Daddy

Your voice was disgustingly velvety and it was one of the many things that infuriated Spencer because every single thing that came out of your mouth made him itch to argue. He never had a real reason to hate you, not technically. Maybe it was the way you never seemed amused by what he says. Or the fact that you were — in his words — “childish” and “immature”. You never missed a chance to tease him and challenge his thoughts to watch him unravel. 

“No, I'm just saying that the game needs focus and Emily is kinda tired right now. I do also think it requires cognitive maturity, but you wouldn’t know much about that.” he shrugged. 

A small smirk crept up on your lips, he’s so predictable. You huffed, shoving your earbuds in the small pocket of your jeans, “Oh I’ll show you cognitive maturity, Reid.” 

He wanted nothing more than to ignore you, but he couldn’t help but glance up at you. You slid into the chair next to Emily, your movements graceful and unbothered by the tension radiating off him.

“Do you even know how to play chess?” Spencer asked as he laid the two-toned brown chess board flat on the table in front of him. 

“I’ve never lost a single game.” you shrugged. That was a lie. You were a good chess player, but you’ve definitely lost some games in your day. It’s hard to keep a “forever” winning streak in a household full of chess freaks. 

A wide grin formed on Morgan’s face, and he whistled to ruffle Spencer’s feathers, “Oh she’s coming for your throat, Reid.” 

“You just wait and watch me ruin him.” you picked the black side, cupping your hands against the table to pull all your pieces to your side. 

Spencer let out a short, dry laugh, “Hm, you wish.” 

At this point of the flight, everyone was bored out of their minds, so they were getting to that stage of stirring anything up for a bit of amusement. 

JJ was snacking on some salted chips in her seat that was close to yours, with only the narrow aisle between the two of you. She was watching you two as if you were a show on TV, “What do you get if you win?” she asked you with a subtle smile.

You gave her a small laugh and looked up in thought. 

Spencer scoffed, “She’s not going to win.” he looked at you, his index finger pointing at you, “You don’t have to think of a reward. We won’t be in need of that, don’t worry.” 

If you wanted to beat him a few moments ago, now you needed to. You had no other choice. 

“If I win you have to make my coffee exactly how I like it every morning and get me a glazed donut with that.” your smile widened, “I don’t wanna burden you, but you’ll have to warm up the donut before I come to work.” 

“What- No!” Spencer’s voice shot up as his face scrunched in disgust. The way he was so dramatic always fucking annoyed you. 

“Why not?”

Morgan let out a laugh and raised a brow, “What, are you scared, Reid?”

“I’m not scared. I don’t wanna humiliate you in front of everyone.”

“If you’re so sure you’re gonna win, why be worried?” you tilted your head, “Unless you know I’m gonna drag you to filth.” 

He placed his elbows on the table between you two. Glared at you, in the lovely, endearing you he always did. Then leaned back, “Fine but when I win, you’re gonna be delivering my paperwork to and from Hotch’s office.” 

When. 

The arrogance in that single word made you want to beat him even more. And it’s exactly why you never missed an opportunity of twisting his mind and nerves and pinning him down —figuratively— to show him just how pathetic he truly was. But when you think about it, pinning a completely dazed, breathless Spencer beneath you —literally— would taste even sweeter. 

“Deal.” you smiled sweetly. 

And now the game shall begin. 

You crossed your arms on the table and straightened your back while he moved his first pawn. You made your opening move the second his fingers left the piece.

Quick. 

Spencer’s eyes flicked up briefly before returning to the board. 

You hid your smile. 

 You knew the classic traps and techniques wouldn’t work on Spencer, so you tried to be creative. As creative as you can get in chess without being too reckless. 

Spencer’s brows never relaxed once, and he was biting his lip with so much force as if it would ignite new ideas. He usually didn’t need much effort to find a way around people’s moves.

But you played unpredictably enough for his brows to slightly twitch every few moves. Changing the rhythm, and ending every pattern before it was recognized was key to confusing him. 

His moves finally became slightly slower. 

You leaned forward, eyes locked on his hands that hesitated between two pieces, “You’re stalling.” 

“I’m not.” he finally settled on a piece to move, “I barely took eleven seconds. I played six moves in under 49 seconds and you took 55.” 

“You’re keeping track?” you looked up at him,watching his eyes lock onto yours in an instant.

That was the perfect time to make things go a bit faster.

Your fingers brushed the board lightly, nudging the knight one square to the left, a square it shouldn’t be able to reach.  

 You were just giving the game a push. Trying to be more efficient wasn’t a crime. Not if your intentions are pure. 

His eyes flicked back down to the board, “Of course I’m keeping track.” he muttered,”We don’t have a clock.”

You bit back a smile.

You could feel the moment he was finally trapped. His posture shifted and his teeth switched to his top lip. 

You clicked your fingers close to his face that was practically moving into the board with every move. 

“The clock is ticking Reid!” 

He slightly swatted your hand away from his face and made a move he wasn’t too sure of, “Your knight couldn’t have gotten there.” 

You lazily pointed at the knight, “It literally did. Look at it.” 

“No, because your rook-” his brows drew together. 

“Sounds like someone’s losing.” you murmured, leaning back in your chair like you hadn’t just shifted the entire balance of the game. 

Suddenly, playing chess was a million times more fun. 

“I’m not losing.” he immediately bit back. 

He slowly moved his rook, his fingers lingering on it for a moment too long. 

You made your move confidently without a second thought.

“..that knight shouldn’t be there,” he said again, his chin now resting on his palm. More like digging into it.

“It was there for a while.” 

“That’s impossible,” he shook his head, replaying the game in his head.

“It is possible,” you said simply.

“You couldn’t have gotten it into that spot with that little amount of moves.”

“Well, I did,” you gave him a shit-eating grin and leaned closer across the table, “you just weren’t paying attention when I made that move.” 

“I was paying attention.” 

You faintly smiled, “Not enough.” 

“Oh my god,” his eyes widened and he pressed his palms on the table on either side of the board. “You fucking cheated.”

“I did not.”

His hands moved above the board, “You absolutely did.” 

Your final move landed and his eyes zeroed on your bishop. 

“Oh.” he quietly said. 

You tilted your head slightly, “Oh?” 

“That’s checkmate.” he simply stated, trying to convince himself of this unexplainable mistake. He knew you cheated. 

“I told you I’ve never lost a game, Reid.” you smiled, “Maybe you’re a bit tired. The game requires deep concentration." you mocked, quoting him back to himself.  

“This doesn’t add up,” his fingers twitching over his captured queen, “The probability of your knight ending up in that spot without at least three intermediate moves is zero. It’s literally zero!”

“Just take the L, kid,” Morgan chuckled and patted Spencer’s shoulder, “she dragged you. Accept it.”

“I didn’t get dragged,” Spencer snapped, his face flushed in frustration. He looked up at you, eyes burning with sheer vexation, “You did something. I don’t know what, but you did something.” 

You slipped your earbuds back into your ears, relaxing your head on the headrest behind you, “Don’t forget Spencer. Two sugars and no creamer. Oh and microwave the donut for exactly fifteen seconds. I'll send it back if it’s cold.” you closed your eyes with a triumphant smirk plastered on your face. 

You could feel his eyes burning into your skull and you loved it. 

An hour later, you finally touched ground. JJ nudged you awake and you rubbed your eyes in exhaustion, your headache thumping behind your eyes harder than it was before napping. 

Spencer had already gotten up from his seat, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder stiffly before getting off the plane with only a few long strides.  

“Jeez, is he still pissed?” you yawned and slowly got up, your muscles gradually defrosting.

Emily chuckled, holding out your black leather bag, “He barely read twenty pages this past hour.”

You took your go bag, the weight of it on your shoulder easing some tension, “Thanks.”

“Have a good night everyone. Paperwork can wait till tomorrow morning.” Hotch announced when everyone got off the jet. 

“Ugh. You’re an angel.” you clasped your hands together, still half asleep, thanking Hotch. 

Hotch paused, glancing at you as you fell into step next to him, “You did a good job. Not that I approve of your illegal knight movements.” 

Your heart skipped a tiny beat, a small guilty smile forming on your face, “You saw that?”

Hotch didn’t break his stride, and his lips slightly turned up, “I did. Go home and get some sleep.” 

He probably didn’t say anything in the moment because you were Spencer’s karma to the time he cheated on cards while playing with Hotch and JJ on the jet a few weeks ago. 

The sleep fully faded as soon as you got to the door of your apartment. 

You were physically exhausted but your head was never more awake. 

You took an hour long hot shower as a form of meditation. You didn’t bother turning on the main lights or changing into your clothes. You held the towel around your body and collapsed face-first into the mattress. The sheets were cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the long two busy days you spent in Los Angeles. 

When you finally decided to stand and properly get ready for bed, your phone started ringing, pulling you out of the static ease you finally forced your head to fall into. 

You turned your phone over. 

Spencer. 

“Tell me how the knight got to b5.” he blurted out.

You sighed, rubbing your eyes and moving toward your closet in the corner of the room, “Are you seriously still crying over this?”

“I’m not crying. And I didn’t lose. The game doesn’t count because you cheated.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I did not cheat? Maybe I’m just a prodigy and you don’t know it.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “You are not a prodigy.” 

Spencer sounded deeply irritated and sleep-deprived. 

“You’re adorable when you're spiraling.” you teased with a coy smile.

You knew your words would only stimulate a reaction. Anger. 

“You disrupted the entire structure of the game-” 

“Reid, if you’re so sure I cheated, come over and prove it.” you interrupted him, your voice dropping to a lazy tone, “I have a board. Come beat me if you can, Spencer.” 

The silence on the other end stretched for a few seconds. 

Spencer huffed, “Fine but if I-”

You hung up before he could continue. What’s better than irking him even more.

You decided to get comfortable and change into a graphic tee and cotton shorts. You needed a clear mind, a good plan, and all the luck in the world to “recreate” the game.

As expected, he was at the door in under twenty minutes. Three firm knocks pulled you out of your peace, just like every other thing he ever did. 

You were met with a polite looking Spencer. He changed out of his work clothes into another one of his work outfits. He was overly prepared for this and it was starting to worry you. He is not letting you win again—not when he has his suspicions now. 

“You hung up on me.” he accused, stepping past you into the warm, dimly lit apartment.

“Your voice was annoying me,” you shrugged, locking the door behind him, “and I told you—if you want to prove I’m a fraud, do it on the board.” 

The black and white wooden chess set was already laid out in the middle of your green couch.

You sat sideways, cross-legged on one side of the couch, facing the board. Spencer gently lowered his bag onto the floor next to the couch and sat across from you, his long legs bent awkwardly to fit his tall frame into the limited space. 

“White or black?” he asked, his eyes settling on the board. 

“Take white. Give yourself the advantage,” you teased, resting your palms on your knees as you gave him a calm, challenging look, “you’re going to need it.”

“I don’t need an advantage to beat someone who can’t stick to basic rules of the game.” he muttered, moving the white pawn regardless. 

The game progressed quickly, both of you taking only a few seconds per turn. 

Unlike the jet, there were no distractions. The rhythmic, aggressive snapping of pieces cut through the silence of your apartment. 

You quickly realized that even if you wanted to play clean, you were getting further away from winning with every turn. But you kept your confidence strong, making every move with undeniable certainty. 

You pulled your eyes off the board, keeping them on him. 

He glanced up for a second, “What are you doing?”

“I’m playing the game.” you kept your eyes fixated on the curls that fell over his face, “Your moves are very predictable and it’s getting boring.”

He looked up at you, “I know, playing by the rules must be very boring for you.” 

The subtle dig hung in the air. You chose to not say anything back and give him a lazy smile, refusing to break eye contact. 

You slowly uncurled your leg from your crisscrossed position, draping it over the open edge of the couch—letting your bare thigh rest only a few inches away from Spencer’s knee, close to the board separating the two of you.

Spencer’s eyes flicked to your leg for a fraction of a second. It was agonizingly obvious that the sight had thrown him off his axis.  

You bit back a smirk. “You seem kinda tense, Reid.” you whispered, cocking your head to the side. 

“I’m fine.” the words were sharp. 

You decided to press your advantage. Your finger slowly grazed the right edge of the board, reaching the corner close to him, then bringing it back to your side.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain his focus. His focus was fracturing under the weight of the room that only kept getting heavier.

“Are you losing your focus, Spencer?” you whispered, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. 

“No.” His eyes were completely pinned to yours now, dark and dilated. A faint shade of pink was trailing up his neck, finally settling on his ears, giving him away. Poor Spencer was nervous. 

Every time he looked down at the board, all he could see was your bare thigh invading his peripheral vision. All he could hear was the soft rhythm of your breathing as you kept getting closer above the board. 

He had to stare at your face whenever looking at the board wasn’t an absolute must. So when it was your turn his eyes were wide and fixated on your face as if it took monumental physical effort to keep them there. 

Luckily for you, you’ve been running different possibilities of how the game could go every few moves. 

You looked down, crunching two moves into a single turn—which completely altered the route of the game. 

He hesitated for a moment, but didn’t want his distraction to be too obvious, so he made the impulsive choice of moving the piece that his slender fingers were hovering over. 

“Ha! Checkmate!” a wide smile took over your face.

“What- no this isn’t possible-” he was stuttering with so much frustration, only making your smile widen. 

You teasingly leaned forward, right on the boundary line of his space, “You just can’t handle losing to me.” 

At this point, the normal thing to do was to start packing the pieces back into their place silently, but where’s the fun in “normal”? 

So you didn’t move. You were still leaning over the board. Waiting for something you couldn’t figure out. 

Who would’ve known that making him lose focus would be this easy. 

“You did something, I just know it.” his voice lost its sharp edge, now sounding heavier, “You were distracting me on purpose.” 

“What? Having normal conversation is illegal during a fun, friendly game?” you tipped your head a tad bit closer. 

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t handle the heat.” your heart was hammering against your ribs at the intensity of his eyes glaring at you. 

You always teased Spencer, but you always took a step back just before it got too much. And now, it was getting too much. 

Spencer’s gaze dropped to your lips for a moment, his throat bobbing. “You’re so insufferable.” he rasped. 

The underlying tension that had been building between you over the months of constant psychological warfare finally snapped. Spencer reached across the short distance, crashing his lips onto yours clumsily. 

It wasn’t smooth at all. His teeth bumped against yours— a physical manifestation of his lack of composure. He froze and his hands awkwardly hovered in the air between you two, having no clue where to rest them. 

You didn’t pull away. Your hand cradled his jaw and you leaned into the kiss, parting your lips slightly. A low, desperate sound caught in the back of his throat, making the corners of your mouth twitch. 

Your fingers tipped his head and he immediately obliged, letting his head tilt backwards. You slightly tugged on his bottom lip before pulling back slightly. His eyes were frantically scanning every feature of your face as if you were an odd, foreign object in a dream. 

His breath was heavy, and weirdly enough—you didn’t mind breathing it in with your own mingling breath. Your hands moved down to his chest, gently pushing him back to rest on the back of the couch—his shaky legs uncrossing and slipping down on the floor to sit properly.

He didn’t know what you were doing, but he was so dazed and weak that he’d do whatever you told him to. You crawled over the chess board, knocking off some pieces that Spencer tried catching so they wouldn't fall on the floor, “Don’t,” your voice made him stop and lean backwards immediately. 

You slid your right leg over his lap to sit properly. Your mind was fuzzy and you weren’t thinking straight. The way his body was leaning into yours hypnotized you in a way that made it impossible to stop now.

His brows drew together once your weight settled on his lap as he let out a small grunt. His hands immediately, gently gripped your hips without much thought.

You connected your lips again, but this time the clumsiness was gone. The initial shock was now replaced with mutual desperation. He opened his mouth further, giving you permission for more. Your hand moved to his soft curls, tugging on them as you slid your tongue into his open mouth. 

You shifted your weight slightly, grinding your core against him, and Spencer let out a small whimper. Your body was desperate for friction, just like him, but you couldn’t let yourself get too carried away just yet. 

“What was that Spencer? Already a whimpering mess?” you struggled to keep calm. 

His eyes flew open, completely blown out, his brown irises completely swallowed by his pupils. 

“No.” 

You rolled your hips with more force, pulling another whimper from his wet, parted lips, “please.” he whispered.

His hips bucked as you deliberately shifted again, a slow torturous grind that had his fingers gripping the fabric of your shorts. 

You lowered your voice to a honey-sweet tone, “Did I say you could move, Spencer?” 

“No,” 

You could feel his bulge straining his pants between your thighs. “So needy.” you shook your head with a smug smirk. 

“Already so hard, Spencer?” you looked at his face with fake sympathy, keeping the slow rhythm of your hips. 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, but his shaky hands trailed up your back reverently, trying to hold onto every bit. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, making you gasp softly. 

You leaned in to kiss his slightly open mouth, then kissed your way to his jaw. You nipped at the sensitive spot behind his ear, “oh my god,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice to himself so you’d stop teasing him. 

You couldn’t help but smile, “I didn’t know you were this weak, Spencer.”

“I’m not,” he whined, his eyes squeezing shut. 

He looked so beautifully, entirely at your mercy. 

He slid his cold hands underneath your tee, his thumbs pressing right under your breasts, his long fingers splaying across your ribs. The coolness of his hands against your skin spread goosebumps all over your torso and made your hips stutter for a moment. 

“So handsy for someone who hasn’t been given permission,” you teased, leaning down so your lips hover closely over his. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. 

He picked his head up, trying to reach his lips to yours. 

You pulled your head back just an inch, denying him the contact. 

He let out a defeated whimper, his head falling back against the couch. 

“You can touch,” you whispered, as much as you wanted to keep him restrained and away from feeling you; his touch had this hypnotic pull that you couldn’t resist. 

He placed his hands higher on your chest, cupping your breasts in his hands, letting his thumbs brush over your nipples that were already hard and sensitive. The contrast of his cool palms against your feverish skin dragged a gasp from your throat. 

You pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it on the chess board next to the two of you. 

Spencer’s face warmed fast and he went completely still. This was the first time he’d gotten so intimate with a woman-- not because he was entirely inexperienced, but because no one ever had this much control over his mind. 

“Spencer,” you murmured, “You have permission. Don’t freeze up on me now.” your words vibrated against his soft lips. 

Your words broke the spell. His trembling hands returned to your boobs, kneading them slowly, testing the soft fullness. He leaned up, peppering kisses on your chest, getting closer and closer to your sensitive spot.

He looked up at you once he reached one of your nipples, he tenderly pecked the peak before swirling his warm tongue over it and taking it between his lips. Your hands carded through his locks, letting the string of whiny, desperate sounds leave your agape mouth. 

You slid one of your hands down his shaky chest and to his covered crotch. 

The sudden sensation of your palm resting directly over his throbbing covered cock sent a shockwave through his body, making his movements immediately falter, his teeth slightly biting your nipple. 

Your finger traced the strained line of his erection. 

“You’re not gonna come now, are you?” you whispered, your voice dropping to a cruel purr. 

He quickly shook his head, clearly struggling, “I’m not,” 

“Yeah, cuz that would be really embarrassing, right?” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your hand moving with more precision now. 

Spencer didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“Admit that I won, Reid.” 

His brows furrowed, “What?” he panted.

“You heard me, Spencer. Admit that I played better than you.” 

“No- but you cheated- I know you did.” 

Your hand stopped, stalling your movements entirely right when he needed you most, “I won’t let you come if you don’t admit that I rightfully won.” 

“Please.” the desperation sounded like music to your ears. 

“Just say it, Reid.”

“This is so unfair.” he looked up at you with a silent desperate plea.

You punished his stubbornness by rolling your hips forward, a slow friction-loaded press against his aching length. The burning friction made your core pulse, the tight knot in the pit of your stomach tightening. 

“Don’t be so stubborn, Reid. Come on, just tell the truth.”

“But it’s not the truth,” he stammered. 

You raised your hips, denying him the release he was so desperately chasing. His hands lingered on your skin, not wanting to let go as you stood up. 

“Take your clothes off.” you pushed the chess set further away from where he was sitting.

He blinked up at you before quickly standing and working to unbutton his shirt. 

You calmly walked over to the wooden coffee table, pouring yourself a glass of water, needing something to cool some tension and heat out of your body. 

You sipped the chilling water as you looked back at Spencer who was fumbling with his belt buckle, “Want some water?” you asked.

He nodded, “please,” you poured some more in your glass before handing it to him. Spencer took the glass from your hand, his fingers trembling as he brought it up to his lips. 

The sight of him trying to hold onto a shred of his dignity, shirtless, belt unbuckled, exposing the strain of his erection against his boxers more clearly now was intoxicating, 

“So what’s the limit? How far are you willing to go?” you tilted your head to the side. 

“I don’t.. I don’t want to stop.” he whispered, the words tearing out of him as if physically pained him to admit it. “You completely turn off my head and I don’t want this to stop. I want to go as far as you’re willing to go.” 

The raw intensity made your head spin and your stomach turn. Were you nervous? 

You took the glass from his hand, nodding your head once toward the couch, gesturing for him to sit back in his place after he’d stripped out of his clothes—minus his boxers. 

“I really.. really need this. Any of it.” he sounded like he was about to cry.

You took slow, delicate steps until you were standing in front of him, “God, you’re so pathetic.” you shook your head, looking down at him—completely undone. 

Spencer didn’t even try to defend himself. He just stared up at you as he tried to even out his breaths. 

You felt a little nice, so you didn’t keep him waiting much longer. You climbed back onto his lap, straddling his hips and resting your hands between the side of his jaw and neck. He immediately held onto your thighs and surged forward to kiss you like a man gasping for air. 

You glanced down to where your hips met, seeing a small dark, wet stain on his navy boxers. It wasn’t big enough to prove that he came without your permission, so you smirked, “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he choked out. 

Your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers trailing down his burning chest, finally reaching his waistband. Your index finger hooked the elastic of his boxers before pulling the fabric, letting his cock spring against his stomach. 

Your body shuddered, suddenly needing some sort of warmth to soothe your frayed nerves. 

“God..” he dropped his head back against the couch, taking a deep breath to steady his violent heartbeat that filled his ears. 

His thumbs brushed over the goosebumps on your thighs on instinct. 

You wrapped your fingers around his painfully throbbing cock, bringing your thumb to the slit of his tip, swirling the precum around the crown with minimal pressure, making him drop his head on your shoulder with a stifled moan. 

You leaned your flushed cheek against his curls, letting your fingers tighten lightly around his cock.

“Look at you, Spencer,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a soft, teasing hum, “you can’t even hold your own head up. Where did all the smart words go, huh?”

You gave his shaft a few slow, tight pumps, looking down at the new forming precum. You hadn’t expected him to be this big, pulsing against your hand in a way that sent a sudden thrill straight to your core. 

It only took two minutes for him to lose control over his hips, which were now helplessly, involuntarily twitching against your hand, letting you know that he was close to the edge. You pressed a short soft kiss on his temple, abruptly releasing your hand, completely cutting off the friction just as you felt his veins hammering against your palm.

“Please don’t do this to me..” he picked his head up to shake it, giving you those devastating puppy eyes that made your heart ache just a little. 

You tapped your ear, “ I didn’t hear you say the magic words yet, Spencer,” you stood up, walking to your brown coat that was hung by the door. 

“But you didn’t win fairly,” he whined, following your movement with his eyes.

“And you’re not gonna come.” you shrugged, walking back to the couch with a condom in your hand, “are you sure this is okay?” your voice was a bit softer now, the teasing toning dropping for a second to make sure he’s fully onboard.

He shook his head frantically, “Yes. One hundred percent.” 

You gave him a small smirk, tossing the condom to him. He quickly tore open the wrapper before rolling the condom down his length, giving himself some friction to ease the aching.

You took off your cotton shorts before returning to your comfortable spot on his lap, immediately being held by his trembling, reverent hands. 

You slid your hand down to your folds, swirling your thumb on the tight bundle of nerves before slowly pushing two fingers into your entrance to warm yourself up before doing anything with Spencer. 

After pumping your fingers into your dripping heat a few times to slick yourself up, you were ready to take him in. You slowly pulled your wet fingers out, trailing them up his chest before bringing them to his lips.

Without waiting for a command, Spencer wrapped his lips around your fingers without a second thought, sucking them clean with needy, heavy hunger that pulled a soft moan out of your pretty lips. The knot in your core only tightened further, a throbbing ache settling between your thighs. You slowly withdrew your fingers from his wet mouth, leaving his lips glistening and parted. 

You raised your hips, using your hand to line him up with your aching entrance. You took a deep shaky breath that made Spencer press a tender kiss to your collarbone, his hands trailing up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe you. 

You slowly lowered yourself down, letting his tip stretch your tight entrance. A shaky gasp caught in your throat as you moved your hips down an extra inch. He didn’t move his hips, he looked up at you with quiet patience, waiting for you to move, “We don’t have to-” he whispered.

You cut him off by sinking down with a broken moan, your hands clawing his shoulders. 

“Spencer,” you breathed out, feeling him fill you up completely before lifting your hips slowly, dragging the friction against your walls.

You pressed back down, burying him deep inside you again, feeling him throb against your pulsing pussy. He murmured incoherent words that sounded a lot like your name in a loop against the crook of your neck. 

You found the perfect pace after a minute of fractured rhythm while you were adjusting to his size. You adjusted your position, making his tip hit just the right spot, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips as a wave of blinding pleasure rippled straight through you. 

Spencer’s grip tightened on your hips, holding you with more confidence now that he felt your inner walls clench around him.

“Right there,” you panted, shutting your eyes as you lifted your hips and rolled them back down to hit that same spot again. 

“Oh god,” his words vibrated against your skin, filling all your senses. 

“Say it, Spencer. Tell me I beat you.” you whispered, shifting your hips in an agonizingly slow circle, making him cry out as his eyes rolled back into his head. 

“You won..” he whined into your neck, “you beat me.”

“And was it- fuck- was it fair?” you choked out, struggling to keep up the teasing because you were just as needy as him right now. 

“So fair. So fair, and I know I had no chance of winning,” he lied, his voice breaking entirely.  

You smirked, a deep wave of satisfaction washing over you at the sound of his absolute surrender. 

“Spencer,” you took a shaky deep breath in, “fuck, I’m so close..” your words were cut off by your own overwhelming noises. 

“Let me come with you,” he pleaded, his voice breathless, “please,” 

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his, for some reason trying to hold back the unraveling knot that was taking over your senses. 

His glassy eyes locked onto yours as his hips bucked upwards one last time, hitting that perfect, sweet spot, shattering whatever was left of your control. 

A high, strangled gasp tore from your throat as your walls convulsed around him, your back arching into him, pressing you to his chest as your muscles went weak. The intensity of your release triggered his own; Spencer’s head nuzzled further into your neck, biting down before kissing the spot in apology, his arms wrapping around your back tightly as his hips continued moving to draw out both of your staggering orgasms. 

It took a few moments to come down and melt onto one another. You both panted with closed, heavy eyelids. 

You pulled your head back to look at his hot, damp face, “See what happens when you admit the truth?” 

Spencer was still heaving with closed eyes, a faint shade of crimson still painting his neck and chest. Your brows slightly knitted, “Are you okay?” you murmured softly. 

“Yes. You’ve proven how truly evil you are.” he admired your flushed face, focusing on your swollen pink lips. 

You let out a soft chuckle, “Good.” 

You slid off of him, the emptiness immediately hitting you at the loss of contact. “I’ll go shower. I won’t take long, you can go in after me.” you kept your eyes on the floor as you picked up your clothes to head to your room. 

Disappointment settled in Spencer’s chest. He knew that this was nothing more than releasing some built up tension between them, but he hadn’t wished for the aftermath to last only a few seconds. Barely any words were exchanged, and he didn’t know what she thought. 

Did she regret this? 

Was he bad at it? 

For the first time, he didn’t really know what he was expecting, but his chest was completely hollowed out by your subtly shielded mind. Even after such an intense experience, you didn’t attempt to connect—to let him take a quick peek into your head. 

He slowly stood up, taking quiet quick steps to the tissue box that was neatly placed on the coffee table. He cleaned himself up before disposing of the condom and putting his stained boxers and wrinkled shirt back on. He contemplated putting his slacks back on but decided against it. 

This is… wrong.

The windows are open, pushed up as far as they’ll go, letting in a soft, steady breeze that smells like fresh grass and something faintly floral from somewhere down the street. The sheer curtains lift and fall with it, slow and lazy, like they have nowhere else to be. Sunlight spills across the floor in warm, golden patches, stretching over the couch, the coffee table, the edges of the scattered papers.

Outside, the world is alive.

Children’s laughter carries up from the sidewalk, bright and unfiltered. A dog barks, sharp and excited. Somewhere, someone’s playing music low enough that you can’t make out the words, just the rhythm. Birds chatter in the trees like they’re gossiping about something important.

It’s seventy-eight degrees.

Perfect.

The kind of day that feels like it was made for bare arms and long walks and staying out longer than you planned.

The kind of day you were supposed to be enjoying.

You smooth your hands down the skirt of your sundress—lavender, soft, light enough that it shifts with every whisper of air from the window. You’d taken your time getting ready this morning. Not too much, not overdone—just enough. Enough for a picnic. Enough for sitting across from Spencer in the park with a chessboard between you, sunlight catching in his hair while he pretends not to be competitive.

You had the whole thing planned.

Had even rehearsed how you’d ask.

And then you walked into the living room and found everything—well, wrong.

Like everything in it has been carefully arranged around one singular gravitational force, and that force is currently sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a stack of files, three open books, and a legal pad filled with handwriting so tight it almost looks like print scattered on the coffee table and floor around him.

Spencer hasn’t looked up in—what—twenty minutes?

Twenty-five?

You’ve been counting. Bad sign.

The only sounds are paper shifting, pen scratching, the occasional soft exhale when he rereads something and doesn’t like what it says. The world has narrowed down to ink and logic and whatever case has sunk its teeth into him.

He told you to be patient.

You tried.

You really did.

But patience is a lot harder to hold onto when the sun is warm on your skin, when the breeze keeps brushing past you like an invitation, when the world outside is practically begging you to come join it—

—and your boyfriend is sitting three feet away, completely unreachable.

The only sounds inside are paper shifting, pen scratching, the occasional soft exhale when he rereads something and doesn’t like what it says.

The world has narrowed down to ink and logic and whatever case has sunk its teeth into him.

Your gaze drifts back to the window. The light. The movement. The life just out of reach.

You could be halfway through a walk by now.

Could be stretched out on a blanket in the park, shoes kicked off, arguing over chess moves he’s absolutely overthinking.

Could be stealing kisses just because you can.

Instead you’re bored.

And that’s not even the worst part. Because this morning, you’d had a different plan. After the walk, after the picnic, after chess.

Something that had nothing to do with fresh air or sunlight and everything to do with the way he looks at you when he’s not thinking about anything else.

You’d imagined it, stupidly vivid.

The two of you getting back from the park, a little warm, a little flushed, the day still clinging to your skin.

You’d thought about the way the door would barely make it shut before he’d lose the thread completely. The way he’d pull you in like the thought had been there all along, just waiting for permission.

The way his focus would shift. Sharpen. Land on you.

You exhale, long and heavy, the sound slipping out before you can stop it.

Spencer doesn’t look up. But one eyebrow lifts, just slightly, like a reflex he doesn’t even have to think about anymore.

“You’ve been sighing a lot,” he says, tone absent, attention still pinned to the page in front of him.

“…have I?”

“Yes.”

Nothing else. No glance, no follow-up. Just the quiet scratch of pen against paper as he underlines something with unnecessary precision.

You wait.

He doesn’t continue.

The breeze shifts through the window again, lifting the edge of your skirt, brushing cool against your legs like it’s trying to drag you back outside where you belong.

You look at him. Then at the door. Then back at him.

“…it’s really nice out,” you offer.

“Mhm.”

A non-answer if you’ve ever heard one.

You huff quietly, deflating a bit.

“…are you almost done?” you ask, the question tipping at the edges into something softer than you meant—something that sounds suspiciously like a whine.

The pen keeps moving.

No pause. No hesitation. Not even that absent little mhm he gave you before.

You wait a beat. Two.

“…Spence.”

Nothing.

The quiet stretches, stubborn and unyielding, like he’s decided your voice is just another background noise to tune out.

Your mouth twists. You drag in a breath through your nose, hold it for a second and then let it out in a dramatic groan.

Still nothing.

Not even the courtesy of a glance.

Fine.

Fine.

If he’s going to pretend you’re not here, you’ll just have to make that a little more difficult for him.

You push yourself off the wall and cross the room in a few quick steps, the soft brush of your dress the only warning he gets before you drop onto the edge of the coffee table.

Right on top of one of his neatly stacked files.

Paper crinkles faintly beneath you.

The sheer fabric of your skirt flutters with the movement, settling wherever it pleases—over the corner of a book, across a few loose pages, obscuring a paragraph he’d clearly been working through.

You shift, deliberately unhurried, and cross one leg over the other.

The fabric slides, rides up just enough.

Sunlight catches on your skin, warm and unapologetic, the line of your thigh suddenly very present in a space that had been all ink and logic a second ago.

If he wants to ignore you, he’s going to have to work a little harder for it.

The pen stops.

Not for long. Just a fraction of a second—barely there if you weren’t watching for it.

But you are.

It starts again, a touch slower this time.

“…you’re sitting on my notes,” he says, voice even, eyes still fixed on the page like he can brute-force his focus back into place.

“You have other notes.”

“I need those notes.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to move me.”

The pen stills again, this time long enough to feel intentional.

Slowly—finally—Spencer looks up.

Not at your face.

His gaze drops first, tracking the line of your leg where it disappears beneath the hem of your dress, where sunlight and shadow play a quiet, dangerous game.

It lingers.

Just for a second.

Then it lifts, meeting your eyes.

There’s something different there now. Not distracted. Not absent.

Sharp.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says.

You tilt your head, all practiced innocence. “Doing what?”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s deciding how much patience he has left to spend on this.

“Interrupting me.”

“You were already interrupted,” you counter lightly. “By work. I’m just… trying to fix that.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Seems like it’s working a little,” you hum, glancing pointedly at the pen that hasn’t moved in several seconds.

His jaw tightens. Subtle, but there.

“You told me to be patient,” you add, softer now. “I was. For like… half an hour.”

“Twenty-three minutes,” he corrects automatically.

You pout a little, letting your bottom lip tip forward just enough to be noticeable, just enough to be felt.

“I’m bored.”

It comes out softer than the rest of your interruptions. Less sharp, more honest. A thread of something real woven through all the deliberate provocation.

Spencer huffs out a quiet breath through his nose, the sound almost a laugh if it weren’t so restrained.

“I can tell.”

There’s a faint edge to it, but not unkind. Just… aware. Like he’s been tracking every shift, every sigh, every inch you’ve stolen from his attention.

Your pout deepens into a frown. “That’s not very helpful.”

His gaze flicks back down to the page, pen tapping once against the margin like he’s trying to reset his thoughts, line them back up into something coherent.

“Sweetheart,” he says, and the word lands softer than anything else he’s said in the last half hour, “I’m sorry. I swear, this won’t take long, I just need to finish this.”

You shift slightly where you’re sitting, the papers beneath you whispering their quiet protest.

“How long is ‘not long’?” you ask, narrowing your eyes just a little.

“A few pages.”

“That’s not a unit of time.”

“It is when you read at my speed.”

“Spencer.”

He doesn’t look up this time. Just reaches for another sheet, flips it over, keeps going.

You lean forward instead.

Just enough to tip into his space.

“Spence.”

The pen pauses again. A small fracture in his concentration. You take it.

“You could work. Or,” you say lightly, tracing the edge of one of the books with your fingertip, slow and absent in a way that is anything but, “you could take a break. Ten minutes. We go outside, you get some sunlight, I stop being so distracting—”

“You would not stop being distracting,” he cuts in, still not looking at you.

You smile, because he’s not wrong. “I could try.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

You huff again, louder this time, letting it drag out just enough to scrape against his concentration.

“I just want to spend time with you.”

Spencer doesn’t even blink. “You are.”

Your eyes narrow. That answer lands like a door gently but firmly shut.

“That doesn’t count,” you mutter, shifting on the papers beneath you, making them crinkle again just to be difficult. “You’re not with me. You’re… adjacent to me. There’s a difference.”

“I’m in the same room,” he replies, maddeningly calm, like that settles anything.

You lean forward again, invading the careful bubble he’s built around himself, your voice dropping just a touch.

“I wanna spend closer time with you.”

That does it.

He goes still. Not just the pen this time—everything.

The leaves in the wind, the muffled sounds of the street outside, the rustle of the breeze in the curtains; it all seems to drop away into a sudden, weighted silence. Spencer lifts his head, slow and deliberate, and turns to look at you.

There’s no impatience in his expression, only a terrifying kind of calm. His gaze drags over the way your skirt has ridden up, the deliberate placement of your body directly in his line of sight, and finally settles on your face with a look that feels less like he’s seeing you and more like he’s calculating the most efficient way to solve a problem. He sets the pen down on the table with a quiet, decisive click that sounds louder than it has any right to.

"You want to be close?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing that distracted edge and smoothing out into something that makes your breath hitch. "Fine. If you need to be touching me that badly, we can do that. But I am finishing these files, and you are going to sit there and be quiet."

He doesn't give you a chance to respond, to process the shift in the air, or to take it back. He simply reaches out, hands firm on your waist, and lifts you off the paperwork as effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. Before you can draw a breath to ask what he’s doing, he’s guiding you down, settling you firmly on his lap so that you’re straddling him, the heat of his thighs searing through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your hands fly to his shoulders instinctively to steady yourself, a breathless little laugh already catching in your throat at the sudden proximity. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? His hands on you, his attention anchored, no longer drifting off to crime scenes and geographic profiles.

You open your mouth, ready to give him a smart remark about finally listening, or maybe just a hum of satisfaction, but the words die before they can reach the air.

Because Spencer’s hands aren’t settling on your waist or your hips.

His palms slide down, unhurried and deliberate, skating over the curve of your hips and gripping your thighs to spread them just a little wider on his lap. His gaze is locked on the hem of your dress where it has bunched up around your waist, his expression unreadable in that way that usually precedes a profile coming together.

Slowly, almost experimentally, his right hand smooths up the inside of your thigh, pushing the fabric higher.

You know he expects to encounter lace, silk, some barrier—but when his fingers brush against the crease where your leg meets your hip, there is only warm, bare skin.

He pauses and tsks, the sound soft but scathing, a click of his tongue against his teeth that feels like a reprimand all on its own.

"You really wanted attention, didn't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and smooth.

He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't give you a chance to defend yourself or deflect with a joke. His hand shifts inward, fingers delving through your folds, dragging through the slick, undeniable evidence of your arousal. 

He hums, a quiet, considering sound that vibrates through his chest and right into yours. "All this fussing, all this trouble... just for this? You're soaked.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just sinks his middle finger into you, slow and devastatingly deep.

Your breath hitches, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as your body immediately tries to accommodate him, your walls clenching around the sudden, welcome intrusion.

He works you with a terrifying kind of precision—not rushing, not teasing, just feeling the way you tighten around him, curling his finger just enough to drag a high, thin sound from the back of your throat.

A second finger joins the first, stretching you, and the deliberate pace of it begins to burn away the annoyance of being ignored.

The heat that’s been simmering under your skin all day flares up bright and demanding. You can’t help it—you start moving your hips, small, helpless little circles that chase the friction, your breath coming faster against his neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

It’s exactly what you wanted—the world outside has vanished completely, replaced by the thick, heavy air between you, the slick sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the low hum of approval he makes when you gasp against his ear.

Then, just as the heat at the base of your spine begins to coil tight, just as your breath starts to hitch in a way that signals more, he stops.

The loss of his fingers leaves you feeling achingly empty, a cold void where the heat was just a second ago. A soft, desperate whimper slips out, your hips chasing his hand for a fraction of a second before you realize he’s pulling away completely.

But then you hear the metallic clink of his belt buckle, the distinct rasp of a zipper being lowered. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as you watch him shift, lifting his hips just enough to tug his trousers and boxers down, freeing himself.

Your pulse jumps. This is it. This is what you’ve been trying to provoke since you walked into the room.

He grips your hips with firm, steady hands, guiding you up and over him until the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your entrance. The stretch is slow and deliberate, your body sinking down inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your breath catches in your throat. 

The sensation is overwhelming, a dense, heavy heat that pushes every thought of sunshine and picnics out of your mind until all that’s left is the feeling of him inside you.

For a moment, you just sit there, adjusting, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you adjust to the size of him, listening to the ragged intake of his own breath.

Your body reacts on instinct. The need for friction, for movement, for any kind of relief from the building pressure, takes over.

You lift your hips slightly, starting a slow, experimental roll, bracing your hands on his shoulders to find a rhythm that will give you what you need.

But before you can even complete the motion—before you can establish a rhythm that might actually take you somewhere—his hand cracks down against your ass.

It’s sharp and sudden, a loud smack that echoes in the quiet room, leaving a sting that radiates heat through your entire body and freezes you in place.

"I didn't say you could move," he says, his voice dropping back into that terrifyingly calm register. His hand lingers on the stinging skin of your ass for a moment, an unmoving weight of warning, before sliding back up to rest firmly on your hip. 

"You wanted to be close?" He shifts his grip, locking you in place, burying himself impossibly deeper inside you. "Congratulations, you got it."

You try to pull back to look at him, to search his face for any sign that he’s joking, but his gaze is already fixed back on the file in front of him. He picks up his pen with his free hand, twirling it once between his fingers, and then gets back to writing, as if having you full and trembling on his cock is the most normal thing in the world.

"This is a punishment," he says, the words firm and unyielding, clipping off the end of any protest before it can form. His hand tightens on your hip, a grounding anchor that feels more like a lock. "You don't move. You don't wriggle. And you stay quiet. You're going to sit right here, filled up exactly how you wanted, and keep your mouth shut while I finish this."

He clicks the pen, the sound deafening in the sudden stillness between you. "If you move," he adds, glancing up just long enough for his eyes to lock onto yours, dark and serious, "I’ll pull you off and we’ll start over."

You freeze, the threat settling over you. 

So you sit there, perched on his lap, trying to find a way to breathe that doesn't make you feel like you're going to lose your mind. 

Stillness shouldn't be this hard.

You try to obey—you really do. You press your lips together to seal in any sound and focus on the rise and fall of your chest, trying to match the steady, indifferent rhythm of his breathing. But your body has other ideas. 

You can feel your pulse everywhere, a traitorous thrumming under your skin that makes you hypersensitive to every point of contact. The friction of the fabric of his trousers against the back of your thighs, the warmth of his hand still gripping your hip, the way the light dusting of hair on his forearms brushes against your skin—it’s all suddenly too much.

Your walls flutter around him, an involuntary, rhythmic clenching that you try desperately to suppress, but it’s like trying to hold water in your hands. Every time a tiny muscle spasm pulls him tighter, he responds with a subtle, maddening twitch of his own, a purely physical reflex that feels like a taunt. He’s so deep, pressing against a spot that makes your toes curl in your sandals, and the sheer fullness of it is a constant, throbbing reminder that the relief you crave is just an inch away—right there, if you just dared to rock your hips.

The urge to move is an ache, a physical itch under your skin that grows sharper the longer you sit there. It starts as a subtle shift of weight, a micro-adjustment of your spine to relieve the pressure, and you have to force your muscles to lock down to stop it from turning into a grind.

Your thighs tremble with the effort of staying perfectly frozen, your breath coming shallow and fast through your nose as you stare resolutely at the side of his neck, watching the steady beat of his pulse that contrasts violently with the chaos inside you.

Then the pen stops moving.

He doesn't look up immediately. He just sets the pen down with a deliberate, quiet click that sounds more like a threat than a writing utensil hitting paper. His hand, which has been resting loosely on your hip, slides upward, his fingers splaying wide across your lower back to pull you infinitesimally closer. The shift buries him that fraction of an inch deeper, drawing a sharp gasp from you that you barely manage to bite back behind your teeth.

"You're trembling," he observes, his voice low and rough, vibrating against your chest where you're pressed against him.

He leans in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, his breath hot and maddeningly slow. "You’re doing so well," he murmurs. "My sweet girl, being so good for me now."

The praise hits you harder than the threat did, a warm, confusing rush that seeps into your muscles and nearly undoes you entirely. 

Your eyes flutter shut, your head instinctively tipping toward his as his hand smooths up your spine, his fingers threading through your hair to scratch gently at your scalp. It’s such a tender gesture, so at odds with the way he’s stretching you open, that it makes your head spin.

For a second, you almost forget the ache—the need—just leaning into the touch like a cat being stroked, desperate to be good now that you’ve been acknowledged.

"Don't get comfortable yet," he murmurs against your temple, his voice slipping back into that sharp, dominant register that makes your stomach drop. "I still have three pages to go.”

The urge to whine builds in your throat, a high, sharp pressure against your vocal cords. You want to argue that you can't, that it’s too much, that three pages might as well be three centuries when every second feels like an hour. 

You part your lips, ready to let the words spill out, to test his patience one last time.

But the memory of his hand on your ass—the sting that hasn't quite faded, the way the heat of it seems to radiate outward and settle low in your belly—stops you.

You swallow the sound. Hard.

The next twenty minutes are a blur of agonizing stillness. The only movement in the room comes from his hand, the rhythmic scratch of the pen against the paper now sounding impossibly loud, like a metronome counting down the seconds of your torture.

You watch the clock on the wall with a sort of desperate fixation, watching the minute hand crawl forward while your body throbs in time with your heartbeat. Every time he shifts slightly to adjust his posture, you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping, the subtle friction against your oversensitive nerves nearly sending you over the edge.

You are acutely, painfully aware of every inch of him inside you, a heavy, possessive weight that refuses to let you forget who is in control.

Then, finally, the pen stops.

He sets it down with a final, decisive click, and the sound is like a starting gun. You feel the tension in his shoulders release instantly, the rigid line of his spine relaxing as he lets out a long, low breath, rolling his neck to work out the stiffness. 

He surveys the stack of completed papers for a brief second, his eyes scanning the mess he’s made on the coffee table with a distant sort of satisfaction, before his attention shifts—and just like that, the gravitational pull of the room snaps back to you.

"There," he murmurs, the word soft but final.

Before you can even process the shift, his hands are moving. 

They slide up your back, strong and sure, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. He looks at you—really looks at you—his eyes dark and heavy, tracing the flush on your cheeks and the dampness clinging to your lashes.

"Look at that," he says quietly, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip. "You did it. I knew you could be good."

The heat in your cheeks flares instantaneously, a mortifying flush that burns all the way down to your chest at the praise. 

You want to argue, to snap that you were only good because he forced you to be, but the words dissolve into a soft, broken moan as he flexes his hips beneath you. 

That subtle movement feels cataclysmic now that the stillness has shattered, dragging a raw gasp from your throat as your body finally registers that the waiting is over.

"You took your punishment so well," he breathes against your lips, the rough praise barely a whisper before he seals his mouth over yours. 

The kiss is hungry and demanding, swallowing the little whimper that escapes you as he lifts you slightly, dragging his cock nearly all the way out, his grip on your hips bruisingly tight. "Now I'm going to give you what you've been begging for since you walked into the room."

Then he brings you back down.

The pace he sets is brutal, completely opposite the agonizing stillness from before.

He fucks up into you with sharp, precise rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive nerve ending you possess, effectively erasing the memory of the punishment and replacing it with a blinding, white-hot pleasure. 

You can’t keep up—you’re reduced to holding onto him for dear life, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he uses you, his grip on your waist the only thing keeping you grounded while the world tilts on its axis.

The friction is overwhelming, each thrust punching a high, broken sound out of your throat that you can no longer contain, the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin filling the quiet room.

Every nerve feels stripped raw, your body hypersensitive after so long spent balancing on the edge, and the sudden intensity is enough to make your vision blur. The heat that had been simmering under your skin roars into a conflagration, burning you from the inside out as he hits that spot deep inside you with ruthless accuracy. You’re trembling uncontrollably now, your thighs shaking where they’re bracketing his, your head falling back as you gasp for air that doesn't seem to reach your lungs. 

"Spencer, please—God, it’s too much," you sob, your voice cracking as he drives into you harder, grinding you down onto his lap until the friction borders on pain.

"Shh, you can take it," he rasps against your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your sweat-slicked skin.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, his rhythm steady and punishing as he chases his own release, completely unraveling the composure he held onto for so long. "You wanted my attention, you have it. You’re doing so well, taking it so good for me, sweet girl." 

The praise wraps around you, mingling with the pleasure curling tight in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to the brink. 

He sucks a mark into the hollow of your throat, possessive and claiming, and the combined sensation of his teeth on your skin and the relentless friction is enough to finally send you flying.

The orgasm hits you with the force of a tidal wave, ripping a hoarse, broken cry from your throat as your body seizes and arches in his grip. Your vision whites out, your walls clamping down around him almost violently as the pleasure tears through you, leaving you shaking and gasping.

Spencer doesn't let up, fucking you through it with deep, grounding thrusts that prolong the sensation until it borders on unbearable, drawing every last aftershock out of you until you’re boneless and trembling against him.

"Good girl," he breathes, the words ragged and rough against your ear as his rhythm begins to falter. "So beautiful when you let go. Just let go."

His control finally snaps. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, a low, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he follows you over the edge. You feel the heat of him spilling inside you, his hips jerking sporadically as he rides out his own climax, his face pressed tight against the curve of your neck. 

His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you close, grounding you both as the aftershocks ripple through your joined bodies.

For a long, hazy stretch of time, the world is reduced to the sound of your own ragged breathing and the heavy thud of his heart against your chest.

You stay curled around him, face buried in the crook of his neck, limp and boneless in the aftermath. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he keeps you anchored, one arm banded securely around your waist to keep you from slipping, his hips remaining flush against yours so you remain connected, feeling the weight of him inside you as you both drift back down.

His free hand moves up your back, slow and deliberate, smoothing over your dress in long, grounding strokes that seem to chase away the tremors still racking your frame. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there, his lips soft and dry against your overheated skin.

"You did so good," he whispers against your hair, the praise a soft rumble in his chest that vibrates through your own body. "So perfect for me. My beautiful girl." His fingers trace a gentle path down the curve of your spine, rubbing away the tension with a tenderness that feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. "I’ve got you. You’re okay."

He shifts slightly, just enough to cradle the back of your head, urging you to look up at him. When your eyes finally meet his, the intense focus is back, but this time it’s softer, open, filled with a quiet adoration that makes your breath hitch all over again. He brushes a stray lock of hair away from your face with careful fingers, tucking it behind your ear.

"Such a sweet thing," he murmurs, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. "All you wanted was a little attention, hmm? Just wanted to be looked at." He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, treating you like something fragile and precious he’s afraid of breaking. "I see you. I promise. I see exactly what you need."

You sag against him, letting your forehead rest against his shoulder, the fight draining out of you until you’re nothing but liquid weight in his lap. 

The difference between the strict punishment of minutes ago and the gentle reverence of his touch now makes your head spin pleasantly. 

He keeps up that steady, rhythmic petting, his nails scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that melts the remaining tension in your neck. 

It feels safe to be small here, to let him hold the weight of the world while you just float in the aftermath, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.

Eventually, though, the reality of physical limitations sets in. Your thighs twinge, a dull ache settling into the muscles from holding the position for so long, and the overstimulated throb between your legs starts to border on genuine sensitivity.

You shift with a quiet, uncomfortable noise, instinctively trying to lift off him and ease the pressure. He stops you with a gentle hand on your hip, not restraining you this time, just steadying you, his touch light and reassuring as he helps guide your movements.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice raspy with exhaustion but filled with warmth as he helps you shift to the side, sliding out of you with a careful slowness that makes you both hiss. 

The loss of him leaves you feeling strangely hollow, your body trying to adjust to the sudden lack of connection, but the way he immediately gathers you into his side, tucking you securely against his ribs, makes up for it.

It’s quiet now. Not the stifling, desperate silence of before, but something heavy and sweet. 

You curl into him, your head resting on his chest, your legs tangled comfortably with his on the couch. You can hear the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart slowing down, returning to its normal cadence. 

His hand is a constant, soothing weight as it moves up and down your arm, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin, occasionally stopping just to smooth your hair.

It’s nice. 

It’s what you wanted all afternoon—the kind of closeness that doesn't require you to beg for it, the kind of attention that feels effortless and warm. 

The file on the table is forgotten, the pen capped, and the only thing that matters is the heat of his body seeping into yours.

You lose track of time drifting in the lull, your eyes fluttering closed as you listen to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. 

It feels safe and weighted, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy you’d carried into the room just an hour ago. 

The tension that had been coiling tight in your chest has finally unwound, replaced by a golden, drowsy haze where nothing else exists but the circle of his arms and the lingering scent of him—old books, coffee, and the distinct, sharp smell of his cologne mixed with the warmth of sex.

After a while, his fingers still against your arm. He shifts slightly beneath you, and when you glance up, you find him looking down at you with a soft, considering expression. 

His curls are a mess, and he looks a little less sharp around the edges now, the formidable genius replaced by something much softer and infinitely more fond.

"So," he starts, his voice raspy but gentle, his hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. "Do you still want to take that walk? Or have I completely tired you out?"

"I think I can manage," you murmur, though the heavy contentment settling into your limbs makes the prospect of moving seem almost Herculean. 

You push yourself up slowly, muscles protesting in the best way possible as you stretch your arms over your head. 

When you look back at him, he’s watching you with a lazy, affectionate warmth that makes your chest feel tight. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, fueled by the memory of the day and the man currently trying to fix his disheveled tie. "Absolutely. I'm not letting you out of my sight that easily."

He laughs, a low, rich sound that vibrates through his chest as he begins the process of reassembling himself into the put-together profiler he usually is. He stands up, buttoning his cuffs with precise fingers, though his hair is still a chaotic mess of soft curls that no amount of smoothing will fix until he’s near a mirror. 

He reaches down, offering you a hand with a gentle reverence that feels miles away from the dominant grip he’d held you with just minutes ago. His grip is firm as he pulls you to your feet, steadying you when your knees wobble just slightly.

"Careful," he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand warm against your lower back as he steers you toward the door. 

The late afternoon sun is casting long, golden shadows across the floorboards, promising a beautiful evening. 

As you slip your shoes back on, you watch him pocket his keys, his demeanor relaxed and open in a way that is entirely for you. You step out into the hallway together, and his hand slides down to yours, lacing your fingers together tightly, ensuring that even though the work is done, the connection you craved isn't going anywhere.

You love to hear him talk. Like this one time, he was ranting about how Scott Fitzgerald plagiarized his wife’s writing and how she gets absolutely none of the praise and then you proceed to spend the next ten minutes kneeled in between his legs, giving him the sloppiest, drooliest, head ever.

Or another time when he started talking to you about how Paradise Lost should’ve been written in Latin because its noun cases would better support the structural order that Milton attempted to impose when you guys went for a walk in the park and then you guys steamed up the windows of your vintage ford mustang as he gave your dicking of a lifetime.

Its so strange to you because in your previous relationships you were never the one to initiate sex. But with Spencer, it’s like an instinct. Yesterday he was rambling to you and usually you’re very attentive to what he has to say but all you’d heard was “blah blah blah lexicon blah blah.” and then out of nowhere he's moaning your name and you’re riding him??? So weird? Like you did you just materialize onto his lap???? 

This evening is no different. You guys are watching Doctor Who in bed, your head lying on his chest as it rises and falls. The light from the television screen reflects on the slope of his nose and his cheeks. His soft brown eyes are so focused on the TV screen and you need him so so so badly. You need to get your mind off of cracking him… just for a second. You could barely walk today from last night, you need to pump the brakes.

“What’d you do today?”

“We didn’t have a case so the team spent today at the office catching up on paper work,” He smiles down at you. His hand finds the flushed skin below your shirt at your waist. “I went out to get lunch for the team at that bakery you like down the street—I uh actually…—got you a danish from there today for later. It's in the kitchen.” You plant a quick kiss on his lips. Your poor, sweet boyfriend. Sometimes you’re worried that you’re going to break him in half someday because you two go at it so much. You know that he loves to be intimate, especially with you and that your need for him can’t be one sided because he initiates sex a lot too but dammit you can’t help but feel like such a pervert around him all the time. 

“Thank you,” You say, exhaling. “What else did you do today?” “On my way back I played chess in the park with three different people at the same time. It was pretty was fun”

You crawl on top of him, perching yourself in his lap before kissing him slowly as you roll your hips down onto him.

“Yeah?” You exhale, your hands softly running up and down his chest. “Did you win?”

His hands find your waist, and then grope the plush of your ass through your short shorts as he cymbals from the friction against his dick. “I always win.”

You leave a dozen of sloppy kisses trailing down his neck, leaving him whiny and helplessly running his hands over the flesh of your hips.

“Y/n” he says, breathily.

Your head perks up from his neck and you redirect your focus back to his face. “Mhm?” You begin peppering his face with kissing, starting at his cheek.

“Do you get um… aroused whenever I talk about the stuff that I like?”

“I get aroused whenever you talk, period.”

“But specifically, you initiate sex with me the most whenever I'm rambling about the latest book that I’ve re-read or whatever degree that I’m considering on getting next or— my point is.” He sighs, “Do you only initiate sex with me to get me to stop talking? I know that I can ramble on and on but-”

“Spence no, I’d never.” You reassure him, hand cradling his face as he looks up at you, expressioned vulnerable and pleading for you to convince him that you’re being honest. How dare he even think about that. “I love hearing you talk and I think that everything that you have to say is interesting. It’s just— I don't know how to explain it…it kind of just heightens my attraction to you. Its like a catalyst almost.”

“Really?” He asks, unsure.

“Yes, really.” you say, genuinely. He leans forward to meet capture your lips in a kiss. His hands move to your tits, his thumbs immediately finding your nipples and rubbing them through the thin cloth of your camisole. You whine as your back arches from the sudden stimulation goes straight to your core.

“God, Y/N you’re going to be the death of me.” he says before he flips you over onto your back.

“Can I take these off, angel?” He whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts.

“Yes.” you breath out. 

He pulls your shorts down and discards them to the side of the bed. You weren’t wearing panties. He sighed at the sight of you glistening with anticipation.

“So wet” he says to himself as he hooks your legs over his shoulders.

He presses a sloppy opened mouth kiss onto your clit before slight opening his mouth and letting a string of drool drip down your cunt, leaving you whining. He flattens his tongue against your opening and licks a fat stripe up your pussy.

“Spencer, please.” You beg, your brain already short circuiting from the stimulation.

He begins lapping at you, each purposeful stroke of his tongue slick with desperation. He groans as your hands find his hair and you buck your hips towards his face when he comes up for air. He re-buries his face in between your legs, hands now gripping and massaging your ass as you clench around nothing. Just as your orgasm is approaching, he plunges his index and middle finger into your soaked core. He sucks harshly on your clit, as his long slender finger his that perfect spot inside of you and you cry out as you come around him. He emerges from in between your legs and plants a kiss onto your lips, the heady taste of yourself still lingering on his tongue.

“Need you. Take this off.” You slur, pawing at his shirt. He obliges, removing his star trek shirt and freeing himself from his boxers. Shaft is flushed and translucent, pearly beads of precum leaked from the head. He spit on his hand and pumped his cock a few times as you took off your cami.

Spencer leans over your, slapping your clit with his tip whilst looking into your eyes. “Is this what you wanted, pretty? For me to stretch your out and fuck you into the materess?”

You whimpered and nodded, desperate for him to enter you.

“Say it.” “I need you to fuck me.” you say, shakily.

“No, angel, say exactly what I said.”

You flush, this is so embarrassing. “I want you to stretch me out and for your to fuck me into the matress.” You say, lowly.

He pushes into you slowly as he splits you in half on his cock,

“Good.” He groans. He pulls all the way out of you and then pushes in so far the his tip kisses your cervix, your cry out in pleasure. He starts to fuck you slowly, both hands pressed into the mattress but holding yours at each sides of your head.

“Is that better, sweet girl?” he coos as you clench around him. “Yes” You sputter, your mind only focused on how dizzyingly good his cock feels driving into you. His lips slam into yours, the lewd sound of your pussy squelching around his cock only making you wetter. You can’t even kiss him properly because you’re so busy whimpering.

“Y/n—” he moans “Legs. Give me.” He says, as you spread them further apart and position them within his grasp. He swiftly pushes your thighs to your chest, folding you in half and positioning you into the perfect mating press. You moan as his cock drives even deeper inside of you as you tighten around him. It’s like your walls are moulding to the shape of him.

 “So deep,” You whine. The head of his cock pounds into that spongey part inside you that makes your eyes roll into the back of your head and your legs shake uncontrollably. You gasp his name before you clench around him. “I know baby,” he kisses you on the lips with slow procession “Feels really good, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hiccup as you wrap your legs around his waist. His eyes narrow at you

“Tell me what you want honey.” “Want you to fill me up. Please Spence? Just once—it’ll feel ‘s good.” You babble. He groans. “You want me to breed you, baby?” he can barely get the words out, moaning at the thought. “Oh fuck d’you wan’ me to make you a mommy? I’d take such good care of us. Suuuuch good care of you.” He groans, voice crackling. 

His dick plunges in and out of you at a relentless place. 

Your jaw drops and your brows furrow, feeling a know in your stomach that you’ve only felt once or twice before. Its hot and tense in the pit of your stomach.

“You okay, baby?” Spencer asks, grabbing your face by the cheeks with one hand to force you to look at him. 

“Mhm,” you inhale sharply, “‘m so close–Oh’pence–”  you’re legs tremor before your back is arched off the bed and you’re writhing in ecstasy as Spencer fucks you through your orgasm. You can’t stop it when it comes, gushes of your essence from your cunt paints both of your thighs and completely soaks his maroon sheets. A pale, creamy ring collecting at the base of his cock.

You feel weightless and blurry afterwards. “God I’m close” he whimpers. “Gonna—mm—fill you up so good just like I promised…I’m so lucky I got such a pretty slut— that begs me to…to…this is so risky.”

“Iloveyou s’much” You slurred, delirious from overstimulation. “I’d let you do anything you wanted to me.” Spencer kisses you sloppily before grabbing your face in one hand and turning it away from him to grant him access to your neck. He flattens his tongue against your hot, flushed skin, and licks a stripe from the middle of your neck to your temple.

It's so wet and warm. The feeling of his tongue against your neck. Your face. He hums contently, I guess you must’ve tasted good. He then cradles the back of your head in his hand, tilting you up so your can watch him fuck you and look at the sticky mess you’ve made all over his thighs. All over his bed. He’s only looking at you, gaze half lidded and chest heaving. When he removes his hand from the back of your head, your arms find his back.

That look in his eye paired with the sound of his heavy balls against your ass, his ragged breath, and the sweet aroma of his woodsy cologne is just way too much at the same time. Your whines turn into wanton, whorish, moans that definitely penetrate the thin walls of your apartment.

“Goood Girl get loud for me—sound so pretty.” He groaned, his voice getting higher on the last word. “Oh fuck—Let me feel you honey. I’m close.”

Your nails scratch down his back as you practically scream, coming around him again. Spencer whines as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, “Take it” he mumbles into your skin before hot ropes of his come flood your pussy.

Spencers collapses gently onto you, his weight a comforting press. He kisses your forehead, then your lips softly, murmuring, “You okay?”

You nod, slightly clenching around him at the sound of his voice which earns a hiss from him. You suppress a laugh. Literally all he did was speak and you're like putty in his hands again. Maybe you are a pervert.

“What's funny? Hm?” He says breathlessly, without seeing him, you can hear the smile in his voice. 

You shake your head “Nothing.”

His hand finds your jaw and presses a kiss into your cheek. “We gotta clean you up.” He brushes a piece of hair glued to your forehead with sweat away from your face.

“Me?” You say “Look at you. I’m practically dripping down your legs.” You laugh.

He kisses you. “I guess there is one solution. We could” kiss “ take a shower–” He said.

“Together?” You rasp, unable to hide the eagerness in your voice. 

Spencer laughs. “Yeah, together.” 

Spencer’s always been the most attractive guy you’ve known. You thought so when you first met him, thought so during your entire relationship, and still think so, months later. The relationship’s been over for long enough that you probably shouldn’t still be feeling such a magnetic pull toward him, but you’ve never been able to shake it. 

You haven’t seen him since you broke up, and you had hoped to keep it that way. You knew as soon as you ran into him, you would cave. You had broken up with him after concluding that he was more dedicated to his job than you, and you still maintain that you wouldn’t be happy in a long-term, serious relationship with him. Still, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t yearn for him on the regular. You’ve been on dates since your break-up, but you haven’t felt the same kind of connection that you felt with him, emotional or otherwise—because, let’s be real, the sex was amazing. You’ve been feeling a bit deprived the past few months.

Even after all this time, you recognize his voice immediately. How could you not? You loved him, still feel… something for him (lust, probably). You hesitate for a mere second before clearing your throat and replying.

“No,” you state simply, pulling your purse onto your shoulder. He had been referring to the empty seat beside you, of course, but you gesture to your now-vacant stool and add, “Neither’s this one. I was just leaving.”

You still haven’t looked at him. You think you might actually manage to be strong and just leave, but something—stupid hormones, probably—makes you hesitate long enough for him to reply. 

“Nice to see you, too,” he huffs. You can visualize his reaction so easily; he’s most definitely sitting there, hazel eyes twinkling with amusement, very kissable lips pulling into a little smirk. You’re sure of it; he’s a pretty smug shit sometimes, after all. He probably revels in the fact that he’s annoyed you. Your breakup had been fairly amicable, to be honest. While you had been hurt that he hadn’t fought for you more, you had both agreed that separating was mutually beneficial. You run in the same circles, though, so you’re sure he’s heard about your failed dates through the grapevine. His teasing remark sounds less like “nice to see you” and more like “I’m laughing at how clearly sexually frustrated you are”. To your ears, anyway. 

Suddenly, you’re struck with the urge to correct him. He hasn’t technically said anything cocky, but it’s dripping from his tone, as well as the mental image you’ve conjured of him. Begrudgingly, you turn to face him, almost scoffing when you realize how accurate your imagination had been. 

With him sitting at the bar and you standing beside him, you’re a bit taller than him. He’s looking up at you with seemingly innocent eyes, but that damn smirk is tugging at the corners of his mouth. As you had expected, your stomach—the little traitor—does a tiny flip at the sight of him. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, wanting to portray nonchalance instead. You don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that your life has been astonishingly boring since breaking up with him; he always had a big ego, you needn’t inflate it any more. Rather, you plaster on a sickeningly sweet smile. Kill him with kindness, or whatever. You’re not sure exactly what you want to get out of talking to him. Perhaps you just want to wipe that confident expression off his face, perhaps you want him to realize he made a big mistake not groveling in pursuit of your affection. Who’s really to say?

“Hi, Spencer,” you say. You’d be foolish to think that he’s believing your saccharine grin; he’s a brilliant profiler, to the point that it almost scares you how easily he’s always been able to read you. Still, the least you can do is subvert his expectations. If he expects you to tuck tail and dash, or if he expects you to admit that you miss him, he has another thing coming. If all goes according to plan, that is.

“Hi,” he answers warmly, nodding toward the empty glass you’ve abandoned on the countertop. “Vodka cranberry?”

“Obviously,” you confirm. What the hell is he playing at? Are you supposed to be impressed that he remembers your go-to order? Of course he does, he has the memory of a fucking computer. You’re not about to get sentimental about that, and you’re definitely not going to wonder what other facts about you he keeps tucked away in that genius brain of his…

Nope.

“Let me buy you another one,” he offers, patting the seat you’ve just vacated. 

It’s difficult to read his intention with that one. Is this some kind of reverse psychology, where he doesn’t actually want to buy you a drink and assumes you’ll decline? Or would the reverse psychology be offering in an attempt to get you to agree? No, that’s just regular psychology, right? Reverse reverse psychology, maybe? You’re very confused as to what you should do here.  Does accepting his offer make you look like a desperate loner, or a very calm and collected person who can be casual? Wow, that single drink really went to your head, or maybe it’s just the sight of your yummy ex-boyfriend. 

“Okay,” you agree. Then, because you’re worried that you sound too eager, you add, “Would be a waste of free alcohol to say no.”

“How considerate of you,” Spencer muses, watching your hips as you settle back into your seat. He flags down the bartender and orders a drink for you. You glance curiously at him.

“Not drinking? Why the hell are you here, then?” you ask, gesturing vaguely around the bar. It’s not like Spencer is the most outgoing guy; a bar is most definitely not his scene. He couldn’t possibly be here for fun of his own accord. You start to run through a list of people who knew your plans for tonight, wondering which one of them snitched to him. God, if someone set you up, you don’t know whether to thank them or pummel them. 

“I was planning on getting blackout drunk, actually,” Spencer deadpans, “but then I saw you. I’d like to remember this conversation.”

“Because it’s so riveting?” you ask sarcastically. 

“Because it’s with you,” Spencer clarifies without missing a beat. Damn it, there goes your stomach again, doing somersaults. He always did know what to say to make your knees weak. For a moment, you allow yourself to forget why you’ve been so intent on avoiding him. His interest in you feels good, and the ease with which he offers compliments makes you feel even better. Then, you remember the harsh reality that he’ll never be able to give you the kind of connection you crave, and you shake your head in a feeble attempt to loosen any lust-fueled thoughts. 

Your drink is placed in front of you, and you mutter a “thank you” to the bartender before taking a generous gulp. Spencer huffs with amusement.

“I’m not gonna have to carry you home, am I?” he teases. 

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you retort, raising the glass to your lips once more. The bitter edge to your words slips out before you can stop it. You were trying to be distantly polite, but he has a way of getting under your skin that you can’t seem to prevent. You’ve resorted to grumbling much faster than you had anticipated. 

“Actually, yes,” Spencer concedes. Your cup falters halfway to your mouth, your hand twitching in its grip. You look at him with mock suspicion.

“That’s your plan? Get me all drunk and pliable?” you accuse. 

“Yes. Taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state sounds exactly like something I’d do, doesn’t it?” Spencer says sarcastically, throwing a pointed look in your direction. Suddenly, he leans toward you, his eyes flitting across your face. You struggle to maintain your composure as his gaze briefly falls to your lips. You’re hoping he doesn’t notice the slight waver in your inhale, but then he says decidedly, “Your pupils may be dilated and your breathing uneven, but I’d hardly attribute that to your alcohol consumption. You’ve never been much of a lightweight.”

An arrogant assumption, but he’s not wrong. 

“I think you’re overestimating your appeal,” you lie. It doesn’t even sound remotely convincing to your own ears. Spencer quirks an eyebrow in a knowing gesture, and you wonder what humiliating retort he’s about to utilize to turn your cheeks pink. 

Instead, he catches you off guard.

“Dance with me,” he suggests. 

“Huh?” you reply, internally cringing at how dense you sound. 

“Dance with me,” Spencer repeats. “If I’m that unappealing, it should be no trouble, right?”

You search his face for any sign of mischief, any hint that he’s plotting to embarrass you. Perhaps he’s angrier about the break-up than he’s been letting on, and is about to draw inspiration from Stephen King and dump pigs’ blood on your head in front of all these people. Yet, the more you inspect his countenance, the more you realize that he’s simply looking back at you with mild humor, not nearly enough malice to imply that he’s plotted a humiliation ritual. He’s looking at you rather adoringly, but perhaps that’s a healthy dose of delusion on your part. 

“If this is some convoluted plan to get me to go home with you—” you start. 

“Oh, it absolutely is, but if you’re as disinterested as you claim to be, it’s not like it will lead anywhere.” 

It’s probably a good thing that he cut you off before another lie could fly out of your mouth. You’re not exactly positive how you were planning on ending that sentence, anyway. Maybe attempting to deflate his ego was a mistake. He’s clearly got you in check; if you’re not careful, you’re absolutely going to admit to wanting to get in his pants. 

“You could have any girl in here. Go flirt with someone else,” you order. Perhaps you can still retain some semblance of dignity if you convince him to walk away first? You’re not really sure what you’re doing anymore. You were supposed to have left after one drink, for Christ’s sake. Now you were downing a second and entertaining your ex, straying far from tonight’s agenda. 

“I don’t want someone else,” Spencer murmurs, and the admission is shockingly vulnerable. It reminds you of the Spencer that only you got to see. He’s capable of being so soft, and sensitive, and sweet in a way that makes your heart ache. He almost sounds offended by your suggestion, even a bit sad. Just as quickly as the confession leaves his mouth, he’s schooling his expression back into one of amused indifference. 

“Well, I don’t want meaningless sex,” you blurt. You’re not sure why you made a point to announce that; it was clear by his tone that he wasn’t only referring to sex. He’s said that he wants you. You know that you want him. Things should be easy, then, and yet. A relationship with Spencer didn’t work out the first time; you’re (almost) sure it would be foolish to entertain the concept for a second. 

“Assign it some meaning, then,” Spencer shrugs. “A fateful reunion, maybe, or just burning some steam.”

“I don’t need to burn steam,” you say defensively. Another lie. You’ve been in such a drought recently, you’ve started to wonder if Spencer hired a witch to curse your sex life. 

“Huh. That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” he responds smugly, leaning against the bar counter and propping his head in his hand. “How’d your last date go?”

Once more, you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes; that damn arrogance is officially grating on your nerves, but you’re fighting tooth and nail to not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting under your skin. Better to play off your annoyance as banter.

“You sure you wanna dance with me? I might just end up socking you in the face,” you half-joke with a broad smile. 

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Spencer nods solemnly. It’s infuriating how unflappable he seems to be. How can he be so relaxed while you feel like you’re about to burst into flames? You’re beginning to feel a bit like a cornered animal, and you suspect that there’s only one way out of this situation. 

“Get up. We’re dancing,” you declare, hopping up from your seat. Spencer smirks, assuming that you’re admitting defeat, but you have one final opportunity to resist him. “One dance, and then I’m walking away.”

“Fine,” Spencer agrees, offering his hand to you as he stands. You slap your palm into his, and his hand envelops yours as he tugs you closer. You stumble to avoid falling into his chest, and his breath tickles your ear as he whispers, “Sure you are.”

You pull back, glaring up at him.

“God, you are so—” you start.

“Charming?” he suggests.

“Annoying,” you conclude as he weaves through the crowd, pulling you along behind him. 

“You just hate being wrong,” he points out calmly as he settles into the throng of swaying bodies. Satisfied with your position on the dance floor, he turns to you and plants his feet, waiting for a response. 

“I—” you splutter. For once, you agree with him, but you refuse to acknowledge that. “Shut up and put your hands on my waist.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Spencer huffs with amusement, immediately obliging. His hands settle comfortably on your waist, the familiarity of his touch doing little to quell the confusing swell of emotions building in your chest. You can’t deny your physical attraction to him, but hooking up with him would be a disaster, and getting back together? Even worse, knowing that he’ll never care about you as much as you’ve loved him. You have to stay strong and keep your word, or you’ll only end up getting hurt. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, your thumbs barely brushing the slope of his neck. It feels so damn good to be pressed up against him like this, shifting to the rhythm. You’re rapidly losing control of the situation—if you ever had any to begin with. 

“This is stupid,” you declare, more so trying to convince yourself than insult him. 

“‘This’ being your undeniable attraction to me?” he prompts, no offense having been taken. 

“The dance, you idiot,” you retort. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

Spencer tuts, pretending to look contemplative. 

“Well, I believe it was to prove some sort of point about being able to resist me, but I don’t think you’re being very convincing,” he muses, eyes sparkling with humor as he looks down at you. 

“Will you drop the fucking bravado for two seconds? I’m this close to stepping on your foot and walking away,” you snap. 

“I feel so threatened,” he deadpans, fingers dancing across the fabric of your dress like he intends to move his grip lower. The feeling makes your mind wander, reminding you of all the places his hands have touched before. A pang of arousal strikes deep in your stomach, and you have to consciously remind yourself to respond. 

“You should. These heels are sharp,” you warn weakly. Spencer sighs dramatically, as if bored by this whole ordeal. 

“You really want me to be all sappy? That’s what you look for in a guy? A big softie?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as if the very notion disgusts him. As if he didn’t just admit to wanting you. As if he hasn’t said a thousand sappy things to you in all the time you’ve known him. 

“I liked you better when you didn’t take it upon yourself to annoy the shit out of me, yes,” you reply flatly, and he snorts. He actually laughs, one of the first—and only—signs indicating that his resolve may be weakening. 

“I’ll trade you,” he offers, and you’re almost positive you know what he’ll say before the next sentence leaves his mouth. Sure enough, he proposes, “I’ll stop pushing your buttons if you stop pretending like you don’t want me.”

It would be so easy to simply agree; he’s much more bearable when he’s not putting on the irritating tough guy act, but is that what you want? The moment he stops acting unbothered, it will become infinitely easier to have a real conversation with him. As easily as his cocky façade gets under your skin, his true demeanor disarms your defenses. You’ll certainly end up admitting that you miss him if this dance doesn’t end before you reach an agreement. 

“What I want is to punch you square in your perfect nose,” you huff. 

“Aw, you think it’s perfect?” Spencer smiles. Wow, he is good at being aggravating when he wants to be. 

“Jesus Christ, you are so—” you complain. 

“I offered you a deal,” he interrupts. 

“I heard it,” you retort, frustrated and confused as hell. Why had you thought you could turn this around in your favor? You should’ve just left when you had the chance. This is going to get messy fast. 

“And?” Spencer prompts, looking at you expectantly. 

“I want you to prove it,” you decide. He tilts his head, offering you a puzzled expression. 

“How am I supposed to prove that I promise to stop annoying you?” he asks.

“Tell me something honest,” you implore. “No snark.”

Spencer blinks, pausing to consider his next words. Over the bar speakers, the song changes, but you barely register the sound. You’re getting lost in Spencer’s freaking beautiful eyes, like some lovesick teenager. 

“Okay…” Spencer hesitates, like he might struggle to formulate a response, but then words start tumbling out of his mouth before you can get frustrated with his lack of an answer. “I lied to you when I said I agreed with us breaking up. I never wanted to, but I thought it would make things easier if I went along with it, if that’s what you wanted.”

You blink slowly, processing his confession. It knocks the wind out of you a bit to hear that he actually cared about you enough to want to stay together. You had always been under the impression that his reluctance to fight for the relationship had been a product of him not being all that interested in you to begin with. To hear that he was only doing what he thought would make you happy? You’re floored. 

“Oh, so all the taunting about me wanting you is because you’re desperate to get in my pants again?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. You’re deflecting, of course, not wanting to admit how badly it hurt to have to try and move on from him. However, your teasing tone is weak, and Spencer quickly responds with a minute shake of his head. 

“I don’t just want sex. I told you that,” he says emphatically. “I want you.”

“You admitted to wanting to take me home,” you point out. 

“And if all I got to do was tuck you in, I’d consider it a success.” Spencer’s tone is so flat that anyone else might suspect he’s being sarcastic, but you know him well enough to know that he’s not. Whether asking him to be genuine with you was a mistake or not remains to be seen, but you can’t help but be touched by the sentiment. 

“You…” you start to argue, but you’re not even sure that you have a cohesive statement prepared. Instead, you end up blurting out, “I didn’t want to break up either, okay? But I don’t want to feel like a convenience in your life, like my only purpose is to keep you from being lonely after a long day.”

You’ve never been a fan of confrontation, a fact made obvious by how quickly you had attempted to hightail it out of the bar when Spencer sat beside you. It feels incredibly stupid and far too vulnerable to have admitted the real reason that you called things off between the two of you. Sure, crazy work hours don’t bode well for nurturing a relationship, but you could’ve dealt with Spencer’s persistent absences if he had made you feel truly loved when he was around. The harrowing fact was that you craved more affection than he seemed to be willing to give. 

“You think I think that little of you?” Spencer asks, hands tensing against your waist. His eyes search your face for reassurance that you’re not pissed at him. Truth be told, you’re not angry; you’re just more hurt than you’ve allowed yourself to admit in the months since you broke up with him. 

“I don’t know if you do or not, I’m not a mind reader,” you retort defensively. You hear the bitterness in your tone and attempt to amend things by adding more calmly, “I just know how you made me feel.”

Spencer looks like he’s been slapped across the face, despite your attempt to soften the blow. He’s been noncommittal about swaying to the music for some time now, but now he plants his feet, full-stop. 

“Shit,” he breathes. As the gears in his mind spin rapidly in an attempt to process your argument, he rambles, “You never told me that. I could’ve… done something. It could’ve been something we worked through, you know, instead of just being… the end.” He sounds angry, but more so at himself than you. It shouldn’t surprise you that he would take accountability for making you feel insignificant, yet you feel a bit choked up at the earnest expression in his eyes as he continues. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear over the chaos of the bar. “For ever making you feel like you had to go, and then for letting you.”

It’s embarrassing how he’s the one apologizing, yet you feel like you’re the one who truly made a mistake. He’s right, after all. You never told him how you felt, you merely assumed that he was incapable of change and decided that things could never work out. Perhaps—no, definitely—it was unfair of you to not give him a chance to prove himself. All this time, you’ve been hurt that he didn’t attempt to claw his way back into your arms, when you were really the one who should’ve fought more to avoid pushing him away.

Damn.

“My last date sucked, for the record,” you admit, your way of telling Spencer that you accept his apology. “To answer your question from earlier.” He regards you with an almost sheepish expression, looking like he feels a bit sorry for you. 

“I might’ve heard that, too,” he responds quietly. 

“I don’t even want to know who’s airing out my shit,” you decide with a sigh. 

“I can keep a secret,” Spencer promises, leaning just slightly closer and raising an expectant eyebrow. “Just like I won’t tell anyone if you admit that you missed me.”

“Over my dead body,” you reply instinctively.

“Ah-ah. Remember our deal,” he tuts. His hands are still on your waist, and his thumbs begin to rub comforting circles into your sides. He’s looking at you like there’s absolutely no one else he’d rather be with right now, and between that expression and the nearly desperate way he had wished that you would’ve told him how you felt sooner, you’re about two seconds from relenting. 

“Fine,” you concede. “I missed you, and my life has been wholly uneventful since we broke up, and I knew that agreeing to dance would bite me in the ass because you have some weirdly, freakishly irresistible charm.” Spencer’s lips start to turn up at the corners, so you tack on, “Don’t smirk, or I will take it all back.”

Obediently, he schools his face into a neutral expression.

“Can I smile?” he asks. 

“Permission granted,” you confirm, and he immediately breaks into an adorably goofy grin, one that you’ve been longing to see for some time now. 

“You missed me,” he beams, the teasing completely draining from his voice and being replaced with awe. 

“Yeah,” you nod, your simple response hardly more than a murmur. 

“Uneventful, huh?” Spencer inquires, tilting his head. 

“Dreadful,” you groan. You know that he’ll take plenty of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve been less than pleased with the dates you’ve been on recently, but you’ve all but given up on your feigned annoyance, at this point. You’ve both confessed to wanting each other, so it seems pointless to pretend that your short-lived relationships since the break-up have been anything revolutionary. 

“Can I do anything to remedy that?” Spencer offers suggestively.

“A few things,” you grumble without thinking. 

“Name one,” he suggests. 

Fuck it.

“Take me home.”

=♡=

Somehow, the two of you manage to make it the short walk to Spencer’s apartment without doing anything illegal in public. An incredible feat, considering the way he’s been eye-fucking you the entire time, and you’ve been thinking incredibly unholy thoughts. 

As soon as his front door is locked and your shoes have been kicked off, he’s gently pressing you against the back of the door. You think he might just jump your bones right there, but he hesitates. He lifts his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and angling it so that your gaze is locked with his. Now that you’re here, so close to what you’ve been freaking fantasizing about for months, you’re a bit impatient. Your hands fist his collar, pulling him closer. He huffs with amusement, reveling in your desperation.

“I thought you didn’t want meaningless sex,” he reminds you when your faces are only inches apart, breaths mingling in the small space between you. 

“I’m taking your advice,” you declare. When it appears that your words are lost on him, you clarify, “Assigning it meaning.”

“What kind?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in a curious—and mildly perplexed—expression. 

Well, here goes nothing. You could be setting yourself up to be hurt again, but if what Spencer’s said is true (and you really think it is), you think your decision is far from a mistake. Surely, there’s significance to how much you’ve missed him over the past few months, significance that extends beyond the haze of lust. You still love him, and you can’t deny it anymore. 

“The ‘second chance’ kind, if that’s alright with you?” you ask, a tentative, unsure lilt to your voice. Spencer blinks hard, as if he’s convinced he’s dreaming. Once he determines that this is reality, he responds with total certainty. 

“Definitely fine by me.”

With that, Spencer leans even closer. Your noses brush, and his lips are so close to yours that you can practically taste the sweetness of his kiss. Yet, with mere centimeters separating your mouths, he halts, eyes flitting between yours as his thumbs dance across your cheeks. 

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper.

“You’re all flushed,” Spencer notes, an obvious tinge of concern lacing his words. “Are you sure you’re not drunk? Tipsy, even?”

Your heart aches with affection as he seeks your consent, and a laugh threatens to bubble up your throat at the realization that you’re so goddamn turned on right now that you’re blushing like a teenager. And he noticed.

“I’m sure,” you nod, forehead landing lightly against his. You quirk a brow, continuing, “Shall I walk in a straight line to your bed?”

“Smooth,” Spencer says, narrowing his eyes playfully at you. Once more, all joking leaves his body as he murmurs, “I’m just making sure you’re of sound mind and all. Not gonna regret this, right?”

“Right, not at all,” you agree earnestly. “I’d hardly attribute it to my alcohol consumption,” you add, repeating his earlier teasing reference to your attraction to him. Now, you both are well aware that there’s no punchline there, just genuine desire. 

“Oh, so you were listening,” Spencer remarks proudly. “I thought you started tuning me out as soon as you began staring at my lips.”

“Of course I was listening,” you reply with mock indignation. “I can multitask.”

You didn’t mean—at least, not consciously—for that to sound like an innuendo, but Spencer takes it as an invitation. 

Not that you’re complaining. 

“So can I,” he whispers, his breath dancing against your lips. You think he might make another snarky or suggestive comment before he kisses you, but evidently, he’s been waiting for this moment just as eagerly as you have. Without another word, he closes the gap between the two of you, wasting no time in parting his lips against yours. The kiss is hungry, driven by unfettered passion. 

Spencer’s hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. Within seconds, your tongue is teasingly sliding against his. You’d be content to stay like this for hours, making out against the door, but he clearly has other plans, and isn’t afraid to make his intentions clear.

As you kiss, his hands slide down your sides, settling momentarily at your waist. As you move to place your hands at the nape of his neck, his fingers snake around to the small of your back, moving tantalizingly close to your ass. God, you’re so fucking worked up over this man that just the thought of him groping you is exciting.

Finally, his hands slip lower, palming you over the fabric of your dress. You grab at his neck, deepening the kiss. When his hands slide to the backs of your thighs, encouraging you to lift up, you gladly oblige. He pulls you toward him, and you wind your legs around his center. Once you’re securely against him, he backs toward his bedroom, never once breaking the kiss. 

It’s not until he has carefully placed you beneath him on his mattress that his lips separate from yours. His mouth moves enthusiastically across your jawline and down your throat, settling at the junction of your shoulder. He lavishes kisses against your skin, nipping just enough to make your breath hitch before soothing the spot with his tongue. It’s not long before you miss the feeling of his lips against yours, and tug at the collar of his shirt once more, prompting him to lift his head. 

As his lips lock against yours, your hands trail from his neck to his chest. A few seconds later, you’re reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and he’s pulling away just far enough for you to drag it up and over his head, absentmindedly tossing it onto the floor. Your fingers dance across his exposed skin, and he responds to your touch by pulling down the strap of your dress. He then ducks his head and places a tender kiss to your bare shoulder as his hand travels along your side, swiftly undoing your zipper. You shift beneath him as he begins to pull it off of you, making it easier for him to tug the fabric down your legs. 

Spencer settles back over top of you after taking a moment to admire you, sprawled on his bed in nothing more than your bra and panties. He smiles softly as he kisses you again, murmuring against your lips, “You’re so beautiful.”

Eager to level the playing field, you expertly unbuckle his belt and remove it, letting it clank to the floor as you unbutton his pants. Just as you had been so thrilled to have him undress you, he assists you in removing his jeans. Soon, the two of you are left in nothing but your undergarments, and anticipation is building in your chest. 

Spencer’s lips lower to your neck once more, sucking the soft skin until a pleasurable sting registers in your brain. You sigh softly, and he hums approvingly against your throat. He peppers a trail of kisses across your collarbone before shifting so that he can press kisses lower and lower. Eventually, he’s settled right between your breasts, and leaves a lingering kiss above your heart. Then, he’s eagerly sliding his mouth to the edge of your bra, kissing the lace that surrounds the cup. 

You feel a pang of arousal as you watch him. He lifts a hand to the cup, pulling it down just enough to reveal your nipple. You’re so turned on, it threatens to harden at the mere thought of him fondling you. Luckily, he doesn’t leave you much time with your daydreaming before his mouth is on you, nipping and sucking your nipple into a hard peak. As he continues his ministrations, spurred on by your gasps and light moans, he deftly unclasps your bra, removing it without letting up on your body. His hand begins to grab at your other tit, rubbing and pinching softly in the way he knows will drive you crazy. 

“Hm,” he hums against your breast, and you can practically feel him smiling against your sensitive skin. 

“What are you smirking about?” you groan, slightly breathless but still perfectly capable of conveying annoyance. He releases your nipple from his mouth, pressing another kiss to the center of your chest before replying. 

“You’re so responsive,” he answers, though his reply sounds more astonished than smug as he looks up at you. His hand is still fondling you, which is inhibiting your ability to come up with a smartass reply. 

“Stop making me self-conscious,” you pout. “I like you better when you’re nice to me.”

Spencer climbs up your body, quickly pecking you on the lips.

“Oh, angel. I’m about to be very nice to you,” he assures you. You reach up and pull him into a deeper kiss, which he reciprocates with fervor. You’re struck with the desire to have your hands all over him, so you reach between your bodies, hand moving closer and closer to the hem of his boxers. Your hand has barely wrapped around his length when he pulls away.

“Uh-uh. Not yet,” he mutters, breath ghosting against your face. 

“But—” you argue feebly, though your hand is already obediently moving back up his side. 

“I’m not in a rush,” he promises. “Do you have someplace better to be?”

“Well, no, but…” you complain, whispering, “I want you.”

“And you’ll have me,” Spencer assures you, softly kissing your cheek. “But first, let me take care of you. Let me prove to you that you’re not a convenience. You’re everything, okay?”

“You’re overcompensating a bit, don’t you think?” you retort. However, his serious countenance informs you that he’s being entirely truthful. His words go straight to your heart, and admittedly do nothing to curb the tension building in your stomach. 

“Not at all. I’ve always worshipped you, I just apparently didn’t show it enough. Let me show you, please,” he pleads. An unspoken agreement passes between you as he ducks his head again, dropping kisses down your stomach. 

Eventually, he settles between your legs, kissing your clothed core before looking up at you, searching your face for any minuscule sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he hooks his fingers in your panties, peeling them down your legs. Under other circumstances, you might be embarrassed by how fucking soaked you are, but you’re pretty sure he’s not the least bit surprised by the glistening sight before him. Your panties are absolutely ruined, but that’s truly the last thing on your mind with his head between your thighs.

Your chest heaves as you look down at him. His breath tickles your skin as he angles his head to kiss your inner thigh. Then, he wraps his hands around your legs, guiding them apart. You’re hyperaware of every move he makes, including the tiny, pleasured sigh he lets out against your core before his tongue darts out. 

Your stomach soars as Spencer’s tongue slides between your slick folds, and your head falls back against the pillow. 

“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, hand instinctively reaching out to tangle in his curls. He huffs a little chuckle against you as his tongue begins to circle your clit. He takes the sensitive bud in his mouth, sucking with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips twitch, bucking toward his face, and his grip on your legs tightens, holding you in place. 

Moments later, he loosens his grip on one thigh, bringing his hand between your legs. You feel like you could cum just from his mouth on your pussy, but then he’s teasing your entrance with his index finger, and you’re getting even wetter. He easily slides one finger inside of you, beginning to curl it in and out of you in satisfying synchronization with his tongue. 

He allows you to adjust to the sensation for some time before he adds a second finger, slowly stretching you. As he crooks his fingers, you moan shakily. The stimulation is beginning to overwhelm your senses, and all you can think about is how damn good it feels. Your grip tightens on his hair, though you’re careful—even in the haze of pleasure—not to tug too harshly.

“Spence—” you moan. He licks at your clit before pulling away just far enough to murmur a reply. 

“You’re okay,” he says soothingly before diving right back in. The hand that had been holding your legs apart reaches up to cup your breast, and your thighs threaten to clamp down on his head, but you do your best to stay still. He pinches your nipple, and a fire ignites in your abdomen. You moan loudly, his fingers continuing to work inside of you. White-hot pleasure is building in your stomach, and your moans are becoming more desperate and shrill as you approach your climax. 

Spencer refuses to let up, devouring you with such intent that you feel like you could scream. 

Finally, the tension snaps, and you come more intensely than you have in months—possibly ever. Your moan is almost a shriek as your body is overcome with pleasure. Spencer works you through your orgasm, only slowing his motions when you quiet down and his movements begin to border on overstimulation. He slides his fingers out of your sopping pussy, kisses your thigh once more, and then casually climbs over top of you like he didn’t just make you see actual fucking stars. 

“Fuck. Oh my God,” you exclaim breathlessly. 

“I know, sweet girl,” he coos, pecking your cheek. “I know.”

You’re panting like a dog, struggling to catch your breath after coming down from such an astonishing high, but having his lips inches from yours isn’t enough. Despite how winded you are, you tilt your head, angling your mouth toward his. Spencer takes a second to gaze down at you adoringly, taking in your flushed and fatigued state before molding his lips against yours. 

You should be thoroughly exhausted after what you just experienced, yet tasting the tang of your own arousal on his lips sends another jolt of excitement coursing through your veins. He nips at your bottom lip, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound with another deep kiss, and your hands begin to wander all over his body. This time, when your finger traces the hem of his boxers, he doesn’t stop you.

Before long, you’re wrapping a hand around his hard cock, stroking him gently over his boxers. Your bodies are pressed so tightly together that you feel the wet spot blooming on his underwear rather than actually seeing it. He’s thick and aching in your palm, and his hips stutter against your hand as you swirl your thumb around his clothed tip. Craving more, you reach beneath the fabric, swiping a finger through his precum before pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He groans at the sensation of your hand on him, his own hand cupping your breast. 

He starts to grind into your hand, clearly relishing the friction your palm is providing. He grasps your tit, playing with your taut nipple. As incredible as that feels, you need more. Spencer had denied you before when you had attempted to strip him of his last article of clothing, but as your fingers toy with the waistband of his boxers now, his kisses become even more enthusiastic, if possible. 

“Now?” you whimper, mind reeling with the anticipation of having him inside of you. 

“Anything you want, baby,” he sighs against your mouth. With his permission, you tug his boxers down his legs, and he shifts so that you can remove them completely. They join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and this time, when Spencer leans down to kiss you, his bare cock presses insistently against your core. You’re halfway to throwing caution to the wind and telling him to fuck you raw, but he makes the wise, mature decision to pull away and open his nightstand drawer, quickly retrieving a condom. 

He leans back so that he can tear open the wrapper with his teeth, an erotic sight that has your arousal soaking his sheets (if it hasn’t already). He effortlessly rolls on the condom before pressing against you again. As he hovers over you, arms caging you beneath him, he lifts his chin and gingerly kisses your forehead. He’s always been so gentle when it comes to sex, knowing that the initial penetration can be a bit painful for you. 

He lines up at your entrance, his tip just barely nudging your opening. You were spread open on his fingers just a short moment ago, which makes the sting more bearable as he stretches you. He knows to take things slow, and you trust him not to take more than your body is willing to give. He pauses just past your entrance, waiting for a signal from you to proceed. After the initial discomfort passes, you nod, and he sinks in another inch. This process repeats for a minute or so until he’s fully buried inside you and you’re pleading for him to move. 

Spencer pulls out until only his tip is notched inside of you, and then sets a languid pace of sinking in and out of you. You’re so sensitive after your previous orgasm, so the mild discomfort of penetration morphs into an overwhelmingly, intensely pleasurable sensation. You feel deliciously full, and the only sounds in the room are the mingling moans and shaky gasps coming from both of you. That, and the obscene squelching of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. 

You know that his unhurried pace is a display of consideration for your comfort, and you’re endlessly grateful for his patience. No man has ever been so sweet to you, and you’re not about to forget that. Still, you eventually reach the point of desperation where climaxing feels just out of reach, and you need more.

“More,” you mewl. “P-please.”

“Faster?” Spencer seeks confirmation, breath huffing against your cheek. 

“Mhm,” you hum. Evidently, he had been waiting for your approval to be rougher. His restraint snaps, and he thrusts more intensely. He’s moving faster, burying himself deeper inside of you, hitting a spot that makes the corners of your vision blur. A loud, careening moan tumbles out of you. 

“Okay?” Spencer murmurs, a light sheen of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. 

“Yeah—oh, God,” you affirm, your response interrupted by another sharp thrust of his hips. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you have to consciously remind yourself to take a complete inhale. 

Spencer’s showering the corners of your mouth in sloppy kisses, your shaky breaths coming out in huffs against each other’s faces. Your hair is starting to stick to your forehead, and even in this state of intense arousal, he notices. He brushes a damp strand away from your eyes with a quivering hand. You’re both getting close, if the sporadic movement of his hips and the building warmth in your abdomen are any indication. 

As if he’s read your mind, Spencer drops a hand between the two of you, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it. You’re moaning absolute nonsense at this point, sighing his name repeatedly—along with some other choice words. 

You’re feeling dizzy with pleasure, and a stuttered declaration escapes your lips as you try to inform him how you’re feeling. Then, you’re clenching around him, your muscles fluttering as an intense wave of pleasure overtakes you. Your fingers—which have been pressing into his back—tighten their grip, undoubtedly leaving crescent-shaped marks on his pale skin. 

The heady mix of pleasure and pain is enough to have Spencer burying himself to the hilt inside of you, moaning as he empties into the condom. He weakly collapses beside you, slipping out of you as he softens. He gently brushes more sweat-slick hair from your face, kissing the tip of your nose and smiling warmly at you. You return the expression, though your grin is likely more dopey, a result of your thoroughly fucked-out bliss. 

“I’ve gotta clean you up,” Spencer declares softly, rolling off the mattress and heading to his ensuite bathroom to grab a washcloth. You can hear him bustling around in the other room as you lay on your back, staring contently at the ceiling. 

“I was trying to be good tonight, you know,” you call. You can hear the trash can lid clanking shut after he’s discarded the condom, and then he’s running water for a moment. “One drink, go home. You messed up my plans.”

“Don’t complain,” Spencer chides playfully, returning with a warm cloth to wipe your own slick from your thighs. He settles beside you, running the cloth across the inside of your legs. Despite the warmth, you shiver as the fabric brushes your sensitive skin. Spencer looks down at you fondly as he adds with the tiniest smirk, “In my opinion, you were really good.”

“I’m not complaining,” you clarify, positively reveling in the boneless feeling of laying in his bed with him. 

“Even better,” Spencer praises before discarding the cloth and rejoining you in bed, pulling you flush against his bare side. He kisses your damp hair and whispers something that you almost don’t catch in your foggy, sleepy haze. Yet, you’re sure you’ve heard him correctly.

“I love you.”