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You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

You weren’t sure how long he’d had you here like this, sweating and fucked out as your husband slowly worked his cock in and out of you. You just knew you had to be quiet, that your one year old was asleep just a room away, a feat that was damn near impossible as Joel pulled yet another orgasm out of you.

“What, baby?” He panted over you, one hand gripping the headboard as he buried himself inside you yet again.

“You…” You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to focus. “You don’t have to get me pregnant to..to…tonight, you know…”

“Oh I know,” he said, his voice heavy with need and scratchy with exertion. “Wouldn’t mind tryin’ with you for a few months, fucking this pretty pussy full of me every damn night, comin’ so deep in you that you’ve got part of me in you all day every day.”

“Joel,” you whimpered, you couldn’t help it, your pussy drawing tight and hot around him.

“But, see, I’m not sure I can wait that long,” he said, pressing somehow deeper into you and holding himself there for a moment, making your cunt clench around him, your legs scrambling for purchase as your next orgasm built higher and higher. “Need to put another baby in you now, need to see your belly grow, need to fuck you until you’ve got part of me in you for damn near a year.”

“Oh fuck!”

You moaned it louder than you should have, Joel’s large hand going from propping him up to clamped over your mouth as your orgasm took you, the heat of it shooting out from your core and through your entire being, your heart racing, channel throbbing.

“Oh goddamn,” he groaned, fucking into you even harder now. “That’s right little mama, pull another baby out me, that’s it…”

“Joel, Joel, Joel,” you panted over and over again into his hand, mind reduced to nothing but your husband and how damn full he made you feel, especially with his bare cock buried deep inside of you.

It had been a year almost to the day that you’d last fucked without a condom. You’d been right at the end of your pregnancy, desperate for Joel and desperate for something - anything - to kick start your labor. The last time you hadn’t needed a condom, your contractions started 20 minutes after it ended.

Ever since, you’d been taking precautions. Not because you didn’t want another baby - you definitely did - but because you hadn’t gotten the OK from your doctor yet.

Today, that had changed. You’d gone to your check up and your doctor gave you a clean bill of health, including the OK to start trying to get pregnant again.

You’d figured Joel would want to get started trying that night. You just hadn’t counted on him pulling endless orgasms as a part of trying.

“Think you got one more in you, baby?” He asked, freeing your mouth to run his hand over your hair. You just whimpered. “M’close, wanna come with you. Come on, you can give me one more, know you can.”

You couldn’t find the words as he moved to suck your neck, so you just moaned and nodded and clawed his body closer and tighter to yours.

You could feel him smile against you then, the pace of his pounding cock picking up, the tip of him hitting the spot inside you he’d long ago claimed as his own perfectly with each stroke.

“Come on little mama,” he panted. “Takes better if you come with me, need you to fucking come baby, need to feel you fucking come when I make you pregnant.”

You weren’t sure Joel was fully aware of what he was saying but then, you felt like you were moving of your own accord, too, your hips rolling up against his, frantically pawing at him in a desperate attempt to pull him so close that it was like his whole being was inside you.

This orgasm claimed you quickly, going from starting to build to taking over you in a matter of seconds. You barely had a chance to warn Joel before it hit you.

"I'm gonna come," you managed just half a second before your channel started to fluffer around him. "Fuck, I'm coming! I'm coming!"

"Fuck, that's it," he said fucking into you with two more deep, devastating strokes before you could feel his cock throbbing heavily inside, the warm spread of his spend in your most intimate place drawing your orgasm out. "That's it, fuck, come while I put my baby in you."

His cock gave one final, heavy pulse before he collapsed on you, panting for breath as you went limp below him. Even as he lay there, damn near exhausted, he still managed to fuck his cock into you a few more times, driving his come even deeper.

When he was satisfied, he sat up from you and watched between your legs as he slowly, gently pulled his softening length from your aching, swollen sex.

“So damn pretty like this,” he said almost reverently. You felt the comforting warmth of his come drip out of you and then Joel’s finger was there, scooping it up and gently pushing it back inside your spent hole as it struggled to close after being opened by his thick cock for so long. “Gotta keep me deep inside her baby, s’where I belong.”

You just whimpered a little, still not positive you could form words as Joel lay beside you, his hand skimming slowly over your stomach down to the place that had grown your first daughter with Joel.

“Think our baby’s in there?” He asked softly, thumb brushing your skin in a gentle rhythm.

“I hope so,” you smiled at him.

“Don’t sound like you’re sure,” he smirked a little back. “Might just need to leave more of me in you, just to be sure.”

Your smile grew as his hand slipped lower.

“That ring is gorgeous!”

“He must have spent a fortune on it!”

You smile bashfully, your left hand extended between you and two of your coworkers, showing off your engagement ring.

After dating your boyfriend for fifteen years: he finally popped the question over the weekend while you two were on a romantic camping trip.

You wish you could say it came out of nowhere, but the two of you have had many conversations (and arguments) about taking your relationship to the next level. It only seemed right since you’d been together since you were teenagers. High school sweethearts and all.

He’s the only person you’ve dated and slept with. You know each other so well. You don’t know why it took him this long to put a ring on it but you’re just happy that it happened… even if it did feel like he was kinda just doing it because he felt like he had to.

Regardless, you’re very excited to have been promoted from girlfriend to fiancée. 

The three of you are gushing over the wedding details when someone interrupts with an obnoxious clearing of their throat.

You look up to see Javier Peña standing near your clusters of desks, arms crossed across his chest. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be working instead of gossiping?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not our boss, Peña. Get lost.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes curiously looking down at your left hand to see what you’re fussing over.

“Don’t tell me he finally popped the question.” 

You feel your nerves thinning, the usual reaction you have to being in his presence. 

You’ve been working alongside Javier for the better part of three years now and it only took you one day to figure him out. He’s the office slut, plainly put. Flirting with most if not all of the women in the office, sleeping with them too.

At first you didn’t care. His personal life and antics are none of your business. But then he started targeting you and that’s when your harsh judgements gave way.

Multiple times you told him you weren’t available nor interested—but he never took you seriously. As if it was all just a game and you were playing hard to get. It wasn’t until a company wide mandated sexual harassment seminar was held that he finally backed off.

That didn’t stop him from being a snarky asshole to you, though.

Snarky asshole you could tolerate (kind of)—it was the flirting and seducing that drove you up the fucking wall.

Why? Because he’s attractive. You’re not blind. You see the appeal; broad shoulders, slim waist, pretty eyes and handsome features. It’s no wonder that most women fall at his feet with just one look.

But you’re taken, happily at that, and you’ve got a nice ring on your finger to prove it.

“Not that it’s any of your business but yes, he did.” You say with your chin held high, both of your coworkers making knowing faces at each other before turning back to their respective desks to busy themselves and pretend not to be listening to your typical bickering with Javier.

“And that’s the ring he went with?” He snorts, stepping closer to get a better look, taking your hand in his larger one. 

You snatch it away from him, ignoring the way your skin buzzes at the contact.

“Can I help you with something or are you just here to be a pain in my ass?”

He’s got that arrogant smirk on his face that makes you wanna slap the shit out of him.

“Boss just told me that he wants us to stay back tonight to look over some files before the big meeting in the morning.”

You narrow your gaze. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about doing more work? I have more important things to do than to stay in this stuffy office all night.”

You let out a heavy sigh. You were supposed to have dinner tonight with your family to tell them the news, but it looks like that’s getting postponed.

“Whatever.” You murmur, spinning in your chair and reaching for the landline on your desk, dialing the familiar phone number.

Javier doesn’t leave right away, he just stands there looking at you for a moment longer before rasping his knuckles against your cubicle. 

“See you later tonight.” His voice drops, far too close than you remember him being, as your fiancé answers the phone.

There’s files on files on files surprising you two later that night, scattered around in the conference room where you’ve set up. A half-eaten pizza sits on the table as you organize things to the best of your ability.

Javier is sitting across from you, smacking down on a piece of gum as he lazily reads over one of the field reports for the case you’re meeting about in the morning.

Your head begins to throb with a headache and you sigh loudly, pushing your glasses up to rest on top of your head, setting the file down.

His eyes flit up. “You okay?”

“I have a headache and I’m exhausted.”

He hums, setting his own file aside, leaning back in the chair and raising his arms to intertwine his fingers behind his head. “I know somethin’ that can make that headache go away.”

You laugh weakly despite him not being humorous at all. “You’re a pig, you know that?”

Javi shrugs, chewing down on his gum harder. You notice how strong his jaw is, full pouty lips framed by a mustache that should be out of style but for some reason fits him perfectly.

At that moment, as you appraise this jerk in front of you, you start thinking about all the gossip you’ve heard from his conquests in the office. How Javier Peña made them come so hard it had them tasting colors. What the hell does that even mean?

Sex with your boyfriend has never been anything to gush over, really. It mostly consists of you laying on your back, watching as he thrusts into you frantically before he finishes and rolls over to fall into a deep sleep. Most times, you’ve had to finish yourself off—but you never really minded. Sex isn’t even that important in a relationship… right? At least that’s what you tell yourself. 

Your heart begins to race as your traitorous mind begins to conjure visions of Javier bending you over the long conference table, gripping your hips as he plows into you from behind, whispering filthy things. You can almost feel the rasp of his mustache against your neck, his lips pressed to the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

From what you heard, he’s got every reason to be cocky, considering he’s carrying a very generous package.

Heat flushes up your neck and pools at your cheeks, thighs tensing involuntarily.

You blink away the fantasy as quickly as it crosses your mind, shaking your head. What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re newly engaged to a man who loves you (?) and here you are daydreaming about getting fucked by a man you cannot stand. 

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” It’s like he’s in your head, that typical Javier smirk tugging at his lips. Observant motherfucker.

“Yeah. I’m going home.”

You stand abruptly, making the skirt you’re wearing ride up higher on your thighs, revealing the band of your stockings.

His gaze immediately drops there and his eyes darken. He watches as you scramble around gathering your things before getting up himself. In two strides he’s standing in front of the door, blocking your exit.

“Move.”

He tuts. “Not until you tell me what’s got you hightailing outta here.”

“Javier I’m not fucking playing, move—” you shove at his chest, your sexual frustration and general disdain for him pissing you off by the second.

Sensing this, his hands come up to grip your wrists, halting your motions. You tug at them to no avail, he’s got a strong hold and that is not helping your situation one bit.

“Let me guess: you’re wondering if the talk is true.”

You let out a sound of disbelief. “Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not as much as I’d love to show you a good time. Let’s be honest—that boy of yours isn’t doing the job.” 

You stare up at him with a clenched jaw, your eyes telling him everything he needs to know, which is that he’s right and you’re too stubborn to admit it.

“Listen, I’m not asking you to leave him. That’d be absurd.” He twists your left wrist so that the engagement ring gleams beneath the fluorescent lighting of the room, accusatory as hell. “Just asking for one night. No strings attached. You deserve a good fuck before you tie yourself down to some clown for the rest of your life. Don’t you want that? To feel good?” He cocks his head, popping his gum cockily as he watches your resolve slowly weaken beneath his words, his stare, his fucking aura. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” His voice drops to a gravelly tone that’s almost like a siren’s call, thumbs brushing over your pulse point, feeling how flustered he’s got you.

You don’t realize how heavily you’re breathing, being pulled under his spell as you actually consider his proposal. This must be what all your coworkers talk about. How polarizing he is.

If you thought about this for a second longer, you’d consider yourself to be a strong, willful woman that doesn’t buckle under the tiniest bit of sexual tension.

But you’re not as strong as you think you are, not around him. This is why you never entertained anything he ever said to you, because deep down inside—you always knew that you’d fucking fold.

And that’s exactly what you do now.

Your lips crash onto his without warning, and you hate how soft his mouth is as he begins to devour you entirely. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, nipping at it as he walks the both of you back until your ass hits the edge of the table.

Letting go of your wrists, you waste no time in cupping his strong jaw and he wastes no time in grabbing your waist and hoisting you up onto the wooden surface.

Your thighs part to make room for his broad figure, his lips moving from yours and down to your jaw, then your neck. It’s then that you taste something minty in your mouth and realize you’re now chewing on his gum.

Why do you find that so hot?

Javier bites down gently and you let out a whimper, hands falling to his biceps where you dig your nails in. “No marks.” You warn him.

It’s bad enough that you’re cheating—you don’t need evidence of it, too.

He soothes the spot over with his tongue, which has your skin curling with goosebumps as his dexterous fingers begin to unbutton your top, revealing the plain bra you’re wearing underneath.

Javi lets out a deep groan at the sight of it and you can’t help but keen. 

“So fucking hot,” he mutters, cupping your covered breasts in both hands before he reaches behind you and quickly undoes the clasp, getting you out of your shirt and bra in the blink of an eye.

It’s all happening too fast, so you push at his shoulders so that he pulls back, your arms coming up to cross over your naked chest.

“Wait, Javi…” you trail off, words slurred from how dizzy you feel about the whole thing. “I’ve never—this is a lot.”

He stands between your legs, his brown eyes lustful yet warm as he takes in your shy and almost apprehensive composure.

Javier Peña would never take advantage of anyone—so seeing you like this is making him rethink everything.

“Do you want to stop? Because we can. You call the shots, baby.”

He cups your face with one large hand, thumb brushing over your cheek as he makes you look up at him.

“Do you want this?”

You search his gaze, realizing in this moment that there’s more to him than just some guy who can’t keep it in his pants.

“...Yes.” It’s almost breathless the way you reply, slowly uncrossing your arms, letting him get a good look at your tits.

But he doesn’t look, he just keeps his eyes locked on yours, making sure that you mean what you say before he leans in and kisses you softly, lips moving at a pace that has arousal slicking up your pussy.

The moan you let out encourages him to keep going. Large, calloused hands come up to palm your breasts, thumbs flicking across your pert nipples as you continue to make-out. 

God it feels so good. Foreplay isn’t your fiancé’s strongest suit. He’ll paw at your tits, maybe suck one into his mouth before he clumsily rubs your clit then goes straight in for penetration.

But Javier isn’t your fiancé—goodness no, he’s lightyears better and he hasn’t really touched you yet.

Parting from you, he places sweet pecks down your jaw and neck before wrapping his pouty lips around your nipple, sucking softly.

You sigh out blissfully, head rolling on your shoulders, eyes fluttering close.

Smirking against your chest, one hand leaves your tit and moves south, trailing over your stomach before toying with the hem of your skirt then disappearing below it.

Your fingers run through his soft hair, tenderly scratching his scalp as he lavishes your breasts with much needed attention, his thick fingers pressing over your covered pussy. 

Flicking his tongue against your nipple, he moves over to the other, grunting as you play with his hair, the pressure at your core increasing when he presses his fingers further onto you.

He bites down on your nipple and it makes you yelp, which he finds to be the cutest thing ever. With one final, wet kiss, he pulls away from your breasts to look at you.

“Feeling good?”

You don’t have the words so you just nod, bucking your hips up slightly to signal that you want him to keep touching.

“Words, baby. Use ‘em.”

“Yes,” your voice is small, a small pout on your lips. “I-I need more, Javi. Please.”

He tilts his head slightly, fingers pulling your panties to the side so that he can touch your wet flesh. “So sweet using your manners.”

Your jaw drops as he spreads your pussy lips in an obscene display of sex, touching and rubbing all over your cunt but purposely ignoring your clit which drives you crazy. Still, it feels amazing the way his fingers part you, your syrupy essence coating his digits.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet. Ever.

When he removes his fingers you whine at the loss. Javier brings them up between you, showing off how your slick webs between them. “This all for me?” he mocks, sliding them into his mouth, a deep hum rumbling in his chest from how sweet you taste. 

That’s enough to get him to drop to his knees, which is a beautiful sight in itself, tugging your panties down your thighs and off your legs swiftly, tucking them into the pocket of his pants.

You’re left just in your skirt, heels and stockings, spread out open for him on the conference table, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.

Javi looks up at you, desire evident in his stare, leaning in to place a kiss directly on your clit.

“Oh fuck—” you curse, arms weak as you fall flat on your back, glasses toppling off your head. As much as you’d love to watch him eat you out, you don’t think you have the upper body strength for the way he’s about to ruin you.

And ruin you he fucking does.

Javier begins to lick and suck all over your pretty cunt, languidly letting his broad tongue lap at your slit, the tip of it flitting across your fleshy pearl. He starts off slow, making out with your pussy, slick coating the lower half of his face.

The way the coarseness of his mustache scratches at your sensitive core is fucking magic. Your back arches off the table as sobs and moans spill from your lips, fingers finding themselves back into his hair, holding on for dear life as he picks up the intensity of the lewd act.

“Taste so fucking good. Can’t believe that asshole you have at home isn’t fucking worshipping this pussy,” he kisses your inner thighs, teeth nipping at the black stockings that cling to you.

You don’t even know what to say, hips moving up to chase after his mouth. Javier returns and begins to suck at your clit, his tongue breaching your needy hole.

“Javi… oh my god,” your eyes roll to the back of your head as you begin to feel your orgasm quickly building at the base of your spine. 

Sensing this, he brings one hand up to aid him, spitting on his stocky fingers before he sinks two of them inside you.

That damn near does you over.

“Ah!” you exclaim in pure pleasure, chanting his name over and over as he begins to finger you while his tongue continues to pleasure your clit.

“Just like that baby, fuck you sound so good. I can’t wait to feel this pussy wrap around my cock.”

The squelch of his digits working you fills the room, mixed with his occasional grunt and your very desperate and pitchy cries. 

You tug at his hair roughly as your orgasm begins to overtake you entirely. “I’m gonna—ohmygod ohmygod—”

With a final harsh suck and a deliberate twist of his wrist, you finish with an embarrassingly loud sob, your walls tensing around his fingers.

Tears leak from your eyes, air escaping from your lungs as you allow yourself to feel every sensation that overwhelms your body.

Javier works you through it, slowing the pace of his fingers and intensity of his mouth. When he pulls his fingers out, the creamy evidence of your orgasm lathers them. Once again, he sucks them clean, the tangy sharpness making his already hard cock throb even more.

He has to get inside of you. He needs to feel the pussy he’s been fantasizing about for years. 

Kissing his way up your body, your lips meet again. You taste yourself on him and that makes you even more woozy. 

He undoes his belt and unzips his pants quickly, almost frantically, lips not leaving yours. It’s not until you feel the tip of his cock grazing over your pussy that you pull away.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Javi shushes you. “Don’t think about it. Not right now.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. He spits into his palm, stroking his cock a few times.

You can’t help but marvel at him. Not only is he big, but he’s thick too. Your cunt tingles at the prospect of him being inside of you and the anticipation of being filled pleasurably for once.

The shape of his shaft kind of reminds you of the toy you use at home to get yourself off. This is not going to fare for you well later on, you realize.

Licking your lips, you sit up slightly, shaky fingers working the buttons of his dress shirt. You fumble a few times, which earns you a chuckle from him as he watches you, absolutely enthralled.

“Need some help?”

“Shut up.”

You finally manage to unbutton the damn thing entirely, revealing his broad chest. The exposed skin tantalizes you, beckoning your lips to him. So you sit up fully to kiss and nip all over his neck, tasting him. You feel the way his throat vibrates with an indulgent groan.

“Are you ready?”

You nod softly, hands resting on his broad shoulders as he pulls you to the very edge of the table, the underside of his length grinding against your cunt.

“Just… go slow at first.” You all but murmur, not wanting to explicitly tell him that you’re not used to a size like his.

Not that you have to, since he arrogantly smiles.

Without breaking eye contact, Javier slowly sinks into you. Your jaw drops, brows pinching together in pure euphoria. 

The stretch is amazing, your pussy opening up to him beautifully. His large hands return to your hips, squeezing gently as he buries himself to the root, taking in every expression you give him.

His jaw ticks, your walls snugly wrapped around his throbbing cock. You’re so warm and wet and fucking soft. Probably the best pussy he’s ever been in.

“I—” you’re at a loss for words, fingernails digging into his shoulders. His thrusts start off shallow, allowing you to get used to the feeling of his big dick inside of you. 

You could honestly come just like this, but if you’re really going to commit to fucking Javier—you want to do it right.

“Harder,” you moan. “Faster.”

Javier almost, almost, asks if you’re sure. But with the way you’re looking up at him—lust clouding your pretty eyes—he knows that you’re ready to take it.

One hand leaves your hip, snaking up to wrap his palm lightly around your throat, firmly pushing you down until you’re flat on your back again. Your breath hitches but you follow the motion smoothly, a hand of your own wrapping around his wrist, keeping his hold there.

With a better angle now, Javier begins to fuck you earnestly now, pulling out until only the head of his cock is notched at the weeping hole of your cunt before he slams his entire length back inside of you, your mixed arousal making it easy from him to slide in and out.

“F-Fuuuck, you feel so good—” you shudder, eyes squeezing shut as you let him use your body however he wants.

The table creaks beneath you, a tangible sound that really amplifies how real this entire situation is. Javier doesn’t know where to look—stuck between looking at your face or down to where your sexes connect. All the times he imagined what it’d be like to sleep with you, none of them compare to the real fucking thing.

Both of you groan and pant as he moves his hips expertly, the tip of him pleasurably kissing your cervix with each impassioned thrust.

“How you feelin’, baby?”

Your tongue feels tied, all you can do is squeeze at the wrist of the hand that remains against your neck.

His fingers dig into your waist. “C’mon, talk to me.”

“Good, Javi. So good.” The words finally leave you, thighs falling open wider. He leans over your body, craning his neck so that your lips can meet, your body bouncing with each harsh thrust of his cock.

“I was imagining you bending me over,” you finally admit once he’s close enough, licking along his jaw, up to his ear where your teeth nip at the lobe. “Earlier… when you asked.”

“That right?” His curved nose grazes your cheek, mustache tickling your skin as he buries himself fully inside you, grinding his pubic hair against your swollen clit.

You nod, tensing your walls around him, your nipples brushing against his sweat-slick chest.

“Want me to bend you over? Fill this pussy up then send her home to her man, leaking full of my cum?”

It shouldn’t make you horny the way he talks to you—but fuck does he have a mouth on him. Any guilt you have about cheating is eclipsed by the way that he’s fucking you.

Javier pulls out again, ready to give you what you’d been fantasizing about. He flips you over on the table, cupping the back of your right knee, raising one leg so that it rests on the table while the other holds you up.

Your palms land on the polished surface and you look over your shoulder to find Javier just looking at you.

The way the heels and stockings accentuate your legs and thighs damn near makes him drool. You’re a sight, truly, with your little skirt bunched up at the waist, pussy leaking and ready for him to take again.

He delivers a spank to your ass, watching the way the flesh ripples before repeating the action on the other cheek. You moan sweetly, arching your back even more, beginning to get impatient.

Before you can vocalize this, Javier is right behind you again, stuffing his cock back inside your cunt. The change of position makes him feel even deeper, and you whimper loudly as he starts to fuck you even harder.

“Holy shit.”

His heavy balls slap against your clit, the filthy sounds of your fucking are definitely going to haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Your second orgasm of the night ghosts over your body, arms shaking until you fall onto your chest.

Javier’s teeth clench, gripping onto your hips rightly as he plows into you with such vehemence, he’s not sure how the fuck he’s going to be able to pull out of you.

“Javi Javi Javi,” you wail deliriously, absolutely cockdrunk, hands curling into fists, biting down on your lower lip until you can taste blood, tears leaking from your eyes. 

“There you go baby, just like that. Give it to me. I can fucking feel it.”

Your forehead meets the table, nothing but him and his cock and everything he makes you feel rattling around in your head like a loose marble in an empty dome. 

“I’m—” you can’t even finish the sentence, your orgasm toppling over you like a pile of falling bricks. The most pitiful, pathetic, desperate, loud, depraved cry rips out of your throat as your body locks up, pussy spasming around his dick as you finish embarrassingly hard. 

Javier drinks in every tremor and sound, satisfied as fuck as he keeps his pace going throughout the entirety of your orgasm. You fall limp before him, but that doesn’t stop him. 

His hold on your waist leaves and he easily lifts your satiated body until your back is to his chest, strong arms locking around your figure tightly as he fucks up into you, chasing his own release, your tits boucning wildly with every move.

“Goddamn you even come so pretty.” He kisses up the side of your neck, running his nose along the length of it, inhaling sharply, the smell of your perfume and sweat disorienting him in the best way.

After a handful of thrusts, Javier’s hips stutter and he groans loudly, buried to the hilt as your used pussy milks his cock. Spurt after spurt of his warm, milky spend fills you and it makes the both of you shiver violently. 

The comedown is oddly tender. His lips pepper soft kisses along your neck and jaw, whispering sweet nothings until your breathing returns to normal.

You’re not filled with regret or guilt in the way that you thought you would. You slowly blink your eyes open, vision still blurred.

His body clings to yours, soft cock still inside of you. Eventually he unwraps himself from you and pulls out, a glob of his spend dropping from your pussy and onto the table.

You both redress in silence. What do you even say after a fuck like that?

Snatching your glasses up from the table and slipping them on, you grab a few napkins from the dinner you shared, cleaning up the mess you made on the table and balling it up, tossing it into the bin.

You bend down to grab your work bag, and that’s when he breaks the silence.

“I know I said this was a one-time thing,” he licks across his teeth, buckling his belt, “but if you ever want to do this again—you know where to find me.”

You don’t say anything at first, fiddling with the strap of your bag, the ring on your finger suddenly feeling heavier.

“I think it’s best if this doesn’t happen again.”

Javi’s eyes narrow, giving you a once over before nodding curtly. “Yes ma’am.”

You two stare at each other, unspoken conversation passing between you like a fleeting breeze. 

“You should get going. I’ll finish up here.”

God—are things going to be awkward now? It was already hard to avoid him before when he was being a total shithead. You can only imagine how things are going to be now that you’ve hooked up.

Though you don’t think about that, not now. You have to get your shit together before you step into the house that you share with your soon to be husband.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You turn on your heel before the awkward tension chokes you out. Just as you’re about to step out—his voice breaks through the silence.

“Congratulations on the engagement, by the way.”

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