horny jail

The tavern was alive with raucous laughter, the clinking of tankards, and the scent of spiced ale thick in the air. But all of it quieted the moment you stepped onto the small stage at the far end of the room. Pero Tovar exhaled slowly, gripping his tankard tighter as his wife, his gorgeous wife, took her place before the gathered crowd. Dressed in a deep red, form-fitting gown that shimmered under the dim glow of lanterns, you were the very vision of temptation. The fabric hugged every sinful curve of your body, the thigh-high slit revealing smooth, tantalizing glimpses of her leg as she moved. Your hair framing a face so striking it could bring men to their knees.

And bring them to their knees you did.

Men leaned forward in their seats, eyes fixed on you as you ran a gloved hand down your hip, lips curling into a sultry smile. Whispers of admiration, longing and lust filled the air. But Pero? He only sat back, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. Let them look. Because at the end of the night, you would only be going home to him.

Then you sang. Your voice was honeyed silk, smooth and intoxicating, wrapping around each man in the room like a spell. You swayed slowly and sensually, your fingers grazing the microphone stand, eyes half-lidded as if lost in the melody.

Pero knew better.

You weren’t lost in the song. You were playing with them. Toying with their affections, making them believe, just for a moment, that they had a chance. But your gaze, the teasing glint in your eyes was only for one man.

Him.

As you sang, you moved through the tavern, trailing a gloved hand along a table, a shoulder, letting the men hope, until you reached Pero’s seat. The music slowed, the atmosphere thick with anticipation as you leaned down, your lips a whisper away from his ear. "Enjoying the show, mi amor?" You purred.

Pero chuckled, his hand sliding up her thigh beneath her dress, gripping just enough to make her breath hitch. “Mmm. Keep going, cariño. I like watching them ache for what they can’t have.” Your smirk deepened as you turned away, returning to the stage to finish your performance, leaving Pero’s hand aching for more.

When the song ended, the tavern erupted into cheers and applause. Men rushed to offer you drinks, gold coins, themselves but you only had eyes for your husband. Making your way through the crowd, you slid into Pero’s lap, looping your arms around his neck as he pulled you in close, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

"All these men, deseándote." He murmured. "And yet, you always come back to me."

Your fingers curled into his beard, tilting his face toward yours. “Because I only want you.” You whispered, your lips brushing his in the softest and most maddening tease.

Pero growled low in his throat, his grip tightening on your waist. Let them look. Because they would never have you. You were his.

The tavern was still roaring with applause, drunken men shouting for another song, another glance and another moment of your attention. But you had given them enough. You had already chosen where you belonged. And Pero Tovar wanted to make damn sure every bastard in the room knew it. Before you could even settle yourself properly beside him, Pero’s strong, calloused hands gripped your waist and pulled you onto his lap, earning a startled gasp that quickly melted into a knowing smirk.

"Pero…" His lips crashed against yours before you could finish, claiming you in front of everyone.

The tavern fell into a stunned silence. It wasn’t just a simple kiss. No, this was a possession, a mark of ownership. Pero kissed you deeply, hungrily, his hand fisting into the fabric of your gown as if daring anyone to try and take you from him. His lips were rough, demanding and jealous. You shivered against him, your gloved fingers sliding into his dark curls, pulling him closer as you let him take his fill. You felt the scrape of his beard, the heat of his mouth devouring you like you were his last breath of air.

The men around them groaned in disappointment and muttering curses under their breath. One even had the audacity to scoff. Pero broke the kiss just long enough to shoot a glare over your shoulder, his voice a low growl. "Keep staring, cabrón, and I’ll carve your damn eyes out." The fool quickly turned away and Pero smirked against your lips.

"Are you done, mi amor?" You teased, breathless, your fingers tracing the strong lines of his jaw.

"Nunca." Pero’s dark eyes burned into yours.  With that, he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring you and owning you, while the rest of the tavern was forced to watch in envy.

You belonged to him.

And he would never let them forget it.

Pero didn’t let go of her, even as the tavern’s chatter slowly returned to its usual rowdy state. His arm remained firm around your waist, guiding you away from the hungry stares of drunken men, past the bustling tables and into the dimly lit, private booth at the back of the tavern. The booth was secluded, tucked into the shadows with only a flickering candle illuminating their table. It was their usual spot, one that kept prying eyes at bay, one where Pero could have you all to himself. He pulled you onto the cushioned seat beside him, not across from him, never across from him. He liked having you close, feeling the warmth of yours pressed against his side.

A barmaid arrived swiftly, setting down their plates, roasted meats, fresh bread and a tankard of ale for him and a sweeter wine for you. The woman tried not to stare but Pero caught the way she darted nervous glances at you, still reeling from the spectacle they had put on moments ago. "Something wrong?" He grunted, taking a swig of his ale.

"N-No, sir." The barmaid stammered, bowing her head before scurrying away.

"You certainly made quite the statement tonight, mi amor." You chuckled, swirling the wine in your glass. 

"Good. Now those bastards know to keep their filthy hands and eyes off you." Pero huffed, tearing a piece of bread with his teeth. 

"You’re adorable when you’re possessive." You smiled, watching the way he grumbled between bites. 

"Adorable? Woman, I just threatened to carve a man’s eyes out." Pero nearly choked on his ale. 

"And I loved it." You only laughed, leaning in close as your lips brushed against his ear. 

Pero exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on his mug. Dios, this woman would be the death of him. "Eres una tentación, mujer." He turned to face you fully, his dark eyes locked onto yours. 

"Then let me tempt you more, mi esposo." You merely sipped your wine, mischief glinting in your gaze. 

The rest of the tavern faded away as Pero smirked, knowing damn well that whatever meal they were about to have, you would be the sweetest thing he’d taste tonight. The world around them still bustled with life around them, laughter, drunken singing, the clatter of mugs and plates but for Pero, the world had narrowed down to just you.

You had been teasing him all night, flashing that sultry smirk, letting your fingers graze his arm as you poured him more ale, whispering in that honeyed voice of yours, laced with promises of trouble. And then, without hesitation, you slid onto his lap.

Pero tensed as your warmth pressed against him, the curve of your body fitting so perfectly against his own. His large hands instinctively rested on your hips, steadying you even though you didn’t need it. You merely hummed, resting an elbow on his shoulder as you swirled the last of the wine in your goblet, pretending as if you weren't driving him insane. His fingers flexed, tracing over the fabric of your dress, soft, smooth and so damn thin. His brow twitched, suspicion creeping into his mind as his hands traveled lower. And then he realized it. 

There was no barrier between his fingers and your cunt.

No lace. No silk. No underwear.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his grip tightening as his lips brushed against your ear. "Dios mío…" He murmured, low and rough. "You are playing a dangerous game, esposa."

You merely chuckled, shifting ever so slightly and pressing down in a way that made his blood run hot. "Am I?" You mused, feigning innocence while sipping your wine.

Pero’s patience was already hanging by a thread but now, it was fraying fast. His hand slid beneath the table, palm pressing against your bare thigh, his calloused fingers tracing slow and deliberate circles over your soft skin. You inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned closer, tilting your head as if you were merely whispering sweet nothings to your husband.

Pero smirked. Two could play this game. "Let’s see how long you can keep up this act, mi amor." He murmured, his fingers creeping higher and testing your resolve. Your breath hitched ever so slightly, your thighs tensing beneath his touch. He chuckled darkly. You had started this little game but he would be the one to finish it.

You hummed against Pero’s ear, rolling your hips just enough to test him. His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into the fabric of your dress as if he was holding himself back. But when you finally sank down onto his lap, fully and deliberately, you felt the sharp inhale he tried to suppress. He was already hard for you.

Pero exhaled through his nose, his lips curving into something dark and knowing. "Eres una diabla, mujer." He murmured, keeping his voice low, only for you. You smirked, wrapping an arm loosely around his shoulders as you rocked ever so slightly in his lap, using the noisy tavern to mask the slow grind of your hips.

Pero only smirked back, reaching for his ale. "Go on, then." He taunted, taking a slow sip. "Show me what you can do."

It was a challenge.

And you never backed down from a challenge. You started slowly, rolling your hips against him in a way that looked innocent to anyone glancing over, just a doting wife in her husband's lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. But Pero could feel it. The heat of you, the way your muscles clenched around him, the sheer wickedness in your movements. His fingers dug into your waist, a silent warning.

But you only giggled, tracing a hand up his chest as you leaned in to murmur, "Enjoying your drink, mi amor?"

Pero huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting his head slightly to look at you through lidded eyes. "More than the ale." He admitted, voice thick with restraint.

You smirked, savoring your victory but then his hands suddenly gripped your hips, stilling your movements entirely. "Now finish what you started." He growled, pressing a kiss to your ear, "before I decide to take you upstairs and finish it myself."

You bit your lip, keeping your expression schooled as you rocked in Pero’s lap, your hands tangled in his dark curls. His rough palms kneaded your hips, holding you steady but you could feel how much he was enjoying this, how much he wanted you. And yet, he still had the audacity to sip his ale like nothing was happening beneath the table.

You smirked, leaning closer until your lips brushed his ear. "Am I boring you, mi amor?" You purred, rolling your hips with purpose this time, pressing down on his length in a way that made his breath stutter.

Pero exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening. "Cuidado, mi esposa." He warned, voice low and rough. "You’re playing a dangerous game."

"Then why don’t you make me stop?" You giggled, tilting your head coyly.  His dark eyes flickered with something primal and something possessive. And then you gasped.

Pero had slipped a hand beneath the layers of your dress, rough fingers finding your already soaked heat. He dragged a calloused finger along your folds, teasing and taunting, before pressing against your swollen bud in slow and torturous circles. Your body jolted, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you clenched around him. "That’s what I thought." He murmured smugly, rubbing you with slow and deliberate strokes. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering but you refused to let him win so easily. Keeping your composure, you continued rolling your hips, matching the rhythm of his fingers, letting the heat coil tighter inside you.

Pero’s eyes darkened with lust, watching your every move. He looked like a man on the edge, dangerous, starving and barely holding himself back. "Keep quiet." He murmured, voice thick with restraint. "Or everyone in this tavern will know how much you love this."

It was a challenge.

One you weren't sure you could win.

Pero didn't give you a chance to tease him further. With one last and deliberate stroke between your thighs, he made your body tremble before swiftly gripping your hips and standing from his chair. You let out a surprised gasp as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The tavern bustled around them but Pero didn’t spare a single glance at the curious onlookers. His only focus was you, his wife, his temptation and his undoing. His grip was firm, his steps purposeful as he carried you through the dimly lit corridor leading to their private quarters upstairs.

"P-Pero…" You started breathlessly but your words cut off with a sharp inhale when he pushed open the door with his boot and kicked it shut behind him. He wasted no time. With a growl, he pinned you against the wooden door, his lips crashing against yours in a feverish and possessive kiss. His beard scratched deliciously against your soft skin as he devoured you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other gripping your thigh, keeping you pressed firmly against him.

"You think you can play with me like that?" He rasped against your lips, his voice thick with desire.

You smirked, tilting your head as your fingers tangled in his dark curls. "I don’t know what you mean, mi amor." You purred, feigning innocence.

Pero huffed a low chuckle, nipping at your bottom lip before moving down to your neck, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Liar." He murmured against your pulse and made you shiver. He carried you to the bed, laying you down before quickly unfastening his belt, his dark gaze drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the way your chest rose and fell in anticipation.

"You wanted my attention, mi esposa?" He smirked, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "Now you have it."

Pero lay back against the pillows, his dark eyes burning with anticipation as he pulled you over him, his hands gripping your thighs to guide you. His beard was already damp from the teasing kisses he had trailed along your inner thighs and now, as you straddled his face, he let out a low groan, drinking in the sight of you above him. "Hold on tight, mi amor." He murmured, his voice thick with hunger.

Your fingers curled around the headboard as you braced yourself, your breath hitching when you felt the first slow drag of his tongue. Pero wasted no time, pulling you down fully onto his mouth, his grip tightening on your thighs as he buried himself in the sweet heat of you. "Oh, Dios…" Pero groaned against you, the vibrations sending a shudder through your body.

You gasped, your back arching as you tried to steady yourself, your thighs trembling as his tongue moved with devastating precision. He licked, sucked and teased with a skill that made your toes curl, his rough hands keeping you exactly where he wanted you. You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips as you rocked against his mouth, fingers gripping the headboard so tightly that your knuckles turned white. Pero growled in approval, his hands sliding up to cup your ass, urging you to move with him.

"Pero…" You moaned, your voice breathless. "You’re going to ruin me…"

His only response was a deep chuckle against your sensitive flesh before he pulled you even closer, his tongue working you with an urgency that left your mind blank. "Then let me ruin you completely, mi esposa." He murmured, before devouring you all over again. He growled against you, his fingers tightening on your thighs as he dragged you even closer. He was relentless, his tongue working you with slow and deliberate strokes, then switching to fast, eager flicks that had your entire body trembling.

"Pero!" You gasped, your fingers gripping the headboard so tightly you thought it might crack beneath your hold. Your thighs quivered as pleasure coiled deep in your belly, hotter and more intense with each passing second.

Pero smirked against you, feeling the way you shook above him, knowing you were teetering right on the edge. "That’s it, mi amor." He murmured, his voice thick with hunger. "Let go for me." He sealed his lips around your swollen clit and sucked hard, his beard rubbing deliciously against your sensitive skin as his tongue flicked over you in rapid strokes. The pressure built and built until it was too much…

"Pero!" You cried out, your entire body tensing as pleasure crashed through you like a tidal wave. A strangled moan ripped from your throat as your release gushed out of you, soaking your husband’s face. He groaned against you, his hands gripping your hips to keep you in place as he licked and drank in everything you gave him, his tongue still working your overstimulated flesh as you writhed above him. Your body sagged forward, your forehead pressing against the headboard as you tried to catch your breath, your legs weak and trembling. Pero finally eased up, placing soft and lingering kisses on your inner thighs before looking up at you, his face glistening with your essence.

"Mierda…" He muttered, swiping his tongue over his lips with a wicked grin. "That was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted."

"You’re insatiable…" You let out a breathless laugh, your body still twitching in aftershocks. 

Pero smirked, his hands running up you back as he sat up, pulling you down onto his lap. "And I’m not done with you yet, mi esposa." He rumbled, his cock pressing insistently against you.

"Now." He whispered, his voice dark with promise. "Let me make a mess out of you too." His hands gripped your hips as you slowly sank down onto him, your walls stretching to accommodate his thick cock. A deep, guttural groan escaped his lips, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he felt you squeeze around him. "Dios…" He rasped, his head falling back against the pillows. "You feel like heaven, mi amor."

You whimpered, rolling your hips as you adjusted to his size, the delicious stretch making your toes curl. "So big…" You breathed, placing your hands on his broad chest to steady yourself.

Pero smirked, half-lidded eyes watching you intently. "Then take your time, preciosa." He murmured, voice thick with desire. "Make yourself feel good."

You began to move, slowly at first, grinding your hips against him before lifting yourself up and sinking back down. Pero let out a low growl, his hands guiding your movements as you built a steady rhythm. His lips soon found your neck, pressing hot and open-mouthed kisses along your pulse before sucking hard enough to leave his mark. "Mine." He murmured against your skin, his breath hot and heavy. "Only mine."

You moaned at his possessiveness, your hands threading through his dark hair as his mouth trailed lower, sucking and nipping at the tops of your breasts. Then without warning, Pero pulled down the fabric of your dress, freeing your soft and full breasts. His mouth latched onto one, his tongue flicking over your hardened nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth.

"Pero!" You gasped, arching into him, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure surged through your body.

He groaned against you, his other hand palming your neglected breast, kneading and rolling your nipple between his rough fingers. "That’s it, preciosa." He murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "Ride me just like that…"

You whimpered as you bounced on his cock, the obscene wet sounds of your joining filling the room. You felt your release building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with each thrust. Pero looked up at you, eyes dark and hooded. "Come for me, mi amor." He commanded, thrusting his hips up to meet yours. "Let me feel you squeeze me."

With one final stroke, you shattered, a cry tearing from your throat as pleasure washed over you in waves. Pero groaned as he felt you clench around him, his grip tightening on your hips as he chased his own release. "Fuck!" He growled, pulling you flush against him as he spilled inside you, his cock twitching deep within your warmth. The room fell into heavy silence, your mixed ragged breaths mingling as both of you held each other close. Pero nuzzled against your chest, pressing soft kisses to your damp skin. "Eres perfecta…" He murmured. "And now, mi amor, you’re never leaving this bed."

Pero let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he lay back against the pillows, his strong arms still wrapped tightly around you. His hands slowly roamed your body, tracing every curve and every mark he had left on you. A wicked smirk played on his lips as he admired the mess he had made, your skin glistening with sweat, your thighs slick with both of your releases and the love bites blooming across your chest and neck like wildflowers.

"Mira eso…" He murmured, dragging a calloused finger along your inner thigh, watching the way his spend glistened on your skin. "Look at the mess we made, preciosa."

You shivered at his words, body still trembling from the aftershocks of their passion. Your face burned with heat but you couldn’t bring yourself to shy away, not when Pero was looking at you like you were the most divine thing he'd ever laid eyes on. "You're insatiable." You whispered, breathless, your fingers lightly tracing the scars on his chest.

Pero chuckled, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against your skin as he pulled you closer. "Only for you, mi amor." He murmured, pressing a searing kiss to your lips.

The kiss was slow but deep, filled with the kind of devotion that made your heart ache. Pero’s lips moved against yours with a gentle hunger, savoring you like fine wine. His hand cradled the back of your head, tilting you just the way he liked as his tongue slid past your lips, tasting you and owning you. You melted against him, your body molding to his as his arms tightened around you. "Pero…" You sighed against his lips, your fingers curling into his damp curls.

"Shhh…" He hushed you, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek and then the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Let me hold you, preciosa. Let me feel you." His arms wrapped around you securely, one large hand stroking up and down your back in lazy circles. The warmth of his body against yours was comforting and grounding, like he never wanted to let go.

You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat, sex and something undeniably him. "I love you." You whispered against his skin, barely audible.

Pero stiffened slightly before exhaling a soft breath, his lips pressing to the crown of your head. "And I love you." He murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "More than I can ever say."

You shouldn’t have gotten on. Something told you not to when the doors opened and your eyes met his. You don’t know who he is, but instinctively, your entire body leapt into fight or flight mode. 

He’s not unattractive, but he is dangerous. You can feel it, smell it, seeping from his pores. Only enhanced by the ragged and deep scar that is carved through his skin on the left side. Someone or something had nearly taken his dark brown eye, the wound permanently etched through his eyebrow and down his cheek. It speaks of violence and it made you hesitate for more than a beat when you started to step into the car with him. 

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes. Brief and gone before you could blink. Making the guilt of your wariness force you to step into the small space and murmur an apology for holding him up as the door closes. Pressing the button for your floor isn’t necessary, not when it’s already lit up and you quickly avert your eyes away from him. 

Moving into this building has been nothing but a pain in his ass. Pero growls as he glares at the doors, willing them to open and let him off this infernal thing. He had assumed the fucking elevators would work, as much rent as they are charging. It was robbery and he pulls out his phone to see about calling emergency services, only to find out that it’s dead. “Fuck!” He hisses, whirling around and watching as the woman who clearly wanted to be anywhere else nearly jumps out of her skin. 

A new place, a new life. Same bullshit. He couldn’t miss the way she hesitated, fear coiling in her body when she saw him. It shouldn’t affect him, but sometimes - sometimes it gets to him. Especially when a pretty lady won’t look him in the eyes for more than a few seconds. 

“You have a phone?” The question is practically spat, making you jump and look up in horror. Almost afraid of what you might see. All you see is an annoyed man and you realize that the words are spoken with an accent. You hadn’t recognized it when he was cursing, but you can hear the roll of his speech. “W-what?” You stammer. 

Pero rolls his eyes and holds up his useless piece of crap. “Phone?” He repeats, waving it towards her slightly. “Mine is dead and the one in the box is useless.” He huffs, wondering if she is just that scared or that timid. It’s a shame, because she’s his type physically. 

“Oh- uh-” You are a little ashamed that you are so fucking shaken by this man, but you start to dig into your bag for your own phone. Introducing yourself nervously as you root around for it, fingers starting to shake as you search. Hating how you are jittery and feeling like you are under a microscope. “Here.” You offer it to him, but he shakes his head. 

“Your phone, pajarito.” He grunts. “Call the fire department.” He shakes his head. “I already want to break my lease if this is how things are going to be in this shithole.” He stops himself from complaining, something that William always said made people even more wary of him. “I am Pero Tovar.” He adds, remembering how you had introduced yourself just moments ago. You have a pretty name. 

“Okay.” You pull your arm back and open your phone, trying to think as you try to decide if you need to call 9-1-1 or just the non emergency line. 

“The number is nine-” Pero starts, watching with a small smirk when your head snaps up and you shoot him a glare. Annoyance overriding whatever fear you have. 

“I know the fucking number.” You snap, rolling your eyes. “I was trying to decide if this was an emergency or not.” 

“I would say being stuck in an elevator fifty feet above the ground with no way of knowing if or when the cables will snap and send us plummeting to our deaths is an emergency.” He snorts dryly. 

Your eyes widen, not even thinking about the fact that there could be something wrong with the elevator that would cause it to drop. “Oh god.” You feel like you are going to be sick and you quickly dial. 

“9-1-1 what is your emergency?” Even though you are rattled, you quickly give your address and let them know that you are trapped in the elevator with another person and the call box was broken. You listen as they tell you to remain calm, asking your name and the other trapped person’s name. 

“Uh- what’s- what’s your name, again?” You pull the phone away from your mouth, finding it increasingly hard to look at him, those intense eyes focused on you makes you feel like you are a tiny little rabbit in the sights of the big bad wolf. You bite your lip and remind yourself that he’s not actually been any threat to you. He’s just intimidating and unfortunately, you find that extremely attractive. 

“Pero Tovar.” He gives you his name easily, listening as you give it carefully to the operator and nodding to no one for a few more minutes before you sigh and pull the device from your ear. You look so forlorn he wants to laugh. “Are we stuck in here forever?” It’s meant to be a joke, something lighthearted since he had been so wound up when the elevator got stuck and you were obviously nervous around him. He flashes you a quick grin that you don’t notice. 

“They are sending the fire department.” You stare down at your phone and sigh again. “Don’t know how long it will be.” 

Pero groans and shoves his hands in his pockets, annoyed but he’s not as upset as he had been before. There are some things in life that you just cannot change and honestly? There are worse things than being stuck in this place with an attractive woman who smells sweet enough to eat. “Then we should get comfortable.” He grunts, deciding to sit down on the floor and wishing he had some food. 

You stand there, unsure of what to do and feeling a little panicked. Taking short, shallow breaths, you close your eyes, trying to slow your heart beat down. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” You murmur to yourself. Not seeing Pero Tovar frown at you in concern where he is sitting on the floor.   

You aren’t okay, he can tell that. Obviously about to have some kind of attack. Maybe you are claustrophobic, or something. He reaches for your hand and there's a little yelp you make when he tugs you down.  

“Breathe.” He has seen men panic, the havoc they can cause when they are so focused on what’s wrong, they make mistakes. He doesn’t think you can do anything to hurt yourself here, but he’s not taking any chances. 

“I-I can’t.” You gasp, bag slipping off your arm and spilling onto the floor. “I- I- I-” You can’t even form words, unable to think of anything but the way the small space seems to swell and close in on you. Your knees wobble and you know you are going to faint.

He is not good with things like this. Especially the tears that are making your eyes look wet. Pero growls, grabbing you before you can collapse to the floor and he does the only thing that he can think about doing in a situation like this, he kisses you. 

This stranger kisses you. Your eyes widen and the way the elevator had been collapsing around you vanishes as your blood rushes through your ears, roaring so loudly you don’t even hear the way you gasp. 

It’s like a romance novel, a movie, completely beyond the realm of normality that you would never imagine that something like this would happen to you. Especially in a situation like this. Your gasp obviously gives this stranger an opening, one that he takes easily, his tongue sliding into your mouth. Warm, rich, like a smoky sip of bourbon. Taking it deeper and his hands move from where they were holding your arms to wind around your body and draws you closer to the broad expanse of his body. The terror and panic melting away from the unsubtle coxing of his tongue against yours. 

There is no room for you to fall apart. Not as he guides you towards the back wall of the box you are in. There’s no room for anything but the way he shoves his knee between your legs, making you whimper when the hardness of his leg presses against the most intimate part of your body. 

You should push him away, slap him, curse him for touching you. You don’t even know anything about this man beyond his name, his dark looks and the knowledge that his mouth on yours and his body pressing you into the cold metal wall, makes you forget all about the terror that had been taking hold. 

Instead of shoving him back, your hands grip his shoulders, dragging him impossibly closer and begging with your body by grinding down against his thigh. Your core immediately responds to the pressure and you groan again. 

Mind blank to everything but the almost teasing flick of his tongue against yours and you feel his knee shift, pressing, lifting, giving you more while a hand slides from your shoulder to the front of your body, cupping one breast over your clothes. 

His groan is raspy, sexy. Vibrating against your lips until he breaks free and trails teeth and kisses along your jaw. Breath hot and heavy in your ear as he continues to grind his knee against your now throbbing pussy. “I can make you forget, pajarito.” He promises, voice dripping with sin before he nips your ear gently and makes you moan so loudly it echoes around the car. “I can make you forget where you are.”

It sounds too good to be true, but you already have forgotten how to breathe properly, how to do anything but respond to the pressure of his hand on your breast, back arching to give him more access. Body already answering the question that he is posing. 

“Yes.” Your answer falls out easily, given breathlessly. You would give him anything right now, as long as he keeps spinning whatever magic he obviously possesses to take complete control like this. “Yes, please, yes.” 

Your eyes fly open, a sound of protest falling out of your mouth when the pressure of his knee disappears. Only to moan again when he manages to lift you up, using the wall as he pins you against it. Feeling him working between your thighs and the rasp of his zipper loud enough to make your body tense in anticipation. 

Whoever Pero is, whatever he does, he’s skilled as he manages to push your panties to the side, line up and push inside you in a motion that has your head spinning from the force of his cock. Absorbing your cry with another kiss that threatens to drown you. Walls stretch around his cock as he pulses deep inside you, his growl of pleasure matching your pants and you open your eyes to find his locked onto yours. Watching you as he starts to move. 

The car shakes, something that should terrify you, but you don’t even notice it. All you are centered on is the way he feels. The way he moves inside you. Arms wrapped around his shoulders for stability even though there is no chance you are escaping his grip. Completely lost in the rhythm of his hips snapping forward and stealing every coherent thought when he punches deep. 

You don’t care what happens right this moment, as long as he doesn’t stop. You haven’t seen his cock, but he’s thick, long enough to hit a spot deep inside you that has your legs tightening around his waist. Begging for more when you clench around him and moaning into his kisses while he grunts and pants and manages to look even more dangerous as he thrusts into you. 

Those eyes are intense, searching as he watches you. Lips still pressed to yours, it’s like he’s reading your mind as he hitches you up higher and starts to fuck you harder. Pushing deeper, your back against the wall as you take his cock. 

He’s got incredible strength, holding you up, even though you would realize later on that it’s easy to do when you are braced against the wall. Using the leverage to hold you up. Stamina impressive because he’s lasted longer than the normal ten pump chumps that have made up your dating life. 

This stranger is giving you the best sex of your life. It’s hot, fast, hard enough to have your toes curling in your shoes before one of them just falls off, clattering to the floor completely ignored by both of you. All you can do is be right here in this moment, getting the life fucked out of you by the man you had been wary of when you stepped on to this elevator. 

“Fuck, fuck.” Your head hits the wall as you press back against it, pushing your hips down and at an angle to change the way he thrusts into you. Hitting that spot that has your breath catching and a squeal poised on your tongue. “Right- right there.” You pant, loving how he growls and nods, eyes flickering away from your face to look down between you, memorizing how you are angled so he can keep fucking you like this. 

It’s hot in the car, both of you panting and you see the sweat beading on his forehead. The scar that covers his left eye isn’t scary anymore, it’s sexy. Making him mysterious and you want to know what happened. How he had dealt with whatever happened. You want to kiss it better. 

“Fuck.” You whine again, fingers gripping his shirt and then sliding into the short hair that is curling slightly at the nape of his neck. Almost silky in your fingers and you don’t miss the way that he groans and his cock twitches inside you when you tug on it slightly. 

“Cum for me, pajarito.” He’s not asking, he’s demanding. That whiskey rough voice at a hiss, clenching his teeth and flaring his nostrils as he continues to hammer into you. “Soak my cock.” 

Your body, racing with adrenaline from the earlier fear and now the intense lust that has completely overwhelmed you, completely shakes as you fall apart. The wail loud and long when your cunt clenches down around his cock like he had demanded. Soaking him just like he wanted as you start chanting his name again and again. Fireworks exploding and lights bursting in your vision as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. 

You feel him tense under you, a curse falling from his lips and you moan again. “Safe.” you manage to gasp out and he curses again. Then he’s still, pushed so deep inside you that his hip bones dig into your skin and make you hiss slightly. The throbbing and heat of his cum flooding your womb making up for it and giving you the most intense sense of completion that you can’t do much more than twist your head and press your hips to his as he empties himself into you. 

Time is suspended, you don’t know how long you stay locked together. Kisses small and delicate, unlike the way you had just been fucked. Almost tender now that he’s cum, Pero softens inside you, still holding you up until he slowly starts to let you down. Your legs shake, almost buckling when you put weight on them after he falls out of you. Chuckling and holding onto your waist until you get your bearings and hold onto the railing. 

“Holy shit.” You breathe out, giggling at yourself and feeling slightly dazed. “That was…..”

“STAND BACK!” You jump when you hear a thump outside the doors of the elevator. Fear making your heart race again, hearing voices just on the other side. Pero lets go of you and tucks his cock away quickly and tugs your dress down, even though it had fallen mostly into place when you had stood up. 

Swallowing harshly, you watch the doors slowly open to reveal a half dozen firefighters on the narrow landing of the floor you live on. All of them looking into the car and you can tell there are a few of them that know exactly what had happened in this elevator. There’s a few chuckles and grins from them that makes your cheeks burn. “Come on out.” One of them tells both of you. “The doors were stuck because something was wedged in them.” He holds up a metal clipboard and you bite your lip, wondering how the hell that happened. 

“Oh, uh, thanks.” You can’t look at them, quickly grabbing your bag and the phone that had fallen out of it before rushing out of the elevator. “It was only a few minutes.” You tell them. “Thank you for getting here so fast.” 

Being dumped after being with the son of a bitch for 4 years was one thing. But the reason why just made you want to swear off men in general. They were all insecure, arrogant, superficial, and had been nothing but a waste of your time. 

So you were out with your girls—at the cowboy bar that you told yourself you’d never go to. However, your group insisted it would be the best medicine after the last few days you’d had, and you didn’t have much choice with how they practically dragged you here. 

You sat at the bar sipping on your second rum soda while you watched the dance floor—all of your friends already swept off their feet by any guy that called them darlin’ and had a pair of Techovas and a Stetson on their pretty little heads. You shook your head and chuckled to yourself at how easy they all abandoned you after swearing this night was a vow ‘against men and the patriarchy’—or whatever they said in the car on the ride over. 

The bar was alive with music and laughter. The band that stood up on the small stage sang about endless nights, lost love, and the kind of heartache that hit a little too close to home. Boots scuffed across the wooden floor, couples twirling and two-stepping like it was second nature. You took another slow sip of your drink, feeling the burn chase the ache in your chest.

You were doing fine—really, you were, content with your solitude—until the expected incipient town drunk strolled up.

A shadow fell across your peripheral, and you glanced up to see a man in a plaid shirt and faded jeans leaning an elbow against the bar beside you. His grin was sloppy, his eyes glassy.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he slurred, voice too loud over the music. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be sittin’ here all alone. How ‘bout a dance?”

You offered a polite smile, shaking your head. “No thanks.”

He chuckled, like you’d made a joke. “Aw, don’t be shy. One song. That’s all I’m askin’ for.”

“I’m not shy,” you said, turning back to your drink. “Just not interested.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But men like him never knew when to quit. He moved closer, his hand brushing against your thigh as he moved to sit on the next barstool. You stiffened immediately.

“C’mon, sugar,” he drawled, voice turning darker, “just one dance.”

You pulled your leg away, voice firm now. “I said no.”

He leaned in, his hand sliding up to your waist. “Tell you what—I’ll stop botherin’ you after one little spin around the floor.”

Your pulse spiked, irritation and unease twisting in your gut. “Get your hand off me.”

He smirked, unbothered. “Not until you—”

“Now, now… that’s no way to treat a pretty young lady, Rasmussen.”

The voice came from just behind him—smooth, low, and threaded with that unmistakable Texan drawl. You turned, startled, and saw him: tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark tailored suit and a Stetson tipped low over warm brown eyes. He looked wildly out of place among the flannel and denim, and yet he fit—like the kind of man who didn’t have to try.

Rasmussen scowled over his shoulder. “Piss off, Jack. This ain’t your business.”

The stranger didn’t flinch. In fact, he smiled—slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world. “Now I know your mama taught you manners,” he said mildly, stepping a little closer. “What do you think she’d say ‘bout what you’re doin’ right now, hmm?”

The drunk barked out a laugh and turned fully to shove him in the chest.

It happened fast—so fast you barely caught it. 

The stranger caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and guided him down with a quiet, efficient grace. One second, Rasmussen was standing, the next he was face-down against the bar, arm pinned, cursing under his breath next to you and your drink.

Jack didn’t even look ruffled. “See, that’s what happens when you skip the lesson on respect.”

Security noticed the commotion and rushed over. A few quick words from Jack—calm, clipped, with just enough authority—and they had Rasmussen hauled up and escorted toward the door, still grumbling.

Silence hung in the air for a beat before the man turned back to you, hat in hand.

“Ma’am,” he said, voice softening, “I apologize for the behavior you just witnessed. Wasn’t fit for a lady to have to put up with that, nor for me to make a scene in front of you.”

You blinked, still processing the whirlwind that had just passed. “You don’t have to apologize. He’s the one who—”

“Still,” he interrupted gently, tipping his hat. “Could’ve handled it more… gentlemanly.”

You studied him for a moment. He didn’t leer. Didn’t stare. His gaze held steady, respectful, and it disarmed you more than you wanted to admit.

So you straightened your shoulders, masking your intrigue with sarcasm, “Well, if that display of chivalry was meant to trick me into a dance with you,” you said coolly, “you don’t look that dumb—but that’s what you’d be.”

A slow grin spread across his face, all charm and warmth. “Darlin’, if I wanted a dance, I’d ask properly.”

“And if I said no?” You tilted your head, challenging him. 

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Then I’d respect your decision—say you’ve got good sense—and I’d buy you another drink instead.”

You stared at him, lips twitching despite yourself. You held out your hand, saying your name to introduce yourself.

He smiled as he took it, his grip firm but warm, a polite squeeze before letting go. “Jack,” he said simply. “Pleasure’s mine.”

The bartender drifted back over, and Jack lifted two fingers. “Another rum soda for the lady,” he said, then glanced at you for confirmation. “That is what you’re drinkin’?”

You nodded, amused by how easily he took charge without crossing the line. “Yeah. And what about you, Jack? What’s your drink?”

“Whiskey,” he said with a grin that could’ve sold sin. “Neat.”

You smirked. “Of course it is.”

As the drinks were poured, you found yourself sneaking glances at him—the tailored suit, the confident posture, the quiet way he seemed to see everything. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t scan the room for prettier girls. He just… observed, calm and sure.

When the bartender slid the glasses across, Jack pushed yours gently toward you. “To poor taste in men,” he offered lightly.

You huffed a laugh, raising your glass. “And to better ones who know how to keep their hands to themselves.”

Your glasses clinked, and for the first time in days, the drink tasted like relief instead of regret.

“So,” you started after a beat, curiosity getting the better of you, “you make a habit out of rescuing women from creeps, or was tonight a one-time performance?”

Jack tipped his hat back just enough for the low light to catch the edge of a smirk. “Depends,” he drawled. “Most nights I’m somewhere else entirely. Tonight just happened to be the right place, right time.”

You raised a brow. “What, you some kinda cowboy vigilante? Southern version of Batman?”

He chuckled, eyes twinkling with something unspoken. “Somethin’ like that. Let’s just say I’ve seen my fair share of bad behavior… and worse consequences.”

There was weight behind the words—a quiet sharpness, like a blade hidden in charm. You caught it, even if he shifted effortlessly back to that easy grin before you could press.

“So you travel a lot?” you asked, sipping your drink.

He shrugged one shoulder. “More than I’d like. But it comes with the job.”

“And what jobs’s that?”

Jack smiled over the rim of his glass, meeting your gaze. “The kind where folks don’t much care ‘til somethin’ goes wrong.”

You blinked, trying to decide if he was joking, but his expression gave nothing away—only that lazy, teasing glint.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?” you asked, smirking.

“Now, where’s the fun in givin’ away all my secrets on the first drink?”

You leaned an elbow on the bar, matching his grin. “So you’re mysterious and charming. Dangerous combo that is...”

“Only dangerous if I’m tryin’ to be.” He winked, and for some reason, it didn’t make your stomach twist the way it usually did.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I have a feelin’ you don’t play fair, do you, Jack?”

He set his glass down, leaned just close enough for his voice to drop low—warm, honeyed. “Darlin’, fair’s never been my strongest suit. But I do know right from wrong. And that poor excuse of a man?” His gaze flicked toward the door where Rasmussen had been dragged out. “He was both.”

You studied him again, really studied him this time. There was more there—layers beneath the cowboy charm and polite manners. A man who carried himself like someone who’d seen too much, done too much.

“Thank you, by the way,” you said softly, surprising even yourself.

He tipped his hat again, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for, sweetheart. Just doin’ what’s right.”

You snorted lightly. “You always talk like that?”

His eyebrow arched, smirking, “Like what?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, “Like a cowboy from one of those John Wayne films…” You matched his tone and drawl, mimicking him, teasing, “Just doin’ what’s right.” 

He watched you, entertained by you. He shrugged, grinning, “Only when I’m tellin’ the truth.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. For the first time tonight, you weren’t thinking about your ex. Or your heartbreak. Or the stupid promise you made to swear off men.

You were thinking about Jack—and the way he looked at you like you were worth more than a pity drink and dance. 

You looked down as you swirled the straw in your glass, letting the ice clink lazily as you glanced back toward the crowd as the music shifted. A familiar country tune sent a ripple of excitement through the room—a nostalgic classic playing over the speakers. Cheers rose from the dance floor as people clapped in rhythm, boots stomping, laughter echoing off the rafters.

You couldn’t help but watch—the swirl of denim and twirling skirts, couples laughing as they missed a step and fell into each other, the easy joy of it all tugging at something deep in your chest.

Jack caught the look instantly.

“You still firm on that no in joinin’ me for a dance?” he drawled, voice full of teasing warmth.

You turned back to him, lips parting in mock protest—but his grin was soft, not pushy, and something about it made your resolve crack just a little.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Ask me again. You know… properly.”

His smile spread slowly, deliberately. He stood, tipping his hat with a little bow, eyes never leaving yours. “Would a beautiful woman such as y’self do me the honor of this dance?”

You set your drink down, heart fluttering in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time, and teased, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He offered his hand, warm and steady, and you let him guide you toward the dance floor. The crowd welcomed you easily. Strangers turning into partners, couples staying glued together—laughter weaving through the music as the rhythm picked up.

“Teach me?” you asked, not quite knowing the exact steps. 

He chuckled and stood next to you, “Follow my lead, ok?” 

You nodded and felt his hand on the small of your back, stretching your hand over his chest to take it with his other one as he guided you through the steps, talking you through it with a grin so wide his cheeks started to ache. 

It was chaos in the best way: quick steps, clapping, half-spins, and playful shoves. You stumbled once, but with Jack’s hand at your back, steadying you, laughter spilling from his lips, you quickly fell back into the rhythm.

“Careful now,” he teased. “You’ll make me look like a bad dance instructor if we fall.”

You laughed, breathless, shaking your head. “We’ll be just fine with you holdin’ me like you are, cowboy.”

He grinned at that and was sure to stay right where he was. 

For those few minutes, everything fell away—the heartbreak, the noise in your chest, the ache of being left behind. It was just you, the music, and Jack’s voice somewhere near your ear, low and easy, drawing you back into the rhythm.

Soon the song faded, the applause rising for the band—and the next tune began.

It was a slow melody, soft and low. The lights seemed to dim as couples turned inward, hands finding hands, arms slipping around waists.

You froze, and the laughter in your throat caught.

Jack glanced at you, reading every flicker of hesitation, and offered his hand again—palm open, eyes gentle. “Just one, a real dance this time,” he promised quietly. “No tricks. No pressure.”

You searched his face for a reason to say no, but found none—not even a sliver.

So you slipped your hand into his, and he slowly pulled you close—not too close, just enough for warmth to settle between you. His other hand rested respectfully at your waist, and you felt his thumb trace a slow, steady arc through the fabric of your dress.

The world seemed to slow with the music—the chatter fading, the lights softening, the ache in your chest easing under his touch.

You let your head tip slightly toward him, voice barely above a whisper. “So, tell me… how long you in town for, Jack?”

His gaze lingered on you, something wistful flickering in his eyes. “Just tonight,” he said softly. “Plane leaves in the mornin’. Europe.”

The word hung between you—heavy and hollow all at once.

“Just tonight?” you echoed, something aching quietly in your voice.

He nodded. “Job keeps me movin’. Can’t ever stay too long in one place.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly against his shoulder. “So this is it, huh?”

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. “Reckon it is.”

The music swelled around you both, and you could feel it—that shift, the quiet urgency. The fleeting spark that whispered to you, ‘it’s now or never.’

“Seems a shame,” you murmured, “to waste a night like this wishin’ it didn’t have to end.”

His gaze softened, and he pulled you closer—just a touch—before his hand slid from your waist to your cheek, the motion so tender it made your breath hitch. “Darlin’,” he whispered, thumb brushing your skin, “I couldn’t agree more.”

You looked up at him, eyes locking—and then you leaned in, closing the last inch between you.

He met you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first. It was careful—like he was memorizing the shape of you, committing you to memory. But then it deepened, slow and certain, a pull that felt inevitable. The kind of kiss that made time blur and slow down all at once, that made you forget the noise, the crowd, everything but the quiet click of something falling perfectly into place.

When you finally parted, your forehead rested against his, both of you smiling—breathless and dazed. 

Jack hesitated only for a moment, but then nodded towards the door, “I’m all for manners ‘n all, but I’m also for not livin’ a life of regrets.” He continued to sway with you, moving his hand from your cheek to take your hand and hold it to his chest, “Would you wanna get out of here? Grab a bite to eat or somethin’?” 

You kept his gaze and smiled up at him, a slight teasing to your tone, “Or somethin’?” 

A grin spread across his face, and for once—he started to blush, “Yeah… or somethin’.” Then brought your hand to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles, “What do you say?” 

You nodded, “Yeah, ok, cowboy.” A small chuckle escaped, “Take me to do somethin’...”

He leaned back in and kissed your lips once more, unable to help himself, “I’m goin’ to go pay our tab and grab your purse. Meet me by the door?” 

You pecked his lips once more and nodded, but then, before he could step back, you took his hat off his head and placed it onto yours, “Sounds like a plan, cowboy.” 

He smirked and gently gave your waist a squeeze, “Ever heard of the cowboy hat rule, darlin’?” 

You shook your head and shrugged, “No… why?” 

He pecked your lips once, then whispered against your lips, “I’ll teach ya about it tonight.” Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd back to the bar—leaving you flushed and racking your mind as to what you just got yourself into. 

Jack met you by the door just as promised after a few moments, his jacket slung over one shoulder, your purse in his grasp, that easy grin still lingering on his lips as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening either. He offered his hand, you laced your fingers with his—the warmth there sent a thrill through you all over again.

Outside, the night air was cool, crisp—stars glittering above the glow of the bar’s neon sign. Laughter and music spilled faintly through the doors behind you as Jack led you toward the edge of the lot, where his truck waited under a flickering streetlight.

The click of your boots echoed on the pavement, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you walked. Every small touch hummed like static, the tension growing with each step.

When you reached the truck, he opened the passenger door, ever the gentleman. But instead of climbing in, you leaned back against the doorframe, the brim of his hat tipping low over your eyes.

You looked him over—slowly, deliberately—and there was a glint in your gaze he hadn’t seen all night. Something mischievous. Bold. Dangerous in all the right ways.

Jack paused mid-motion, one hand still on the door handle, and reached for your waist. “What’s that look for?” he asked, voice low, eyes flicking down to the way you’d crossed your arms under your chest.

You tilted your head, teasingly close, the edge of your smile brushing against temptation. “Tell me the cowboy hat rule,” you murmured, drawing out each word as he stepped up to stand in front of you. “I need to know what I’m gettin’ myself into before I get into that truck.”

Your noses brushed as you leaned in, a whisper of contact that made his pulse jump. He could smell your perfume—something soft and sweet, tangled with the faint scent of rum on your breath—and it was undoing him fast.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just stared at you, drinking you in like you were the only thing that mattered tonight. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and slid the hat off your head. The motion was gentle, reverent almost, his fingers brushing through your hair before he set the hat back on his own head.

His other hand found its way to your waist again, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress as he stepped in closer, close enough that the heat of him chased away the night air.

“The unspoken rule,” he murmured, voice dropping to a drawl that rumbled low in his chest, “is when a lady steals a cowboy’s hat… she then has to ride that cowboy.”

His eyes dipped to your lips as he spoke, his breath warm against your skin, before flicking back up to meet your gaze—steady, unflinching, waiting for your move.

Your hands slid slowly up his chest, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt before looping behind his neck. You twirled the hair at his nape, playful, slow.

“That so?” you whispered, the words soft but laced with challenge.

Jack grinned, crooked and hungry, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against your waist. “That’s the rule, darlin’. ’Course, I don’t make ‘em—I just try to live by ‘em.”

You leaned in until your lips hovered a breath from his, your voice a whisper against his mouth. “Well then,” you teased, “I guess it’s good thing a good thing I’m an avid rule follower, isn’t it?”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and rough, and then he closed the last inch between you.

The kiss was different this time—hotter, deeper. All that playful tension igniting into something fierce and wanting. His hand slid up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into the warmth of his body, the scent of whiskey and leather surrounding you.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath uneven. “You sure about this?” he asked quietly, the softness in his tone belying the fire in his eyes.

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I told you, cowboy… I’m done wastin’ time.”

Jack’s grin returned—slower, rougher this time as he leaned back in for your lips, “Then let’s not waste a second more.” Then lips found yours again, deeper this time, and the rest of the world disappeared.

The night air pressed cool against your back as his hands roamed—steady, sure, full of want and reverence all at once. Every kiss grew hungrier, every breath shorter, until the line between soft laughter and longing blurred into one.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, the brim of his hat shadowing the raw heat there. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, voice rough, “I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

You met his gaze, heart hammering. “You,” you breathed. “Right now.”

He grinned and nodded toward the open passenger door, “Be a good girl, hmm?” However, his gaze stayed on your lips—hungry and needy.  

You bit your lip and blushed a bright shade of red before you leaned up one last time and kissed him deeply and slowly before pulling back—leaving him wanting more as he continued to lean in for your lips again. You slid from his grasp and got into the truck, leaning out of the open door to gently grab the lapel of his jacket, pulling him in with you, sliding back across the bench seat. 

He grinned, climbing in and shutting the door behind him, settling between your legs as you laid back across the bench. You helped him tug his jacket off his shoulders before he tossed it into the back seat, then reached for your cheek and leaned down for your lips, “Come ‘ere…”

You giggled and met him halfway, kissing him deeply and slowly, the heat and passion simmering in the undertones of it. 

His other hand slid up your thigh, up and underneath your dress, groaning at how soft your skin was. 

You gasped when his fingers brushed the soft lace of your panties, his lips trailing down to your jaw, neck, and collarbone—anywhere his lips could find skin. 

You moaned softly as his hand slid down into the front of your panties and began slowly pressing slow circles onto your clit with his fingers, whispering as he gently sucked on your pulse point, “Let me take care of you, baby girl.” 

You flushed at the sudden rush of blood to your core, the instant pooling between your thighs. He was a man who knew what he was doing just by how quickly you felt your peak rising, “Jack…” 

He came up to your lips and kissed you, slow and gentle, “Please…” 

You moaned against his lips and nodded, words getting lost on your tongue, “You—” 

“Shh, I know, baby. I know…” he smirked as he watched your brows pinch together, the flush of your cheeks, the pace of your breath getting faster with each moment, “Mm, you’re close, aren’t you?” 

You moaned the faster his fingers seemed to move, driving you closer and closer to release, “Fuck—” You bit your lip to silence yourself. 

He shook his head and stroked your hair back with his free hand, “Don’t you dare hold those pretty little noises in…” 

Your eyes rolled back and your back slightly arched up, as you came, a louder moan bouncing off the cab of the truck. 

Jack grinned, “That’s a good girl,” and began to slowly rub his fingers on your clit, coming to a stop. He slowly dipped his middle finger through your seam, collecting a sample of his work before pulling it out and up to his lips and sucking on it, “Mm, fuck baby. You taste so sweet.” 

You had never seen something so fucking sexy in your life. It was enough to make you moan softly. 

He grinned and leaned in, “I think I need more than just that…” He kissed your lips once, a hint of your sweetness on his lips—it was dizzying. He then deepened the kiss by tangling his tongue with yours, groaning against your lips when your hand tugged against his belt. 

He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, “Can I have a taste, baby?” He almost sounded like he was begging, his eyes soft with want. 

You bit your bottom lip at the neediness in his voice; somehow that made you want him more—the want, the pleading of a man to taste you—God, you were in trouble. You nodded and leaned in for one last kiss before he slowly moved down. 

He kissed your inner thigh and kept his gaze on yours as his hands wrapped around the strap of your panties around your hips, “Lift your hips for me, darlin’...”  

You lifted your hips, and he slid your panties down and off you, proudly putting them around the throttle like a trophy—taking his hat off and putting it there as well—before he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his forearms. Then, with dark eyes and a grin, he sank between your thighs, his gaze back on you. 

You gasped and moaned when his tongue began slow circles on your clit, your jaw slacked open, “Mm, fuck Jack,” 

He groaned against your cunt and sucked at your sensitive bud—his hands holding your thighs open. 

Your breath quickened, and you flushed at how good it all felt, his tongue flicking your clit at the most earth-shattering pace, “Just—Just like that,” you moaned. 

He grinned and kept up what he was doing, watching every reaction you gave him from the gasp of your moans to the way your stomach tightened. 

You felt another wave begin to build, shocked by how quickly he could bring you to release, “Oh God, your tongue feels so good!” You mewled and moaned. 

One of his hands moved down to his belt and undid himself, pulling himself out and began stroking himself to the image of you coming undone on his tongue, moaning his name. 

You saw what he was doing, and that was all it took—the wave crashed as you came—and it crashed down hard. You moaned and your thighs trembled, closing around his head, your back arching, head rolling back in pure pleasure, “Oh god—” 

When your thighs fell and you began to come down, Jack lapped up every single morsel he could of your cum, groaning into your pussy as you moaned and gasped with each sensitive touch of his lips and tongue, “Fuck baby, you taste so fuckin’ good…” 

You smiled as you looked up at the ceiling of the cab, completely fucked out and floating, then you started to giggle, “God, you’re good at that.” 

He chuckled and sat up a bit more, watching you from where he sat, stroking himself slowly, pupils blown wide, lips soaked with your mess, “Well, thanks, darlin’...” 

You sat up on your elbows and saw what he was doing. You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head against your shoulder, “Remind me of that rule again, handsome?” 

He grinned, “Steal a cowboy’s hat and you have to ride that cowboy, baby…” he said as he slowly crawled back up to meet your lips. When you leaned him to meet him, he kissed you slowly, his head tilting the other way after a few to change the angle, “Mmm, but, first I want you like this,” He dragged his cock through your folds, making you gasp against his lips. 

“Mm, and why’s that, cowboy?” You bit his bottom lip softly, pulling at his tie. 

He groaned and gripped the seat under his grip before nudging the tip of his nose with yours, “Wanna feel you with your thighs wide open for me,” he pecked your lips, “Wanna be in control,” he moved to kiss your nose, “Wanna draw this out,” Then he moved to kiss your chin, his lips lingering as he pulled back slowly, “Wanna take my time with you,” he tapped the head of his cock on your clit a few times, “Wanna see this pretty pussy take me so well,” He whispered against your lips.

You gasped and couldn’t help the moan that came out when he said that last sentence. You nodded, eyes flickering to his lips, “Fuck me, that’s the hottest thing a man has ever said to me—” 

He chuckled and leaned in for your lips, “Yeah? What else do you like being told?” He kissed your lips once, then moved down to your neck as he lined himself up. 

Your hand came to the back of his head and held him close, moaning as you admitted sheepishly, “I like it when you call me a good girl.”   

You could feel him grin against your skin, “You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?” He lightly pressed himself up against your entrance, teasing you. 

“Yes,” You panted, spreading your legs more for him. 

He hummed and kissed your skin, “We’re going to take this nice n’ slow, baby.” He kissed your throat, ”I don’t wanna stretch you out too fast…” Then your jawline, “Wanna make this feel good,” He cupped your cheek with his free hand and breathed against your lips, “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Your breath hitched as he pressed his head against you, “Jack…” 

He nodded and coaxed you through it as she slowly began to sink into you, “That’s it, baby.” 

You felt yourself stretch around his girth, the overwhelming feeling of being filled by him, “Oh god, you’re so big,” You whimpered. 

He stroked your hair back affectionately, “You’re doing so well.” He grunted as he buried himself deeper, taking it as slow as his hunger would allow him, “Fuck—you feel so good.” He groaned. 

You moaned and continued to pant softly, then, before you knew it, he was completely sunk into your warmth. He groaned and put his hand on your waist, “Shit, you’re so tight—” His jaw clenched and he let out a chuckle at how good it felt then he cupped your cheek, “Mm, I can’t wait anymore,” before he slowly started to move his hips in gentle thrusts, kissing your lips deeply—with each thrust. 

You moaned against his lips, legs coming up to wrap around his waist. 

He continued to grind his hips into you, slow and deep, pulling every little sound out of you before he pulled back and put his forehead against yours, groaning and grunting. 

Your breathing started to quicken, and he felt you clench around him, “Mm, you gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”  

You nodded and cried out softly, “Yes…Yes, Jack, fuck—” 

He moved his hand down between your bodies and pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing circles into it as he continued to fuck you, “Fuck, I love it when you moan my name like that,” 

You moaned louder and clenched onto his wrist as his thumb continued, “Fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna fucking cum, fuck Jack—” You cried out, your moans more frantic as you climbed higher, the coil winding tighter before it snapped, “Ohmygodohmygod—” you rambled, cuming hard.

He leaned back as his hips continued and watched himself come in and out of you, his cock covered in you. He groaned, smirking at the sight, “God damn darlin’, ain’t that a beautiful sight.” 

You moaned, looking at him, “Admirin’ your work?” 

He looked up at you and nodded, “Exactly.” 

You moved back to lie on your elbows, eyes filled with lust and something else—something deeper, “Why must you be a one-night stand?” 

He softened and his hips slowed as he leaned back for you, but then wrapped his arm around your back, “Hold onto me, baby.” 

You wrapped an arm around his neck and pushed off the back of the seat when he lifted you, staying inside you, moving to sit in the middle of the bench. Your legs bracketing his hips as you straddled him, looking down at him. 

He looked up at you, his eyes still soft, “Tonight ain’t gonna be the last time we’ll be together.” 

You leaned down for his lips, fingers threading through his hair, “Promise?” 

His hands landed on your hips, and he met you halfway, whispering before his lips fell onto yours, “I promise.” 

You pulled yourself close to him, kissing him deeply—words you felt too early to say inside each kiss. Your hips slowly start to bounce up and down on him—you both moaning against each other's lips.

His hands climbed up your body and pulled your dress down and off your shoulders to sit around your waist, “I need to feel you,” he muttered between a kiss. 

You nodded and pulled his tie loose before frantically helping him with unbuttoning his shirt, you both eager to feel skin. 

The second his shirt was undone, he was leaning forward—his lips kissing yours, his hand splayed against your back as you leaned with him—eagerly getting it off and tossing it across the seat before leaving your lips and holding you against him, softly sucking love bites into your neck. Both of your bodies thrumming, hot with pleasure, sticky with heat—but craved for the feeling of the other. 

Your hips grinded as you rolled them back and forth, moaning with each pass, “Jack…” 

He panted, groaning into your skin, a pull starting behind his navel, “Fuck, baby—” 

You felt him twitch inside you and knew he was close. You leaned back a touch and put your hand against the now foggy window, changing the angle, “Oh god—” 

He held onto your hips, gripping tightly, throwing his head back as he groaned, moaning your name, “Shit—can I cum inside you?” 

You looked down at him, your cheeks flushed, breath heaving, moaning softly, “Please…” Then you cupped his cheeks and kept the same rhythm as you continued to ride him, “Please cum inside of me,” You mewled before crying out softly, gasping against his lips as you came, fluttering around him. 

He grunted and his jaw clenched as his hips thrusted up and spilled inside you. 

You moaned at the feeling, and before you could say anything, he captured his lips with yours, kissing you slowly and lazily, whispering between kisses: 

You’re so beautiful.

I’m the luckiest damn fool in that bar.

I can’t get enough of you.

He kissed once more—slower this time, like he wanted to hold onto every second. The world beyond the truck didn’t exist anymore—just the fogged glass, the rhythm of your breathing, the heat of his skin against yours. Every touch was unhurried, every sigh a quiet promise that this night would stay with you.

When it finally stilled, Jack held you close, his hand tracing lazy circles along your spine. The scent of whiskey and sex clung to the air, mingling with your warmth. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm that sat on his chest.

He tilted his head toward you, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I should be back in the States after this job,” he murmured, voice rough, almost uncertain. His gaze searched yours, “Can I find you when I’m back?”

You smiled softly, moving your head to look at him, your fingertips brushing along his jaw. “You better.”

A breath of laughter escaped him—quiet, relieved. He leaned in and pressed one last kiss to your lips, lingering like a promise.

Remmick moves like he’s afraid to touch you and terrified not to, stealing glances at your lips, at your hips, at the faint tremble in your thighs from kneeling too long.

By the time the door clicks shut behind him, the air feels thick enough to choke on.

He stands there for half a breath, chest rising and falling fast, eyes dragging down your body like he’s memorizing something he never expected to see. 

You take a step toward the bed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of your shorts, and his gaze follows the movement like he’s being led by instinct.

The shorts come off. Then your panties.

He goes still.

You lie back on the bed, spine arching slightly as you settle into the mattress, legs falling open in an invitation even he can’t pretend to misunderstand.

“C’mere,” you breathe.

His body obeys before his mind can catch up.

He moves onto the bed, onto his knees, large hands sliding beneath your thighs. His fingers curl, lifting, adjusting—guiding your legs up until they hook over his broad shoulders. 

The position forces you open completely, pussy exposed to the hot air of the room, folds glistening and already swollen from how wound up you’ve been since the couch.

He looks down at you from between your legs, face flushed, breath shaky.

“Tell me if I’m doin’ anything wrong,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh softly, breathlessly. “Baby… you just have to put your mouth on me.”

His pupils blow wide.

And then his face lowers.

There’s zero hesitation. No warm-up.

He buries himself in you.

His mouth seals to your cunt with a hunger that almost knocks the air from your lungs. His nose presses hard against your clit, smushed up against it, the pressure so sudden and perfect your hips jerk up off the bed. His tongue dives between your slick folds, hot and eager, tasting you with long, greedy strokes that make a broken sound escape your throat.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, fingers flying to his hair. “Remmick, you—fuck—”

He groans into you, the vibration rolling through your cunt like a shock. His hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you higher, pulling you onto him until your pussy is fully smothering his mouth, his face nearly disappearing between your legs.

Your clit drags over the bridge of his nose as he licks deeper, tongue flattening to lap you up like he’s been starving for days. 

You grind without meaning to, cunt sliding against his mouth, wetting his lips and chin with every slick pass.

He moans again—louder this time—and the sound shoots straight through you.

“Don’t stop,” you pant, pulling him closer by the hair. “Please—don’t stop, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t.

He keeps you right where he wants you—legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt pressed so tight to his face you can feel every breath he takes. 

His tongue works your opening, fucking into you in slow, messy thrusts before he drags up again to suck your clit into his mouth, lips closing around it in a wet pull that makes your vision flicker.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

Your hips can’t stay still.

He holds you steady anyway, as if eating you out is something he’s been waiting to do without even knowing it.

And you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything except moan his name like it’s the only language you know.

The pressure builds fast—too fast. Your thighs twitch against his cheeks, your stomach tightening like a wire pulled taut. The wet drag of his tongue, the suction around your clit, the messy glide of spit and slick across every part of you—it’s all too much.

Your hips stutter upward once, twice, and then freeze with a shudder.

“Remmick,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—I’m coming—”

And you do.

You come with your thighs clenched tight around his head, back arched off the bed, your cunt leaking all over his mouth. 

He groans into it, licking you through it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, his hands holding you in place while your body trembles and bucks. 

Your cunt pulses hard against his tongue, spasming around nothing, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room.

It takes a moment for you to breathe again.

When you finally peel your eyes open, his face is soaked—chin shiny, lips swollen, eyes dazed.

You reach for him.

“C’mere.”

He’s still catching his breath when you pull him up by the collar of his shirt, dragging him up for a kiss. 

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into it, legs wrapping around his waist, hands fumbling to undo his jeans again.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper against his mouth.

He groans like it’s painful.

“Please, baby,” you add, slipping your hand between your bodies to help push his pants down. 

His cock springs free—already leaking again at the tip—and you shift beneath him until your hips align, your folds slick and swollen and so ready.

You grip the base of his cock, angle it down, and start to guide it through your folds—letting the fat head nudge at your entrance.

“God,” he breathes, “are you sure?”

But you’re already nodding, already rocking your hips up to press the head in—and that’s when the sound hits you.

Tires on gravel.

A distant car door slam.

Then another.

He freezes.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my god—”

Remmick scrambles backward like he’s been electrocuted. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and twitching, and he fumbles to yank his pants up while you throw yourself off the bed, digging for your shorts with shaking hands and a squeal.

“That’s Grandma,” he says in horror, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm.

“No shit!” you hiss, trying to pull your panties up with one hand and smooth your hair with the other. Your lip gloss is smeared, your thighs are sticky, and you’re still twitching from your orgasm.

He’s tucking himself away, red-faced, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

You nearly trip pulling your shorts on.

By the time his bedroom door opens again, both of you are fully dressed—barely.

He glances at you. You glance at him.

Neither of you says a word.

Not about the way your panties are still wet, or the way his cock is still half-hard behind the zipper, or the fact that if she had come home even five minutes later, he would’ve been buried inside you by now.

Remmick clears his throat.

“I should, uh… probably see if she needs help with any groceries she may have gotten after church.”

You nod quickly, still breathless. “Y-Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

He leaves the room, and you flop back onto the bed with your heart pounding like you just robbed a bank.

The bath didn’t help as much as you hoped.

You’d soaked in it until your fingers pruned, head leaned back against a folded towel, steam curling around your lashes and the scent of sweet vanilla bath oil drifting through the room. You even washed your hair, shaved your legs, scrubbed between your thighs twice. But it hadn’t chased the heat away—just made it worse.

Dinner was pointless. A plate of lukewarm leftovers and a slow pick at your food. The bath hadn’t helped, and food wasn’t going to, either.

Now, back in your room, the house quiet around you, you shut the door and twist the little gold lock into place.

Your bare feet pad across the soft rug as you glance around—your makeup-stained vanity, the pink throw pillows on your bed, the little twinkling LED lights you stuck around the edge of your mirror when you first arrived.

Everything’s cute. 

And yet your mind won’t stop circling back to something else entirely.

The way his hands felt wrapped around your thighs. How wet his face had been when he pulled away. How easily he let you tug him around, mouth open, eyes big and eager like he’d do anything you asked. How close you got—so close—before it all fell apart.

You lick your lips.

Your legs feel warm again. Your panties are already damp.

You rise slowly, like you’re not even thinking.

It’s not even a decision—more of an instinct.

You walk straight to your dresser.

Second drawer, left side, tucked beneath a lacy lavender bralette and a tangled mess of satin panties is the soft, velvet-textured toy you haven’t touched since you got here. 

You pull it out without thinking, your fingers already twitching in anticipation, your thighs pressing together from the ghost of pressure alone.

A moment later, you’re crawling into bed, the hem of your oversized sleep shirt sliding up your thighs, no panties underneath. You settle back against the pillows, legs falling open, the cool air kissing the sticky mess already gathered between them.

Your fingers guide the toy over the soft curve of your mound. You’re already wet—slick, warm, throbbing in a dull, pulsing ache. The first pass over your clit makes your hips twitch. The second draws a breathy little whimper from your lips. By the third, your thighs are clenching around your wrist and your eyes are rolling back.

You press harder.

The vibration stutters against your clit, soft at first, then sharper as you angle it just right. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice catching.

Your other hand comes up to palm your chest, fingers pinching at your nipples through the cotton of your shirt. Your mind is buzzing, not just the toy—you. Thinking about him.

How big he felt in your hand. How he looked at you when you kissed the head, like he was about to fall apart.

The toy grinds harder.

You circle it, slow then fast, letting your imagination fill in the blanks. What he’d feel like inside you. How your walls would stretch around that thick cock. How it would feel to ride him, his big hands shaking on your hips, trying not to come too fast while you’re bouncing on his lap and laughing into his throat.

The orgasm hits hard. 

You gasp, legs trembling, cunt clenching on nothing as you press the vibrator tight to your clit, riding the rhythm until you can’t anymore. Your toes curl. Your thighs twitch. And then you go still—boneless, buzzing, your mouth parted and your chest flushed with warmth that creeps all the way to your scalp.

The toy drops from your hand.

You lay there, lips slick with spit, chest still heaving, heart kicking in your ribs.

Remmick’s face lingers behind your eyelids—soft and needy, lips bitten, eyes begging.

You close your thighs slowly.

You’ve never wanted a boy this much.

He barely slept. Not because his room was warm or because the old fan in the corner rattled itself silly through the night, but because every time he closed his eyes he felt your thighs tightening around his shoulders again, the heat of you pressing up against his mouth, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as if you had marked him from the inside out. 

His pillow still smelled faintly of the soap he used after he washed his face—twice—yet he swore he could still catch traces of the sweetness that clung to your skin. 

He tossed beneath the sheets with his chest tight and his cock aching, unable to shake the image of how you had looked, eyes half-lidded, breaths broken, lips parted in a helpless little moan each time his tongue curled just right. 

Sleep never stood a chance.

By morning his whole body felt raw with wanting you, though he did his best to move through the chores like nothing had changed. 

He fed the chickens, checked the sheds, filled the troughs, all while trying to ignore the echo of your voice from the day before. He lingered longer than usual by the fence line, pretending to re-tie a latch that didn’t actually need re-tying. The quiet of the early hours usually settled him, but today it only made the memory sharper.

When he hears your steps on the dirt road, he straightens too quickly, nearly fumbling the feed bucket. 

You move toward him with your usual brightness, travel cup in one hand, your glossy mouth wrapped around the straw as you hum to yourself. 

Your sunglasses perch crooked on your nose, and the soft yellow top you’ve chosen fits you in a way that makes his stomach dip. You smile easily, greeting him as though yesterday’s near-fall into something too intimate to ignore had never happened.

“Morning, Remmick,” you say, swirling your drink as if this is simply another day. “Did you feed the little guys already?”

You mean the chickens.

He grunts.

“Uh. Yeah.”

You gasp like he just told you your favorite boutique burned down. “Without me? I like feeding them now.”

“You were running late,” he answers, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I was picking a lip combo,” you say with artistic emphasis, as if it explains everything. “It’s important.”

The faintest tug pulls at the corner of his mouth before he smooths it away. 

He tells himself not to look at your lips again, but they shine in the sunlight and make it nearly impossible.

The day continues with you trailing behind him while you talk about things he only half understands—your show, your nail polish plans, a perfume sample you want to try. 

He nods at the right moments even though his attention keeps drifting. He can’t look directly at your thighs now without a jolt rising through him. 

You bend down to scoop feed into the tin and your shirt shifts, revealing the soft rise of your chest, and he feels a quick sweep of heat up the back of his neck. He grips the fence harder than necessary and silently begs his body to behave.

After a while, you drop onto a wooden crate with a dramatic sigh, dust puffing around you.

“You alright?” he asks, still not looking.

“I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “But I thought today we were gonna paint the porch too. You said we would on Sunday.”

“It is Sunday,” he replies, keeping his gaze on the latch he’s checking.

You blink slowly, tilting your head as if piecing together a puzzle that refuses to cooperate. “Wait. Seriously? Today’s Sunday?”

He inhales through his nose, long and steady, letting the air cool whatever heat is creeping up his chest. 

You pop your gum and swing your foot idly in the dirt, completely unaware of the chaos turning in him. 

When he finally turns toward you, you’re watching him with that bright, helpless sweetness that always gets under his skin. You smile without hesitation, as if yesterday’s intimacy was simply part of the afternoon and not something that has kept him up half the night.

He looks away quickly, terrified that if he holds your gaze any longer he’ll reach for you, pull you in close, and finish what nearly happened in that bedroom. His heart kicks hard against his ribs at the thought.

You go on chattering about something small—maybe your horoscope, maybe your new lip gloss—and he tries to nod, tries to answer, but the words don’t settle right in his throat.

You’re being yourself, unaware of the storm inside him, and he cannot believe how deeply he wants you. It feels dangerous. It feels close. And it feels entirely, horribly wonderful.

He realizes then that liking you isn’t something he can avoid anymore. It has already happened quietly, slowly, in the space between chores and conversation—and now, after yesterday, there is no turning back.

You brighten at something and call his name. He looks up automatically.

You’re smiling.

And he knows he’s done for.

The porch paint cans sit beneath the steps exactly where his grandma left them, the metal warm from the sun, the brushes stiff but still usable. The late morning light filters through the pecan trees, softening everything it touches—dust, railing, your bare legs swinging lazily over the edge of the steps. 

Remmick brings out a drop cloth and spreads it carefully across the boards, smoothing the creases with slow, deliberate strokes of his palms. You watch him for a moment, chin propped on your knee, noticing the way the sunlight catches in the faint curls at the nape of his neck.

“So this is what we’re doing today?” you ask, nudging an unopened paint can with your foot.

He kneels beside it, tapping the lid with a flat tool until it loosens. “Your idea. Said you wanted to make the place look nice.”

You shrug as if this is obvious. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I said it last week.”

“I thought you forgot.”

He lifts his gaze then—slowly, steady, with an expression that borders on gentle amusement. “I don’t forget things you say.”

Your breath catches a little, though you hide it by glancing at the screen door. He doesn’t seem to notice, already turning toward the brush in his hand, dipping it into the pale cream paint with careful precision.

You grab your own brush, plopping beside him on the porch floor. Your first stroke goes on uneven, streaked with tiny ridges, and he glances sideways.

“You’re pressin’ too hard.”

“No I’m not,” you insist, even though you absolutely are.

He shifts closer without thinking, one hand hovering near your wrist. “Here. Try easin’ up. Like this.” His fingers wrap briefly around your hand to guide the motion. “You just let the paint sit on the wood. Don’t make it fight you.”

You blink down at your hand in his. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“It’s just paint,” he replies softly.

“Mm. You say that, but you’re making a whole metaphor.”

His ears flush, and he pulls his hand back quickly, focusing on the railing instead.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm—brushes dragging softly across the porch boards, the gentle clink of metal lids shifting in the breeze, the faint sounds of chickens pecking in the distance. You hum a song you half-remember from a playlist your friends made for the drive upstate. He listens, glancing over now and then with a curious tilt of his head.

“So,” he says after a while, voice low but steady, “what happened up north?”

Your brush pauses mid-stroke.

He doesn’t push the question, just keeps painting a smooth line along the trim, like he’s giving you space to answer or ignore him freely.

You force a small, breezy laugh. “What makes you think something happened?”

He shrugs lightly. “Folks don’t usually get sent across state lines unless somethin’ went sideways.”

“Nothing went sideways,” you say quickly.

He glances over, and you can tell he’s not convinced.

“It was just… stuff.” You wave the brush vaguely, splattering a dot of paint on your thigh. “Dumb drama. City people being city people. You don’t wanna hear about it.”

He watches you longer than he should, but the moment you look back, he drops his eyes and dips his brush again.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

You swallow, the guilt settling strangely. You don’t want him to think you’re shutting him out. Or maybe you don’t want to poke at the wound yourself.

So you shift the conversation quickly.

“What about you?” you ask, leaning into him slightly. “You ever think about leaving this place? Or are you just gonna stay here forever and ever until the cows take over?”

His smile is small but real. “It ain’t that bad.”

“I dunno,” you tease, lifting your brush again. “Feels like a hostile chicken takeover is imminent.”

“There’s only six of ’em.”

“That’s enough.”

He shakes his head, but his shoulders relax a little. 

The tension melts from the air, replaced by that quiet warmth that’s started settling between you more and more lately. 

He tells you about the porch—how he helped his grandpa fix the boards years ago, how the nails always loosen after a storm, how his grandma likes to sit here in the evenings with her lemonade.

You tell him about your favorite nail salon back home, about how your friends once got into a screaming match over a pair of heels, about how you used to sit on your apartment balcony pretending you liked the smell of the city even though it made your head hurt.

You paint until the sun climbs higher, both of you speckled in dots of cream and gold, both pretending not to notice when your elbows brush, when your knees knock, when you laugh and he looks at you a little too long.

He doesn’t ask about the north again. But the look he gives you—quiet, patient, almost concerned—tells you he’s still wondering.

He can wait.

He’s good at that.

You’re the one who’s starting to feel uneasy with how easy it is to talk to him now.

By the time the two of you finish the last stretch of railing, the afternoon sun has dipped enough to cast a honeyed glow over everything—the fresh paint, the porch boards, even the little flecks of color stuck to your legs. 

You sit back on your heels and admire it with a satisfied sigh, brushing a smear of paint off your thigh and only smudging it further.

“It looks adorable,” you announce proudly, even though there are definitely a few uneven patches. “Like… way better than before. I think I’m a natural.”

Remmick lifts his head from where he’s wiping down a brush. “I did most of it.”

“I supervised,” you correct, nodding as if this explains everything. “Supervision is important.”

He huffs, something like a laugh tugging at his mouth before he hides it by leaning over the bucket. 

You pull your knees to your chest, wiggle your toes, and glance around with satisfaction while the breeze lifts your hair off your neck. 

Everything feels soft and calm, peaceful in a way you can’t quite name.

The screen door creaks behind you.

“Well now,” his grandma says as she steps onto the porch, dish towel still draped over her shoulder. “That came out real nice.”

You brighten instantly, popping up a little straighter. “Doesn’t it? I helped.”

Her gaze dips to your smeared legs and paint-speckled fingers. “Mm-hm. I can see that.”

Remmick mutters something under his breath that might be a quiet apology for your enthusiasm, but his grandma just smiles wider. She reaches out, running a gentle hand along the railing.

“Pretty work,” she says. “You two should be proud.”

You beam, delighted. “I am proud. And sweaty. And hungry. But mostly proud.”

Her eyes warm, fond and amused all at once. “Well, lucky for you, dinner’s just about ready.” She tilts her head toward the door. “You joinin’ us, sugar?”

You blink, caught off-guard for a second. “Me? Like—inside?”

“That’s usually where folks eat,” she teases gently.

You nod quickly, brushing your hands down the front of your shorts even though it only spreads the paint around. “Oh! Right. Yes. Okay. I mean—yeah. If you’re sure. I don’t wanna, like, mess the vibe.”

“What vibe?” she asks with a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. 

Remmick coughs into his sleeve, trying—and failing—not to smile.

His grandma waves a hand, ushering you toward the door. “Honey, you’ve been helpin’ out here for weeks. You come sit down and eat.”

You hesitate only a heartbeat before glancing at Remmick. His eyes meet yours—quick, hopeful in a small, careful way you don’t fully understand yet.

“Is it okay?” you ask him quietly.

He nods. “It’s okay.”

You perk up immediately. “Then yes. Totally. I’m absolutely starving. Almost-dead starving.”

His grandma laughs as she steps back into the house. “Well let’s fix that.”

You hop to your feet, excited and lightly bouncing on your toes as you brush dust from your skin. 

Remmick watches you stand there with paint on your legs, and a bright, earnest smile that looks far too proud for the amount of actual painting you did.

He gestures toward the doorway, cheeks faintly pink. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

You nod, already stepping toward the kitchen and mumbling something about hoping there’s cornbread because “your last meal was a single iced coffee.” He follows after a moment.

Dinner leaves you full in a way you hadn’t expected—warm belly, warm cheeks, warm everything. 

His grandma cooked like she was trying to heal something invisible inside you, and you didn’t realize how much you missed that until you were scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off your plate. 

She fussed over you, filled your glass twice, asked if you wanted more cornbread even after you’d said yes three times already. 

By the time she excused herself to wind down for the night, you felt strangely settled, like some piece of you that had been drifting finally touched ground.

The house grows quiet in her absence, soft and humming with the evening crickets outside. 

Remmick gathers a few dishes while you stand uselessly with your hands hovering near the sink, not entirely sure how to help without knocking something over. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Every time he glances your way, there’s this small curve at the corner of his mouth like he's amused you’re even trying.

When the kitchen is spotless, he shifts awkwardly, rubbing a paint-smudged thumb against his palm. 

“If you wanna… uh… hang out a bit longer,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours and then away just as fast, “we can go upstairs. Grandma’s room is on the other side of the house, so she won’t hear us talkin’.”

Your chest jumps with a flutter you pretend isn’t there. “Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. “I mean—obviously. I wasn’t gonna just leave after cornbread.”

He laughs under his breath, head ducked, and leads the way toward the stairs.

His room is the same space you saw yesterday, but this time it isn’t blurred by adrenaline or the thumping of your own heartbeat. 

You step inside slowly, taking it in with both eyes fully open.

It smells faintly of clean cotton and cedar, with a hint of whatever soap he uses lingering in the air. A stack of worn paperbacks sits on the nightstand beside an old lamp with a shade slightly crooked. 

His boots are lined up neatly near the door, socks tucked inside. The window is cracked open just enough to let the nighttime breeze drift across the simple quilt folded at the end of the bed. 

A few handwritten papers—his journaling, maybe—peek out from beneath a book whose spine has surrendered to repeated reading.

It’s simple, soft, lived-in and so him that you feel a little dizzy.

“You can sit—uh—wherever,” he says, gesturing vaguely, though he’s already lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, shoulders a little tight, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

You drift around the room, fingertips trailing the bookshelf, the edge of his dresser, the uneven frame of a photograph of him and his grandparents. 

“It’s cute,” you murmur, nose wrinkling with a smile. “Like… boy cute. Clean but messy. Cozy. Intimidatingly organized.”

“Intimidatin’?” he echoes, startled.

“Yeah,” you say, turning to look at him fully. “My room looks like a makeup store exploded. Yours looks like you actually know where your stuff is.”

His laugh escapes before he can trap it in his throat. “Ain’t much stuff to lose.”

You shrug and keep exploring. Your eyes skim over the worn denim jacket hanging behind the door, the jar of pennies on the dresser, the calendar pinned crookedly to the wall, the soft indentation on the pillow where he slept last night—probably tossing, turning, thinking.

Finally, you cross the room and stop in front of him. He straightens an inch, eyes lifting to yours with careful expectation, though his expression stays muted, almost shy. 

The lamplight softens him, rounds the edges of all that quiet longing he tries so hard to hide.

You sit beside him on the bed, thigh brushing his for the briefest moment. 

He watches you with a steadiness he doesn’t dare turn into a touch, hands resting still in his lap, fingers tightening once like he’s steadying himself. 

There’s a question hovering behind his eyes, unspoken but unmistakable.

You look around his room one last time before turning back to him, leaning the slightest bit closer. “It’s nice up here,” you say softly, your tone drifting, warm. “Feels calm.”

He nods, throat moving as he swallows. “Yeah.”

“Mm,” you hum, gaze dropping briefly to his mouth without meaning to. “Like somewhere you’d kiss somebody.”

His breath leaves him in a shaky hush.

You smile, absolutely oblivious to how devastating it is.

You lean in slowly. Drawn forward like he’s made of something warm you want to taste again. 

His breath softens, eyelids lowering a fraction, shoulders loosening as if he’s preparing himself to finally feel your mouth on his again.

But then your gaze flicks to the side.

A single, crumpled corner of paper sticks out of his desk drawer—barely an inch, but enough to snag your attention like a loose thread begging to be pulled.

You pause, squint.

He frowns slightly, following your line of sight. “Uh—wait—”

But you’re already standing, brushing off your shorts as you cross the room with that breezy, purposeful float that always unnerves him because it looks careless and confident at the same time.

“That’s gonna bother me,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Everything else is so organized and then that—” You flick your fingers toward the drawer. “It’s like a squeaky wheel or whatever.”

“Don’t—” he starts, rising just a hair too slow.

You pull the drawer open.

And freeze.

Several glossy covers stare back at you—retro-styled, slightly worn Playboy magazines stacked in a neat row, pages ruffled from use, one lying open under the others as if he’d been reading it not too long ago.

“Oh.” The word slips out of you in a small, stunned puff.

Behind you, Remmick goes absolutely still.

Not stiff like anger. Stiff like mortification.

His entire soul falls out of his body and hits the floor. “I—uh—that’s—um—those ain’t—”

You turn slowly, holding the edge of the drawer between two fingers like you’re afraid it might bite. 

Your expression is blank for one long moment while your mind catches up, eyes moving from the magazines then back to him.

He looks like a man awaiting execution—cheeks blazing red, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, lips parted in helpless panic.

You blink once, twice, then whisper:

“… You read these? Like… for fun?”

He winces. “I don’t ‘read’ ’em, exactly—”

“I mean, I guess the articles are famous,” you say thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like you’re piecing together a puzzle with far fewer brain cells than required. “My aunt used to talk about those. Or wait—were those the newspapers? Ugh, I always mix these things up.”

“No, I—uh—listen, you weren’t supposed to—”

You tap one glossy cover where a model poses in a satin bikini, arching dramatically over a couch. Then you point at another where a woman has hair that looks like it was sprayed with a fire hose. “They look vintage,” you murmur. “Like museum vintage. Did you get them at a thrift store? Or were they your grandpa’s or something?”

“No,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “They ain’t Grandpa’s.”

“Oh.” You nod solemnly. “Right. Because that’d be weird.”

He exhales, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You glance back at the drawer, then at him again, lips pursed slightly. “Wait—are these for your… um…  personal hobbies?”

He noises something between a cough and a strangled plea. “Can we please not talk about—”

“I just didn’t know guys still used magazines,” you continue, genuinely surprised. “I thought everyone used their phones now. Or laptops. Or tablets. Or those weird VR things. Do those even work? Bri said they gave her cousin a headache.”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying for mercy.

You look at him for another beat, head tilting as a thought finally clicks into place and lights up your expression like a sparkler.

“… Wait. So you were looking at these and not, like… actual videos because you’re shy?”

His eyes snap open.

Then dart away.

Then back.

Then away again.

You gasp softly, hands clasping together. “Oh my gosh, that’s adorable.”

He flinches like you slapped him with a flower.

“I ain’t adorable,” he mutters, ears glowing red.

You grin wide—bright, delighted, entirely unbothered by his public execution. “Yes, you are,” you say breezily. “You totally are. This is like… so old-fashioned and sweet. You’re like a historical reenactor but for… horny stuff.”

He chokes.

You keep going, unaware you’re destroying him.

“I mean, don’t worry. I won’t tease you. Much. But honestly? The girls in these are super pretty. Like, wow. Their tits are really symmetrical.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders curling inward, dignity leaking out onto the floorboards.

“Please,” he begs softly, “for the love of—can you close that drawer?”

You blink, glance at the magazines again, then gently push the drawer shut with one finger.

Then you turn back around with a soft smile—almost innocent in its sincerity—and say:

“It’s okay, Remmick. Everyone likes stuff.”

You sit back on your heels, hands resting primly on your thighs as if you didn’t just peel open his drawer and catch him red-handed with a whole collection of glossy, soft-lit sin. 

Remmick still hasn’t moved from where he sits on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, eyes trying not to meet yours again for too long.

But then he risks it. He looks up.

And you’re smiling.

Not teasing or smug, but unnervingly earnest.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” you say gently. “Seriously. Like—everybody does stuff. I mean, maybe not with magazines, but you’re just a little old-fashioned. That’s cute.”

He groans softly, hands scrubbing at his face.

“And if it makes you feel better,” you go on, crossing your legs criss-cross on the floor in front of him, “I’ve totally done things too.”

His hands fall away from his face. His ears go pink. “… Things?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm. With my vibrator. She’s hot pink and glittery. She has settings, like, levels? Sometimes I use level two if I’m tired but still wanna finish.”

He full-on chokes.

You blink. “What? I thought we were sharing.”

He sputters. “I—I didn’t—I wasn’t asking—”

“You didn’t not ask,” you point out, chipper. “Besides, I think honesty is a sign of maturity or whatever.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like it belongs to someone having a minor heart attack.

You're still talking. “I mean… I guess I always imagined stuff too, but not with, like, photos. I just imagine stuff happening. Like someone touching me a certain way. Saying stuff. Grabbing my thighs. Or biting. Or like, humping a pillow. But I didn’t really know what I was doing until my roommate showed me how to edge properly—”

“Okay!” he nearly yells, hands flailing up. “Okay. You—you can stop.”

You blink innocently, lips forming a small ‘o.’ “Oh. Sorry.”

You reach for a random trinket on his desk and begin fiddling with it, looking unbothered. “I just thought since I saw the magazines and all…”

He’s staring at the floor, trying not to die. Or combust. Or leap out the window to escape whatever just happened.

Then you glance at him again, head tilted, eyes soft and a little dreamy now.

“… Do you think I could be in one of those magazines?”

He turns to look at you like you’ve completely lost your mind.

“I mean,” you continue, fluttering your lashes, “they’d probably wanna airbrush me a little. I got a tiny mole somewhere and my thighs are soft—but like, do you think they’d wanna take pictures of me all naked and shiny and laid out like that?”

His throat bobs. His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

You lean forward a little. “Or would you look at them differently if it was me?”

He opens his mouth.

No sound comes out.

He’s not even sure what you just asked him. Or if he’s hallucinating. But his jeans feel tighter again and your eyes are wide and blinking like you just asked him if he prefers apple juice or orange, not whether he’d jerk off to you in glossy centerfold spreads.

“… Girl,” he whispers, almost hoarse. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

You pout. “Yes, I do. I just said it.”

He exhales slow, heavy, ragged.

You twirl the trinket in your fingers and hum softly. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh, voice dry as dirt. “You got no idea.”

And when you finally rise to your feet again, brushing your shorts down and giving him a little smile before plopping beside him on the bed once more, his entire body is fighting to stay still—because now all he can think about is you laid out across satin sheets, lips parted, eyes low, glittery toy discarded to the side as you beckon him closer.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You bump his shoulder with yours and say, “You’re real quiet again. You sure you’re okay?”

“… Peachy,” he mumbles.

You nod, pleased. “Good. Wanna watch something?”

He shrugs, stiff. “Yeah. Sure.”

You grab the remote, settle in beside him like nothing ever happened, still humming some bubblegum pop tune under your breath.

Meanwhile, he’s still hard in his jeans, and all you’ve done is exist.

The two of you end up watching something on his tiny, slightly crooked TV—not really paying attention, not really talking either, just sharing space in that warm, quiet way that only happens when something invisible has already shifted between two people. 

Every so often you lean a little too close. Your shoulder brushes his. Your knee bumps his. You smell like vanilla body mist and fabric softener, and every time you sigh, he feels his stomach do this small, helpless drop.

Eventually, your phone buzzes with a reminder from your aunt, and you stretch your arms overhead, spine arching lightly, shirt lifting just enough to show a sliver of soft skin above your waistband. 

You slip off the bed, slow and lazy. “Guess I should go,” you murmur, smoothing your hair. “My aunt will freak if I walk in after midnight. Again.”

He stands too, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide how nervous he is… or how badly he wants you to stay.

You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you sometimes.

You step closer, hand lifting to his cheek with an easy, casual softness that makes his breath stutter. “Thanks for hanging with me,” you say, thumb brushing just barely under his eye. “You’re always so sweet.”

Before he can respond, you press your mouth to his—soft enough to feel innocent but lingering enough to make his pulse kick.

He freezes.

You kiss him again, slower this time, your hand curling behind his neck.

And then—like you suddenly remember something—you lean in and place a third kiss just behind his ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin where his jaw meets his throat.

“See you tomorrow,” you whisper, and you pull away with a grin.

He stands there, stunned silent, as you float out the door with your bag over your shoulder, humming to yourself, hair bouncing with every step. 

You call goodnight to his grandma downstairs. The screen door clicks. Your footsteps fade down the path.

The following days fold into one another. Morning chores, porch repairs, fence checks, feed runs—every task falls into place like always, yet the air around you two carries something stretched thin between what happened and what hasn’t been discussed.

Remmick feels it constantly.

It settles behind his ribs whenever you walk toward him, when your perfume drifts close enough to distract him mid-task. It lingers each time you smile at him like nothing happened.

He wants to mention the way your lips had felt on his, the heat of your thighs around his face, the quiet sounds you made as you tipped closer to falling apart, but each time he looks at you, you greet him like nothing unusual ever happened. 

You wave, smile, wrinkle your nose at the heat, and talk about whatever floats into your head, unaware that every casual brush of your voice against his memory drives him further into distraction.

Three days pass.

At first he tells himself he’ll wait for you to bring it up. 

Maybe you need time to think. Maybe you’re shy. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it around his grandma or while knee-deep in chores. 

But as the days pass, you remain breezy and unbothered, happily feeding chickens, brushing horses, humming songs that get stuck in his head long after you go home. 

You tease him about his lack of fashion, ask him if goats have best friends, complain about your lip gloss melting, and then drift into a tangent about how you once tried hot yoga and nearly passed out from “all the sweating and bending.” 

Meanwhile, he can’t forget how you kissed him lightly behind the ear before leaving as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Eventually the weight of it follows him everywhere. 

He fumbles tools, drops feed scoops, nearly walks into a fence post because your perfume drifts too close to him. Even his grandma eyes him one morning as if she can sense some inner disarray he is entirely unwilling to explain. 

By the fourth day, he’s collected enough courage—shaky but present—to finally confront the silence building between you.

It happens in the barn late in the afternoon, where the sunlight filters through slats in long beams that illuminate drifting motes of dust. You stand beside a young heifer, palm flat and open as she nudges into your hand, and you giggle softly, brushing hair away from your cheek with the back of your wrist. 

He watches you for a few seconds longer than he means to. Then he clears his throat. You turn immediately, smiling as though the question in his chest isn’t tightening every muscle in his back. 

“What? Do I have hay in my hair again?”

“No,” he says, taking a small step toward you. “Just… wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you reply, turning fully toward him. “Talk away.”

He hesitates only a breath before moving closer, the barn air thickening around him as he tries to choose his words with care.

“I been waitin’ for you to bring up what happened the other day,” he says, words quiet but unshaking now. “But you ain’t mentioned it once.”

You go quiet, feed still resting in your palm as the heifer noses at it with slow, patient nudges.

He continues, trying not to lose his nerve. “And I ain’t complainin’. I just… I can’t tell if you wanna pretend it never happened. Or if maybe you’re expectin’ me to pretend.”

You shift your weight, chewing softly at your bottom lip.

He steps closer again. “I just—” His voice drops. “I ain’t been able to stop thinkin’ about it. And I ain’t sure what you—”

You interrupt without meaning to with an honesty so simple it nearly knocks the breath out of him: 

“Oh. I thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t mention it because I figured if you wanted to, you would,” you explain, shrugging lightly. “Plus, I wasn’t really sure if you regretted it or if you were embarrassed or something. I didn’t wanna make you feel weird.”

It hits him like a blow—your complete lack of calculation, your unfiltered sincerity.

It leaves him with nowhere to hide.

Heat rises in his neck as he steps even closer, one deliberate shift of weight slightly closing the gap, voice steadying:

“I didn’t regret a single second.”

Your lips part slowly.

The heifer nudges your hand again, but you hardly notice.

Your lips part slowly. Your gaze drifts down his chest before returning to his eyes, soft and curious. When you finally speak, your voice is low, almost daring:

“… Then what do you wanna do about it?”

He draws a deeper breath, dust swirling in the golden light between you as the air thickens around the moment you just opened. 

It takes approximately four minutes before the two of you are inside the farmhouse, moving without remembering who reached for whom first. 

The hallway is dim, curtains filtering the afternoon sun into soft gold that settles over the framed photographs lining the walls. A faint trace of lemon polish clings to the air from his grandma’s morning cleaning.

Your back presses to the wall on the second floor just beside the stairs, and Remmick’s mouth is already on yours—hesitant for half a second, then hungry in a way that betrays how long he’s been thinking about this.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging him close; he stumbles a little, chest brushing yours, breath shaking against your cheek. He kisses you like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind if he pauses, lips warm and firm, his hands hovering before finally settling at your waist with a careful grip.

He murmurs your name against your mouth, the sound rough around the edges.

You gasp softly, head tipping back, lips parting just enough for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, clumsy at first, then surer, guided by the small whimper you let out when he slides one hand up your spine.

The farmhouse is quiet. His grandma is gone—off at the market, her list long enough to buy the time neither of you should trust but both of you cling to anyway.

He pulls back just a breath, eyes lowered, lips flushed. “Tell me if—if you wanna stop.”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence, sliding your hands up to frame his jaw. “I’m not stopping unless you do.”

Color rises along his throat. You don’t give him time to respond; you tug him in again, kissing him with more certainty than he can manage, and he melts into it, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your hip through the soft fabric of your dress.

You push gently at his chest, guiding him backward. He follows without protest, steps slow and uneven, matching each retreat with another kiss. 

His heel bumps the edge of the runner rug in the hallway; he steadies himself with a shaky laugh you swallow immediately with your mouth.

The two of you inch down the hall in a stumbling dance of lips, hands, breath. 

Your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt, brushing warm skin beneath it. His breath stutters each time your chest presses to his. He tries to speak once—some half-formed thought—but you kiss him again and the words dissolve on his tongue.

He barely remembers he has a bedroom.

But you do.

Your hand catches his, tugging him toward the doorway. He follows, heart pounding, the hallway tilting around him as though the house itself recognizes what’s building between you.

Just outside his room, you pause long enough to kiss him harder, lips parting with a little sigh that sends heat rushing through him. 

You whisper against his mouth, already knowing the answer, “Your room?”

Remmick exhales shakily, nodding.

He pushes the door open without looking away from you, stepping backward into the familiar space with you pressed to him as the door swings shut behind you.

He backs toward the bed without breaking the kiss, knees brushing the mattress before he sits. His palms slide instinctively to your hips as you follow him down, settling into his lap in one smooth, eager motion. 

The weight of you steals a quiet sound from him—half gasp, half groan—your thighs bracketing his, your dress sliding up an inch as you shift to get comfortable. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, your mouth warm and soft and hungry against his. His head tilts to meet you. 

The kiss grows messy in small ways—your tongue brushing his, his breath catching, the faint drag of your lip gloss smearing against the corners of his mouth as you angle yourself closer.

Your fingers skim the hem of his shirt, the rough cotton damp from work and heat. You tug at it lightly, testing him, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes. 

His breath stumbles. He tries to steady it, tries to keep kissing you like nothing has shifted, but you can feel the tension in his chest, the flutter beneath his ribs each time your hands move higher.

“You don’t gotta—” he starts, voice a raw whisper into your mouth, but you cut him off with another kiss, your hips rolling the faintest bit over the hard shape straining against his jeans. 

His breath leaves him in a startled exhale. Your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt again, nails grazing his stomach, tracing the line of muscle there. 

“I wanna,” you murmur against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re so warm. Let me take this off.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, gripping lightly as if he needs the anchor. He nods before he can process the decision, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling faster with every passing second. 

You smile, bright and wicked in your sweetness, and tug the shirt up. He lifts his arms awkwardly, obediently, and the fabric peels away from his skin in one smooth pull before you toss it aside.

His chest is broad and solid, lightly dusted with hair down the center, muscles shifting beneath warm skin as he tries to figure out where to put his hands. 

You slide your palms over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him under your fingers. Your thighs tighten around his hips as you settle deeper into his lap.

“Remmick,” you whisper, voice warm with want.

The kiss that follows is nothing shy of hungry. 

His grip tightens on your hips, guiding your movements without meaning to, each slow grind making his breath hitch in a way that feels dangerously addictive. 

You feel him beneath you, and each shift of your weight presses a little more pressure against him.

Your fingers drift down to work open the button of his jeans, slow and teasing. 

You kiss him deeper, lips plush and warm, your tongue brushing his. “Touch me,” you whisper into his mouth, your voice soft but edged with hunger. 

The request hits him like heat pouring low in his spine. His fingers slide slowly up your thighs, thumbs sweeping along the soft skin as your dress rides higher, inch by inch, until he’s cupping you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

Your breath stumbles, hips rolling into his palm, searching for pressure. His nose brushes yours as he exhales shakily.

His fingers trace the curve between your thighs, feeling the heat gathering there, your body shifting eagerly into his touch. “You want me to…?”

“Yes.” The word slips out without hesitation.

The mixture of boldness and innocence in your voice almost undoes him. Still, he obeys. His hand slips beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the fabric up your hips until the cool air hits your panties. His fingers hook under the edge and slip inside, trembling slightly as they finally meet your bare heat.

You’re wet for him—soft, slick, warm in a way that makes his entire body tense beneath you.

“Oh—” he whispers, the sound choked and awed. 

Your head falls against his shoulder as his fingers slide through your folds, slow and careful at first, tracing you like he’s trying to memorize every curve. 

You grind into his hand, needy and shameless, breath hitching with each pass of his fingers. The slick sound of it fills the quiet room, subtle at first, then unmistakably erotic as he grows bolder and your hips move more insistently.

“Remmick,” you breathe, voice warm and trembling as your lips skim his neck. “Inside.”

He groans into your hair, unable to resist you for even a second longer. Two fingers slip inside you, slow but steady, sinking into the wet heat he’s been aching to feel again. 

Your body tightens around him immediately, and a broken little moan spills against his throat. 

He curls his fingers gently, testing how you react, and the needy whimper you let out nearly unravels him.

You roll your hips into his hand, fucking yourself on his fingers in slow, desperate motions that make his breath stutter every time you squeeze around him. 

His thumb brushes your clit, hesitant at first, then more sure when your whole body trembles in his lap in response.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice barely holding together.

Your breathing doesn’t settle, not even close. 

Suddenly, the impulse hits: you want him to see you, all of you, no hesitation, no pretending you weren’t aching for this the entire time.

You grab the hem of your dress and pull it up without warning. 

His eyes widen instantly, tracking the slow rise of fabric over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. 

The second you lift your arms and drag the dress over your head, he forgets to inhale. Your panties cling to your heat, still wet from his hand. Your bra strains against your chest, your skin flushed and warm as you toss the dress aside.

He stares like you’ve taken the world out of his mouth.

“God…” he whispers, voice breaking.

You unclasp your bra with a quick tug, letting the straps fall down your arms. The second it hits the floor, his gaze snaps downward—straight to your breasts. His breathing deepens, chest rising harder beneath you as your nipples tighten in the cool air.

He reaches for you without thinking, palms sliding up your waist before they close over your breasts. His thumbs brush your nipples slowly at first, then firmer when you arch into him with a soft, needy sound. 

You feel the heat in his hands, the roughness of his fingertips, the heavy drag of calluses against sensitive skin. 

His cock jumps under you, the denim doing nothing to hide the shape of him. He groans low in his throat, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself.

“You feel me?” you murmur against his jaw.

He nods, but his breath stutters when your hips press again, harder this time. The friction pulls a broken sound from him.

You kiss him hungrily, chest sliding against his, your nipples brushing his warm skin with each shift. 

He responds instantly, mouth opening for you. One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your hips jolt; the other slips back between your thighs, fingers pushing aside your panties to feel your slick again.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth when he feels how wet you still are. “You’re drippin’.”

You moan at the rough honesty in his voice, grinding down on his hand as he slides two fingers inside you again—deeper this time, confident now, curling into that spot that makes your thighs shake. 

His thumb presses against your clit again, light at first, then with a bit more pressure when you grab his shoulders and gasp against his throat.

“You like that,” he mutters, voice thick and shaking. 

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He continues to finger-fucking you. Your slick coating his knuckles while you ride his lap, bare chest pressed to his, hips moving with a rhythm you can’t control anymore. 

“Remmick,” you pant against his ear, “I want more.”

He groans and pulls you harder against him, mouth finding your neck. His tongue drags over your skin, his teeth grazing lightly, his breath hot and uneven. Your body trembles, cunt gripping his fingers with every thrust.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice trembling with something hot and breathless. “I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. 

His entire body tightens beneath you. The sound he makes is completely unguarded. Your nipples drag across his chest as you pull back from his lap, and the loss of your weight hits him like a shock; he almost reaches for you without thinking.

But you’re already moving.

You slide off his thighs and settle beside him on the bed, breasts still flushed and warmed from his hands. Your fingers trace the waistband of his jeans with a teasing sort of ease.

He doesn’t waste time—not with you looking at him like that. He unbuckles his belt quickly, fingers clumsy with urgency. 

The metal clinks, the leather slides loose, and he shoves the denim down enough to free himself completely. His cock springs out, flushed dark from how long he’s been hard. 

He wraps a shaky hand around the base, like he’s trying to steady himself for you, but you’re already leaning in—soft, eager, ready.

“Let me,” you murmur.

He lets go instantly, breathing hard.

Your fingers wrap around him, warm and slick from your own arousal still shining on his knuckles. His breath breaks as soon as you touch him, a hoarse, helpless exhale that seems to shiver right through his body. 

You stroke once, and the weight of him in your hand pulls a pulse of heat between your legs all over again.

“Jesus…” he groans, head tipping back. “Sweetheart—”

You stroke again, your grip sliding easily along the thick length of him, thumb brushing over the bead of precum already gathering at the swollen tip. He jerks, hips twitching, thighs tensing. 

He’s bigger than you remembered from the day you had him in your mouth—harder now, thicker, the veins along the length pushing against your palm with every upward glide.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning close enough that your breath grazes him. “You get like this just from touching me?”

His eyes flutter half-shut. “You know I do.”

You kiss his jaw, your hand pumping slowly, your thumb teasing the underside of the head the way you remember made him shake. His cock throbs in your grip, heavy and desperate for more.

He looks at you, at your hand around him, at your bare chest rising and falling with each slow stroke, and another broken sound slips from him—a quiet, strangled groan that proves just how close he already is.

His voice cracks on your name, low and strained, as he watches your hand pump him again. “I’m ready….”

The desperation in his tone sends a hot shiver through your stomach.

You smile and give him one last slow, tight stroke before letting go. He nearly falls forward from the loss of contact. You scoot back on the bed, settling onto your elbows with your thighs parting just enough to invite him closer.

“C’mere.”

He rises from the mattress carefully, cock thick and heavy in his hand, chest flushed, breath shaky as he steps between your open legs. 

The sight alone makes heat pool low in your belly—his broad shoulders, the faint trail of hair leading down his stomach, the way his cock twitches as he looks at you lying back for him.

His breath wavers.

Yours does too.

Then something flickers across your expression—and you huff a small, breathless laugh. “Wait—condom.”

He blinks, like he genuinely forgot the concept of protection existed. “Oh. Right.”

You reach toward the nightstand beside his bed and pull open the drawer. Inside lies a small stack of items—loose receipts, a pen, an old watch—and one crinkled foil packet wedged toward the back. You grab it and hold it out to him.

He swallows hard, takes it from your hand, and his fingers shake just a little as he tears open the wrapper.

You watch him roll it down his flushed length, your breath catching as the rubber stretches over the head and down the shaft. His cock twitches when your eyes follow the movement, and he lets out a soft, ragged breath that brushes heat across your chest.

Your legs fall open a little wider, the bed dipping under your weight.

“There,” you murmur, voice low and warm. “Now you can come here.”

He moves closer until his thighs brush the edge of the mattress. 

One hand slides beneath your knee, lifting it gently while the other drifts down your thigh, fingers hooking the waistband of your panties. 

They’re soaked—warm, clinging, useless now—and he exhales sharply as his thumb grazes the damp fabric.

“Let me take these off,” he murmurs.

You lift your hips without hesitation. 

He pulls the panties down slowly, the wet fabric dragging lightly over your swollen folds before slipping past your thighs, your knees, your ankles. 

The moment your feet are free, he drops the panties somewhere on the floor—not caring where—because his eyes have already drifted back to the place he just uncovered.

You’re bare. Open. Slick and glistening in the soft bedroom light.

His breath trembles.

He brings one hand to your thigh and nudges it wider. Then wider still. The sight of your cunt, flushed and wet from his fingers, makes his cock twitch against his stomach.

“Get up here,” you whisper, voice hushed and earnest.

He climbs onto the mattress, kneeling between your legs. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing circles into your skin as he positions himself. 

The rubber-clad head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and thick, the pressure enough to make your breath catch.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says softly.

You shake your head, fingers curling at his shoulders. “I want it. Put it in.”

He exhales your name, then tilts his hips forward. 

The blunt head presses into you— stretching you open around him. Your mouth parts instantly, a soft, breathy sound catching in your throat as the thick width of him slides deeper, inch by inch.

He groans low, the sound raw and aching. 

You grip his arms harder, nails digging lightly into his skin as the stretch builds—deep, intense, pulling a helpless roll of your hips as your body adjusts around him. 

He pauses only long enough to let you exhale, then pushes farther, the length of him gliding through your slick until the first deep thrust bottoms out inside you.

Your breath breaks.

His does too.

“God…” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours, “you feel warm… squeezin’ me already…”

Your legs tighten around his hips as you gasp his name, the fullness of him overwhelming and perfect all at once. 

He moves slowly at first, pulling back just an inch before sinking forward again, letting you feel every ridge, every throb, every hot pulse of his cock buried deep inside you.

You cling to him, body trembling with each controlled thrust. “Remmick… more… please…”

His hands slide up your ribs, sweeping under your tits, then back down to your hips as he starts a deeper rhythm—pushing into you with thick, satisfying force. 

He kisses you while his hips roll into yours.

Your nails drag up his back, searching blindly for something to hold on to as the slow grind of his hips pushes deeper, thicker, warmer into you with every thrust. 

He groans into your neck, the sound shaking through his chest as he tries to keep his pace steady. But the way you’re clenching around him, soft and wet and eager, makes it nearly impossible for him to think straight.

You slide one hand up into his hair, fingers slipping into the soft strands at the nape of his neck. 

When you curl your grip and tug him down for a kiss, he makes a sound into your mouth that sends heat rushing between your thighs.

Your mouth opens for him as your hips lift to meet his next thrust. He moans into the kiss, louder now, the sound vibrating against your lips. His rhythm falters for a moment—not from hesitation, but from pleasure crashing into him all at once.

You whisper against his mouth, breath ragged, “Faster… Remmick, come on…”

He nods against your cheek, swallowing hard, breath shaking. “Alright—just—hold on.”

His hands tighten on your hips, grip firmer now, guiding your body up into his as he draws his cock back and pushes in again with more force. The deeper thrust steals a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his shoulders. He hears it—feels it—and something wild flickers through him.

He thrusts again, faster this time, less careful, driven by the raw sound of your breath catching with every stroke. 

The bed creaks softly beneath the two of you, your bodies rocking together with messy, loud rhythm. 

Your slick coats him, making every push easy and filthy, each movement met with a wet, downright pornographic sound that would’ve embarrassed him if he wasn’t already drowning in how good you feel.

“You’re… fuck—” you gasp, pulling him in for another kiss, “you’re doing so good—don’t stop—”

He moans loudly, hips bucking harder as he sinks into you over and over, inexperienced but fueled entirely by your voice, your heat, your body tightening around him. 

His breath comes out broken each time he bottoms out, thighs trembling against the inside of yours.

Remmick tries to talk, to say something, anything, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate, strangled sound as you tug his hair again and kiss him deeper—open-mouthed, hungry, loud enough to fill the whole room.

You’re loud too.

Every time he thrusts just right, your voice breaks into a moan that makes his cock twitch inside you. Every gasp, every cry of his name pushes him closer to the edge. 

He wasn’t prepared for this—your body taking him so well, your voice so raw and unfiltered, the way you beg without shame.

Remmick pants against your mouth, completely undone. “I—I can’t—sweetheart, you’re—God, you’re squeezin’ me so—”

You pull him down, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths as he fucks you faster, louder, harder than he thought he knew how. 

Your breasts bounce against his chest, your thighs shake around his hips, your nails scratch down his back in frantic, filthy encouragement.

“Just like that,” you beg, voice cracking on the words. 

He loses whatever control he had left.

His thrusts become hard, rhythmic, desperate, each one angled a little deeper as he chases the sound of you coming apart beneath him. His moans get louder, shameless, spilling from him with every thrust, breathless and needy and overwhelming.

Your body rocks under him, every slide of his cock pulling your hips higher, needier. His breath is hot against your cheek, his chest pressed to yours as your hand slips between your bodies.

The moment your fingers touch your clit, your whole spine arches. The pressure is perfect—hot, tight circles that drag pleasure upward with dizzying speed. 

You gasp against his mouth, hips jerking.

He feels the change instantly.

Your walls clamp down around him, and his groan breaks apart, loud and helpless. 

His thrusts falter for a heartbeat, then slam forward again, harder, driven by the sudden squeeze around him.

Your fingers move faster, catching the rhythm of his hips, circling your clit while he drives into you with messy, uneven thrusts that make your breath stutter. Your thighs shake around his waist, slick smearing across his skin, your body opening for him with desperate urgency.

“Remmick—” you moan, barely able to speak through the pleasure building so fast.

His forehead presses to your temple, his breath ragged as your hand works your clit and your cunt squeezes him harder with every thrust. His hips buck without rhythm for a moment—just raw need, sloppy and deep—before he forces himself back into a pace, groaning through clenched teeth as you tighten around him.

“Darlin’,” he gasps, voice cracking on the word, “I—I’m real close…”

Your fingers circle faster, slippery with your own arousal as you push yourself higher and higher. 

He’s panting openly now, moaning into your neck, hips slamming forward with a desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pulse of your clit.

He chokes on a moan so loud it vibrates through your chest as his fingers dig into your hips.

“I’m—sweetheart, I’m gonna come—”

Your free hand drags up your stomach, trembling with the force of every thrust he drives into you. 

The pleasure builds fast—too fast—your clit throbbing under your fingers, your walls gripping him tighter every second.

You reach higher—past your ribs, past the quick rise of your chest—until your fingers brush your nipple.

The touch is electric.

You pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers, and the shock of sensation tears a gasp from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him instantly.

His voice shatters around your name, hips jerking forward in a rough, uncontrolled thrust that drags the head of his cock against your sweetest spot.

Everything inside you snaps at once.

The orgasm hits mid-thrust—sudden, sharp, overwhelming—your body seizing around him as a cry rips out of you. 

Your fingers clamp on your nipple, the other hand circling your clit in frantic, trembling strokes as your climax slams through your whole body. Your cunt pulses around him, rhythm wild, squeezing him over and over.

He doesn’t last a second more.

The moment your climax hits, the moment he feels you clamp down on him, gripping him like you’re trying to pull him deeper, he breaks.

His head drops against your shoulder as a raw moan tears out of him. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself as deep as the condom allows, his cock throbbing in your tight heat as his orgasm rips through him. His whole body shakes—thighs flexing, breath stuttering, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave warm impressions on your skin.

You moan into his ear, voice high and breathless.

He groans against your neck, long and unrestrained.

Your orgasm milks his, each pulse dragging another broken sound from his throat. His cock twitches inside you, filling the condom with thick, hot release while your slick keeps dripping around him, soaking the base of him and the sheets beneath your hips.

You can feel his heartbeat through his chest—fast, pounding, wild.

And for a long, trembling moment, he keeps thrusting in tiny, helpless motions, riding the last waves of pleasure as your cunt continues to flutter around him, overstimulating him beautifully.

He finally collapses onto you—heavy, warm, panting against your throat—still buried deep, still shaking.

“Oh… ” he whispers, breath uneven. “That… that was somethin’ else…”

For a long stretch of slow, shaking breaths, neither of you moves. His weight sinks into you, heavy but comforting, his chest rising against yours in uneven waves as he tries to catch his breath. Sweat cools on both your bodies, your legs still trembling faintly where they hang around his hips, your fingers loosely curled in his hair.

You feel him soften inside you, still nestled as deep as the condom allows, still giving the occasional small pulse like the last remnants of his orgasm haven’t quite figured out how to stop. 

A soft, tired little sound slips out of you at the sensation, and it makes him groan quietly into your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t mean to… keep pressin’ on you like that.”

“You’re fine,” you whisper back, stroking the damp curls at the back of his neck. “Feels nice.”

He melts at that—actually melts. His whole body relaxes on top of you, muscles softening while he nuzzles lazily into the crook of your neck. The shyness returns only now, after everything, creeping softly into the edges of his voice.

“You okay?” he asks, gentle and earnest.

“More than okay.” Your hand slides down his spine, fingertips following the slick warmth of sweat between his shoulder blades. “You were, like… really good.”

He makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a bashful laugh and disbelief. “I just… wanted to make sure you felt good.”

“I did,” you say, and the honesty in your tone leaves him speechless for a second.

He lifts his head enough to look at you. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from kissing, curls sticking to his forehead. 

His eyes soften when he takes in your face—your own flushed skin, your parted lips, your hair messy against the pillow. Something tender flickers in his expression, warm and unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your collarbone before he even realizes he’s doing it. Then, like the words slipped out too freely, he hesitates. “If—if that’s okay to say.”

Your heart gives a small, unexpected squeeze. “It’s okay.”

He smiles then, small but genuine, like he’s proud of himself for saying it out loud. His hips twitch reflexively, making both of you gasp at the sudden overstimulation. He winces, blushing more.

“Think I should, uh… pull out,” he says, sheepish.

You nod, letting your legs fall open. He pulls back slowly, careful, his cock slipping free of you with a warm, sensitive glide that makes him grunt and makes you exhale softly at the sudden emptiness. The condom stays intact, drooping slightly at the tip.

He ties it off, still blushing, and gets up long enough to toss it in the tiny trash bin beside his dresser.

Then he comes right back to you.

He lies down beside you on the mattress, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. 

One arm slips beneath your shoulders, tentative at first, then more confident when you curl into him without hesitation. 

His body is warm, still humming faintly from the heat of everything that happened. His hand drifts over your hip, thumb tracing absent, sleepy circles along your skin.

Silence settles—soft, peaceful, nothing heavy or awkward.

Just two warm bodies in a small farmhouse room, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of something they both wanted far more than either was ready to admit.

“You stayin’ awhile?” he asks quietly, voice thick with exhaustion and hope.

You smile into his chest. “Yeah. I like being here.”

He exhales slowly, the breath warm against your hair, his hand still tracing gentle circles along your hip.

A few seconds pass. Maybe a minute. Long enough for both of your breathing to settle, for the heat on your skin to cool.

Then you tilt your head up toward him, eyes sleepy but bright with that familiar mischief he’s slowly—painfully—getting used to.

“Hey, Remmick?” you murmur.

“Mm?” His voice comes out soft, half-drowsy.

You trail your fingers lightly down his stomach, stopping just above his soft cock. His breath catches—not enough to make him tense, just enough to remind you how sensitive he still is.

“Next time…” You give him a lazy, teasing smile. “Which position do you wanna try?”

He goes completely still.

A flush creeps up his cheeks so fast you feel the heat rise against your palm. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—like he’s trying to respond but his brain is sputtering along with his heartbeat.

“I—uh—well—darlin’, I—” He swallows hard, voice pitching embarrassingly high before settling again. “I don’t… I mean, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Yes you have,” you tease softly, nudging his thigh with your knee. “I can tell.”

He hides his face in your shoulder for a moment, groaning quietly in pure embarrassment.

You grin, fingers stroking along the light hair at his navel. “C’mon. Tell me.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Maybe… maybe the one where you’re on top.”

You grin, slow and wicked and entirely pleased.

remmick blows another cloud of smoke out, hardly keeping up with your bounces while catching his breath. the cigarette just added another hazy buzz, his dirty grin practically stitched to his cheeks while he zoned in on your meek little hole, noisily creaming around him.

“yeah, yeah I know that’s s’right, keep hoppin’. hop on that dick. go on, squirt on me again, wanna watch it happen this time,” he huffs. hissing while your pussy clenches down some more, rounding your hips around and finding more breathtaking angles that have you both howling.

“I’ll cum for you, I’ll make another mess just for you, just for you baby—god, can’t help it when this dick’s so good,” you whine, feeling his length accidentally slip out in the middle of a good thrust. his cock automatically slaps up onto his stomach, riddled in your juices. you whip your head back and stare down, trying to get a grasp on him again without even an ounce of patience left in your body.

“shhh, shhh hunny I got it, I gotcha. I’m puttin’ ‘em back in now, don’t stress that little pussy out. it’s comin’, comin’ right back in. thereee we go. feel that?”

his cigarette is stuck back between his lips while he holds one of your hips, gliding his tip right back in your needy, sopping hole. the sigh of relief you felt turns into another loud moan, sinking all the way back down on him and getting your rhythm back on like nothing in the world could ever interrupt you again.

“that’s it little bunny, little bunny needs her dick, hmm?”

“mmmhmmm.”

“oh I know that’s right, look at her, look at her go.”

he marvels at your speed winding up, watching you sink back down and pump back up, filling yourself over and over again with his cock balls deep, little splashes coating his thighs and your inner lips during the ride.

he blows more smoke out, so distracted he almost forgets it’s still lit. “so proud of you angel, little pussy’s gotten so good. you gonna gimme what I want? you gonna squirt a pretty little flood? c’mon, c’mon you can do it. you got it baby, fuck, fuck, keep bouncin’ little vamp, I’m gonna fuckin’ nut—“

“nut inside me, cum in my pussy, cum in my pussy, my pussy needs it—need my fuel, I’m gonna cum with you baby, your cock makes me feel so good,” you howl, clenching hard enough to trap him inside before you feel that all too familiar tense grip of both his palms right on your hips, squeezing like you’ll float away if he lets go. he grinds his teeth with a raspy, throaty moan, cigarette barely staying lit while he humps upwards to fully nest himself in.

“mmmm feel this baby, feel it shootin’ inside you, keep fuckin’ yourself on it hunny, yeah.”

remmick takes one last long hit of his smoke, blowing it out in a hurry while he pumps his hips up one last time. his balls felt blue, tightening up before the tingling feeling in his belly overpowers him. he makes a strangled noise that sounds like he got punched in the gut, first squeezing his eyes shut when the first spurt leaves him, scorching hot cum now unstoppably flooding your pussy, your womb. remmick forces his eyes to stay back open, watching with eagle eyed intensity while your pussy keeps hopping up and down on him, his cream oh so subtly making thick milky drips down, adding to more to this fucking mess. he hums so long while you pump him through it, tightening and whimpering while your own orgasm whips you out of it, leaving a hot, sticky wet mess behind and a shy little spurt of more cum right onto him.

“yeahhhh, knew that cunny had it in her. squirtin’ on this dick good. that’s it, that’s fucking it!—mmm slow that pussy down a sec, slow down,” he gasps, feeling the highest extreme of intensity, sensitivity, while his balls helplessly shrivel up again to let out another weak, sorry ass stroke of cum. beads of white sticking to your labia, a disgusting mess that he already wants to stuff his face in.

“darlin’, oh—mmmm you gave it to me good, got me so good this time. cain’t fuckin’ handle that pussy’s greed,” he gasps, halting your hips with desperation so his only his tip stays stuck in. his dick is three shades redder than he’s ever seen, wiped out from all the rounds your pussy took him on.

“alright, alright. tell you what. we clean up, I finish my damn smoke, then I’ll give this dick to ya nice and good again, sound good baby? sound fair?”

your mouth has stayed open, stuck in an o-shape while you finally allow him out. sticking your hips up to let his tip leave you, feeling a striking emptiness when his cock left your body. trying not to pout on him, knowing you’ve put him through enough rounds that most people wouldn’t get all month, you lazily agree with a smile, a little pinch of your lip, biting down while wiggling yourself back a little to give him a good show of what he’s done to you.

a stringy, thick glob slowly but surely dribbles down, landing right back down on the base of his dick. remmick’s blood boils just looking at it, reaching up to smack your cheek and spread a lip open just to watch even more fall out.

“five fucking minutes,” he grumbles, taking two deep drags of his smoke again, already feeling the heartbeat in his dick start accelerating up again. “gimme five minutes, then I’m all yours again, baby. I’ll fill that pussy up with s’more nut, all the nut you need,” he promises. snakes just a middle finger over your bulging, ruined clit, swirling a little circle there to soothe you.

“getchu plenty of dick, got plenty to fill my cute ass slut. here, sit down. grind it down on me, just rub. yeah, like that, just like that. good girl. get it hard again, we’ll pick right up where we left off. fuckin’ cleanin’ you up later. mmmmhm.”

. . .

You clocked the man at the bar nearly as soon as you walked in; you wanted to eat him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You liked a man with strong, beautiful hands, and his were perfect. He wore a black leather jacket, and his palm dwarfed the Old Fashioned he drank— or was it a Manhattan? Whichever it was that came with a maraschino.

His forefinger tapped absent-mindedly on the rim of the glass. He leaned back in his chair, then leaned forward. He bounced his leg, then cracked his knuckles, then lifted his drink to his lips. It was like he was doing some kind of nervous choreography that you just couldn't land on a reason for.

You singled him out. Maybe he could tell that you did.

Now, when you sit one seat down from him and order a Nikolashka, you see him glance over at you and smirk in the mirrored backsplash.

"Classy." His voice is boyish and light. You press your lips together and turn to find him peering at you over the rim of his glass, and god help you. His eyes are like two smoldering embers.

"I'm sorry?"

"A Nikolashka. It's very… elegant. Refined." He waves his hand. You track the movement with your eyes hungrily, and you definitely catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"And which are you?" you ask him mildly, "Elegant or refined?"

He gives you a slight grimace as he hisses through his teeth. "Neither." His dimples are something otherworldly, and you find yourself wanting to bite the cheek that made them.

"So, what are you, then?"

"Depends," he hums. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and then squints at you. "How do you feel about card tricks?"

Dark eyes, good hands, dimples, and card tricks. He's going to kill you. "Intrigued."

He chuckles, and sets down his glass with a quiet tap onto the mahogany bartop. Somehow, you've whittled down a spot in the middle of the busy bar where the music is dimmed, the energy is more of a steady thrum than the overall chaos around you. As you slide your drink over one space and sit beside him, you enter a bubble that encircles the two of you, alone.

This close, you see the veins on his hands, each freckle on his cheek. He is objectively beautiful, too pretty for you to look at for too long without blushing. He fishes a deck of cards out of the inside of his leather jacket, and glances at you from beneath unfairly long lashes. "You'll have to forgive me if this sucks. I'm nervous."

"Oh, don't tell me that," you mutter, then take a little sip of your drink. The alcohol wips all the moisture from your mouth. "I expect you to wow me."

"All right. No pressure there." With a little smile, he fans the cards out at you. "Pick a card, any card. Don't let me see. Here—" He claps his free hand over his eyes, then peeks between his fingers at you. "I'm not looking, I promise."

You choose from the center and tilt it towards you, careful not to catch it in the mirror behind the bar. Eight of Hearts.

"Okay, now shove it back in there."

You finally let a little giggle slip. It's absurd, like something a boy would do to impress you in high school, but it's… charming. He's charming you. Which is unexpected, at least, but never unwelcome.

He does a little flourish with the cards, impressively shuffling them in an arc, and flips over the top card of the deck before pronouncing confidently, "Is this your card?"

It is, in fact, the King of Spades. "Not a chance."

"Really? Shit." Looking confused, he pats at his breast pockets, his back pockets. "This usually works. Y'know what, check— check your back pocket?"

You nearly roll your eyes. You've been watching his hands since you sat down, and he knows it. He saw how fixated you are on them, so there's no real way he could have put anything in your pocket—

Except, there is. You pull a playing card from your left pocket, completely shocked. "How…?" It's the Eight of Hearts, but this time, there's something written on it. A phone number.

"Is that your card?"

You've actually been stunned into silence. You look at it for a long time, then at his hands, then at his pretty face, smirking coyly at you.

"Well, I guess it must be," you say, looking at him coquettishly over the top of your glass. "And what name do I write under this number?"

"Jack," he says with a grin. "Jack Wilder."

You know his name, but you can't quite put your finger on where you've heard it, yet. It's like a foggy memory, buried deep down beneath years upon years of media consumption and names of people met in passing.

"Well, Jack Wilder," you repeat, putting extra emphasis on his name. You tuck the card into your back pocket slowly, keeping your eyes trained on him. "I'll forgive you for obviously touching my ass during that trick, as long as you let me buy you another drink."

He blinks at you. "Is that meant to be some kind of punishment?"

"It depends on what you ask for."

At that, he finally laughs. He throws his head back in a sweet way, like he can't laugh without putting his whole body into it. It almost makes you feel smug as you take another sip of your drink.

After signaling for another drink, Jack turns to you. "So, what about you? Do you know any magic?" He draws out the word 'magic' like it's a joke.

You think for a moment. "The only thing I can really do is read tarot. Poorly."

"What? That's actually crazy."

"I know, it's weird, isn't it?"

"No, I mean it's crazy because I have a tarot deck. Right now." Jack reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out another card deck, slightly bigger, and sets it on the bar in front of you. The High Priestess stares up at you from the top of the deck.

"How many card decks do you happen to have in there?" You ask with mild amusement.

"About three at any given time." He shrugs when you shoot him an incredulous look. "It's good to be prepared."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You're not some kind of card sharp, are you?"

Jack cracks a wide grin. "Why, would you hate me if I was?"

"No, I'd just be working that much harder to figure you out."

Jack presses his lips together like he's secretly pleased that you're so fascinated with him, and taps the card deck on the counter. "You could always predict my future, right?"

You snort. "Right." In spite of yourself, you pick up the deck and shuffle it with a lot less flourish than he did. "You know how to read these, I take it?"

"Not really, I just like the artwork. The deck gives me something to do with my hands." There it is, the small clue-in to his demeanor. He has to be moving, stillness doesn't suit him. When he sits still, there's a slight tremor that remains in his hands or in his leg, like he's constantly on high alert. You make a note of it as you shuffle the cards, and then set the deck on the counter, face-down.

"Knock on it three times." You watch as Jack does as he's told, his fist tapping lightly on the cards and looking almost comical in their gentility. You flip over the first card. Death, on his pale horse, stands over a battlefield. You blow out a puff of air. "Well, shit. You're dead."

Jack laughs again. "An excellent observation. You're good."

"Thank you, thank you." With a smirk, you turn over the next card. The Eight of Swords reversed. "Aha. You were holding yourself back, but you finally found your freedom from something, and now you're heading down a new path. Does that sound right?"

He rests his chin in his palm, looking vaguely impressed. "You can do magic."

You try hard not to preen in front of him. "Yeah? That's good to hear."

"So, pray-tell, where is this new path taking me?" He continues looking at you, chin in his hand, like he can see into your mind. You feel like every thought you have is laid out in front of him. You wonder if he can read your entire soul on your face.

You flip over the third card and set it down in front of him. The Lovers.

"I don't suppose you need me to interpret that for you," you say, meeting his eye again, your insinuation hanging in the air between you.

His gaze travels down to your lips just once, and lingers there for a long moment. You don't know it yet— and how could you? It's supposed to be a secret, he is supposed to be a secret— but you terrify him. You noticed him when he had just been trying to get away from reality for a little while, trying to forget that he's on the run, that he has to pretend to be someone he's not. He isn't supposed to be telling people his real name. He isn't supposed to be picking people up in bars and doing stupid card tricks to impress them.

You baffle him. You don't even know how right you are about him, so right that you could probably guess who he is without him telling you, given time. And, unfortunately, Jack has always been drawn to things that could easily destroy him.

Held aloft on that suspension, you don't object when he asks to close the tab.

"Bullshit."

"I swear to god! You can even google it, I won't be mad."

Your combined laughter bounces down the hallway past hotel rooms, televisions echoing beyond closed doors. Your arm slung around Jack's shoulders, he bears your weight with one arm while he carries your discarded heels with the other. When you complained about your feet hurting, he had offered to carry you from the taxi up to your room, but you declined. Even so, you appreciate the gallantry.

"That Jack Wilder— The Four Horsemen Jack Wilder— he died. I remember hearing about it." And you remember now, that's where you'd heard the name. It had been all over the news. Even if you weren't keeping up with Las Vegas magic acts, everyone has at least heard about the magicians-turned-thieves. You couldn't get away from hearing about them if you tried.

"You really don't know how easy it is to fake your own death. Here," Jack chuckles, using his free hand to dig out his wallet. "There, under the top one. My I.D."

You snatch it from him, walking blindly as he advances with you down the hall. You find several I.D.'s, each with a different name, each older than the last— but the oldest, with an address in Brooklyn, bears the name Jack Wilder.

"Cute picture." You grunt and hand the wallet back to him. Not to be duped so easily, you pull out your phone to do a quick Google search on the Horsemen. An image search or two confirms that Jack, your Jack (or so you desperately want him to be), is the Jack Wilder. The same stupidly pretty smile. The same mischeivous eyes. The same arch to his brow.

You spin around, squinting at him, flashing your phone in his face. He looks somewhat bemused, like he was fully expecting it. "Okay. So, you're back from the dead. Any explanations, or will I stay in the dark?"

"Ah… I stole a cadaver and made it have a car accident. It's not that interesting." Jack waves it off, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "Now I'm just staying under the radar, I suppose. Only thing you can do. 'Lotta people want me, few can have me. You know how it is."

"Merritt McKinney, J. Daniel Atlas…" you read as you meander through the Wikipedia article on the Four Horsemen. "Hey, what does the J. stand for, anyways?"

"Jerk-off." He says it way too quickly for it to not be personal.

You cackle, probably a lot louder than you intended to. You lean back against the wall beside your hotel room door. "So you're telling me that you're this… this ex-David Copperfield fugitive from justice?"

"Hey, I'm not entirely out of commission yet," he insists, holding up his hands, your sparkling heels dangling from the fingers of one. "But yeah, I've been ordering pizza under the name 'Kevin' for about a year now."

"And why didn't you tell me your name is 'Kevin'?" You quirk an eyebrow at him. "Seems like if you're in hiding, it would be safer to keep up the charade."

"Maybe," Jack hums, sounding like he doesn't quite agree. "But, I'm not in the business of lying to girls I want to take home, so."

You let out a little puff of air, unsure of whether to laugh or melt before him. You aren't used to men being so candid with you. "And what if I slammed the door in your face?"

"Well, that would be pretty hard," he tells you, looking upwards like he's really mulling it over. "Considering I have your room key."

"What— hey." You feel at the inside pocket of your jacket, finding no room key-card anywhere. When you look back up at him, he has it extended between his two fingers, and swipes it through the card reader on the door. The lock beeps, and the door swings open to reveal the dimly lit room within. "Unbelievable. When did you do that?"

"In the cab."

In the cab. In the cab, when you were so busy trying not to attack his face or otherwise mount him that you were completely distracted. It must have happened sometime when you crawled into the backseat, and his hands guided you in like the gentleman he'd been, up until this point. The ghost of his touch remained on your waist, but you hadn't felt him stealing anything from your pockets.

You realize then, with only a base amount of embarrassment, that you're biting your lip just thinking about his hands on you. It takes all your strength not to pull him in and kiss him immediately, although you doubt he would object if you did.

"So," you say, leaning against the open door frame, your breathing strained from trying not to let it get too erratic. God, he's gorgeous. And it pisses you off that it effects you so deeply, but you can't help how badly you want him. You've been aching for him all evening, fantasizing about him, trying not to squirm too much at the bar or in the taxi. It's getting to be too much for you, the heat between your legs a constant, demanding presence. "You got any other tricks up your sleeve?"

"One or two."

"Will you show me?"

His grin could light up a stadium. "Sure, I can."

Down the hall somewhere, a door opens. Jack turns his head to look in the direction of the sound, and in that moment you snatch him by the collar of his grey t-shirt and yank him full-force into your hotel room. He bashes into you, tripping over the door jamb, and you kick the door shut before you both slam up against the wall.

"Whoa— easy," he chuckles, his nose bumped against yours. "I promise I'll come willingly."

"I'm counting on it."

With that you finally kiss him, tugging his lower lip between your teeth, and you hear the dull thunk of your shoes being dropped on the carpet. Everything about him surrounds you; the spice of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the taste of the alcohol he drank. His hands slide around your waist to pull you close, and this time you feel it when he slips your room key into your back pocket, tucked right against the card with his number on it— although you figure you only felt it because he let you. His hands on either side of your face, fingers in your hair, he backs you into the corner like it's the only thing he's been wanting to do since he saw you.

"You're so fucking hot," Jack breathes into your mouth, his thumb tracing along your jawline. His fingers could burn a line along your skin, like you might just wake up in the morning to find scorch marks where he touched you.

His kiss is frenzied, almost rushed and desperate— when you break away, gasping for air, a string of saliva connects you by the lower lip. His face is covered in your lipstick, your dark red painting a chelsea smile around his mouth.

"You have something…" You swipe your finger along the trail of lipstick, but he just grins and backs away. You don't know how you look, but you swipe your hand across your mouth for good measure.

"Is it my color?" He doesn't look too worried about the state of his appearance. He frames his face with his hands, posing at you with a sardonic smile. "Does it go with my outfit?"

"Yeah, you look real sexy," you snicker, pulling him back towards you by his jacket lapel. You watch his pupils dilate, his smile faltering for just a moment while you bring your thumbs up and wipe the makeup from his face. "You're lucky I didn't just fuck you in that disgusting bar bathroom."

"Thank god for that." His voice has gone a little bit rough, his easy-going veneer slipping as you trace your fingernail along his cheekbone. "Now I can take my time."

"Touch me," you order, leaving no room for argument.

You expect him to go directly for your waist or your chest, to weasel his hands under your shirt, to remove your bra with some kind of abracadabra, or whatever the hell he does. But, he hadn't been joking about taking his time, and you take a trembling breath when he cradles your jaw in his hand, turning your head like you're something precious, and kisses the spot just below your ear. Your eyes fall shut, and you swear that you really are melting, like he is somehow able to dismantle you with a single brush of his lips.

And then you realize that your earring is missing.

"Jack." You don't even turn your head to look at him. You would be annoyed if it wasn't a little bit hilarious.

"Sorry. Bad habit." His words come out muffled as he pulls your earring from between his lips and drops it into your outstretched palm, looking like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It glints in the light for a moment before you chuck it aside, hearing it plink somewhere on the dresser.

The placing of your hand on his belt grabs his attention. You tug him close, his hips nearly pressed up to yours, your back against the wall. In the stilted air between your faces, you hiss, "Behave."

Jack's eyelids flutter, his gaze raking over your face once, twice. "I'll try my best."

But he won't. You know that he won't, and you hate that you want him even more for it.

Jack drags his hand down, down, down, running along the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. He traces the seam of your jeans, startling you with his boldness. You give him a tight gasp and arch against his touch, almost embarrassed with how readily you react to him. His two fingers press against your cunt through the fabric, and you moan as you part your legs for him.

"There we go," Jack whispers to you, his voice light as a feather. When you blink your eyes open, you find him searching your face, his eyebrows slanting upward. "Is this where you want me?"

His fingers split into a V, tracing slowly around the seam, bracketing the outline of your cunt. He drags upwards, avoiding all the places you want him most, and then slides down again, pressing harder. Your mouth hangs open, and you stop breathing, stop thinking, stop doing anything of substance.

"Answer me, sweetheart." His whispered inquiry passes through your foggy mind, but it's the pause of his touch that finally snaps you into a response.

"Yes— Jack, please." You're torn between wanting the upper hand and wanting to give it over to him, but from the way he has you mindless with one touch, you're not sure you ever had the upper hand to begin with.

He pops the button on your jeans without further comment, and there's a touch of his lips against your jaw, a hint of a breath on your neck, and then he dips his hand beneath your waistband. You're throbbing, aching for him and frozen under the weight of his gaze. Then the rough, calloused pads of his fingers dip into your wetness, and you both gasp at the same time.

"You can't have gotten this turned on by my dorky card tricks," Jack murmurs, his fingers tracing a delicate path through the soaking heat of your pussy. Without him even urging you, you widen your legs and push your hips against his touch.

"It's just— I— I like— fuck." You can't think straight, not when he's touching you like that. His fingers swirl around your clit with a precision that's completely debilitating, and he watches you with his eyes just inches from your face.

"'You like' what?"

Your cunt throbs at the rasp of his voice, the slow strokes of his fingers, but you can't look away from him. Not even for a second. "Your hands. I like— like your ha—"

His two fingers drive into you to the knuckle, and you cut yourself off on a whine. Jack flexes his hand, nearly pulling you away from the wall with the force of it, and your nails rake down the back of his leather jacket with a noisy ripping sound.

It's good. It's really, really good, and the sounds coming from you are obscene, the air around you already thick with tension and sweat. His eyes are focused in on you, but they're so blown out that they've gone nearly black. You bite back a moan and lurch against him, trying to meet the slow thrusts of his fingers with your hips and only meeting resistance.

"My hands," he repeats, and his voice is disarming, almost lulling. Jack tilts his head and hums low in his throat, moving so that you keep your eyes on his. You practically wither under his stare. "That's it. My hands on you, inside you. Do you think I could go deeper? Would you like that, too? Feel me, deeper."

You hear a snap somewhere in your periphery, a soft ticking in the background of your thoughts. Like the ticking of a clock, this gentle snap—snap—snap— and you realize that he's whispering to you, but it's so soft you're barely catching the words. He does drive his fingers deeper, curling them in a way that has you keening, held captive in his stare. You still hear that snapping, echoing through your head like a gentle refrain.

"What— What are you doing to me?" Beneath the tremble in your voice is a note of suspicion. You feel like you're falling into him, the space between you is electric, everything else is intangible.

"Do you know what the fun thing about hypnotism is?" Jack asks, his voice quiet, just above a whisper, now. Everything within you draws up tight at the sound of it, coiling up like a cobra ready to strike. His fingers move at a steady pace, keeping you rocking against him. The pleasure ebbs and flows like the swing of a pendulum. "I can make you cum with the snap of my fingers."

It's entirely unpredictable. He has you frozen in place, unable to really move or think, except to dig your nails into his leather jacket and accept that Jack is not like any other guy you'd ever picked up at a bar. Your voice comes out strained when you say, "That's not behaving."

"No," he agrees. "But you don't really want me to behave, do you? You want me to show you my tricks. This is number one." Jack crowds close and spread your legs wider to accomodate, until the only thing holding you up is his body. You have no choice but to let go, and trust that he won't let you fall.

"Shit— Jack." You wilt against him. Hands scrambling for something to hold onto, you find nothing but his hair, his shoulder, the wall behind you. You moan pathetically loud— so loud you're sure it can be heard on the other side of the door, but you don't really care. You don't have it in you to care about anything anymore.

You cant your hips toward him, your toes just barely skimming the carpet, but he keeps the pace slow, deliberate. He swirls his fingers around your clit, sending warmth dancing in spirals along your nerves. Your breath comes out in uneven pants, and your fingers tug on his hair just enough to make him purr, the sound absolutely lighting you up from the inside.

"Ready?" Jack whispers, and you nod without even really thinking about it. Ready for what, you're not sure, but you know you're ready for whatever he wants to give you.

He raises his hand in the air, just beside your head, and he snaps his fingers.

And you shatter.

Your cunt clenches down around the stretch of his fingers, and you yank on his collar, trying so hard and still failing to stay quiet. It pulses through you in quick succession, the tension that's been buidling in you all night finally let loose with his one command.

You've never fucking cum on command before.

Jack's hand slows to a stop, and then he withdraws while keeping himself between you and gravity. His hand lingers just at your waistband while you catch your breath, panting up at the ceiling.

"What the fuck," you wheeze in the comedown, your body still twitching against him. "You— did you really just— just hypnotize me?"

"I did." He sounds just as shocked as you are. His voice is still soft, but that cadence of wanting to lull you is gone. "Although, you're pretty agreeable when I have my hand down your pants."

Covered in sweat from head to toe, you have to shed your jacket just to take back a bit of normalcy. You huff a laugh, then level your gaze at him again. "I guess most people are?"

"I, uh— I wouldn't know. That's a relatively new trick for me." Jack gives a small exhale of disbelief, still completely taken aback. He's flushed up to his ears, his chest heaving almost as much as yours. "Was it… was that too much?"

You shake your head. It was, in fact, so unbelievably hot that you're having trouble even forming the words to express it. You grab his hand, still lingering down by your waist, and bring it to your lips. Jack follows your movements with his eyes, those eyes, his fingertips flexing slightly in your hold. You can't help yourself. You part your lips and take his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the two that had just been deep in your pussy.

"Jesus." He has the decency to look surprised— he wasn't expecting you to do that. It's almost endearing after all this; after you eyeing them all night in the bar, after him making you cum on them, making you admit your fixation. Maybe he thought you were exaggerating when you told him that you like his hands, but you were serious. You're so serious that you could spend hours just tracing his fingers with your tongue. Doesn't matter if you can taste yourself on them or not.

"Do you think you could do that to me in public?" You ask once you pull his fingers, glistening with your spit, from your mouth. You bat your lashes at him, but you feel like your blood is boiling beneath your skin. "Could you snap your fingers and make me cum in a room full of people without them even knowing?"

Jack's eyebrows shoot up. "Would you want me to?"

"Mmm." You're nodding, moving your hands up his chest and beneath his leather jacket. You meet tension when you cup his shoulders beneath the leather, and he finally shrugs the jacket off so that it lands with your discarded one on the ground. "I'd let you do anything you want to me, Jack."

His eyes dart sideways toward the bed a second before he snatches you around the waist. Jack guides you like he's dancing, his feet staggered with yours. Your shirt is forfeit— it lands somewhere across the room, and later you'll find it hanging off of the floor lamp in the corner. Rough hands meet your bare skin, flesh on flesh, nearly burning in the relief it brings you.

He kisses you and it's all teeth, visceral need punching a hole through the thin veil of restraint he'd been operating behind. The easy pace that he'd set, the quip about taking his time, has gone out the window. It's replaced with desperation and blind desire, the limits of what his patience can handle exceeded. He undoes your bra clasp with a single pinch, yanks at your jeans with a demanding huff. Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you plop down, landing on your elbows.

"God— control yourself." Your teasing falls on deaf ears; Jack is much too preoccupied with getting you out of your jeans, and your heart nearly stalls at the sight of him before you, his hands so sure as they tug your jeans down your legs, a low hum issuing from his throat as he presses a kiss to the curve of your stomach.

"Nope. Not happening, not right now." His palm smooths up your bare calf as though he's trying to map out every part of you he can get his hands on and dedicate it to memory. Jack turns his head and presses one kiss there at the plushest part of your thigh, his dark eyes watching you for your reaction. When you don't pull away or object, he parts his lips and nips at the same place he just kissed.

You sigh and run your fingers through his hair just before you snag the collar of his shirt and pull. Thankfully, he finally gets the memo and pulls it off, tossing it the way of your own shirt. His wavy hair sticks up at odd angles now, his cheeks rosy, eyes wide. He looks so sweet like this, biting his bottom lip, his gaze flicking almost nervously over your face.

But then he raises his hand and snaps his fingers.

"Fuck—ing—?!" No, not sweet. Evil. He's evil. And you're cumming again, completely untouched. All your floor muscles clamp down at the sound of his fingers snapping, and you're thrown into an orgasm. Losing your balance, falling back against the mattress while your cunt spasms, legs spread for his view. You try to close them, but he plants his hands firmly on your thighs, shoving them apart before you can manage.

"You're so gorgeous when you cum for me."

He sounds so cheeky, and you have a mind to smack him. You cover your face, shaking and groaning as the aftershocks continue to pulse through you. How the fuck did he manage it? It's not like before when he had his fingers in your pussy, you were perfectly still, just waiting for him to do something—

"Yeah, I could definitely do that to you in public," he concludes, and you hear his belt clink as he undoes it.

"You little fucker," you gasp, pulling your hands away from your face. There's no real malice in it, you're still breathless while he sheds the rest of his clothes. "You think you can— you can just wave a magic wand and make me cum like that?"

Jack snickers at you. "I thought you said I could do whatever I wanted…?"

His hips are between your legs, and for a split second, you consider letting him continue. You wouldn't mind being fucked into the mattress. But something about his voice, how cute he is even when he's being a snarky little shit, fills you with fire.

You throw your legs around his waist and tip him sideways. Jack makes a startled noise that bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, and he bounces onto the mattress beside you. It's a clumsy mess of tangled arms and legs for a moment before you throw yourself over his hips and sit on his lap, hovering above him on the bed.

"I take it back. You're getting too big for your britches."

Jack doesn't say anything, just blinks up at you and suppresses a smirk while he sucks on his teeth. You can feel his cock beneath you, resting heavy against his stomach. It's big, and so impressively hard that you're amazed he's held off as long as he has. Now, the urgency to take your clothes off makes sense.

"Don't look at me like that."

"What? I'm just looking at you—" Jack shakes his head just a little bit, but he cracks a smile that turns into a laugh. He can't help it.

"Shut—" you slap your hand over his pretty mouth, making him snort, "—up." You drop your hips, and he gasps against your fingers when you grind your cunt against his cock. "It's my turn now, and I'm oh-for-two. I don't like that score."

Jack sucks in a breath through his teeth, his hips jumping at your slow glide against him. It's so wet, made worse from all his teasing, and probably so hot that it burns. He groans, grabbing at your hips with a white-knuckled grip. "Not fair. It's easier for you—"

"Right. Because forced orgasms are sooo fair." You hum low, almost allowing yourself to get lost in the feeling of your clit dragging over the ridges of his cock. You bite your lip, dipping low to press a kiss to his temple and whisper in his ear, "No more shortcuts. We're gonna do this the hard way now."

"You think hypnotism isn't hard?" His voice is so strained. Jack lifts his hand, his chest heaving while he tangles his fingers just in the ends of your hair, twisting it around them in small curls. He rocks his hips against you. "Took me a fffffucking— a year to learn that—"

"Only a year?" Your teeth graze the shell of his ear and he shudders, making a sound that should be absolutely criminal with how sexy it is. "Now you can make me cum whenever you feel like it, but I have to work for it. So fucking. Take. What I give you."

You sit up, raking your fingernails down his chest as you go. Your eyes flick down to watch red trails bloom where they'd been, goosebumps raising on his tan skin. Jack has such a nice body, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles hard and strong. You tremble on top of him, starry-eyed and nearly taken apart by the little bit of friction between you. You're soaking him, slipping along his length and so close to cumming just from rubbing yourself on his cock.

"Fuck—" Jack takes you by the hips as you lift yourself and ease him inside of you. Then, it's all you can do not to cry out towards the ceiling.

And he's up, holding you in a full-bodied embrace, his arms wrapped fully around you, his hands in your hair and on your waist. He's so deep, and his shifting around keeps sending him deeper, like he's trying to carve out a place for himself inside of you. He hisses in your ear and then… presses a kiss to your shoulder. Gentle.

You gasp once, arching into him when he rocks you a bit in his arms, sending shockwaves shooting up your spine. "You're such a goddamn gentleman."

Jack chuckles, and turns his head so that he can speak directly into your ear. "Well, do you want me to behave or not?"

The tone of his voice practically tears you in half. He's being so fucking condescending. It shouldn't turn you on the way it does, but your pussy clamps down around him and your body tenses in his arms, your eyes glued to the ceiling, your breath catching in your throat.

"Not. Got it." And then he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, where he just kissed you.

It takes you by surprise and you cry out, rolling your hips into his in earnest. There will be an imprint of his teeth on your shoulder— something to remind you for days about this, and about him. The thought consumes you, makes you needy, desperate to leave a mark on him that can compare.

Your nails claw down his back— his beautiful, gorgeous back that you can feel flex beneath your touch, now covered in the same welts you'd raised on his chest. But deeper. Harder. Something that he'll be feeling for days, whenever he takes off his shirt, whenever he lifts his arm.

Jack groans like you've punched him, holding you tight to him as though he's afraid you'll disappear. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," he mumbles, just loud enough for the words to rumble across your skin and make you shiver.

Your muscles draw up tight, your thighs locking up with the strength of it. You jolt against him. "Oh my god, Jack—"

"Are you gonna cum again?" He sounds so fucking pleased with himself. "Already?"

"No… no."

"Isn't that oh-for-three?"

"Jack, shut—" A loud moan breaks from your throat, and you snatch at his hair. You're going to cum. Shit, you didn't want to, not before he does, but it seems you can't stop the effect that he has on you.

"Noisy," Jack murmurs, and ruts his hips up into yours just to hear you do it again. "Gonna let all the neighbors know you're cumming for me?"

"They already do," you grit out. You squeeze your eyes shut while your cunt tightens down, and Jack moans into your ear. "They can fucking hear. I don't care."

"You just really—" Jack chokes on a laugh, breathless as you ride him harder, "—really want people to know I'm fucking you, huh? I can make it quicker—"

He raises his hand from your waist, but you catch it before he can snap his fingers in your ear again. You rear back and smack his hand down onto your collarbone, his thumb pressed into the dip just beside where he'd sunk his teeth in.

Oh. He looks completely fucked out. Glassy-eyed, mouth slightly open with each breath he takes. Your eyebrows tilt up slightly just at the sight, and that was the worst thing you could have done if you didn't want to cum too quickly.

Your intake of breath sounds like a sob. "You're so p-pretty—"

He gasps your name, and it's so quiet that you could have missed it if you weren't watching him, staring at his lips with every intent on kissing him. You yank him toward you with both hands, cradling him like he's the most perfect thing in the world, and you plant one on him. His hand tightens just slightly, where it rests against your throat, and you can't fucking believe it.

You cum. Just like that, with his hand on your neck, holding you in place. You moan into his lips, arch against him, and grind down like you can somehow get him deeper while your cunt spasms around his cock.

It's not fair. He can't just— he can't just make you do that by simply existing, by just looking and talking the way he does, it's not fucking fair—

"Oh, fuck." Jack tenses and rocks his hips up into you, his brows pinched together and his eyes tightly shut. He moans so beautifully, his breath sweet in your mouth, and he cums, rutting up into you as hard as he can. Your limbs feel fluid, completely spent, but he holds you to him like he can't get enough.

He doesn't let go, at first. He stays with his hand on your throat and his arm tight around your waist, crushing you against his chest while he gasps for air. His nose pressed into the crook of your neck, just where his bite mark is starting to smart. Your legs feel like jelly, but you can at least lift your hand, dig your fingers into his hair.

Peaceful. It's peaceful, is what it is. It's soft. You wouldn't have expected Jack to be the perfect balance of hard and soft, to change whichever way he fits. He's a surprise from all angles.

Finally, you collapse with him onto the bed, a jumble of boneless limbs pulled down into a sleepy stillness. Except he's not still, not entirely. In the periphery of your awareness, you feel him tracing his fingertips along your spine. He outlines little shapes across your feverish skin, listening to your breathing slow.

"You're not—" Jack begins after a moment, then pauses, and starts again. "You won't be here tomorrow."

He sounds vaguely sad about it, like he'd been hoping you'd stick around for a little while.

"No. Headed to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. This was just a stop-over." You sigh and curl into him, a little too exhausted by everything to even consider how you hadn't mentioned anything about it to him. You figure he just put two and two together, considering you're in a hotel room and not an apartment.

"Hm. Better get some sleep, then."

You're all too willing to take his suggestion. Just before you drift off, you feel his fingers tangle in your hair, just at the nape of your neck, twisting around and around in tight circles. Never still. Always moving.

You aren't surprised to wake up without Jack in your bed. You're only minorly disappointed, since you stupidly wished that he'd be there to say goodbye with another couple rounds. But it makes sense that he would be the type to leave without saying goodbye.

Figures. You always fall for the emotionally unavailable ones.

You are surprised, however, to be turned away by airport security while trying to get into the gate at JFK. When the TSA agent asks to see your I.D., you grab for your wallet. You don't find it in your jacket pocket, where you were sure you left it last night.

But you do find, in its place, a single playing card with a phone number on it.

"Mother fucker." In spite of your rage, while you pull out your phone to dial the number so you can get your fucking wallet back— because you fucking know he did this just to keep you in New York, just to see you again, the little shit— you can't help but smile at the words scrawled beneath it.

Jack Wilder. Here's trick number two.

Your were legs crossed, in the air, mouth wrapped around his cock. His fingers were in your cunt, moving, fingering you with so much strength that you kept lifting your hips off the bed to match it. 

Your lips were too busy working over him. spit dribbling down his lap, your hand wrapped around the base— fingers barely touching. 

He keeps telling you that you don’t have to take him fully, don’t have to force him down your throat— but you ignore him. Opting to prove that you can.

You just didn’t think it would be this hard.

You press down, throat working— a burn at the back of your throat but you didn’t care. Another harsh suck makes Remmick’s hips roll, his fingers curling inside of your cunt. 

“B-Baby— slow down.” He moaned, using his free hand to pull your hair back, making sure nothing gets in it. An impression of a gentleman if he wasn’t already making you choke. 

“D-Doing so good.” He praised, moaning softly,  watching as you tried to take him again. 

He inserts a third finger into your greedy pussy as a reward. Your hips grinding down onto his fingers with a desperate moan. A particular harsh suck makes his hips jolt, another one elicits the same reaction. 

You’ve done that every time he's hit that spot deep in your pussy, curling his fingers— a quick reaction that you didn’t realize you were doing…until now. 

You don’t have to voice it, he knows you notice when you suck him in again— same harsh tug that makes him whimper out loud. 

You pull off with a wet pop,  tongue quick to slip out and lick up the mess you made around him. Streaks of white dripping down like melted ice cream— cool and sweet on your tongue. 

He was flushed, red, tip swollen— ready to blow any minute now. 

He just needed a little more motivation. 

You dipped your head down once more, taking him in—  pushing down until the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged. 

Tears slipped from your eyes, hips rutting down onto his fingers with renewed want— your moans vibrating against his skin. 

He didn’t want to come in your mouth, keep your pretty throat from being ruined (even if it already was) but your need to push him over the edge was too much. 

His hands tighten at the back of your head, his chest heaving. It was so hard to keep his hips down, impossible to control the urge but fuck, you were working him so well he couldn’t stop it. 

“W-Wait—baby— h-hold on— ” he gasped, trying to pull you off by the back of your head but it was too late. 

You held yourself there. Forcing your throat to stay wrapped around him— drowning yourself in him. 

The  loud sounds of your throat working around him send him over the edge. Your stomach lurched— pussy throbbing around his thick fingers, trying to pull him in deeper. . 

The  clench of your throat working, trying to pry him out pulls another burn. makes his body shake, hips finally rolling to get some form of relief. 

He comes like that, the taste of him drenching  your mouth— voice high and pitchy like a tea kettle going off. White coats your throat, sweet and salty— the perfect flavor of release. 

You finally pull back when his cock no longer throbs, milking him for all his worth. A wet smile spreads across your face— eyes glossy with tears. 

“Did I— do good?” You asked. throat sore, raspy— the need for praise jumping in your chest. 

“Y-Yeah.” He smiled. voice soft and warm— petting your head like a proud owner. 

“Ready for your turn?” He questioned, slipping another finger into your cunt. 

Four in total, you just had to have more. 

“Y-Yes, please.” You arched your back, lifting your hips up to put your knees on the bed. 

His fingers curled once more, pumping into your pussy with rapid speed. The perfect rhythm that’ll make you cream on him within a minute. 

“Good girl.”

When it's just you two alone, he's an absolute cuddlebug. From the minute you're with him to the minute you leave, he has his arms around you, his fingers interlaced with yours, his head on your shoulder, really any form of contact he can work in. However, when around others, he definitely gets a bit more shy and might tone down the affection just for the sake of decency. He's beyond proud of your relationship and would blab about you for hours to anyone willing to listen, but he likes to keep certain things just as a treat for you and him, not others.

On that note, he doesn't shut up about you when you come up in conversation. His friends in the poetry club have heard lecture after lecture about how smart and funny you are, how beautiful you are without trying, how lucky he considers himself, and so on and so forth. To some, it's obnoxious, but to the rest, it's charming.

He's a total sweetheart at his core. Your smile is like a drug for him. Seeing the way your lips curl and your eyes scrunch up makes him feel lighter than air. He blushes so easily when it comes to you. A kiss on the cheek? Bright pink. Giggled at one of his dumb jokes? Full-on fuchsia. Grazed a finger against his arm? Hard. He's so fucking hard. Like immediately.

It makes him light-headed.

You consume his thoughts almost all hours of the day. Some would argue that he thinks about you too much, but his response to that is “Have you met her?” Because he's convinced everyone else thinks as highly of you as he does once they know you.

The guy thinks you hung the moon.

The way you smell drives him crazy. That perfume you always have on, even if it was a five-dollar purchase that you got on a random Tuesday, that scent was sweet, addictive nectar to Colin. When you two cuddle, his face is buried in your neck just huffing away like he needs that aroma instead of oxygen. Anytime he catches a whiff, his brain turns to mush. Especially when you two are making out, and you're straddling his lap as he kisses down your chest. That smell makes him so horny that he sees spots. He breathes it in while fingering you until you can't speak, words replaced with gasps and whines.

Colin lives to please in any way he can. Little favors for you at a moment's notice, driving you around as his passenger princess of darkness (a pet name he once threw out as a joke but it stuck), and 100% making you cum so hard your head spins. Whether it's using his skillful hands to coax your orgasm out of you, or eating your pussy like it's his last meal, Colin is never afraid to put your needs before his. Except when you insist.

How could he say no to you when you ask so nicely?

When he fucks you, it always starts off delicate, slow, savoring the feeling of you enveloping his throbbing cock in your warm, wet insides. However, sooner or later he loses any semblance of control and always ends up fucking you like an animal. Pushing your head into the pillows as he beats his dick into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard they bruise as you ride him, biting your neck while plowing you missionary. It's all thrilling for him. Especially the biting part. He fucking loves leaving teeth marks on your skin, even more when they surround a proud hickey.

Colin considers leaving hickies on you to be just another form of art that he can use to show you how much he loves you, and he'll use an entire afternoon just adding more and more to your body, reveling in the mewls and coos that float out of you, your body writhing under his ministrations.

Although he'd never admit it, he loves it when you tear up just a little because of how good he's making you feel. Are the bites too much? Maybe. Eyes well up while sucking him? For sure. The overstimulation of him continuing to lick at your clit after making you cum? His personal favorite. When your hands grip his hair in balled fists as he relentlessly carries on his onslaught on your quivering pussy, pushing your button past its limit, Colin can't bring himself to stop until his appetite is sated.

The good thing was that he perfectly balanced his physical doings with the sweetest, most adoring whispering of encouragement and praise whilst unraveling you. Pumping in and out of you like a machine, he purrs about how incredible you feel, how you're taking him so well, how beautiful you are when you're like this. He may not be the hardest dom in the world, but when he does take control, he's a gentle and passionate lover.

When you take the reins, however, it's a whole different story. Colin loves letting you have your way with him, shutting his brain off as you order him around, treating him like your little plaything. Being an anxious person, Colin craves opportunities to not think, and you're generous enough to provide plenty. One thing you do that he can't get enough of is when you stuff your panties into his mouth while you ride him. Cuff his wrists to the bed frame, too, and he'll be in heaven. He really likes being restrained in those scenarios. Loves relinquishing all the power to you. He trusts you with all of his heart, never fearing a thing you do while he's exposed like that.

Colin certainly has a thing for pain. Slap him. Bite him. Scratch your nails down his chest so you leave behind red marks. Choke him against the wall while you stroke his cock. He's an absolute whore for that sort of thing.

Funny how it's always the sweethearts that double as mega freaks.

On your period? Colin is a munch. He fears no blood, not from you, at least. But he also takes great care to ensure you're comfortable, well-fed, well-hydrated, and well-snuggled during those more hellish weeks of the year. He rubs your back and massages your shoulders as you both binge your latest tv-obsessions, the heating pad purring away at your stomach. He makes you herbal tea that makes your cramps less awful.

The man was raised to dote, and dote he does.

You are the center of his world, the reason he gets up in the morning, and the love of his life. Even if you both haven't even graduated yet. Hours were spent working out how to go about seeing each other when you go off to your respective colleges, pursuing different things and having different goals, but still wanting to be a part of each other's lives.

To sum up, you are Colin's everything, and he would shake the rain out of the clouds if it meant getting to spend a cozy day in with you. If you were the moon, he'd never seek the stars. “Wrapped around your finger” is too light of a term, he worships the ground you walk on.

and so you did, boy you fucking did. locking him up so he stays put beneath your thighs, scrambling to take his dick and point it back home. remmick is more than impressed with your stamina. keeps his eyes trained on your shiny, fucked out hole while you rut and slip and slide against him before hurrying to sit down and claim him all the way in. he winces when he feels your possessive muscles clench, cute happy bounces while you sigh with relief while his cock fulfills all your horny wishes.

remmick groans a low, animalistic ooohhh before swiftly picking up his pack of smokes just to the left of the bed on your nightstand, lazily sticking it in his lips. he can’t even light it immediately from the gushing sensation of your pussy taking him, growling on him, rubbing all your spots with him like he’s the best toy you’ve ever had. once he’s sure he won’t bust prematurely for you, he moans more with the cigarette still tucked in the corner of his lips, and finds the strength to nab the lighter and light the tip, blowing out a relieving puff of smoke while his other hand dances across your lower back, occasionally raising his hips up to surprise you with going even deeper.

remmick blows another cloud of smoke out, hardly keeping up with your bounces while catching his breath. the cigarette just added another hazy buzz, his dirty grin practically stitched to his cheeks while he zoned in on your meek little hole, noisily creaming around him.

“yeah, yeah I know that’s s’right, keep hoppin’. hop on that dick. go on, squirt on me again, wanna watch it happen this time,” he huffs. hissing while your pussy clenches down some more, rounding your hips around and finding more breathtaking angles that have you both howling.

“I’ll cum for you, I’ll make another mess just for you, just for you baby—god, can’t help it when this dick’s so good,” you whine, feeling his length accidentally slip out in the middle of a good thrust. his cock automatically slaps up onto his stomach, riddled in your juices. you whip your head back and stare down, trying to get a grasp on him again without even an ounce of patience left in your body.

“shhh, shhh hunny I got it, I gotcha. I’m puttin’ ‘em back in now, don’t stress that little pussy out. it’s comin’, comin’ right back in. thereee we go. feel that?”

his cigarette is stuck back between his lips while he holds one of your hips, gliding his tip right back in your needy, sopping hole. the sigh of relief you felt turns into another loud moan, sinking all the way back down on him and getting your rhythm back on like nothing in the world could ever interrupt you again.

“that’s it little bunny, little bunny needs her dick, hmm?”

“mmmhmmm.”

“oh I know that’s right, look at her, look at her go.”

he marvels at your speed winding up, watching you sink back down and pump back up, filling yourself over and over again with his cock balls deep, little splashes coating his thighs and your inner lips during the ride.

he blows more smoke out, so distracted he almost forgets it’s still lit. “so proud of you angel, little pussy’s gotten so good. you gonna gimme what I want? you gonna squirt a pretty little flood? c’mon, c’mon you can do it. you got it baby, fuck, fuck, keep bouncin’ little vamp, I’m gonna fuckin’ nut—“

“nut inside me, cum in my pussy, cum in my pussy, my pussy needs it—need my fuel, I’m gonna cum with you baby, your cock makes me feel so good,” you howl, clenching hard enough to trap him inside before you feel that all too familiar tense grip of both his palms right on your hips, squeezing like you’ll float away if he lets go. he grinds his teeth with a raspy, throaty moan, cigarette barely staying lit while he humps upwards to fully nest himself in.

“mmmm feel this baby, feel it shootin’ inside you, keep fuckin’ yourself on it hunny, yeah.”

remmick takes one last long hit of his smoke, blowing it out in a hurry while he pumps his hips up one last time. his balls felt blue, tightening up before the tingling feeling in his belly overpowers him. he makes a strangled noise that sounds like he got punched in the gut, first squeezing his eyes shut when the first spurt leaves him, scorching hot cum now unstoppably flooding your pussy, your womb. remmick forces his eyes to stay back open, watching with eagle eyed intensity while your pussy keeps hopping up and down on him, his cream oh so subtly making thick milky drips down, adding to more to this fucking mess. he hums so long while you pump him through it, tightening and whimpering while your own orgasm whips you out of it, leaving a hot, sticky wet mess behind and a shy little spurt of more cum right onto him.

“yeahhhh, knew that cunny had it in her. squirtin’ on this dick good. that’s it, that’s fucking it!—mmm slow that pussy down a sec, slow down,” he gasps, feeling the highest extreme of intensity, sensitivity, while his balls helplessly shrivel up again to let out another weak, sorry ass stroke of cum. beads of white sticking to your labia, a disgusting mess that he already wants to stuff his face in.

“darlin’, oh—mmmm you gave it to me good, got me so good this time. cain’t fuckin’ handle that pussy’s greed,” he gasps, halting your hips with desperation so his only his tip stays stuck in. his dick is three shades redder than he’s ever seen, wiped out from all the rounds your pussy took him on.

“alright, alright. tell you what. we clean up, I finish my damn smoke, then I’ll give this dick to ya nice and good again, sound good baby? sound fair?”

your mouth has stayed open, stuck in an o-shape while you finally allow him out. sticking your hips up to let his tip leave you, feeling a striking emptiness when his cock left your body. trying not to pout on him, knowing you’ve put him through enough rounds that most people wouldn’t get all month, you lazily agree with a smile, a little pinch of your lip, biting down while wiggling yourself back a little to give him a good show of what he’s done to you.

a stringy, thick glob slowly but surely dribbles down, landing right back down on the base of his dick. remmick’s blood boils just looking at it, reaching up to smack your cheek and spread a lip open just to watch even more fall out.

“five fucking minutes,” he grumbles, taking two deep drags of his smoke again, already feeling the heartbeat in his dick start accelerating up again. “gimme five minutes, then I’m all yours again, baby. I’ll fill that pussy up with s’more nut, all the nut you need,” he promises. snakes just a middle finger over your bulging, ruined clit, swirling a little circle there to soothe you.

“getchu plenty of dick, got plenty to fill my cute ass slut. here, sit down. grind it down on me, just rub. yeah, like that, just like that. good girl. get it hard again, we’ll pick right up where we left off. fuckin’ cleanin’ you up later. mmmmhm.”

-

he’s already breathless beneath you.

shirt halfway off, pants undone and tugged down just enough for you to climb over him, and his hands—lord, his hands can’t figure out where to stay. they twitch along your thighs, your waist, then fist into the sheets, like maybe if he doesn’t touch you too much he won’t come undone so fast. like he’s trying to pace himself.

but you’re not letting him.

his chest heaves when you lean down again, mouth latching just beneath his collarbone, and you bite. not hard enough to bleed, not yet—but hard enough to make him gasp. hard enough to hear the wet smack when your mouth pulls back. there’s already a small ring of red teeth marks blooming on his skin. another one to match the others you’ve left all over him.

“god,” he rasps, eyes shut, lips parted. “you—jesus, you don’t stop.”

“no,” you whisper against his skin. “don’t want to.”

he groans, deep and shivery. like it hurts to want this much.

you press your weight into his lap, and he arches into it. his cock’s already leaking, twitching against the inside of your thigh, and he makes the softest sound when you slide your hand down to stroke it once—just once—before leaving him hanging.

you kiss the spot between his ribs next, then the space over his heart, then lower. his hips shift when you drag your tongue down the soft curve of his stomach, your nails raking slow behind it. you don’t bite there. you’re saving it. savoring him. watching how he grips the sheets tighter, how his throat bobs when he swallows.

“please,” he murmurs, voice so strained it nearly cracks.

you don’t answer. not out loud.

your mouth finds the jut of his hip bone, sharp and pale in the moonlight. you lick, then sink your teeth into it. this time harder. this time to taste.

he jerks, a stuttering breath tearing out of him. his hands fly to your hair, not to stop you—never to stop you—but to ground himself, to hold on.

you moan against his skin when the faintest taste of copper hits your tongue. his blood is hot, sweet, tinged with something that makes your belly twist in hunger. he shivers under you, a low whine slipping from his throat.

“you—fuck, you weren’t supposed to—” he chokes on it when you bite again, higher, into the tender skin just inside his thigh.

he spreads his legs for you.

just like that.

not a word, not a protest. just his thighs opening wider, offering more of himself. trembling beneath your mouth.

“remmick,” you say, voice thick. “you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

his eyes flutter open, hazy and wet. “then show me.”

you sink your teeth into his throat.

not deep. not dangerous. but enough to make him cry out, raw and broken, like he’s coming apart with every bite you take. he thrusts up into the air, into nothing, and you know he’s close. he’s dripping now, cock flushed and hard and untouched, and you haven’t even fucked him yet.

you lick the blood from his neck slow.

“i'm not like you,” you murmur, “but i swear to god, i’ll ruin you anyway.”

he nods, helpless. desperate.

“please,” he whispers. “please do.”

his cock twitches against his stomach, flushed dark and aching, but your mouth is still on his neck. his blood is still warm on your tongue. and he’s still squirming under you, trying to be good, trying so hard to take it—all of it—just because it’s you.

he whimpers when your lips drag lower, over the spot you already bit, and you press there again with your tongue, slow and wet. it makes his hips jerk. makes his fingers curl against the sheets like he’s drowning in the feeling of it.

“shh,” you whisper, mouth still against his skin. “you can take it. know you can.”

he nods so fast it’s pathetic.

your teeth graze the underside of his jaw, and he gasps—high and breathless—when you nip just enough to sting.

“you’re dripping,” you murmur, voice low, thick with heat. “and i haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

“i—I know,” he chokes out, eyes clenched tight. “i c-can’t help it—”

you cut him off with another bite, just below the hollow of his throat. not deep enough to bleed this time. just enough to leave a bruise that’ll stay for a few hours.

you kiss it after. soft, slow. and then harder, sucking until he moans through clenched teeth.

“mine,” you say against his chest. “you get that?”

he nods. again and again, like he’ll say yes as many times as it takes for you to believe it.

your hand rests low on his belly, feeling the tremble in him. your mouth moves to his nipple next, and the sound he makes when you bite there—sharp and sweet and so fucking fragile—goes straight to your core.

he bucks up. but you pin him with your weight.

“don’t you dare come,” you whisper, licking over the abused skin. “not yet. not ‘til i say.”

“fuck,” he groans, voice fraying at the edges. “don’t—don’t stop biting. please.”

you smile. wicked. satisfied.

“wasn’t planning to.”

you work your way down again, tongue dragging over his stomach, your nails leaving little red trails behind them. his hips twitch under you, but he doesn’t dare touch you. doesn’t dare move, not unless you tell him to.

you kiss the dip of his hip again, then bite. this time hard. and when you pull back, a thin line of blood wells up, catching the light.

you don’t waste it.

you lick it clean—slow—and he sobs.

“god, you’re gonna kill me,” he says, voice cracked and shaky.

“nah,” you murmur, licking your lips. “just gonna make you beg.”

you slip between his legs again and press your mouth to the inside of his thigh. your tongue laves over the skin, warm and trembling, and then your teeth sink in—deep enough to bleed.

he cries out, raw and almost broken.

his hands clutch at the sheets again, trying to ground himself as you suck the blood from that tender place, tongue pressing into the bite as he twitches and gasps beneath you.

he smells like iron and sweat and desperation.

“you taste good,” you whisper.

he doesn’t answer.

he can’t.

he’s too far gone.

too ruined from just your mouth.

you don’t let up.

your mouth trails higher again, back to the bruises you’ve already made on his ribs, over the bite on his throat, over his chest. you kiss each one like you’re claiming him—marking what’s already yours.

his skin is flushed and trembling, salted with sweat, and still he takes it. every bite. every scrape of your teeth. every press of your tongue. he lets you devour him, gasping and twitching like it’s the only way he knows how to pray.

your hand rests over his heart, feeling it race beneath your palm, and you press him down into the mattress when his hips buck again.

“stay still,” you murmur, nipping the edge of his jaw. “you know better.”

“i—i’m trying,” he gasps, voice unraveling. “please—please, i can’t—”

you sink your teeth into the side of his neck. not deep, but sharp. possessive. and he shouts.

he breaks.

“fuck—please,” he pants. “let me—let me fuck you, please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be good—”

you pull back, lips and chin slick with his blood. you straddle his hips, but you don’t move. you let him feel the weight of you. the ache of being denied.

he whines, hips twitching beneath you, his cock brushing your thigh.

“you want it that bad?” you whisper, dragging your fingers down his chest, circling a bite mark near his heart.

he nods frantically. “yes. yes, i need it. please, i’ll beg—i am begging, please just let me—god, let me inside—”

you tilt your head. smile just a little. your nails scrape gently over his stomach.

“say it right.”

he looks up at you, wide-eyed and desperate, face flushed like he’s burning alive.

“please let me fuck you,” he says, breath hitching. “please let me fill you up, i—i need to feel you, i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll take whatever you give me—just—please.”

you press your mouth to the center of his chest and bite again. deep.

his cry is hoarse this time, cracked open at the edges. his back arches under you, and his hands fly to your thighs, gripping like he might float away if he doesn’t anchor himself to your body.

you moan against his skin as you drink from the bite, tongue tracing the slow spill of blood until the taste coats your mouth. and when you pull back, your voice is rough.

“then beg with your body.”

and then he moves.

not rough, but quick—like he’s about to snap if he doesn’t get inside you now.

his hands grab at your hips, flipping you over onto your belly, pinning you there with a low, breathless groan. you gasp at the sudden shift, cheek pressed to the mattress, still dizzy from biting him, from tasting him.

“don’t move,” he pants, voice tight. “need—need you like this. can i—?”

“do it,” you rasp. “now.”

you feel him behind you, feel the way he grabs your hips and pulls them up just enough to angle you right. his cock nudges between your legs, dragging through the wet heat of you—and then he sinks in all at once, like he can’t stand waiting another second.

you cry out into the sheets. so full. so fast.

his body presses over yours, chest slick against your back, blood smearing between your skin and his. he doesn’t thrust yet. just stays buried deep, trembling, moaning low into your neck like it’s killing him to feel this much.

“been thinking about this—every night,” he breathes, teeth brushing the shell of your ear. “dreamt of you—biting me—ruining me.”

you clench around him and he shudders, hips twitching.

“then move,” you whisper. “fuck me like you mean it.”

and he does.

his thrusts start slow, deep, dragging out every inch. then they get sharper, hungrier—his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head. you feel the weight of him on your back, his mouth moving from your shoulder to your spine, kissing every place he didn’t bite, every place he wants to.

“so fuckin’ good,” he groans. “so warm. so wet—jesus, i’m not gonna last.”

your fingers twist in the sheets as he drives into you harder, and you cry out again, mouth open against the cotton, letting him fuck you into the mattress.

“bite me again,” he begs, hips snapping faster. “please, just once more—anywhere, i don’t care, just—please—”

you twist your head just enough to bare your shoulder, and he lowers his mouth like he might take it himself—but you beat him to it.

you turn your head and sink your teeth into his forearm as it braces above you.

he cries out—half pleasure, half pain—and spills inside you with a choked moan, still thrusting like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget what he feels like.

and when he finally stills, trembling, gasping over you, you lick the blood from your lips and whisper,

“mine.”

You hear mostly men laughing in the audience, and you crush the sheet music in your hand.

“You really think that?”

“C’mon, you think people bought that album cause they just love her songs? It’s cause’a how tight that shirt is.”

“You think all of her success comes from her looks?”

“Maybe we should turn it off,” your publicist Marcia starts.

“Turn it up.”

Marcia turns up the volume.

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? She’s very successful.”

“Harsh? She’s the one who was calling my music-”

The audio cuts out and you hear the audience in shock. You know what you said. One month ago, while very drunk at an afterparty, his music had started playing. When you heard his newest song– a dirty industrial rock song that has been climbing up the charts from whatever filthy studio he recorded it in. It’s a song about group sex that Marcia deemed “disgusting”. You had rolled your eyes and slurred out–

“Ugh, why is the DJ playing such shitty music?” 

Unfortunately, someone overheard that, and it got quickly relayed to him.

He said some things about you most magazines were afraid to publish, but in an issue of some sleazy rock magazine they printed exactly what he said word for word.

WHEN ASKED ABOUT THE POPSTAR’S OPINION ON HIS MUSIC

          “I DON’T REALLY GIVE A F**K ABOUT IT. I THINK THAT POOR GIRL JUST NEEDS TO GET LAID. I BET HER RECORD LABEL PUT A CHASTITY BELT ON HER WHEN SHE SIGNED HER CONTRACT. BUT YOU’RE VERY CUTE, SWEETHEART, LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED MY SERVICES.”

“You know you can’t say that on TV,” the host jokes lightly.

“Grow up,” he sneers to the audience. “I didn’t even know she could say that word, I think her record label keeps a pretty tight leash.”

He looks at the camera, tugging down his sunglasses to show those stupid red contacts he’s always wearing.

“You started it, sweetheart.”

You sneak a cigarette outside the studio, on the hidden back fire escape where nobody can see you. 

“No fuckin’ way,” a voice speaks from below you. 

You quickly put out your cigarette look down. Your eyes narrow instantly.

It’s Remmick. In a ripped up shirt, a cigarette between his lips, and his sunglasses on. 

“What are you doing here?” you snarl at him.

“Whoa, relax, sweetheart. I’m recordin’ here.”

“What? No, I’m recording here.”

“I’m sure it’s a different studio, baby-”

“Don’t call me baby, scumbag.”

“Aw, are we doin’ petnames now?”

"Y'know, I was sort of hoping you'd be nicer than everybody says you are," you tell him, rolling your eyes. "But you're just a jerk."

He takes one step forward and blows a ring of smoke upward.

“Y’know… one more step and I can see up your skirt, doll” he teases, smirking at you.

You gasp and step away from him. He snickers, smoke puffing from his nostrils. You grab your purse and open the window to climb back in.

“Wait, what studio are you in?” he shouts to you.

“The one with the big security guard!” you bark back.

He doesn’t know that back in your hotel room, you’re staring at the Playgirl issue he did three months ago. Someone had sent it to you as fanmail with the note-

          HAVE A WANK AND CHILL OUT BITCH

And a hand-drawn heart. You sneakily snatched it from the pile. Now you’re contemplating opening it. You flip it open carelessly, hiding behind your hands and peeking from behind your fingers. Remmick lounges back on a plush velvet futon, shirtless. You didn’t know he had such a big cross tattooed on him. A woman’s hand with red ruby nails pulls down his pants.

Your hands fall away slowly. He’s gorgeous. It’s a good size and a nice girth, and the trail of hair that leads down his tummy before joining the groomed patch of hair by his shaft has you salivating. And he’s hard. Flushed pink and veiny. 

You think about him looking up your skirt. He’d see a wet spot right now, soaking through the cotton. He’d probably call you something disgusting because you wear pink panties.

You want it, though. You want him to call you names and touch you all over with his big hands. You think about the tight recording booths at the studio and imagine being stuck in there with him, pressed against the soundproof wall and taking two of those fingers inside of you. The way he called you baby and doll.

You don’t even realise you’ve drawn blood on your lip until you taste copper and cover your mouth. You have to close the magazine, flipping it to the back cover, a cigarette ad, and turning your body to scream into a pillow.

Why did you do that? You know you’ll be mortified when you see him tomorrow at the studio.

You call your stylist and twirl the phone cord in your fingers until he picks up.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, I want to make a really bad decision and Marcia is going to hate us both for it.”

“You know I love pissing off Marcia.”

“Can you get me a Remmick t-shirt?”

“What? That rocker weirdo who’s been slandering you in the news?”