Such is Life.

You can see his baby blue pickup parked across the street, and you hold your head high even though your hands shake badly on the bar of your shopping cart. He’s always there, though he doesn’t sit outside the house so much since your daddy levelled a shotgun at his cab and commanded him to stop.

Bobby doesn’t take no so good, never did. It had taken six months of misery for you to realize you deserved better, and it had taken him wrapping a hand around your throat and choking you until your vision blurred for you to realize you had to leave. And it had been ugly. It had been the ugliest thing you’d ever seen, the way Bobby Weston had devolved into frenzied madness. He’d threatened, he’d pleaded. He’d smashed through the windows at the schoolhouse where you taught second grade. He’d yelled at you in the street, tried to drag you back from the doors of the church on Sunday the first time you’d ever tried to go inside, figuring a little time with God might soften him to your cause.

The reverend had intervened, and even bobby Weston knew better than to hit a man of the cloth. It had been almost a year since you’d severed his hold on you, but the ghost of his possession remained. You hadn’t had a date. Not a single one, despite the hungry stares and the anonymous whistles sent your way anytime that blue pickup wasn’t around. You knew why; Bobby had put the word out. That you were off-limits. That you were still his, despite the pretty little fiancée he’d picked up three towns over.

You glance towards the street as you load your groceries onto the counter, and Pam gives you a sympathetic smile. “He out there again, hon?”

You nod. “I switched my shoppin’ day. I don’t know how he figured it out.”

“You want me to talk to Mac?” Pam’s husband was the deputy sheriff, and he’d spoken to Bobby on his wife’s request once before. Your families labrador had gone missing the next day, and turned up drowned at the bottom of the creek with a stone tied to his collar.

“No. Won’t do no good anyways.” You don’t say the other part, that the only thing that’ll stop Bobby Weston is your surrender or your death. People didn’t much like to hear that, even if it was true.

“There’s a parade this weekend for the boys who just got back from the islands.”  

“Yeah.” You muse absently. “Mama’s baking pound cakes like she’s personally responsible for feedin em all.”

Pam laughs. “My mummas had the stove on for three straight days. Guess she thinks they been on rations too long, need some southern hospitality.”

Your smile is more genuine as you think about a flock of fussing mothers force-feeding stew and cornbread into the exhausted boys. “No fightin; that, I suppose.”

The boy bagging your groceries dips his head as you hand over several bills. “Can I walk these out to your car, ma’am?”

You want to say yes, because the sun is beating down on the street and your bags are heavy, but if Bobby Weston sees this boy walking beside you he’ll shatter his kneecaps and that wouldn’t be fair at all when he was just being sweet.

“I got it. Thanks. See you, Pam.”

“See you at the parade?”

You shrug, hefting your bags against your chest. “Maybe.”

Maybe means no, it always means no. Being out in public, so exposed to a crowd with his hateful eyes on you just wasn’t worth it.

You almost make it to your car. You’re just a few paces away when the bag laden with perspiring bottles of milk and juice breaks open, wet paper splitting and your groceries spilling across the sidewalk.

“No, no, no,” you groan, placing your remaining bag down upright and scrabbling to collect the bottles as they roll away. You scramble forward as one makes for the road, stopping abruptly when it is pinned beneath a worn leather boot.

Your eyes travel up a leg, your stomach flipping over with anxiety until you meet the wide, green eyes of a stranger.

“Uh, thanks.” You mumble, reaching for the bottle beneath his shoe.

“No bother.” His voice is a low rumble of southern honey, and you swallow as you push up to a stand. He reaches out to steady you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist as he helps you to your feet, and you jolt at the contact, pulling out of his grip.

“I have to go.”

“I didn’t mean to…” he breaks off, agitation flashing across his features. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You force your breathing to regulate, meeting his piercing gaze again. “You didn’t. I just… need to go.”

The stranger picks up your forgotten bag, hooking his long fingers around two stray bottles on the ground as he follows you to your car.

“The bag boy will load your trunk for you. I don’t know much but I used to do that, and not just for the pretty girls.”

You flush, taking the bag from his hands with more force than you mean to. Your eyes dart to the side, to the pickup parked across the street. You can see his tanned arm hanging out the window, his fingers closed into a fist.

“Guess I ain’t pretty enough to qualify.”  You snap, and the man blinks at you, the soft smile on his face dropping.

“Now hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you’re pretty. You’re awful pretty.”

You swallow thickly, fingers brushing his as you take the bottles from his hand. “Well now you really are making me uncomfortable. You don’t know I’m not spoken for.”

The man’s eyes drop to your hand, the bare, delicate fingers. “No ring.”

“Don’t mean nothing.”

“No.” He agrees, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand and you feel heat curl in your core at the contact. His eyes never leave yours, holding you hypnotised in his wide, unblinking stare. “You have a nice day, ma’am.”

You snatch your hand back, hurrying around to the driver’s side and climbing into the cab with your heart hammering against your chest. Your hand shakes as you reach for the key and turn it in the ignition, the familiar rumble of your daddy’s car helping to ease some of your anxiety. You lift your hand, examining the faint sheen of his spit on your skin, and you lift your hand to your own mouth to press a kiss over the phantom mark.

Willard watches you do it, watches you shake your head a little as you pull out of the spot and head down the street in a car old enough to have seen a time before the wars. He thumbs a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one, licking over his lips once before taking a drag. His head had been full of gunfire for months, and he’d seen the bleeding, burned crucifixion of Miller Jones every time he closed his eyes until he’d learned to drink himself into unconsciousness. But now his head was full of the melody of your voice, and when he closed his eyes he saw your face, and it was the closest thing he’d felt to peace since before he’d enlisted.

A woman he vaguely recognizes steps out of the market, tugging a nametag off her blouse, and Willard flicks his cigarette to the ground. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

She looks up, eyes flashing with alarm before she squints at him. “Willard Russell? Emma’s boy?”

Willard ducks his head, though it’s strange to be called a boy by a woman he’s pretty sure was in the grade below him at school.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You back from the front?”

Willard nods, impatient to bypass the pleasantries and the inevitable questions about his time in the war. He doesn’t wanna talk about that. He doesn’t ever wanna talk about that, but certainly not right now.

“There was a girl just came outta the grocery store. Dropped her bags. He produces the singular jar of preserve he’d slipped into his pocket when it had rolled out of your sight. “She left this behind. I’d like to return it to her.”

The woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes lifting to the street, where the blue pickup that had so captured your interest still idles. The man inside leans out of the cab, staring right at Willard, and the woman sighs.

“You give it to me, I’ll make sure she gets it. I see her for sewin circle at the church on Thursdays.”

“I wouldn’t mind stoppin’ in on her.”

The woman’s smile tightens. “It isn’t a good idea, Willard. You don’t wanna be getting mixed up in that.”

Willard feels a tightness in his stomach as his eyes flick again to the man in the truck. “She spoken for?”

“Not anymore, but it don’t matter much. You just got back to town and that’ll earn you a little leniency, but not much. That one is a nasty guy. He thinks you’re sweet on her, he’ll make you pay for it.”

Willard sees the terrified set to your pretty face as you’d looked past him at the truck, and an awful wave of deadly calm settles over him. “I see.”

“Good.” The woman relaxes. “There are plenty of girls lookin for a guy with some war glory attached. You’ll do alright.” She holds out her hand for the jar, and Willard slips it back into his pocket.

“I’ll be holdin’ on to this, thanking you kindly.”

“Willard.”

“You have a good day now, ma’am.”

He tips his hat in her direction before turning the opposite way. His route takes him across the street, and he passes the pickup slowly, getting a good look at the greasy little man inside. He doesn’t look so threatening up close, and though he doesn’t drop his eyes from the challenge in Willard’s he doesn’t make a move to step out, either.

Willard runs his thumb over the label on the jar in his pocket, rubbing at it like a lucky rabbit’s foot as he makes his way home and tells his mama he’s got the urge to pray again.

*

The heat creates an unbearable pressure-cooker of perspiration and dead air inside the church building, and no amount of sweet, iced tea makes so much as a dent in it. You fan yourself with the folded pattern for a new dress, your hair sticking to your face in little tendrils as you blink through the salt in your eyes.

The lively chatter of gossiping women breaks off as the doors to the church open, wafting a hot breeze through the room as a man steps inside. Men don’t go to sewing socials, preferring to stop in at the bar down the ways while they wait to pick up their wives, but this one strides in with purpose and judging eyes follow him as he stops right in front of you.

He removes his hat, and your breath hitches in your throat at those beautiful, big green eyes boring into you. “You’ll forgive my intrusion.”

You nod mechanically, politely, dazed as he produces a little jar of apricot jelly from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Your forgot this, outside the store. I wanted to return it to you personally and apologize again for my behaviour.”

This was bad. This was the worst thing that this peculiar, beautiful stranger could be doing right now. Because word would spread, ohh how it would spread. And Bobby Weston would pay him a visit and it would be all your fault.

“There was really no need, we don’t know each other.” You say loudly. “You coulda just put it in at the store.”

The man licks his lips, a small smile quirking at the corners. “If I did that I wouldn’t have got the chance to see you again.”

You can hear the collective intake of scandalised breath as the boldness of his words richoches around the room. You look helplessly to the side, catching Pam’s eye. Her shoulders slump, and panic straightens your spine. “There was really no need, I… we’re strangers to one another. Plain and simple.”

“I’m Willard.” He says softly. “Willard Russell. My mama Emma usually comes here but she’s still bakin for the parade. I got back from the Pacific Theater this week.”

You swallow, eyes raking over him again. He’d been to war. He had no way to know about Bobby Weston, no idea that you weren’t worth the risk or the hassle. “Well I’m awful glad you made it back in one piece. Glad for all the boys who made it back.”

Willard nods dismissively. “I guess I’ll be up on the grandstand on Saturday night, but I wanted to know if you’d do me the honor of bein my date anyways.”

You want the ground to swallow you whole. You want every single woman in the room to suffer a bout of collective amnesia so they don’t go home and tell their husbands and their sons about this. You want pretty, stupid, stubborn Willard Russell to take it back and skip town.

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Willard’s smile falters only a little. “Well, that’s alright. I got time and patience. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”

You swallow thickly, feeling your cheeks heat. “Whole town is goin.”

“Yeah but I’m askin if you’re going.” He winks, and a curl of unfamiliar warmth spreads through your lower belly.

“I… yeah. I’m goin.”

He scoops your hand off the table, pressing the back of it to his lips in another kiss that sears its way into your memory forever as he holds your gaze in his. “Until Saturday, then.”

You watch him leave, noticing the broad expanse of muscles across his back under the stretch of his linen shirt, and you press your thighs together under the table unconsciously. You’d see him Saturday, if Bobby Weston hadn’t put him in the hospital or worse beforehand.

*

Willard combs his hair whilst his mother nags and nags and nags from the washroom door. “It just isn’t proper, Willard. Goin up like that in front of everybody. I’ve had three callers just this morning, and lord knows what people are sayin’ behind our backs.”

Willard hums, spinning on his heel and crossing the room to wrap his arms around his mother. She slumps against him, folding into the warmth of his touch as she’s always done. “I’m sorry for the scandal, mama. But I ain’t sorry for doin it. She’s the one.”

Emma Russell pulls back and fixes her only son with an exasperated look. “Willard, she’s the first girl you set eyes on since you’ve been back. Not to mention she’s trouble.”

“The ex, I heard.”

“No, you didn’t.” Emma shakes her head, nudging her nose against his chest before stepping out of his reach. “Bobby Weston’s put people in the ground over her.”

“She ask him to?”

Emma’s brows shoot into her greying hairline. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.” Willard says. “If she wants him to do it, then alright. I’ll step down. But that’s not the way it looks to me.”

She sighs, resigned. She knows her boy, and he’s stubborn to a fault. “She broke things off with him a long time ago. He used to beat her something awful, so I hear. He didn’t take kindly to her ending it, and he hasn’t let her go.”

Willard’s hands curl into fists. He thinks about you, about your wide eyes and the soft curves of you as you shrank low away from the man in the blue pickup, and rage hardens in his guts. “Well, I’m throwin my hat in the ring on this one. If he wants to tussle, I’ll put him down myself.”

He means it. Emma watches her son duck out of the doorway of his childhood bedroom, wondering when he got so tall and how she’d missed him becoming a man, and she wrings her hands with the heart-wrenching worry that only a mother can truly understand.

Willard doesn’t like the spectacle of it all. That the town wanted to do something nice for the boys coming home, he could abide. Many of the guys needed that, needed smiling faces and handshakes and validation that the horrors experienced in the cesspit of war weren’t for nothing. Willard knew better, and he didn’t want to shake the hand of the mayor or eat cotton candy hand delivered by a giggling high school girl. His eyes scanned the packed town square, looking for you amongst the crowds.

It takes him entirely too long to find you, long enough that disappointment is churning his guts to silt and he’s considering heading home when there you are. Standing with the cashier from the grocery store, holding a softball in your hand as you eye the bottle pyramid in the game booth. You stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth in concentration before flicking your wrist, and the pyramid topples with one hit.

Your friend claps and you grin at her, the smile so breathtaking that it steals the air right from Willard’s lungs. He’s picking his way through the crowd before he can think about it, ignoring the well-wishes and welcomes of town folk as he fixes on you.

“That was quite a shot.” He says when he’s close enough, and Willard is pleased to see that whilst your grin shrinks, you don’t stop smiling altogether.

“I got some practice in this area.” You say with a shrug.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you for your service.” You say, your cheeks staining with blood as you blush. It’s the prettiest thing Willard’s ever seen, and he feels butterflies beat in his stomach at the teasing edge to your voice.

“I know about Bobby Weston.”

The smile does drop from your face then, the color draining from your skin as you knot your fingers together. “Then you know why I… why I can’t-“

“I’m not afraid of him. If that’s why you’re sayin no to me, I want you to hear it. I’m not afraid of him, and I wanna take you out on a date. On a whole lot of dates.”

“He put a guy in the hospital for sitting by me at church.”

“Let him try that with me. Let him try.” Willard steps closer, taking your hands and untangling your fingers. “I know we just met and we’re practically strangers. But your mama knows mine, I grew up here just the same as you. You’re the prettiest girl I ever seen in my life and I’m not in the habit of letting things I want slip away without a fight.”

You drop your eyes to the point where you’re connected, his big hands dwarfing yours completely. “Why me?” You ask quietly.

“Excuse me?”

You lift your eyes to his, biting your bottom lip in a way that sends a bolt of arousal straight to Willard’s cock. “I’m nothin special. I’m a little too plump and my hair never stays right and I got an ex boyfriend who’d rather see me dead than happy without him. You should find somebody else.” It’s the truest, most terrifying thing you’ve ever said out loud, and your hands shake with how scared you are.

Willard’s fingers tighten around yours, his thumb finding the point of your pulse against your wrist and tapping it in a steady rhythm. “You’re the prettiest girl I ever saw and that’s that. I respect your right to an opinion, and I know women are usually right bout pretty much everything, but I’m sticking firm on this one, darlin.”

Your core throbs at the use of the endearment, your palms slicking with sweat against his cool ones. Willard licks his lips, watching you squirm and blush for him, drinking in every blissful moment of it even as his cock thickens and presses against his…

He drops your hands suddenly, taking a deliberate step back and praying that the structure of his pants will hide the worst of his growing interest in you. It wouldn’t be proper, wouldn’t be remotely fair to you to make you look at that when you were being so soft and vulnerable with him.

Your eyes drop, following the path of his hands as he steps back, and your eyes widen a fraction when they come to rest on his crotch. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles, adjusting the fabric around his cock. “That isn’t… you’re just so pretty.”

You lick your bottom lip slowly, deliberately slowly, and Willard is fixed to the motion as his cock throbs and leaks. “Maybe I’m startin’ to believe you really think that,” you say, your voice breathy. Willard thinks about what you’ll sound like moaning his name, and the thought is almost enough to make him come without touching himself.

“Let me take you for a drink. Just a cup of coffee.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice, and you feel your underwear slick with arousal at the sound of it.

“He’ll break your legs. Or worse.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

“I’m not worth it.”

Willard smirks, shaking his head. “I disagree.”

You sigh, resigning yourself and him to the inevitability of your fates. “Alright. A cup of coffee. But you can call it off if you change your mind and I won’t be offended. Much.” You flash him a shy smile and Willard’s heart flutters in response.

“I ain’t gunna change my mind about you, darlin. You can count on that.”

*

You could count on Willard Russell. He’d shown up precisely when he said he would, helping you into the cab of his black truck and keeping one eye on you the whole ride into town. He seemed nervous, chewing absently on a little pick of wood, and you found yourself watching his mouth more than you should, imagining those lips on yours, that tongue…

He jogs around the car to open your door for you, offering his hand and not letting go of yours even after you’ve climbed down. He laces his fingers tightly through yours and tugs you towards the diner, and you feel the pulse of your panicked heart in the heat between your palms as people look up and stare at you.

“You two need a table?” The waitress asks, eyes dropping to your joined hands for a fraction too long before looking back up at you.

“Sure do. Something by the window if you don’t mind.”

She nods and scoops two menus from her station, and you follow her into the diner. Willard dips his head, lips almost brushing your ear. “Your hair looks so pretty in the sunlight. Forgive a man his pleasures.”

His voice is a low rumble of silk that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core, and your eyes flutter closed as Willard guides you into one side of the booth and reluctantly detaches his hand from yours so he can sit opposite you.

“Can I get you some drinks to start?”

“Coffee, black.” He says, scanning the menu. “What’ll it be, darlin?”

“The same.” You say, looking at Willard and not looking at the waitress. You recognise her, and that’s a bad thing. It’s not a remarkable thing in a small town, but it’s a bad thing today because she’s dating one of the boys in Bobby’s crew, you’re pretty sure.

She offers Willard a tight smile before heading out the back, and you know there’s a payphone in by the store three doors down and you know you’re screwed.

“So tell me a little about yourself. You teach over at the school?” Willard, steeples his fingers below his chin.

“That waitress is gunna go tell Bobby we’re here.”

Willard frowns. “So?”

“So he’s gunna come here.” Your voice raises in pitch even as a whisper, and Willard reaches across the table for your hand.

“If he does, I’ll deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, a scoff pushing past your lips. “People don’t… deal with him. He deals with them.”

Willard’s fingers tighten on yours. “I may seem a way to you.” He says quietly. “But I seen things that’d send other men mad. I done things that’ll put me in the hellfire when the time comes. I ain’t afraid of your ex, darlin. I know you are and you got reason to be, but I ain’t. And he won’t touch you again. Not while I’m breathin, you understand?”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. “I wanna believe it.”

“Then believe it.” Willard says with a shrug and a smile. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles and you lift his hand to your face, pressing a short, sharp kiss to his fingers in a gesture so bold you shock yourself.

“Well isn’t that nice.”

The voice slows the blood in your veins to an icy sludge as you turn to face him. Bobby looks murderous, his dark eyes rimmed in shadows as he sneers at you. “You goddamn whore.”

Your mouth opens as you drop Willard’s hand, and he lets you extract your fingers and drop your hands into your lap.

“Now there’s no need for that.” Willard says pleasantly.

“You’re new in town fella, so let me give it to you this once and we’ll say no more about it. You don’t want her. Shit, nobody wants her.”

“Seems like you want her awful bad.”

Bobby grits his teeth. “She tell you that? Delusional bitch. I got me a pretty young thing up in Sweetwater, ring on her finger and everything. What would I want with a fat old whore?”

“My experience folks always want what they can’t have. She ain’t yours no more and that kills you.”

The diner is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You can hear the rough grating of Bobby’s breath wheezing through his chest. He only sounds like that when he’s really mad, like an engine about to explode. You shrink down in your seat.

“I’m bein as cordial as I can be,” Bobby says slowly. “But if you’re set on being a dumb fuck then I’ll make my point another way.”

“Not in here.” The diner’s owner and lead cook steps out from the kitchen, brandishing a frying pan like a weapon. “Not in my diner you don’t Bobby Weston. You never paid me back for the damages after last time.”

Bobby huffs a laugh, holding up his hands. “Alright Mac. Alright. Not here.” He turns on Willard, fixing him with a glare. “I’ll be seein you, boy.”

Willard’s blood heats at the challenge, and he almost gets up. Almost follows that piece of shit outside, but then you say “don’t” in a voice so small and desperate that he sits his ass back down and reaches across the table to take your hand. Your fingers shake against his palm, and he squeezes tighter. “None of what he said is true, you know.” Willard keeps his own voice soft and low, doing his best to soothe you as your bottom lip quivers like you might cry. That shouldn’t turn him on, but your big watery eyes turning up at him has his cock thickening in his pants and Willard knows he’s in deep. Way too deep, for a first date with a girl who took more than a little convincing.

“I don’t know why he can’t leave me alone,” you whisper. “If he thinks… all that.”

Willard hums. “He don’t think it. His pride is hurt by you movin on is all. Men are worse than little babies when their pride gets hurt.”

You nod, sipping black coffee so strong it coats your throat in tar. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it, Willard.”

Willard. His name had never sounded so good, so pretty, so pure as it did coming from your mouth. “You go to church with your mama on Sundays?”

You look up then, brows furrowing at the change in direction. “Sure.”

“I been thinking I might do the same. My mamas been praying for my eternal soul more than usual, would be nice to give her knees a rest.”

You giggle, and the sound kicks up those damned butterflies in Willard’s stomach again as he grins back at you. He’d like to make you laugh like that every day for the rest of his life, if you’d let him.

*

The windows stand open and the doors ajar on Sunday morning, but the August heat leaves nothing at all unscorched and you’re practically sliding off the church pew as your mother huffs and puffs beside you. “Too hot,” she mumbles as she fans herself with the little bible she’s kept since she was a child. “They should hold church in the evenin’ when it’s this hot.”

You nod, because you do agree, actually. Weather like this is meant for walking in the forest or swimming in the creek, though you hadn’t done that so much recently. Not with the memory of your dog being dragged out of the shallows. Not with the threat of Bobby Weston lurking in the trees, waiting to pin you down and cut you or worse.

There’s a commotion at the end of your row, and you look down to see Willard having an animated disagreement with his mother. She tugs on his arm, trying desperately to pull him towards her usual pew where another girl sits waiting alone, but Willard doesn’t so much as glance in her direction. His attention is fixed on you, crinkles appearing around his pretty eyes as he smiles and begins picking his way over and between legs and bags until he’s squeezing himself into the little gap beside you.

“Ma’am,” he ducks his head to your mother, who stares at him slack-jawed. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Your mother just blinks at him, utterly lost for words as he takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth to press a chaste, lingering kiss against your skin. His lips sear hotter than the dusty heat outside, yet a shiver runs down your spine and prickles on the backs of your thighs.

“You know what you’re doing?” You whisper, leaning in just close enough for your breath to ghost against his neck. Willard tightens his grip on your hand, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of being so close to your mouth. He could turn his head and connect your lips to his, and wouldn’t that be something?

“Declaring,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing circles against your hand. “Church ladies’ll get the word out.”

You sigh, slumping a little lower against the bench like it’ll do any good, and Willard chuckles under his breath. “You could at least pretend to be flattered.”

You don’t respond with words, but you part your legs enough to press your thigh flush to his own, and Willard stares at the soft spread of your skin moulded against his for so long that the sermon is over before he’s even registered it’d begun.

Willard doesn’t release your hand. Not when people start to shuffle out of their seats, greeting one another with handshakes and half-embraces, and not when his mama brings that poor girl over and presents her to him like a gift. “Willard, I want you to meet Helen Hatton. She’s been sitting with me all this time whilst you were away, keeping me company. I thought you might wanna thank her.”

Willard gives his mother a stern look like he’s about to argue, but you take one look at poor Helen’s scarlet face and extract your hand from his. “I need to say my goodbyes to a few folks anyway.” You slip away, and Willard looks longingly after you for a moment before his attention turns back to his mother.

“Well, I do thank you for minding mama for me.”

“It was my pleasure, of course. You were doin something so important.” Helen is soft-spoken and gentle in every sense of the word, and Willard can see the cogs ticking behind his mother’s calculated smile. She wants him to court Helen, and maybe if he hadn’t met you he might have done it. But his fate was sealed the moment he’d laid eyes on you and that was that.

“Well I do hope you’ll continue to sit with her from time to time, when I can’t make it to church.”

Emma’s smile tightens. “I thought we’d invite Helen back for lunch. Willard, you could take her in the truck, couldn’t you?”

“I got plans, mama.” He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but he does mean to be firm.

“With that girl?” Her voice is sharp, and Helen squirms like she wishes she were anywhere else at all. “I don’t think it’s wise to-“

She’s cut off by the sound of a scream, and Willard’s mind goes blank at the sound. He doesn’t know how he knows, but you made that sound. He shoves through the milling crowds, barreling down the steps and into the churchyard. His blood boils, his fists already curling into blunt weapons. He sees your bare legs scrabbling against the dirt, your dress torn and your palms split open from a smashed bottle littering shards of brown glass across the grass. He doesn’t remember much after that.

You wish you could forget it. You wish you’d stayed inside, stayed close to your mama or better yet that you’d never let go of Willard’s hand. But the air was stifling and you were sure there was a breeze outside, sure you could hear it creaking against the shutters. So you’d slipped out and stepped into the churchyard, just to breathe a little.

And that’s when you’d heard him, like a demon from the beyond as he stepped out around a tall headstone with a terrifying smirk on his face. “There’s the little jezebel.”

Your knees had buckled, and you’d looked frantically back at the church, but you’d have to pass him to reach the gate and you’d never get that far. “Please. Please don’t.”

Bobby’s smirk splits into a gloating grin. “You should hear the things people are saying about him.”

You blink, actually surprised. “Willard?”

Bobby flinches. “The other guys. You know they all get together all the time, got real close out there. Not him though. Russell’s weird. Unsettling. I mean he’d have to be, to take up with you, wouldn’t he?”

You bite your bottom lip, and Bobby’s eyes darken. “He’s been nothing but nice to me.”

“Yeah,” Bobby huffs a nasty laugh. “Only cuz he heard you’re easy, I’d bet. Word on him is he’d fuck anything that moved out there, man, woman or child. That he killed one of his own men, too.”

It’s your turn to flinch then. “If that were true they’d have marshalled him.”

Bobby shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way, and it kinda doesn’t. The court of public opinion would crucify him regardless.

“I don’t like seeing you paradin about town with him. Leaves a bad taste.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting to the church again, but nobody’s looking for you and Willard hasn’t come out yet. Maybe he’s being charmed by the delicate, demure Helen Hatton after all. “Maybe you should stop looking, Bobby.”

He steps closer, each long stride narrowing the gap between you until he can seize your arms and shove you to the ground. “Maybe you should gimme something sweeter to chew on, huh?” He rips at your dress, the fraying seam unravelling at terrifying speed as you thrash against his body. Your foot connects with something fleshy and he grunts before dropping his weight on top of you, pinning your arms above your head as his furious face looms over yours. “You worried he won’t want you if he knows what a little slut you are for me?” He spits, saliva flying from his mouth. “Cuz you been ruined since long before I came along and you know it. His hand leaves your wrist to fumble with his zipper and you suck in a lungful of air and scream.

He cuts you off with a sharp press of his hand to your throat, and your vision explodes into a fantastic kaleidoscope of color. You think about how you never got to kiss Willard Russell, not even once, and that’s the saddest thing you can think of as you dip in and out of consciousness.

You’re weightless, limbs light as your eyes flutter open. There’s a dull, meaty thudding sound coming from somewhere, and you wonder if it’s the last beats of your own heart in your ears. But then your eyes focus, and you see Willard sitting astride a bloody, pulpy thing, and the thing whimpers like a wounded animal.

You drag yourself up, forcing words through your ruined throat. “Stop! Willard stop, you’re killing him.” Willard doesn’t stop, doesn’t even seem to register you’re there as he drives his fists into the unrecognizable slab of meat over and over. His eyes, those beautiful forests of endless green, never blink. Not until two of the men from the church drag him off, and he looks down at his ruined knuckles and then up at you, and the forests swirl into darkness as he drops to his knees.

Under the circumstances, the Sheriff determines to let Willard Russell go. Bobby Weston isn’t pressing charges, mostly because he doesn’t have enough teeth left to properly articulate an accusation and he’ll be eating through a tube for the foreseeable future. The town whispers about him, and about Willard, and about you. The blame, it had been decided, laid squarely with you for pitching two men against each other.

With your reputation in tatters anyway, you knock on The Russell’s front door in the middle of the afternoon, when just about anybody could see you doing it.

Emma Russell doesn’t smile when she opens the door, and she has half a mind to kick you to the dust when her son’s voice calls for you down the hall. “I saw her from the window, ma. Let her in or I’ll go out.”

Emma doesn’t want to be reminded of how awful he looks in the daylight, so she steps aside and lets you over the threshold.

Willard looks worse than you’d imagined. His hands are a mess, stained bandages tied roughly over his swollen, split knuckles. His bottom lip is little more than a fat bruise, having been forced into his teeth when Bobby had managed to get a couple of hits in early on in the fight. But he smiles when he sees you, his split lip weeping ghoulishly.

“You saved my life.”

He swallows, shaking his head. “Anyone woulda done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t. And they didn’t. You did.”

“And I’d do it again. A hundred times over.”

You cross the room then, cupping his cheeks in your hands and pressing your mouth to his in a soft kiss laced with the metal of his blood. “I thought I was gunna die, and the worst tragedy in my mind was that I was gunna die without kissin you, Willard Russell. Had to make it right.”

Willard lets out a strangled little moan, his injured hands lifting to rest on your wide hips as he tugs you closer. “Dangerous thing, to give a man a taste of something like that,” he murmurs, leaning in to inhale against your shirt. “Could get addicted.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” you whisper, dipping your head to kiss him again. Willard presses up into you, his lip bleeding steadily against your chin as he deepens the kiss and licks his tongue into your mouth. Your knees go weak and the hands on your hips brace to support you, even though doing so sends a sharp pain through his damaged fingers. You abandon reason, climbing into his lap instead of stepping back, and Willard makes a surprised little sound in the back of his throat as your hand finds his growing hardness through his pants.

He breaks the kiss, licking his blood from your bottom lip before dropping his eyes to watch your hand work against him. “You sure?”

“So sure,” you whisper, wrapping your hand around him through the fabric and squeezing. “If you’ll let me.”

Willard huffs, eyes fluttering closed as his hips lift against your palm. “I never wanted anything so much as I want you.” His words are a rough growl of sound, thick with arousal, and your own core pulses in response as you finally slide your hand into his pants and grip the silky, stiff flesh of his cock.

He moans then, the sound sending a bolt of heat to your core as you reach up to rub your thumb against the sticky head of his cock. “You’re leakin for me,” you murmur, tapping the pad of your thumb lightly against the slick. “I’m leakin for you too.”

Willard’s fingers tighten against your hip for a moment before dropping to cup your puffy, wet pussy through the cotton of your panties. “God,” he whimpers, pressing his lips back to yours. You moan against his mouth as his lip splits again. You shouldn’t like the taste of his blood in your mouth. It shouldn’t be slicking arousal in your underwear right now but it is, and you wonder whether anything Bobby Weston had said was true, and whether you cared if it was.

“Need you to touch me,” you whimper against his mouth, and Willard’s fingers slip into the waistband of your panties without hesitation. You gasp at the sensation of his long, bruised fingers gliding against you, seeking out the bud of your clit and rubbing it in slow, pressurized circles.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice like molasses dragging over your skin and heating through to your blood. “Every damn inch of you.”

You swallow thickly, squeezing Willards cock before jerking him lightly from tip to base and back up again. “I’m nothin special.”

Willard clucks his tongue before pulling his hand from your underwear, lifting you off his lap and tossing you onto his bed. You squeal in surprise, and he covers your mouth with his palm as he presses his knee against your core. “You gotta stop sayin that, darlin.” He chides, peeling your panties down with his other hand and dropping them onto the floor. “There isn’t a thing I’d change about you.”

You whimper as his fingers glide over your folds, the sound of your slick lurid in the quiet of the room. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me so much.”

Willard drags his eyes away from your core to look at your face, licking over his wounded bottom lip. “I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop…” he pushes his middle finger into you and you suck in a breath as your muscles flutter around him. “Touchin you.”

You bite down hard on your bottom lip to suppress a whimper as he settles between your legs, lowering his head to press his lips to your clit. “Tastin you,” he mumbles against your folds, the sound vibrating through you and curling your toes.

“Oh God,” you whine, pressing your palm over your mouth where his had been moments before. His tongue pushes your folds apart and circles your clit in agonizing, slow strokes. Your hips lift against his face, soaking him in your slick, and Willard moans.

The split on his lip burns as he sucks your clit into his mouth, but the pain only serves to heighten every moment, every brush of his finger inside you and every throb of your aching, needy pussy against his face.

There’s a sharper stretch as he adds a second finger, but then he curls them against you, massaging the sensitive flesh of your walls and your back arches off the bed as a surprised groan spills past your palm. Willard looks up at you, his big green eyes hazy with lust as he laps at your clit and drives his fingers into you over and over again, and you come undone with a sob as your body writhes beneath him.

Willard laps up every drop of your release, extracting his fingers from inside you and dragging his swollen lips over your clit until you're whimpering with overstimulation. He rolls your underwear back up your legs and presses a single kiss to the damp fabric before helping you to sit up.

"I should-" you reach for his pants, and he takes your hand.

"There's no need for it."

You frown, trying to untangle your fingers from his grip. "That isn't fair, and besides I want to-"

"Darlin," his voice is low and strained. "You got an effect on me. Don't make me say it out loud."

You glance down, noticing for the first time that the front of his pants is a shade darker than before, and your eyes go wide. "Oh."

Willard leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth, and then a second and a third. You lean into him, a moan rumbling up from your throat and into Willard as you deepen the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hand is still resting on his crotch, and your own core rekindles at the feeling of his cock stirring to life beneath your palm.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Emma says from the door, and you about jump out of your skin as you jump off the bed. She’s tight-lipped and firm, and Willard’s shoulders sag as he wipes his still-wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“There’s no use arguin with her on it darlin. I’ll call on you soon as I can, I promise.” You hover, and Willard pushes up from the bed, revealing the stiff tent of his new erection. His mama gasps, turning her face away as Willard cups your cheeks and presses his mouth to your own. “I’ll call on you.”

You swallow hard, curling your fingers against the hard muscles of his arms for a moment as you savor the feeling of his body against yours. “You’d better, Willard Russell.”

You’re escorted from the room and marched off the property, and you’d feel ashamed of it if not for the lingering tingle of Willard’s kiss on your mouth and the giddy, churning flutter of release in your stomach.

*

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to untangle the scent of popcorn from the scent of blood. “Possession is nine tenths of the goddamn law, motherfucker!” Willard hisses, his thumb pressing too far against the windpipe of a boy you maybe recognize from high school. “You see my jacket on her shoulders? See my goddamn hand on her waist? She’s mine. You don’t look at her and you sure as shit don’t touch her, you understand me?”

The boy makes an awful gagging sound, choking against the bruising in his throat as Willard finally releases him and pushes seamlessly to a stand. His eyes are hard chips of emerald and he’s clenching his jaw so tightly you worry he’ll crack his teeth, so you let him take your hand again, and if he notices the shake in yours he doesn’t comment.

“Willard,” you try quietly, coaxing him towards the parking lot at the back of the fair. “Lets go home.”

“He was gunna cop a damn feel.” He spits, cracking his freshly healed knuckles in a nauseating series of clicks. “I gotta protect what’s mine, don’t I?”

You hum in agreement, luring him through the turnstiles and onto the gravel beyond. “Let me have a look at those hands. Lets go to the truck so I can see em better.”

Willard follows you until you reach it, and then he stops. “You were enjoyin the fair.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I was just enjoying being with you. Don’t need all those lights and people to do that.” You tap the cab. “C’mon, open her up. It’ll be quiet and just for us inside.”

Willard walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door, helping you up into the cab. There’s fresh blood smeared over the splits in his knuckles, and he smudges it on the skirt of your dress as you settle into the seat. Willard had been in no less than a dozen fights in the three months since you’d met him. All over you, and all started by him. You were tired of wondering when he’d snap. You were tired of reassuring him on things in his head. And tonight? Well, that was the last straw and you were going to fix it.  

He drives out to the forest, to the little dirt lot by the clearing where you’d taken him for a picnic on your third date. His shoulders heave with exertion, and his fingers curl so tightly on the steering wheel you’re afraid he’ll break it in half. “Willard, honey.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t. I swear you didn’t. You just… you gotta cool off.”

He turns his head then, eyes burning into yours. “There’s a lot of no good sons of bitches out there. I got a… a right to protect what’s mine.”

“You said it,” you say softly, reaching across the seat to splay your palm on his thigh. “I’m yours. Nobody else matters.”

Willard looks down at your hand, the smoothness of your skin and the warmth of your palm, and he shifts. “You ever go with Bobby Weston?”

You swallow, but you don’t withdraw your hand. “If you’re asking if he… if we…-“

“I shouldn’ta asked, I’m sorry.” He chews his lip into his mouth, damp hair falling over his forehead, and you crawl over the seat and push him back so you can squeeze yourself into the gap between his body and the steering wheel.

“You can ask me anything. You can have anything, Willard. I never liked anybody the way I like you.”

His hands drop to your hips, kneading against your soft flesh. “I don’t think I was always like this.” He says quietly. You can feel the gentle stirring of his cock against you, but you resist the urge to grind down against him. “You got my head all messed up, darlin. Can’t eat or sleep or do anything without thinkin bout you.”

You cup his jaw, tilting his face up to look at you. “I’m nothin special.”

You watch his pupils expand, feel the twitching of his cock beneath you as a muscle in his jaw ticks. “You know how I feel about hearin you say that.”

“Yeah, I know.” You tease, finally letting your core drag over his erection. “You gunna do somethin’ bout it?”

A slow smirk spreads over his face. “You got ten seconds.”

You grab for the door and throw yourself out, launching into the woods with a breathless laugh. You hear the slam of the door behind you, the heavy thud of his footsteps, and adrenaline turns your blood to electricity as you race through the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest.

He whistles, low and long, and your heart pounds in your chest as you pelt towards the clearing you know is just up ahead, where the moon shines through the thinning trees. You can almost hear the sound of the rocky falls beyond, can taste the cool kiss of the water. An arm as hard as steel winds around your waist and you scream as the air is knocked from your lungs by the force of the impact. He hauls you against his body, your legs kicking out at him without ever making contact as he drags you into the clearing and drops you onto the ground.

“I win,” he says quietly, a dangerous, sinful smirk on his face. “You gunna give me my reward?”

You swallow, licking your lips as you scramble to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. “You gunna take it, Willard?”

Willard growls low in his chest as he reaches for your hair, tangling his fingers in the strands and dragging your face against his covered cock. “You’re mine, darlin.” He mumbles, the thick southern drawl of his accent turning his words to a slur with his arousal.

You reach for the buttons on his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric and wrapping your fist around the base. It isn’t the first time you’ve taken his cock into your hand or your mouth, but the sheer size of him sends a little jolt of anxiety through you every time anyway. It’s worse tonight, with the plan you have in mind. You’re not sure how all of that is supposed to fit inside of you, even though Pam had told you that men can always make it fit. If a baby can come out, a man’s thing can go in. You’d wrinkled your nose at that, but you believed her. It felt different when the thing was inches from your face, though. You wrap your lips around his tip, flicking your tongue against the salty stickiness beading at his slit, and Willard moans.

“That’s it,” he whispers, canting his hips forward to encourage you to take more of him into your mouth. “That’s my girl.”

You look up at him as your eyes water, Willard’s cock pressing against the entrance to your throat with agonising pressure, and you moan against his length.

Willard’s whole body freezes up at the vibration shooting through his cock, and he feels his balls tightening when he’s only had the pleasure of your mouth for a few moments. “You’re too much,” he whispers, a wry chuckle escaping as he pulls out of your mouth. “I need a minute.”

You sit back, licking his slick and your spit from your lips. “Willard.”

He doesn’t exactly answer, but he looks at you with pure, unadulterated hunger as he teases his fist up and down his own cock.

“I want more.”

His hand stills, and he cups your chin to bring your face up to his. “What do you mean by that?”

“I want… all of it. I wanna be with you like I never been with anybody before.”

Willard doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “You can’t take a thing like that back.”

Your stomach flips over with embarrassed indignation. “Who says I’d wanna take it back?”

“Darlin,” he sighs, caressing his thumb against your jaw. “Don’t take this to mean I’m saying no. I don’t reckon I’m capable of denying you a single thing.”

You turn your head to lick his thumb before taking it into your mouth, sucking gently against the iron of the blood on his skin.

“To ruin a thing like you.” He whispers. Your eyes narrow as you bite down hard, and Willard hisses as he withdraws. “Hell’d you do that for?”

He sucks his thumb into his own mouth, a bewildered expression on his pretty face.

You push to a stand, brushing dirt from your knees. “If you think that… that fucking me would ruin me then you’re no better than any of those other guys. Those… what’d you call em? Those no-good sons of bitches. You’re no better.”

Willard blinks at you, wondering how things had gotten so far off track so fast. “Darlin, I didn’t-“

“Save it.” You snap, turning on your heel. You’re not exactly sure which direction you’re supposed to go in; you’d run blindly into the forest under the certainty that Willard would catch you and he’d take care of getting you home. He would still, no matter if you’d bitten him and stormed away, but your pride is hurt and you won’t go back to him, not now.

You yelp in genuine surprise as you’re manhandled to the ground for a second time, but now you’re pressed flat to the damp earth, your cheek mashing into the first mulchy leaves of the changing season as Willard settles his weight over you and drags his hand down over your ass. “This is what you want?” He asks, cupping one generous cheek and then the other before delivering a sharp smack that cracks through the night like gunfire.

You make a keening sound at the sting, and Willard rubs his palm over the hurt before lifting his hand and spanking you again. “You want me to take you?”

You bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but you push your ass up against his hand and you hear him chuckle as he delivers a third, blistering thwack to the fat of your ass. “Want it,” you sob, tears running to salt the earth beneath your cheek as Willard pushes your skirt up around your hips and drags your underwear over your thick thighs.

“Like I’d ever deny you.” He mumbles, dragging his thumb down the crack of your ass and round to press against your fluttering virgin hole. “Like I ain’t been thinkin about doin this since the first time I saw you.” He pushes his thumb into you, and you wriggle against the intrusion.

“Please,” you whimper, lifting your hips off the ground. “Please, I’m ready. I need it. Need you.”

Willard hums, withdrawing his thumb and sucking his fingers into his mouth to lubricate them. He pushes two into you, curling back against your walls to find your sweet spot. He has no intention whatsoever of just sticking it in you. Not for your first time. He works you open carefully, scissoring his fingers and trying very hard not to come at the tight, wet heat of you and the delicious little mewls and whimpers spilling from your perfect lips.

You’re a panting, groaning, drooling mess by the time he finally withdraws, and he kneels behind you, hands bracing on your wide hips and pulling you back onto all fours. Your legs shake with overstimulation, but you plant your knees firmly against the earth and brace yourself on your forearms as Willard drags the head of his cock through your folds, coating his length in your arousal before pressing it against your entrance. “This might hurt a little, but it shouldn’t hurt a lot. You’ll tell me if it does and we’ll slow down.”

You try to push back against him, try to force him inside you, but Willard taps your raw ass cheek in warning. “You’ll tell me.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whine breathlessly. “Just please.”

You’re not sure when the plan to make him feel better devolved into you becoming a desperate, needy little whore, but Willard’s perfect fingers and perfect mouth and perfect cock just had that effect on you.

He pushes in slowly, and you arch your back at the stretching. There’s a little bit of a burn at the thin skin around your entrance, but it isn’t really pain. Not like scalding yourself on a hot stove or steppin on a nail in the basement. You feel the press of his hips against your ass and the shuddering exhale of his breath over your back, and you flex your muscles around his length. He’s filled you completely, stretched you so tight that you can hardly breathe.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and reverent. “I ain’t gonna last with you feelin like this.”

“That’s okay,” you whisper back, wiggling your hips forward and back and feeling the fat head of his cock nudge against a spot deep inside you. “Just a little more. A little more, please.”

Willard huffs, flexing his fingers against your hips before pulling all the way out and pushing back in again. You groan, your forehead dropping to the dirt between your arms as he sets a rhythm. It’s slow at first, a comfortable, full drag in and out and you feel the coil of pleasure tightening gently in your stomach as the thick ridges on the underside of his length rub against your sensitive inner walls.

“I’m close,” he spits, his short nails digging into your skin.

“You gotta pull out then,” you mumble, remembering that piece of advice from Pam. The most important thing to remember, she’d said.

“Goddamn, you feel so good." Willard’s voice is little more than a strangled whimper, and he presses you further to the ground, your belly connecting with the dirt as he cages you in, his hips driving against your ass at a brutal pace that sets a dull ache in your stomach.

“Willard," you groan, "you have to pull out!”

He doesn’t listen to you, too far gone in the pleasure as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and buries himself deep, deep, impossibly deep inside you. “I can’t, darlin.” He sobs. “I’m gunna fill you up. Put a baby in you, sweetheart. Make you mine for proper.” His balls snap sloppily against the slick of your pussy with each thrust, your clit aching at the attention as he mouths over your neck. “Gunna put a ring on your finger. Biggest rock I can afford, I promise you. Gunna make you mine… my wife… make you a mama… fuck!”

 You feel his cock twitch and thicken as it hollows out a new space inside you, and then the searing heat of his seed as he comes. It feels good, the sticky warmth washing through you and sending pulses of arousal to your clit, but panic creeps in at the edges of your consciousness because he was supposed to pull out!

You shiver on the ground as he pushes up onto his palms, holding his weight carefully off you as you try and fail to drag yourself back to your knees.

“There you go,” he mumbles, hooking his arms around your waist and your thighs and pulling you up to cradle against his chest.

“You were supposed to pull out.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as hot, confused tears slip down over the full rounds of your cheeks.

“I never said I’d do that,” he coos, reaching between your legs to scoop up the thick ooze of cum sliding out of your hole. You whimper as he pushes his fingers back into you, dragging his release in and out of your body and pushing it in a little deeper each time. “We’re gunna be so happy, darlin.”

You swallow hard, clenching around his fingers, and Willard flexes his thumb up to rub at your clit. “We’re gunna be a family. You were made to carry my babies, you know that? God gave you this body. These hips, the soft safety of your womb. All for me.”

You feel your orgasm approaching at the rumble of words in his chest and the torturous stimulation of his fingers. “I… it’s too soon, we’re not…”

“I bought a little farm outside of town,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple as his pace quickens, his wrist tensing with the strain as he fucks his fingers into you harder. “Nobody will ever get to look at you again besides me. That’s a promise, darlin.”

“Willard,” you whisper as you come, shaking sobs into his neck and staining the collar of his shirt with your tears as your release slicks on his hand and your muscles quiver around his fingers. “I… I just-“

“I know it.” He cuts you off, withdrawing his hand and wrapping his arms so tightly around you that your mouth is pressed to his sternum and you can’t speak at all. “I know you love me. Know you’re grateful. Know you can’t wait to be my wife. I love you too, darlin.”

You sag against him, the weak protest dropping out of you with exhaustion and relief. There’s no use denying him, not when he’s right. You do love him. You’d dreamed of exactly this, of being his wife and having his babies more nights than you could count over the summer of courting. And he really had taken care of your problems, hadn’t he?

You let him soothe you, leaning into the caress of his strong hands against your skin, and you drop into sleep dreaming of your future as Mrs Willard Russell.

It’s been a long day. There isn’t really a better way to describe it, and the weight of intrusive reporters and bright lights and holding a smile on his face has Bill’s shoulders slumping as he kicks his shoes off by the door to his hotel room.

He’s so tired. He’s so tired, and he’s so homesick, and he misses his person. He misses you so badly he can almost imagine you’re here, can almost smell your perfume lingering in the air and the warm, slightly fruity scent of the tea you’re always drinking at bedtime. There are few things that he wouldn’t do to be home beside you right now, actually.

He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up, running his fingers back through his hair to tease out some of the gel his stylist had applied that morning. He winces at his own reflection, the deep purplish bags under his eyes and the shadow already blooming across his jaw. What a way to spend his fucking birthday.

His phone buzzes in his jeans, and he pulls it out with a soft smile as he reads the message from you: Grattis på födelsedagen, älskling!

Your Swedish is improving every day, and Bill is beyond grateful that you’re learning it for him. He speaks perfect English, but ever since you’d agreed to move to Stockholm to be with him you’d immersed yourself in his culture and his friends and his family and now? Now he couldn’t imagine you not being by his side.

He’s about to shoot back a reply when he hears a sound from further inside his hotel room, and he freezes. Pocketing his phone he creeps silently into the main room, ready to… what? Startle the intruder? Fight them? What if it’s a fan who has followed him back from the EW studio? What if it was an autograph hunter? Bill swallows his anxiety as he rounds the corner, and all the fight simply drops out of him.

He hadn’t been imagining a damn thing. There you are, perched on the edge of his bed with two fizzing champagne flutes in your hands. The cork lies on the carpet between you and him, the culprit of the sound.

“Happy Birthday to you,” you sing, crossing one leg over the other and giving him a fantastic view of your bare thighs. “Happy birthday, to you,” you sing again, putting on a sultry, pouty voice and leaning forward to flash your perfect tits in the little white and red corset you’re wearing. Bill feels his cock stir at the sight of you, of the intense, hungry bedroom eyes you’re giving him. “Happy birthday, Mr. Pennywise.”

He rolls his eyes even as a blush heats his cheeks, and you finally rise from the bed, padding across the carpet and stopping just in front of him. “Happy birthday to you,” you finish on a note so low it’s almost a whisper, and Bill’s knees are actually fucking weak with how much he loves you in that moment. In every moment.

“How did you get in here?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, because you know damn well his mouth is asking a practical question whilst his heart turns to mush. Endearingly, pragmatically Swedish.

“You should maybe buy your manager a bottle of scotch.”

Bill thinks about the smirk and the wink his manager had given him as he announced he was heading back to the room, and he shakes his head a little. “He’s a pervert.”

You bite the corner of your bottom lip, handing him a champagne flute. “You’re a pervert.”

Bill takes a sip and licks his lips, eyes dropping to where your breasts spill over the frilled edge of your corset. “This is new.”

Your corset is a slutty replica of his Pennywise suit, silvery-white silk with red pom-poms made of taffeta running down the center. If you wiggle your hips, little bells tying the matching panties together jingle. You wiggle for him, and Bill chuckles as he brings his free hand to rest on your hip and pull you closer.

“You thought I was gunna miss your birthday?”

He licks his bottom lip, lifting his eyes to yours and swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t have blamed you. I’m never signing on to do press in August again. Ever.”

You reach up on your tiptoes, finally connecting your lips with his after six long weeks apart. “Baby goes where contract says.”

“Baby does not.” He huffs, before pressing his mouth to yours more firmly and deepening the kiss with a light trail of his tongue against your bottom lip. You wrap your free arm around his neck, holding him close whilst you try to not spill champagne on the carpet.

Bill is less careful, dragging you against him firmly and knocking his own drink onto your ass to drip down the back of your legs. You squeal at the sudden cold, and he smiles against your mouth as he kisses you through the shock.

You pull away first, fixing him with a pout. “I’m soaked.”

He hums, hand sliding down over your damp ass to cup a handful of your flesh. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

He walks you carefully back towards the bed, taking your glass with one hand whilst he pushes you gently down onto the mattress with the other, and you part your legs automatically. Bill stands between them, staring down at the damp patch on the front of your panties and wondering how he got so goddamn lucky.

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“It’s awkward.”

“It’s my birthday.”

You sigh, reaching a hand down to lightly rub yourself through your underwear. “Don’t you wanna unwrap your present, birthday boy?”

It doesn’t take more than that. Bill is on you in a second, fumbling with the ridiculous puffy pom-poms with a frustrated growl. You enjoy his shifting expressions of frustration for a moment before taking pity on him and revealing the hidden zipper underneath them. “Fucking genius.” He mutters as he yanks it down, your breasts practically bursting from their tight confines as you release the first proper exhale you’ve managed since you zipped yourself into the tightly boned garment. “There they are,” he coos, dipping his head to press a kiss to one nipple whilst cupping the other breast in his enormous hand. “My girls.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for his belt, and he flicks his tongue against your nipple in sharp little caresses as you drag his pants and boxers down. “There’s the little guy.”

Bill’s teeth graze against your nipple and you yelp as he lifts his head and glares. “Little? You wound me in this way on my birthday, älskling?”

“I’m sorry,” you coo, reaching for his cock and squeezing the stiffening length against your palm. “I’m being mean.”

Bill reaches down to hook his thumbs into your underwear and drags them down with a tinkle of bells, suppressing a moan at how slick and swollen your pussy is already. He’d like to take his time, to tease and edge you until you apologize properly, but he’s so, so desperate for you. His cock leaks sticky beads of precum, and he lowers over you and drags his tip through your folds, coating his length in your arousal. “You’re also being a liar.” He mumbles before pushing into you.

You gasp, the stretch bordering on uncomfortable after weeks of being apart. You’d had phone sex, but that had mostly involved your fingers or the hands-free vibrator Bill controlled with an app on his phone. You hadn’t had anything big inside you in six weeks, and Bill’s cock was big. “Shit,” you whisper.

Bill pulls back, his cock dragging half out as your muscles flutter around him. You’re a little tighter than he expected, and there’s a pinched look on your face that he absolutely does not like. “Too much?”

“Go slow.”

He bites his bottom lip as he pushes slowly back into you, ignoring his body as it demands he pound you into the mattress. The stretching burn changes slowly as you adjust to having him inside you, and it isn’t long before a dull pleasure begins to take its place. “Oh,” you moan. “Fuck, Bill. That’s it.”

Bill has never heard anything so beautiful in his goddamn life. He’s barely holding it together, he’s been desperate to come for what feels like hours whilst your perfect cunt tried to squeeze his orgasm out of him, but there was no way he was going to finish first.

“That feel good?” He whispers, jaw clenched tight as his thrusts become faster and he pushes a little deeper with each one.

You nod, mashing your bottom lip against your teeth as you reach between your legs to touch yourself. Bill knocks your fingers out of the way, pushing higher up onto his knees so he can watch you fall apart as he rubs your slick over your clit, circling the bud with just the right amount of pressure to make you whimper.

“Shit, Bill. Shit, I’m gunna come.”

“Yeah? Fuck, yeah. I wanna feel you come on my cock. C’mon, baby. You can do it.”

You whine as you come, your whole body locking up, your cunt locking him in as you flutter around him, and Bill couldn’t hold his own orgasm off if he tried. He spills inside you, hips bucking against you even though your body holds him prisoner inside you.

Your eyes lock onto his, pupils blown wide with lust and shock at the intensity of the feeling. With the way you’re squeezing around him you can feel everything; every spurt of his release and the throbbing of the vein on the underside of his cock and the ridge under his tip dragging against your sensitive walls.

“Fuuuuck,” he moans, unwilling to even blink so as not to miss a single micro-second of your beautiful, fuck-drunk face as you take his cock like you were made to do it.

Bill stays inside you for longer than is really comfortable, hovering over you on his elbows as he licks into your mouth and kisses you like you’re oxygen. Eventually your body starts to push him out, and he withdraws his softened cock with a little wince.

“I didn’t even bring you a birthday present.” You mutter, a stupid, pretty grin on your face as you stare up at the ceiling in your boyfriend’s hotel room.

Bill rolls onto his side, leaning in to press a kiss against your bare shoulder. “You are my birthday present. The best one I ever got.”

You hum happily, reaching for his arm and dragging it over your waist to settle as a comforting weight against your stomach.

“I really love you, you know.” You swallow thickly, your stomach flipping over with anxious butterflies. You’d said it before, and Bill had said it to you, too. But it felt different, your voice sounded different in the wake of you flying half-way across the world to be with him and in the aftermath of that sex. Bill lifts his hand from your stomach and cups your cheek, drawing your head to the side and pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my damn life.”

His eyes burn with the intensity of that love, and it’s the best moment of your life and it’s so charged you can’t stand it. “More than zyns?”

Bill huffs a laugh, leaning in and pecking your lips. “More than zyns.”

“More than black jeans and black tee-shirts?”

“Baby.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

He groans, rolling his eyes as he kisses you again. “I love you more than anyone or anything, inanimate or otherwise. Okay?”

You sigh, dropping your head back to the mattress with a smile. “Yeah, okay Bill.”

It’s so much easier to sleep with you in his arms, and Bill holds onto you like you’re a damned life raft in a storm. Tomorrow there will be more interviews, more press junkets, more stunts in and out of makeup. But if he gets to come back here to you? He’ll do it all with a smile on his face. You snore softly against his chest, and Bill closes his eyes. Happy Birthday Mr Pennywise, indeed.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Taking care of you is second nature for Willard. He’ll hold you until your breathing slows, and then he’ll clean you up himself, running his fingers over your muscles to see if he’s gone too hard. 

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Willard doesn’t like himself much, but you fell in love with his eyes so he’s grateful to them. He loves your hair, stroking it to send you off to sleep after he’s worn you out. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

All he thinks about is breeding you. About keeping you pregnant, over and over. So shooting his load, multiple loads even, into you and pushing the creamy slick back into you with his fingers sends him feral. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He watches you sleep. He’s been doing it forever, just to feel the settling of calm over him with every soft rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes when he’s sure you’re asleep he’ll slip his fingers up between your thighs and drag them lightly over your clit until you’re soaked and sticky. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

There was one girl, a local near where he was stationed who had a thing about deflowering soldiers. Willard had regretted it before she’d even gotten his pants off, but the other guys were waiting and he didn’t want them poking fun. He pretends he waited for you, because he so badly wishes he had. 

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Willard likes to breed you like an animal, watching your ass bounce against him as he impales you on his cock. But his favourite is a deep mating press, with your legs up by your cheeks and your pussy sucking greedily at every inch of him. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Willard can tease you a little when you’re so impatient and spoiled, but he isn’t goofy and he’ll stop if he thinks he’s upsetting you. His focus is always intense when he’s got you stripped down for him. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Willard doesn’t groom his pubic hair. That’s a weird concept, he wouldn’t waste a good razor on something like that when you like his face clean. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Willard struggles with intimacy, he’s just been through a lot and vulnerability doesn’t come easy to him. But he’s so insanely, hopelessly in love with you that he can’t help but hold you close, pressing his forehead to yours so he can absorb every breathy whisper of his name that passes your lips. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Willard is so hell bent on getting you pregnant that he doesn’t waste any of his cum on jacking off. But there was that week you went and to visit your mama, and you left him a soaked pair of your panties as a parting gift. He’d wrapped them around his cock every damn night, picturing how naughty you’d looked touching yourself to get them so filthy. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Breeding, breeding, breeding. Goddamn, Willard wants to put a baby in you so bad it consumes him. He can’t think about anything but filling you so full of cum that it leaks out of you for hours, and he’ll whisper filth into your ear while he does it. 

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

The forest, at night. There’s the thrill of the danger and how pretty you look in the moonlight, and the way the dirt sticks to your skin and makes you seem like some wild thing for him to tame. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The way you peel your clothes off a layer at a time as the day heats up. Stepping into the kitchen to find you flushed and slick as you wilt in the steam from the stove in just your underwear, sweat sticking your hair to your face. He can’t stop himself from pulling you against him, licking the salt from your skin until your protests turn to moans.  

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Williard won’t hurt you. He’ll press his palm to your throat in an act of possession or bend you over his knee for a spanking, but he just can’t be really, truly violent. He’s seen too much of that. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

You’re so pretty on your knees for him. Willard feels a little like a God when you worship him, licking so sweetly at his tip and looking up with devotion in your eyes. 

But going down on you is the real sacrament. Willard will pin you down and feast for hours, tasting the sweetness of your arousal and the sharpness of your sweat even after a long day in the August heat. Especially then. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Willard mixes it up. Sometimes he’ll see you pushing your hair out of your face and fanning your pretty flushed skin and he’ll be powerless to stop himself bending you over the kitchen counter and taking you so roughly the dishes shake in the cabinet. 

But other times, when the night has cooled some and you’re soft and clinging to him, he’ll fuck you deep and slow, pulling back when he feels his release coming so he can prolong the experience. One time he did that over and over until the sun came up, and he suffered through a long shift with a smile on his face. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He works long hours, getting up before dawn and collapsing beside you after dark. Sometimes, especially when you’re fertile, a quickie is all he can manage. But he’ll always match it with a long session of taking care of you as soon as he has time. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Willard likes to take you out to the woods to commune with God. He likes to push you to your hands and knees on the forest floor and have you give thanks as he fucks you from behind. But if anybody ever saw you he’d have their eyes out, one for the violation and one for trespass. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Willard can go for hours. He’s used to denying himself even the most basic of pleasures, and no matter how much he wants to bury his seed inside you right away he won’t do it until you’ve come a good few times. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

No. Willard doesn’t have any knowledge of or use for toys. Where would you even buy something like that without going into the city, anyway? But when it’s awful hot he’ll buy a box of ice and trail cubes over the feverish curves of you, licking the wet trails from your skin until you whimper. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He teases you all the time. You just look so pretty when you beg for it, your lips quivering as tears fill your eyes. God knows he’ll never deny you a damn thing, but he lets himself drag it out sometimes for moments like that. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Willard is a man of few words, and he grits his teeth against the sounds he wants to make when he’s inside you. Even though you’ve begged him to tell you how good it is, he just can’t. Blame it on his religious upbringing. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Willard likes it when you take control. He’s so big and he’s used to being the man of the house, so the few times where you’ve gotten impatient and aggressive and taken from him have been some of the best orgasms of his life. He wishes you’d do it more often. He wishes you’d use him. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He works a manual job and it shows, because Willard is broad and dark, his torso and arms rippling with muscle from hauling meat. His cock is huge, and sometimes he has to look away when you’re choking on it to stop himself from sobbing. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Willard Russell invented yearning. He can’t start a conversation without saying “my wife” and he knows with certainty that if you died he’d simply cease to exist. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The nightmares used to wake him every hour, sweating and sobbing as the ghosts of mutilated boys haunted him. But with you beside him, your warmth and the scent of your lingering arousal on the sheets beneath him, Willard’s been sleeping as good as he did before it all. 

You’re brushing your teeth, eyes straying to catch the last of the sitcom rerun on your TV when you hear it. The faintest tapping, so quiet you think you might have imagined it, but you step out of the bathroom and mute the TV anyway. A pause, and then the sound again, tap, tap, tap.

You spit a mouthful of minty foam into the sink and rinse it down before heading into the hall, tugging the hem of your tank top down where it’s ridden up over your stomach.

You check the chain is on before lifting up onto your toes, your stomach flipping over at the sight of his downturned face. You unhook the chain with shaking fingers, pulling the door wide and staring at the dishevelled man on the other side. “Eric?”

“Can I come in?”

“You… Roman isn’t here.”

“I know.” He lifts his head, licking over his lips as his eyes drop down the length of your body. “Can I come in anyway?”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate. If you’re here to dropoff you can do that, but otherwise you’ll have to come back when he’s home.”

… is what you should have said. But instead Eric is sitting on your couch, his long legs bent at the knees as he slouches back against the expensive leather and he worries at the frayed corner of a hole in his jeans. You hand him a beer, and he tips it in your direction before taking a sip. You sit down beside him, folding your leg underneath your body as you turn to face him. “What’s going on, Eric?”

“I… shit.” He sighs shakily, lifting his free hand to rake back through his messy dark hair. “I know I shouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t mind.” You say softly, laying your palm against his thigh. “If you’re in trouble… if you need to talk.”

The look he shoots you is agony as he groans. “It’s not… shit.” He takes another sip of his beer before leaning forward to put it on the coffee table. The perspiring bottle leaves a ring immediately, and you think about the disdain you’ll see on Roman’s face when he notices. Not that he can ever know about this visit, obviously.

“Eric, c’mon.” Your voice is low and soothing, and you tickle your fingers against his thigh. “Talk to me.”

Eric wraps his hand around your wrist, snatching it off his leg. You jump with the shock of his sudden movement, but he doesn’t release you. He turns your hand over, eyes dropping to your palm as he chews his bottom lip into his mouth before lifting your hand to his face and pressing his lips against your fingers.

“It’s been a month.” He says quietly, lips ghosting the words over your hand. “Almost to the day.”

“I know.” Your core throbs with a sudden burst of arousal at the feeling of his mouth on you and the memory of his mouth on you.

“You haven’t been back.”

“Roman… thought it was best he find another dealer.” Your voice is little more than a whisper, and Eric’s cock twitches at the wrecked edge to it as you press your thighs together.

“That’s what Roman thinks, huh?” He lifts his eyes to yours then, endless pools of green rimmed in messy dark liner. His lips pull into a crooked smirk. “What do you think? You wanted to stay away from me too?”

You press your lips into a tight line as he returns his mouth to your hand, dragging his full lips lazily over your palm before pressing a firmer kiss to your wrist. “Things have been good. With him.” It isn’t a denial exactly, and Eric lets himself feel a little sting of hope in his chest as he pulls you closer and peppers soft kisses up the expanse of your forearm.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You freeze, the breath turning to ice in your lungs as you stare at him. “You can’t say that to me.”

“I can.” He releases your arm finally, and you shuffle back against the opposite side of the couch, bringing your knees up to your chest. This gives Eric a view of your ass in your tiny little hot-pant pajamas, and he shifts in his seat as his cock thickens in his jeans. “I just did.” His smile is almost playful, but his heart is hammering in his chest as he analyzes every micro-expression passing over your pretty face.

“You can’t think about me like that. It isn’t… it isn’t possible.”

Eric pushes a breath out through his mouth before facing you again. “I can’t fucking stop thinking about you, actually. I've tried.”

You make a little sound then, and Eric’s eyes snap to your mouth as your lips part around it. So close to a moan and a little like a sob. He wants to hear it again.

“Try harder.”

He shakes his head as he climbs properly onto the couch, pinning you against the armrest as he hovers over you. He braces his strong hands beside your head, the muscles in his arms flexing under the ink on his skin as he leans in close enough to kiss you. “Been trying for a month, princess. I can’t do it. Can’t quit you.”

You don’t think. You lean up, feeling the hard planes of his body against your chest as you press your lips to his, and Eric dissolves into you with a single, delicious exhale. It’s like the first fix after a stint in rehab, both a comfort and a curse as his blood thrums too fast in his veins and his stomach churns like he’s gunna throw up. Addict, addict, addict. He’s an addict through and through and he’s addicted to you. Inconvenient, when you have a boyfriend you love more than anything. Downright suicidal when that boyfriend is Roman Godfrey. But kissing you, feeling the creeping of your fingers around the back of his neck as you pull him closer, and the taste of your tongue when he licks your lips open is worth the risk. Is worth any risk. His cock is hard now, and he lowers himself flush against you to grind his erection down against your core through your little damp pants.

You gasp, breaking the kiss and tugging on his hair, and Eric forces himself to pull back. “Eric,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of him rutting against you. “Oh fuck, Eric. We can’t.”

“Leave him.” Eric moans, cupping your jaw and letting his palm press against your throat. “I could make you happy. You know I could.”

You whimper at the press of his palm and the hot, possessive curl of his fingers against your jaw as you soak the thin cotton of your pants. “I can’t just—I love him.”

Eric growls, the sound coming out like frustration even as his heart aches over the admission. “You want me, too.” He doesn’t dare suggest you love him, not when he’s terrified to hear you disagree.

“Yes,” you whisper, tugging harder on his hair. “Oh fuck yes, I want you.”

He pulls back properly then, bracing against the arm of the couch at your back as the leather creaks in protest. “Let me show you. Let me show you how good I can be for you.”

He licks over his lips, eyes so dark with lust that you’re drowning in them. This is it. This is the last moment to stop him, to kick him out, to call Roman and beg him to come home and remind you why you’re his.

You feel the heavy twitching of his cock against you, and your eyes drop to where he strains against the distressed fabric of his black jeans, and your fist closes in the front of his shirt as you pull him back against you and wrap your legs around his hips.

Eric undresses you with reverence. It isn’t like before, when nerves and the weight of Roman’s fury had made his hands shake. Now he has you all to himself, looking up at him with parted lips and blush-stained cheeks, and he takes his fucking time. He rubs carefully over your core, biting his lip to suppress a moan at how soaked you are, and you wriggle against his hand. “Goddamn,” he whispers. “You’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you. This all for me?”

“Yes.” You tilt your hips up towards him. “Please, Eric. Please, I need… more.” You swallow as your cheeks heat with embarrassment, but Eric rewards you with his thumbs in the waistband of your pajamas as he rolls the fabric down your thighs and your exposed core drops down onto the dark leather beneath you.

“Yeah,” he hums, pushing two fingers against you to part your folds so he can watch your slick glisten against your swelling clit. “Just like I remember.” He watches his own tattooed fingers disappear inside you, and your back arches off the couch with a little moan. He’s aching now, and he tugs his button and zipper loose so he can pull his cock out of his boxers and squeeze his base to relieve a little pressure.

“Please,” you whimper, trying desperately to grind down against his hand. Eric wiggles his fingers inside you, testing the tight resistance of your muscles as his thumb finds your clit and taps it lightly.

“You should leave him,” he says again, voice like gravel as he curls his fingers and tugs them half out before pushing back in. “He’s no good for you.”

“Yeah?” You moan, head dropping back against the hard arm of the couch. “He loves me.”

“He’s selfish,” Eric mumbles, leaning forward to dribble a thick slick of spit onto your pussy before rubbing it into your clit. “Don’t like how he talks to you.”

You grit your teeth as his thumb coaxes your clit to swell to the point of pain, the rough in and out drag of his fingers pulling you back and forth against the leather sticking to your exposed skin. “You just don’t…” You break off with a choked little moan as Eric hits your most sensitive spot, and your legs try to clamp around his arm. He holds you open easily, and you watch the taut ripple of muscle and ink as he pushes your thighs apart. “Know him.”

Eric hums, pulling out of you and rolling your clit between his thumb and forefinger. “I know his type. Spoiled little rich boy, treats everybody like the fuckin help.” A muscle ticks in his jaw, and you feel your stomach flip over with anxiety at the severe knitting of his brows as his mouth pulls down into a frown.

“There’s more to him than that.” You don’t know why you’re still arguing, why you’re defending the most spoiled man you’ve ever met. Eric releases your clit and gathers your arousal on his fingers, leaning back to wrap his hand around his cock and slicking himself up.

“He pimped you out for a fucking ego trip,” he says, voice a low growl of sound. “He doesn’t know what he’s got.”

You swallow, hips lifting as though you can draw him back to you. “Please, Eric. Don’t you wanna touch me?”

Eric bites his bottom lip, eyes glazing over as he works his fist up and down his leaking cock, and you feel a fresh slick of arousal soak the couch beneath you as you watch him touch himself. “I wanna be inside you. Wanna fill you up again.”

You whine, sitting up and reaching for him. You tug his hand away from his cock and guide him closer, pulling him over you as you settle back against the couch. You feel the hot press of his cock against your entrance, and you bear down to pull him into your heat. “I want it too. Never been so full.”

Eric moans, pressing his lips to yours as he sinks his considerable length into you. “Just for us,” he whispers into your mouth, pulling half out and pushing back in. You wrap your legs around his hips, clamping down on his cock with shameless need as Eric ruts against you. “Not because he wants it.”

Your eyes roll back as his length grazes against your sensitive walls with every thrust, and you reach down to rub at the swollen bud of your clit as arousal tightens in your stomach. “Cuz we want it,” you whimper, and it’s music to Eric. It’s the best fucking thing he’s ever heard.

“You deserve better.” He spits, sitting back on his heels and lifting your legs to brace against his shoulders. You’re split open at this angle, and Eric pushes your fingers away to touch you himself as you writhe beneath him.

“I’m so… fuck,” you groan. “So full, Eric.”

He loves it when you say his name like that. His thumb rubs silky circles against your clit as his cock twitches and thickens inside you, and he knows it won’t be long. Not when he’s been jerking off and thinking about exactly this for weeks. Not when you look up at him with tears beading on your lashes and absolute, carnal hunger in your pretty eyes. “I’m gunna come,” he whimpers, hips snapping hard against yours.

There’s a burning stretch along the backs of your calves, but your own orgasm is right there and you focus on that building pleasure.

“Me too,” you whisper, biting down hard on your lip. “Don’t stop. Please, please, please, please-ohhh.” You cum with a moan, your walls clamping down so hard on Eric’s cock it almost hurts. He feels the fluttering pulse in your clit as you ride against his hand, and his own orgasm is dragged out of him by the prison of your body as you milk every drop of his release into your greedy cunt.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you wail, pleasure rolling through you in endless, electric waves as he pulses and spills inside you. Eric holds on as long as he can, even as his cock softens and the relentless pull of your muscles starts to hurt.

Eventually you sigh, dropping boneless to the couch, and Eric slips out of you with a grunt of discomfort.

“Oh, well don’t stop.”

*

Your blood turns to poisonous sludge in your veins at the cruel, cold drawl of his voice from the doorway. Eric’s eyes meet yours, his own alert and wide, and you scramble to pull your shorts back up as Eric tucks his cock away and turns to face your boyfriend.

Roman’s leaning against the door, a mean smirk fixed on his face even though his insides are churning with such potent rage he can barely even see you. Eric stays right there, staring him down whilst shielding you from him, and the fury in Roman’s blood ignites as he pushes away from the door and crosses the room.

His eyes do flick to Eric’s beer on the bare table, his lip curling up in distaste as you knew it would, but then his unsettling eyes fix on you and your stomach bottoms out. “Roman, it’s not-“

“Shut your lying whore mouth.”

Your lips snap shut, your teeth knocking together with the force of the command, and Eric’s shoulders square as he blocks your body with his own. His hair is a little damp with sweat, the shaggy ends of his mullet curling against his neck, and he looks thoroughly fucked. At least you’d made it count.

“She didn’t ask me to come here.” Eric says slowly. “This just happened.”

“Yeah, I just watched it happen.” Roman says, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “For a big guy you really don’t have the stamina, do you?”

A muscle ticks in Eric’s jaw, and Roman feels a little thrill of adrenaline from poking at the bear. “You just stood there watching?” He snaps. “I guess I shoulda known.”

Roman steps closer, hinging at the waist to bring his face so close to Eric’s he could lean in and bite his fucking nose off if he wanted to. That’d serve the piece of shit right. “Watch it.”

“Yeah. You do, don’t you, Godfrey? You like to watch. You like to be cucked.”

Roman’s fist swings, connecting with the side of Eric’s face and sending him reeling. His head snaps back, eyes on fire as a scarlet welt blooms across his sharp cheekbone.

Roman won’t admit that punching him had hurt, that his knuckles feel like they’ve been shattered against the sculpted bones of the other man’s face.

If you hadn’t been sitting so close, if Eric hadn’t been able to feel how terrified you were, he’d have hit back. He’d have beaten Roman’s privileged ass until he begged for mercy. But with you sitting there he can’t do it. He just can’t.

“The last guy to hit me like that ended up in the hospital.” Eric says carefully, his voice low and disconcertingly calm. “Do it again and you’ll be breathing through a tube if you’re breathing at all.”

Roman smirks, even as his cock twitches at the thought of his blood filling his mouth and splashing over Eric’s face and your slutty bare thighs. “You want her?”

Eric blinks at him, at the complete shift in the tension from violence to something else. “What?”

Roman’s eyes rake over you, and your force yourself to meet his indifference. “Do you want her?”

“I… I just… I mean…” Eric rubs a hand over the back of his head, hating himself even as he’s drawn in. “What do you mean?”

Roman sighs like Eric is slow, like it’s the most obvious thing in the goddamn universe. “Do you want her? Do you want me to dump her whore ass so you can make her your slutty little girlfriend?”

Eric swallows, shoulders tensing as his heart hammers in his chest.

“Roman, you can’t just-“ Your voice is sharp and wounded.

“Yes.” Eric cuts you off, and you slump back against the couch. You hadn’t thought Eric would entertain… whatever this was.

Roman’s smirk widens. “You play a little game with me, and you can have her.”

“A game.” Eric repeats slowly.

“Just a game,” Roman coos, stepping closer and reaching past Eric to cup your jaw. Your eyes close at the contact and you lean into his palm. Roman hums in approval, thumb stroking over your mouth. “I love her, you know.” Your eyes open, brimming with hope so openly vulnerable it almost makes Roman sick. “I want her to be happy. Want her satisfied.” A throb rocks through you, your clit pulsing with fresh desire as his words settle over you. “So show me.”

Eric licks his lips. “Show you… make her cum?”

He’s already moving, his hands reaching for your thighs.

“Noooo,” Roman coos, palming his growing bulge until Eric’s eyes drop. “Show me. Make me cum.”

“No.” The word is out automatically, even if Eric’s own cock is growing stiffer by the second. Even if Roman’s blissed out face and the long, tanned lines of his unblemished body flash in Eric’s head sometimes when he’s touching himself at night. Even if he can still taste the ghost of Roman’s lips on his every time he smokes weed.

“I thought you wanted her badly,” Roman teases, squeezing the outline of his cock through his slacks. “You’re willing to be a fucking homewrecker but you’re not willing to suck a cock to get her? Tragic.”

He turns to you, pushing his thumb into your mouth. “I guess he isn’t willing to go the distance for you, baby.”

You suck obediently on his thumb, and Eric feels a flash of panicked jealousy surge through him as he knocks Roman’s hand away from you and yanks his pants open rough enough to break the zipper.

Roman huffs a little chuckle, flicking hair from his eyes as Eric tugs his cock from his boxers and jerks him roughly. It’s different, the callouses on Eric’s fingers and the sheer fucking size of his hand wrapped around his length. “Yeah.” Roman huffs. “Good fucking boy.”

Eric’s cock leaks fresh precum into his jeans as he runs his thumb over the head of Roman’s cock and drags his fist down, flexing his long fingers against the underside as he works Roman’s length. “This how you touch yourself when you think about my girl?” Roman asks, his voice rough with building pleasure. “You think about her when you jerk your filthy fucking cock?”

Eric licks his lips, squeezing impossibly tighter until Roman yelps. “Yeah, I think about her.” He spits. “Think about how good she felt cumming on my cock whilst you cried about it.”

Roman reaches for Eric’s hair, fisting the choppy dyed strands and dragging his face against him. Eric releases his grip on Roman’s cock, and the sticky head of it bobs against his closed lips.

“Suck it.” Roman spits. “Suck my fucking cock, you pathetic piece of – shiiiiit,” Roman breaks off with a moan as Eric wraps his lips around the head of Roman’s cock and sucks hard enough to melt Roman’s brain.

He hums against Roman’s length, surprised that he doesn’t hate the musky taste of his precum or the feeling of his cock in his mouth. Eric had always considered himself a little biflexible, though he’d never much explored it outside of make-outs at parties when he was usually too wasted to know who he was kissing. But he thinks maybe, maybe he likes this. He wishes it wasn’t Roman Godfrey’s cock in his mouth, even as his own cock throbs at the sight of the man’s face dissolving into pleasure.

Roman’s fists tug harder on Eric’s hair as he pushes his face down against his crotch, and Roman’s tip hits the back of Eric’s throat. Tears spring hot to his eyes, streaking through the messy kohl ringing his eyes, and he’s about to tap out when he feels a featherlight touch on his cheek. He glances to the side as best he can with Roman Godfrey fucking his face, and you’re there. Your own eyes brimming with tears, your lips parting on a little moan as you lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, right where Roman’s cock is driving in and out of the stretch of his lips.

“So good, Eric.” You whisper. “You’re taking him so good.”

Eric’s eyes roll back at how completely, violently depraved this whole thing is.

“I know,” you soothe. “I know exactly how it feels. Keep… fuck, keep doing that. Let him use your throat, Eric. Let me tell you what he likes.” Eric’s half listening, half trying to focus on not reaching between his own legs to touch himself. But then he hears the slick, wet sound of your fingers working in and out of your hole, and he looks down to confirm that your hand is moving erratically inside your pants and he moans around Roman’s cock.

“Goddamn,” Roman groans, snapping his hips faster as his length pushes into Eric’s throat. “You’re such a little fucking slut.”

You look up at Roman, biting your bottom lip as you work your fingers against your clit. “I can’t help it.” You whimper.

“No.” He rolls his eyes, yanking hard enough on Eric’s hair that he practically sobs as Roman withdraws his cock from his throat.

“You’re hard, Draven. From sucking my cock?”

Eric scoffs, but he doesn’t try to hide the prominent jut of his erection against his jeans. “It’s for her.”

You flush, reaching out to run your fingers over his swollen mouth and collect the slick of saliva and precum from his lips. “My heart fucking bleeds for you.” Roman drawls. “You think you can take my load before she takes yours?”

Eric swallows thickly, feeling the sting in his throat where Roman had already brutalised it. “I don’t know, man.”

Roman hums, rubbing his thumb teasingly over the head of his cock. “Just her hand. She’s got nice hands, doesn’t she?”

Eric bites his lip, and Roman reaches to pinch his chin and force his mouth open. “Go on, sweetheart.”

You reach for Eric’s cock, tugging it out of his jeans and wrapping a fist around him. “It’s okay, Eric.” You whisper. “It’ll be over soon.”

Eric isn’t sure if the churning in his stomach is because you’re wrong or because you’re right. He leans in to wrap his lips around Roman’s cock again, laving his tongue against the underside. The benefit of having a cock is knowing roughly what feels good, and Eric employs every bit of his own experience to the task as he pushes his tongue into the salty slit at Roman’s tip before flicking against his frenulum.

You shimmy down between his legs to suck his cock then, and Eric moans at the feeling of your mouth on him as you slick his length with saliva.

“Not your mouth.” Roman warns, and you pull away, licking over your lips as you wrap your hand around Eric’s cock and jerk your fist up and down his length.

Eric’s eyes roll back at the feeling of your slicked hand on him, and he rocks back and forth to thrust into your hand as Roman’s hips begin to tilt towards his face to meet each bob of his head.

“Make him cum, baby.” He orders, and you twist your fist over the head of his cock with each rough jerk. Eric whines around his full mouth, spit spilling from the corners of his lips as Roman’s cock pushes into his throat again.

“You look so good,” you whisper to Eric, pecking his cheek and feeling unbearable waves of arousal roll through you at the sight of your boyfriend’s cock hollowing out Eric’s cheeks. “You’re doing so well.”

Eric hums, and Roman’s hips stutter as the vibration nearly tips him over the edge. “Tell him you want him.” He spits through gritted teeth, pulling back enough to let his cock rest against Eric’s tongue as you swallow thickly.

“I want you, Eric. How could… how could I not?”

Eric sobs as he cums, spilling over your fist and staining the dark fabric of his jeans as your words undo him. He’s still so sensitive from being inside you, and the weighty meat of Roman’s cock against his tongue is simultaneously grounding and so impossibly hot he can barely stand it. Roman pulls roughly out of his mouth, and Eric slumps against the front of the couch, chest heaving as his cock twitches in your palm.

“Good girl.” Roman says, offering you a tiny, terrifying smile as he wraps your hair around his fist and pulls you up. “Go get cleaned up.”

You don’t want to. Don’t want to leave Eric alone with him, don’t want to leave either of them alone without you. But Roman’s grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain, and you stumble from the room on shaking legs with shame and anxiety churning in your stomach.

“You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you?” Roman sighs, dropping into a crouch beside Eric and running his fingers through the cooling cum splashed across his thighs before roughly taking Eric’s cock in his hand and jerking him with such violence that Eric actually does cry a little.

“You thought you could steal from me? From me?” Roman asks, releasing his cock and wrapping his slick fist around his own cock again. “Thought you could come into my house and steal my girl like a fucking gypsy in the night?” Fury builds in Eric even as Roman laces his fingers into his hair and pulls his face close again, pressing the man’s cheek against his thigh as his fist becomes a blur against his cock. “You thought I’d give her to you?”

Roman scoffs, the sound morphing into a broken moan as he comes, spurting his release over Eric’s face and committing the disgusting sight of the man’s lips coated in him to memory. “People like… people like you don’t get people like her.” He stammers, squeezing every last drop out of his tip before releasing himself and smearing his cum over Eric’s face. “Maybe I let you fuck her from time to time, if I’m feeling like it. But you can’t have her. Nod if you understand.”

Eric is thinking about all the ways he’s going to make Roman Godfrey pay for this, even as he nods against his thigh and licks Roman’s cum from his lips. Because he will pay for it. For the disrespect, for the deception. For awakening a new hunger in Eric Draven that will only be satiated by taking more than just you from the entitled piece of shit.

Because he is going to take you from Roman, as an act of love and one of mercy. But he isn’t going to stop there, not anymore. He isn’t going to stop until he’s had Roman Godfrey, too.

The shower shuts off, and you pad into the room in just a towel. Your hair is damp, your skin scrubbed clean and still steaming. Roman tilts his head to the side, just looking, before he pats his thigh. You hesitate for only a moment, glancing at Eric slumped against the couch on his other side. His shoulders rise and fall steadily, so you know Roman hasn’t killed him at least. His eyes are glassy as he looks up at you, lips slick with cum and spit and swollen from Roman’s rough treatment.

“You really wore him out,” Roman murmurs, snatching a handful of your bare thigh as you settle onto his knee. “But you didn’t get to cum, did you? You had to jerk his pathetic cock and watch me get sucked off and nobody touched you.”

You swallow, eyes darkening at the teasing tone in Roman’s voice as his fingers crawl up your thigh. “No. It’s okay.”

“Noooo,” he coos. “I heard him before. Telling you to leave me. Telling you how happy he’d make you. Filling your cunt with his filthy fucking cum without my permission. Isn’t that right?”

You can only nod, eyes fixed on Eric where he stares up at you with a dazed expression on his face. You know that look. You’ve been that look. It’s the look of a person whose been forced into a subspace they didn’t know they had the capacity to exist in, under Roman Godfrey’s control. Your stomach twists with anxious sympathy for him. Nobody survives Roman. Nobody.

“So lets see, huh?” He continues, pulling you against his chest so he can nuzzle the sharp point of his nose against your neck. “Lets see who can make you fucking happy.”

You moan softly at the brush of his lips against your skin as his fingers disappear under your towel and cup your pussy. “Whatever you want, Rome.” You sigh.

“What do you say, Draven?” Roman asks, using his free hand to pinch Eric’s chin and turn his face up. He doesn’t even bother to look down at the man, focused solely on nipping at your exposed throat. He doesn’t see the hardening glint in Eric’s eyes as he nods in his grip.

“Whatever you want, Godfrey.”

Roman hums, satisfied with his pretty, slutty little dolls. “You wanna go to Paris, baby?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you look at Eric again. His eyes are fixed on you now, and he bites the corner of his lip into his mouth. “I… I’ve never seen the Eiffel tower.”

Roman chuckles, the sound sending skitters of heat down your chest to pebble your nipples. “Oh sweetheart. You’ll see it tonight. That’s a goddamn promise.”

He lifts you off his lap, depositing you on the couch as he pushes up to a stand and clicks his fingers at Eric. “You’re taking her mouth. You’ve had her cunt already.”

Eric doesn’t mind, not at all, and he rises to his full height on legs that ache from being bent against the floor for so long. You look up at the two men, comparing them. Eric might have an inch on Roman, but he might not. He’s certainly broader, a product of late nights at the gym, and all his ink makes him look older, more rugged. Roman’s face is a little fuller, not yet completely rid of the softness of adolescence, and you wonder how much older Eric is. Five years? Seven?

The men stare at each other for a moment, a smirk on Roman’s face and a calculated look of something disquieting on Eric’s. It’s like they’re having a silent conversation, a battle of wills, and you feel an absurd pang of jealousy.

“Please.” You say, and both men turn their heads to look at you. The similarity in the way they move is eery, and you press your thighs together.

Eric’s face softens first, and he reaches for you without permission, cupping your jaw and hinging at the waist to kiss your mouth. You can still taste Roman’s cum on his tongue, and you moan into the kiss at how hot and disgusting and disgustingly hot that is. Roman wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you up, the towel dropping onto the floor as he manouvers you to press against his chest.

You break the kiss as he plants a hand on the small of your back and pushes you down, bending you in half as his hand grips your hip and pulls you back against his cock. “I think you’re too short for this.”

You make an annoyed sound of protest, and Roman delivers a little tap to your bare ass. "Get on the couch.”

You obey immediately, climbing back onto the couch and settling onto all fours.

Eric’s cock is out again, angry and red from his previous releases as he runs his fingers up and down the stiffening length. “You gunna let me in that pretty mouth, princess?”

Roman grits his teeth as you nod, his own cock leaking sticky droplets of precum as he climbs onto the couch behind you and brushes his cock through your folds. You’re not as wet as he’d like, having wasted it on the fucking shower. “I’m not gunna go easy on you,” he murmurs softly as he pushes into you. “You wanna behave like a whore and I’ll treat you like one.”

You whimper at the sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness arching your back, and Roman groans as he pulls all the way out and slams back in.

You wince, and Eric feels a bolt of fury rock through him. You watch the tension in his face, the way his hands ball into fists at his sides. “Eric, please,” you whisper. “Please let me taste it.”

Eric swallows, his cock leaking in his fist even though he’s still half focused on the pain on your face. “You don’t have to.”

“She does.” Roman spits, snapping his hips against your ass so fast his balls make a slap, slap, slap sound against your neglected clit.

“I want it.” You lick over your lips. “C’mon. Make me happy.”

Eric sighs as he guides his cock towards your face. He knows it’s not right, that none of this has been right since the moment Roman crashed the fucking party, but at the feeling of your wet, warm mouth wrapping around his tip all thoughts of right and wrong dissolve into desire.

His fingers thread into your hair, not to push but to caress, scratching his nails lightly against your scalp until you hum against his length. “Shit, princess. Shit, you’re so good at that.”

You look up at him through your lashes, injecting every bit of desire into your gaze as you press forward, dragging his length along your tongue as you let the head of his cock press against the tight entrance to your throat.

“Up top, Draven.” Eric forces his eyes away from the frankly transcendent sight of you swallowing his cock to look at Roman, who has his hand up for a fucking high five.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes, flicking damp hair off his forehead with an agitated jerk of his head. “Eiffel Tower, man.”

Eric almost ignores him, but Roman’s being playful and not awful right now, so he untangles one hand from your hair and slaps his palm against Roman’s.

“Fuck yeah!” Roman laughs, returning his hand to your other hip and dragging you back against him harder. “God, baby. You want me to rub your clit?”

You moan around Eric’s cock, and Roman bites his lip at how good you sound before he fumbles around your body to roll his thumb over your clit.

You spasm around his cock immediately, your muscles fluttering as you whimper against Eric’s cock, and both men grunt in surprised approval at the change in your performance.

“Shit, I’m not gunna last if you keep doing that,” Eric mutters, his stomach tightening as you swallow around his cock and squeeze the sensitive head into the tight column of your throat.

“You gotta cum for me,” Roman coos, circling the sensitive bud with the exact pressure he knows you like best. “You want me to fill you up you gotta cum for me first.”

You hum, and Eric’s fingers tighten in your hair as he shoots his load down your throat. He hadn’t had time to warn you, his orgasm taking him completely by surprise, and he makes a strangled yelping sound as he comes. Roman watches him fall apart, watches him stroke your hair back from your face even as he’s in the fucking middle of his orgasm, and his stomach tightens with a mean jealousy.

He runs his fingers against your folds, collecting your slick and rubbing it back up over your clit until your legs begin to shake and your cunt flutters around him in a steady, pulsing rhythm.

Eric pulls his cock out of your mouth and you suck in a sharp breath. “Close, Roman.”

“I know,” he says with a breathless chuckle. “Come on now, let it go.”

Your eyes roll back as you focus on his fingers, on unravelling the tight knot in your stomach. You look up at Eric, whose eyes are flitting from your face to Roman’s and back again with a hungry longing that’s so fucking desperate that you lose it, tumbling over the edge and sobbing a garbled string of praises and pleas and thank yous, all mixed in with their names.

Roman fucks you through the aftershocks, only releasing your clit when you’re actually crying, and he buries his cock as deep as he can as he comes, coating your insides with the final claiming of the night, as it fucking should be.

Your knees give out and you drop heavily onto your stomach, turning your face to the side and pillowing your cheek on your arms as your eyes droop.

“Think we broke her.” Roman mutters, and you feel his familiar touch ghosting over your spine.

“You okay, princess?” Eric asks, and you feel his familiar, careful touch smoothing your hair away from your neck.

“Why do you call her that?” Roman snaps. “She isn’t a fucking princess.”

Eric sighs, and you try so, so hard to remain conscious, desperate to hear the ending of this conversation. “Roman, man. The fact that you can’t see just how fucking special she is, is exactly why you’re gunna lose her.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick.” Eric reaches out to smooth a stray lock of hair away from Roman’s face, and Roman hates the way his heart skips a beat at the casual affection. “But if she was mine? I’d worship her. All the time.”

“I love her.” Roman mumbles, tracing patterns on your bare skin. “I don’t think I can give her more than that.”

“And that’s been enough for a long time.” Eric says carefully. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

The two men sit in silence for a moment, caressing your skin and your hair as you're lulled into sleep.

“I’d give you this.”

Eric’s brows furrow as he looks at the pinched desperation on Roman’s face.

“Give me what?”

Roman’s fingers glide down your spine, coming to rest on the curve of your ass. “We could do this. Together, I mean. Not all the time, but-“

“That’s fucked up, Godfrey.” Eric hates that he’s considering it.

“Don’t take her from me.” Roman’s bottom lip juts out in an absurd, pathetic pout. “I know she’s too good for me. I know I’m not good, and I do shitty things and I don’t fuckin know why I do them. But don’t take her from me, Eric.”

Eric can’t believe he’s feeling sorry for Roman fucking Godfrey, but the man looks so broken and pathetic as he pleads, his big green eyes unblinking and miserable. “She’s not a thing, man. I can’t take her. But I won’t stop her if she wants to leave you.”

Roman hangs his head. “Then you should get the fuck out of my house.” When he lifts his face to Eric’s the mean, hard set of his expression is back and Eric feels his spine straightening with the challenge of it. “And if I catch you sniffing around my girlfriend again I’ll kill you myself. Nobody’d miss a junkie street rat anyway.”

Eric swallows, his knuckles curling into his fists, but then you mumble something in your sleep, your pretty mouth curving up into a soft smile, and Eric sags. He isn’t going to beat Roman Godfrey into a bloody pulp, even if he deserves it. Because for an inexplicable reason Eric can’t figure out, you love the bastard. And until he can convince you that loving Roman Godfrey is a bad habit, he’ll have to play nice. He’ll have to play the game.

So he slips off the couch, rebuttoning his jeans and allowing himself one last look at how sweet and soft and warm you look curled up against a man who doesn’t deserve any of it. “She said you’d switched supplier.”

Roman shrugs.

“I just got a shipment of pills like you wouldn’t believe. Come by if you want a freebie.”

Roman shrugs again, but there’s a spark of interest in his eyes that Eric recognizes. Addicts know addicts, and he’s certain he’ll be seeing Roman Godfrey, and by extension you again very soon.

You twirl in the mirror, admiring the soft flow of tulle and lace over your curves from every angle. The assistant peeks her head around the curtain and hums approvingly. “A perfect fit.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror and smile. “I think my boyfriend will really like it.”

“He’d be crazy not to. Just make sure he doesn’t pull on the straps too hard. This piece isn’t as… robust as the garments we usually charge to Mr Godfrey’s account.”

You flush, thinking about the assortment of thickly banded teddies and corsets and bras Roman has picked out for you in the past. Everything black, often leather and lace. One particularly vicious-looking corset studded with little steel spikes that he likes to feel needling against his balls when he fucks your tits.

You press your legs together, biting the corner of your lip into your mouth. “He might… this might be a little too…”

“No.” The assistant says firmly. “Men like variety. For most couples, the other items would be spicing it up. For Mr Godfrey… this is different. This will surprise him.”

You nod, running your fingertips down the carefully embroidered butterflies on the floaty bodice. “He might laugh at me.”

The woman scoffs. “Honey, if a red-blooded man sees you in this and laughs, I’d be questioning more than his taste in lingerie.”

*

The lights are off when Roman gets home, and he drops his bag to the floor beside the door with a sigh. He’d missed dinner, and the leftovers he knows you’ll have put in the fridge hold little appeal. He’s cold, cold from being stuck in the clinical environment of the White Tower for much too long, enduring meetings and emails and mindless office chatter whilst you wandered around his home, curled up in his bed.

You’d sent him pictures today. You didn’t do that all the time, like you were afraid your constant contact would bother him, and Roman had never corrected you on that even though he missed you almost all the time.

But you’d sent him pictures today, and every new image had clenched at his heart and sent throbs of desire through his cock. Your morning tea, sunning on his counter. The little moustache of cappuccino foam on your pretty mouth as you took a selfie in the coffee shop in town. And then a picture of your pretty, delicate fingers wrapped around the handle of a very familiar bag from Roman’s favourite store. He’d know the elegant black bag with the embossed golden script anywhere, and his cock had perked up at the sight of it. You’d captioned it simply ‘come home to us’ and Roman hadn’t been able to think about anything else for the rest of the day.

He slips his shoes off and pads silently upstairs, following the waxy scent of candles and the sound of soft acoustic pop filtering out of the bedroom. His breath hitches as he pushes the door open, but you’re not on the bed. The sheets are rumpled like you’d just vacated it, and Roman crosses the room and sinks down onto the still-warm mattress, running his fingers over the pillow that smells like your perfume.

“Is that you, Roman?” You call from the adjoining bathroom, and Roman sighs.

“Yeah. Sorry I’m so late.”

“It’s okay.”

“I kept fucking things up.” He says, loosening his tie before pulling it from the collar of his shirt. “You sent me that picture and I checked out.”

He hears your giggle echoing in the bathroom and feels a stupid smile spreading over his face.

“Should I say I’m sorry?”

“No.” He unbuttons his shirt, his cock twitching and thickening at just the memory of the photo like he’s developed an overwhelming pavlovian response to that fucking store.

“Good, because I’m not.”

“You gunna come out and show me what you bought, or am I going to have to come in there?”

“I…” you break off, and Roman tenses at the sudden shift in your tone, even when you’ve only uttered a single syllable. “I bought something different.”

“Okay,” Roman says slowly, shrugging out of his shirt and rubbing his palm absently over his hardening cock to relieve some of the pressure. “There isn’t anything you could have bought in there that I won’t like.”

You huff a laugh. “Not even a monster strap-on?”

Roman almost chokes on his own surprised laugh, though the thought of you bending him over and railing him isn’t as unappealing as he expects it to be. “Did you buy a monster strap-on?”

You sigh loudly, cracking the door open and poking your head out. “Worse.”

“Worse,” he mumbles, palming himself harder as he takes in your artfully styled ‘messy’ hair and the soft warmth of your skin. “Color me intrigued.”

“Promise not to laugh.”

You sound shy, and Roman’s heart throbs along with his cock. “Scouts honor.” He holds up three fingers, and you sigh before pushing the door wide and stepping out.

You brace for the laughter, the teasing, but it doesn’t come. Roman doesn’t make any sound at all, and you open your eyes to find him frozen, unblinking eyes fixed on you. “Well don’t say nothing. That’s worse.” You mumble, fiddling with the delicate hem of the teddy where it brushes against your thigh. “Roman.”

He blinks, shaking his head. “Baby.” The word comes out low and strangled. “It’s pink.”

You feel your cheeks heat as you bite your bottom lip into your mouth. “I know you like black, but I thought-“

Roman is up and across the room before you have a chance to finish the thought, his hands searing against your skin through the fabric as he pushes you back against the wall. “I like this.”

He dips his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck as his fingers roam over the floaty fabric covering your body. He finds the hem of the nightdress and slips underneath, moaning against your skin at the softness of your stomach as he brushes over the underside of your breasts.

“I thought… I was worried that you’d think,” you mumble, breaking off with a gasp as Roman presses his stiff cock against you, prominent even through the double barrier of his pants and boxers.

“You thought what?” He asks, lips swollen as he pulls away to rake his eyes over your body. “Goddamn, you’re so fucking hot.”

You flush, arching away from the wall and reaching to rub your hand over the bulge in his pants. “I was worried you’d think it was dumb. Like, babyish.”

Roman scoffs, eyes darkening as he watches you fondle his cock. “Babyish?” His hips tilt forward against your hand and a soft moan slips past his lips. “You look like a virgin. Like a… fucking slutty virgin.”

You lick your lips, slipping your free hand under your nightgown to tease against the soaked lace of your own panties. “You make me so wet.”

Roman groans, knocking your hand away from his cock as he reaches for your face with both hands and pushes his tongue into your mouth. You slip a finger past the barrier of your underwear and find the swollen bud of your clit, caressing against it with light little touches that have you whimpering into his mouth.

He pulls back a little, nipping at your bottom lip. “You’re still touching yourself? You that desperate for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, dropping all pretence as pleasure washes through you. “I need you. I needed you all day.”

Roman hums, stepping back enough to watch the frantic movement of your hand in your underwear. “You look so pure,” he groans, lowering slowly to his knees until his face is just inches from your covered core. “But you’re so fucking filthy for me.”

You whine, reaching your free hand to cup his jaw. “Please, Roman.”

He licks his lips, pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black. “You want me to touch you? Taste you?”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth. “Please.”

Roman reaches for you, pushing the hem of your nightgown up before carefully taking your wrist and pulling your hand away from your pussy. “I can’t promise these little panties are gunna survive the night.”

You moan, your head dropping back against the wall. “That’s okay. I… that’s okay.”

Roman hums, hooking his fingers into the thin waistband and tugging. The panties don’t move, not with the string of the thong wedged in your ass and your slick sticking the lace to your folds. “Fuck, look at this.” He traces his fingers over the soaked fabric. “I’ve never been jealous of underwear before.”

You giggle, a drunk, hysterical little sound, and Roman flashes you a feral grin before he dips his head under your floaty skirt and sucks the soaked fabric into his mouth and between his teeth.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation of his breath so close to your sensitive core, and you fist his hair. “Please, Roman.”

He huffs against you as he pulls back, and there’s a stretch, a sharp sting as the straps securing your underwear cut against your soft flesh. And then a snap. Roman rocks back, emerging from beneath your skirt with your panties still secured in his teeth.

“Fuck, Roman,” you gasp, releasing his hair to rub at the chafe mark on your hip. “That hurt.”

Roman drops your panties into his hand, pocketing them before leaning back in and kissing your clit. “Sorry, sweetheart.” The smirk on his face suggests he’s not sorry at all, and you roll your eyes as he latches his lips to your clit and sucks it into his mouth.

“Roman,” you whisper, fingers threading back into his hair to pull him close you as you roll your hips against his face. “God, please don’t stop.”

Roman grunts in affirmation, pushing two fingers into you without warning and curling his fingers back towards himself in a fluttering motion. You feel your arousal slicking his face, drenching him, but his eyes are wide and dark and glassy as he looks up at you through his lashes, and your clit throbs incessantly at the delicious sight of him.

He pulls away long enough to mumble a “come for me,” before licking you aggressively in long, wide stripes, encouraging the friction as you rock against his face. It doesn’t take long for the coil of pleasure in your stomach to tighten into an unbearable tension, and your legs shake as your release washes through you with a cry of his name.

Roman swallows every drop of you greedily, mercilessly sucking and licking and nipping at your clit as you twitch first towards him and then away, pressing your ass back against the wall to escape the overstimulation.

“Roman please,” you whimper, pulling on his hair harder than you ever have before. “Please stop.”

Roman moans against you at the sharp tug against his hair, his cock twitching in the confines of his pants at the pain. He pulls away, looking up at you with big, innocent eyes. “Too much?”

“Too much.” You agree with a huff, “And you broke my panties.”

Roman’s smile morphs into a smirk as he pushes to a stand, wiping his mouth with his palm and using the slick to rub over the bulge in his pants. “Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t help it. It’s just all so… pink.”

You feel your cheeks heat, and your fingers return to toying with the gauzy hem of the teddy. “Too pink?”

“Too pretty,” he hums, dropping his big hands to your waist and turning you to walk you backwards towards the edge of the bed. “Too distracting. You think I’d be able to go to work every morning if you looked like this all the time?”

“Roman,” you sigh. “You don’t go to work half the time anyway.”

Roman winks, pushing you until your knees hit the mattress and you drop onto your back with a little gasp.

“Then I really can’t afford to stop going the other half of the time, can I? We’ll be out on the street. No more fancy pink lingerie for either of us.”

A picture of him wearing your pretty pink teddy and thong flashes in your mind, and you can’t stop the little bubble of laughter from spilling out.

“What?” He asks, his own smile indulgent and soft.

“You wanna wear it after me? I’m not sure you’ve got the tits for it.”

Roman’s grin pulls lopsided as he drops over you, pushing your legs apart and kneeling between them as he works his belt free. “I think I could rock it. You’re always saying I got a nice ass.”

You hum, lifting your leg to graze your shin against his ass as he shoves his pants and boxers down to his knees and settles against you. “You do have a nice ass, Roman.”

Roman thinks again about the joke you made earlier, and his cock leaks fresh precum at the thought of you pushing your fingers into his ass. Maybe something to explore, maybe not.

“You look like a fuckin angel,” he murmurs, taking in every perfect, pretty inch of you. Your hair rests on the pillow like a halo, and you’re looking at him with soft, hungry eyes, and Roman positions his cock and sinks into you without ever taking his eyes off your face. Your lips part in an ‘o’ as he bottoms out, your pupils expanding and your breath catching in your throat as he fills you completely, and Roman knows you love him.

You tell him all the time, but he’s so used to people saying one thing and doing another, or pretending to like him so they could get to his money or his drugs or his cousin. But your pupils expand when you look at him, and your heartrate picks up. He can hear it, and you can’t fake that.

He pulls half out and pushes back in slowly, relishing in how your eyes flutter closed and you sigh, your hands lacing behind his head. “Roman,” you whisper. “Rome, you feel so good.”

Roman dips his head and presses his lips to yours, bringing one hand down the front of your little nightgown to trace the carefully embroidered butterflies covering your stomach. You shiver and whimper with each brush of his fingertips, and Roman wants to send the designer a fruit basket. “So pretty,” he coos, voice low as his hips snap against you faster and harder. “My pretty girl. Pretty in pink.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, leaving little indents in the pillow of it, and Roman’s mouth waters as he traces along the silky edge of the fabric and lower to rub gently at your clit. “No, no, no,” you whine. “No, I can’t again, please.”

Roman takes your bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at the flesh before laving his tongue over the hurt and releasing you. “Yeah you can. Gimme one more.”

“You… it hurts.” There are tears in your eyes, but your pussy flutters erratically around his cock and Roman knows your close. Knows this doe-eyed babydoll act is all part of it.

“I know,” he coos. “You’re doing so good for me. Look how pretty you are, sweetheart. Dressed up like a little virgin for me? You wanna…” he groans as you clamp down hard, almost trapping him inside you. “You wanna make me… come.” He grits out. “Shit, shit baby.”

You release your muscles, batting your eyelashes at him. “You ruined my panties.”

“I always…” Roman punctuates his words with hard, brutal thrusts, fucking right up against your cervix. “Ruin your panties. Or…” he pinches your clit between two fingers and you buck violently into his hand, angling his cock down so his length is dragged against your g-spot with every thrust. “You ruin them… for me.”

You come with a sob, your overstimulated body on fire as your clit spasms under his fingers and your muscles milk Roman’s cock so forcefully he actually sees stars.

He buries himself as deeply inside you as he can, shooting his release against your insides as you try to swallow him whole, your fingers clawing through his hair with a delicious sting that heightens every moment of his orgasm.

He’s shaking when he pulls out of you and rolls onto his side, and you’re so fucked out you can’t curl up against him like you usually would. Roman waits, his arm tingling with the anticipation of holding you, but unease begins to settle in his stomach the longer you lie there silently. “You really pissed about the panties?”

You swallow, considering this. There’s real apprehension in his voice, and that’s so rare from Roman Godfrey that you decide to play with him, just a little bit.

“They were nice. I really liked them.”

“I made you cum twice.”

You turn your head to the side to fix him with what you hope is a condescending look. “They were my favorites.”

“You bought them today.” He argues, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “How could they be your favorites if you bought them today?”

“I loved them.” You say, pouting your bottom lip out. “I loved them and you broke them.”

Roman hums, catching on to the game and running his free hand down your side to hitch your teddy up around your hips. “I think you look better without them.”

“I can’t wear this without the thong, Roman. It’s a set.”

“I’ll buy you a replacement.”

You lick your lips, eyes sparkling. “More pink?”

Roman rolls his eyes, grinning indulgently at you. “Any color you want, sweetheart. I’ll buy out the damn store and you can put on a private runway show for me.”

You twist your mouth to the side, and Roman can’t stop himself from lacing his hand into your hair, just to feel the silk of it between his fingers.

You lean into it, shimmying up the bed until you’re close enough to brush the tip of your nose against his own. “I’d never get through all the outfits without you ripping them to shreds with your teeth.”

Roman’s cock twitches at the low, teasing tone to your voice. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You’re an animal, Godfrey.”

Roman leans in and captures your lips with his own, coaxing your mouth open so he can glide his tongue against yours. You moan softly, pressing your body against his and feeling the growing interest as his cock thickens against your stomach.

Roman pulls away first, glancing down to where you’ve curled your hand around his cock. “I’m the animal? You’re insatiable. You’re a succubus. A demon, a-“

You cut him off with a kiss and a twist of your wrist over the head of his cock, and Roman gasps into your mouth.

“I’m all those things for you,” you whisper against his mouth, swiping precum and your drying arousal from his tip and jerking it down his length. “But I look fucking pretty in pink, don’t I?”

Roman huffs a laugh as his hips buck into your hand, and he feels an overwhelming, all-encompassing need to marry you. “Fucking pretty,” he says instead, tickling his fingers against your scalp and keeping your mouth close to his as you work his cock with your slutty, perfect hand. It’s all he’s got right now, all he can afford to say, and it’ll have to do. For now, at least.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Okay so Simon really wishes he could do this part properly. He’ll rush to get you a damp towel and a glass of water but he can’t hold you right after. He needs to retreat for a while, and you say you’re fine with that, but Simon worries. 

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

There isn’t any part of you that Simon doesn’t like, but he’s learned to really enjoy your hands on him. Where touch usually makes him itch, yours is grounding. He reaches for your hand unconsciously all the time, now. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

It’s messy. Simons load is always substantial, and he really hates when it covers his skin or stains his clothes. But the sight of you licking it off your fingers and moaning like you like the taste lives rent-free in his brain at all times. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Is it a dirty secret if he’s not ashamed of it? Simon keeps notes. He has a whole notebook full of you, notes on every single thing you’ve ever said or done, in and out of the bedroom. He’s writing himself an instruction manual on how to be your boyfriend and he’s not sure how you’d feel about it. 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Before you? Simon hadn’t even thought about sex outside of bio class. But he’s willing to try almost anything you suggest, and his inexperience is kinda hot. 

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Simon is a missionary boy, through and through. He’s getting better at having you on top of him, and he doesn’t mind taking you from behind if you ask, but it’s easier for him if he can see your face and be sure you’re happy. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Simon has a very practical sense of humour, but not at all during sex. He’s too focused on getting everything right and not blowing his load before you’re ready. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Simon doesn’t know he’s supposed to do anything down there. He’s clean all the time of course but you just work around the hair. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

People might look at Simon and assume he isn’t romantic, but that isn’t true. He doesn’t always have the words to explain how he feels about you, but he pushes his own boundaries constantly to show you how much he cares. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Before you, Simon almost never did it. He didn’t like the tight grip he needed to get there and he really hated the mess. But since you came along and invaded his every waking thought he’s hard almost every day and he needs to jack off to get through it. Still doesn’t enjoy it much, though. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Simon wants to put you in his ship. He doesn’t know if that’s considered a kink, really, but he wants to put you in there and close the lid and hold it down until you beg him to let you out. He’d take that same scenario in reverse too, if he thought you were open to it. 

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Simon is a creature of habit, and he’s most comfortable in his own bed when Sam’s away or yours when he isn’t. He knows the layout of your bathroom cabinet, and that stops him fumbling when his brain has switched off. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You, you, and more you. Your hand on his thigh, the way you lick your lips when you talk. The smell of your hair when you sit next to him during movie night. He’s half-hard whenever you’re in the room, and he’d be embarrassed if you didn’t constantly tell him how hot it was. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won’t let you sit on his face. You haven’t asked, but he went through your search history when you were in the shower once and you’d watched videos on it. Maybe one day. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Simon used to hate blowjobs. Well, okay, no he didn’t. He loved the feeling, but there was something so gross about all that spit. But cumming down your throat or feeling your tongue trace his sensitive tip is as close to perfection as Simon can imagine. 

Simon isn’t very good at giving you oral. He wants to, but being so overwhelmed by everything down there sends him into a meltdown. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Simon is always quicker than he'd like to be. He’s watched the romance movies and the guys always take their time, make the girl so hot she begs for it, and Simon would like to do that, but the moment he’s inside you he can’t stop himself from fucking you like it’s his first time, every time. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Simon doesn’t know how to fuck you slowly, and sometimes he’s so desperate for you that he just ruts his erection against you and hopes you understand. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Everything Simon does with you is an experiment, and there’s always a risk that it’ll go wrong. But he trusts you implicitly, and he knows you’d never encourage him to do something that would hurt him. And so far, everything has been amazing. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Simon can’t hold off once you get your hand or your mouth or your pussy on him. But what he lacks in stamina he makes up in thoroughness. He’s studied female pleasure extensively and he’ll spend hours touching you, even if he cums in his pants more than once whilst he coaxes orgasms out of you with his skilled fingers. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Like model trains? 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Simon would love to tease you. He’s tried a little bit, grinding his thigh against you until you leave a wet patch on his jeans or rubbing you through the soaked fabric of your panties for the entire duration of 2001: A Space Odyssey, but that’s more down to distraction than deliberate teasing.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Oh, Simon is loud. He doesn’t know how to filter it, and you make him feel so, so good. He moans, he whimpers. He sobs as his release washes through him, hips fucking up unrestrained as you talk him through it every time. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Simon is almost always submissive, unless he gets mad. When a guy flirted with you in the video store he lost his mind, and he pinned you to the wall in the alley behind the store and fingered you so aggressively there were tears in your eyes as you came. Sometimes you piss him off like that just to see him take control. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Simon doesn’t work out, but he weighs himself meticulously every morning and his diet is strictly regimented. He has a nice body, tanned and lightly toned, and his cock is above average in every way. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Simon doesn’t see why you’d put yearning and sex drive together like that. His sex drive is new, and he wishes he wanted it less, actually. But yearning? He thinks about you all the time. His stomach aches with it. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It took a long time for Simon to invite you to sleep over, and he finds it tough to have you in his space when he needs to switch off. But you’re quiet and sweet and you don’t touch him unless he initiates it, and now Simon sleeps like a baby with you softly breathing beside him. 

Roman stares at the pink shirt balled in his fist with irritation etched onto every line of his perfect face. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing you were anywhere else. Wishing you’d let Anna do the goddamn laundry like she wanted to.

“I didn’t even see it slip in, there was a-“

“Are you blind?”

You shut your mouth, swallowing hard as Roman’s steely green eyes lift to yours.

“Color blind, then?”

You shake your head a fraction. “No, I… I was distracted.”

“What,” he asks with a sigh, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “could possibly have distracted you when you have such an easy job a monkey could do it?”

Tears prickle behind your eyes, but at the smug smirk on his mouth and the amusement sparkling in his gaze you feel your stomach churn with something harder.

“It isn’t easy being locked up in this house, Roman.”

Roman’s shoulders square as he round the counter, stalking towards you with the coiled grace of a lion going in for the kill. “My mansion not good enough for you, princess?” His voice is low and soft, the tilt to his head deadly as he closes the distance. “My staff not bending over far enough to cater to your every fucking whim?” He’s so close you can feel his breath fanning against your face, and your eyelids flutter closed for a moment as heat radiates off his body. “You can’t get one simple task right while I’m working all day every day to provide this life for you?”

Your eyes snap open at that, and you roll them. You roll your eyes at your husband, and you realize the mistake just as his fingers lace into your hair. “Roman,” you whine as his knuckles tighten, tilting your face up. “That’s too hard.”

“You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under.” He says slowly, his voice a low purr of sound as he lifts his freshly pink shirt and nuzzles it against your cheek. “People expect me to make decisions. To be a serious ballbuster. And you,” he runs the soft material under your nose, pushing your lips apart with two cotton-clad fingers and pressing the fabric back against your tongue until you gag, “think I can do all of that in a pink fucking shirt?”

You bite down on his fingers, and Roman hums as your teeth sink against his knuckles. He withdraws them, thumb rubbing over the wet patch of your saliva darkening the shirt. “It was an accident. Red thong.”

His lips quirk into an almost smile before he forces his face into a scowl. “You need to be more careful then.”

“It’s one shirt.”

“That I pay for. You have no fucking concept of how much things cost, do you? Sitting here ordering shit on Amazon, walking around in you little fucking house dresses. Charmed fucking life.”

Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “You wanted this. You asked me to give up my career, to move away from my family and be your little housewife. I would have been just fine paying my share and it’s totally unreasonable of you to pretend you don’t know that.”

Roman scoffs, running his fingers through his hair in the way he knows distracts you. “I’m not saying I want you to go out and get a job.” His voice is liquid silk as he cups your jaw, fingers sliding into the hair behind your ear as he dips his face close. His lips brush against yours in an agonizingly soft caress. “I just expect a little gratitude when I come home, you know?”

You make a choked sound that is half protest, half moan as Roman’s tongue glides along your bottom lip and he pushes his way into your mouth, coaxing you into a slow, deep kiss. You let yourself go limp against him, waiting for the hand on your jaw to tighten, to push down. When it does you sink to your knees without complaint, licking your lips and biting your tongue to encourage your mouth to fill with saliva as Roman pulls his stiff cock from the confines of his pants and guides your face towards him.

You wrap your lips obediently around his tip, laving lightly at the salty musk of his precum before the hand on your jaw pulls you closer and his hips buck against your face to push his cock into your throat. “There you go,” he sighs, bracing his free hand on the counter. He still has the shirt wrapped around his fist, and you stare at it blurring in and out of focus as you bob your head back and forth on his length. “That’s how you say thank you.”

You hum against him, sending little shockwaves through his cock, and Roman has to grit his teeth to stop himself from moaning at how hot and wet and tight your throat always is for him. You desperately want to brace your hands on his thighs, but you know you can’t do it. He’d be furious if he thought you were trying to pull back, and the hand on your jaw would drop to your throat and that was always infinitely rougher than you could really take.

You curl your thumb into your palm and tighten your core muscles, holding yourself upright as best you can as Roman fucks up against your face, hips snapping a brutal rhythm as he drives his cock down your throat over and over again.

You look up at him, tears brimming your eyes as your throat tries to push him out, and Roman sinks his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough to puncture the soft flesh. He sucks his lip into his mouth, tongue pushing against the torn flesh as spurts of salty warm blood fill his mouth and he cums with a strangled groan, spilling his release down your throat as he swallows a heady mouthful of blood.

You focus on breathing through it as your nose is mashed against the rough thatch of hair on his pubic bone, swallowing reflexively around the cock in your throat as his cum drips down into your stomach. Roman pulls away with a little groan of protest, tucking his cock away and rubbing his thumb over your cum-slick lips. “Now apologize.”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry about the laundry, Roman.”

“Yeah,” he coos, bending down to wrap an arm around your waist and hauling you to your feet. You expect him to let you go but he doesn’t, spinning you instead to press your back against his chest as his arms tighten around your middle and he dips his lips to your ear. “Don’t let it happen again, or I’ll be a whole lot less nice to you.”

Your bottom lip wobbles and adrenaline turns your legs to water, but there’s nothing you can do, nothing you can say to diffuse him when he’s in one of these moods. Your husband could be sweet and earnest and thoroughly wonderful at times, but he was spoiled and volatile and unpredictable, too. You’d accepted both sides of him a long time ago when you’d chosen to love him anyway, and this was the consequence of that. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, after all.

The idea comes to you later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth and staring at the grimy ring where Roman leaves his toothbrush. He never wipes the counter, and spit-slick toothpaste always pools on the side where he doesn’t bother to rinse it off. You wipe up every other day but it never makes a difference.

You rinse the countertop and finish your nighttime skincare before slipping into bed beside your husband. He’s flicking through some board papers on his tablet, one eye darting to the football game playing on his phone every couple of seconds. “Roman.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I wanna make a bet.”

Roman flicks the little switch on the side of his tablet and tosses it onto his nightstand, turning to you with a smirk. “What have you got to barter with?”

You lick over your lips, eyes dragging down Roman’s body. “Whatever you want.”

His smirk darkens, head tilting to the side as he undresses you with his eyes. “You already give me whatever I want.”

You huff, folding your arms over your chest in a way that pushes your tits against your nightgown. “Roman.”

“Okay.” He hums, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “What’s the bet?”

You swallow around a lump in your throat. “You say that being a housewife is easy.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“So I propose that… we switch places. For two weeks.”

The little smile on his face curls into a cruel smirk. “You think you could run Godfrey Industries for two weeks without fucking it up?”

“Yes. I ran an entire department before I married you, remember.”

“Oh, sure. But this is different baby, surely you see that? It would be… wildly irresponsible of me to entrust the whole company to someone so unqualified, no matter how hot you’d look in a little power-suit.”

“I’m more qualified than you.” The words blurt out in your own defense, and Roman’s eyes narrow.

“Community college for hospitality management doesn’t scream S&P500.”

“Least I went to college.” Your voice is quiet, and you wince through the words even as you say them. Shut up, shut up, shut up before he gets mad.

But Roman doesn’t. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he remains otherwise composed, wide green eyes flicking over you as he runs through scenarios in his head.

“If you fuck it up and have to come to me before the two weeks is up, we’re having a baby.”

Your heart stutters erratically in your chest. “If I don’t, or if you call it off early… I get one night off a week.”

He frowns. “Night off from what? From me?”

“A night to do whatever I want. To go out with friends or to just read alone in the study. No responsibilities.”

Roman bites on his bottom lip. “One night a week.”

“Just one,” you soothe, climbing into his lap and lacing your fingers into his hair. “Just to do boring girl stuff that you’d hate anyway.”

His eyes drop to your mouth and he licks his lips. “I can live with that.”

You hum, shifting against his crotch through his pajama pants until you feel his cock thicken and twitch beneath you. “We have a deal, then?”

Roman’s hands drop to your hips, encouraging you to press down against him as he jerks his hips up. “Yeah, baby. Try not to lose your mind when you see me being all-“ he moans, fingers grappling with the edge of your nightgown and pulling it up over your ass. “Domestic and shit.”

You roll your eyes, dipping your head to press your lips to his. “I’ll do my best, Roman.”

Your first day as temporary CEO of Godfrey Industries goes better than you could have hoped. Even though you’re twenty minutes late, and you stumble into the building with messy hair and Roman’s cum drying on the back of your thighs from where he’d pinned you against the car and refused to let you go until he’d fucked you right there on the hood of your SUV. People are nice, and for the most part you’re expected to sit in Roman’s office and sign off on reports.

“He doesn’t usually…” Roman’s assistant rubs the back of his head. “Mr Godfrey doesn’t read them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

The assistant flushes. “Yes. I throw back anything I think he shouldn’t sign, point out mistakes when I see them.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Brown, ma’am.”

“You’re more qualified to do this job than my husband is.”

The man’s cheeks are flaming. “I wouldn’t… say that.”

“Well of course not, he’d have you murdered.” You lean over the desk, pushing the files back towards him. “Relax, kid. Mr Godfrey isn’t here, is he? I think you have potential to be much more than an assistant. Read these reports, just like you do for my husband, and come back with a summary.”

He collects the papers, nodding. “I’ll go over everything twice, I swear.”

You smile, leaning back in your chair as he shuffles out of the room. There’s a picture of you on Roman’s desk, and when the light catches the glass you can see the smudge of fingerprints where he strokes your face when he’s feeling anxious. You’re seized with a sudden wave of affection for him, and you whip out your phone to call home.

His voice is a bark of sound when he picks up. “What?”

“Hey, sweetheart.” You coo. “How’s it… going?” You can hear a loud beeping in the background. Smoke alarm.

“I can’t talk now.” He snaps. “I’m fucking busy.”

“Oh, okay.” You hum, relishing in the agitation leaking through the phone speaker. “I’ll let you get on with your day then. Love you.”

“Yeah,” he spits before hanging up.

You roll your eyes. If you’d answered the phone to him like that even once he’d have taken you over his knees and spanked your ass raw, but the rules had always been different for Roman Godfrey. At least until now, anyway.

*

The house smells like burned food when you arrive home, and you blink through a film of smoke as you step into the foyer. “Roman?”

You hear a clatter from the kitchen, followed by a frustrated “Fuck!” And you work hard to suppress your smirk as you wander further into the house.

“Honey, I’m home!” You sing, and he spins on his heel, eyes wide with shock.

“You’re early.”

You shake your head, nodding towards the clock on the wall above the counter. “It’s almost six.”

“It… can’t be.” He mumbles, squinting at the clock. “Well shit.”

“Something smells…” you trail off, and Roman fixes you with a withering glare.

“That thing is fucking broken.” He jabs a long finger at the stove.

You tilt your head. “You messed up the dinner, huh?”

He grits his teeth, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “The instructions said an hour ten. It’s been like forty minutes and the bird’s burnt to shit.”

You slip past him, squinting at the dials on the oven. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“What?” He demands, coming up behind you and leaning over to look. “Fuck did I do?”

“You set the timer right but not the temperature. Look, you’ve turned the dial to max heat.”

Roman makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “How was I supposed to know that?”

You press your lips into a line and turn, cupping his cheek. “You know, this really isn’t what I expect to come home to after a long day at the office.”

Roman’s eyes flash with something dangerous. “Very funny.”

You cluck your tongue, rubbing your thumb over his lips. “I expect dinner on the table and you on your knees like a good wife, Roman.”

He nips at the pad of your thumb. “I’m not your wife.”

“No.” You agree, pushing your thumb into his mouth to press against his tongue. “But you’ve burned dinner, and you look like shit. You know what time I get home from work, sweetheart. What could possibly have distracted you when you have such an easy job a monkey could do it?”

Roman’s eyes flicker closed, and he lowers himself awkwardly to his knees in front of you. You withdraw your thumb, tracing his lips with his own saliva.

“I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“Yeah you will,” you coo. “Because I spent all day working so you can sit around the house all day on your pretty little ass, and the least you could do is be properly grateful, right?”

Roman’s lips part as you reach down to roll your skirt up over your hips, and he leans in to nuzzle his face against your damp panties with a desperate little sob.

Roman feels his stomach settle into something close to comfort as he hooks his finger into your underwear and pulls down past your knees. He’s been failing all day, at everything, but he knows this. He’s good at this, at burying his face against your slick and sucking your clit into his mouth and lapping at you until you cum against his mouth.

Your fingers tug and tease at his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp, and Roman moans softly against your folds as he flicks his tongue against you with rough, precise strokes. “There you go,” you sigh. “That’s a good boy.”

Roman’s cock is almost painful he’s so hard, but he doesn’t dare to reach down to touch himself. He knows he’s lost this round, and that you’re being him to teach him a lesson. And he’d never let you touch yourself when he pushed you to your knees like this. Never.

You cum with a sultry, throaty groan, and Roman’s eyes roll back at the hot flood of your slick soaking his mouth as he swallows against you greedily. You step back on shaking legs, smearing your arousal over his lips with your thumb before sucking the digit into your own mouth.

“I’ll order pizza.” Roman says from the floor, and you nod.

“You do that. And clean this mess up, while you’re at it.”

*

Running a household is hard work, but by Thursday Roman thinks he’s gotten the hang of almost all of it. There’s a load of laundry sloshing away in the washer, and a pan of minced beef in tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, ready to be layered into a pan for lasagna.

He drops onto the couch with a beer in hand, feeling an ache deep in his bones that he’s wholly unused to. He flicks the TV on, settling back against the leather as he flits through cable channels until he settles on a rerun of some sitcom and he finally lets himself relax.

Roman is jolted from sleep by the sound of a high-pitched beeping, and he wonders for a moment when he changed his alarm tone. Then he inhales on smoke, and his eyes fly wide as reality settles in.

The beer in his hand drops to the floor as he scrambles off the couch, launching into the kitchen and pulling the blackened, dry pan of ruined meat off the heat. “Shit, shit, fuck,” he hisses as he drops it into the sink and it sizzles steam back into his face. His fingers throb with hurt from touching the red-hot handle and he sucks them into his mouth.

“Really, Roman.” Roman feels dread trickle down his spine at the sound of your voice. It had been good the last few days, greeting you at the door with a smug smirk on his face and taking your bag from you whilst you scanned the room for signs of fuckup. It had been good to watch your face fall into disappointment when you couldn’t find a single thing to criticize. It had been good to be a little bored, to feel a sense of anticipation as 5PM ticked by and he knew you’d be coming home to tell you about office drama and new initiatives.

“It wasn’t my fault.” He spins, trying his best to cover the ruined pan in the sink, but your eyes drop to the steaming mess anyway.

“No? Who else do we blame, if you’re here alone?”

Roman chews his bottom lip into his mouth. “I fell asleep.”

You hum, stepping close and taking his hand in your own. “You’re hurt.”

Roman swallows as you lift his hand to your mouth and press a light kiss to the singed tip of his finger. “It’s fine.”

“Sure,” you agree, tugging his hand to the sink and running it under the cold faucet. “My poor baby.”

Roman’s cock twitches at the sound of your voice, even if you’re mocking him just a little bit. It feels nice to be taken care of, to have your attention when he knows you spend all day surrounded by people demanding it from you. “How was work?”

“You know,” you sigh. “Same old, same old. Meetings, papers, responsibilities.” You dab his hand dry on a dishcloth and lean up to peck his cheek. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

“I did the laundry.” He says as though it’s the same thing. As though it isn’t a small miracle that he’d managed it. “Two loads already folded, one in the machine.”

You smile at him. “That’s good, Roman. I’m proud of you for getting at least that right.”

Roman’s cheeks heat. “I’ll order something.”

You tilt your head to the side. ““That I’ll pay for. You have no fucking concept of how much things cost, do you?”

Roman grits his teeth. “Careful.”

You smirk. “Or what?”

Roman swallows hard, feeling his cock twitch and his stomach flip over. “Just… you shouldn’t talk to me that way.”

“I’ll talk to you however I like.” You say with a shrug, turning your back on him and heading to the couch. “And bring me a beer.”

Roman doesn’t know why he does it, but his legs move all on their own as he obeys your command. You hadn’t even said please, and Roman replays all the times he’d said precisely the same thing to you over the last year of your marriage. It made him feel like shit.  

You’re sitting on the couch, fingers playing absently with a strand of your hair when he approaches, but you look up at him with narrowed eyes and Roman feels fresh dread settle over him as you tap your toe against the splash of his spilled beer on the hardwood floor.

“I was gunna clean that up.”

“Yeah? When?”

Roman sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and pushes it out through his teeth. “I got… I had to deal with the fucking dinner.”

“Well, you’re not dealing with that anymore, are you?”

Roman huffs, stomping into the kitchen to grab a cloth and returning to crouch beside you and soak up the spill. “You could have done this yourself.” He mutters.

You uncross your legs, your knees dropping either side of his face as Roman looks up at you. “I work hard all day, Roman. All you have to do is look after the house. It that really too much? You wanna tap out?”

For the first time in his life, Roman misses work. He misses his office and his big desk and scrolling endlessly on Instagram whilst pretending to look busy. He misses seeing other people, even if those people are simpering mouth-breathing idiots. But the thought of you all fat and full of his baby, the thought of another thing tying you to him stops him from bringing the game to an end.

“No.” He huffs, pushing your legs further apart and pressing a kiss to the front of your underwear. “Not a fucking chance.”

You sigh, relaxing against the couch as Roman lifts your legs to drop over his shoulders and he pulls your underwear to the side, burying his mouth against you like a good boy.  

*

“Die! Die! Die!” Roman hisses, fingers clicking rapidly over the buttons as he destroys yet another alien. He’s sprawled over the couch in his boxers, his third beer open on the coffee table and staining a ring into the wooden surface. There’s a German yelling at him through his headset, and Roman swears as he’s wiped out by an explosion to the left. “Fuck!” He yanks his headset off, throwing his controller onto the couch beside him. “Fucking assholes.”

You clear your throat, and Roman’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Oh, hey baby.”

“Don’t hey baby me, Roman. The house is a mess.”

Roman shrugs. “Dinner’s ready. Laundry’s done. Lay off me.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you show me?”

Roman rolls his eyes, sighing as he pushes off the couch. His lounge pants are slung low on his hips, revealing the sharp jutted V of muscles either side of his stomach, and you lick your lips as you follow him into the laundry room. “Like I said, I got through your fuckin shirts and-“ Roman breaks off, staring at the wet tangle of baby-blue clothes in the washer.

“You were saying?”

Roman’s mouth opens, then closes. Opens again. “I don’t know what happened.”

You tug a pair of your panties loose from the bundle, holding them up and wrinkling your nose. “You know I’m sure these were white yesterday.”

Roman drops the pile onto the washer, sifting through the fabric until he finds a singular navy sock wrapped in the center. “Shit.”

“You think this is acceptable?” You ask slowly. “You think it’s ok to sit on your ass all day playing stupid fucking games instead of taking care of things around here?”

Roman rolls his eyes. “You want me to eat you out? You don’t have to fucking scold me to get that you know.” He reaches for you, and you take a step back. The heat of righteous fury pounds your heart into a frenzy, and the bored arrogance on your husband’s face slips as his fingers close on nothing.

“I think you need an attitude adjustment, Roman.” You sink to the floor, parting your legs and beckoning him with a crooked finger. Roman swallows, dropping slowly to his knees between your legs and splaying his palms on your thighs.

“No,” you coo. “Turn around, back to me.”

Roman frowns, but his cock twitches in interested anticipation as he settles against your chest and you reach around his body to slip your hand into his pants. “Shit,” he huffs, hips lifting against your hand as you wrap your fingers around his cock and jerk him hard. “Woah.”

“You’re bad, Roman.” You murmur, dipping your head to press your chin to his shoulder. “You burn the dinner and you wreck the floors.”

“Slow down,” he stammers. “That’s… shit can you spit on it? Goddamn.”

You don’t let up, dragging the baby-blue dyed panties off the counter behind you and pushing the damp fabric into his mouth. “You’re a shit fucking wife, Roman.”

Your thumb rubs against his slit, dragging his precum over his frenulum before yanking hard on his cock again, and Roman whines against the gag in his mouth.

“You think you can eat me out and I’ll just forget about how fucking sloppy you are around the house?”

Roman groans, hips bucking away from you like there’s anywhere to go with your fist wrapped so tightly around his cock.

It actually hurts, the rough, dry friction of your skin on his, but you turn your head and press soft kisses to his neck and Roman cries against the soaked underwear in his mouth and he takes it. He tries to talk, not sure whether he’s begging you to stop or begging you to jerk him harder, but you speed up anyway, fingers flexing against the thick vein on the underside of his cock.

“You gunna cum for me?” You whisper into his ear, and Roman moans as his hips thrust erratically up into your hand. “There you go,” you coo, nipping at the corner of his jaw as his cock thickens and twitches in your hand. “That’s a good girl.”

Those words, those condescending, awful words are his undoing. Roman’s eyes roll back as he cums, shooting thick ropes over your fingers and soaking into his shirt, whimpers muffled by the damp gag of your panties in his mouth as he arches away and then slumps against you.

Your free hand lifts to his hair, raking your nails against his skull and teasing the strands away from his face. “It’s time for you to get a haircut,” you muse absently, and Roman nods, breathless, dazed.

“You have to be more careful with the laundry,” you coo, gently pulling the wet gag from his mouth.

Roman gasps, licking his tongue over his lips. “I think you gave me road rash on my fucking cock.”

You roll your eyes, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger and turning his head to press a kiss to his mouth. “You’ll live, sweetheart.”

*

You strut back down the corridor towards your office after lunch, ducking your head and smiling politely at the people behind their computers. Some avoid you, some look… apprehensive. You swallow around a lump of anxiety, shrugging off the feeling until your assistant darts out from behind his desk. “Mr. Godfrey is in your, uh his office.”

You frown. “Is he now?”

“He said to tell you, uh…”

“What?”

“Well, he said, his words exactly were nice try sweetheart, but it’s Monday. I’m sorry.”

You know he added the sorry. Roman would have delivered that line with a teasing, mean smirk. “That it’s… oh.” Your stomach flips over. Two weeks up. “Thank you. I’ll… uh… I’ll go see what he wants.”

The assistant offers you a pained smile. “I get the feeling we might not… be seeing you around as much now that he’s back. And I just wanted to say that you’ve done more for this company in two weeks than Mr. Godfrey did in a year. And you’ll be missed. For what it’s worth.”

You swallow around a lump in your throat. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

“But please don’t tell him I said so.” The assistant’s eyes widen with fear, and you feel a pang of shared understanding as you nod and push open the door to his office.

“There she is,” Roman claps his hands together, and you grit your teeth at the sight of him lounging back in his chair like he owns the place before you remember that he does.

“Roman.”

“It didn’t feel good to wake up without you beside me this morning.” He says slowly. The words sound earnest, but the dark smirk on his face tells you he’s playing a game. “I expected you to lay out my suit and make my coffee.”

“I… we didn’t discuss a handover process, and I had a meeting with the people from the synth lab at ten.”

“You mean I had a meeting. My assistant woulda caught me up on the calendar, baby. He’s a dumb fuck but he can read a goddamn meeting invite.”

You grit your teeth. “He isn’t a dumb fuck. He went to Brown.”

Something dangerous flashes in Roman’s eyes as he pushes away from the desk and prowls towards you. “You two get all cozy talking about how much better you both are for going to fucking college?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and your nervous system kicks into overdrive as you reach for him. “It isn’t like that. I just mean… you could use him. He’s good.”

“Yeah?” Roman’s hands bracket your hips, fingers splaying over your skin and wrinkling the fabric of your dress. “You use him whilst I was slaving away over your laundry and your dinner at our house?”

“No, Roman.” You mumble, caressing your fingers against his cheek. “He read board papers. Helped with some minor decisions. I would never, you know it’s just you for me, I-“

“Shhh,” he coos, dipping his head to press a kiss to your forehead. “I know, baby. I know that.”

You sag against him, relief washing the anxiety from you for a brief, blissful moment before Roman’s fingers begin to walk down your hips and round to grope at your ass. “Roman, the windows.”

Roman flicks his eyes towards the glass walls of his office, and several pairs of eyes drop to desks. He smirks, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Nobody’s looking.”

You swallow, fisting his shirt in your sweaty palms. “Lets talk at home. Please.”

He hums, bending his knees to crawl his fingers up under your tight dress and brush over the frilled elastic of your panties. “What’s the rush? You were so desperate to be here, weren’t you?”

You whimper as his fingers brush against your core through the thin fabric, your body flushing with arousal at his touch. “I just thought… you were still sleeping, and I didn’t know if you’d want to just… carry on for a while.”

Roman huffs a laugh, pushing you away enough to meet your eyes. The cruelty in his sends a bolt of confused arousal through you. “You thought I’d let you carry on running my company into the ground and make fuck-eyes at my assistant? The bet was two weeks. It’s been two weeks.”

“I… I’ve made improvements here. A-ask anyone, ask Pryce! Look at the forecasts for-“

You break off with a squeak as Roman’s fingers lace into your hair and he drags you towards his desk. He kicks his chair viciously and it rolls away, crashing into the back wall as he manhandles you onto the desk and pushes a hand onto your spine to keep you flat against the glass. “I don’t give a fuck,” he coos, free hand curling around the hem of your skirt and pushing it up over your ass. “You coulda increased profits by a million percent and I’d still drag you back home.”

His palm drops flat onto your ass with a smack and you yelp. “You wanna know why?” He leans in, his body pressing yours harder to the desk, and you feel his breath on your neck at the same time his stiff cock grinds against your ass. “You wanna know?”

“Y-yes, Roman.” You gasp, and Roman pulls away from you just enough to yank down his zipper and tug his cock out to rub over the slick fabric of your panties.

“Because you’re mine. I don’t want my assistant eye-fucking you, or the useless fucking cunts in R&D staring at your ass in these pencil skirts like you’re a free woman. You’re mine.”

You whine as he pushes your underwear to the side and presses the leaking head of his cock against your entrance. “Say it.”

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry as you croak out the words. “I’m yours, Rom-ahhh,” your jaw goes slack as Roman pushes into you, giving you no time to adjust to the stretch of his size as he bottoms out and braces his hands on the desk either side of you.

“Yeah,” he huffs, pulling half out only to slam back in. “You’re mine. My little housewife.” He drops one hand to your hip, pinning you to the desk as he sets a brutal rhythm. “I gave you your two weeks, played your little game. Showed you how fucking easy you have it.”

You scoff even as your eyes roll back at the sharp pleasure-pain of his cock pummeling your insides. “Y-you messed up everything.”

Roman’s hand drops to your ass in a sharp slap before dragging you backward, closer to him so he can hold you firmly against his body and fuck up against your cervix. The sting brings tears to your eyes, and you sob into your fist as you’re dragged roughly back and forth on his cock. “Watch your fucking mouth.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his fist around your hair and yank your head up. “Or I’ll take you out there and show them all how well their pretend CEO takes a cock.”

You whimper at the tight grip on your hair, squeezing around his cock as the new angle drives Roman’s tip against your g-spot with every thrust. Your eyes open, and you meet the wide-eyed, horrified stare of your assistant through the glass. He’s frozen in shock, sitting at his desk but with his hands static against his headset, like he’s not sure if he’s going to throw it off and come to your rescue.

You shake your head, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as your husband’s thrusts become erratic and desperate. “Let him look.” He spits. “It’s the last time he’ll get to see you looking like this. Next time? You’ll be all fat and soft, growing my baby.”

You groan, nausea turning your stomach over as you feel him twitch and thicken inside you. “I didn’t lose the bet.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles breathlessly. “But you didn’t negotiate what happens if we both win.” You press your cheek to the cool, damp surface of the glass as Roman pins you harder. “No head for business, my pretty girl.”

You flutter your muscles around him as you feel his orgasm approaching, and Roman rewards you with his fingers as he reaches around your body to rub over your clit.

“Oh fuck, Roman,” you moan as he cums, his release painting your insides with heat as he lets out a beautiful, guttural groan. His fingers stop working against you, and you feel a pang of disappointment as he pulls out of you with a wet drag.

“Shit,” he huffs, tucking his softening cock away before easing you off the desk. His thumbs rub over the swollen lines on your hips where you’d been pressed to the edge of the desk, and he turns you around, peppering kisses over your cheeks, your forehead, your lips. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

You swallow, curling your fists in the front of his shirt and setting your rhythm to the steady thump of his heart beneath your knuckles. “We can try for a baby.”

He pulls away enough to look at you properly, and the hopeful half-smile on his full mouth sends butterflies kicking up into your stomach. “Really?”

“Any time you want.” You say, teasing one of the pearly buttons open and slipping your fingers against the warm skin over his heart. “Other than on my night off, of course.”

Roman chuckles, walking you back towards his chair and sitting with a huff, pulling you easily into his lap. You settle over his thighs, skirt still rolled up around your stomach and core messy with your arousal and the dripping of his cum as it leaks from the side of your underwear. “Of course,” he teases, working his hand between your legs and into your panties to rub his thumb against your clit. “At least until the baby comes.”

You do your best to ignore that as you focus on the tight, coiling pleasure in your core as Roman’s expert fingers unravel you. He knows exactly how to touch you, letting his fingers push inside you and curling them back precisely against your sensitive spot as his thumb works against you. “Roman, I’m gunna- your pants.”

He hums, leaning in to suck a bruise into your throat as he coaxes your orgasm out of you. “Do it, baby. Soak me. I want everybody to know how easy you cum for me. Just me.”

You whimper, hands still fisting in his shirt as your hips roll down against his hand. “I’m close,” you whisper, focusing on the gentle pressure of his fingers inside you and the rough, desperate grinding of his thumb against your clit as the coil in your stomach snaps and you feel the flood of your arousal soaking his hand, your underwear, his expensive fucking pants.  

Roman lets you sit in his lap for a full five minutes, stroking his fingers up and down your spine and enjoying the way you press your tits against his chest as you squirm under the tickling touch. “Crazy to think we might have just made a baby. Conceiving the future CEO of Godfrey Industries on this fucking desk.”

You pull away from him, cupping his jaw. “We didn’t. I’m not… I don’t think I’m ovulating. I guess I’ll have to start tracking it.”

Roman wrinkles his nose. “That isn’t hot.”

“No.” You roll your eyes, leaning in to peck his lips. “But if we don’t track, it could take months. Years, even.”

“I prefer the blanket bombing approach.” He muses, splaying his warm palm on your bare thigh. “I’ll fuck you every single day. Can’t miss.”

*

You’re feeling hot and giddy, drunk on his attention as you step out of his office, but at the prickle of eyes on your skin you shrink. They know. They all know, or they will soon. You’ll be a whispered, scandalous anecdote at the water cooler before the end of the day, all your progress undone in a single hour. You tug on the hem of your dress as you walk down the long corridor away from his office, knowing he’s watching from his desk. You clench your cunt hard, but you feel the wet, slick drop as a trickle of cum seeps out of you and rolls down your bare thigh, soaking into the suede of your shoe. Tears sting in your eyes as you finally, mercifully reach the elevator, and you sag against the wall as the doors close.

You unlock your car, looking wistfully at the CEO placard on the front of the spot for the last time, when your phone buzzes. You already know who it is, and you glance up at his window where you know he’s watching even though he’s too high up for you to see him.

I love you. Lets practice again tonight.

Your heart hurts as you read over the words, but cum is drying sticky and uncomfortable on your thighs and the shame of the long walk from his office burns hot in your blood. You text back with a mean little smirk on your face and hit send before you can chicken out.

Not tonight, I’m taking my time off.

Roman’s three dots appear, disappear, appear, disappear. You press your thighs tight together in anticipation of the punishment you’ll receive later as you swing up into the cab of your SUV and head home to wait for your husband.