Chapter Text
Miraculously, she is employed.
It’s been a full four days since Ben had instructed her in that soft, deep voice to reset her account information. Back at her desk, it took a few taps on her phone to make the whole debacle go away; Ben had certainly made it clear he’d hated every minute of their interaction and she didn’t plan on giving him another headache. Of course she wanted to put the whole thing behind her as soon as possible.
It wasn’t her fault that a pleasant shudder rolled through her spine when she’d followed through with his orders.
Ben makes himself scarce for the next few days; it doesn’t escape her notice he misses a training scheduled in the same time-slot as her. Or that he takes lunch in his office. Or that he skips a management follow-up call for content they’d collaborated on just a few weeks prior.
She won’t admit that she misses him—the way he politely but easily wielded control over his work. How he’d always made her feel heard and seen, elevating her ideas with his expertise. Can’t stop thinking about the way his glasses would slide down his broad, kissable nose when he spoke—
She missed him professionally. They made a good team. That’s all.
So when she’s two beers deep at the bar around the corner on a Friday, Rey is surprised to see Ben breezing in at 6:30. He must’ve worked late; his shirtsleeves are rolled up and his tie stuffed in his messenger bag. She watches him order a scotch with cash, throat working along the first sip.
She blinks a few times, standing up from the table she’s sharing with Rose and Finn, jostling an over-filled pitcher. “Ben. Ben,” she calls over the music. He’s standing at the bar, obviously meaning to sit alone—she can tell he recognizes her voice when his shoulders stiffen up.
He reluctantly shuffles over, collecting his bag and making sure not to spill his drink. Rose and Finn wave hello, too engrossed in a discussion about football to pay much attention to the way Rey sways slightly on her feet, staring at him.
The only open seat is next to her.
Ben is suddenly standing too close or she is way too drunk. He just...observes her over the rim of his glass, tongue barely pressed against the rim when he takes another swallow.
“Sit down.”
Rey thumps in her chair so fast it squeaks, despite the way she longs to rail against the order. He’s got no right to a voice that deep, that whiskey-laden, she fumes.
She picks up her napkin and pulls it beneath the table to her lap, fiddling with a corner; can’t help but start to pick at it with her fingernails. She needs an outlet for this sudden onslaught of high-strung energy. “Busy week? Haven’t seen you around, Solo.”
He sets his glass down, casually throwing an arm over the back of her chair, creating a little barrier between her and the rest of the world. Casual to the outside observer, of course, but she can’t deny the pleasurable flip her insides make at his body heat against her shoulder blades.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Booked through with some training stuff. Sorry about that.”
She wrinkles her nose, carefully leaning back an inch, taking in all the human touch she can get. “Well, you missed the Mandalore call.” There’s the barest tinge of whine in her voice; a little pushy. Needing soothed.
Some would say bratty.
“Rey.”
The napkin shreds easily under her fingers, like fibrous confetti. The waiter tonight will probably hate her guts, making a mess of things.
“Rey. Look at me.”
He says it with a voice of consequence. Sue her, she looks—
There’s the barest hint of his knuckle brushing her opposite shoulder where his arm is draped over her, up and down. His eyes are dark enough they’ve lost that toasted honey-tinge, but his expression is so sure.
“We’re going to catch an Uber back. You guys good?”
Rey is all but ripped from her strange bubble under his arm by Rose’s voice, leaning forward in her chair to escape his grasp. The atmosphere at once goes from tense, muted—instead snapping back to reality: the noisy ambiance of happy hour.
“You’re leaving?” Rey blinks, confused.
“Ugh,” Rose grimaces. “We have an early start tomorrow with that new Yoga bootcamp. Hungover me is very good at negotiating a skip at 7am. Can’t risk it.” She shoulders her tote, leaning over to kiss Rey on the cheek.
“Have plenty of fun though. In our honor,” Finn grins, pushing back Rose’s chair. “Remember at that holiday party when you two got a hold of Han’s 49’ Jameson? Not that much fun. But a little, at least.”
“We will,” Ben cuts in. “See you Monday.”
No, no no. She can’t be here alone with him. This man who knew things about her she’d rather go to her grave with. Rey moves to sit up, make a run for it, but Ben’s hand immediately clasps her shoulder, anchoring her to the seat.
“We need to talk.”
“We absolutely do not. We actually never need to talk about anything again.”
“Rey—“
“You’ve made your judgement very clear and I understand. I’ve already asked Akbar to move my accounts with another specialist. Since you can’t handle it.”
His face immediately twists in fury. “ What? Another specialist? You— with another specialist? You better be joking, Niima.”
“Well, Benjamin, I can't be expected to work under conditions where my data analyst won’t even be in the same room as me.”
His breath catches, and Rey watches as he opens and closes his mouth several times like a particularly stupid fish. “I was trying to give you space, you ungrateful brat.”
The word hangs in the air between them, and Rey feels that certain kind of fear— that only comes with being known— clutch her heart in its grasp.
“Don’t.”
Ben’s expression flutters between pale anguish and residual anger. “Rey. I didn’t mean—“
“You came here to throw it in my face,” she hiccups, too angry to cry. “All week you’ve just been waiting for an opportunity. I thought we were friends, my god, how stupid—“
“I don’t want to be.”
“I know,” she spits. “No need to be cruel about it.”
Ben shakes his head, and suddenly her world becomes very small. Warm, broad fingers encircle the back of her neck, and everything goes quiet and soft, until it’s condensed down into Ben and the way he’s touching her, like magic, like he’s flipped some switch.
“Breathe, sweetheart.”
”I am.” She huffs, gritting her teeth. Rey doesn’t understand why she’s allowing this, burgeoning crush on him or not—they’re still coworkers. It’s inappropriate.
Like, oh, I don’t know—inappropriate as all those books you subjected him to?
“Rey. I need you to listen carefully to me. Can you do that?”
When has she ever not been strung along to the sound of his voice, hanging on his every word?
He squeezes the back of her neck, just hard enough to make itself known. “It’s true, I don’t want to work with you anymore—no, don’t interrupt—and yes, it’s because of what I saw on Monday. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”
He pauses, like she’s knocked the wind out of him by only existing. His free hand drifts from his drink to where hers remain in her lap with the shredded napkin; he covers them with a low but satisfied hum.
“Rey—have you...ever done those things? In those books? Because, if you prefer to keep fiction as fiction, I understand. However—”
“What are you asking me, Ben?” She rasps, unnerved by how small her hand appears, completely engulfed by his own.
There’s a sharp tug of hair at the base of her skull that goes right to her toes, probably an admonition for her irritated tone. “I’m asking how you like to be fucked, baby.”
Rey almost shivers out of her seat.
“If you want, Rey. Only if you want it.”
“I know,” she mumbles, at a loss of what to say. She’s confusing reality and fantasy. Maybe she took too many shots and she’s asleep right now in the bushes outside her apartment, dreaming up this whole thing as a coping mechanism.
“If you don’t,” he continues, “Or if you do, but not with me-” god, is she imagining the ragged note of sadness there? “-I’ll pay the tab and go. And we never have to talk about it again.”
“I don’t understand,” she tears a new strip from the napkin, the material damp beneath her clammy palms. “In the office, you were so—you could barely look at me.”
He laughs, the sound brittle. “I’m sorry, baby.” He threads their fingers together, stopping her from completely defiling the napkin which now lay in tatters on her skirt. “I was trying not to—jesus, Rey, you have no idea, do you?—I was hard. Just thinking about it. I was imagining my uncle Chewie naked, only so I could walk down the hall without getting reported to HR. It was embarrassing.”
“What?” She turns to peer up at him. “So you’re—but—”
His hand drops to her thigh, pinning it in place. She absolutely doesn’t savor how his hand feels against her skin, hot as a brand.
“Do you know how many times you sassed me at work about something inconsequential, just because you wanted to push my buttons? And all I could think was that if you were mine, you’d watch your mouth.”
“And why’s that?” She raises an eyebrow, projecting an aura of bravery she hardly feels.
“Have you ever been spanked, Rey? Not a cute little pat. I’m talking about getting punished.”
She feels like she’s been suspended on a high-wire and told to do a cartwheel, the swoop of her insides so thorough. Rey works her jaw, trying to remember how to string a sentence together.
“You feel it for days after. It’s very instructive,”
“No,” she mumbles, painfully aware of how wide his hands are, how much damage they could do, how nurturing they’d be while putting her back together. “I mean, a little bit but not—like that.”
A boyfriend or two who liked to slap her ass in the moment—never enough to turn her skin pink, the sting ebbing far too quick. Nervous boys, afraid to hurt her, even though she wouldn’t define the treatment she craved as cruelty. Like Ben said: instructive.
“Why do you read those books, Rey?” his eyes soften, pleased with how much she’s admitted already. “Do you like the things that happen to those pretty girls?”
Rey nods, nearly imperceptible. His hand on her thigh twitches.
“Because I like to do those things to pretty girls, Rey. And I want to do them to you, if you’ll let me.”
Her heart soars in disbelief. She must be in the dirty version of a Hallmark movie, if the tall, handsome man she’s had an infatuation with for ages is asking to fulfill her desires in a very specific way.
Attempting to smother a smile, Rey blurts: “Did you just call me pretty?”
Nodding, his fingertips work circles into the skin of her upper thighs—she might be imagining it, but it feels as if they creep higher.
“I’ll call you pretty as many times as you want to hear it. If you’re good.”
“And what if I’m not?”
He stills, smiling like she’s told a joke. “I think you will be.”
Rey isn’t imagining it—there’s a finger tip tracing a lazy line at a scandalous height beneath her skirt. She wants to move, urge it even further along to where her clit is pulsing, but can’t stop worrying that at any moment someone will see—
“Don’t look at them. Eyes on me.”
Even Rey is surprised how quickly she complies, but his voice is magnetic, easy to sink into. Like she doesn’t have a choice.
“Good girls wear panties, Rey. Why aren’t you wearing any? Aren’t you afraid a cock might slip in?”At the same time, his hand reaches her bare center, each movement deliberately slow, aching with intent. She longs to grab his wrist, if only to hold on. She whimpers at his words, shaking her head in response. Terrified that if she tried to talk, she might moan loud enough to turn heads.
“You’re very wet, baby. I think I could stuff you full on the first try,” he murmurs, dipping between her slit to draw some slick out, wipe it on her thighs. It feels dirty and delicious.
Rey bites her lip—thinking about being positively filled with Ben Solo’s cock is dangerous. She’s never been able to come unless she’s relaxed, in bed, naked and warm; Ben has flipped this entire notion on its head. He’s barely touched her clit and yet her entire body stands at attention, ready to orgasm.
“How about this,” he leans in, crowding her space, jaw bumping her cheek; he nuzzles her head until she’s facing forward, observing the crowd as if he’s just a boyfriend whispering sweet nothings into her ear, painfully nonchalant. “Do you want daddy to make you come?”
“ Yes ,” she breathes, wondrous.
His thumb finds her aching clit, rolls in a smooth circle that reaches an odd little peak of its own. “Yes what , sweet pea?”
She shifts, mouth puckering, the usual amount of shame and guilt crawling up her spine. “Yes d-daddy,” she whispers back, warmth instantly pooling below her belly button.
“Can you hold still for me? Be good. No squirming. Tell me what feels good.”
She nods, sucking in a breath when he nudges open her slit, thick middle finger barely breaching her entrance. She clenches around it, but it’s not enough—
“You want it deeper?”
Her hips rock forward, trying to swallow him up of their own accord—to her horror, Ben tsks and draws his finger out.
“I said no squirming. Unless you want these people to know that you spread your legs for me? Is that it? Do you want everyone to know you’re daddy’s plaything?”
She shakes her head, tears pricking as her orgasm fades. “I won’t again, daddy. Promise.”
He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead as his finger fills her up again, reaching deep into her cunt. “Isn’t that nice? When you listen?”
“Yes— oh— daddy.” All it takes is for him to crook a finger, and suddenly she’s tense, teetering on the edge again. She just needs a little, barely anything at all—she could grind her clit against his thumb and come—but daddy said no squirming so she can’t.
The finger inside of her brushes back and forth, slow and deliberate. Her entire body trembles with the effort of keeping still as her own slick drips down her thighs and over his wrist. She wonders if he finds her pathetic, reduced to a mess in the span of ten minutes.
“That’s lovely,” he praises, unaffected, simply watching. “Good girl.”
A shudder wracks her shoulders. Rey can feel her last threads of control slipping away—how many nights has she craved those exact words to be bestowed upon her by someone bigger, stronger? By someone in charge?
How many nights has she only wished for a guy who could find the clitoris?
“How many fingers can you take, baby? You like stretching open this little pussy?”
“Another. Please,” she begs, voice sounding far off. “I wanna come.” Knows that the good kind of stretch is what she needs.
“Hush. You’ll come when I say.” Leisurely he sinks another inside, until she’s spread open, impaled on them. Her cunt throbs around the girth, but still he barely moves.
As a result, her nails dig into her thigh, relentless crescent moons; the lush fever of an impending orgasm making her sweat. Somehow it’s sweeter, being told no. The anticipation overripe. The end of this game in someone else’s capable hands, so she’s safe .
A thumb rolls over her clit: she squeezes her eyes shut, little sparks under her skin.
“Very sensitive,” Ben wrings her pleasure out, moving his thumb again, stroking up and down this time, adjusting as she gives subtle cues to what feels best. “Are you like this when you’re getting fucked?”
Nodding, Rey points her toes beneath the table, body tense as a bow. His fingers are soaked, slipping against her skin in a way that feels akin to perfection.
“That’s precious,” he comments. “You’re doing very good for me, Rey.”
“‘M gonna come,” she warbles, flinching as his fingers speed up. She shoves her face into the crook of his neck, panting. She won’t last long if he keeps talking to her like that—
“Oh—I think you like it when I call you a good girl, hm? Is that it?”
Her thighs jerk, and Ben laughs.
“It’s okay. Can you come nice and quiet on daddy’s fingers in front of everybody? While I pet that pretty clit? Not yet. Hold it. When I say—there’s a good girl. I know, it must be so hard for you.”
“Yeah,” she nods miserably, smearing brown mascara all over his collar. Hates how good it feels, trying to quell the edge. “Daddy,” —and there’s the familiar rush of heat, the shame of it, the white-hot brush of fire— “daddy, please?”
Saying the words out loud is like Pandora’s box: all of her unacknowledged wants pouring into her unlatched mind. How badly she needs this man to handle her properly, roughly; push her exactly as he sees fit, to fill her up with his cock, his fingers, his tongue, until she’s been whittled down into a quivering mess of a girl who can’t say anything but please . A girl with glazed, sex-heavy eyes, messy hair, damp mouth, open legs—
“So polite with my fingers inside this pussy,” he muses, his mouth on her cheek. “Bit of a brat earlier. What happened to that?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryimsorry— “
“If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for days. I should take you over my knee right here and let everyone know what happens to girls who misbehave.”
“Please,” she whines, has never wanted anything as much as she wants that right now. To be spanked raw, until she cries. The need flares in her chest, acute.
“No, Rey. You’re not listening. You’re not my girl yet. This is just a taste. So you can decide if you really want this.”
“I do- fuck- I do, I swear.”
“If you were mine, I’d take you out to eat just like this,” he thrusts a finger deep enough to elicit a muffled yelp, “-and then dip my cock into you for desert.”
“Please,” she begs, tears staining his shirt. “Please, I want it, I want what I read in those books, I—“
“I know,” he soothes, “Rey, I need you to decide if you want to do that with me. ”
She should tell him that he’s starred in her afternoon daydreams for months, that it’s his head between her thighs she dreams of at night, his voice in her ear when she comes on her vibe—
“Because I’m not a nice man, Rey.”
She clenches on the words alone.
It takes three strokes and his voice in her ear: there it is. Good girl.
Ben lights a cigarette while they wait for her cab. She’s still sort-of clinging to him, legs wobbly with aftershocks. She watches as the smoke dissipates into the air, cloying and sweet between them.
“I don’t do things in halves,” he says rubbing a hand down her back.
“Didn’t even split the check,” she muses; he’d pulled out his wallet and paid her tab while she was still recovering, slumped against him.
He smiles—a little thing, a rare dimple making an appearance. Rey struggles not to mirror it.
“Hm. It’s—“
“A control thing?” She teases, eyebrow raised. Thinks of all the times he mercilessly dragged her reports for even the tiniest of errors, how absolute his micromanagement was. “Would you have even let me order myself?”
He pauses, taking another drag from his cigarette, turning to blow it downwind from her. “No.”
Her heart thuds. Ben isn’t joking about this then—it’s all or nothing. She Imagines his voice, low and honeyed, speaking to the waitress for her. She’d never even have to lift a finger. Effortless.
Something appealing about that, for the girl who’s taken care of herself for as long as she can remember.