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You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.

Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.

You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.

Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.  

You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.

The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.

Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."

Jack lowered himself into the sofa beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.

You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.

"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"

"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."

"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.

"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.

"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.  

"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.

You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.

You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:

"I booked us that exclusive Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."

"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.

"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."

His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.

You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"

He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the sofa beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."

Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.

The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.

Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.

And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.

What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.

Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.

He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.

His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.

"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.

You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.

"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.

He deserved that.

"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.

"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.

"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."

Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.

"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."

He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.

"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."

Jack paused. "Who?”

You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."

The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.

You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.

A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.

"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.

"A mojito, please."

"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.

"Grazie," you said.

The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.

You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.

After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.

You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.

"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"Nope."

"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."

"Lucky them," you muttered.

"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.

"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.

He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."

"I guess."

"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."

"I’m not interested."

"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.

"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.

"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."

"Good thing I’m not yours, then."

He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.

A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.

"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"

Jack stood shirtless in swim trunks, a t-shirt twisted between his hands, the afternoon light catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.

The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his prosthetic caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.

"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"

"Look, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued. 

"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."

The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."

You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.

Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.

"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.

"Yeah. I am."

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."

"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."

You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.

After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."

You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."

"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."

"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that now—"

"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.

"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."

His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.

"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."

"Really?" you asked meekly.

Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

"4 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy.

Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).

"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.

"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."

You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.

"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."

"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.

"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.

You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.

A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.

"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"

A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.

"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."

You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."

"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.

His logic was a seductive trap.

"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.

He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.

Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.

"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. "You’re doing so good for me."

You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.

"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."

As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.

Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.

"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”

His movements became more deliberate, his fingers curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.

"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.

"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"

He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.

A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."

He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a consistent counterpoint on your clit.

"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."

The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.

"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.

He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.

"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come again, just from my tongue."

"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.

"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."

He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.

"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"

The command in his voice, and the vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.

He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.

You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.

"You did so good for me."

He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.

"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."

He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.

Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger.  You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.

He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.

"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.

"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."

Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.

"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.

Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.

Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

"I love you," you murmured.

"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.

You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.

You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.

"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"

"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."

"Tempting.” His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."

You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.

"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.

"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?

He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.

"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."

You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.

"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.

"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.

He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"

"Yes," you giggled.

She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.

"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."

He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.

"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.

You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.

"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."

"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.

"Thank you," you said.

As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.

Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.

Robby: She’s so out of your league.  

Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.

Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.

Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.

Jack: I’m nervous as hell.

Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.

Robby then sent another quick message.

Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.

Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.

When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.

You have a recurring dream. Or is it more of a nightmare? You can't tell.

In your dream, your human form transforms into that of something markedly inhuman, a grotesque thing to see unfold behind your eyelids.

Your skeleton shrinks to a size just a fraction of what it is now, the excess skin, with nothing to cling to, spreading in a fleshy pool on the floor. Your spine bends out of shape like a pole vaulter's pole over the high horizontal bar, canted forward at an extreme angle and forcing you on your hands and feet. Bones break; your pelvis shortens, your arms lengthen, and what were two hands become two feet. Like the dinosaurs that evolved to carry their massive weight, you've become quadrupedal.

The excess skin retracts, like the tape of a leash being pulled back, and snaps securely into place. And you have a little tail, starting right around the sacral region, an extension of the canine spine.

Metamorphosis: the worst part of the dream. Becoming something other than human. The simulated pain that comes with it. But after, you're happy. Loved and cared for by a shapeless owner. You're a dear thing to them.

A pet.

But distantly, even while using your baser brain, you can tell that something is wrong. You're not meant to be like this.

And yet, you're happy.

So. Nightmare, or not?

You don't know, but you don't have the time to dwell on it. Your half hour lunch break is almost up, your ramen cup is empty, and today you're stationed at the cash registers.

It's a slow day—slower than usual, at least—though. Pittsburgh is just coming out on the other end of a big, freak snowstorm, and there is but one customer in the store right now.

You clock back in on the employee app and exit the break room to tend to him, tossing your empty cup into the bin on your way out.

"Ready to check out, sir?"

So, even though you told yourself to drop it, as you scan and punch in his purchases for dog food, chew toys, and other assorted items, you think back on your dream.

Being employed here should explain its origin. You see these kinds of owners all the time: people who cherish their pets, spoiling them rotten. Who wouldn't want to be doted on? Loved? Asked for nothing but companionship in return.

Hey!

The snapping of fingers rings out, cutting and sharp.

Are you there? Can you give me my receipt already?

You startle, and you're brought back down to earth. You shake your head.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sir." You rip the glossy paper from the receipt printer, holding it out to him. "Here's your receipt. Thank you for shopping at Animal Kingdom."

The man scoffs, snatching it out from your hand. He collects the handles of his paper bags and murmurs, "space case," before leaving the store.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were daydreaming again. In front of a customer. If your boss had happened to see that exchange, you would have never heard the end of it.

You can't lose this job. You don't have much else going for you.

The next day.

Or the next week.

Does it matter?

Work. Home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

That is a short summary of your life as of the past near decade since you graduated high school and have been working at the pet store. It's not much, but you make do. There is the noticeable absence of a social aspect in your routine...

nothing new there, though.

You do not hate your life, but there is not much to love. It flashes by, but it is also stagnant. And it is lonely.

You peer into a tank, sighing when you see a dead one. The black of the comet goldfish's eyes stare inanimately at you. Its brethren clear the way as you scoop it out, then bag it, throwing it into the dumpster in the back of the store.

Goldfish do not have a three-second memory, as the myth suggests, but retain memory for up to three months. Its brothers could be mourning it in its death, for all you know.

Sometimes, you daydream about the ocean. Seahorses come to mind. Being one in a pair of mates. Having a partner for life. It's a heartwarming thought, but you imagine that the ocean is one hell of a scary place for a pair of frail seahorses.

You can't have it both ways. Tank or ocean.

So, then, maybe instead of a seahorse, what you are is a remora in need of a shark. Feeding on its bacteria and dead skin, you'd be set to roam the big blue, accompanied and safe. Survival by way of symbiosis. A sad existence, though, to need a creature so much more than they need you.

Scratch that. Tanks are safe. Not the ones here, but a good owner would take care of their fish.

The PA system squeals with feedback as it's turned on.

Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup. Associate to aquatics for tank five cleanup.

You sigh. More dead goldfish.

You're stocking shelves in the avian aisle when a customer softly calls out to you. Finches and parakeets chirp in the background, rowdy in their cages.

"Excuse me, miss?" he says, approaching you, his steps audible and heavy.

You turn around and almost drop the bag of birdseed you're holding.

Hazel-green eyes and a sinful scruff. Middle-aged or so.

The man is handsome. More handsome than anyone you've ever laid eyes on in the store. Maybe even in the small world you live in between here and your apartment and the bus ride to the grocery store. You've never seen him before, but you get the feeling that you recognize him from somewhere.

"Let me help with that," he offers, taking the bag from your hands and placing it on the bottommost shelf beside you where it belongs. He shifts his weight to his left foot when he stands to full height again, a flicker of pain sweeping over his features.

"Thank you, sir. You didn't have to—"

"It's not a problem. Mind helping me with something in return?"

You nod, clasping your hands in front of you. "How can I be of assistance?"

The man holds up a dog collar from his cargo pocket.

"I'm adopting a dog soon. Want to make sure that I'm gettin' the right size."

"Oh, well, all our collars are adjustable and should be able to fit any size dog. May I?" You hold your hand out palm up so he can pass it to you, but he shakes his head.

"This one isn't. I think I got the right one, but I'd just like to check."

You're not sure where he got the collar. You look at it more closely and are stumped when, yes, it's a slip-on. Non-adjustable. It tightens when the leash is pulled, a corrective action, and is loose-fitting otherwise when the dog is compliant. There must be a new supply of them that was put up that you were unaware of.

He clears his throat and clarifies, "could you try it on?"

"Try it on?" you repeat, stunned. "Uh, that's..."

Your eyes widen slightly when you catch sight of your boss standing a few feet behind the man, nodding his head and giving you two thumbs up, as if he had heard the conversation and were encouraging you to... try on the collar.

The customer experience is our number one priority.

You gulp. Why does this make you nervous? Just get it over with.

"Sure. Anything to help."

The man releases the tension in his shoulders, relieved that you agreed. "Thank you, miss. You're a lifesaver." He stands closer to you, raising his hands up to your head to collar you.

You duck down a bit to make it easier for him, looking at the gray vinyl floor. You think of your dream, your body breaking and bending and twisting from a force beyond your control.

The dog he's planning on adopting must be a larger breed, because though you would consider yourself to have an average-sized head, it does in fact fit.

It sits, weighty yet comfortably, around your neck. You instinctively touch the cool, metal sliding ring resting at the hollow of your throat with your fingers.

"Beautiful," he says.

You're starved enough for attention that you pretend he's saying it to you and not to the fit of the collar itself.

He winks cheekily. "I think this'll fit my girl nicely."

He's adopting a female dog, then.

"Will that be all?"

"Yeah, I'm ready to check out."

You go to remove the collar yourself, your fingertips brushing the polyester material of the climbing rope, but he interrupts you.

"Here, I got it."

His fingers, thick, you note, graze the sides of your neck when he removes the collar. You smile shyly at him once it's no longer around your neck, your faces a bit too close to be polite.

You follow him to the register to ring him up, making idle conversation, "the weather's been nice lately, hasn't it?" "It sure has. I hope you take advantage of it, miss," and hand him his receipt, and then he's gone.

That was not the strangest thing you've experienced in this store, but it was strange.

You double-check the aisle with the collars, rubbing your fingertip along the circumference of the metal ring of the exact one the man had purchased. You don't know why you felt the need to confirm that they were here.

What attracted you to this position out of high school was that it had decent benefits, decent pay, and it was one bus ride away from your parents' home and then, when you moved out, walking distance to your apartment.

What's keeping you here now, though, you're not too sure. You planned to go to the community college at some point when you had saved up enough money to study something, but that never came to pass. You got trapped in the comfort zone.

A little too late now to regret not having done more for yourself, so you try not to. There's still time if you were to somehow get the courage to change your life.

The bell rings as a couple strolls in. You recognize them as two kids, now adults the same age as you, who went to your high school. It's been years since you've come across anyone from then, and you had almost convinced yourself you were the last of your class in Pittsburgh.

They don't recognize you when you ring up their cat food. A few cans of the wet variety.

It's better they don't. You don't have the fondest memories of your high school years.

"You two are a cute couple," you say, bagging the cans. Not for any reason besides to make some small talk.

Engage with the customers. Communicate. Connect. That's what separates us from them.

"Thanks! We just got engaged," she says, holding her left hand out, a giant, gleaming rock on her wedding finger. "Are you in a relationship?"

"Me?" you ask, almost appalled. "No, I haven't had the, uh, best of luck in the dating department."

She beams. "There's this speed dating event happening soon. I'm one of the organizers. You should consider signing up."

She hands you a flier from her purse, and you skim through the details before folding it up into squares, placing it in your pocket, knowing you'll likely find it in the washing machine later, torn to shreds.

"Thanks. I'll think about it." You pass her the receipt and bag of cat food. "Have a great rest of your day, you two."

Your boss, Mark, tends to hover. And in his hovering, he tends to overhear.

You're eating lunch in the break room with Katy, a woman who's long in the tooth and has a mean bite. She tolerates you, though. You're not sure what that says about you as a person, but you won't shoo away company.

Mark takes a seat beside you in what was an empty chair, and Katy stands up, her chair screeching as it's pushed back. She doesn't like Mark, so her lunch is as good as over.

He stares holes into her retreating back before turning his attention to you. "I happened to overhear that customer inviting you to a speed dating shindig. Are you going?"

You shrug, twirling your soggy noodles over and over again in the cup. "Um. I dunno. I haven't thought about it, to be honest."

"You have to go. How many years have you been working here, and you're still single?"

You're taken aback. "Why does that matter?"

He shoves his phone in your face, a selfie of him and his wife lounging on the deck of a beach bungalow, sick in love.

You remember when Mark went away on his honeymoon last year. You were temporarily assigned manager. It was one of the worst weeks of your life.

"You have to take chances. Put yourself out there. I swore off the apps, but I gave it one more chance, and look. I got married."

You don't know on the dot when you two got close enough for him to speak to you like this. But you are his longest-lasting employee and younger than the rest, so maybe he feels paternal toward you.

You do see him more than your actual father now that you think about it.

You sigh, yielding. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out."

What do you have to lose? The event is Friday, and you're not scheduled to work. You can dip out the moment your anxiety spikes too high.

Mark claps a hand over your shoulder. "Excellent!"

He leaves you alone in the break room, and soon enough you can hear him getting into it with Katy.

Looking down into your cup, you frown. Your noodles are not only soggy but have now turned a ghoulish gray. You wouldn't feed this to your pet.

An elderly man brings in his sick cat, thinking that the pet store is an animal hospital. He's dizzy with worry and scarcely gets his words across. You feel bad for the pair of them and look up directions to the nearest clinic.

The cat, cradled in the arms of its owner like a baby, then pukes all over the front of your shirt and on the floor, some splashing onto the toes of your sneakers. Mark takes over, directing the man two streets down to a veterinary clinic, and you excuse yourself to clean up, using the paper towels in the employee restroom to fruitlessly wipe away the stains on your shirt. Of course you don't have spare clothes in your locker. You smell like cat puke the rest of the day.

One day, you're going to quit this place.

Mark and Katy get into a spat about pricing inaccuracies.

"I only label the prices. I don't set the prices. Don't pin this on me, Mark."

"But you're supposed to check that it matches the one in the POS before you stick them on the merchandise!"

And when you try to break up what is looking to become a fistfight, Katy accidentally slaps you across the face.

"Look at what you fuckin' made me do! Are you okay, hun?"

You're going to quit this place.

Today nothing bad happens. You clock in, and you clock out. But all through your shift, you have this crushing, despairing feeling in your chest because you know you're never going to quit this place.

Tomorrow is the speed dating event. As you think about what you're going to wear while mopping the floor along an aisle, a pair of boots comes into view.

The same ones he had on last time. You look up, and there he is, the man who collared you.

"Hey, there. Remember me?"

How could you forget? That interaction didn't leave your mind for days afterward. Every time you passed by the shelf with those collars, you thought of him.

"Of course. Is everything alright?"

You don't see too many repeat customers. Customers in general, quite frankly. Big box stores and online shopping and pet subscription boxes are forcing stores like these to close. It can be a ghost town at times. The dirt and dust tracked in from the outside are more imaginary than real.

You almost want it to happen—the store closing. Then you'd be forced to move on. You're not so lucky, though.

He rubs the nape of his neck. "I need to return the collar I bought."

You peer out past the endcap and look to the cash registers crowded in the middle of the store, a few aisles down.

Empty.

"Someone should be manning the registers. So sorry about that."

You set the mop and bucket to the side, the wooden handle leaning against a shelf with a wide array of cat and dog treats, and place down a wet floor sign.

He shakes his head. "I'm in no rush."

You lead the way to the registers and process his return, typing codes into the computer. You ask, curious, "is there a reason why you're returning this? Something wrong with it?"

He mulls over his answer. "No, it's not that."

You glance at him, quirking a brow. The cash drawer pops open, and you hand him his cash back, his fingertips skimming yours.

"The adoption fell through," he explains, shrugging. "Have no use for it now."

You wonder what made the adoption go sideways. Was it a behavioral issue, or was it simply a matter of personality? "Sorry it didn't work out. But I'm sure there's a dog out there waiting for you to be their owner."

He huffs a laugh. "You might be right."

You're home, immobile on the couch, when you should be on the bus that goes downtown. There's another one arriving in twenty minutes.

You showered and put on some makeup, but if you don't get dressed now, you're going to be late. And if you're late, you'd rather not go because then you'd be giving a bad impression.

Is anything good going to come out of this, though? Speed dating, as far as you know, is hit or miss. And you're like a magnet for misfortune.

Your phone vibrates in your lap. A text from Mark.

I want to hear all about your dates tomorrow!

You groan. You should've switched your schedule around to have tomorrow off of work.

Though you drag your feet, you get off the couch and get dressed. At the very least, you can tell him you went and showed your face. You make it to the bus stop just in the nick of time and are the last to board.

It rained earlier, and the inside of the bus smells like the aftermath of getting caught in it. Except worse. Like a damp dog instead of damp human skin intermingled with petrichor. You hope it doesn't rub off on you.

The speed dating is held at a small party venue. You feel out of place among the other women, who are dressed in nicer clothing and have bigger, prettier smiles. Your dress is itchy, and your heels pinch your toes. Already, you're regretting this.

You arrived a little too late to get yourself a drink at the cash bar to untangle your knotted nerves. You get signed in and are given a nametag, then are seated at a table by one of the volunteers. You're told to wait.

"We'll be bringing out the other half of the participants soon. Your first date will be here shortly."

The other half being the men, you suppose. The flier said this was a straight speed dating event. Currently only women are seated at the tables.

They must be waiting around in one of the connected rooms. After a few minutes, a set of double doors on the far end of the room open, and a diverse group of men file in. Skinny, heavyset, short, tall, black, white, and everything in between. All in their twenties to fifties. All handsome.

Last to enter is someone you least expect. It's as if he can tell you're watching him, because his eyes cut to yours instantly.

The man from the store heads straight toward you and sits across from you. The man isn't just "the man" anymore, though. His name is Jack, according to the name tag stickied onto his polo shirt. It's funny. How he has known your name from the moment you met, pinned to your work shirt right above your breast, but only now are you learning his.

"This is unexpected," he says, chuckling in a low, deep voice. "Looking for love too, huh."

In this slant of light, much more vibrant than the dull fluorescent in the pet store, his eyes look wolfish, almost. Angled at the inner and outer corners. An almond shape. The outer iris is a dark, forest green with flecks of amber splashed around it. The full, gray head of hair on his head and white, scruffy beard round out the animalistic look.

His shirt fits him like a glove, the bulge of his biceps glaring and distracting. The topmost buttons are popped open, and you sneak a peek at the skin of his chest, flushed pink. A little white fur there, too.

You snort, a heat rising to your cheeks. Your heart is hammering. Meeting him here has to mean something. Doesn't it?

You allow your delusions to take root, your confidence seemingly growing and blossoming from nowhere.

"Maybe I've found it already," you tease. "What are the odds we'd meet again here?"

The corner of his lip ticks up. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Let's see how well you can hold a conversation."

Each couple has ten minutes together before an alarm rings and the men are shuffled to the next table. 

Two minutes, everyone! Start wrapping up your conversations!

You've managed to hold yourself above water for eight of them. Jack is easy to talk to, though, so you give him most of the credit.

You're amazed he doesn't just up and leave.

On top of his looks, after learning he's an emergency physician over at PTMC and a decorated combat medic veteran, "medically discharged on account of my leg being blown off. It's okay. You can laugh about it. I do," you think your chances with him are even lower than where they're buried six feet under.

"Do you have any pets?" he asks. "Maybe take advantage of an employee discount?"

You huff a laugh. "There's no discount, unfortunately. But no, my apartment doesn't allow pets."

He hums. "One of the nice things about owning a house."

You nod. And a whole lot nicer to live in than your shoddy apartment, you're sure.

"So, um..." you start, floundering.

Time is running out. You should make the most of the minute and thirty seconds you have left with him, but you don't know what else to say.

He picks up the slack. "A few more things I want to ask, sweetheart."

The pet name stirs up something in you. Makes you feel like a lovestruck puppy. You try to keep calm. "Go for it."

"What would you consider your biggest strength?" His elbows on the table, he interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.

You choke on a laugh. He arches a brow.

"Sorry. Just feels like an interview question."

He chuckles, the fine lines around his eyes creasing. Your face lights up because you made him do that. You want to see what he looks like when he smiles big and wide, his canines exposed.

"You can interpret it as one. Isn't that what speed dating basically is?"

"Good point." You chew on a fingernail. "Maybe loyalty? I've been at Animal Kingdom for almost ten years and have no intention of quitting." It's not loyalty as much as it is you chickening out of handing in your two-week notice time and time again. You hold back a grimace. "And, you know, if we were to be in a relationship, I'd be loyal to you, too. But that goes without saying."

"Loyalty," Jack repeats, mumbling to himself. "And your biggest weakness?"

"That's… harder to answer," because I have so many, all equally detrimental, you don't say. "I tend to daydream a lot? Get lost in my head," you decide on. "It's a thing at work. My coworkers tease me about it. It's not really been an issue, though."

He shakes his head. "That's not a weakness. I find that endearing. The world needs more dreamers like you."

The alarm sounds out, almost shocking you out of your chair. Time is up.

He watches you for a moment, glued to his chair when he should be moving to the next table.

"Why don't we get out of here?" he asks. "You said you rode the bus, right? I can drive us back to mine."

Your brows shoot up to your hairline. "What, really? Don't you want to talk to the other women?" You gesture around the room.

"I don't need to. I found you, and I'm taking you home, if you'll allow me." He stands, offering his hand to you, and adds, "my perfect match."

Jack brings you back to his house. A one-story rancher with a sleek, gray shingled roof and a manicured lawn. You wonder with his schedule if he does the upkeep himself or pays someone to do it.

During your date, he told you that on the weekends, or his version of them, anyway, he used to volunteer for TEMS as a SWAT physician. He has healthier hobbies now, though. "Got shot one too many times." But with how long his shifts run at the hospital, it's a miracle he has free time at all.

You shut the passenger door of his truck and follow behind him as you walk up the stone path. He unlocks the front door and gestures for you to enter.

As you remove your heels in the doorway, you take in the view of his house. The walls are professionally painted, and the floor is waxed. Open concept with ample room for him to navigate in his wheelchair. The couch is made of natural fabric and is gorgeous, especially compared to the tattered one you have back at home. The coffee table is bare, save for several open and scattered medical journals with their pages dog-eared.

On the minimalist side. Not a photo is hung up in sight, like all he has space for are the bare necessities. A home absent of traces of anyone but him. It seems he's been on his own for a long time.

"Come on," he says, leading you gently by the elbow and nodding his head at the couch. "Sit. Let's talk a little more. You want somethin' to drink?"

"Water, please."

Your glass of water is left untouched.

Conversation is a pretense for what Jack wants to do with you. Part of which involves capturing your lips with his and slipping his tongue into your mouth. Running papillae over the white of your teeth.

When was the last time you kissed someone?

He doesn't let go of you when he guides you toward his bedroom, clumsily walking backward in the hallway, his arms wrapped around your waist and his lips on yours, not giving you a chance to catch your breath.

"Ever been with an amputee?" he asks, parting from you, humor in his voice.

You fill your lungs, chest rising and falling fast. You're so out of practice it's embarrassing. "I can't say that I have," you admit. "But it doesn't bother me at all."

"Good."

You make it to his bedroom, and he gently guides you to sit back on his bed. It dips as he plops down beside you. He lifts his right pant leg and, with a stifled groan, works the socket loose and removes his prosthesis, along with his socks and liner, and massages his residual limb, rough hands rubbing down swollen tissue.

His wheelchair sits by the bedside as well as a pair of forearm crutches that lean against the nightstand.

"I've been on my feet for too long today. Usually take it off as soon as I get home." He tuts. "Skin is irritated as all hell."

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask sincerely.

He smiles wryly, a combination of hurt and relief on his face. "You can come 'ere."

He draws you in with an arm around the waist for another kiss, his other hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips feel warm on yours. Rough from being slightly chapped, too. He bites your lower lip, and you feel those canines you wanted to see in a smile earlier. Hard. You gasp into his mouth.

"Sorry, sweetie. Just got a little excited," he mumbles. The skin of your lip punctures, splits open, and is raw. His teeth are sharper than you would've expected from a red-blooded man. He swipes his tongue over your throbbing lip. "Forgive me?"

You can smell the blood like a bloodhound. You nod. You don't mind the pain.

"Is it okay if we take things further?" he asks, resting his forehead against yours.

"You want to?" Though you feel a bit stupid for asking. What else would he have brought you back for?

"Course. Unless you don't. We can stop here, and you can stay the night, sleep in my guestroom. Don't want you going home at this hour."

"Jack, I'm flattered, but... why me?"

"Why not you?"

You stumble over your words. "I—I dunno. I just. You didn't even give those other women a chance." You shrug. "It's just hard to believe ten minutes was enough to decide you wanted me."

He pats your thigh, giving it a little squeeze. "I think you're special. This was meant to be. Maybe you don't see it, but I do."

You look down at your lap, unsure. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger.

"Look at me. Don't get lost in your head. Just try to enjoy this. I'll make it easy," he says, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

You whisper "okay," wrapping your fingers around the thick of his wrist.

You trust him. Maybe too implicitly.

A tiny drop of blood wells up from your lower lip. He swipes it away with his thumb and brings his thumb to his mouth, streaking red across his lips before kissing you again.

You haven't had the most sexual partners. But of all the ones you've slept with, this time with Jack proves to be the most... white-hot and passionate.

You were more than happy to accommodate any position he was comfortable with. You offered to be on top, but he wanted to "see what you look like panting under me."

A pillow is placed under your hips to give you a bit of lift, which puts less pressure on his knees as they support his lower half, his body draped over yours. His forearms are braced by the sides of your head, and he leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss.

His thrusts are punishing. You can barely reach far enough into your mind to pause to ask if his stump is causing him discomfort, let alone string together words. He seems fine, though. Or more so focused on your pleasure than on his pain.

Then again, he's been fucking like this for as long as he's had his amputation, and that was some time ago—years of experience under his belt during which you were in high school. The thought spreads more heat to your belly.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Sweat sticking you together, a drop trailing down the valley of your breasts. His pelvic bone grinds into your sensitive, swollen clit, fat with arousal, insistent with every rock of his hips.

When Jack had undressed and you got sight of his cock, flushed an angry red, you couldn't contain your moan.

He asked, honestly, "see what you do to me?" while stroking himself to full mast. "How can you think I don't want you? Just need some cock to set you straight."

You whimper into his mouth as his cockhead punches far inside of you. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving welts in their wake.

He parts from your lips, breathing out against your ear. "Gonna let me come inside this pretty cunt? Give me a litter?"

You whine, nodding, crystalline tears falling freely down the sides of your face to your ears when the head of his cock hits your cervix. You're distantly aware that you're on birth control, but that doesn't come to the front of your mind when you tell him, "yes, come inside me, Jack."

And he does. His come spits out of his cockhead and sprays your inner walls, flooding your cunt. Your inner muscles work his length, work as much of his come into your womb as they can.

Once your heart rates have settled, Jack rolls over and carefully scoots himself onto his wheelchair by the bedside.

"I'll be back. Need to wash up my leg."

You sit up, covering your chest with the comforter. "Would you like any help?"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me—you should rest."

"I'm not worried. I'm offering because I want to."

Your straightforwardness surprises you both.

He smirks, chuckling softly. "Alright, then."

He bends forward at the waist to collect his boxers from the floor, shuffling into them, and then tosses you his t-shirt to wear.

You throw him a toothy grin as you put it on and follow him into the ensuite, willfully ignoring the come slowly leaking out between your wobbly legs.

You slide the glass shower door and help him from his wheelchair onto the shower bench, one of his hands clasped in yours, his other around a grab bar.

You reach for the detachable showerhead and open the tap, check that the temperature is a comfortable warm, and then hand it to him. You sit on the edge of the tub as he proceeds to lather his stump with antibacterial soap, rinse, lather, and rinse again.

He watches you watch him, a glint in his eye. "You're a good girl, aren't you."

"What—what do you mean?"

"Watching and learning my routine, I can't help but think this is you preparing for the future."

"The future? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"

"No, because I'm hoping this isn't going to be just a one-night stand. I want to take you out. On a real date." He reaches for a towel on the nearby rack to dry off his residual limb, now clean. "One turns into two, two into three, and the rest will be history. You'll let me wine and dine you, right?"

You scoff, though mirthfully, not quite believing what you're hearing.

"So?" he urges. "Don't leave a man hanging."

You shake your head, laughing. "I'd love to go out on a date with you, Jack."

"So, what happened with the adoption?" you ask. It's not been bothering you not knowing, per se, but the question has been bouncing around in your head, and your curiosity has gotten the better of you. "Like, was the dog misbehaving or something?"

He beats around the bush. "We just, uh, didn't see eye-to-eye."

"Explain that statement."

He rubs his palm down your back, kneading tense muscles. "She was more… high-energy than I was prepared for. I don't think she would've been happy with me. It's not good to force a dog into a home."

That feeds your curiosity, though you can't come up with a worthwhile response. You yawn and cuddle up to his side, dropping the subject. His thick fingers manipulate your body with ease, loosening hard muscle that connects to tendon that connects to bone. Sleep takes you.

He prepares you both a light breakfast before he leaves for his double shift. He lets you spend the better half of the morning here, asking that you lock up before taking the Uber he ordered for you home, which will get you back in time to get ready for your midday shift at the pet store.

He kisses you on the cheek goodbye. You capitalize on the moment and steal the shower for yourself. You use his products. They smell like him. Woody sandalwood and vetiver and something inherently masculine. In the bedroom, you get changed into a pair of boxers, a plain t-shirt, and some sweats he left behind for you, your underwear conveniently missing and your dress rumpled from last night.

Your Uber is arriving soon.

You make sure you have your phone and purse before you leave. On the ride home, you have a stupid smile on your face.

The text reads, when are you free for our first date?

You start seeing each other casually.

Matinee movie showings to bottomless mimosas (and manmosas) at brunch. It offends him when you pull out your wallet, so he pays for everything.

Normally one-night stands are just that, but somehow you have beaten the odds.

He picks you up for coffee, and afterward, you both decide to take a stroll in a park a little drive away, which has a number of benches throughout in case his leg aches.

You've been here before when you were but a child. There's a pond in the near distance that serves as the marker for the halfway point for the trail. You rush ahead of him to get to it.

All you hear is the gust of the wind blowing past your ears as you run, excitement bubbling up within you like you're that child again.

Then, he whistles. Loud and piercing; enough to make you stop in your tracks. Birds caw as they fly from the surrounding trees.

You're such an idiot. It's an unconscious thing but a behavior you'll need to correct: leaving him behind because he can't walk or run as fast as you can. On account of the prosthesis and, well, his age.

You turn back around and jog to make up the distance between you.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I wasn't thinking." You offer your hand. "So I don't run away again."

He grunts, interlocking your fingers. "Careful, or I might have to put you on a leash next time."

A farmer's market on a Sunday. You stop at a stall to sample the pierogis, rich and warm, the scent of buttermilk and clean dough lingering like the press of a kiss on your forehead—a cozy, nostalgic kind of scent.

You're a messy eater, you. You get sour cream all over your chin, lips, and fingers and lap the tang clean. He watches the pink tip of your tongue coat itself in white as if hypnotized. Dips his finger into the dollop of sour cream on his own plate and brings it to your lips. You laugh, but then suck the tip of his finger into your mouth, humming around the sun-warmed salt of his skin and sour-fresh goodness.

He pulls his finger out of your mouth with a pop and dips it into the sour cream again. Offers it to you again.

"Lick it this time," he orders. "Slowly."

A blur around you; the stall and the market are too busy for anyone to notice or care that you're licking cream off his finger like a kitten with a bowl of fresh milk. You are in your own world.

He invites you over for dinner on one of his nights off. After some back-and-forth, you wear him down enough that he relents and lets you help him prepare it. Next to the pot, on the kitchen counter, is a film packet of De Cecco spaghetti. On a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, two halves of a loaf of fresh Italian bread with garlic butter spread on top.

You excuse yourself to the restroom while he watches the garlic bread bake and the spaghetti boil, standing in the kitchen on his forearm crutches.

At the dining table, you recreate the iconic Lady and the Tramp spaghetti scene, as cheesy as it is. When your lips meet, it's a little gross: the grease of meaty tomato sauce coating lips, pieces of pasta trapped between teeth, saliva dribbling down your chin when he kisses you like he's trying to swallow you whole.

He chuckles when you pull apart. "You look a mess," he teases. He wipes the lower half of your face with a paper towel.

You can't remember the last time you were this happy. Jack tells you the same.

A half turn of the season since you've started dating. He offers you a key to his house.

You're a bit worried about how fast your relationship is progressing and refuse it, but you're over so often that he says, "might as well," and presses it into your palm.

"Thank you for trusting me." It's not as if he's asking you to move in. Still, you don't take advantage of it. It's left dangling on your keyring, untouched.

That is, until you decide to treat him after a miserable week of work. He should be coming back from his shift in the next ten minutes or so. You spent the morning preparing a feast of all his favorite breakfast foods.

As you dry the last of the dishes with a towel, you hear the jangling of keys and the front door opening. Jack is home.

He calls out your name, sensing your presence, and you smile as you walk up to him.

"I knew it was you," he says, the corners of his lips curling up. His nose scrunches up as he inhales the salty smell of bacon. He looks to the dining table, whereupon lie heaps upon heaps of food. "Sweetheart, did you make us breakfast? For the week?"

You nod, giggling and stealing his backpack from where it's slung over his shoulder and hooking it onto the rack. "I did. And I did it after finally using the key you gave me."

With a hand to the back of your neck, he brings you closer, planting a kiss on the tip of your nose, dusty with pancake mix.

"I love coming home to you."

Your pupils dilate and your heart leaps.

If you had one (dreams don't count), your tail would be wagging.

Man has a total of two hundred and six bones in the body. Canines have approximately three hundred and twenty-one. Yours crack, splinter, pierce internal organs as they fragment to make up for that one hundred and fifteen number difference. In the first few minutes, you feel nothing. You just hear the snap, crackle of collagen yielding to the force of the transformation.

Then, devastating pain. It is the worst pain you have ever felt. And in the liminal space between wakefulness and sleepiness, you can register it all along your body.

You wake up breathless, swiftly scanning your torso and upper and lower extremities under the covers.

Human.

You turn to Jack. He is fast asleep, puffing out soft breaths. You sneak out to the kitchen to get a glass of water, chugging it down to calm yourself.

You return to bed and, after some tossing and turning, fall back asleep, picking up where the dream left off. The pain is gone. You're something dog-like again. Your owner comes into view.

They have a material quality to them now. Not shapeless and indeterminate like they were before; the shape of a man. But like a mannequin in shadow, he has no discernable features.

He pets your head and tells you it's going to be alright. You roll over, show your belly to him. He is proud.

In the morning, you wake with a yawn and a stretch, feeling much better than when you had woken up in the middle of the night.

Jack is looking down at you, resting his head on his hand, his elbow propped on his pillow. He pets your head, swipes his thumb across your sleep-glossed cheek.

"G'morning. Sleep well?"

Lunch at work is spent not with a ramen cup but with finger foods and cake.

Mark is throwing Katy a retirement party.

Though she's been here just shy of five years, she's old enough now to receive benefits and has decided, "I'm fuckin' done with this shit."

Mark was over the moon when she came to him with the news, and he hired someone right away to replace her.

Animal Kingdom is small, one of the smaller branches in the small food chain of stores. There's a total of ten employees, and the others are a mix of full- and part-timers.

Everyone is here today for the party, though. Except the new kid who's watching over the store in the meantime. You feel a bit silly wearing the dog ears headband you were handed at the breakroom door, but the others have them on, and you don't want to be a spoilsport.

You wish Jack were here. And at the same time, you don't. This place has its way of sinking its teeth into you. And he has better things to do than be your shoulder to lean on at a work party that you'd rather clean out litter boxes than be at.

As people gather around Katy as she says a few parting words, "good fucking luck, the lot of yinz," you're tapped on the shoulder.

You turn around, your eyes widening.

"Jack? What are you doing here?"

He regards your dog ears with mild curiosity before his eyes drop to yours. "I thought I'd stop by and bring you lunch. Young man at the register led me back here. Is this a party?"

You pull him by the wrist to the corner of the room before anyone can spot him. "Yeah, one of us is retiring." You look down at the lunch bag by his side. "What'd you get?"

"A sandwich and chips from that place you like."

You hold up your plate of half-eaten pigs in a blanket, sticks of carrots, and sheet cake. "You should've told me you were dropping in. I would've saved my appetite."

He shrugs. "It's fine. You can eat it later. I really just came here to see you. I missed you."

You flash a smile. "I missed you, too."

He jerks his chin toward the group exchanging war stories. "Do you have to stay?"

"I mean, it's either this or I go back to work."

"How about a third thing?"

He encloses your wrist in his hand and leads you out of the room. None of your coworkers notice, too wrapped up in Katy's commemoration.

"Is there a storage closet or somethin'?" he asks, looking up and down the hallway.

You giggle. "Seriously, Jack? Here? I could get fired."

"Would that be so bad? You could just stay home with me," he says nonchalantly. "In fact, why don't you quit? You know I'll take care of you."

"I can't just quit. This job is all I have besides you."

You're joking. But not really. But Jack, he is joking. Or at least you tell yourself that. But he doesn't really seem to be joking, either.

"Uh-huh. Well, tell me where we can get some privacy, and you won't get fired."

You point to a room a few doors down from the break room, walking toward it. You hand him your plate and fumble with your set of work keys, singling out the one to the storage closet. The door opens, and he ushers you inside, locking it behind him.

The plate and the sandwich get set on a shelf among some cleaning supplies. Immediately, Jack is pushing you back against the wall, untucking your work shirt from your slacks, which he then unzips to pull your underwear down around your mid-thigh.

"Fuck, Jack, slow down," you whisper. "We have time. The party won't be over for another, like, fifteen minutes."

"'m sorry. Just want you," he mumbles before pressing his lips to yours.

He frees himself from his jeans and boxers and pumps himself to hardness. You can hear the slick motion of his fist moving up and down his shaft. You clench your thighs, your cunt sticky-wet.

He secures a hand on your hip, and with the other, rubs his cockhead through your folds, gathering your slick to line himself up and sink into your cunt. Once he's to the hilt inside you, his hand goes to cradle the curve of your jaw, his fingers making contact with the temple pieces of your headband.

"Fuckin' love seeing you wear this. So cute. My puppy," he emphasizes with a sharp thrust of his hips. The ears flap with your movement.

His words simultaneously make your stomach turn and a heat spread across your cheeks.

"You like it? I thought it was silly," you half giggle, half moan against his lips.

His hand reappears on your hip to join the other, his fingers bruising your flesh in a tight squeeze as he all but spears you onto his cock. The wall at your back prevents any escape. Your hands grip his shoulders, fingernails digging in, barely contained moans tumbling past your lips.

"Why don't you be a good girl and give me a little bark, huh?"

It's not lost on you how bizarre this is. The headband is bad enough, but Jack's request is a little too on the nose. What was an ambiguous, happy, and horrifying dream is bleeding full tilt into reality.

The dreams have not stopped and, in fact, have persisted since meeting him. Have become a closer mimic of reality, however uncanny.

And yet, you do it anyway. You indulge him with a pathetic bark.

"Ruff!"

He throbs inside of you, picking up the speed of his thrusts. His pubic bone bullies your clit, and you clench down on him, an orgasm pulled out of you embarrassingly fast.

"Fuck. That's it. That's my good puppy. Come on your daddy's cock."

He slaps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet as you keen, your eyes squeezing shut and your legs shaking like jelly as he fucks you through the tail end of your release.

He spills inside of you, and after, he asks you to "get on your knees, puppy. Wanna gag you on my cock."

When you return to the break room after seeing Jack out of the store, the salt of him lingering on your tongue, the party is over.

"Where have you been?" Mark asks, transferring the leftover sheet cake to the fridge. "You know what? Never mind. Can you take over for the new guy? He let someone walk out with an aquarium."

"Turn around. I wanna see you," he says.

Facing him, the spray hits your back and shoulders. Warm, soapy water cascades down into a swirl at your feet.

Jack is just in front of you, sitting on his shower bench, lathering shampoo onto his head of curly hair. By his side is the detachable showerhead, the flow of water reduced to a trickle. He presses the button, the flow returns in full force, and he rinses his hair.

"You're so pretty, puppy," he says, voice throaty with lust.

After the tryst in the supply closet, the pet name stuck.

His eyes scour your body, and instinctively you cross your arms over your chest and cross your legs, despite him having seen your naked body more times than you can count.

He pats the empty space next to him, setting down the showerhead. "C'mere."

You sit beside him, mumbling, "this is such a waste of water."

He chuckles. "Forget the water. You're right where you belong."

He pulls you closer so you're half seated in his lap and cups one of your breasts, slippery with soap, squeezing the curve of it until the fat plumps up in his hand. He leans down to suck a bruise onto the side of your neck as he thumbs your nipple.

You whimper, your spine tingling, your sore cunt clenching down on nothing. It seems no matter how many times he makes you come, no matter how many times he fucks your cunt full, you can never get enough of him.

Just before this, he took you from behind, his body weight like an anvil on your back, your neck trapped in the crook of his arm. Yet it was tranquilizing, as if you had been slipped something; you were too high off his body heat and the drag of his cock along your walls to know fear.

With one word, one snap of his fingers, one puppy-dog-eyed look, you come crawling. And when he's away during the day, your brain is so wired to him that even the scent he leaves behind on his pillow makes you salivate, your clit throb.

He stops the attack on your neck and angles his head lower to lick along your collarbone, but you pull him by the scruff of his neck before he can get carried away.

You level him with a serious look. "Please don't take what I'm going to say the wrong way, but I feel like... I feel like I'm getting Pavlov'd by you. Calling me 'puppy' doesn't help matters."

He stares at you, unblinking. Like he's stuck processing what you just said. Then he laughs. You laugh, too.

A ridiculous notion after saying it out loud. No, if anything, what you feel for him is closer to love than a response to classical conditioning.

Still, maybe it's easier to swallow, to say you're no better than a dog, than to admit such big, human feelings.

"What are you trying to say?" he asks.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. "I think I like you too much. Is what I'm trying to say. It's not a bad thing. It's just. You make me a little crazy. Is all."

He laughs again, his chest spasming against your back. You fight the urge to press your thumb into the tip of his canine to test how much pressure you need to apply before it bleeds.

"If we're pouring our hearts out... I also think I like you too much."

He says it so sincerely your heart nearly beats out of your chest.

After a second, he adds, "I can stop calling you puppy. Just tell me what you want," he murmurs, nosing your pulse point, fingers gripping your thighs to pull them apart.

He thickens beneath you, the head of his cock poking your ass cheek.

"No, I think—" You break on a moan when his fingers run along the seam of your cunt, splitting you in two. You can hear how wet you are with every upward and downward motion, even over the running shower water, and your face feels like it's on fire. "I think it's growing on me."

"Good," he rasps, teasing the rim of your hole before breaching it with the tips of his fingers, stretching you open. "Let's get out of the shower. I want to eat puppy's cunt."

You are at his house more than you are at your apartment. Before his shift tonight, he fucks you nearly into an early sleep.

Puppy, puppy, puppy—

It rolls off his tongue so often you're not fazed by it anymore.

He ruts into you from behind as you lie on your side, cocooned by his strong arms and thick thighs. His chin hooked over your shoulder, he pants heavily onto the side of your neck, licking stripes up along delicate skin, and then the stabbing of possessive, sharp teeth breaks skin, ensnaring you, like he's a dog with a bone afraid to lose the one good thing he has.

Daddy, daddy, daddy—

He comes inside you and lazily grinds his hips against your ass, plugging you up.

Daddy and his puppy. Daddy and his puppy.

After, he sits by the bedside in his wheelchair as you're curled up under the covers, thumbing the apple of your cheek. You worked a closing shift last night and an opening shift this morning. You're bone-tired.

"Catch up on some sleep, puppy. I'll be back to wake you up in the morning. You're off tomorrow, right?"

You nod, murmuring something nonsensical. He presses a light kiss to your hairline, and then he's wheeling out of the bedroom to the ensuite to take a shower.

On the cusp of unconsciousness, you hear him return and rifle through the drawers for his scrubs, roll his liner and socks onto his stump to attach his prosthesis, and return his wheelchair to its spot. A routine so familiar to you, your ears are sensitive to the slightest deviation in it.

It's odd. He's moving slower than usual this morning. By now he would be in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee and tuning in to the evening news. lagging behind not on account of his prosthesis but as if he were delaying getting to work.

You're already asleep before you hear him shut the front door.

When you stir, you feel something wrapped around your neck.

You impulsively scratch at it with one hand, panic chipping away at the corners of sleep clouding your mind, and with the other, push the covers back to get up to check the mirror in the ensuite.

Why does it feel like...

You stop dead, your eyes popping open, wide awake, once you see what it is that is encircling your neck.

You gingerly press your fingers to the black choker collar, the word "pup" written in cursive across the front of the titanium heart-shaped lock dangling in the center of it.

You must be dreaming still.

You pinch yourself, rapidly blinking at your reflection.

No, you're not asleep. This is life.

A million questions pop up in your head at once:

Did Jack put this on while you were asleep? How did you not wake up? How did you sleep through the night with it on? Why the fuck did he collar you? Again?

With shaky hands, you reach your fingers to your nape, checking for a buckle or clip. You feel bile rising up your throat when you don't, though you guessed as much.

The keyhole on the heart isn't just for aesthetic purposes. You need the key to unlock the pendant and take off the collar, which you suspect Jack has somewhere on his person. The leather band is thick, and unless you want to risk nicking your carotid artery using one of his kitchen knives to cut yourself out of it, you're left with no option but to wait for his return.

Pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit into place in your mind but bring with them more questions.

The collar he had you try on at the store. Was that so he knew what size to get you to fit into this one? But that would mean he had planned to pursue you before that encounter, wouldn't it? The adoption. Was that a lie fabricated to talk to you or a genuine truth that preceded this turn of events? You don't know for sure. His fascination with calling you his "puppy." At least that seems cut and dry.

The implication is becoming clear. All this time, Jack has been waiting for what he thought might be the right time to collar you and make you his.

He didn't bother asking permission to do it. He didn't have to. In his mind, you had already given it.

This is too much. You are disgusted by his violation of your body. And yet, you feel as though you should be more disgusted than you are.

The line is blurring. You ask yourself again, is this a dream or a nightmare?

You grip the sink and take a deep breath, your mind made up, your heart not so much. You've never picked a lock before, but it shouldn't be too hard to learn. At home. You hastily gather what of your things you have sitting around the house into one of Jack's old army bags and order a rideshare back to your apartment.

Just your luck, though, that as you're about to run out the door, he walks through it.

He eyes the duffel bag in your grip and the choker collar around your neck.

"Sweetheart," he drawls, hands held out in front of him, careful to approach, like any sudden movement of his and you'll bolt. "I can explain."

You shake your head. "Let me go, Jack. Why don't you give me the key and—and let me go. Please. This... this isn't working anymore."

He steps closer. "I thought you would be open to it. We've been dancing around this for a while now. Got it custom made for you and everything."

"You can't just collar me while I'm asleep and not expect me to freak out!" you shout.

The skin of your neck itches. Sweat creeps up along your nape. You grip the heart-shaped pendant, pulling it side to side, rubbing your skin raw as the collar rotates.

"Let's talk about this, alright? I wasn't planning for—you woke up earlier than I thought you would." He curses to himself. "I should've been here."

You scoff. "Like it fucking matters whether you were here or not. You don't... you don't do this without discussing it first! Please, just give me the key. Now."

You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he drops his hands by his sides and sighs, digging one into his scrub pocket. He flashes the key and then tosses it to you.

"I wish you'd hear me out, but I won't force you to stay." Below his breath, just within earshot, he mumbles, "I thought you were the one."

You don't respond. Instead, you pocket the key and shoulder past him to rush out the door. A far enough distance away from his house, on the walk down the street where your ride awaits, you sling the duffel bag over your shoulder and fight with the lock to take off the collar.

You feel like you can breathe again once you hear a click. You unhook the shackle of the lock from the loop, and the collar comes loose. You're tempted to throw the collar, lock, and key into one of the neighbor's trash bins, but for some inexplicable reason, you don't.

As you hop into the backseat, tears roll down your face.

Jack was the one good thing you had.

He doesn't reach out to you, and perhaps that's a good thing.

But despite doing what you thought was right in leaving, it hurts that he let you go in the first place. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should because you see him every day. At least you think you do.

On the walk to the pet store, you see a head of curly hair in your periphery, a bit of natural copper clawing through the silver.

At work, you catch a figure passing by the storefront window out of the corner of your eye, too quick for you to be sure it was him. But how else do you explain the sudden swivel of your head if not pure instinct?

On your day off, while at the grocery store picking up ingredients for the week, you stumble into the arms of a man after being pushed by the cart of a rambunctious kid recklessly steering it for his parents. He catches you by the waist, asking, "are you okay?"

You nod absently, turning your head to the apologetic-looking kid behind you. When you face the man again, he's already disappeared, the heat of his hands on your waist gone with him. Only then do you register that his voice sounded familiar.

That same evening, you look out the window of your bedroom. The shrubs bordering the sidewalk shake, and you watch as a man-shaped shadow stretches out along the pavement, growing in size as he walks away from the street light.

You're either seeing what you want to see, or Jack is keeping tabs on you. You're inclined to think the former, but pitiably, you wouldn't be too put off by the latter. Though you tell yourself you're done with him, inwardly you feel conflicted because it's possible you overreacted.

He was right, after all. You two had been circling around a specific dynamic, for lack of a better term. And instead of catching your tail, you tucked it out of his house.

Prophetic, almost, what with the dreams you've been having to enter into a relationship with him. But the way he went about collaring you frightened you, as it would anyone. This fallout could've been avoided had he just communicated his desires better.

Since leaving his house that day, your dreams haven't felt much like nightmares. When you wake, all you remember is the latter part of the dream. Head scratches and belly rubs and endless, endless praise.

What truly is there left to be afraid of, you wonder.

The mold spreading out on the ceiling is the tipping point.

It is fascinating, though, despite it being a nuisance. How little it needs to subsist on to stay alive. How it branches out to seek more decaying organic matter to feed its belly, voracious.

The unit upstairs reportedly left the water in the kitchen sink running overnight, clogging the compromised, fragile plumbing system that runs through your apartment building and causing it to leak into your bedroom ceiling.

When you turned in for the night, there was nothing but an off-white popcorn ceiling. And like magic, when you woke, there was nothing but diseased black and green tucked between all of its bumps and ridges.

For the sake of covering his ass and not for the sake of your health, your landlord is asking that you spend a few nights elsewhere. The mold remediators won't be able to come in for another week.

It's been just over a couple of weeks since you broke things off with Jack and a little less than that since you stopped seeing him in every corner.

You are tempted to call him, but call your father instead. Your childhood home isn't too far from here. You haven't spoken to him in months now, but this is an emergency. You can't afford a hotel.

I'd love to have you, but now's not a good time. You should be able to figure something out. Why don't you crash at a coworker's? You're still working at the pet store, aren't you?

You hang up. It'll be another few months before you call him again, if that.

Another night sleeping under the mold won't kill you, you suppose. But you'll have to figure out something soon.

You fall asleep. You dream. You are already transformed.

Your owner appears, and he—

He went through a transformation, too.

Back when the dreams started, he was incomprehensible—an enigmatic entity that was felt more than seen. Then he was the shape of a man, a mere silhouette. Now he is just man.

He has hair on his head and eyes and a nose and lips. Freckled and sun-spotted skin. Two arms and two legs, one of which is a prosthetic leg.

But maybe he was always this way. You just couldn't see him for who he was. How could you have. You hadn't met Jack yet.

He says something you don't understand, but you know he's disappointed in you; his voice is lower pitched, drenched in resignation.

Bad dog. 

You wake up feeling nauseous and have a rotten taste in your mouth.

The mold smells. The mold is alive and breathing and healthy, and it smells. The mold is affecting your dreams.

The mold is why you reach for your phone on the nightstand and call him.

He picks up, and immediately you start.

Can I stay over for a few days? I have fucking mold on my ceiling, and it's making me sick, and I don't have anywhere else to turn.

The line is silent for a few seconds. Then, do you want me to pick you up?

Yes. If it's not a bother.

I'll be outside in thirty.

Both of you are silent in his truck; he steals glances at you at every red light, but you look straight ahead.

Out the window, from the corner of your eye, you see a man walking his dog, which stops at a red fire hydrant so it can take a leak.

As soon as you walk through the front door of his house, you say, "we need to talk."

He nods and gestures to the couch.

You throw your (his) duffel bag stuffed with a week's worth of clothes onto the floor by your feet as you sink into the cushion.

"Do you want to start, or should I?" he asks, settling in beside you, not too close, but not too far, either.

"You can start." You wring your hands. "I'm still figuring out what I'm going to say."

"You sure?"

You nod.

Alright. About what I did—"

"You could've asked me," you blurt out. His maw snaps shut. "You could've asked me what I thought about wearing a collar. About incorporating kink into our relationship. Instead, you forced it on me while I was asleep like a creep."

His shoulders sag. He looks so tired. Lifeless, almost.

He must have been hurting as much as you were in your absence, doubly so because of the guilt you can clearly see reflected in his eyes.

A stab of pain washes over you.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I should've talked to you about it first. It was shortsighted of me not to."

A dry laugh. "It was. I would've heard you out."

He sighs. "It's not an excuse, but a small part of me thought you might run if I had brought anything up." His hand hovers over yours, but after a moment's hesitation, he sets it back on top of his knee. "I fucked up. We were still new and fragile, and I should've waited until we had that discussion. But as soon as I had the collar in my hand…" he trails off. "I was overeager. An old, overeager creep, as you put it."

"I didn't say old," you murmur.

"If all you want is a place to stay, then please, stay. Take the guest room. I won't bother you while you're here." He pauses, his stare burning a hole through you. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you every fuckin' day."

You're the one reaching your hand to his this time, as calloused, familiar, and warm as you remember.

"I—I missed you, too, Jack. Maybe I should've let you explain your side of the story before storming off, but I was… overwhelmed."

He shakes his head. "No, I get it. I don't blame you for it. It was my fault."

You angle your body more toward his, your knees brushing. "Look. I'm willing to pick back up where we left off. Even… try some things, if you catch my drift—as long as we're on the same page at all times."

He raises his brows, a small smile pulling at his lips. "Yeah? You're sure?"

"Part of why I'm here is because I have no other place to go… but I've also had time to think. I want to do this with you. I guess the mold was the push I needed to clear the air. We'll start slow?"

He brushes his thumb over the pulse point of your wrist. Your pulse ticks.

"Whatever you want."

With that, you gently pull your hand away from his to rifle through your duffel bag, retrieving the collar and giving it back to him.

You reattached the heart lock, though you lost track of the key's whereabouts.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, turning it around in his hands like it holds some world-shattering secret, before meeting your eyes again.

"You kept it?" he asks.

"I couldn't get myself to throw it away," you admit.

"But what do I with it? It was supposed to be for you."

"I dunno. Save it as a memento? It's pretty, but it's not really my style. And I'd like to pick my own."

"Pick your own," he parrots, stupefied.

"If and when I'm ready for one, yes."

You take off work for the week using the last bit of vacation time you have. He does the same (though he has a lot more time to burn than you do).

"I'm not lettin' this week go to waste," he says. "Gotta lot of catching up to do."

That first night, you sleep in the same bed like no time has passed, cradled in his arms, his broad chest rising and falling against your back, soft breaths puffed out along the sensitive shell of your ear.

At sunrise, you feel him hard and insistent, slowly grinding his cock against the curve of your ass, a pathetic wetness pooling between your legs.

"Mornin'," he grunts, anchoring a hand on your hip, drawing you closer into the bulk of him.

"Good morning to you, too," you tease, pressing back against his erection, voice soft with sleep and longing.

Too impatient and with a cunt too empty to take your time, you turn around in his arms and push him onto his back, hovering over him, fumbling to pull his cock out of his boxers.

With some spit and a few strokes of your hand, he's stiff, bobbing up toward the ceiling, pre-come dribbling from his slit.

You peel off your underwear and sink down on him inch by painstaking inch, a pleasurable fullness curling your toes once you're seated on his cock.

You've never felt as complete as you do when he's inside you.

"Take what belongs to you, baby. Fuck, this cunt missed me, didn't she?"

He grabs fistfuls of your ass and bounces you on his cock while thrusting up into you, watching your breasts shake beneath the cotton of your sleep gown, your hard nipples poking through the thin fabric.

"Gonna come, Jack. Oh God—please, please, please—"

"My pretty baby. My pretty baby and her tight, puppy cunt—"

Hearing "puppy" again tightens the coil living in the pit of your stomach, a dormant, hibernating thing if not for Jack. A choked cry, and then you're falling apart, landing on his chest, bawling into the crook of his neck because you have him again.

You do away with slow. You just can't help yourself when it comes to him.

He orders a collar—strictly for play, a removable one—and leash set online. Not custom-made quality like the collar before, but it will suffice.

The material of the collar is black leather with gold-plated metal used for the buckle and the O-ring. The chain of the leash is the same gold-plated metal; the handle is the same black leather.

The set arrives the next day.

Breakfast (and brunch and lunch and dinner) at home because he doesn't want to share you with the world just yet if he can help it, hoarding the sweet, honey-ripe scent of you so no one can get a whiff.

Like a dog caching his prized possession.

And afterward, hands fisting the sheets, face down, ass up, you're a sticky, syrupy mess of sweat and slick.

His hands are like hot stones over the flesh of your hips, deliciously warm, fucking you back onto his cock with every thrust, a pillow placed under his residual limb for maximum comfort, his weight distributed more to his left side to put less stress on his right knee.

You feel him more deeply in this position. Digging through your stomach, clawing up your throat.

He wraps the excess length of the chain around his hand and tugs, forcing an arch to your back, choking you firmly yet tenderly, his grip taut but controlled. You grow lightheaded; it's a difficult thing to breathe around the thick of his cock and the tug of the leash.

Adrenaline pumps through your veins. Your cunt clamps down on him, your hole leaking with nectar.

He loosens his grip on the leash, and your head drops forward onto the mattress. Oxygen enters your bloodstream with every ragged intake of breath.

Your brain feels fuzzy. A warmth settles over you. Your orgasm is indulgent, saccharine, so much so you can taste it: fresh spring air and sifted sugar and milkweed nectar. You're a trembling, twitching thing under Jack, who continues to ram your cunt, chasing his release.

"Who's daddy's good girl, huh? Tell me."

He slaps his hand over the skin of your ass cheek when you don't respond.

Your tongue thick in your mouth, your voice wrecked, but you manage to cry out, "me—I am—I'm your good girl!"

"That's right, puppy."

It starts when the headband makes itself at home on your head. A reminder of the years you spent working with Katy that you brought with you because you knew he'd love seeing you wear it again.

He's thick in his hand, pumping himself as he sits in his wheelchair, cockhead leaking and swollen, a slick glide of his fist along his shaft, wet with pre-come and a copious amount of your saliva.

Kneeling by his feet, your tank top is pushed up over your breasts, your nipples stiffened into little peaks. The chain of the leash dangles between you, clink, clink, as he grips the handle.

You suck on the tip of his cock as you massage his heavy balls with one hand, the other gripping the armrest on his chair. A frothy, milky mess coats the base of his cock, dripping down to his balls and soaking your fingers.

"Sit back," he grunts, his voice a thick rasp.

You obey. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers itching to touch him again.

He continues to stroke his cock with one hand. He stares at your breasts, the saliva dripping down your chin, your glassy eyes, your furry little ears, the collar around your throat. "Fuck, puppy." He spills into his hand, a strangled groan passing between his lips, come sticking to his fingers. He scoops as much of his seed as he can, reaching his fingers to your lips.

"Lick me clean."

And you obey.

The sticky salt of him coats your tongue as you wipe his fingers clean, sucking them into your mouth from pointer to pinkie. He pets your tongue, pressing his fingers into the pink meat of it, and then shoves them as far down your throat as he can until you're a blubbering, choking wreck.

"That's my good girl," he praises. "How about I feed you daddy's come in a dog bowl next time? Would you like that?"

The white of your eyes goes bright, and you nod.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping the spit on your heated cheek. "I can't hear you, puppy."

"Ruff! Yes, daddy."

After a scene, there is a comedown.

You bathe together in the bathtub, bubbles floating in the water, foamy, thick, and dreamlike, seated between his legs, your head resting on his chest, your fingers tracing the lines on his palm, reading what offshoots led him to you. To this.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," he says, his chest rumbling when you adjust yourself in his lap, the hand you're not occupied with, resting on the soft curve of your belly, possessive and protective, squeezing in warning.

"Were you really adopting a dog? When you first told me about it in the store, I mean."

He shakes his head. "No. That was just an excuse to talk to you. And…" He hesitates for a second, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes. "And get a measurement for the collar I had planned for you."

You huff a laugh. He's such a freak.

What does that make you?

"Okay, I thought that might be the case. And when you came back to return it?"

"Another excuse to talk to you," he says, smirking.

"So, then, what about the speed date?"

"That was a happy coincidence. A work buddy of mine forced me to go because he said my loneliness was depressing him. I couldn't get out of it. It took one minute for me to know I had made the right choice in chasing you. The rest of the date was just a bonus."

You sit with that for a moment.

"Where did you first catch wind of me?"

"Take a guess," he says.

"PTMC?"

You last went when a coworker got bit by a dog someone had brought in for grooming and were the one to drive them (in their car) to the emergency room. They ended up quitting, and grooming services were discontinued.

He hums in affirmation. "I was passing by as one of the interns stitched up the dog bite on the patient's forearm. You were there on the other side of them, holding their hand. You caught my attention. Somehow I knew you were who I've been looking for all my life."

"Huh. I guess I was too distracted to notice you," you muse. "But you… you sensed something in me."

"You could say I sniffed you out. Part of me was impressed by how calm you were. It was a nasty bite, but you didn't flinch."

You shrug. "I wasn't the one who got bit, though. I'd have more than flinched if it were me. But dogs bite. That's what they do if they're nervous or scared. It's not fair to blame them for following their nature. All I could do was try to be there for my coworker."

He holds you tighter to his chest, the heat of his palm searing your water-slick, slippery skin. "But you're a good puppy," he whispers in your ear, teasing. "You wouldn't ever bite me, right? Give me a reason to muzzle you?"

You giggle. "I could. Dogs also bite out of love, you know."

"Or possessiveness," he grunts.

He sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, as if proving his point.

What he likes, you like, and vice versa. You feed off each other. One continuous feedback loop of codependency tying you together.

He can't keep his hands off you.

Father-like, in the way that he takes care of you after unmaking you like no father should. Whispers of praise after "taking my cock like a good girl." Epsom salt baths he runs for you and your sore muscles after stretching your body like a rubber band. Feeding you at the dining table because you're still a messy eater and "daddy's messy, messy girl." Like some owners feel their pets are, to them, their children.

Though, at times, it feels like he is the feral mutt.

In his wheelchair parked right at the edge of the bed, he eats you out as you lie on your back, your legs thrown over his shoulders, ankles digging into the wide expanse of his back.

His fingers dimple the fat of your thighs, bruising them in his firm grip. His tongue laps your folds, swirls around your swollen clit; his teeth nip at the delicate, divine crease of skin that separates inner thigh from cunt, half man, half beast. You yank the hair on his head; to push or pull him away, you don't know, but regardless, he doesn't separate from you until you're crying against the flat of his tongue.

He likes you best naked, or as close to it as possible, your body accessible to him at all times.

"This cunt is mine," he growls when he splits you in half with his cock. "No one else's."

His, his, his, his, his.

He likes when you crawl to him naked on all fours, collared, your asshole stuffed with the fluffy tail plug he ordered along with the collar and leash set, the chain of the leash dragging along the wooden floor behind you.

He twists the bulb of it around inside you, pulling a mewl from your lips.

"Such a dirty pup, letting me play with your asshole like this, huh? Maybe I stuff her with my cock next time."

He likes watching you piss yourself on his boot outside in the backyard like the filthy pup you are, a sobbing, hot-cheeked, and humiliated, inconsolable mess after a full day of being plied with water, letting go in just your panties and a little T-shirt that is translucent and clings to you after he jerked off and pissed on your chest. Animals being animals.

You like pleasing him. You like being the sole proprietor of his attention. You like being his.

He whistles as soon as he gets through the door. He left for a few hours, though you begged him not to.

"You're supposed to be on vacation, Jack. You're supposed to be shacked up with me."

"They called me in for an all hands on deck. I have to go, pup. I'm so sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts, you come crawling and stop a few feet from where he stands in the foyer, hooking his backpack up on the rack.

He whistles; you crawl.

"There she is, my good girl," he greets. "I thought about you all day today."

You giggle. "Oh, did you, now?"

"Yeah," he grunts. "And that pretty cunt of yours."

He has a smirk on his face, but a flash of something hurting crosses over his handsome features, and you notice.

You cock your head, your brows furrowing, and drop the act. "Jack. Do you want a massage?"

He sighs, holding his hand out to help you up from the floor to lead you to the bedroom.

"You always know just what I need, sweetheart."

He perches himself on the edge of the bed, and you kneel by his feet, looking up at him with a compassionate smile, lifting the pant of his scrubs to release the locking mechanism on his prosthesis and shrug it off his residual limb.

You step away for a second to retrieve the prosthetic ointment in the ensuite so you can lather it on his skin.

Massaging his limb for him, hearing his groans of "pup" and "that's a good girl," steepling fingers into sore muscle, rubbing prosthetic ointment on his residual limb, on the scar of his suture line, his hand on your nape to tether himself to you, you know this is where you are meant to be.

Your landlord says the mold has been removed, and you can return to your apartment unit.

The past week felt like a fever dream. Skin-to-skin throughout most of it all. Waking up with the sun and falling asleep under the moon together. There's no part of you that Jack hasn't claimed.

But all good things must come to an end. You both will return to business as usual. Though, fundamentally, things have changed.

You're with Jack. And he won't be letting you go. Mold or not, you won't be seeing your bedroom ceiling again except to say goodbye.

On your first day back at the pet store, you're tasked with overseeing the adoption event that has been planned for a few months. A big playpen in the middle of the store near the cash registers, where puppies of various breeds chase each other's tails and nap under the sticky heat of a pet store with the rooftop HVAC unit shorted out.

Perhaps it's the swelter stalling the cogs where your rationality functions, but one puppy in particular stares at you like a baby or a child would when it's processing new information, and it seems to follow you around with its eyes as you circle the playpen to help customers fill out their adoption applications.

There must be something about your face it finds interesting. Or maybe it sees the invisible but common thread between you, as if it knows what you and Jack get up to in your free time.

Laughable how your mind plays tricks on you, but you're a touch unsettled regardless. It's too much, isn't it? Working at the pet store. Walking through the door to a man that calls you "puppy." The dreams.

You hope all of them get adopted today. They deserve good homes.

Yours is with him.

It seems like Jack will be getting his wish, after all.

"I quit."

Mark looks up at you from a stack of paper over the rim of his glasses. 

"You quit," he repeats, dropping the paper and interlocking his fingers on the desk. "On the spot, or are you giving me notice?"

Your throat bobs.

Mark has been a good boss to you, but it's high time you get out of here, preferably before you hit a decade spent in this time sink. 

"On the spot."

He clicks his tongue.

"I can't say I expected this, if I'm being honest. Especially since we lost Katy not too long ago. But I'm happy for you, truly. The question is how quickly can I find a replacement…" he mumbles.

"You're happy for me?"

"Of course. I think you're a bright young lady. The world is your oyster, and I believe you can do whatever it is you want in this life."

Your brows shoot up. "Oh, wow. That's… that's very kind of you to say, Mark."

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what are your big plans?"

Trade one leash for another.

You can't tell him that, though.

"Well, remember the speed date I told you about? Um, I've actually been seeing the same guy for a while now, and, uh, I dunno. I dunno what's in store for me. But he'll be there to help me figure it out." 

Mark smiles. "Good for you. Aren't you glad I pushed you to go to that thing? Don't say I never did anything for you."

The dreams have stopped. It doesn't matter why, but you speculate it's because you quit your job and moved in with Jack. There is no reason for a prophecy to mask itself as a dream anymore if it has been fulfilled.

Your dreams are as boring and mundane as they can get nowadays, but at least when you wake, you have him.

Late in the summer, in the Spanish villa he rented out with a view of the sparkling sea just outside the balcony doors; the position you first had sex in all those months ago, except the backs of your knees are hooked over his broad, freckled shoulders.

Over the past two weeks you have done nothing but tan half naked under the sun, sipping on tinto de veranos by the beach with Jack by your side, his standard prosthesis switched out for his waterproof one.

One of your hands held in his, his other around the handle of his cane padded with a sand tip, he strolled with you along the shoreline, gawking at you as you wore the little bikini he then ripped off you later, biting into the sun-kissed skin of your ass and breasts and tracing tan lines with his tongue.

Now, though, he bears down on you, and he fucks your cunt mean, a bit viciously, an arm wrapped under your waist, his other hand gripping the side of your neck, forehead to sticky forehead, your collar glinting against the sunlight streaming in through the window.

He went alone to the local square to get bocadillos for dinner: crusty, fresh bread smeared with tomato pulp and drizzled in olive oil, stuffed with jamón serrano and Manchego cheese.

"I know you're up to something, baby. But fine, I'll indulge you. If I come back to you touching yourself like the horny pup I know you are, we're going to have a problem."

When he returned, you were in bed, naked, and in your hands was the day collar you chose and bought for yourself a few weeks prior—paid for with his money, because you're his pup, his responsibility, his baby—as well as the key and screw that went along with it.

You were waiting until the last day of your vacation, a vacation he couldn't be pulled in to work from, for him to put it on you.

A subtler choice than the one he initially picked for you, a dainty, thin chain laced with diamonds that stops just above your collarbone. No one will bat an eye at it unless they look close and see that the only way to remove it is with a hex key the size of a toothpick.

He dropped the sandwiches on the floor and didn't bother taking off his prosthesis, too emotional about collaring you, about having your trust to wear this symbol of his love and his ownership around your neck at all times. With trembling hands, he fastened the ends of the chain around your neck, tightening the screw with the hex key, and then pressed a kiss to your nape.

You've been wearing the play collar for so long it's become something of a comfort to you. You started to miss the feeling of it around your neck when you were done with a scene and went to bed in his arms.

But now, you have this.

You angle your head down to bite his neck so hard ripe blood pours into your mouth, so hard he groans, his chest rumbling, his thrusts stuttering. Along with the iron of the blood, you taste the meat of him: sun-screened, Spanish sun-shined, and sweat-slicked.

"Fuck, puppy. That's—that's a bad fuckin' girl. This is the thanks I get?" But you know he likes when you mark him. "Maybe what you need is a time-out. Put you in a cage." But you know his threats are empty.

He's a sucker for you. If you were to be thrown in a cage, he'd throw himself right in there with you.

You smile wide at him, your teeth stained red. "I love you, Jack. You can't blame a dog for telling you that in the only way she knows how."

He bites you, too, on your collarbone, on the stretch of skin right below your chain, though a lot more delicately because "I fuckin' love you. My baby, my puppy."

You tremble like a leaf in his arms when you come, and he spills inside you not long after, a trail of your combined release leaking down the cleft of your ass, your legs scrumptiously sore after being folded in half and fucked through the mattress.

Your love for each other, a sick kind of dependency, obligate mutualism. One species can't survive without the other. You need him, and he needs you.

He's man and beast and yours all at once.

And you're his baby pup.

You're his.

you were out sunning yourself by the pool, unaware that someone had buzzed in for entry onto the property. it was your coworker who had come over to drop off a sweater that you had left at work the previous night. he had driven you home after your shift a few times since you were on his way, so he knew where you lived.

already pope wasn’t happy about this man driving you home. he had never gotten mad at you for it, but it pissed him off that the guy seemed so interested in spending more time with you, especially since he knew you had a boyfriend. what did he think he was doing? was he going to try to make a move on you? what if he hurt you?

unfortunately for your coworker, pope was the one to buzz him in and open the door; the rest of the family was elsewhere and you were out by the pool, laying in a lounge chair half asleep. pope was immediately irritated to hear this guy asking for you, saying that he had your sweater. if he had hackles they would’ve been all the way up.

pope snatched the sweater from his hands, “i’ll give it to her,” he said stiffly, placing the sweater inside and moving to close the door in his face.

your coworker stuck his foot in the door before it could shut, “i was hoping to talk to her, is she around?” he asked.

pope narrowed his eyes, reopening the door and stepping out, making the other man move backwards, “what d’you want with her anyways?”

“i just wanted to chat, i didn’t realize she had a bodyguard,” he huffed, continuing to shuffle back as pope slowly advanced towards him, “guess you must be ‘the boyfriend’ huh? fine. i’ll get out of here.”

the mocking tone with which he said it sent pope over the edge. he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and pushed him back until he was up against the hood of his car, “what’d you just say?” he growled.

“nothing!” your coworker squeaked, “i said i was leaving!”

pope released the man’s shirt from his fist, making him fall back onto the car. pope gritted his teeth, turning around to stalk back into the house.

“psycho…” he muttered under his breath as he straightened out his clothes.

pope turned on his heel and sped back over, punching the man square in the jaw before he could duck out of the way. he held him up by his shirt once again and was about to give him a serious beatdown before he heard you.

“andrew!” you yelled from the doorway, the commotion having roused you from your relaxation.

pope turned to look at you, and when he saw the scowl on your face he immediately dropped your coworker, who then scrambled to get into his car and pull out of the driveway.

pope walked back inside to where you were, looking downwards with his hands by his sides like a dog who knew it did something wrong.

“what was that?” you asked briskly, closing the door behind him.

pope stared at the floor, “he came to give you your sweater,” he said, pointing to where he had left it, “but he was being a dick, trying to hit on you. so i hit him.”

“look at me andrew,” you said, using your hand to tilt his chin upwards so he had no choice but to meet your gaze, “y’know you can’t just go around beating people up right?”

pope chewed on his cheek and nodded.

you continued, “but that guy can be an asshole. that’s why i stopped taking rides home from him, he knew that i was in a relationship but he kept pestering me anyways. i didn’t want him to think he had any chance, but clearly he had an ulterior motive coming here. i’m glad you put him in his place.”

pope’s eyes seemed to light up when you said that, but he remained silent. “my big scary guard dog andrew… but you’re so sweet for me, aren’t you?” you asked, still holding his chin in your fingers.

“mm,” he hummed. he looked so kind and innocent despite having just decked a man in the face.

you kissed him, moving your hands to wrap them around his torso and pull his body against your own. you shuffled backwards towards your shared bedroom and pope followed, never breaking the kiss until your legs hit the back of your bed and you sat down.

he stood there watching you intently as you pulled off your clothes and crawled onto the bed, laying back against the pillows. “take off your clothes andrew,” you cooed, running a hand over your naked body teasingly.

you brought a hand between your legs to circle your clit while you watched him undress. you were already soaking wet, seeing how possessive pope was of you turned you on like nothing else.

once he finished taking off his clothes, pope returned to staring at you, he looked like he was a predator about to pounce on his prey. he was gorgeous, his gaze dark and lustful, his muscles tense with anticipation, and his cock standing at full attention.

“you know i’m all yours, right andy?” you asked, pumping two fingers in and out of yourself as you returned his gaze.

he nodded, his cock jumping.

“such a patient boy waiting for my command,” you smiled, “come take what’s yours then.”

pope didn’t hesitate for even a moment before descending onto you, slotting himself between your legs and placing his arms on either side of you before capturing your mouth in a kiss. he slid his cock against your wetness, moaning into your mouth at the feeling.

“‘m all ready for you andrew,” you said against his lips, reaching down to take his length in your hand and line it up with your entrance.

he lifted himself up to stare at you, pressing your legs up against your chest before returning his hands to the mattress. “you’re mine,” he said as he pushed inside of you.

he began thrusting and you felt him so deep inside of you. you let your eyes flutter shut and your head fall back as you moaned, holding onto the small of his back as he pounded into you.

pope grabbed your hair in one hand and tilted your head back towards his own, “look at me,” he growled.

you listened, locking your eyes on his. the ravenous way he was staring at you while he pushed his cock into you over and over made you whine as you nodded, “o-ok.”

he released your hair from his grasp and planted his hands again so he could fuck you even harder. he thrust into you mercilessly, making your whole body shake with the force of his hips. pope never took his eyes off of you, “touch yourself,” he breathed out.

you brought your hand back down to your clit once again, rubbing it in time with his thrusts.

“shit— a—andrew—” you whimpered as he continued to slam into you with quick deep strokes.

he could feel you approaching your orgasm as you maintained the pressure on your clit, your walls tightening around him, “come on my cock,” he commanded, placing his forehead against yours.

“y-yes!” you cried out, your eyebrows knitting together as you let the waves of pleasure wash over you, doing your best not to close your eyes.

“mmm” pope purred his approval, his thrusts becoming sloppier.

you put your hands on your thighs to hold them against your chest, trying to let him drive even deeper into you.

“gonna fill you with my come, gonna come in you again and again tonight, ‘till i get you pregnant.” his voice was low and gravely, “gonna make you mine forever, everyone will know you belong to me.”

“please,” you begged, caressing pope’s face gently with one hand as his hips smacked against you.

he came with a groan, staring into your eyes. his cock pressed up against your cervix as it pulsed, spilling his seed deep inside of you.

pope kissed you softly, helping you to lower your legs down into a more comfortable position. you would be a bit sore for a while but you didn’t mind. he broke the kiss to sit back on his haunches and pull out of you, watching as his come dripped out.

The friends from high school– ones you’ll never see again, much to your mother’s delight, now that you’re all heading for different colleges– had shown you how to smoke, had cut class with you to sneak off to the strip mall, had laughed at you when you told them that you’d never been kissed. What would they say now that you were pressed close on a bench with a silver fox, all alone out the side door of a hard-to-navigate wedding venue?

For a little while you both sat there, slowly smoking and enjoying the quiet moment after the utter chaos of the day so far.

“Your mom told me that you were a good girl, you know,” Jack said as he looked you over again, and his eyes definitely rested on the bust of your green sundress that pushed your cleavage up. Before you could even formulate a response to that he shook his head. “Can’t be that good if you’re bumming a smoke from a perfect stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” you protested. “Robby always calls you his brother. Doesn’t that make you my, uh. Uncle?”

He laughed, tipping his head back, and it was almost a cruel sound. Like you’d fucked up, and you started to shrink into yourself, pulling away from where your bare leg brushed against him.

“Hey, no,” he said quickly, as soon as he noticed, and put his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb in a reassuring motion. “Sorry. You’re just gonna kill me, kid.”

Your phone buzzed loudly in the little clutch next to you, but you didn’t move a muscle to grab it. Probably the wedding planner, asking where the hell you’d gotten off to. You ignored it, not wanting to break the spell of Jack next to you and touching you and looking at you with those dark eyes.

But then his phone rang, too, and the spell was broken. He reached into his pocket with his free hand to check his messages and he frowned. 

“Duty calls,” he said, and used his hand on your knee to help himself push up from the bench. Once he’s standing he wasn’t touching you anymore and you frowned, looking down at your leg. “I know, but we can catch up later,” he said, as if he could read your mind, and when you look up he’s got a hand still outstretched like he wanted to put his hand under your chin.

The door to the venue opened and someone yelled looking for you.

“On my way,” you called back.

His hand redirected itself to help you up, his touch lingering for a touch longer than it needed to once you’re on your feet. 

“Come on,” he said, and then you both quickly stubbed out your cigarettes and hustled back inside.

With the chaos, you never had a second alone with him again that night, and even though you didn’t dare look at him for too long, you could feel him watching you. Right in front of your step dad like it was nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t even have his phone number or his email or anything. But with Robby moving into your house, and them being close as brothers, you figured it wouldn’t be too long until you saw him again.

⊹ ⊹

Robby’s note popped into your inbox halfway through your first semester, when reading something from him was actually kind of nice for once, since it was anything else besides studying for midterms.

Jack’s deployed– I think I mentioned that? It would mean alot to him if you’d drop him a line, he put in the email, after a picture of the bathroom that was getting remodeled and a reminder to get some sleep and practice safer sex. God, he emailed like such an old person.

His email address was the first and only direct line you had to the guy: he wasn’t on facebook, and after the wedding you’d seen him once at a seafood place when your mom and Robby invited a few of their friends out for dinner. The group was too small for you to make any move, to try to lean in close and ask for his number or anything of the sort. He smiled at you, but when you didn’t approach him he seemed to accept that and kept his distance.

You drafted the email on your phone without really knowing what to say– hi, hope you’re okay, see any good movies lately? It sounded so awkward and stilted, because you didn’t know this guy: you just had one almost flirty moment together and you’d just sometimes thought about his fingers on your thigh, his eyes tracking you across the room, his deep voice right in your ear while your hand was down your underwear in your dorm room all alone.

A new notification popped up from Kyle that just made you sigh with annoyance. 

I want to see you

please? one picture? maybe 2?

we’re both stressed out, yeah? It’ll help :)

The texts came one after another, all time stamped 2:01, and it was honestly as good as a you up text since you’d been hooking up with him on and off all semester since that Kappa party at orientation.

But he was right: you were stressed, and you wouldn’t be opposed to going over to his place later that week. Might as well.

You took two pictures– tasteful, your face but no nudity in one and your bare body but no face in the second. You answered the door for your drunk roommate who forgot her key again, and then refilled her water from the fountain downstairs, and then remembered to finish off your email to Jack and send it, and then cleared away all the books on your desk, and then finally texted the pictures to Kyle.

Midterms could not end soon enough, your brain was fried. You collapse into bed, your alarm set for not enough hours of sleep.

Hot, Kyle texted back with a dick pic. You rolled your eyes and put your phone down for the night, not thinking twice about the email.

How could you know that Jack got back to his bunk after a long shift, pulled out his laptop to check his emails, and saw a letter from you that made him smile before he even opened it.

Hi Uncle Jack, you’d written at the top, and he knew already that he was going to repeat himself in the email, call you kid and say you’re killing me. 

How could you know that the two attachments took their sweet time to download on his shitty internet access? He finished reading what you wrote– boring, mostly, aside from mentioning a party which made him want to ask what was in the punch– and you hadn’t mentioned the two jpegs. Probably pictures from before the party, or of your dorm room since you’d talked about that, too.

How could you know that he’d just taken a sip of water when the first one finally loaded, you in a full length mirror wearing just lace panties and an arm covering your nipples, pressing your boobs up to emphasize your cleavage. He sputtered and coughed, and leaned in to check to make sure it was really your face, smiling in the selfie. Looking a little coy, a little mischievous.

How could you know that he clicked over to the next picture, still just a buffering sign, and waited with his eyes wide to see what the fuck that one could be? He was almost prepared for it when it loaded, your smile at the top corner of the frame and your fully naked body in the mirror. 

How could you know that he thought about deleting them, for one single heartbeat. It would be the right thing to do, since you probably hadn’t meant to send them. But he wanted to hold onto these, and with everything else in his life being kind of shit– who was he to deny himself that?

You didn’t check your personal email again til the next night, too busy before that with a full day of studying as well as a midday trip to Kyle’s dorm that was thoroughly fine but not what you’d been looking for. 

Jack had replied, and you read over it quickly– he answered with info about his own room he was sleeping in (a single with no roommate, unlike you) and what movies he’d seen recently and at the end, a paragraph you didn’t expect.

You’re so gorgeous. The people around you are so fuckin’ lucky, do they know that? Thanks for the photos, I’ll keep them in a safe place.

There’s a photo at the end of the email, a selfie of Jack on the weight bench at the gym in one of those tank tops that’s barely there, and you have to read his note again to try to make sense of it. Photos?

You felt your cheeks flush with heat when you look back at what you’d sent him.

But when you replied, an hour later, you added two more photos– older ones, since you’re too tired to pose in the mirror again, one from when you were tipsy after a party and smiling so wide in the skimpiest dress you’d ever worn and another nude picture you’d sent to Kyle some weeks back.

If you like them, I have more, you wrote at the end of your otherwise boring email.

⊹ ⊹

“Did you ever email Jack?” Robby asked a week into your winter break as you’re cleaning up after breakfast on his day off. 

You were so glad that your back was to him because you knew you made the stupidest expression for a moment, your eyes widening and a little grin before you bit it back and shrugged like it was no big deal. 

“I did,” you answered. “You were right, he is easy to talk to.”

You didn’t mention that the last two months, ever since midterms, you’d been emailing him, calling sometimes when your schedules lined up, and sending pictures and videos that he always replied so nicely to, always along the lines of gorgeous and just what I needed, goddamn.

“Do you know how long he’ll be gone?” You hadn’t wanted to ask, had wanted to keep your messages positive. 

“Spring, probably,” Robby answered, looking up from his newspaper. “Why?”

“Just wondering how long I’ll be emailing for,” you answered, and with a clean kitchen you bounded up to your bedroom.

Unlike your dorm room, this one was private, so you could actually take your time. You’d even looked up some tips on editing, downloaded some software that you hoped hadn’t given your laptop any viruses, so that you could do more than just hurriedly record yourself getting off while your roommate was at a party or in class.

“I got this for myself yesterday,” you said into your camera once it’s propped up against your bookshelf. You held up a dildo, sort of a ridiculous blue color, but you’d been flustered at the sex shop and had wanted to get out quickly so you’d just grabbed something.

You skimmed your hands over your body and moaned and put on a bit of a show for Jack, and cried out his name during your second climax without even planning to. When you were panting and idly playing with your nipple, you looked right into the camera and smiled for him. “Hope you liked that, Jack,” you said before getting up to turn off the camera.

When you came down for lunch, Robby was still in the living room, flipping through some medical journal. He looked up at you and raised his eyebrows.

“Studying?”

“Just a project for myself,” you replied with a smile.

So perfect for me, he wrote back the next day and had a photo of himself, naked in his bed. He was splayed out, his arm holding the phone out to try to get all of him from his strong shoulders and abs all the way down to where he’d taken off his leg for the night. His selfie skills had improved since the time he first asked if you wanted a dick pic, rather than just shirtless ones. You were pretty sure that he was doing his own research, just like you were.

⊹ ⊹

For spring semester you settled into school again, classes that you mentioned in your emails along with the photos and hurried videos. 

Are you having fun at school? I’m not distracting you? Jack asked once, as if he was worried that he was holding you back from some part of college. You got drunk that weekend at a party and got your friend to record you shotgunning a beer, and sent that along with a picture with your glassy-eyed smile to him on Saturday night. 

I’m doing everything I want, you told him. You wondered if he was worried about you sleeping with someone else– you hadn’t talked about it, but you’d quit talking to that guy Kyle after you realized that thinking about Jack, thousands of miles away, made you come way harder than he’d ever been able to do. I just want to be talking with you.

He called you my sweet girl the next time in a recording he sent, the repetitive sounds of jacking himself off quiet as he groaned and said all mine before he came. You saved the track onto your phone and listened to it again as you walked back from class.

Robby emailed again two weeks before spring break, double checking that you would be driving home and hadn’t made some other plans.

I wish you were here, you wrote to Jack the next day. Then I’d just lie and tell him that I was going to see my boyfriend. 

You laughed aloud when he didn’t seem to mind that. The idea of his best friend– your mom’s new husband who sent you amazon gift cards and reminded you to eat vegetables from the cafeteria– finding out about your relationship was so wild that you didn’t clock his exact wording until the second time you read through it. 

I would tell him myself that I’m your boyfriend and that I wanted all your time, no lies needed.

Your boyfriend. It sounded so juvenile, but you hadn’t had one before. You tell your friend after class about your boyfriend with a dreamy lilt in your voice. 

He can not know, you clarified to Jack. If he knew– if your mom knew– you’d be mortified. Your mom had still called you her little girl when she posted about your nineteenth birthday on her facebook wall.

Whatever you say, cutie.

As it was, you didn’t really have spring break plans. You were going to study some, and make another backlog of the louder, better videos for Jack. Maybe go see a baseball game with Robby, since you’d first met him a year ago in March when he took you and your mom to a Pirates game. It could be the start of a sweet tradition even if your mom was going to be out of town for work. 

Robby’s email the last day before you were supposed to drive back to Pittsburgh left you utterly speechless. Heads up, Saturday afternoon I’m picking Jack up from the airport– did he tell you? If you get in early you can go with but you might still be driving. He’ll be with us for dinner either way.

He had not told you, and you were tempted to email Jack to demand answers. But if he was supposed to be back in Pittsburgh by the afternoon, you couldn’t even begin to guess where he was now or what time zone he was dealing with.

You had planned to sleep in on Saturday, get home whenever, but if seeing Jack is on the line, you set your alarm for five and went to bed early without an email. It was only the second time you’d skipped sending something, even just a line or two or a topless photo, since you’d sent the pictures during midterms. Even if he didn’t answer everyday, busy as he was, you made sure that you were on top of it.

Been thinking about you, Jack’s email read when you woke up, and he still hadn’t mentioned that he was coming back so you just ignored it. 

You made good time on the road, already in your car by the time the sun was rising, because you’d be damned if you missed seeing him the second you were able. Even if it meant being in front of your step dad and having to keep your hands to yourself, giving him just a polite hug reserved for a family friend you had supposedly been emailing only occasionally and barely knew. 

Robby’s head poked out of the main bedroom when you walked in and dropped your duffle bag by the door, just before noon.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” he said with relief in his voice, and you frowned in confusion as he looked at you like you were exactly what he needed. “The attending on shift got injured and they’re calling me in– can you pick Jack up? I was about to text you, if not I’ll be telling him to grab a taxi.”

You smiled wider than you should have before you could contain it. You really were going to have to practice being normal about Jack, and quickly. “Not a problem,” you nodded.

A minute later he came out in his scrubs and with his work backpack over one shoulder, and he pulled you into a hug and kissed the top of your hair. “Thanks, kiddo,” he said, breathing in for a second like he was getting ready for the work ahead of him. 

⊹ ⊹

The moment you were both in the front seat of your car, you climbed over the console to get on top of Jack. The kiss in bag claim that made someone wolf-whistle at how long the two of you were together hadn’t been nearly enough. Neither was the way his arm had wrapped around your waist on the walk back to the parking garage, pulling him into his side like you might wander off if he let go for a second.

And it’s not like you were willing to wait until you got home to get your hands on this man. That could be half an hour in the traffic.

You settled over him, your hands pushed up under his shirt to feel the muscles you’d only ever seen on your screen so far, and he tipped his head back to look up at you with hunger in his eyes.

“Didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he said softly, again, when you feigned a stern expression again at him not telling you, because it was sort of fun to make him wait even though you were over him, your hips slowly rocking back and forth over his hardening length.

“A heads-up would have been nice,” you pouted. “If Robby had told me in person about you coming back it would have been so obvious.”

“Let ‘im find out,” he nearly growled, and put his hand behind your neck to pull you in for a proper kiss, his tongue against the seam of your lips and pressing in like he had every right to be there. And he did, your boyfriend, finally here, and just thinking about it made you whimper against his touch and sink further into his lap, earning some low possessive sound from him as his other hand gripped your ass.

By the time you were rubbing off against him in earnest, you wondered if you should have made him get a taxi home. You’d parked in the back of the garage, though, and it’s not like anyone would see what was going on, so you didn’t put up more than a feeble protest when he pulled your shirt off you and he kissed his way down your neck to suck hickeys on your chest, right up to your bra line.

“Can’t,” you murmured when one of his hands started making valiant progress at undoing the hooks on the one piece of clothing left between you and your nipples being out in public.

He exhaled loudly in disappointment but didn’t stop, and one of the hooks popped loose.

“Ja-ack,” you whined, and reached around to awkwardly try to swat his hand away. 

He shook his head but did let himself be pulled away from the bra. He leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes closed and his breath heavy as the moment– however long it had been– starts to fade between you two. The reality of being in a car, almost topless and splayed out on Jack’s lap, crashed into you.

“I should drive us home,” you said softly, and he nodded. He put a hand on your side to help you navigate back to the driver’s side and handed you back your shirt.

You didn’t comment on how he had to adjust himself with a little wince in the passenger seat a few times on the way home, because you were pretty sure that if you looked over for more than a glance, you’d never be able to tear your eyes off him.

“How was your flight?” You asked once you were at least halfway home and mostly in control of yourself again, like you really were just the friendly daughter of his best friend there to pick him up.

His hand reached over to grab your leg, just like it had that first day at the wedding. “Long. Glad to be back.”

You kept up pleasant conversation, small talk to keep your mind off the way his hand was inching its way higher, his thumb rubbing circles against the thin fabric of your leggings. It was your early emails all over again, boring whatever messages with nudes and videos attached that you barely mentioned for the first few weeks.

You parked the car out front of the house and you looked over at him with a serious little tilt of your head. “No kissing me outside, alright? Robby knows the neighbors.”

He winked at you and gave a sideways grin. “If you insist.”

The moment the door closed behind you, Jack dropped his bags on the floor and pushed you against the door, trapping you in a kiss that picked up exactly where you’d left off. 

“Bedroom?” He asked, when he pulled back from you just enough to get the words out with his lips still brushing against yours.

“Upstairs,” you squeaked out.

You led the way, your hand gripping tightly to his as you pulled him with you.

⊹ ⊹

You knew that you’d be telling your roommate about the welcome home dinner once you got back to college– how Robby had met you both at the restaurant after his shift, had hugged Jack and called him brother and then hugged you and thanked you for being so flexible.

The look that Jack gave you, mouthing the word flexible where Robby couldn’t see, made your cheeks heat again as you nodded and called it no big deal. Under the table, Jack’s boot kept bumping against your shoe, and you cautiously returned the touch.

The week was heaven. Jack had the time off before his normal civilian job put him back on the schedule, you had barely any responsibilities, and Robby was at work before you woke up most of the time. In the mornings you’d head over to Jack’s house, or he came to yours, and between getting very acquainted with each other's beds you almost played house– helping him restock his kitchen or cooking together or watching tv with his head in your lap as you idly combed your fingers through his hair. 

You insisted that you not go to any of the closer restaurants, in case someone Robby knew recognized you, so he had you dress up and took you to a nice lunch in the suburbs, and afterwards you thanked him by showing him the vibrator you’d bought a week earlier, planning to film with it when you had the privacy of your own room.

“That good, baby?” he asked, holding the toy against your clit as you squirmed and panted. You’d just come twice, it was nearing in on too much but when he looked at you like that, his other hand intertwined in yours, you wanted to be good for him and keep going as long as he wanted.

“Yes– fuck, please, Jack, please–” you said, not sure what you were even asking for anymore. For it to stop? For him to finally touch you with more than just his fingers? 

He turned the vibrator off and cast it aside, and you thought you were in for a reprieve so you closed your eyes, relaxing as you waited for his next move.

The bed shifted as he laid between your legs, and you looked down just as his breath hit your overstimulated nerves. 

“Is this alright?” He asked, eyebrows raised, and maybe this was exactly what you had been begging for earlier, because as soon as you nodded he set his tongue to work and you saw stars.

Another two orgasms later, when you pushed him off with a whimper, he shimmied up in the bed so you could curl against him, your head resting on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you and held you close. 

“Want me to–” you started to offer, but he kissed your forehead and snorted softly.

“No, you catch your breath. Doing so good for me, you know that?”

His rumbling voice was so soothing, and you were so damn spent from the day, that you fell asleep on him. When you roused from your nap, he did take you up on your offer and you crawled down the bed to return the favor.

⊹ ⊹

On Friday the tv was playing one of his shows, some silly first responder thing where the fire fighters seem to have more deep conversations than emergencies to handle, so you gently turned his head and kissed him to keep yourself entertained.

“I was watchin’ that,” he protested, but his hands were on the elastic waistband of his shorts before he even finished the sentence.

After the week you’d had, it was the most natural thing in the world to take a second and pull your clothes off while he did the same, and pull out a blanket from the basket to sit on top of. You straddled him, your slick folds rubbing over his length, back and forth lazily.

“Am I just your little toy, then?” He asked, voice right in your ear as you kept your head out of his way so he could keep an eye on whatever crap unfolded on screen.

“You don't want me to feel good?” You said, pouting for dramatic effect. The way you were moving had the head of his cock gently rubbing over your clit in a way that made you sigh.

His hands run up and down your bare back, pausing occasionally to grab at your ass or gently graze his blunt fingernails over your skin in a way that makes you jolt with pleasure. “No, I like it. Maybe we oughta set up your camera later, get this pretty sight on tape so when you’re-”

The deadbolt softly clicked, and you turned your head, trying to tell if you heard the door or if it was just part of the show.

And then the front door opened, Robby’s voice ringing out. “Kiddo? It’s just me,” he called, loud enough that you’d hear it from your room, so you don’t wonder who the hell just barged in.

The couch was just out of sight of the front door, the living room a little off center, but you knew that once he took three steps- maybe two- you’d be fucked. There’s nowhere to hide, and even if you could, you were naked and Jack was naked and his leg was off and leaning against the couch, so what would his story be?

Jack’s hands came down to your hips, holding you steady since really, that was the only option. “It’ll be fine,” he reassured you, quietly, before raising his voice. “Hey, Robby,” he called.

“Jack? What are you-” your step dad’s voice asked, and without turning you knew exactly when he stepped far enough into the house to see, his question cut off.

For a moment, you were utterly frozen, looking at Jack’s face, who seemed too calm for this whole thing, smiling over at his friend. You turn to take a peek, and that movement jolted Robby out of his own momentary pause from taking in the scene.

“Don’t let me interrupt, sorry,” Robby said with a chuckle, a hand coming up to rub at his beard as he looked over the two of you. “I guess I’ll grab lunch.”

You shoved your face into Jack’s neck, wanting to hide entirely. Your ass was out, and from the view Robby had you don’t know if he can see Jack’s balls, or how wet you’ve made him just rutting over him.

“Sorry,” you called weakly, and you’d bet that Jack can feel the heat of your cheeks against his neck from how much you’re blushing. 

The door opened again. “Is she being good for you?” Robby asked, his sensible shoes squeaking as if he turned back in a oh, one more thing kind of move. 

You couldn’t see, and you didn’t want to, but you felt Jack’s hands tighten on your waist. 

“Oh, the best, brother,” Jack purred, almost directly in your ear, and the whole confusing thing made you shiver and you clenched against Jack in a way you knew he could feel.

Robby made an amused sound back. “Ah, I figured as much. I’ll leave you to it.” After another beat, the door slammed shut and then the deadbolt clicked into place.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Jack murmured, kissing at your exposed neck. Not trying to get to you to peek out, giving you a second to hide away as you processed what the fuck just happened.

“No,” you whispered, and he laughed at how it sounded like a lie, even to you.

⊹ ⊹

A/N: it seems like Jack could? have? still deployed with the military after losing a limb, from my quick googling.