Robby: shit i didn’t mean it to sound weird
just a figure of speech i suppose.
You: should i call you daddy then? ;)
Robby nearly dropped the phone again. The winky face, the bold suggestion, the way it played so perfectly into the tension that had been building sent a bolt of pure want through him. He could imagine your voice saying it, teasingly so, with that mischievous glint in your eyes. His mind supplied far too many vivid images: you in nothing but your skin looking up at him, you saying it in person with a flirty smile. He was fully hard. Actually hard, just from a fucking text conversation.
The professional alarm bells were clanging loudly in the back of his head. This was his resident, the age gap, the power dynamic, the fact that you’d have to face each other at the Pitt in a few short hours... it was all wrong. But god, it felt good. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
He glanced down at the obvious bulge in his sweatpants, his cock straining against the fabric like a flagpole. He couldn’t believe it. One flirty text from his resident and he was rock hard. Don’t get hard for your fucking resident, he thought. She’s one of your own. Off-limits. This is insane. He adjusted himself uncomfortably, trying to will it down through stubbornness, but the ache only sharpened.
You: too much? sorry i was just messing around lol
Robby exhaled and typed back, trying to sound more composed than he felt.
Robby: Don’t worry about it
i know it was a joke, no harm done
You: it was... unless you don’t want it to be a joke
He let out a surprised laugh, his cock twitched again at the follow-up, you were relentless, and something told him you were noewhere near done.
Robby: you’re funny, i’ll give you that.
You: that’s what i’ve been told. glad you’re having fun with me tonight
Robby: Well, I guess I should let you get some sleep
early shift tomorrow and all
You: i don’t mind staying up. i swiped right on you, remember? yk for a minute i really thought you were gonna flirt with me or maybe even ask me to come over to your place or something
The words hung there. You had been excited, you had hoped he would flirt. The image flashed through his mind, you showing up at his door in the middle of the night, stepping inside and… He shifted again, pressing his hand down against his insistent erection through his sweatpants, trying to get some relief even as guilt gnawed at him. This was crossing so many lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cross after Heather. But the loneliness that had driven him to download the app in the first place was quieter now, replaced by an electric tension.
Robby: that would be very inappropriate
i’m your boss and there are lines we can’t cross
You: but you’re not dr. robby my attending in here. you’re michael robinavitch, 55, the guy who loves 70s rock and long bike rides. and i’m not your resident in this chat. i’m just a girl who likes movies and older men... and who is really, really into you right now
You were separating the roles so cleanly, drawing a line between the hospital and this private space. It was tempting, dangerously tempting.
Robby: you know it doesn’t work like that
we can’t just turn it off when the shift starts tomorrow
You: nah i’m pretty sure i can
Robby: No.
You: If we really can’t meet then we can do it over text, you know.
He stared at the screen trying to guess if you really meant what you were saying.
Robby: what do you mean?
You: sexting, duh
He let out a short breath, Jesus fuck you were actually gonna kill him tonight.
Robby: that’s basically the same thing.
You: no it’s not. technically we’re not doing anything if it’s just messages. no one has to know.
Robby rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mind was screaming at him to shut this down, but his fingers were already moving. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering to do this.
This was a terrible idea. What difference did it really make whether it was real sex, his hands on you, feeling your heat around him, or just describing it in detail over text messages? A line was still a line. One he had promised himself he wouldn’t cross again. He didn’t want this to end with you giving up your residency, transferring to another hospital, another city, once things inevitably fell apart.
But fuck, his cock was achingly hard, straining against the front of his pants like a caged animal that desperately needed to be freed. The thought of you right now, maybe lying in your bed in, pressing your thighs together, that sweet slick already soaking through your panties because of him… it made it impossible to think straight. He couldn’t leave you like that, so wet, so needy, aching for him.
Robby: what do you want me to say?
You: i don’t know… just say something hot. you’re goot at being hot
He hesitated, he wasn’t sure of what to say. He was scared of seeming naive and old school to you, but he wasn’t used to this whole… sexting thing. The most spicy exchange over texts had been insinuating pictures before asking someone to come over. Okay think Robby, if you can save someone’s life under extreme preassure then you can sext with a woman, just say something typical, he thought
Robby: who’s been a naughty girl?
The second he hit send he regretted it. He winced, already typing another message to backtrack when your reply came through.
You: lmao that was the best you’ve got?
Robby groaned out loud, dropping his head back against the couch.
Robby: forget it. i’m going to bed
You: nooo wait. let’s try again :(
He should’ve put the phone down. He really should’ve. Instead he waited to see if you had anything else to say.
You: you’re so good at giving orders and guiding me at work. maybe you could do that now too? tell me what to do
You were right, in theory. He was good at instructing, guiding, teaching. It came naturally to him to step into that mentoring role, he had always been the one others looked to for direction.
Robby: i feel stupid doing this.
You: pleeeease. i’ve always thought you were the kind of guy who talks people through it in bed. it’s the same here, just write it instead of saying it. tell me how you want me to touch myself
Your words hit him hard. He reread the message twice. He had never consciously thought about it before, but yes… that did sound exactly like him. Fragments of memory surfaced unbidden: the commanding tone he’d used with past partners, the way he’d instructed them. “Open your legs for me.” “Turn around.” “Look at me.” He remembered the way their breathing would change, the way they’d tremble under the weight of his voice and his hands.
Robby: you really want me to talk you through it, sweetheart?
You: yessss that was so much better. keep going
If anyone had asked you how it happened, you honestly wouldn’t have been able to explain it. You weren’t even sure yourself. One moment you were typing a slightly embarrassed apology to Robby for matching with him and the next, the conversation had taken a turn and you were the one demanding he sext you so you could get off. It was bold, stupidly reckless, and yet it felt inevitable.
Robby: good girl that’s exactly what I wanted to hear, i want you to get those pretty legs spread nice and wide for me, can you do that?
You whimpered softly and obeyed him instantly, letting your knees fall farther apart on the mattress. The cool air hit your exposed pussy making you shiver.
You: yes. they’re open
Robby: Perfect
i’d be on my knees between them right now if I could
run your fingers up the inside of your thighs for me slowly, feel how soft they are
As you trailed your free hand up one thigh, you imagined his callused palms and the scratch of his greying beard following the same path.
You: doing it… feels so good thinking about your hands instead.
Robby: that’s my girl
now slide two fingers through your pussy and ell me how wet you are for me
You did exactly as he says, gasping as two fingers glided easily through your slick heat. You were soaked, embarrassingly so, the wet sounds filling the quiet bedroom as you stroked yourself.
You: So wet… i’m dripping. all because of you.
Robby: fuck i knew you would be
i want you to circle your clit for me now
Do it slowly and imagine it’s my tongue instead, licking you just the way you need
i’d take my time, taste every inch of you
Your mons got louder, tipping your head back against the pillows as your fingers obeyed, traxing circles around your clit that sent sparks up your spine. In your mind, it was Robby’s mouth devouring you while his strong hands pinned your thighs down.
Robby: how does that feel, sweetheart? tell me
You: so good, i’m so sensitive. keep talking please
Robby: Good
now slide one finger inside that tight pussy, nice and deep
curl it up just like I would, searching for that spot that makes your legs shake
i’d be watching your face the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look spread open for me, how good you are for listening
When you pushed a finger inside yourself, you curled it upward as instructed to hit that sensitive spot while your other hand kept working your clit in circles.
Robby: add another finger and stretch yourself open
i’d be so much thicker than your fingers, but we’ll start like this
imagine me pumping them in and out while i rub your clit
Adding a second finger, you continued fucking yourself to the rhythm of his words on the screen. It was not enough, it was nowhere near enough to calm the hunger and desperation that was threatening to consume your whole being. You knew nothing would be enough, only feeling him inside of you.
You: wish it was you inside me. can’t get off like this. i need you robby please
Robby: you were the one who told me to do this
You: i know i did. but it’s not enough
send me your address
He was tempted, so tempted that for one second his fingers almost started typing on an impulse. But the reality crashed back in immediately. The risks, the morning after, the way he’d have to look at you during rounds, knowing what you’d done. He was rock hard and aching for you, but the responsible part of him still refused to crumble completely.
Robby: what for?
you’re not seriously thinking about coming over right now, are you?
You: robby i’m literally only like 2 miles away from you. are you dtf? not as dr. robinavitch and his resident, but as two adults who casually matched on tinder tonight. there’s no title or hospital here. it’s just us.
Two miles. You were so close. He stared at your message, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. His cock gave another insistent throb, the head already leaking a little against his underwear. The thought of you actually coming over, right now, in the middle of the night, made his mouth go dry.
Robby: Send me your address and I’ll order you a ride.
You sent your address a moment later. It really was only two miles away. He confirmed the ride, watching the estimated arrival time tick down. Fifteen minutes… only fifteen minutes until you’d be at his door.
You: this is exactly what i meant earlier about older guys. so much more gentlemanly. taking care of the details instead of just telling me to get there
You had no time to get ready, and honestly, you didn’t care. Makeup? Hair? None of that mattered when you were this desperate, this aching for him. You climbed out of bed still wearing the thin tank top and soft sleep shorts you’d worn to bed, and threw an oversized jacket over everything, one that swallowed most of your body and made you look far more put-together than you actually felt.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed your keys and phone. The rideshare arrived sooner than you expected. The drive across the city felt both endless and far too short, but eventually the car pulled up outside his building.
You stood on the sidewalk for a second, staring up at the apartment complex, suddenly hit with the full weight of what you were doing, showing up at your attending’s door in the middle of the night, soaked and trembling with need, because a stupid Tinder match had spiraled completely out of control.
But you didn’t hesitate for long, you took a deep breath, pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, walked toward his door and knocked on it.
Robby opened it right away. He didn’t say a word, the second you were in reach, you had one of his strong hands cupping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a kiss. It was electric to say the least. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His beard was scraping deliciously against your skin as he moved his lips with experienced urgency. You melt into it instantly, fisting your hands in his shirt, tasting the pure, overwhelming taste of him. Finally. Here he was, kissing you like he’d been starving for it just as much as you had.
He kicked the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his taller frame. You felt the warmth of his hands roaming everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, squeezing the curve of your ass through the fabric of your shorts. In your mouth, he groaned, making a vibrating sound that went through you as he explored every inch he could reach, like he was memorizing the feel of you.
Your breasts were the next to get his attention, he was cupping them with his big hands through your tank top, brushing his thumb over your already hard nipple, while he tangles his other hand in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to gasp against his lips, “It took you long enough.”
Robby chuckled, the sound coming out breathless. “Took you long enough. You have any idea what it’s like waiting twenty minutes for you with a hard-on?” He pressed you closer, letting you feel the thick and insistent bulge against your stomach.
As if they had a mind of their own, his hands couldn’t stop moving, squeezing, caressing, claiming, running down your back, over your thighs, everywhere he’d fantasized about touching. Before you could respond, he bent slightly and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively.
The strength in his arms, the way his broad chest felt against you, sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs. He carried you through the house with purposeful strides. The door to your room swung open and he layed you gently on the bed, climbing on top of you immediately until his full weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress.
The kissing resumed instantly, slower now but no less intense. Robby’s mouth was moving from your lips to your neck, sucking lightly and scratching you with his beard in the most perfect way. Now his hands got bolder, continuing their exploration but this time sliding under your tank top, pressing his palms against your bare skin. He lifted the fabric higher, exposing your breasts to the cool air of the room.
“Fuck,” Robby groaned, and maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, but you could see his soft brown eyes turning darker as he stared down at you. “Look at you. These tits… so perfect. So fucking pretty.” His voice was rough with want, the same commanding tone. He cupped them reverently, as if they were something precious, circling your nipples until they pebbled tighter under his touch. “They’re made for my hands. For my mouth.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. The wet touch of his tongue made you arch into him with a moan, threading your fingers through his hair as he kept lavishing attention on your breasts.
From one side to the other, Robby switched sides, licking and sucking the other while his hand massaged the first, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensation, the tingly heat of his mouth and the firm squeeze of his callused hand, had you writhing beneath him, making you so wet you were soaking through your shorts.
The humming of his mouth against your skin sends sparks straight to your core. “So responsive,” he murmured, switching back to the first breast and sucking it harder than before. “These tits are going to ruin me. I could spend hours right here.” Sliding his free hand down your side, Robby gripped your hip possessively, continuing with the worshipping of your chest, licking broad stripes, sucking marks into the soft flesh, massaging and kneading until he had you panting and grinding up against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
The age difference between you only heightened everything, his experience was showing in every skilled touch, in every perfect flick of his tongue. He was being patient but hungry, like he’d been holding back for far too long. You could feel how hard he was, he was making you feel it, pressing insistently against your thigh. The knowledge that you did this to him made you even wetter.
Robby lifts his head briefly to lock his eyes on yours. His lips were swollen and his beard slightly damp with his saliva. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, but his hands never stopped, squeezing and caressing, teasing your sensitive nipples with his thumbs as he waited for your answer.
You shook your head, pulling him back down. You’d rather die than stop right now. “Don’t stop. Please.”
His mouth trailed a hot path down your sternum, over your stomach, scraping you teasinglywith his beard against your skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His hands followed strong, sliding down your sides and gripping your hips as he settled between your spread thighs. The weight of him, the sheer size and presence of this man, made your core clench with anticipation.
“These shorts have been teasing me since you walked in,” he murmured with the same steady tone he used in the pitt, but now turned intimate and commanding. Robby hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly peeled them down your legs, taking his time as he revealed more of you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart. Good girl.”
You obeyed instantly, lifting your hips so he could slide the fabric off completely, leaving you in just your thin panties and the tank top. Robby smoothed his hands up your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle but firm pressure. “Keep your legs open like that,” he instructed you. “Nice and wide for me. Don’t close them unless I tell you to.”
You were already moaning softly, and he wasn’t even touching your core yet. Robby dropped his eyes to the damp spot on your panties, making the fabric cling to your pussy lips, and he let out a groan of desire and hunger. He cupped you over the fabric with one hand, pressing his palm firmly against your heated pussy while his thumb found your clit through the material and began rubbing slow circles.
“Oh god,” you moaned, twitching up your hips into his touch, seeking more of the contact. The friction was simply perfect, it was teasing, and it kept building higher and higher. Robby’s callused thumb was applying just the right pressure on your swollen nub.
He watched your face intently through his hooded and lustful eyes as he worked you higher. “Feel good?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady even as his own breathing grew heavier. “You’re so wet already. Soaking through these panties for me. That’s it… rock against my hand, sweetheart. Show me how much you need this.”
Your moans only grew louder and more unrestrained, as he kept rubbing your clit with precision. The fabric added a delicious layer of friction, and every circle sent sparks shooting up your body. He got you gripping the sheets, your thighs already trembling as you fought the urge to close them around his hand.
Robby leaned down to kiss the inside of one thigh, scratching your skin deliciously. “You want my mouth? Want me to taste this pretty pussy? You gonna wrap these gorgeous legs around my neck while I do it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Please, Robby. I need it.”
He hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down slowly, revealing your glistening, bare pussy to his hungry gaze. “Fuck… look at you. So wet and perfect.” He kissed along your inner thighs, taking his time, brushing his lips and beard against the sensitive skin as he worked his way closer. “Wrap them around me, sweetheart. Lock your ankles behind my head if you need to. I want to feel you holding me right where I belong.”
You did exactly as he said, wrapping your legs around his broad shoulders and pressing your heels into his upper back. The position left you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Robby groaned, the sound vibrating against your core as he finally leaned in.
The first lick of his tongue was broad and slow, dragging from your entrance up to your puffy clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and it made you cry out loudly, threading your fingers into his greying hair as he began to devour you with the same intensity he brought to every procedure at work. He licked and sucked with precision, alternating between long and flat strokes to tight and quick circles around your clit.
His beard was scratching your inner thighs and outer lips in the most delicious way, adding a kind of texture that made your toes curl. “Robby… Oh fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, rolling your hips against his mouth.
He hummed in response, pulling back with his lips glistening with your arousal just so he could speak to you. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. I want to hear it.”
“So good… your tongue—oh god, your mouth, Robby. It’s driving me crazy. Don’t stop, please.”
“You’re being so good for me,” he praised, diving back in to suck your clit into his mouth, flicking it rapidly while applying suction with his lips.
Before you could register it, he teased your entrance with two thick fingers, slowly sliding them inside you, letting your own greedy hole swallow them. Once he curled them upward to find that perfect spot, the sensation had you moaning loudly and arching off the bed.
Robby pumped his fingers steadily, matching the rhythm of his tongue with his digits. A few moments later, he stopped again briefly, looking up at you with lust-filled eyes and shiny lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Spread open for me, taking my fingers so well. This pussy is perfect, made for me. Keep moaning for me. Let me hear how much you love my mouth on you.”
You obeyed, your moans spilling freely as he returned to his task with renewed hunger. The pleasure built fast and faster, making your thighs tremble around his head and your feet dig into his back as you held him exactly where you needed him. Robby gripped your hip with his free hand, holding you steadily while he worked you closer and closer to the edge with expert skill. Every command, every praise, every flick of his tongue pushed you higher.
Robby didn’t relent, he kept his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with rhythmic pressure, devouring you like a man starved. “Robby—oh fuck, yes!” The pleasure was overwhelming, every single nerve ending in your body was alight as he worked you higher.
“Keep those legs open for me, sweetheart,” he growled against your clit. “Don’t you dare close them. I want to feel you squeezing around my fingers while I eat this pretty pussy.” He added a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, the burn blending perfectly with the pleasure. “That’s it… take three for me. Feel how full you are? You’re doing so well. Such a good girl taking everything I give you.”
The wet sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping pussy and his mouth sucking hungrily on your clit filled the air. You were soaking his beard, his chin, his wrist, but he didn’t care. Robby slid a hand under you, grabbing a firm handful of your ass and lifting your hips slightly off the bed. The new angle let him bury his face even deeper, working your clit with more precision while he fingerfucked you harder. “Just like that,” he praised you between licks. “Grind on my tongue, baby. Use my mouth. Show me how bad you need to come.”
You obeyed helplessly once again, rolling your hips and bucking them against him as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. The pleasure built in powerful waves until your thighs started to shake violently around his head. Robby kept talking you through it, pushing you closer to the edge.
“You’re getting so close, aren’t you? I can feel this tight pussy clenching around my fingers. Come on, let go. Cum all over my tongue. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart for me.”
The orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity, making your back bow off the bed, a loud and broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy spasmed hard around his digits. Your thighs were squeezing his head tightly, your heels digging into his back as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you. Robby didn’t stop though, he kept sucking your clit through the peak, curling and thrusting his fingers to draw out every last shudder.
You came harder than you ever had. So hard that your vision went white for a moment as the pleasure bordered on overwhelming. Your moans turned into whimpers as the orgasm slowly ebbed, leaving you limp and gasping on the bed.
Robby finally eased back, gently lowering your hips and kissing softly along your inner thighs. He looked up at you with dark and satisfied eyes. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “So beautiful when you cum for me.”
You lay there panting, your thighs were still twitching, completely wrecked and already aching for more of him. Robby climbed back up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue. He was so close that his hard cock was pressing insistently against your thigh through his pants.
“That was… amazing,” you whisper with your voice hoarse from moaning. “So much better than I ever imagined.”
Robby chuckled softly, the sound warm and genuine against your neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Yeah? Better than your hand?” His eyes were sparkling with lust.
You laughed breathlessly, nodding. “So much better. Your mouth… God, Robby. I’ve never felt anything like that.”
He hummed in satisfaction, grinding his still-clothed erection slowly against your bare, sensitive pussy. The thick ridge of his cock was being pressed perfectly against your clit, giving him some much needed relief while teasing you both. “I loved doing that for you,” he murmured. “You were so good for me, sweetheart. So responsive, so wet. The way you moaned my name and squeezed my head with those pretty thighs… fuck, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Robby rolled his hips deliberately, the friction making you whimper and arch up into him. You could feel how achingly hard he was and how much he’d been holding back. You slid up your hands down his chest, feeling the soft flesh beneath his shirt.
“I want you,” you breathed, looking up at him with need. “Please, Robby.”
He stilled for a moment, as if to pulling himself together. “Tell me what you want. Be specific.”
You bit your lip, feeling the warmth invade your cheeks. “Your cock. I want you to fuck me. I need you inside me.”
Robby let out a groan, sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. He reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing out the anticipation. You sit up slightly, eager to help, moving your fingers to tug his pants down along with his underwear.
“I’ve been dying to see you,” you confessed as you pulled his pants down his hips. He caught your wrists before you could push his boxers down.
Robby looked almost nervous, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Wait… I, uh—” He cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away for a second. “I haven’t trimmed down there in a while. This whole night was… unexpected. I would’ve cleaned up if I’d known we were gonna end up here.”
He said it like it was something to be embarrassed about. Like it might actually make you want him less. It made you soft, you cupped his jaw, turning his face back to yours.
“Robby. Do you honestly think I give a damn about that? It’s just hair.”
He let out a self-conscious breath, still looking a little defensive. “I know. I know it’s just hair. It’s just… it’s probably a fucking jungle down there right now. You don’t have to— I mean, you don’t have to do anything if it’s too much.”
The way he was trying to give you an out was almost painfully endearing. You shook your head. “Just let me see you,” you whispered.
You slid his boxers down his thighs and freed his cock, it sprang out, thick and hard, the head flushed in a dark red with arousal. It was beautiful, so long, girthy, with a slight upward curve, prominent veins running along the shaft. Exactly like he’d warned, there was a thick, dark mat of coarse hair at the base, dense and untrimmed. He looked completely natural, it was so him, deeply masculine and unpolished.
A fresh rush of wetness slipped down your inner thighs. Your fingers twitched with the need to touch him there.
You looked up at him through your lashes “I love it,” you slowly carded your fingers through the thick hair at the base of his member. “You look so fucking hot like this. I like every single inch of you.”
Robby’s whole body shivered under your touch. “God…” he rasped as he stared down at you. “You’re gonna kill me tonight.”
Almost with instinct, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking the shaft slowly from base to tip, feeling the heat and weight of his member.
Robby hissed in pleasure, twitching his hips forward into your grip as he watched your hand move up and down his cock. “Fuck, your hand feels good,” he groaned, letting you stroke him for a while, savoring the sight of your smaller hand working his thick length, making a bead of precum leak from the tip.
After a few moments, he gently stopped you, wrapping his fingers around your wrist. “Lay back down for me, sweetheart. Keep those legs open nice and wide. Just like before.”
You obeyed, lying back against the pillows and spreading your thighs for him. Robby reached over toward the nightstand, stretching one arm past you as he pulled open the top drawer. He rummaged through it for a few seconds, before his hand closed around what he was looking for.
A moment later he sat back, a condom held between his fingers. He held it up, searching for your eyes with his. “I’ve got this if you want me to wear it.”
You shook your head, reaching up to touch his arm. “No. I want you bare. I’m on the pill.”
You both knew it might not have been the smartest option, doing it raw, with nothing between you. But there was a deep, unspoken trust between the two of you, forged through long shifts, that made you feel safe. And in that moment, that trust felt solid enough to lean on.
The hunger that had taken over both of you made anything else almost unbearable. The need to feel each other completely bare, skin on skin, heat on heat, with nothing separating you, was overwhelming.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” He tossed the condom aside, leaning down to kiss you deeply again. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”
He groaned, positioning himself between your legs and nudging the thick head of his cock against your slick entrance. The anticipation felt electric, this was the culmination of over a year of longing, of hours of texts, and now all that was left was this desperate connection. Robby gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he looked down at you with hunger.
The night is only beginning, and the way he’s looking at you promises he’s going to take his time ruining you in the best possible way.
As his cockhead was being rubbed up and down your folds, teasing your clit with every pass, coating itself with your juices, the sensation felt maddening, promising everything you’d fantasized about for so long. You whimpered, twitching your hips up instinctively to chase more contact.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” Robby commanded you softly, the same authoritative tone that had guided you through countless procedures was now guiding you through this. He cupped your chin gently, tilting your face so your gazes locked. “Keep looking at me the whole time. I want to see you while I fuck you.”
You nodded shakily, unable to look away even if you wanted to. Robby continued rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, coating himself in your wetness, drawing out the anticipation until you were squirming beneath him.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “So wet for me already. This pussy is going to take me so well. Breathe for me, relax and let me in.” He pressed forward slowly, breaching your entrance with only the tip. The stretch was immediate and intense, opening you up inch by inch as he sank deeper. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, but you forced your eyes open, locking them on his as he watched every flicker of pleasure cross your face.
“Easy, baby,” he cooed, stroking your thigh soothingly while the other braced beside your head. “You’re doing so good. Feel how you’re stretching around me? So tight and warm… fuck, you feel incredible.”
You moaned loudly as he continued sliding in, the deliberate thrust filling you completely until he was buried to the hilt, until his hips were flushed against yours. The fullness was overwhelming, his thick cock stretching your walls like nobody had stretched you before, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Robby stayed still for a moment buried deep, resting his forehead against yours as he looked straight into your eyes. “There you go. All the way in. You took every inch.” He started to thrust with deep rolls of his hips that drag his cock along your walls with exquisite friction. “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me close while I fuck you.”
You did as he said, locking your legs around his waist and digging your heels into his lower back. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and you cried out in pleasure, digging your nails into his shoulders. Robby kept talking you through it, just like he knew you liked.
“That’s my girl. Feel that? I’m hitting that spot inside you, huh?” He angled his hips slightly, grinding deep on every stroke. Robby slid one hand up to cup and squeeze your breast, rolling your nipple as he thrusted harder.
Robby moved his hand from your breast to cup your chin. His grip was gentle enough not to hurt, yet firm enough that you felt every one of his fingers pressing against the bones of your jaw. “Look at me. Don’t look away. I want to see how good my cock feels inside this tight pussy.” He tilted your face up and held it there, leaving you no choice but to meet his eyes.
And God… what a glorious sight he was. This handsome man, with his face flushed, his brow glistening with sweat, devouring you with his gaze as he kept driving his cock into you.
His face was only inches from yours, and he kept fucking you in long strokes while he held your chin like that, as if he were starving for every single expression that crossed your face. He loved watching the way pleasure wrecked you. The way your lips parted around helpless moans, the way you bit down on your lower lip only for it to slip free again with a broken sound. The way your eyes went glassy and pleading, silently begging him for more even as your body trembled around his cock. He drank it all in like a man who had been thirsty for years.
With his free hand, he gripped your waist, holding you in place so he could drive into you with more power. Every slide of his cock stretched you perfectly, dragging the fat tip along your g-spot like that was what it was made for.
“Robby—oh god, yes!” You moaned loudly, raising your hips to meet his thrust and tightening your legs around him. Your tits were bouncing with every powerful stroke, and he leaned down to suck one nipple into his mouth again, flicking his tongue as he continued fucking you.
“You feel so good,” he groaned against your skin, switching to the other breast. “So tight and wet around me. This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? Taking me so deep.” His hand on your waist slid down to grip your ass, lifting your hips slightly to change the angle as he thrusted harder. “Lift your legs higher for me, sweetheart,” he said against your neck,kissing and nipping the sensitive skin there. Ronny held the back of your thigh, helping guide your leg up. “That’s it… over my shoulder. Let me get deeper.”
You whimpered as he assisted you, hooking your leg over his shoulder. He did the same with the other, folding you nearly in half beneath him. The new angle allowed him to sink impossibly deeper, until he was pressing the head firmly against that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, grinding against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck—Robby, it’s so deep like this,” you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut for just a moment as the intense sensation washed over you.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided gently but firmly, cupping your jaw with his hand to tilt your face back to his. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Keep them open. I want to watch you while I fuck you like this. Don’t look away.”
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his hungry gaze as he continued hammering into you. The eye contact made everything more intimate and overwhelming. The feeling of his hand leavinf your jaw and sliding down between your bodies made you shiver. Robby found your swollen clit and began rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.
The combined stimulation was devastating. The pleasure was burning higher in your core, so close to finally exploding. Your body was arching and squirming beneath his frame as you scratched down his back and trembled over his shoulders. Every thrust, every rub of his fingers on your clit, every moan and grunt that escaped his mouth pushed you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” Robby groaned, never removing his sight from yours. “Look at you taking my cock so deep. You’re getting close again, aren’t you? I can feel it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you cum all over my cock. Keep your eyes on me when you do.”
You bowed your back off the bed as your climax took over your body. A loud cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his length. Your thighs shook violently over his shoulders and you dug your nails harder into his back when the waves of pleasure crashed through you. Robby sekpt thrusting through it, drawing out your orgasm with deep strokes and continued pressure on your clit.
“You look so beautiful when you cum for me… that’s it, sweetheart. Give it all to me. You’re being so good.”
By the time he finally slowed and gently pulled out of you, you were still trembling and gasping. Robby layed back on the bed beside you, with his cock hard and glistening with your release. “Come here, baby,” he said. “Get on top. I want to watch you ride me.”
He helped you shift positions, gripping your hips firmly to guide you as you straddled him. “Easy, sweetheart. Take your time… that’s it. Feel me right there? Let me watch you take every inch.”
You positioned the head at your slick entrance and began to sink down, inch by inch. The stretch was intense all over again, his girth opening you up as you lowered yourself onto him. Robby kept his hands still on your hips to steady you, stroking your skin soothingly while watching every expression on your face.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groaned. “You’re doing so well. Keep going… take a little more. Feel how full you are?”
Louder moans left your mouth as you sank lower, the fullness was overwhelming in the best way. Bracing your hands on his broad chest for balance, you finally took him to the hilt, resting your ass against his thighs. Robby squeezed your hips encouragingly. “Ride me. Roll your hips like that… yes, just like that.”
Whn you started moving, rolling, and grinding your hips in a steady rhythm, the pleasure built quickly. His cock was dragging along your walls as you found a rhythm that made your tits bounce and your clit grind against his pelvis.
Robby kept moving his eyes are everywhere, watching where your pussy stretched around his shaft, sliding up to your bouncing breasts, then locking onto your face. He reaches up with both hands, cupping your tits and rolling your nipples as you ride him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Keep going… faster if you want. Take what you need from me.”
Without a word, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. He sat up just enough to help you pull it off, and the second the fabric cleared his head, your hands were on him.
God, you loved his body. Your moved your palm slowly over his chest, feeling the coarse hair and the thud of his heart beneath your fingertips. You dragged your hands lower, mapping the soft, rounded curve of his belly with desire. It turned you on more than any gym-honed torso ever could. As you pressed your palms into the softness, your fingers dag in gently. Then you smoothed your hands over it again and again, savoring the way it yielded under your touch.
You were mumbling praises and moans between gasps, completely lost in the sensation. “Robby… you feel so good… so deep… fuck, I love your cock inside me…”
At one point, Robby planted his feet firmly on the bed, bent his knees, and started thrusting up to meet you. The change felt devastating, he was now fucking you from below with powerful strokes that made you cry out loudly as he droveinto you.
The slap of skin on skin grew louder when the slamming into you intensified. “Fuck—Robby!” you moaned, letting your head fall back as the pleasure overwhelmed you.
“Eyes on me if you can, sweetheart,” he growled, moving his fingers down to rub your clit again. “I’m getting close. You feel too good. You’re gonna make me cum.”
You were a moaning and squirming mess on top of him, riding and grinding as he thrusted up harder. His fingers on your clit and his cock hitting deep pushed you toward another peak, but it was his impending orgasm that had you focused on him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, snapping his hips up faster. “Fuck—can I cum inside you? Please, I want to fill you up.”
“Yes,” you gasped, riding him desperately. “Cum inside me, Robby. I want it. Fill me up. Please—”
With a deep groan, Robby thrusted up hard one last time and came, pulsing nside you, flooding your pussy with thick and warm ropes of cum. He held you down on him, gripping your hips tightly as he emptied himself completely. The feeling of him cumming inside you, fully claiming you, triggered your own smaller orgasm, making your walls clench rhythmically around his pulsing cock.
You both stayed locked together, panting. Robby stroked your back and thighs as you came down from the high befor pulling you down against his chest, kissing your forehead, keeping his cock still buried deep inside you as his release slowly leaked out around him, so much that you could feel the hot nd sticky evidence of his climax.
There were no more walls, just the two of you, finally giving in to everything you’ve both wanted and repressed for so long. You stayed draped on top of Robby for a long stretch of time, both of you catching your breath as the intensity slowly ebbed. Eventually, you lifted your head and looked at him. “That was… amazing. I wouldn’t even have dreamed that it’d be that good.”
He hummed in agreement, continuing his soothing path along your back. “It was. Better than I let myself imagine. You felt perfect.”
The praise made a warm feeling bloom in your chest. After a few more quiet moments, Robby gently helped you sit up, easing you off his cock with a shared sigh. You both winced slightly at the loss of connection and the feeling of emptiness, but he pulled you down beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around you again as you cuddled into his side.
“So… you don’t regret it, do you?”
He met your eyes as a small smile began tugging at his lips beneath the beard. “Right now? I can’t regret having amazing sex with you. My mind is still somewhere up in the clouds.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow when reality hits, but tonight… no regrets.”
You nestled closer, throwing one leg over his. The cuddling felt easy, natural, like you’d been doing this for years. For tonight, the outside world, the hospital, the guilt, the what ifs didn’t exist. There was only the two of you, and Robby might be right about reality hitting tomorrow, but right now, in the darkness of his room, everything felt right.
A/N: Two attempts at posting this fic, and two times Tumblr’s stupid AI mistakenly flagged it😭 I’ve spent days trying to figure out what was causing the problem and doing everything I could to finally get this fic posted for all of you. So if you’re reading this, it means it worked. Hopefully.
If you end up enjoying the fic, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me share it with a reblog (only if you enjoyed the fic) cause I’ve put a lot of work on it
Well, I hope you enjoyed this little something I worked on when inspiration finally struck me. I don’t know if I read it somewhere or if we all collectively decided it, but Robby absolutely feels like the type of guy who talks you through it. You’re telling me the man who spends all day teaching med students and residents how to do procedures wouldn’t also be guiding his girl in bed? It’s literally in his nature!!! This TikTok also got me inspired because, yes, he absolutely looks at you through it too.
I also think Robby’s canon texting style is weirdly inconsistent. In that scene in season one where he’s texting Jake, sometimes he starts messages with capital letters and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he ends sentences with a period, sometimes he doesn’t. In my head, he has perfect grammar but deliberately tries to sound Gen Z and chill when he’s texting someone younger than him lol. Anyway, I tried to replicate that here too.
Thank you all so much for your patience. I really appreciate it, and I hope I can stick around for good this time🩷
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