Kindred

by shivtheshiv

Summary:

You downloaded Kindred to lose your virginity at 26, not to catch feelings.
He was supposed to be a stranger. Instead, he turned out to be your boss's boss.

They agreed on one thing: sex, no strings attached. But the more Saturdays they spend together, the blurrier the rules get—and you're not sure if you wants to stop it or sabotage it.

Chapter 1: User Agreement

“You what?”

It was another normal Thursday night in mid April–or at least that's what I thought. I was visiting my dearest friend, Sarah, who asked me nicely to bring chicken soup because she had a flu, which she doesn’t. Apparently she’s just feeling lazy to grab her phone and order it online. Also she missed me. And to her I asked my question after she told me that she had the best hooked up experience with a man she never met before. And she got paid a decent amount of money for it.

She just sits there, on the couch while stirring the soup with a blank expression. Watching her carefully, I began to wonder if she was trying to mess around with me. It makes sense, explained a lot in her silence that feels forced. But I noticed something in her. She’s… I don’t know. She’s glowing. She’s beautiful, that’s absolute. Undebatable. She could get a man to get down on his knee by batting her eyelash or a single playful wink. And then there’s a pair of brand new earrings. The exact same earrings that were on the top of her wishlist and won’t shut up about it.

“So, you’re a… what? An escort now?” I asked carefully, attempting to sound nonchalant but failed miserably. “Like from that show? What is it called again? The Girlfriend Experience?”

“It was just a one night stand. But better.”

“Oh.”

She slurped her soup loudly and I swear to God, I noticed that smirk she was trying to hide behind the spoon.

“So, how does it work?” I asked. “I can’t wrap my head with what you just said. You had sex with a stranger you met online and got… what? 500 bucks?”

“700,” she corrected, smiling like a complete idiot.

“700,” I repeated, couldn't help but raise my brows slightly. “And you called it a one night stand? What did you do? Are you letting him do something nasty? I mean, Sarah, you’re doing okay. You got a steady job that paid you really well. And you have me. You can always ask me for help and I’ll help you in a heartbeat. Jesus Christ.”

“You’re intrigued,” said Sarah, laughing. “Also, thank you, honey, you’re really sweet for acting upset like this. But I can assure you, I’ve done this for fun. And I’d rather get hit by a bus than telling you the details.”

She’s wild and adventurous, often making disastrous decisions because that’s what makes her feel alive. She literally took the livin’ like Larry joke too seriously. I get that part. But this? This is beyond. I just sit there for what it feels like an eternity. My appetite is long gone. I have nothing to say. I was completely in utter shock. Like, what the actual fuck?

I watched her finish her soup, put the empty bowl on her messy coffee table before scooting over to my side. She still has that idiotic smile on her face while pulling out her phone from her jeans. I noticed she tilted the screen so slightly before she typed something really quick. Best guess? Her new victim who will get his heart broken in an instant.

After some moments of quiet, watching her busy with her phone and me… well, still processing whatever she just told me, she finally showed her phone to me. I looked at the screen, then to her, and back to it.

“What am I seeing here?”

“It’s the new dating app,” she began. “It’s called Kindred. Super cool.”

My eyes glued to the screen. For a dating app, this Kindred thing looks simple as fuck. Lots of blue and white with clean fonts. It's almost like I’m opening the regular texting app. I started to scroll down, reading every nickname that flooded the screen. But the tagline is the other way around– Real names. Real minds. Real weirdos. Find the one before you see the one.

“No real pictures. No selfies. No endless photo dumps of guys hiking or pretending to read books about stoicism. Just avatars. Generic, cartoonish little things. You picked one, slapped your real first name or a nickname on it, and answered a bunch of oddly specific questions,” Sarah added. “All you have to do is write what you’re looking for and the app will connect you with someone who can fulfill your needs.”

Oh. I know where this is gonna end.

“Sarah, no.”

“What? This is safe,” she insisted. “I know you’re widely known as the uptight bitch who doesn't believe in love. Also have a fucked up understanding about affective states and emotionally constipated. But it doesn’t mean you have to die a virgin.”

I open my mouth. Then close it again because how the fuck I should respond to that?!

“Don’t you get tired watching porn or read those smuts as your bed time story every single night?” she added. “Don’t you fucking dare give me that look. I know you’re consuming adult content and occasionally touching yourself when you get carried away.”

I feel heat creeping up to my neck. I regret telling her everything when I had too much red wine. Or dirty martini. I hated to say this but she’s right. Honest to God, I’m not proud of it. Both consuming adult content as my bed time story and touching myself like… regularly. In my defense, masturbating does make me feel relaxed. Right after I washed by the–I’m not saying temporary pleasure but it definitely is–I fell asleep in an instant. I barely could remember the dream I had that night. It was there. The dream. Yet I couldn’t remember any of it. Almost feels like there's invisible curtains that block me out for unexplainable reasons.

“You need to get laid, honey,” she said calmly. “Like… having a real penis inside your vagina. Recreate those spicy scenes with a random man from this app so you don’t have to cross paths with him ever again.”

“Don’t honey me,” I grumbled, shoving her phone back.

“Okay then,” she sighed. “Just, you know, I love you. I really do. But I also want you to be happy. Live your life. Be spontaneous for once.”

“If you really love me, what’s my name then?” I said nonchalantly, knowing that she has a chronic problem with remembering people’s names. 

“Uptight bitch,” she snorted.

***

I don’t know for how long I’ve been laying on my bed, in darkness, hoping that I will fall asleep anytime soon. Flash news: it didn’t happen. I was still wide awake, staring at the ceiling and, well, lost in my own thoughts. Contemplating, to be exact.

Sarah’s words about living my own life haunted me. She’s right. I have a complex relationship with affective states–thanks to my parents' marriage. I also have a problem processing my own feelings and emotions because the last time I told people about my feelings, people told me that shit happens all the time and all I have to do is suck it up. That person was my dad and I was ten. I think that’s why I'm distracting myself with work stuff and books and films. Anything that doesn’t leave me alone with my own thoughts. 

I'm definitely going to regret this. I grabbed my phone on the nightstand, heard a low thud when I accidentally dropped something. I’ll pick it up this morning as I’m getting ready for work or whatever. I unlocked it and the light from the screen blinded me for a split second.

I downloaded and opened the app with no hesitation. Then the welcome screen faded in: a pastel blue backdrop with the words "Welcome, lonely human.” What a friendly reminder. The sign-up process was surprisingly straightforward. It only asked me to choose an avatar–stylized, cartoon-ish icons: a fox wearing sunglasses, a girl in space buns, a cup of coffee with eyes. Then, it asked for your real first name or a nickname, no handles allowed. That was it.

I see it’s buffering before bringing me to the main page. I started to scroll down, reading the terms and conditions carefully. Like, really reading it. Words by words, just in case. I can’t believe this. For the first time in my life, I’m intrigued with this dating app bullshit.

Without hesitation, I tapped the plus icon that led me to this menu with, What are you looking for? as the description. Apparently I have like thousands of words to explain what I need. A generous amount of words to describe something oddly specific.

My thumbs hovered the keyboard, unsure with what I should write. A man who can teach me how to have sex properly? An exchange of virginity with a decent amount of money? That one is hilarious.

Fuck it. How bad it could be, right?

Hi. I’m 26. I’ve never had sex. It’s not a religious thing or a purity pledge or whatever you’re thinking. I’m not saving myself for anything sacred or deep—I just somehow skipped that part of growing up and now it feels like I’m too old to ask stupid questions without dying of embarrassment.

So here I am. Asking. I want to experience it. The whole thing. With someone who knows what they’re doing, who won’t treat me like a porcelain doll or laugh if I ask something dumb. Someone patient. Maybe even kind. But mostly, someone experienced enough to take the lead so I don’t overthink everything and ruin it before it even starts.

I overanalyze everything, disassociate during small talk, and cope with sarcasm because feelings are terrifying. If that sounds like your type of project, congratulations—you’re either deeply patient or deeply unhinged. Either way, let’s talk.

I don’t even reread what I wrote. Just hit send and lobbed my phone somewhere on the bed like it might explode. God help me if this app actually works.

 

 

Chapter 2: 11 Unread Messages

Summary:

You meant what you wrote on Kindred. But you didn’t expect eleven men to take you that seriously. Or for one of them to be… terrifyingly normal.

As one of those archivists with ‘the privilege’ of accessing ancient data down in IMS, I don’t really get to say no when someone—usually field agents or those assholes up on the executive floors—comes knocking for a file from decades ago. Less than an hour, they say. Less than an hour to dig through millions of classified documents, FOIA requests, digital archiving, and interagency coordination? It’s a torturous game of ‘how fast can I kill my soul?’

I get it, though. It’s my job. The money is good. That’s how I pay all my bills and keep the lights on, day in and day out. Dare to say it’s worth the stress and the pressure. But damn, do they have to make it sound like I’m supposed to be some magic wizard with a scanner and a filing cabinet full of time travel?

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I didn’t check it right away. I focus on reading every single file from the box that is labeled as 1976-B, searching for anything that is related to Kinney's cold case. I just really need to get this done so I can shove it straight up their buttholes. Too much. That’s too much. Because here’s the thing–there’s only two possibilities on why my phone buzzes. Whether I have an email about ‘put the files on my desk once you’re done’ or a notification from whatever apps that are installed in my phone. Mostly coming from the shopping, weather, and that app who connected to my watch. Always.

“Have you done yet?” asked Jared, my coworker, from the other aisle in this never ending, windowless maze that was built from too many cabinets. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“What?” I said, gradually returning to reality.

I heard footsteps coming from the left–no, the right side. Right at the end of the aisle, Jared showed up with a pile of old documents tucked under his arm. That’s not good. I have a strong feeling he’s gonna ask me for a simple favor.

“Do me a favor,” he said as he stopped a few steps in front of me, his free hand rested on his waist. “Send this to the executive floor. York’s office.”

I was right. A simple favor.

“Why me?”

“You’re you,” he said simply. “Polite. Good looking. Representable. Smells like jasmine and petrichor if they had a baby. Knows how to suck the biggest dick in the room. You want me to keep going?”

That literally translates as, ‘Shut up, I’m your boss. Just do what I say’. From his appearance alone–loose tie, rolled up sleeves, and messy hair–I can tell he’s been stuck in this room for only-God-knows-how-long to collect those documents. Seems like I have no choice but to do him a favor. Without missing a beat, he shoved the pile to my hands and left.

It’s heavier than it looks. I have to hold it to my chest, like carrying a baby. Funny because I never held a baby in my whole life. Why on earth do I refer to it as a baby?

My journey to the executive floor interrupted with another buzz in my pocket. I push aside the urge to reach for my phone. I believe whatever the notification is, it can wait. Most important thing is I don’t wanna lose my grip on these documents and make a fucking mess in the elevator. Especially when it’s specifically requested by Mr. York.

I don’t know him personally. I don’t want to, anyway. Let alone have a problem with him. But from what I heard, he seems like everybody’s enemy here. I mean, he’s the new vice director. Widely known as the best asset the agency has for almost two decades. Spent a whole decade in the Middle-East doing undercover missions. A true living legend.

He’s also widely known as a smug motherfucker from the executive floor who gave those who work under him a constant headache for his demanding ass. Never say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Jared called him a passionate bastard once. That man is the nicest person I’ve known even though he has no filter. So yeah, understandable why he hates the executive floor so much.

The metal door slides open right after the familiar ding. I suck in a breath before stepping out and making a beeline toward Mr. York’s office. Each step lands soft and dull, swallowed by the plush carpet, like the hallway itself doesn’t want to be disturbed.

I’m not gonna lie, there’s something uncanny about the executive floor. All glass, steel, and silence—polished to perfection and cold enough to make me feel like I don’t belong here. It’s the kind of place where people smile with their teeth, not their eyes.

I put on my customer service smile as soon as my destination comes into view. This isn’t my first rodeo. I just need to make some small talk with Mr. York’s assistant—apologize for taking longer than requested, maybe ask if he needs anything else. Once she says all good, I’ll get the fuck out of here. Boring, fake, yet efficient.

The smile drops as soon as I notice the assistant’s desk is empty. I could just drop the files and leave. Done. But I can’t. Because I’m a responsible adult. Also... the desk is a little too tidy. Like it’s been empty for a while and–

I startled, a high-pitched gasp slipping out before I could stop it when I heard someone knock on the glass. Clutching the documents like a lifeline, I turned and there he was. Mr. York himself, rapping his knuckle against the glass wall one more time while speaking into a phone. Without missing a beat, he crooked a finger at me, silently telling me to come in.

The next thing happened, I found myself pushing the door with my shoulder and stepping inside his office. I opened my mouth, ready to say something but he raised his hand, literally stopping me. And I did. I’m not saying anything. Let alone move a single muscle. I just stood there, holding my own breath as I waited for the next instruction.

He was still on the phone, talking about something that I was completely not familiar with when he finally pointed one finger to his desk. I obeyed without hesitation. I put the documents on his desk and when I glanced at him, he jerked his chin to the door before turning away. Now his back is facing me. Again, I obeyed. I left his office. I even close the door so slowly, not really wanting to interrupt his phone call before walking straight to the elevator.

Once the metal door shut, I released a breath I’ve been holding for a while. I can feel my shoulders relaxed slightly. I blinked once, twice as I try to process what the fuck just happened? Because what was that all about?

I mean, that was so rude of him. Okay, fine. He was on a phone call but it doesn’t mean he could do something like that? A simple nod, mouthing ‘thank you’, or giving the apologetic look would be nice. He didn’t even make eye contact with me. It’s like the least you can do when people bring something you needed, for fuck sake! Now I totally get it on why Jared despises him.

My phone buzzes again for the third time in less than an hour. That’s suspicious. I’ve never had this many notifications back-to-back. I pulled my phone out from my pocket, expecting my mom to send dozens of photos from her outing activity with her book club baddies on the group chat or maybe Jared asking to get back as soon as possible.

I unlocked the screen and my heart skipped a beat from the first thing that popped up on my screen. Kindred. Eleven unread messages.

Holy. Fuck.

***

Eleven unread messages. Not from one guy. But eleven different men.

Dare to say this Kindred thing might actually work. Or maybe it’s just what I wrote last night–literally asking strangers to have sex with me for the very first time. I waited until I’d clocked out and made it home safe before opening the app. I scroll through the notifications as I cook for dinner and immediately regret it.

“Lucky me, I love a challenge.”
The first guy named Josh with a half-eaten banana avatar trying so hard to be funny. I mean, hey, humor is subjective but it’s a hard no for me.

“First time, huh? I’ll be gentle.”
I hate to say this but I have mad respect for Brad who shared the same avatar. Or maybe he’s a serial killer hunting for his next victim.

“Virginity is a social construct. Let me help you dismantle it.“
I couldn’t help but scrunch my nose a bit from how cringed I got. Absolutely no, Andrew.

“26 years old? Damn girl, what were you waiting for?”
I’m asking the same question, Will. Apparently I'm still waiting.

“Don’t worry, I’m a great teacher. We can start with homework.”
I see you, Winston, with your sex-ed fantasy.

“Into roleplay? I can be your professor.”
Another sex-ed fantasy? I would like to, Tim, but absolutely fucking not.

“Do you want the slow and sensual starter pack or the wild and feral bundle?”
Okay another Brad. That’s very considerate of him.

“I specialize in first-timers. You’ll be in good hands.”
Why does this Juan guy misused the emoji?

“I’ll make you forget you ever waited this long.”
That’s a threat, Teddy. A straight threat.

“I bet you’re a blank canvas… can’t wait to paint.”
Just no, Henry.

Well, I’m afraid I speak too soon. This Brad guy looks like a true gentleman. But I don’t know. I can’t shake off the serial killer vibes. What if he–wait. There’s another one at the bottom.

“Hey. I saw your post. If you ever just want someone to talk to before deciding anything, I’m around.”

I tap on his profile. David. Purple bear with a bowtie avatar which reminds me of that evil teddy bear from Toy Story 3. Shit. I almost got the name. No bio. Then I go back to the message. No emoji. No innuendo. Just something… real. In fact, he had the audacity to be decent and genuine at the same time.

If, again, if I compare him with Brad, David seems more human. There’s a big chance he’s trying to play the safe guy card so I feel emotionally obligated to like him. Which it works. I am attached to him. I have this urgency to reply to his message.

Then I see the dot green appear right at the bottom of his avatar. He’s online.

“He’s online. Shit. He's online. I'm super normal about this,” I muttered before I turned off the stove, thumbs flying over the keyboard as I started typing. “I’m gonna shoot my shot.”

Me:
Hey, just want to clarify that I wasn’t kidding. I meant what I wrote.

David:
Good.

Oh my god. That was fast. Why did he reply to it almost instantly? I was expecting… I don’t know. Ten minutes delay before he replies. Even better, he responded to it tomorrow.

Me:
Good. I want to meet. I want to try. With you. Not in hopeless-romantic bullshit.
Just pure sex. Penis in vagina. But gently because it’s gonna be my first time.

David:
Tomorrow. Hotel Astor. Room 815. 7PM sharp.
Don’t be late.

And that’s it. The green dot disappears. What a great cliffhanger right there.

I wasn’t scared. I was… what? Excited? Nervous? Horny? All of above? I definitely am not going to come. Even after I have a name. A room number. A very specific time. That’s a very, very bad idea.

 

 

Notes:

I couldn't thank you guys enough for staying till the very end of this chapter. So far I'm enjoying the writing process. I had a lot of fun. But with the work stuff and the other shitshows, I was thinking about update the new chapter every two-three days? I'm not sure. I'm still thinking about it.
Oh! One more thing. Yes, I make the narrator is borderline unlikeable and self-centered because, hey, as a woman in her mid-twenties herself, I just want to be perfectly honest about being in twenties and living the life that absolutely not as what you expected. I'm also still debating whether write this as a slow burn romcom kinda vibes or just jump right to the steamy part in the upcoming chapter. Sorry for the rambling. And yeah, let me know what you guys think about this chapter.

Chapter 3: Terms & Conditions

Summary:

You takes the everything shower. You drafts the NDA. You even asks your best friend for advice—which is basically opening the door to mockery. But maybe, just maybe, you needs it. The nerves don’t go away, but the idea of backing out? Long gone.

I’d be such a hypocrite if I said I wasn’t intrigued. Of course, I am. He… he had me wrapped around his fingers from the last message. So direct. So demanding. Not taking ‘no’ as the answer. So… cunty. Honestly? The sluttiest thing a man can do in online dating history.

I know. I decided in a fucking heartbeat that I wasn’t going to Hotel Astro–room 805 at 7PM sharp to be specific–because I technically have fifty-fifty chances to get murdered and become the morning headline on local news. ‘A 26-Year-Old-Virgin Found Dead in an Estranged Area, Confirmed as Another Victim of Hannibal Wannabe’.

But–there’s always but, isn’t there? I swear to God, that word alone should be erased from the English language. Permanently.

But I want to go. I want to show up to room 805 and meet this David from Kindred in the flesh. And to justify this very tempting idea, I think what Sarah said yesterday was right. I need to be spontaneous and live my life for once. And this is it. This is the perfect time to be stupid and reckless.

Maybe not that reckless since I’m doing this quick research about what I should bring when meeting people from a dating app. For the sake of comfort and safety, I have to tell a friend or a family about my plans. That includes the location, time, and who I’m meeting. I'm probably going to skip that part because it’s embarrassing. I mean, really? Telling a friend or a family about meeting this David from Kindred to help me lose my virginity? I’d rather jump off the cliff and let the bear eat my dead body.

The next thing that happens is I’m packing. I finally took out my backpack that had been collecting dust in my wardrobe for months. The same dark navy JanSport Right Pack I used during college—also the first six months I worked at the agency, before I swapped it for a handbag because it looked more ladylike. Black. Leather. Medium-sized. With a strap so I could sling it over my shoulder. Fuck that bald guy from HR. Yeah, the exact same bald guy who told me to wear pump heels that killed me slowly.

To be perfectly honest, I’m still thinking about whether I should go or not. This–what I’m doing right now–is more like to scratch that specific itch in my brain. Let’s call this as… my attempt to wear out the excitement and adrenaline that’s rushing in my blood. A really good distraction too since it’s nearly midnight and I’m not watching porn or reading those nasty stories on my phone.

I started with taser and pepper spray. I put it in the front compartment because it’s easy for me to access in case David from Kindred is going to do something suspicious. Then in the main compartment, I put my shower bag along with my makeup pouch. According to Sarah, taking a shower after sex is a must. Mandatory. Totally understandable. Makes so much sense.

Then I grabbed an extra pair of underwear. A clean black cotton bra and panties because… why not, right? It’s not sexy, for sure. But breathable and comfortable. Still, not sexy. It’s not what people normally would wear when they’re going to hookup. Then I realized—I didn’t even own sexy underwear. No lacy red thongs. No strappy black sets with bows in morally compromising places. Just a pile of sensible, well-washed cotton. And for some reason, that became the breaking point.

Fuck. What am I even doing?

I put the extra pair of clean underwear into the bag and accidentally caught my reflection on the mirror. I’m not saying I’m ugly. I just look… not representable. Tired. Wearing a t-shirt with holes here and there and shorts. Messy hair and unshaved. My legs and arms are fuzzy like a kiwi. And down there? God, I don’t even want to go there. No wonder I’ve been living in trousers lately. Not out of fashion—survival.

Five minutes later, I found myself right under the shower, doing the ‘everything shower’. Shampoo, conditioner, exfoliating scrub, shaving gel, hair mask, face mask. You name it. Now I’m trying to shave the back of my thigh without slicing my femoral artery. Shaving places I haven’t seen in months.

It’s not just about hygiene–it’s a full on makeover montage. Sort of. A full-scale identity reboot. The kind where you exfoliate trauma, shave regret, and condition your delusions. You come out of it smelling like jasmine and poor decisions, but at least you’re glowing.

And yes, this is still part of me that wears out the excitement. Just because I’m shaving everything doesn’t mean I’m positive to see David from Kindred, right? Plus, it’s been a while since the last time I do everything shower. I do this for myself–when deep down I know it’s not true. So yeah, it’s definitely nothing.

***

I slept like a baby. No nightmares, no tossing and turning, no waking up at 3AM for bathroom break. Just a full, uninterrupted, seven-hour unconscious blackout. The kind of sleep you only get after a really good cry. Or a really long and shitty day at work that is sucking your soul.

When I woke up, it was Saturday. Bright, quiet, full of promise. I stretched and blinked at the ceiling like one of those women in expensive skin care commercials. My skin glowed. My legs felt smooth enough to slide off silk sheets if I had any. I didn’t, but it’s the energy that counts.

And then it hit me.

Tonight. 7PM. Room 805. David from Kindred.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

***

I can’t function. I skipped breakfast. I haven’t checked my emails. I purposely did not call my mom. I haven’t water my plants. I’m scared to check my phone. This is the exact same anxiety that has been dragging me all day long when I have a doctor appointment at noon. Just hours of staring at the wall while catastrophizing every possible outcome.

Somewhere between 10AM and 1PM—three hours of doing absolutely nothing except panicking in various positions—I sat up, grabbed my laptop, and started drafting an NDA.

Just in case I find myself dragging my ass to Hotel Astro.

Because if I’m going to be unhinged, I might as well be legally unhinged. Nothing fancy. Just a casual, totally-not-deranged document to make sure this stranger from the internet can’t sue me, blackmail me, or steal my likeness for deep fake porn.

So far, the NDA draft looked like it was written by a neurotic law student who had just watched Gone Girl for the third time. Which, okay, fair. But I was stuck on the part about “recordings, photographs, or any form of digital documentation.” Was that too much? Too formal? Not enough?

I sighed, picked up my phone, and against my better judgment, texted Sarah.

Me:
Quick question, is it too much if I ask the strangers I met online to sign an NDA on our first date?

It took her 0.3 seconds to respond.

Sarah:
You downloaded it. Didn’t you? Right after slut-shaming me?

Me:
I did. I’m sorry and you were right. I’m intrigued.

Sarah:
Curious my ass. Anyway, you wrote an NDA, didn’t you?

Me:
Drafting.

Sarah:
You psychopath.
You’re really out here lawyering up for dick. Maybe you should do the presentation with PowerPoint bullshit too.

Me:
It’s called being safe and prepared.

Sarah:
I mean, go for it, honey. As long as it's not include the phrase, “in the event of bodily injury.” You know, karma is real and she is so petty. Also, Does this guy make your stomach drop into your vagina when you read his texts?

Me:
Thanks for the advice. And... no.

Sarah:
You’re very much welcome, honey.
Don’t forget to drop the pin once you make it. Need to keep an eye on you.

Oh my fucking god. She’s not helping.

***

I arrived at Hotel Astor at 6:30PM. For a luxurious hotel, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. No chatty receptionists, no Kenny G’s songs playing in the background. Just pure silence and the sound of me second-guessing everything.

The security guy is so sweet. He asked me if I’m about to book a room or visit someone. I was second away from telling him about everything. Thankfully, I didn’t do that. Then he guided me to the elevator, press the button that’ll bring me to the 8th floor. Room 805. My heart is doing that thing right after I thanked him and the metal door slid shut.

By the time I reached the floor, I was beelined to the room. I stood in front of room 805, pulse hammering in my ears, still catching my breath. Then I pulled out my phone, open the front camera to check my appearance. I look normal to say the least. The red lipstick is still on. May or may not I spritzed too many jasmine perfume. I wear my go-to outfit–white tee, overall jeans, and black high-top canvas sneakers—the ones that look like a knockoff Converse but honestly fit better and don’t give me blisters. Completely unfuckable.

I raised my fist to knock. Paused. Lowered it. Then exhaled sharply and did it before I could overthink it again.

One knock. Two. A click.

The door opened just enough for a sliver of warm yellow light to pour out. And there he was. Dave fucking York. My boss’s boss. Not David from Kindred. Wearing a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie. Two buttons undone.

He looked me up and down, slowly. Like he was scanning a barcode. No expression. No shock. Not even a flicker of surprise. And suddenly, I had a funny feeling about this.

“You’re early, miss–”

“–That’s me,” I cut him off even though fully aware it was rude, not really wanting to hear my name coming out from his lips. “That’s me.”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the room. Still so calm. So casual. He didn’t even look surprised. Like he already knows that I’m the one who’s coming here. Like we weren’t about to cross a line. One you don’t just uncross.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you coming in or do you want to keep standing in the hallway?”

I obeyed. Again. Obeyed.

I stood there, watching him close the door with a quiet click and lock sound. My hands started fidgeting with the strap of my bag since I don’t know what to do. My brain is definitely screaming, having a total meltdown because what the fuck is happening here? Dave? David? I matched with my boss’s boss. The fact that he’s actually happily married with kids, probably over a decade and has the audacity to wear that gold band on his ring finger! Connect. The. Fucking. Dots!

“You want a drink?” he asked, heading towards the minibar like we’ve done this before many, many times.

“No,” I said, too fast. “I mean, no. Thank you. I’m fine.”

I’m everything but fine.

He poured himself a drink and I swear to god, I caught that smug smirk before he took a sip from the glass. Then he gestured to me to sit on the bed while he sat on the couch.

“So,” he said, nursing his drink before finally looking at me. “You’re going to say anything? Or should we jump right to the business?”

“David?”

He scoffed before taking another sip. “David Anthony York.”

Shit. Here I am, thinking that Dave York is his actual birth name that’s printed on his birth certificate. If I remember it correctly, he used that name on everything. His plaque, his ID, his reserved parking lot. Everything.

“Why, um, why you seems not surprised?” I asked again. “Like, you already know I’m the one who’s gonna come here.”

“You think there are two people with that name on Kindred? It’s not exactly a common name. And you’re not exactly forgettable.”

Right. My name. Unique, borderline weird, not even autocorrect recognizes it.

“I matched the second I saw you,” he added. “You wrote what you wanted. I offered. You accepted. That’s how this works.”

“You’re my boss’s boss and you’re married,” I replied without missing a beat.

“Not tonight.”

“What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?”

He blinked at me. Not annoyed. Not guilty. It’s something else. I noticed something swimming in his eyes and I can’t put my fingers on it.

“Still am,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I have an agreement with my wife. We’ve been married for almost a decade now. We don’t lie to each other and we don’t pretend we can be everything to each other all the time.”

I stared at him. That’s actually the most mature thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. It could be the perfect formula for a so-called perfect marriage.

“She knows?” I asked, my voice tight.

“She knows I’m here,” he said before emptying his glass. “And she knows I won’t be home tonight.”

“This is like–what? An open marriage situation?” I asked again, this time curiosity took over me. “You just… I don’t know. Go around sleeping with strangers while your wife knits at home and waits for you before you come back and do her turn?”

He put the glass down on the coffee table between us. He exhaled. Not a sigh. A breath, like I was entertaining.

“She doesn’t knit,” he said. “She has a career. She’s actually smarter than me. She doesn’t care who I fuck as long as I don’t bring drama home.”

My mouth suddenly went dry. I pressed my thighs so slightly, ashamed from how I clenched hard around nothing.

“You’re projecting,” he added, matter-of-fact. “That’s what this is. You’re scared, so now you’re scrambling to find a moral high ground to escape from.”

I mean, he’s not wrong. It doesn’t mean he is entirely right.

“If you’re going to walk out, do it now,” he continued, raising a finger at me to silence me. “But you said you wanted sex, no? Not love. Not confusion. I definitely can give you that.”

I looked away, drifting my attention to the wall, the bed right beneath me, everything but him. I swallowed. My hands were shaking and my knees were already giving up from the TED Talks alone.

That’s when I pulled out the folded papers from my bag, handing it out to him. He leans in slightly, eyeing the paper with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“I’m not–I’m not going to do this until you read and sign the NDA,” I began, not daring to look him in the eye. “You know, a Non-Disclosure Agreement.”

Dave lets out a low chuckle, his eyes scanning the paper in his hands. I can tell he’s clearly amused, but there’s also a flicker of surprise behind that smug face. He flips through the page with a little more patience than expected.

 

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT (NDA)

This Non-Disclosure Agreement is entered into as of the date of signing by and between:

[...............................], hereinafter referred to as the “Participant,”

and

[...............................], hereinafter referred to as the “Recipient.”

---

1. Purpose of Agreement:

The purpose of this Agreement is to outline the terms and conditions of the interaction between the Participant and the Recipient. This interaction is understood to be intimate in nature, and any actions or behaviors arising from this interaction are to be conducted with mutual respect and understanding of the following:
Consent is paramount.

• All actions within the scope of this interaction will be strictly confined to those agreed upon in writing, herein detailed.
• Any breach of these terms may result in termination of further communication.

---

2. Confidentiality:

The Recipient agrees to maintain absolute confidentiality regarding:
The identity of the Participant, unless explicitly disclosed to third parties at the Participant’s discretion.

• Any communications, activities, or interactions of a private or intimate nature, including but not limited to personal conversations, physical interactions, and private settings.
• This clause applies regardless of any future context, including but not limited to any future personal or professional encounters.

---

3. Mutual Respect and Boundaries:

Both parties agree to respect each other’s boundaries and limitations. The Participant’s boundaries will be clearly communicated at all times and are to be honored without question. The Recipient acknowledges the importance of these boundaries and commits to stopping any activity should the Participant express discomfort, hesitation, or withdrawal of consent.

---

4. Specific Terms of Engagement:

• The engagement between the Participant and Recipient will be strictly limited to [insert specific act/engagement] as mutually agreed upon.
• Any other interactions, whether physical or verbal, are expressly forbidden unless consent is re-established in writing.

---

5. No Future Commitment or Obligation:

The Recipient understands that this interaction is based solely on mutual consent and is not to be construed as a commitment for any future engagement or relationship beyond what is agreed upon herein. No party is required to engage in any further communication, activity, or meeting.

---

6. Governing Law:

This Agreement will be governed by and construed in accordance with the laws of Massachusetts, regardless of any future change in relationship status, including but not limited to personal or professional matters.

---

7. Indemnification:

The Recipient agrees to indemnify the Participant against any claim, loss, or damage arising from any breach of this Agreement, including but not limited to unauthorized disclosure of information or failure to adhere to the boundaries set forth herein.

---

8. Acknowledgment:

By signing this Agreement, the Recipient acknowledges that they have read, understood, and agreed to the terms outlined above. The Recipient also acknowledges that they have had the opportunity to seek independent legal advice and enter into this Agreement freely and without coercion.

---

IN WITNESS WHEREOF,

the parties hereto have executed this Non-Disclosure Agreement as of the date of signing.

Participant:
[...............................]
Signature: ____________________________
Date: ____________________________

Recipient:
[...............................]
Signature: ____________________________
Date: ____________________________

 

“I don’t need an NDA to fuck you,” he said once he’s done, waving the papers before placing it on the coffee table. “But you’re a bold one, sweetheart. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“How about this,” he sighed as he leaned back to the couch. “Free trials. I’ll give you a real orgasm. I won’t even need to fuck you. Just my fingers.”

I should’ve been flattered. Or turned on. Probably both. Maybe neither. Who the fuck knows anymore. But all I could think about was–can you catch herpes from your fingers?

Not exactly the mood he was aiming for, I know. But look, I spent my entire adult life not having sex. I’d rather not get an STD the first time someone gets past second base. I don’t care how magical his fucking fingers are. Unless they come with a lab report and a UV sterilizer, I’m not taking a risk for temporary pleasure.

From the way he smiled, I bet he noticed the hesitation in my face.

“You’re thinking about germs, aren’t you?”

“I’m thinking about your wife,” I shot back. “And other women you’ve fucked before.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, looking more amused than offended. “I’m clean. I get tested regularly. I’ll send you the results.”

“PDF format, dated within two weeks,” I said. “I’m not joking.”

He chuckled as he got up and walked towards me, like he’d already won. Like he’s so certain once I got the test, I’d be in his lap the next second. Even worse, he’s gonna–

“Get on the bed.”

I blinked once, twice. “What?”

He leaned in, close enough for his voice to drop into something that vibrates in my chest.

“Get on the bed.”

 

 

Notes:

It's the long one. Sort of. Thank you sm for staying till the very end of this chapter.

Chapter 4: Free Trial

Summary:

Dave takes his time, makes you feel everything, and you lets him.

“Get on the bed,” he repeated as he moved my bag to the floor.

I swallowed. I can feel my pupils dilated. I can feel my breath hitched in my throat. I can feel shiver running down my spine. I can feel my stomach bottom out, followed with that familiar heat spread between my legs.

I can’t believe this. I’m fucking turned on. No. Soaked. I can feel the dampness on my panties and it’s sticky down there. And it was caused by a real person that happens to be my boss’s boss. Also happily married with kids.

Should I back off now? Before he goes too far? His wife and kids are probably waiting for him with dinner on the table and cartoons playing in the background. I can’t do this with a married man, right? I’m not saying I’m a saint. I did—and still do—some horrible shit. Weaponized positivity. Tipping poorly. Snapping at baristas when I’m in a bad mood, which is basically every Tuesday. Smoking in a diner that has ‘no smoking’ sign right on every single table once. Maybe twice. The point is, it’s just not it. Fucking someone’s husband is off the limit.

But he has an arrangement with his wife. She’s totally fine with it. Her only rule? No drama, no mess. In fact, she doesn’t care who he fuck. And again, it’s just a free trial. It’s not like he’s gonna put his penis inside my vagina right away. Only his fingers. So, it’s not that bad, right? Right?!

My eyes followed every single move he made. The way he walks back with a purpose, makes himself standing in front of me. The way he looked down at me with those eyes. Those dark as night and hungry eyes. Then I feel his hand. Large and calloused, cups my jaw like he’s studying me while his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

"You really look like a Minions," he muttered, mostly to himself. “My kids would lose their shit if they saw you.”

Before I could say something–anything–he crouched down to untie my shoes. He didn’t look up. Just tugged one sneaker off. Then followed by the other one. I feel his hand lingered on my ankles and my brain short circuited instantly. His thumb makes those slow yet deliberately circular motion, then he slides one of his hands under the fabric and gives a gentle squeeze on my calf before tugging my socks.

“Is it because the overalls?” I exhaled shakily.

He looked up. All the warmth, smugness, and playfulness in his eyes are gone now. It was replaced with something I can’t put my fingers on. Something… darker. Dangerous.

“It is,” he said quietly, running his hands from my legs all the way up as he stood up slowly. “They dressed up as Minions every single Halloween. Forced me and my wife to dress up as Gru and Lucy. At least we don’t have to spend some money to buy a new custome every year.”

I hummed to that because I don’t know how to respond to that. Sure, I’m familiar with those yellow TicTacs who speak gibberish. They’re adorable with the glasses and their tiny little gloves and boots. But I wasn’t familiar with the other characters in those films. I mean, who the fuck are Gru and Lucy? And his… relief about not spending money over halloween customs? I can’t relate to that.

I tilted my head up just enough to meet his gaze. He's looming over me. He leaned in so slightly, his hot breath brushed against my face. His eyes flicked down and that’s when my hand reached his wrist, trying to slow him down.

This is not what I expected. I mean, sure, I was expecting this to happen. But not like this. Not him dominating me, take control over me. I want to be involved in this whole… free trial things too. I’m the one who initiated this, technically speaking. I even came out with an NDA because I don’t wanna hurt my profile or his because of this.

“You wear this again,” he murmured, dragging the straps off her shoulders like a promise. “I’ll bend you over the nearest flat surface and won’t stop till your knees give out.”

I don’t move. I just sit there on the bed, hand still holding his wrist. Stiff as fuck. Mostly ashamed from how hard I clenched around nothing. Or how I’m trying my best not to let out exaggerated moans like a porn star while he says those filth things.

“I–you should wash your hands,” I whispered, finally able to say something. “You just took off my shoes. They’re dirty.”

He paused and for a split second, I saw him smiling. He didn’t say anything. But his hand started moving from my shoulder, tracing my collarbone beneath my tee before gliding down to my chest. He cups my left breast, squeezed the soft flesh hard enough to make me sucked in a breath before he walked off. Vanished into the bathroom.

I blinked once, twice as I stared at the bathroom door that was wide open. I can hear water running down from the faucet while I’m still trying so hard to process what the fuck is happening here. Then it clicked in my fucking brain–besides myself and that old oncologist I see every six months, no one ever touched my tits. Ever.

Somewhere between panic and completely lost in my own desire, I climbed down the bed and grabbed my bag. All of the sudden I forgot in which compartment I put my fucking phone. With trembling hands, I open the front one. I didn’t dare to look inside, let alone pull them out. I just–it would be embarrassing if he saw me with taser and pepper spray.

Once I felt the familiar texture of my phone case, I pulled it out. I unlocked my phone, went straight to texts so I could drop my location pin to Sarah. Then I typed something unnecessary before putting it back in my bag.

Me:
If I don’t text you in an hour, call the police.

Right after I zipped up the bag, I heard the water stop running from the bathroom. I quickly go back to bed. It didn’t take long before I saw him come back. This time with a towel in his left hand. No urgency. No shame. Just maddening calm. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. Which he probably did.

As he walked towards me–the bed, I noticed that this whole time, since I set my foot in this room, he’s barefoot. Combined with that white button-down–sleeves rolled up and two buttons undone–and tousled hair, that does something to me. Spit pooling in my mouth as my stomach twisted just right in time.

Then he joined me. My skin prickled as the bed dipped under his weight. He’s not too close. But close enough to make his knee brush against my thigh every time he shifted even so slightly. Or to feel heat radiating from his body.

“Smell,” he said, holding his wet fingers out.

I know I should’ve backed away. Instead, I leaned in and did what he told me. Reluctantly.

“Smells like overpriced hand soap,” I nodded.

“Good,” he murmured, drying his hands before tossing the towel to the floor carelessly. “Can we continue now?”

My heart skipped a beat. Yet I found myself unfastening the metal clips on my overalls carefully. I keep telling myself that I wanted this. That I had full control over it. That I could say no, tell him to stop if things went south. Besides, my taser and pepper spray weren’t far from where I was sitting.

The straps fell from my upper arms to my forearms as I curled my fingers around the front of the bib, hesitating before pulling it down. Just a little. Just enough to show—

He moved.

I see his hands on me–on them. He cupped both soft swells of my breasts through the cotton fabric of my tee, thumbs grazing over the curve with maddening precision. His touch is not gentle. Not rough. Just… deliberate. Like he’s testing the weight on his palms.

For a split second, my mind blanked. I don’t know how to feel. It was confusing, to say the least. There’s a big chance I liked it. But… I don’t know. It feels weird.

It almost felt like trying the blueberry cheesecake for the first time. I’m not saying I hated blueberries or regular baked cheesecake. I just wasn’t crazy about either. But when those two things came together? Blueberry cheesecake became my favorite cake of all time.

“Good?” he asked, snapping me back to reality.

I looked up at him. He was already staring, hands still kneading the soft swell of my breasts. And all I could do was nod.

“Honey, use your words,” he said gruffly.

“Yes,” I said, my voice sounds hoarse. “It’s good. I’m good.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead I feel his thumbs dragged slow circles, almost feeling like he’s trying to locate my nipples through the fabric. And when I glanced down, he slid his fingers beneath the hem of my tee. He rolled the fabric upward. Not all the way. Just enough to reveal my bra. Plain cotton. No lace. No underwire. Just a piece of clothing that’s functional and comfortable.

The fabric bunched just beneath my collarbone. There was something so… obscene the way he did it. Like, he wasn’t trying to be seductive like the actors in porn. He was just making his way to the thing he wanted access to. And it’s my boobs.

I saw his fingers grazing on the edge of my bra. Then he flattened his palms and ran them over the cups, pressing down slightly like he was memorizing the shape. More than enough to make me shift, chasing friction to ease the burning desire growing between my legs.

“The left one is slightly bigger,” I blurted out, the silence suddenly unbearable. “It always bothered me. It looks weird. Especially when I wear something with a low neck cut and reveal just enough of my cleavage. It’s unbalanced. That’s why I never wear something revealing. Something that shows too much skin.”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he made a low sound—barely a hum—and then one hand drifted to the small of my back. It didn’t take long for him to find the clasp and with one practiced motion, he unclipped it.

“I used to want surgery,” I added, my voice quieter now when I saw he bunched up my bra too, baring my full breasts. “To even them out. Or make them smaller. I don’t know. They never felt like they were… mine. But I do feel grateful for the size of the nipples. I’m not saying they’re tiny but definitely not leave visible dot marks through my blouse or my shirt when the room is too cold all of the sudden. But they do grow. As in, they’re getting bigger even so slightly.”

Still, no reaction. No words. Nothing. All he did was leaned in and pressed a kiss to my left breast. So soft it made me flinch. Then he wrapped his lips around it, hot and wet and something inside me cracked open. His tongue lapped over the sensitive bud, and I felt it–sharp and immediate–pleasure shooting straight to my core. My back arched. A strangled moan clawed its way out of my throat. My hands found his hair and tugged, fingers curling against his scalp.

“Oh—fuck,” I exhaled, breath ragged.

When he pulled back, a thin string of saliva clung to my nipple. It was swollen. Reddened. My body ached with how much I wanted him. He rolled the other one between his fingers, kneading, teasing, drawing out another gasp.

“Don’t say that again.”

I blinked. “What?”

“That they don’t feel like yours,” he breathed heavily. “Or that they need fixing. There’s nothing broken here.”

He didn’t even give me a chance to breathe. One second I was melting into the aftershocks, the next I was flat on my back, my overall tugged halfway down my thighs.

His hands were everywhere, like he’d been holding back this whole time and finally snapped. The kind of hunger that wasn’t patient. Wasn’t careful. Just consuming.

I gasped, fingers scrambling for something–anything–to ground myself with. When I felt the cold air kiss my bare skin once he yanked the overalls, I instinctively tried to close my legs. All of the sudden, I don’t want him to see that part of me. Even when I’m technically hairless down there.

His hand slid up to my thigh, firm and steady. He didn’t stop. He didn’t ask. He didn’t take ‘no’ as the answer, for sure. He pressed his palm–low and slow–keeping me spread. Just handled me like I was something already his.

“Still good?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

“I–yeah. Good. Still,” I whispered, not sure where I should look. “Just… give me a cue or whatever before you do something.”

He laughed. The kind of laugh that you give to people who are trying to be funny but they're not. Almost feels like he was obliged to do so. And it makes my stomach twisted in embarrassment.

To make it even worse, he crawls on top of me. Slow and deliberate, and stops the moment he’s hovering above me. Both of his hands plant beside my head. One of his knees nudged my leg, keeping it spread open.

Close enough to steal my breath but not quite close enough to touch. Close enough that I could feel his breath fan over my cheek. Like he was testing how much space he could take before I snapped. Or begged for more.

“I’ve never put anything up there. Not even a tampon. I was–am–still terrified by the fact that I have two holes.”

I paused for breath. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. But the words just tumbled out when I was in too deep to stop.

“Thanks to my sister’s old biology book and my dumbass curiosity as a kid, I guess. I mean, it said there are two holes: the vaginal opening for penetration and childbirth and the urethral opening which sits between the clitoris and the vagina. I thought if I put my fingers in the wrong hole–which is impossible because the urethral opening is too fucking small for my digits, let alone an actual penis–I’d get a UTI and end up in the ER. And like–what would I even tell the doctor? ‘Hi, sorry, newbie mistake. Wrong hole’. That’s humiliating.”

He didn’t say anything. He just blinked once.

“So, yeah,” I continued, feeling like I owed him some explanation when he completely did not. “I played it safe. Like, really safe. Clitoral stimulation only. The furthest I’ve ever gone? Just fingers… kind of running through the folds. Gently. And you know what kind of folds I was talking about, right?”

Then silence. Deafening. Embarrassing.

“I mean–not that I wanted to stop there, it’s just–I got in my head, you know? Like, what if I’m too tight, or your fingers too big and literally tear my vagina open in a way it shouldn’t,” I added quickly. “What if I pass out from the pain because I have low pain tolerance?”

That’s when he moved again. Swift, deliberate, completely calm as he brushed his thumb over my bottom lip. Then he brought his thumb and pressed it against his own lips. Like, he wants to kiss me but with my STD concern earlier, he won’t do that. Instead, he did that gesture. Hot. A bit too close to the sun. Somehow… romantic.

“You really won’t shut up, will you?” he said, almost fondly.

I laughed at that. Panic, short, awkward all become once.

“What?”

“Should I stuff your mouth with something?” he asked me back. “I bet you’d look real pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

I opened my mouth. I can feel the words dancing on the tip of my tongue yet nothing came out. Not a single word.

“I bet you’d drool,” he continued, sliding one hand to pinch my nipple. “Slobber all over me, choke a little when it hits the back.”

I froze, wide-eyed, and that only made him smirk harder.

“Wouldn’t even need to fuck your throat properly–just let you hold it there. Feel it pulse while my fingers are knuckle-deep in your pussy.”

His hand moved fast, slipping past the hem of my underwear like I wasn’t even wearing them. Two fingers teased the folds, slow and deliberate. And I can’t breathe.

“Jesus, you’re soaked,” he murmured. “You like this. All that panicking about holes and you’re dripping just thinking about my cock filling every one of them.”

I whimpered, hips bucking to chase his fingers.

“Say the word, honey, and I’ll fuck your throat, fill your cunt, stretch your tight little ass. All of it. One by one. Make you mine from the inside out.”

My jaw tensed. My fists curled into the sheets. For a second, I almost told him to stop. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I didn’t know what to say.

“Please.”

He didn’t do it right away. Just there, on top of me. Sort of. His fingers are still teasing me in a maddening way. I could feel how his fingers easily glided from the sensitive bud down through the folds from how wet I am right now. The slick seeped through the fabric. Damp and sticky.

Then he moved it. Slowly pressing down. Not hard. Just enough to make me squirm under him. Like he gives me all the time in the world to stop him. Of course I didn’t. Couldn’t. I didn’t want to.

The next thing that happened was he pushed one finger inside me. I couldn’t tell which fingers but he did it slowly and carefully. I stiffened. The sensation of how it stretched down there was indescribable. My breath caught in my throat for only-God-know-how-many tonight. My heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears. I really wish he went to the right hole.

The moment he curled his finger, the muscle down there contracted. Hard. Like, trying to push this strange object inside me out. Or maybe taking it even deeper. It’s just… surreal. I can’t believe there was actually something inside me. Filling me. Not a tampon. Not my own finger. His finger. Warm and moving.

“Breathe,” he said.

So I did. Maybe tried.

Then came the second finger. I quickly grabbed his forearm–nails digging to his skin while still debating whether to ask him to stop or ground myself. Probably from the burn sensation that almost feels like a pinch. I’m not sure.

He didn’t move. He just keeps them there, letting me get used to the stretch. Then, he dipped his head to the crook of my neck. He pressed his mouth to the side of my neck, his stubble brushed against my skin that made me writhe beneath him.

His hips followed, grinding slowly into the curve of my thigh. Not hard. Just enough to let me feel how worked up he was. How badly he wanted me. Like he needed the friction or he’d unravel. He was taking, too–in his own quiet, simmering way.

His fingers curled again, knuckles brushing something that made my toes dig into the mattress. That same heat rushed back, pooling low, tightening everything inside me. My hands flew to his shoulders, grabbing at anything solid as my head tipped back, neck arcing on instinct.

He ground against me again followed by a deep rumble coming from his chest. A bit rougher this time. Like, my reactions were feeding him. Like the mess I was turning into only made him hungrier.

“You feel it?” he murmured, mouth brushing the underside of my jaw.

I didn’t say anything. All I did was writhing beneath him. Too busy chasing that feeling I’d just discovered a whole new sense I’d never known existed. Definitely not when he pressed in deeper, fingers moving in a rhythm that left me trembling, thighs tensing with every pass.

My legs started to shake. My stomach clenched. Something sharp and delicious climbed higher and higher until it reached my throat.

His mouth was still at my neck, warm and damp, whispering nothing and everything at once with every exhale. His fingers were still moving. Still coaxing more.

“Fuck, Dave, I think I’m–” my voice cracked, broke off like I was admitting something shameful.

He didn’t stop, obviously. He didn’t even slow down. He just shifted the angle slightly and it was like lightning, a fuse. Finding that spot that made my legs jerk and my back arch and my breath hitch like I’d been punched in the gut by pleasure.

He didn’t stop grinding too. The friction grew more desperate, more erratic. The rhythm of his hips lost its tease and the sounds he made–low, guttural, bitten back–started unraveling something deep inside me.

The whimper that clawed out of my throat like it couldn’t stay inside. That wasn’t planned. That was raw. That was real. My hips bucked against his hand, chasing something that felt like it would swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful.

“Good girl,” he said, voice a rasp while still grinding against my thigh. “Good fucking girl.”

And just like that, I came so hard I forgot how to breathe.

Everything clenched, tightened, and then exploded in a way that felt blinding. A release that wasn’t just physical–it was emotional, too. Like I’d been holding this version of myself back my whole life and finally let her exist.

I felt him through it all. His mouth on my jaw, his breath in my ear, his hand steady and sure even as my whole body trembled and twitched around him. My moans grew sloppier, more broken, and high on something I couldn’t name.

It didn’t take long when he let out a strangled sound. Somewhere between a groan and a curse. His hips bucked against my thigh once, twice, and shuddered. Full-body. Like something inside him snapped clean in half.

His weight collapsed on top of me. Heavy and warm, shaking slightly. But his hand didn’t stop. He kept moving inside me, slow and messy, like he wasn’t ready to let go of the feeling.

He eased his hand away slowly, carefully as he rolled to my side. The sound alone was obscene. Like he wanted me to feel every inch of what just happened. Like he knew I’d remember that stretch, that burn, that fullness. Like I might shatter if he pulled too fast. And maybe I would’ve.

He was breathing fast against my skin. He brought his fingers to his mouth, sucked them clean. One by one. Like he was tasting me. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his fingers from his lips with a wet pop. “You taste better than anything I’ve ever had. Make me come in my pants like horny teenager. Again.”

I blinked at him, breath ragged, chest heaving. My heart felt like it was trying to punch through my ribs. I clenched hard around nothing without permission.

“I fucking hate you,” I whispered.

He chuckled low in his throat, hand brushing the hair from my damp forehead.

“Hate me all you want,” he said. “But just so we’re clear, you’ll crawl back to me.”

 

 

Notes:

I really am sorry for the wait. Apparently it's hard to write the steamy scene in English. The fact that I never write it in my first language make this more... challenging. So yeah, combined with the shitshow at my workplace, it took me some times to finish this chapter. I hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed the writing process. Thanks for staying to the very last word of this chapter.

Chapter 5: Talk about Talking

Summary:

You and Dave talk about, well, talking.

It was now Thursday and four days had gone by since that night. I’ve been consistently acting like nothing happened. I’ve been refusing to acknowledge what happened that night. Including how he ambushed me, sort of, by fixing my clothes once he caught his breath. Or my attempt to get rid of the evidence by throwing my panties to the bin because I was freaked out by… the mess.

I couldn’t think straight at all. I was trying my best to act like nothing happened. But somehow my brain keeps replaying whatever happened that night. Even worse, questioning everything. I mean, why did he run his fingers through my hair like that? Or why did he look at me like that? The way the lead actor from old Bollywood movies used to look at their love interests–glinting and unguarded. No lust, not pride. Just that… kind of silent, stupid devotion. Like, even blinking would be a waste. And what does the kiss he planted on top of my head even mean?

I really need to calm down. I shouldn’t let that free trial thing consume me. He didn’t even say anything when I left. Okay, fine. He was on the phone, speaking in a foreign language that I can’t put my fingers on. Somewhere between Arabic and Farsi. I don’t know. I don’t really understand the dialect since he speaks so fast. 

I just simply wanted to leave because I feel like if I’m staying there for another minute, I’m going to die. Drowning in embarrassment. Also, I feel sick in my stomach because the little voice in the back of my head wouldn’t stop slut-shaming me. Look at you, get treated like a common whore. Even whore got paid. And you didn’t.

And to make things even worse, he actually texted me on Kindred. He simply just wanted to make sure that I made it home safely. Which I replied with a thumbs-up emoji. I know. That one emoji has so many layers in it. Some people might take it as passive-aggressive. I’m one of them, by the way. But at least I texted him back.

Since then, I never opened Kindred again. No, I didn’t delete the app. I still keep it but I do snooze the notification. I just–let’s say I need some time to think. To… I don’t know. To reconsider my own dumb and reckless decision. Debating whether I should let go and forget, or crawl back to him.

So yeah, that’s why I’ve been a bit too productive for the past four days. On Sunday, I cleaned my apartment so aggressively, I found the missing pair of my favorite socks that were stuck in my underwear drawer for the whole time. I watched all four Despicable Me movies and both Minions spin-offs in just two days. I even gave a generous review on my Letterboxd. I also became the first person to arrive and the last person who left the building. 

I got through endless requests from field agents with a very bright smile plastered across my face because staying busy feels so much better than going back to that night. Absolutely such a great distraction. Exactly what I so desperately desire.

“What’s getting into you?” asked Jared, as soon as he found me on my desk doing the double check of the files on my computer. “Are you aiming to be the best employee of the month?”

“We don’t do that here,” I replied, didn't even bother to look at him.

“We don’t. That shit doesn’t belong to us. Honestly, it’s quite uncanny watching you doing your job without complaining or swearing like a pirate,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Anyway, you didn’t do something stupid when I asked you to drop the documents at York’s office, right?”

I stiffened. Then I shot him a look–somewhere between shocked and insulted by his shallow accusation.

“You didn’t ‘accidentally’ break his belongings and try to get rid of the evidence like an amateur, right?” he added, even throwing in air quotes with his fingers. “Or stealing something from his office which I fucking doubt it because that bastard has nothing valuable in his life?”

“You really despise him, don’t you?” I said jokingly. “And to respond to your accusation which I find very insulting, no, Jared. I didn’t break his belongings nor steal something from his office.”

He tilted his head, brows pinched together as he tried to figure me out.

“Why?” I added, intrigued by his silent response.

“He asked for a bunch of ancient documents this morning and wanted you to deliver it to his office,” he scoffed. “I said you were busy with other tasks and I’ll send my guy to do it and he refused. He’d rather wait till you’re free. When I asked why he fucking hung up.”

Holy. Shit.

That explained a lot of his shallow accusation. Also, fuck that man from the executive floor.

Why did I get the impression that he’s using his power to reach out to me? I don’t want to overanalyze here but I feel like he’s using work stuff as his excuse to… I don’t know. Maybe to give me a friendly reminder of what I’ve been initiated in the first place. Maybe to get a reaction from me since I went radio silent for days. Who knows.

“I can do it,” I shrugged. “Where’s the documents?”

***

Jared seemed hesitant for a moment. It was evident on how he clenched his jaw before averting his gaze across the room. After I convinced him that Dave, David–whoever the fuck his name is–didn’t even let me say something when I dropped the documents last week, he finally gave me the folder.

I have no idea why he looks so anxious. He even walked to the elevator. He had never done that before. Almost feels like he doesn’t wanna let me go to the executive floor. I think it has something to do with the history they shared in the past. I mean, there’s definitely bad blood between them. The kind that doesn’t fade with time. Only simmers quieter. Whatever went down must’ve been serious.

Jared stayed when I stepped inside. His arms crossed like he was trying to telepathically will me to come back. In return, I waved my hand to him when the elevator doors finally slid shut.

When I reached the executive floor, I made my way to York’s office. I was ready to just drop the folder on the assistant’s desk and leave. Definitely going to skip the small talk this time. Not even a single hi or how are you.

But it was just a strategy.

Because when I arrived at my destination, Dave was already there. He’s standing by the door to his office, holding it open. Like he’d been waiting for my arrival. Maybe it’s because Jared told him. I actually have no clue. 

And yes, my brain short-circuited the moment our eyes met. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me with that same unreadable face he always wears. Calm, collected, borderline smug.

Then he tilted his head slightly, a silent command I somehow obeyed. I walked past him carefully. Not really wanting to make any physical contact by accident. Let alone on purpose. I’m trying my best to keep everything’s professional here.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said once the door shut behind us. “Have a seat.”

I resist the urge to look over my shoulder and deny his accusation. Instead, I swallow it back and follow his instructions. I walk toward the desk, convincing myself he’s not walking that closely behind me, before placing the folder on it and sitting down in one of the chairs.

I watch him walk around his desk and sit down. He makes himself comfortable–unbuttons his suit jacket and leans back without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls something out of the drawer. Two things. And my blood drains instantly.

An STD test result and my panties. Washed and clean.

“I sent the result on Kindred once it was out,” he said, handing the paper to me. “Tuesday, I believe. Exactly how you wanted it. PDF format, dated within two weeks.”

I have no choice but to accept the paper. I look at him longer than necessary before studying the test result. The first thing I check is the date. He’s being honest about when he did the test. Then comes the clinical language while my mind keep drifting back to why the fuck does he have my panties? Here? At his office?!

Negative. Everything is negative.

It’s good. I should feel relieved. Happy. Thrilled, even. That means I could move to the next step of… sexhibition? With the expert himself? Who’s still someone’s husband and has kids? God, that’s awful.

“Congrats,” I said, folding the paper neatly as I finally looked up at him. “So, um, yeah. I wasn’t avoiding you, Mr. York. I just needed some time.”

“What for?”

“To think,” I replied simply. “Also I’m on my period now. First day. Heavy flow. Absolutely not available to do the thing.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

I release a breath I didn’t know I’ve been holding this whole time.

“But you're still gonna come to the hotel, no?” he added. “I haven’t signed the damn NDA and I bet you want to tweak it even further. Not to criticize, but the first ‘draft’ is awful.”

I hated the fact that I agreed with him. It doesn’t mean he’s entirely right, though. I admit that there are a few questionable clauses that need fixing.  It’s for my own goods. His too.

Also, I hated how he made this sound transactional–which, to be fair, is the whole point. He made it look like just another meeting to discuss whatever happened between me and him. I can see his vision on this since I am avoiding him. He’s using his privilege and I can’t say no. It works. It’s efficient.

“You should be more specific on what you really want. Especially the boundaries,” he continued, his gaze hardening. “That’s crucial. You don’t want me to take advantage of this agreement. It could get messy and backfire on both of us.”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded. “Thank you for the input. I’ll bear it in mind.”

Something about what I said made his eyes darken. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, eyes flicking restlessly like he was searching for something. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Anyway,” I added, followed with an awkward laugh. “Can I have my panties back?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mine,” I scoffed. “Obviously.”

“You mean mine,” he said, reaching for them before bringing it to his face and inhaling sharply. “You threw them away, remember?”

And just like that, the air in this room thickens in the blink of an eye.

“Well,” I finally managed, my voice came out high-pitched. “This has been wildly inappropriate and disturbingly efficient. So, I think it would be great if I’m just gonna… go.”

I stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor with a loud screech. I shoved the folded paper to my skirt pocket and beeline to the door.

“Same room, same time?” he asked, like he didn’t just commit something obscene with my underwear.

I didn’t answer that. I didn’t look back. Just walked straight out of his office, trying not to fumble into anything. Not because I was being dramatic. It’s because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to save myself from the unholy thoughts that had been flooding my brain since the moment I laid my eyes on him.

***

I raised both hands and knocked. Not once, not twice, but in a full-on, frantic percussion. Not a rhythm. Not a pattern. Just chaos. The kind of knocking that said open the fucking door before I make a scene.

It’s such a miracle I survived Friday and  the first eighteen hours on Saturday. Thanks to six shots of espresso that I've consumed within 48 hours, I guess. I definitely lost my mind since I fucking hate coffee. So, no wonder if my heart is racing like crazy right now. I am officially possessed by caffeine and bad decisions.

When there was no response, I did it again. This time louder. More aggressive. Both knuckles drummed against the hardened surface frantically.

The door finally opened.

Before he could even open his mouth, I shoved him back with one hand and stormed inside. I kicked the door behind me with my leg and I swear to god, he looks even so much hotter than I could remember.

“You took your sweet time,” I muttered, tossing my bag onto the bed and pacing across the room like a deranged woman. “I’m so sorry for the knocking. I just really needed to be inside.”

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there. Look painfully handsome in black t-shirt and jeans. Hair messy and bare feet. Seriously. It makes me get irritated on so many levels from how handsome he is right now.

“Have a seat, Mr. York,” I said, gesturing to the couch. “Or Dave. Which do you prefer?”

He obeyed. For the very first time he did what I say. He walked slowly to the couch and sat with his legs spread. One arm slung over the armrest. So cunty. And oh yeah, I didn’t miss the visible bulge between his legs. Huge. Massive. Very… inviting.

“Seriously?” I asked shamelessly. “I’ve been here for… what? less than five minutes and you’re hard already? You do remember that I’m on my period, right? That you’re not going to fuck me tonight?’

He smiled. He cupped himself like he was settling in for a very long, very smug evening before rolling his hips. That deep and relieved grunts more than enough to make my skin prickled.

“Dave is fine,” he said. “And yes, sweetheart, I’m painfully hard right now. I can’t fuck your bleeding cunt but I still can fuck your mouth. Or your tight little ass. It’s your call, ma’am.”

I frowned at that. What the fuck is his obsession with putting his cock at place it doesn’t belong?

“No offense but fuck you,” I scoffed as I pulled out brown envelope from my bag. “I’m not gonna let you fuck my mouth. Or my ass.”

That earned me his soft laugh. Which is weird because I feel a weird sensation in my chest.

“Speaking of, I followed your instruction,” I added. “I made a whole new draft. And before I hand this to you, I want to–well, not pitch it exactly. More like, you know, walk you through it so you can actually understand it better. Like, I will give you a live commentary on specific clauses. Maybe explain my reasoning behind them.”

He tapped two fingers against his thighs. He looked like he was debating whether to behave or not. Flash news–he wasn’t.

“I’m all ears,” he drawled. “Walk me through it. But if you keep acting like that–sassy and adorable–while reading all that legalese, I might have to bend you over this couch and fuck your pretty little brain right out.”

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

I shouldn't be clenching this hard around nothing. 

“I’m not wearing my overalls so you can’t do that,” I debated while struggling to get the paper out from the envelope. “And how many times should I tell you that I’m on my period? Jesus Christ. The only reason why we’re here tonight is to, you know, talk about… talking.”

He tilted his head, smirking at how defensive I am right now.

“Talk about talking,” he repeated. “Sure. Go ahead.”

I rolled my eyes as I flipped the paper aggressively. This is ridiculous. But also not at the same fucking time. It’s reasonable. Like he said, it’s for our own goods so it won’t backfire on us in the future.

“Let’s start with boundaries,” I began. “I actually still think about doing, you know, oral. But I definitely am not gonna let you fuck my ass. That’s a hard no. Why? Because it’s disgusting and unsanitary. I’m telling you, Dave, your dick doesn’t belong there. End of discussion.”

“Understood,” he nodded. “But just for the record, you saying all that while clenching your thighs together is sending some real mixed signals.”

Asshole.

“Irrelevant,” I snapped. “Also, respectfully, put my name away from your filthy mouth. I don’t like it. I prefer you calling me with another… reference. Pet names. Whatever it’s called. Seriously, anything but my real name.”

“Heard.”

I glanced at him, which I regretted instantly. He looked at me like that. Again. More than enough to make my stomach do the flippy thing.

“Is it okay if I don’t want you to have sex with anyone else during this agreement?” I asked carefully. “I, you know, I want to do it my first time… raw. So yeah, I don’t wanna take a risk.”

This time he didn’t even blink. His smile disappeared. He just leaned back as he cupped himself again. But this time he let it linger. He rubbed his palm against the bulge. Rolling his hips into it once, slow and deliberate. A low, broken sound rumbled from his chest. And I’m drooling.

“Anything else, sweetheart?” he asked, voice rough. “You know what? Why don’t you say the rest in one go?”

I cleared my throat and looked back at the paper. Not because I needed to, but because I needed something to look at.

“Okay,” I chuckled awkwardly. “No sex with anyone else. No calling me by my real name. No butt stuff. I already said those. The next thing is no sneaky pictures or videos without asking first. No weird kinks without, you know, giving me a heads-up. And–”

I inhaled sharply, trying to keep my composure.

“And, you know, you have to warn me if you’re gonna say… filthy things,” I continued. “Like, graphic filthy because I need preparation. Both mentally and emotionally. Or whatever.”

I stole another glance at him. Just to make sure he’s still with me. And it was a big mistake.

He looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his fucking mind. Not angry. Not mocking. Just pure… lust. Starving. To make things even worse, my thighs clenched instinctively.

“And,” I mumbled, finally handing the paper to him. “You have to be... gentle. At least at first. I don't wanna, like, black out and wake up paralyzed.”

He took the paper, of course. But the silence was heavy. Crackling. He staring at me like he was physically restraining himself from getting up and tossing me onto the nearest surface before finally–finally–reading the paper.

 

---

NON-DISCLOSURE AND PHYSICAL ARRANGEMENT AGREEMENT
("The Let’s-Not-Make-This-Weird Contract")

This Agreement is entered into voluntarily by and between:
[Redacted] ("Receiving Party")
 and
Dave York ("Participating Party")
collectively referred to as “the Parties,” effective upon mutual signature.

---

1. Purpose

This Agreement exists to outline the boundaries, expectations, and confidentiality obligations pertaining to the Parties’ consensual physical engagement. Said engagement shall remain entirely separate from any personal or professional relationship, history, or delusion either Party may entertain outside of the specified context.

This is not a relationship. This is scheduled sex.

---

2. Confidentiality

Both Parties agree to the following:

• The sexual encounters are to remain private and unacknowledged in all public, professional, or personal spheres.
• Discussions of said encounters with third parties—whether in-person, online, or hypothetically through a character in a short story—are strictly prohibited.
• The existence of this arrangement, its terms, and any related communication (text, email, app chat, carrier pigeon) shall remain confidential.
• Neither Party shall refer to the other by name during the act. No explanation will be provided for this clause.

---

3. Timeline

The arrangement will commence on the upcoming Saturday, and continue once weekly for a duration of eight (8) weeks, with scheduled meetings ideally occurring Saturday evenings, unless otherwise negotiated.

• Either Party may cancel a scheduled engagement due to illness, emergencies, or general existential dread. A minimum of 12 hours’ notice is appreciated.
• Unjustified ghosting will be noted as a breach of etiquette, not legality (yet).
• Extension of this arrangement past the 8-week period is possible via renegotiation and emotional sobriety.

---

3A. Weekly Itinerary

To maintain structure and avoid misunderstandings, the Receiving Party has outlined the following focus areas for each of the eight scheduled sessions. This breakdown is meant to streamline expectations, ensure mutual preparedness, and—let’s be honest—prevent her from spiraling or improvising. Any deviation from the itinerary must be mutually agreed upon in writing or at least discussed like adults who know how to use their words.

Week 1: Foreplay Fundamentals
Focus: The Receiving Party would like to learn what foreplay is supposed to feel like, since so far it's been mostly confusion, dryness, and half-hearted groping. The Participating Party is encouraged to demonstrate patience, clarity, and good hands.

Week 2: Intercourse Initiation
Focus: The Parties will proceed to intercourse. The Receiving Party acknowledges virginity is a social construct but would still appreciate a little care while metaphorically and physically crossing the threshold. No cheering, no unnecessary commentary.

Week 3: Basic Positions, Set A
Focus: The Receiving Party would like to explore three foundational sexual positions:
Missionary
Cowgirl
Doggy style (but like, gentle, not porn-star aggression)

Week 4: Basic Positions, Set B
Focus: Additional variety, selected for function over flair
Side-lying (spooning style, for existentially tired nights)
Reverse cowgirl (for science)
Seated in a chair

Week 5: Movie Scene Recreation
Focus: The Parties will attempt to tastefully recreate a steamy cinematic scene of the Receiving Party’s choosing. Lighting, mood, and soundtrack are optional but encouraged. Nudity clause: assumed. Dialogue: not required, unless quoting the script improves the experience. (It won’t.)

Week 6: Smut Scene Recreation
Focus: A scene lifted directly from the Receiving Party’s favorite smut will be acted out to the best of the Participating Party’s ability. No judgment. Yes, I know how this sounds. I’m aware of the hypocrisy clause in her own psyche.

Week 7: Participating Party’s Choice
Focus: The Participating Party may decide the activity, within agreed boundaries. This is a rare opportunity to express initiative. Any surprise involving food, costume, or “let’s just see what happens” energy will be met with dead eyes and immediate cancellation.

Week 8: Attempting to Make Love
Focus: The Receiving Party will attempt, for science and closure, to engage in something resembling “making love.” She does not expect to enjoy this emotionally. This is a final experiment to test her hypothesis that feelings are overrated and intimacy is a trap. Soft music is allowed. Eye contact is optional but discouraged.

---

4. Nature of Engagement

The interaction will be purely physical. There will be no:

• Romantic gestures
• Pillow talk that implies attachment
• Emotional check-ins
• Post-coital small talk unless initiated by the Receiving Party and lasting under five (5) minutes
• No feelings. No confusion. No playlist.

---

5. Boundaries and Limitations

To avoid any misunderstanding:

• No anal. This is non-negotiable. The Receiving Party has already been traumatized enough by unsolicited dirty talk in previous online interactions.
• No BDSM or adjacent activities (e.g., restraints, choking, calling anyone "sir"). This is not that kind of party.
• No filming, audio recording, or casual selfie-taking.
• No surprises. If you're thinking, "Maybe she'd like–" Stop. Ask first.

---

6. Location and Financial Arrangement

Primary location of encounters will be a neutral hotel agreed upon in advance. Parties will split the bill 50:50, because hotels are expensive, and fairness is sexy.
Alternatively, the Participating Party may propose using the Receiving Party’s residence with appropriate notice and zero assumptions.

---

7. Sexual Health and Exclusivity

Due to the agreement involving unprotected intercourse:

• The Participating Party must submit current STD test results prior to the first meeting.
• The Participating Party agrees to abstain from any other sexual activity (including with their spouse) during the 8-week arrangement, unless otherwise renegotiated.
• Any breach of this clause may result in immediate termination, potential public shaming, and the Receiving Party developing trust issues for another five years.

---

8. Reassessment and Extension

Should either Party wish to continue beyond the 8-week term:

• A separate renegotiation will occur.
• Emotions, if any, must be declared beforehand.
• The Receiving Party retains the right to pretend she feels nothing even when that’s no longer true.

---

9. Termination

Either Party may terminate the agreement at any time, ideally with a text that doesn’t read like a suicide note. No hard feelings. No grand exits. Just... thanks for coming.

Signatures

By signing below, the Parties agree to the above terms in full understanding that this is a temporary, no-strings-attached situation between two consenting adults who absolutely know what they’re doing and won’t freak out later. Probably.

[Redacted]
Signature: ___________________________
Date: ___________________________

Dave York
Signature: ___________________________
Date: ___________________________

---

 

He shook his head with a sharp exhale. Then he extended his hand, crooking a finger at me. Impatient yet controlled. 

“This is better. You did good with walking me through it first before letting me read the entire thing. Give me the pen, honey,” he said, his voice gruff. “Is honey okay with you? Since you don’t want me to use your name?”

“Honey is fine. Sweetheart too. But let’s stick with honey,” I nodded, handing him the pen. “Are you sure you’re okay with me calling you Dave?”

He shot me that look. The calm but intense look. Then he signed the NDA like it was just another bureaucratic nonsense that needed his signature. No hesitation. No further questions. Just ink and indifference.

“Now, honey,” he said, tossing the pen to the coffee table before leaning back to the couch. “Stay a bit longer tonight, will you? I want you to watch me fuck my own fist.”

 

 

Notes:

As always, thanks for staying. I'm so sorry for the wait. I have a lot going on with the work stuff. So yeah, I hope you guys enjoy.

Chapter 6: Don't be Shy

Summary:

You and Dave give it a go. Involuntarily.

Notes:

Sorry for the wait. Buckle up, folks. Things went south real quick here. Sort of.

“I beg your finest pardon?”

Instead of answering my question, Dave popped the button of his jeans with a lazy flick. Followed by the zipper sliding down slowly and painfully loud. Like, he wanted me to hear it. Put me on the edge from the anticipation of what’s coming next.

And it fucking works.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. My breath became ragged and short. I could hear blood rushing in my ears. As that wasn’t enough, my mouth went dry. So dry my tongue darted out to wet my lips.

The next thing that happened was he dipped his hand into his jeans. I could see how he stroked himself. How his hand flexed under the rough fabric. How his hips rolled every now and then. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to make my heart hammered against my ribcage.

“Had to fuck my own fist when I found your panties in the bin,” he drawled. “You and your reckless, impulsive decisions made me hard again in minutes. You know what? I was hanging on a thread the other day. Trying so hard not to bend you over my desk and fuck you senselessly when you smells and look that good.”

His breath hitched when our eyes met. He looked like he was in pain. So much pain. His eyes locked on mine. Wide and dark. Flickered with something raw. Like he was fighting to stay conscious. I don’t think he even realized he was whispering, “Fuck”, over and over under his breath.

His mouth was hanging open like he forgot how to breathe. That deep rumble coming from the back of his throat made my mind fogged. I have to bite my lower lip so I don’t have to make any weird noises from the obscene sight right in front of me.

His nostril flared. His jaw worked like he was chewing down words he couldn’t say out loud. He stroked himself once more. Maybe twice. Then he stopped before pulling his hand out from his jeans.

“Come here,” he breathed.

“I–”

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he gritted out from behind his teeth. “Just get here already.”

I cleared my throat harshly before doing what he said. It feels like I was stuck in a roller coaster right at the tip-top before the first drop. But so much worse. All the terror and excitement mixed up really well. Causing this unpleasant swirling sensation in my stomach. 

I have to keep telling myself that I wanted this. It’s not like he’s going to fuck me. I’m still on my period–day three and the flow was not that heavy. He was just simply going to do something that I craved. And I should be fucking happy for it, right? Right?!

He grabbed me by the waist once I was right just a breath away from him. He forced me to stand between his legs. I gasped when his large hands slid down to my hips and squeezed it gently. 

He looked up at me with those eyes. The eyes that carried a beautiful and devastating kind of pain that made my thighs squeeze together.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough.

“Mm-hmm,” I nodded. “Good. I think this is good.”

He hummed while running his fingers along the waistband of my jeans. He leaned over, resting his chin on my tummy while holding my gaze. In return, I reluctantly placed both of my hands on his shoulders because what the fuck should I do with them?!

“You don’t mind if I ask you to get down on your knees, right?”

I laughed at that. Somewhere between panic and forced kind of laughter.

“I’m not gonna put my cock in your mouth. Yet,” he explained, his thumbs caressing my hips absentmindedly. “I want to teach you how to take care of it with your hand. Foreplay fundamentals. Just like what you specifically wrote on the paper.”

Great. Now he weaponized my words to get what he wanted. What I deeply desire, to be exact. Yet I was–still am–too scared to admit it when it’s completely normal for women to feel this way. It almost feels like I was about to commit a serious crime or something like that. 

“That’s the least you can do when you’re going to fuck someone. Consensual, of course,” he added, grabbing a cushion and tossing it on the floor. “You don’t wanna try stuffing a half-hard cock inside you. Or when you’re not wet enough. Hurts more, feels worse–for both of you. This is your first lesson, sweetheart.”

I stared at the cushion a little too long, piecing it together like some dumb, slow puzzle. So that’s why, huh? All the porn, all the sex life articles, all that “make her come first” nonsense–it wasn’t just romantic bullshit. Or about being a gentleman. Or just for entertainment.

It was about survival. It was about not hurting her. Me, in this case. It was about prepping the body properly. It made sense now. And somehow, no one had ever said it out loud to me before. Not even Sarah who’s so open about this specific subject.

Then I looked back at him. His gaze stayed steady. Torn between trying to be patient and something I couldn’t put my fingers on. 

Swallowing hard, I lowered myself onto my knees. The cushion caught me before the pressure could sting and leave visible bruises the next morning.

He watched every move I made like he was memorizing it. I tried not to look up. I really do. But when he did, the fire in his eyes unleashed something inside me. Something I didn’t know existed this whole time.

I leaned forward, just enough to make him suck in a breath. Then I let my hands glide down. Slow and deliberate. From his shoulders to his chest. I made sure he felt my nails scrape his skin under his t-shirt. Dragging it down until I stopped just above the waistband of his undone jeans.

“Go on,” he exhaled sharply. “You know the drill. Take it out. Don’t be shy.”

Heat instantly creeped up to my neck. I could feel my cheeks burnt in embarrassment. Don’t be shy, my ass. I was both terrified and excited right here since I have never seen an actual penis in real life before. 

Okay, fine. Maybe I have. Had.

To be perfectly honest, technically it didn’t count. The situation was completely different. That was many, many years ago. Back when I was acting as my dad’s caregiver. Along with my mom and my older sister who were rarely there.

He was sick. Like, really sick. And everything about it was clinical. Cold and awful. Completely a dark time for all of us. For… me.

I shook my head slightly, shoved the memory down before it could kill the mood.

“Just tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. “I’m still learning here.”

“I know,” he smirked. “Take your time, honey. I don’t mind staying up all night.”

Fuck it. How bad could it be, anyway?

I held my breath when I finally slipped my left hand into his jeans. I thought if I’m using my dominant hand, it would make things so much easier. I mean, just using my common sense here. All I could think was do exactly what the porn star does when they’re, well, I would say warming up. 

It was warm there. Cramped. The back of my hand kept bruising against the rough material around the zipper every time I tried to go deeper.

I looked up at him as I pressed my palm against his… hardened cock? Erect penis? Straining length? Whatever it was called, it was hard, big, and throbbing. 

I held his gaze as I ran my hand up and down carefully, silently asking him if I was doing it right. In response, he rolled his hips into my touch. His head tipping back, encouraging me to keep going.

“Do you–should I take it out now?”

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “Take it out, sweetheart. But gentle.”

I shifted closer until there was no space left between us. I literally dragged the cushion beneath me using my knees. It was both awkward and uncomfortable. Desperate for more physical contact. Like I could explode into a million pieces if I couldn’t rest my elbows on his thighs. 

My other hand curled around the waistband of his boxer, peeling them down before I took him out. It was my turn to get my breath hitched in my throat when I watched it sprung free. He hung heavily between his legs. He was bigger than I thought. The tip was red–almost purple–and already leaking.

I hesitated before finally reaching out. I swallowed thickly as I wrapped my fingers around him. Tentative and unsure. That made him let out another hissed through his teeth. 

“Does it hurt?” I asked as I let go of him in a heartbeat. 

“No.”

I was about to say something when he suddenly took my hand and spit on it. Again. He spit. On my fucking hand. Then he guided me–his fingers wrapped over mine, adjusting the grip before moving it up and down. Slowly and carefully.

He was rigid in my hand. The slick made him glide easily. I could feel him throb with pleasure when he finally let go and leaned back with a deep grunt. And I swear to God, that alone made me dripping wet.

“That’s my girl,” he groaned, hips rolling as he fuck himself into my hand. “My good fucking girl.”

That did something to me. I didn’t know what possessed me, but suddenly, I dipped my head. I glanced up at him for a split second, wanting him to stare right into my soul. I needed him to watch as I stuck my tongue out and licked the tip of his cock. 

His eyes didn’t leave mine. That smug smile tugged on the corner of his mouth and it made the whole thing feel even more dangerous. More… real.

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely audible.

His voice only fueled me even more. My tongue swirled around the tip, gathering something that I assumed was precum. It was salty, a little bitter, and uniquely so him. Raw and primal. The kind of taste that I would crave for the rest of my life. And I’m scared because I know I couldn’t get enough of it already.

Then I felt his fingers threading through my hair. At first he just held me still. But then he tugged, pulling my head forward as he began rolling his hips. Guiding his throbbing cock deeper in my mouth. Inch and inch.

The stretch was too much yet somehow not enough. My jaw started to ache and my eyes started to water. 

“You said you didn’t want me to fuck your mouth,” he taunted, his voice low and teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart. Open your mouth wider. Relax your jaw for me.”

He groaned when he pushed deeper. My fingers now dug into his thighs as I felt the tip hit the back of my throat. More than enough to make me sputter and gagging around the thick shaft.

“Breathe through your nose,” he groaned, starting moving my head up and down. “‘You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just like that.”

I glared at him yet still obeyed. I inhaled sharply, followed by tears streaming down my cheeks. To make things even worse, my head started to spin. He smells so fucking good. Something musky with a hint of aftershave. Paired with his weight on my tongue and those noises he made, I would do anything to make him feel good. 

Then he pulled all the way out. Agonizingly slow. With a loud pop and a string of saliva connected to my mouth. And just like that, he slapped every side of my cheeks with his wet cock. That was unbelievably hot. I clenched my thighs so hard for any kind of friction.

“Still good?”

“I–yeah. Good,” I nodded, couldn’t help but wipe the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hey, Dave?”

“He looked down at me, breathing just as heavy. “Yeah?”

I hesitated. My hand joined him and stroked his length, unsure with what I’m gonna say next. I mean, he gave me the impression that he was cool with basically everything. He won't be baffled if I ask something… weird, right?

“Have you done it before?” I chucked awkwardly. “Like, you know, when your wife was on her period or something?”

He stayed still for a beat. His brow ticked up but not in disgust. I think it was because he was surprised, which is completely understandable.

“Plenty of times, yes,” he said simply. “Why?”

Fuck. Why is he maddeningly calm about it? And yes, that was such a dumb question. I get that. I really need that level of calm he has right there.

“I, well, apparently this makes me all worked up,” I began, wiping my thumb over his leaking tip that earned me another deep grunts. “I was wondering if, you know, maybe I could get the exact same amount of pleasure by–I’m not saying riding your thigh like how I’m using my pillow when–”

I paused. Holy. Fuck. Did I just really almost told him about me that still humping a pillow while fantasized fucking someone? 

“–The point is,” I added quickly. “If you are okay with it–which I have strong feelings you already are–I want to do it. Ride your thigh, I mean.”

His mouth curved slowly. Not a smirk, not quite a smile. It was something feral. The way his eyes lit up made my skin burn.

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his jeans. Then lifting his hips slightly as he started to tug them down. I instinctively reached out to help. My fingers curled around the denim to ease it past his hips. Together, we worked them until the fabric pooled around his ankles. Baring the strong line of his thighs.

I held his gaze as I licked his left thigh–maybe  it was the right–with a flat tongue. I couldn’t find the exact words to describe the taste of his skin. But I knew it was the kind of taste that would make me feel homesick. And I wanted nothing more than to crawl back to him just to taste him again. 

“Downright hungry,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Bet you’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

I didn’t answer. Not really. I just nodded like a complete idiot. I was clung to him like he was oxygen and fumbled to unbutton my jeans. My hands shook too much to do it properly and the frustration made me let out a scoff. 

“Fucking stupid jeans,” I grumbled. “I just–I’m so horny right now. I can’t even think straight. But I can’t stop worrying about making a mess. I just simply don’t wanna bleed on this hotel’s expensive furniture. It’s disgusting and will cost you a lot of money to pay for the damage. And then you’re so–”

I stopped so I could catch a breath and gestured vaguely toward him. 

“–Extremely hot,” I continued, frustrated. “Like, you’re so hot for men your age. So handsome and so manly. You know what I’m saying? Also you’re older than me but not old… old. I’m starting to think maybe I do have daddy issues. Which I always swore I didn’t. I had an amazing father. Maybe he was absent most of the time but still provided me with everything. Maybe I’m into someone who’s much older than me. Fuck. That does scream daddy issues. And look at me now–on my period, disgustingly aroused, and finally about to do something I always find so fucking hot and terrifed at the same time because what if my family find out? I know my siblings will get it. But my mom? That complicated old woman is going to have the worst mental breakdown ever. And then she’s going to guilt trip me with the, ‘for nine months I’ve carried you in my wombs and all I asked is you to be a good daughter and this is how you pay me?’ speech.”

He just sat there, watching me. Then he grabbed my wrist and helped me stand. 

“I put the blame on that stupid espresso, by the way,” I laughed hysterically. “I know I shouldn’t drink that thing. I can’t even remember the last time I drank the whole cup alone. I’m not saying I hate coffee. I just hate the way caffeine makes my heart distribute adrenaline more than necessary. Like, right now, my heart is racing like crazy.”

Dave didn't say a word. He just moved, leaned down before peeled my jeans down my trembling legs along with my panties. Including the pad that stuck to my panties. Like he’d done it probably thousands of times before. 

Me? Oh, I was just standing there. Stepped out from my jeans, trying my best not to look at the used sanitary pad. Half naked. Horny as fuck. To make it even worse, my legs were quivering with need.

“You done?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

I glared. And of course, he smirked.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“I swear to God, Dave, if–”

“Shut the fuck up and sit on my thigh,” he demanded, his hands steady on my hips as my legs threatened to buckle. “Use me however you like.”

I blinked twice. He was impossibly patient with me right now. It made me want to kiss him so bad. 

I swung my leg over him awkwardly, straddling his thigh like it was instinct, even though my body screamed nerves and heat and way-too-many-feelings. The second I settled, I could feel the muscle flex underneath me, steady and warm and infuriatingly solid.

“Fuck,” I whispered. “You sure you're okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, hands steady on my hips. “Now use me.”

I started with experimental rolls. It felt good. No doubt. Especially when he flexed his muscles against my core. The delicious friction numbed all my senses right away But I had to look away, didn’t dare to look him in the eye while nails dug into his shoulder and humiliatingly drenched. It didn’t take long until my hips jerked against him with no rhythm. Just need. Pure, animal need. 

It was disgusting how loud it was. Every grind of my cunt against his thigh made this wet, squelching noise that filled the room. It was filthy and unrelenting. The living proof of how my body wanted him to hear just how desperate I was.

He reached up, brushed my hair out of my face like I was the most precious thing in the world. Then he leaned in and kissed my temple. Gentle. Warm. Like we weren’t doing something unhinged and filthy.

Then he took my hand and wrapped it around his cock, guiding my fingers like he’d done before. I obeyed without thinking, stroking him a bit faster than before. He was hard as fuck, twitching in my grip. The combined obscene slick noises only got louder. Filthy. 

“Fucking slut,” he muttered, right against my ear. “You hear that?”

My head snapped at him. My hips stuttered even when I was too stunned to speak. Did he just–

The word had slapped me across the face and kissed me right after. I absolutely hadn’t expected that. Not when he said that in a low, wrecked voice like he meant every syllable. More than enough to make me clenched hard and moaned loudly.

“Dave,” I panted, swallowing my pride. “Put your fingers inside me. I need more. Please.”

He raised a brow with that wicked look on his stupid face. I hated how fast I melted under that look.

With a deep, guttural sound that came out from his chest, he guided my hips up just enough to slip his hand between them. Two fingers immediately found the slick heat between my thighs. I was drenched from grinding on him like I wanted to melt into his skin.

His fingers slipped inside me. Two. No warm-up. No preamble. Just a stretch that made my head roll back. But he didn’t move them. Not yet. Instead, his thumb found that too-sensitive bundle of nerves and pressed just right.

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathed when the thick fingers pushed in. “This is what you wanted? My fingers buried in your bleeding, dripping cunt and my cock in your hand?”

I laughed, shaky and breathless. I twisted my grip, added a little pressure with my thumb right under the head. Just like I watched on–no, just like I knew he’d like. And when he let out another groan, deep and ragged, I knew I was right.

The next thing that happened was I pressed a kiss to his temple. Then his cheek. His jaw. His neck. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. It was like I’d been starving for him and now I couldn’t decide where to start. I just wanted to taste him. Mark him. Everywhere.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I caught a glimpse of a faint smear on his cheek.

“Oh my fucking God,” I whimpered against his skin. “Transferproof, my ass.”

He let out a breathy laugh. His fingers were still curling inside me, dragging his thumb over my clit and hitting the spot that made me see all the stars.

“You’re a mess,” he whispered, his fingers didn’t stop moving. In fact, they moved deeper.

“I know,” I whispered, kissing the stubble along his jaw.

“I didn’t plan this. I swear. I just wanted–”

Another kiss to his cheek.

“You’re so hot.”

One to his collarbone.

“It’s infuriating.”

I tasted salt. Sweat. Skin. Greed. 

“And you’re so good at this,” I said breathlessly as I pulled back a second, still fucking his fingers. “I can’t wait to have your cock inside my dripping cunt.”

His jaw clenched, eyes locked on me as I lost myself in the pleasure. His mouth fell open as he kept twitching in my grip.

“Fuck it. Dave, put it in,” I said without even thinking. “Just the tip. I want to feel it.”

I could feel he froze. His eyes searched mine like he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard. But I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. With cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair stuck to my temples, I bet he knew how bad I needed to feel more.

“You sure?” he asked carefully.

I nodded, already shifting so now I’m straddling him. Then I reached down and guided his cock to my dripping cunt. From the way he groaned–all ragged and guttural–when the thick head of his cock pushed past the folds, I can tell he was second away from losing his fucking control.

I rock my hips a little. Both of his hands fly to my waist. Just enough friction to make both of us shaking and moaning. He was even barely inside me. But enough to feel everything. Enough to feed my curiosity on this specific subject I wasn’t familiar with.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head dropping to my neck. 

He then spread me wider. Both of his hands gripped behind my knees before he pulled out. I was about to protest when he suddenly grinding the head of his cock against my swollen, and bleeding folds. Not pushing in. Just dragging. Nudging. Let me feel him–feel the weight, the pressure, the obscene friction.

I looked down. My breath hitched every time he passed over my clit. Utterly fascinated by the pornographic sight right under my nose. Watching him. Watching it. Wet noises that filled the room. Combined with his length glistened from my arousal and the blood.

Then he pushed in. I felt my walls clenched around the unwelcome intrusion. The stretch was a bit too much. More than enough for me to gasp loudly and grab his wrist.

“Dave, Dave, Dave!”

He stilled, completely. His breath was sharp, like he was physically fighting back every instinct to move. 

“You want me to pull out?” he asked, but somehow didn’t sound like a real question. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so tight. Squeezing me like a goddamn vice.”

“No, no, no,” I shook my head frantically. “Just–just stay. I want to get used to it. Kind of.”

I was pulsing hard around him. Uncontrollably. Which is not my fault since he was so fucking big and my body was rejected him instantly. But then as I clenched again, involuntarily, his hips bucked forward before both him and I could stop him.

Just a little. Maybe halfway.

I gasped, obviously. Eyes wide and mouth fell open from the sharp burn down there. My hands clawing at his shoulders like he’d just knocked the air out of my lungs.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut. “I didn’t mean to–fuck. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not the tip,” I protested. “I literally can feel your heartbeat inside me. Fuck.”

“I know,” he growled, frozen in place. “Goddamn it, I know.”

I glanced at him and caught him looking down. So, I followed his gaze, where he was halfway inside me. The mess was so obscene it made my stomach twist. His cock that coated in my arousal and blood split me open.

I don’t know for how long both him and I stay still while twitching and clenching involuntarily. I was still adjusting to the sensation of having him halfway inside me. While him busy running his hand up and down my spine to ease the discomfort he caused.

Let curiosity laced with desperation won over me, I rolled my hips. Slow. Experimental. Just testing out the way he fit, the way he filled me. Like, I wanted to prove it by myself–about how great sex is.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his hands went back to my waist to stop me. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” I asked breathlessly. “I was just testing the water. Looking for the right angle to make me feel good.”

“Because if you roll those fucking hips again, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from slamming all the way in,” he growled, voice wrecked and trembling. “We both know that’s not what you want right now.”

I blinked. It wasn’t what I wanted. The discomfort was real. It was sharp and intimate but so was the overwhelming heat. I was right at the edge even when I felt so many feelings. My thighs were sticky, messy, trembling, and desperate for a release.

Like he could read my mind, he dragged his thumb on my clit. Put just enough pressure to make me grind and flutter even more around him. 

“I–I’m gonna come,” I cried, almost in disbelief. “Dave–I’m gonna–”

“Do it,” he rasped, eyes locked on me while doubling his effort. “Let me feel it.”

When it hit–when the wave of orgasm crashed with a startled and helpless moan–he lost it right there. While my walls clenched down around him, soaked and hot, he came too. Unintentional. Unprepared. A low guttural noise tearing from his throat as he spilled rope after rope of his seeds inside me.

“Fuck,” he panted as pressing his forehead to my collarbone. “I told you not to move.”

I collapsed against him. Skin burning and gasping for air as the aftershocks rolled through me. For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, sticky skin against sticky skin, and then–

“Don’t move,” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything. Seems like he was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

“Don’t move,” I repeated. “I don’t want to get blood on the couch.”

He finally let out a breathless, strangled laugh. He nuzzled his head to the crook of my neck before pressing a soft kiss on my pulse. 

He barely managed to crack one eye open when he lifted his head. “Sweetheart, it’s already everywhere.”

Chapter 7: Debrief

Summary:

You're trying to process what just happened and Dave listened to it.

“Am I still qualified as a virgin?”

The water splashed as Dave shifted in the tub. His legs accidentally brushed against my hips under the scented water. It was too scented, actually. Thanks to me for pouring half the bottle of lavender and chamomile essential oil in. Still better than the metallic tang we were both trying to scrub off.

Which is why I dragged him in here with me. He was anything but happy about it. Yet he still joined me. No wonder if he shot me that look. Irritated from both my demanding ass and the stupid question, I guess.

I also insisted on sending our clothes to the laundry. It costs a lot but it was worth every penny. It has to since they use the kind of detergent and softener that makes guilt and blood vanish like magic. The housekeeper said it has to be done in less than thirty minutes. Basically that’s why I soaked in this tub with him. I just simply want to get rid of the iron smell that seems like it lingers on us while waiting for our clothes. Literally.

But at least I could relax knowing that there was no blood on the hotel’s furniture. After checking every inch of the couch surface, as well as the carpet, everything was clean. Only on the used sanitary pads and his naked thighs. Also his… manhood? Penis. I'm just gonna called it penis.

“You’re doing a little debrief now?”

“Debrief? No,” I scoffed. “I was just, you know, wondering. I mean, you were halfway through it and I felt the sting. As well as the burn when you… stretched me out.”

I paused. I started scooping the warm water and pouring it onto my bare shoulder, unsure with what I’m gonna say next.

“Believe it or not, it lingers down there,” I added, my voice trailed off. “I would say the sensation. Or the aftermath. I don’t know. Then your–what do you even call it? The sperm? Cum? Spent? Whatever you named it, it was dripping out of me when you pulled out. Like, streaming down to my inner thighs.”

He exhaled dramatically. His bare broad chest glistened with droplets heaved. Then he tilted his head aside. Like, he was trying to keep a serious look on his face. No. More like he was trying not to roll his eyes on me. Also, I’m such a hypocrite if I didn’t find him extremely handsome right now. 

“You always do this,” he accused, almost sounding like stating facts.

“In my defense, Dave, this is my very first time doing it and you’re aware of that,” I shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. “And I think there’s no harm if I ask you some questions since you’re acting as my–”

I cleared my throat harshly. Then I gestured my hand vaguely between me and him.

“–God, the language,” I sighed. “As my sex coach. Like, hypothetically speaking.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a low groan. Then he dragged a hand down his face. That’s when I noticed the faint smear of my lipstick on his jaw still there.

“Honey, I’m not in the mood to be part of your TED Talk on Schrödinger’s virginity right now,” he muttered. 

“Ouch,” I winced, couldn’t help scrunching my nose a bit. “That hurts.”

He cracked a smile despite himself. Not a full one, of course. Just the kind that twitched at the corner of his mouth like he was trying really hard not to act like a jerk right now.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said, almost gently. “I know you’re still processing the whole thing. I just don’t want you talking yourself into regret. You didn’t do anything wrong. And to answer your question, honey, I think half in still counts. At least to me.”

The water sloshed gently around us when I leaned in. My knees brushing his sides, my right hand clutching at his slick shoulder for balance as my thumb brushing gently over the faint smear on his jaw. The smudge was barely there, but something about it oddly bothered me. It almost feels like wiping a trace of myself off him. Or maybe it was just my OCD side finally kicked in.

He stilled for a second. I noticed a quiet flicker in his eyes. Maybe surprise, maybe curiosity. But then he tilted his head slightly, like he was indulging me, letting me take my time. 

“I’m just trying to process the whole thing,” I said, my thumb lingering on his jaw longer than necessary. “So I don’t have to feel bad or slut-shaming myself after doing this. And what's coming next.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the moment by saying something stupid. “That’s why you think out loud. You vomit word after word instead of admitting that you’re scared.”

I didn’t pull back. I just looked at him. He looked tired but solid. Like he wasn’t going anywhere. And what he just said? He meant every single word. He didn’t say it to hurt me. He said it like he already knew the truth and was just waiting for me to finally catch up. No romantic fluff, no drama. Just facts. Straight from his mouth like always.

I rolled my eyes as I pushed myself back. The water shifted with a soft splash as I leaned against the cold side of the porcelain. Then I gathered the bubble to cover my chest. Not because I don’t want him to see them. More like an instinct. Like a shield. 

“I’m not trying to make my virginity my entire personality, you know.”

He didn’t say anything. He just sat there, arms draped along the edge of the tub.

“It’s a big deal to me,” I continued, pouring another handful of water on my shoulder to avoid looking directly at him. “For me, it feels like I’m closing another chapter in my life. Once I’m done, I’ll open the new one. I don’t know what will happen after that but… yeah. I just feel like this is the right timing.”

There was a small silence. Not awkward. Just heavy with air that hadn’t yet settled. That’s when I decided to look up.  He was already watching me. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a beat too long. Then he looked back up at me again. Like he’d been holding his breath for hours and was still debating whether he had the right to exhale.

“The most important thing is that I wanted this,” I added. “I’m doing it with the person who knows exactly what he’s doing even though I don’t really know you. Like, you know, personally. And it’s actually good for me so I can explore this… part of me freely. I have to admit that you’re so patient with me. It’s also good for you to release the stress and the tension. Absolutely not to brag but you’re about to claim someone’s innocence too. Literally next Saturday. It’s basically a win-win situation.”

“That’s a whole monologue right there.”

“I’m sorry. Couldn’t help,” I smiled sheepishly. “Feels like I need to clear the air.”

He didn’t answer. He just reached forward and tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my temple, his hand didn’t drop right away. It lingered, fingertips tracing down to my jaw, stopping at the curve of my chin. 

There’s something swimming in his eyes. Almost looks like he has a question he wasn’t sure he should ask. Or he has something to tell but unsure how to say it out loud.

“What?” I asked softly. 

His other hand reached out. His thumb grazed my knee under the water. “If this mattered that much for you, I should’ve taken this slower.”

It hit like a sucker punch. Gentle but enough to knock the air out of my lungs.

He said it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like caring about me came naturally. Like I wasn’t difficult. No disclaimers. No backhanded compliments. No jokes to soften the truth.

The little voice in the back of my head told me this was probably how he talked to his kids. Calm and steady. Like he was trying to anchor them through the chaos of their own emotions. Maybe when they were crying over something they couldn’t explain. Or after they lashed out and he had to gently tell them that what they did wasn’t okay. That they needed to apologize, and not just say the words, but mean them. That they had to promise not to do it again and understand why.

It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t sugarcoated either. It was patient, deliberate, and weirdly soft. The kind of softness I didn’t know how to react to because I’d never have been spoken to like that. Not when I messed up. Not when I broke down. And maybe that’s why it hit harder than it should. 

And for a second, I didn’t know what to do with that. I braced myself for the usual cringe or the reflexive flinch. But it never came. Instead, it settled somewhere deep in my chest. Warm, terrifying, good–too good–all mixed became one.

That’s when I started to laugh it off. To fight back the stupid smile like an over-excited little girl creeped up on my face. Because if I let myself get used to that feeling, I might start wanting more. 

Craving it. Expecting it. And I’ve spent my whole life learning not to.

Before I could say something to deflect–anything to break the weight of his words–a sharp knock rattled the door, slicing through the air like a blade.

He let out a quiet sigh and shifted his weight before rising from the tub. Water cascading down his skin in slow and heavy drips. And I have to look away when heat starts creeping up to my neck. From my peripheral, he reached for the towel and wrapped it around his hips with the kind of ease that made it hard to argue.

“I’ll get it,” he said, stepping out from the tub. “It’s probably the laundry.”

Just before he turned to leave, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of my head. No fanfare. No comment. Just that small, grounding gesture that somehow said everything and nothing at once. Then he walked out, the door clicking softly behind him.

Left me alone with the scent of lavender, the sound of rippling water, and the unsettling realization that something so gentle could leave me this flabbergasted.

 

 

Notes:

I just wanna say that I was listening to Agape by Nicholas Britell and Miscommunication by Nico Muhly back to back, in loop while wrote this chapter.

Chapter 8: The Prep

Summary:

You asked the serious questions and kept the rest just for yourself.

“It was insanely cold that night, okay? I was representing the company at that stupid business retreat,” Sarah said, her hands gesturing like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. “The least I could do was show up. Smile and wave. Wave and smile. Whatever the fuck it’s called. Thank God I trusted my gut and packed my fur coat.”

“The leopard one?” I asked, taking a sip of my milkshake.

“The bright red one, honey,” she replied. “Heart-shaped. YSL. The one you said made me look like a walking Valentine’s Day chocolate box. Also earned me some side-eye from those who called themselves as animal rights activists. Fucking hypocrites, by the way. I mean, don’t act like you care about ethics when I’ve seen you adding extra bacon on your sandwich like it’s your last meal.”

Right. That coat. The one that revealed her darkest side. She was two seconds from committing murder when the sales associate told her it hadn’t been delivered yet. I’m glad it didn’t happen. The additional discount as their sincere apology really saved my life that day.

“Anyway, enough with my disastrous weekend,” she laughed. “How was yours?”

My heart skipped a beat to that very simple question.

I always can go with my go-to answer–same shit, different days. But I know that’s not the truth. She knows that too. I can’t lie to her. Not because of the friendship’s sentimental bullshit. More like… she can tell when I’m lying. Also I want to share everything’s going on in my head right now or I’m going to die.

“I think it was fine,” I said, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere near. “Barely holding it together.”

She stopped cutting her steak. The next thing happened was she put down the cutlery in the most dramatic way as she sucked in a breath. Then she shifted in her chair, straightened up before shooting me a knowing look with squinted eyes.

Which means a bad sign. A really, really bad one. That could translate as she didn't buy it. Also she wanted me to give further explanation. A detailed one. In other words, she was about to conduct an interrogation.

I took another sip from my drink. At this point I would do anything to buy myself some time. Or not make eye contact with her. Seriously, fuck him and fuck the NDA.

“Honey–”

“–Okay fine.”

I told her everything. About the NDA–revisions one. Including how I rewrote the entire thing like a lunatic because I couldn’t sleep from drinking too much espresso. About how he didn’t laugh at me or didn’t question a single clause. About how he guided me, how he didn’t flinch even when I looked like I was about to pass out from both the panic and embarrassment. About how–

“Wait. What?” she interrupted, nearly choking on her bottomless mimosa. “He put it halfway in when you asked for the tip?”

“It was an accident,” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Okay, maybe not. I mean, I know he didn’t mean to. He probably slipped away. He didn’t stop apologizing and kept asking if I wanted him to pull it out or not.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Keep going.”

I obeyed. I told her about the aftermath. Including the part of me checking on the hotel’s furniture and the money I spent for the laundry. Also a little debrief in the tub that left me flabbergasted. Basically the whole thing.

“And yeah, since the agreement went well this far,” I added quickly. “I’m going to do it this Saturday. The main event. Penetrative sex, penis in vagina. That’s why I’m eager to have lunch with you because my head is about to explode anytime soon from having a lot of questions.”

Sarah blinked at me. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. Then she did the thing–looked me up and down slowly with pursed lips. She was definitely judging me. I mean, look at her. She was channeling Miranda Priestly right now.

“I can tell Time to Say Goodbye playing in your head right now,” she said, deadpan. “Bocelli part or Brightman part?”

“Brightman part,” I muttered. “Sarah, please. Help me.”

She winced. “That bad, huh?”

I finally gave up. I abandoned all the table manners. I rested my elbows on the table and buried my face in my palms. I even groaned, fully aware of my grandma’s ghost scolding me from the afterlife.

“I just–look, I’m not saying I don’t want to help you,” she said gently, rubbing my shoulder. “I think it’s best if you talk about this with him instead. He’s the one fucking you, not me.”

I took a deep breath, mentally bracing myself before going back to this conversation.

“I’m scared,” I confessed. “And I’m shy. I mean, I’m a full-time adult, Sarah. I know my worth. I’m not that dumb. I’m above average. Fuck it. I’m smart and I’m hot. But when it comes to sex, like literally participating in an actual sexual intercourse, I have no clue. Even the porn and smut didn’t prepare me.”

She finished her drink, nodding like a weathered war veteran as gesturing to the waiter to bring her another glass. “Understandable.”

“Glad that you get what’s bugging me,” I smiled in spite of myself. “So yeah, birth control is right on top of my concern. I was thinking about pills–”

“–Nope,” she cut in. “Takes a while to build up in your system. A couple weeks minimum. Pills are like dating, honey. You commit first, suffer through the adjustment phase which is rough, and hope you don’t get fucked metaphorically before you get fucked literally.”

“Wow. That’s… bleak.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to womanhood.”

She paused when the waiter arrived with her fourth glass of mimosas. She thanked him, so did I, and waited for him to get lost from the sight. Then she grabbed the glass, took a sip before swirling the drink.

“Honestly? ECPs and condoms,” she blurted. “They’re a perfect combo. Just make sure that he’s wearing it before stuffing his penis into your vagina. You’re about to let this mysterious man rearrange your internal organs, right? He should at least participate in logistics.”

“By logistics you mean–”

“–Exactly,” she nodded. “It’s quite pricey. Anyway, you do know what ECPs are, right?”

Now it’s my turn to nod. “I do. You always carry them with you. And, um, yeah. He also paid for the hotel. I think he already covers the logistics part.”

“Great.”

I nodded again, slowly letting everything sink in. ECPs and condoms. That totally makes sense. Logistics. But of course, my brain refused to rest.

“There’s another thing, actually.”

She raised an eyebrow, still looking somehow uncomfortable. “Oh boy. What now?”

“What am I supposed to, you know, wear?” I asked sheepishly.

“To get fucked?”

“Not just that,” I scoffed. “Okay, fine. that. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. But I also don’t want to show up looking like I just rolled out of a group project at a university library.”

And just like that, the mood shifted in a second. The playful look on her face came back. No more solemn look or the curt tone.

“So, are we talking about the slutty look but keep it PG-13?” she teased. “Honey, that’s a tricky one.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “Like, I don’t wanna go with the white cotton panties for the innocent vibes. But I don’t wanna wear something sheer or too short or barely cover anything.”

“You know, for someone who insists she’s smart and hot, you really do have gremlin energy when you panic.”

I just gave her a knowing look. She was right. I was a disaster when I’m spiraling. I couldn’t agree more with that statement.

“Now that’s something I can help you with,” she said, already pulling her phone. “We’re going shopping.”

“Sarah, I asked for help,” I protested. “Not a makeover montage.”

“And you think I’m going to let you do the panic-buy at Zara?” she retorted. “Not on my watch.”

“Sarah–”

“–Get up, babe,” she said, standing up and chugging the rest of her drink before grabbing her bag like this was a mission briefing. “You want to feel good? You dress the part. Let’s find something that says, I may be new to this but I will ruin you emotionally if you disappoint me .”

***

I was right. The red slip dress was a disaster. Satin clung to all the wrong places, the straps were offensively thin, and the neckline plunged like it had a death wish. Even the hem barely covered my ass. Which was confirmed when I bent down to adjust the shoe straps and caught a glimpse of my own buttcheeks in the mirror.

“What are you doing?” she chuckled, tugging the fabric to cover my ass. “It looks good on you.”

“I can’t believe I just spent a hundred bucks for a set of lingerie and matching crotchless lacy tights,” I muttered, already peeling it off. “And I look like I walked out right from those cheap adult magazines. Absolutely not.”

“I thought you said you wanted to feel sexy.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I watched her dig through the remaining options through the mirror.

“I said I wanted to feel ready,” I said, finally. “There’s a difference. Sexy is what I think he wants. Ready is, you know, when I stop panicking every time I picture him looking at me.”

She sighed and reached for the black dress we tried earlier. It wasn’t the sexy kind of dress. The wrap-style bodice crossed over my chest and didn’t spill too much skin unless I wanted it. The short sleeves and the floor length wrapped me with a kind of casual authority. It was both polite and inviting at the same time.

“You think he’ll like it?” I asked, quieter this time.

“I think,” she said, her eyes met mine in the mirror. “If he has a brain, he won’t be looking at what you’re wearing at all.”

My stomach twisted to that. Why should she say it like that?

“You looked hot,” she added as she caught my discomfort. “Strategic, expensive, hot. You want him dumb and feral? Wear the fucking lingerie and the tights. It’s like him unwrapping his greatest Christmas gift.”

“You’re not helping.”

***

“Is everything okay?”

I looked up from my phone and there he was. Right in front of me. In a dark navy suit and looking ridiculously handsome. I swear to God, I didn’t expect him to arrive here this quick. I was expecting him to get lost first since this bakery is basically hidden in the middle of Chinatown since I didn’t drop him the pin. Or struggling to find a parking spot. 

To make it even worse, before I could react, I felt his large hand on my shoulder. I caught a whiff of his cologne and my mind went blank instantly. Then he gave a light squeeze and slid down to my upper arm as he leaned in. Like he was about to place a kiss on the top of my head. Maybe in my temple. I’m not sure. It was such an intimate gesture. But I’m glad he stopped himself.

“Is everything okay?” Dave repeated, this time softer. “Are you hurt?”

“I–yeah, everything is fine and nothing’s hurt,” I said, followed by a forced laugh. “Thanks for coming, by the way. Do you, uh, do you want anything? It’s on me. My treat. I’m the one who asked you to come.”

He didn’t say anything. He was just looking at me. His eyes moved wildly, like he was searching for something. I got the impression that if he could crack open my skull to find out what’s really going on in my head right now, he would do it in a heartbeat.

“Have a seat,” I added, tapping the empty space next to me as I scooted over. “And say something, please. You’re making me nervous.”

He unbuttoned his suit jacket before sitting down. Still didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked around. Observant both by nature and habit. The he shifted slightly, making his body facing towards me while his eyes still darted around before finally paying attention to me.

“What’s the emergency?”

“There’s no emergency,” I replied, my voice tight.

“You called,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You sound panicked. And you're just rambling.”

Bastard.

I mean, yeah, I panicked. Terrified, even. I was about to ask him to meet me when today is not Saturday. During lunch break at one of my favorite spots in town, to be exact. And I don’t think thirty minutes is enough for me to break down every single concern that has consumed my thoughts for the past couple days.

“I just, you know, want to talk. About the–let’s say the upcoming event.”

His face softened. The deep frown between his brows disappeared, replaced with the amused look that twinkle on his eyes.

I rolled my eyes and let out another dramatic sigh before pulling out my notebook from my bag. I simply could use the ribbon marker like normal people do. But here I am, flipping the pages aggressively because I was nervous and couldn’t think straight.

“I’m going to start with the possibility that I’m violating our agreement. Kind of,” I continued. “In my defense, I was overwhelmed and I needed some… guidance. That’s why I told my best friend about my situation. Including the halfway tragedy. And no, Dave, I didn’t tell her about your identity so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Our,” he corrected, quite but firm.

I frown at that. All of the sudden he cares about it? I know he does but he wasn’t that crazy about making it a thing. Let alone a big deal.

I shook my head slightly as I looked back at my notebook. I just simply want to focus on the subject.

“What you say goes,” I said nonchalantly.

“No,” he said, immediately–so fast it startled me. “Our agreement. Not just yours.”

I blinked. “Wait. You’re not mad? Like, at all?”

“Not at all,” he nodded. “Just… trying to figure out why you’d rather confess this like a crime instead of just telling me upfront.”

I opened my mouth, ready to say something to defend myself. But again, he beat me to it.

“You told her what happened. Fine. You didn’t tell her who I am. Fine. You needed guidance. Also fine. But you could’ve said, ‘Hey, I’m freaking out a little. Can we talk?’”

He paused. Me? I was too busy bracing myself for any kind of judgement.

“You didn’t need to throw yourself into a guilt spiral and act like I was going to sue you.”

“Okay, first of all, Sarah literally told me to talk to you and not her,” I scoffed. “She refused to give me her opinion because she said, quote, ‘He’s the one fucking you, not me.’”

He smiled. “Smart move. I liked her.”

“And second,” I continued. “I didn’t think I could ask. I thought you’d be pissed. That you’d think I was too immature or too emotional or–whatever.”

“I think you’re figuring it out,” he said, jerking his chin toward the notebook. “That’s not immature. That’s honest.”

“Fair point,” I sighed as I followed his gaze. “Anyway, like I said earlier, I needed some guidance. As in, birth control.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Birth control?”

“To prevent pregnancy since I want it raw for the first time. As in, I’m in my prime and your sperm can live up to five days in there if conditions are ideal,” I explained as I moved to the next page. “I do my research and the best option I have so far is birth control. The pills one. Pros: the thing is tiny so easy for me to swallow, no medical prescription, apparently it helps with the cramps and lighter bleeding during the cycle. Don’t forget to mention controlling hormonal imbalances. And for the cons are–”

I cleared my throat, took a quick glance at him to gauge his reaction. And yes, he listened to me carefully.

“–I have to take them daily, the side effects are horrible like nausea, headaches, or mood swings which I think I can deal with. Also it takes time to finally kick in. Like, at least a week. And I only have… what? Four days from now till Saturday, right?”

His eyes darted to my notebook again for a split second. Now his face is back to the unreadable mode. That alone is more than enough to make my anxiety spike.

“Or I can go with ECPs,” I added without missing a beat. “You know, emergency contraceptive pills. I still can get them without prescription and the side effects are the same as the regular pills. It’s quite pricey but I think it’s much better than getting pregnant from the so-called temporary pleasure. Am I right?”

The idiotic smile instantly disappeared from my face when I looked at him and he didn’t laugh at my joke. I mean, I know it was lame. But the least he can do was laugh, for fuck sake.

“Anyways,” I said after I let out a forced cough. “Sarah said I should consider the condom since precum contains sperm too. I mean, we can always go with the old-fashioned one. You know, when you pull out before ejaculation. But statistically, it’s 78% effective and with the precum situation, I think ECPs might be the best option? No?”

He was quiet for a moment. Too quiet. Long enough for the spiral to start spinning again in my head. Then he reached over and gently closed the notebook. 

“Hey. I wasn’t finished. It’s just the–”

He held up a hand and I shut my mouth.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he began, his voice soft. “You don’t have to turn it into a science project just to make yourself feel safe.”

He looked at me then–really looked–and all that unreadable intensity drained into something else. Something softer. Something close to pity.

“You don’t trust easily. I get that. But I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not here to leave you guessing.”

There’s another quiet moment. A long one. I don’t know what to say. More like… I have nothing left to say. Yet I feel obliged to–

“I had a vasectomy.”

I blinked again. Twice. “Wait. What?”

“After our second kid,” he added, voice steady, like he was listing something off a grocery list. “Molly, my youngest, she wasn’t planned. We weren’t ready and the pregnancy was rough. I almost lost both of them. Recovery was even worse. I felt like an asshole every time my wife winced just getting out of bed. So yeah, I handled it.”

It took a while for me to register.

“You got snipped?” I asked carefully.

“That’s one way to say it,” he confirmed. “Booked it a week after we brought the baby home. It was quick, actually. Ice pack, remote, back to work in three days.”

“Oddly efficient.”

He nodded once. Then as I was trying to piece together a coherent response, he leaned forward. Just enough for me to feel his breath fanning on my neck. 

“You do know how a vasectomy works, right?” he asked, tone flat but eyes dancing with something wicked.

“I swear to God, if this turns into a biology lecture–”

“–I assume you know the sperm factory’s still operational, it just doesn’t make deliveries anymore.”

My face felt hot. “Oh my fucking God.”

“Any more questions?” he asked, all calm and unaffected.

I opened my mouth. The words are already dancing on the tip of my tongue. But I closed it right away. For a second, I almost said it. The dress and lingerie. Also crotchless tights. But what came out was just a shrug. 

“Nope.”

 

 

Notes:

I have nothing to say. Really.

Chapter 9: The Joke

Summary:

That was... suspicious.

I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at my phone. I kept swiping from one photo to another. It was technically the same photos–me doing a mirror selfie and lifted the fabric just enough to show my legs. The only difference was one with the black crotchless lacy tights on and the other wasn’t.

Honest to God, I prefer without the lacy tights on. I’m not saying it’s uncomfortable. In fact, the material is really good. It’s soft and stretchy and doesn't itch. As it should since I spent a lot of money on that. It’s just–the fact that it’s crotchless still doesn’t sit well with me. I mean, I get it. I absolutely get the whole context. It’s about being sexy and seductive and… I don’t know. Appetizing? It’s on me. I couldn’t shake off the odd feeling of wearing it.

However, Sarah was right. She’s always right. I should keep the tights on because it looks good together with the overpriced bustier set. The plan is I’m going to give Dave a mild cardiac event with the grand reveal when the dress pools around my ankles.

So, I swiped to another photo. Still me doing a mirror selfie. But this time in lingerie with heels and makeup on. I’m not gonna lie, I looked like a goddess here. I looked hot and awkward at the same time. The red lipstick and the hair were fantastic. The lingerie hugged my curves perfectly And God, the heels. It really complements the look. The cherry on top. Or the false advertising on top. Who knows.

“You seriously gonna join OnlyFans?”

“What the fuck, Jared?!” I hissed, instinctively pressing my phone to my chest.

He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned against the edge of the shelf with a smug look. Don’t forget the way the tip of his ears turned bright red. That means he somehow feels uneasy for saw something that he shouldn’t. In this case, my private photos.

“Notice you’ve been staring at your phone for fifteen minutes,” he said, pointing his finger to me–maybe to my phone. “I thought you were having a stroke. And I think you look hot in that photo. Love the tights.”

“Oh, come on now. That’s disgusting,” I scoffed, putting my phone into my pocket. “I didn’t ask your opinion.”

“How about the OnlyFans thing?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Are you finally gonna sell your virginity to the highest bidder?”

“Fuck off.”

“What?” he laughed. “It was a joke, okay?”

I rolled my eyes. Of course, the joke. Well, more like his idea of a joke. 

Back when I got transferred to this department, Jared adopted me. Sort of. Not in a wholesome way, more in a… ‘you’re my responsibility now until you’re doing good at your job, so try not to die’ kind of way. He was the head of the department and I was the new kid who had no idea where the photocopy machine was. Naturally, we bonded.

Then came the office Christmas party. It was two years ago, I believe. An open bar with terrible lighting and a questionable playlist. After having too much wine and too little food, I started to share almost everything. I remember the part saying–half laughing, half tipsy–about never being laid and still waiting for my knight in shining armor.

I know. It was my fault. That’s why I only take a few sips when I have to attend that kind of event. Apparently drinking too much alcohol is more than enough for me to misplace my vulnerability and say something that I shouldn’t.

And yes, Jared–eyes gleaming with the kind of audacity only whiskey can summon–said something like, “I can be your knight in shining armor. If you sell your virginity on OnlyFans and let me be the highest bidder.”

I laughed because what else was I supposed to do?

It was awful. Objectifying. Definitely crossed the fucking line. But somehow it stuck in the most annoying way. Like a gum under a desk you can’t unstick. And if you’re able to unstick it, the trace will be there, leaving a stubborn and permanent mark.

To his credit, he actually noticed that I didn’t love the joke. I didn’t say anything but I didn’t have to. I think he caught the shift in my face. Or maybe from the beat that took too long before I laughed. The forced one, of course. So after that, he mostly let it die.

Mostly. 

Every now and then, when he’s feeling bold or thinks I’m in a mood to deal with him being a total jerk, he’ll bring it back. Lightly, like testing the waters. 

But he hasn’t said it like that in a long time. Not until now.

“Go fuck yourself,” I replied.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “That came out wrong.”

I didn’t say anything back. I just gave him a look. A death glare. Just enough to make him hesitate on whether to double down backpedal.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, running a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t say that. I knew you weren’t actually cool with it. You laughed though. I’m aware it’s not in the haha this is hilarious way. More like haha I’m dying inside but trapped in this work and keep things professional way. I guess, I definitely should stop, right?”

I glanced at him. That was alarmingly accurate.

“You have to know I wasn’t trying to humiliate you or–God. How are you gonna wording this? Commodify you?” he asked. “It was a stupid, drunk line. But also I think I was just flirting. Badly.”

I stared at him, unsure whether to be touched or mortified. Also, what the fuck was that? Did he just confess that he tried to flirt with me?

“Impressively bad,” I said, finally. “Using financially aggressive virgin auctioning as a pick up line is creepy, by the way.”

“No, shit,” he winced. “That sounds way worse when you say it.”

“Oh, it is worse.”

“For what it’s worth, I really do think you’re beautiful,” he said, giving me a sheepish look. “I just, you know, didn’t know how to say it back then without sounding like a creep.”

“You did sound like a creep,” I replied without missing a beat.

“Also true,” he agreed. “And I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” I nodded. “Just… never bring that stupid joke again. Like, ever.”

He gave thumbs up. 

Now what?

“Anyway,” he began, his ears now fully red. “There’s this old Bollywood film. Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham . Did I say it correctly?”

I bit back a smile. So, he does remember that Bollywood films are my guilty pleasure. Especially the OG one from the late 90’s to early 2000’s. The exact same film, which has two hundred minute runtimes and contains unrealistic sequences when the main characters sing and dance in a bunch of beautiful places all over the world when they’re falling in love. Don’t forget the tear jerker and gut wrenching ending when everybody was crying and cheering at the same time. Dare to say that’s very thoughtful of him. 

“That’s basically one of my comfort films. Why?”

“It’s going back to theaters for its 24th anniversary. Just one weekend–this weekend, actually,” he said casually. “I thought maybe we could go this Saturday since I know you’re not going anywhere. As in, this is my over for peace.”

Jared apologizing and asking me to watch a 2000s iconic Indian romantic tragedy on a big screen wasn’t on my bingo card today.

“You know that it’s almost four hours long, right?” I asked nonchalantly. “It’s like you watch two regular, mediocre action movies in one sitting.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “It’s not that bad. As long as you stay by my side.”

“Did you just flirt with me?” I asked, smirking.

“Testing the water,” he confessed. “Actually, yes. I made my move now. I can bring you flowers and take you to the Last Page. Get you all the blueberry cheesecake they have if you want.”

Oh, wow. Now both my favorite bakery and my favorite cake have entered the conversation. He really was trying so hard to make peace. Or seduce me.

I wanted to say no. I should’ve said no. I already have plans this Saturday night with Dave. That means I’m going to spend Sunday doing nothing to recharge my energy. I read somewhere in a women's lifestyle magazine that your body is going to sore after having sex. Combined with the fact that this is gonna be my first time, I think it’s obvious the pain is leveling up. 

But there was something about the way he offered it. Not pushy, not smug. Just weirdly sincere. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t expect forgiveness. Just a seat next to me in a dark theater where I’m gonna explain everything that happened in the film for the entire duration. Also flowers and blueberry cheesecake if I want.

“How about moving it to Sunday?”

His face hardened slightly. “Why is that?”

“I have a date,” I shrugged. “Sort of.”

He looked at me, looked down to the visible bulge on the pocket of my trouser. Then looked back up at me. 

“Okay,” he said eventually, slow and careful. “Are you going to wear that to the date? The lingerie, I mean.”

Well, shit. I don’t like this already.

“Of course not,” I lied. “It’s just a casual thing. My friend set me up with one of her friends. And yes, Jared, I do have other friends besides you.”

“Anyone I know?” he asked, way too casually for someone who was clearly not being casual.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Actually, you do know him. It’s Dave York. Yes, that Dave. The same person you hate so much. We met through a dating app. In fact, we have an agreement where he’s going to help me explore the untouchable territory in my life. And he’s about to fuck me this Saturday. And yes, I know he’s married. He’s in an open marriage so it’s not a big deal. Also, yes, I’m going to wear that to the date if it’s qualified to be called a date. That’s why I asked you to move it to Sunday.

“I doubt that,” I said, scrunching my nose a bit.

“Just casual, right?” he asked again. “Nothing serious?”

“Absolutely not.”

That was true. It wasn’t serious in the traditional sense. It was just honest, I would say. Straight to the point. No flowers. No waiting. No messy conversations about expectations or heartbreak or what this means. Both I and Dave could walk away once we achieve our goal. Or stay if I want to explore it even further.

“Lucky bastard,” he muttered. “Sunday, then.”

“Sunday,” I confirmed. 

I waited until he walked off before pulling my phone out again. The mirror selfie stared back at me. Same lingerie. Same lipstick. Same me, trying so hard to look like the Bond girl.

What Jared said–the apology, the flowers, the movie–it should’ve been nice. It was nice. Thoughtful, even. But I couldn’t shake it. I mean, the timing. The precision. Why now?

I wasn’t naive enough to call that a coincidence. But I also wasn’t ready to call it out for what it might be.

Maybe he felt threatened. Maybe he just hated the idea that I could look like that for someone who wasn’t him. Okay, that one is hilarious. I’m just one of his coworkers. He never saw me in that way before. Fuck. Most of the time he made fun of me. 

Maybe he remembered the joke and finally realized he’s not the only man I could’ve taken seriously if I’d wanted to. That even sounds so much worse.

I don’t know. But I do know one thing. The timing is suspicious. and I really don’t like being a reaction. 

 

 

Notes:

I love drama. If you noticed it, I've been left the crumbs here and there. And since I have so much freedom in writing fics, I'm gonna make this super messy. Oh, one more thing, I was thinking about writing Joel Miller fic. I've been sketching the outline here and there. It's gonna be full of yearning, dbf kinda trope. So, should I write it now like back to back or get Kindred done first and jump into What We Want, We Can't Have. Oh, shit. Did I just spoiled the title?

Chapter 10: No Worries

Summary:

He’ll guide you and walk you through it

“Is this because of what I said the other day?”

I cracked an eye open. I forgot that I’ve been sitting in Sarah’s car for a long time without saying anything. It’s probably because both of us are collectively getting nervous about what’s going to happen once I walk into the hotel. Way too nervous. 

“What other day?”

“You know, when you came to my place with the chicken soup,” she said, voice shaking. “About dying as a virgin thingy. I can’t really remember. I don’t think it was chicken soup either. I was pretty wasted that night.”

I looked at Sarah and for a second, I forgot how to smile. My heart ached. I had never seen her in this state before. Panicked and on the verge of losing her cool. Even all the colors were drained from her face. She truly, completely cares about me.

I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Part of it, yes. The other part is a hundred percent on me. I want to do it since I found the right person who has like… unlimited amounts of patience. Also he knows what he’s doing. Or how to handle me. Sort of.”

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know,” she insisted. “Let’s do something way more fun, yeah? We can still get the fuck out of here. Go bowling. Or go to the funfair. Even better, we can go to the beach and swim in the ocean. Completely naked! Just say the word.”

“Sarah, I’ll be fine–”

“–The first time always hurts like motherfucker,” she cut off, now her face full of terror. “Really hurts, okay? I’m dead serious. I couldn’t walk straight for days after my first time. And it took so many attempts for me to reach my first orgasm. The vaginal one.”

She paused, darting her eyes away. Fixing the air freshener that hangs awkwardly like a noose off the rearview mirror.

“Listen, honey, I just simply don’t want you going through all the misery with the man I don’t even know his name is–let alone see his fucking face–just because of me being an insensitive and insufferable bitch.”

“You’re not,” I said, my voice surprisingly gentle. “You’re just, dare I say, being you. Encouraging me to do something that I should do as usual. Don’t forget the brutally honest part. And I got used to it from the day you adopted me as your friend back in college.”

She sniffled, then reached into the passenger seat and grabbed her tote bag. She pulled out and handed me the panic kit.

It was the unspoken thing between me and Sarah to show that we care for one another. It began with me giving her a snack bar and a bottle of water in a ziplock because she was spiraling down for the internship interview because I was bad at saying something soothing or comforting. We weren’t that close back then but decided to become a roommate because we were broke as fuck.

And just like that, it became a routine. Every time Sarah or I got anxious over something, we gave something that helped us relax, even just for a bit.

Instead of the regular items–various snack and candy bars, aspirin, or a mini bottle of tequila–I found a bunch of interesting things when I opened the ziplock. Two condoms, a tiny tube with pills that I assumed were ECPs, a whistle, taser, burner phone, a pair of black latex gloves, a trash bag that folded neatly and secured by washi tape so it didn’t take too much space, and a folding knife. It wasn't a panic kit. It was a freaking out and overthinking kit.

I couldn’t help but smile like an over-excited little girl. “Seriously?”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she pulled me into a hug. The biggest hug she ever gave me. Like I was gonna go for a long period of time.

“Remember what I told you earlier, okay,” she warned. “Say no if it’s too much. Say stop if it feels weird. Call me if you need a ride home. No matter what time. Absolutely no judgment. I’ll be here in a second. You hear me?”

“”Heard,” I nodded, shoving the panic kit to my own bag.

“And go pee right away once you’re done. Trust me, honey, you don’t wanna get an UTI,” she continued like I wasn’t listening to her this whole time. “Also don’t say tada when you take off the dress and reveal the lingerie. Nope. No question. Just don’t.”

I shot her an offended look. What’s wrong with saying tada ? It’s not like I’m gonna say it anyway. The tension really got into her nerves, I guess.

“And if you hesitate, just back off,” she added. “Seriously. Even if you’re already halfway naked or whatever, just fucking back off. You’re not everything bagel from Denny’s. You can cancel.”

Now the smile on my face has blown into an idiotic one. “Yes, Mom.”

She wiped the corner of her eyes jokingly and laughed through it. But then her eyes went really glassy.

“God, is this what it feels like when a mom drops their kid off on the first day of school?” she scoffed. “Except the school is a hotel and the kid’s is my bestie who’s about to have sex for the first time with a complete stranger she met online?”

“You’re being dramatic now,” I said, rolling my eyes as I got out of her car.

“Go now before I change my mind and kidnap you,” she retorted, blowing too many kisses before I close the door.

***

Dave opened the door at the second knock. It almost felt like he’d been standing right behind it the whole time. No waiting. No delay. And yeah, for a split second, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He looked… breathtaking. Just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up with black pants hanging just right on his hips. And barefoot. And then that face. I swear to fucking God. Sharp jaw, faint stubble, and those unreadable eyes that always seem to know more than they should. His hair was tousled in that effortless way that probably wasn’t effortless and somehow that only made it worse. Or better. I hadn’t decided yet. And yes, that was enough to knock the air out of me. 

I shook my head slightly, dragging myself back to reality as I held up the ziplock.

“My best friend gave this to me.”

He blinked once. His gaze flicked down, then back up, and for a moment he didn’t say anything. Just a slight lift of his brow. Then his eyes trailed down to the panic kit in my hand.

“Should I be worried?”

“She insisted on everything since she watched too many crime documentaries in her free time,” I explained, handing it to him before stepping inside. “I didn’t tell her that you had a vasectomy. That’s why there’s condoms and pills.”

He took the ziplock and held the door open like nothing had happened. But then I caught the way his jaw flexed. Like… I don’t know. Like he was trying not to say more.

He closed the door gently behind me. For a moment, both him and I just stood there. The silence was thick and sticky, like we were both trying to breathe in the same air.

“Didn’t peg you for the heels-and-dress type,” he said, jerking his chin towards me. “You look beautiful.”

I wasn’t trying to be a bitch, but beauty wasn’t enough. Honest to God, I expected more. I spent hours getting ready just to look like this. I deserve something more grandiose than just being called beautiful. 

Should I tell him about how long I stood in front of the mirror, hands awkwardly suspended mid-air during styling my so it’d fall perfectly and effortlessly over my shoulders? Or about how many tries it took to get my eyeliner even? Or about the fact that I can’t actually breathe because Sarah laced the bustier too tight just to make sure it accentuated my figure and pushed my boobs up like some kind of period drama?

Nope. Absolutely not.

“Thank you,” I said, followed with a forced smile.

“You okay?” he asked without missing a beat.

I nodded. “No.”

His brow furrowed. yet he didn’t say anything. All he did was take my bag, set it and the panic kit on the couch right next to his own belongings–leather handbag and suit jacket that draped on the armchair. Then he walked to the minibar and poured me a glass of water from the pitcher. Slid it toward me like I was in the middle of trial and this was his only defense.

I took a sip. My hands were shaking.

“This doesn’t have to happen tonight,” he said carefully. “Or ever. Just say the word.”

“What? No,” I replied quickly, didn’t dare to look him in the eye. “I mean, I know. That’s very considerate of you. But I want it to happen tonight.”

When I didn’t hear anything, I looked at him. He just stood there, arms crossed as he waited for me to say the rest. Everything that I needed to say. 

“Dave, I’m scared,” I confessed. “And I might cry. I might say something weird. Or start apologizing for everything mid-way. Or forget how to breathe like a normal person. And I can’t breathe because the bustier is too tight.”

He finally moved. Just a little. Close enough to take the glass from my hand and set it aside.

“Then I’ll remind,” he said quietly. “That you’re not alone. That we’re doing this together.”

Oh, fuck. His voice was steady. Soft but not condescending. Like he’d already mapped out every irrational fear I’d buried in my brain was prepared to dig me out of it gently.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.

“No worries,” he replied, brushing my hair away from my face, his fingertips lingering just behind my ear. “I’m here. I’ll guide you and walk you through it.”

He was right. He’ll guide me and walk me through it. Plus, I’d practiced this moment in my head way too many times. I imagined it would be like in the movies. Sexy, slow, and maybe a little smirk as I peeled the dress off and revealed what was underneath.

While in reality, my hands were trembling. My heart was hammering against my ribcage. My mouth went dry. And my brain? Traitorous.

Come on! I can do this!

I took a step forward, hand reaching for his forearm as I closed the distance between us. My stomach did that stupid flipping thing when I felt his other hand slide around my waist. His palm rested on my lower back as he pulled me in close. So close. Then he leaned down before gently pressing a kiss against my forehead.

And I laughed. Fucking laughed!

“I’m sorry,” I coughed a little, trying to clear my throat. “God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to–I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t move. In fact, his hand stayed exactly where it was. Warm and steady like he was anchoring me in place.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’re allowed to be nervous. Doesn’t mean you don’t want it.”

His fingers now brushed along my jaw. Slow and deliberate as he traced the shape of me. He hooked one finger under my chin and tilted my head just enough for me to meet his gaze. His eyes scanned mine like he was trying to read between the panic.

“You don’t have to perform. I already want you.”

I feel like all the breath I’d been holding finally left my lungs. That really broke something in me. In a weirdly good way, of course.

He leaned in again. Slower this time as he gives me every chance to pull away. Surprisingly, I didn’t. His lips grazed mine at first. Almost like testing. No rush. No hunger. Just lips on mine. Tentative and slow. A question with no pressure to answer. His hands didn’t roam. They were still where they belonged. Waiting.

My heart didn’t race. It thudded. Loudly. Like it wanted to break something inside my ribcage to make room for this.

I kissed him back, clumsily. Not because I didn’t know how to do it. God, I’m not a saint. More like everything inside me was shaking and trying not to show it. I tangled my fingers on his shirt first and held on. Then looped my hands around his neck when he deepened it without hesitation.

Confident. Focused. His mouth told me everything his words didn’t–you’re safe, you’re wanted, and I’m not going anywhere. And I let myself melt into it. Into him.

“You okay?” he asked against my lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I think so,” I said, because it was the truth.

“Still want to do this?”

I nodded.

“Say the words.”

Holy. Fuck. 

“I want this,” I told him, cradling the side of his face. “I want–I want you.”

He kissed my shoulder. My collarbone. His hands slid lower, fingers grazing the fabric of my dress like he was figuring out where it started and how fast he could get it off without rushing. His touch asked for permission and it made my head spin.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against the sensitive pulse on my neck.

“You already did,” I whispered back, fingers tangling to his hair.

He pulled back and looked down at me. I noticed that smile. It was barely there. Just the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back something smug. And then his hands found the zipper.

I heard it more than I felt it. The slow, deliberate sound of it coming undone. I appreciated his effort not to yank or fumble. He took his time like unwrapping something precious. The dress slipped off my shoulders and down my arms in one fluid motion, pooling at my feet. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until he stepped back just enough to look. Like he was taking inventory of every inch I’d just offered him.

Don’t say tada. Just don’t. Fucking. Say it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re full of surprises, sweetheart.”

I didn’t say anything. Trying not to because I know I’m about to say something stupid like, well, tada. My skin was on fire and my thoughts were static. But when he cupped my face again for another kiss–like, a real kiss that laced with urgency–I kissed him back like I meant it.

His hands roamed all over me. Seemed like he was completely done with pretending to be patient now that I’d given him the green light. He walked me backward, never breaking the kiss. His fingers grazed my spine as he unlaced the bustier. Slow and careful.

My fingers fumbled as I tried to unbutton his shirt. Then he quickly caught my wrists, trying to stop me. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low and breathless. “You don’t have to.” 

I looked up, dazed and confused. “I want to.”

“I know,” he muttered, bringing my hands down gently like he was grounding me. “But tonight’s not about me. It’s about you, sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you.”

Before I could argue, he leaned in again and captured my lips in a searing kiss. Slower this time as he had all the time in the world and I was the only thing worth spending it on. Combined with what he said earlier, the words landed with the kind of weight that made my knees go soft.

As if it wasn’t torturing enough, the bustier finally came loose. I let out a shaky gasp right into his mouth. Relief, release, and something close to gratitude curling in my chest.

He slipped his fingers beneath the loosened bustier and tugged it upward, careful not to yank my hair in the process. I raised my arms instinctively, letting him peel it off over my head. It caught briefly against my ribs before sliding free and I breathed in greedily. 

He dropped it to the floor without looking away from me. And just like that, suddenly I was bare. Exposed in a way that I couldn’t understand. My arms twitched, ready to cover myself. But I didn’t. Not in front of him or when I was disgustingly aroused.

His hands found me again, warm and steady as his palms cupped the weight of my breasts. I noticed the way his eyes darkened when he kneaded gently. Then he dipped his head and took one into his mouth while he teased the other one by rolling the sensitive buds between his thumbs and index fingers.

My knees nearly buckled. A gasp slipped out from the pleasure shooting straight to my core. My hands grabbed his shoulders, holding onto something to ground me.

He didn’t let me linger in the moment too long. His hands slid down to my hips and guided me backward with a firm push. Step by step until the back of my knees hit the bed. I sank down and he followed.

“Lie down,” he said, voice low and coaxing.

I didn’t even think. I dropped back, heart in my throat, and thighs already parting on instinct.

He stood over me, started unbuttoning his own shirt. His eyes were roaming all over me, like he was taking a mental snapshot. When the shirt hit the floor with a soft rustle, I forgot how to breathe.

He wasn’t chiseled. Thank fucking God. No six-pack. No sharp V-line. Just a broad chest dusted with hair, a line down his stomach that hinted at strength without begging for compliments, and arms that looked like they knew how to hold someone steady. 

He was the true definition of dad bod. A hot one. At least to me. He looked like a man who used his body for things. Not a showpiece but a tool. And yeah, that made him even harder to look away from. 

Then he followed me down. He slid a hand along my thigh, his fingertips tracing the soft lace of my tights. The next thing happened was he hooked a finger beneath the band of my underwear.

“These are nice,” he murmured, circling his thumb on my waist before looking back at me. “For me?”

I nodded, cheeks burning.

“Good,” he said. “I like that you thought about me.”

He eased the fabric along with the tights down my legs slowly. I got the impression that he wanted to see every inch as it was revealed. No rushing. Just deliberate, steady movement and the occasional brush of knuckles that left goosebumps in their wake and made me gasped for air.

“You don’t have to hide,” he said when I instinctively pressed my thighs together, sliding his hands along the outside of them as urging them apart. “I want to see you.”

I let him. God help me, I fucking let him.  

He bent down and pressed a kiss to the inside of my knee. Then another higher up while he was taking off the high heels. Oh, boy. I literally forgot about the heels–that I was still wearing those.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, tossing the heels carelessly to the floor.

I opened my mouth, ready to say something defensive because I hate when someone calls me out like that. But he stopped me with a look. 

“Don’t,” he said. “You don’t have to explain everything.”

He continued kissing my legs again. This time the inside of my thigh. Slower as he was testing how much I could take before I squirmed. Flash news: it didn’t take long enough.

His right–maybe left–hand pressed gently against my hips, holding me still. He felt warm against my bare skin and the pressure he put on just felt so right. His other hand palmed my ass. Squeezed and kneaded all of the plush flesh before dragging his thumb to my clit.

“Dave,” I sighed, arching into his touch as he circled his thumb in a maddening phase. 

I squeezed my eyes shut when he traced the slick fold with two fingers. My hand gripped the sheets beneath me when he pushed two fingers into my entrance. It was quite embarrassing when I bucked my hips up, taking his finger as deep as I could.

“That’s it,” he murmured when I moaned loudly as his fingertips reached something sinful inside me. “Just feel it. Don’t think.”

I wasn’t. My mind had gone. Quiet, blissfully blank, and only filled with the sensation of his fingers. His voice anchored me in place like he was unraveling me on purpose.

He pulled his finger from me and hooked my left leg on his shoulder. I propped myself on one elbow, ready to ask him to put his finger back inside. Maybe ask him to put my leg down because it was such an awkward position when he dipped his head between my thighs.

His mouth hovered, warm breath teasing before he buried his tongue between the sensitive folds. It was obscene from how he kissed and lapped at my dripping cunt like a starved man. It was exactly what I watched in porn. What I pictured in my head when I read those nasty and filthy novels. It was much, much better than I’d imagined.

My legs started to shake when his tongue found the sensitive bud. He circled it once, maybe twice before sucking it hard. The sounds he made were loud and sinful. More than enough to make me clenched hard around nothing.

“Oh, Dave,” I sighed, my other hand reaching his head to tug at his hair. Maybe keep him as close as I can. I don’t really know.

He didn’t stop, didn’t back off. In fact, he doubled the effort. His hand was now on my stomach when I writhe and lifted my hips to grind against his mouth. Combined with his stubble teased my sensitive skin, it happened. 

My thighs were shaking around his head as he pulled one of the greatest orgasms I’ve ever had in my entire existence. My hips rocking up against his face throughout the high as I chased more and more from him. And he just kept going. Held me through it, drew it out until I was boneless and wide-eyed and completely undone.

“Fuck,” I whimper when he finally pulled back and caught his face glistening with my mess. “That was–how do you even do that?”

He didn’t answer my question right away. With that smug look on his face, he crawled on top of me. Hovering me, he leaned in and kissed me. A deep and opened mouth, like he wanted me to taste myself from his lips. 

“Still with me?” he asked against my lips.

“I–yeah,” I nodded, my voice came out louder than I meant to. “I still want this.”

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Need a break?” he asked again, cradling my cheek with his knuckles. “Are you thirsty?”

“Maybe take this off so we can keep going?” I asked him back, tugging at his pants playfully.

He kissed me once more, biting my lower lip before pushing himself up with one hand.

I watched him move. I watched the way his body unfolded above me like gravity meant nothing. Then he stepped back from the bed, eyes still on me as he reached for the button of his pants.

No flourish. No showmanship. Just precision.

The fabric slipped down his legs in one clean motion, pooling at his feet before he kicked it aside. Boxers, too. Just a man undressing because he meant to and here I am, found it somehow theatrical.

And God forbid, I couldn’t not look.

Not because of size or shape or any of the stupid things I used to imagine when I thought about this. It was simply because of him. Because he wasn’t hiding anything. Because this was the very first time I saw him fully naked.

I watched him spat into his own hand and pumped his cock. The tip was angry red, leaking and begging for release. He tilted his head with a deep growl rumbling in his chest when he wiped the head with his thumb and my breath caught in my throat.

I shifted on the bed, legs curling slightly as I took a pillow and placed it right in front of me. Barely covering my breast or my dripping cunt. But enough to make me less embarrassed. Trying to seem casual, like I wasn’t staring. Like I wasn’t already wondering what it would feel like when he was back on top of me. This time with nothing between us.

He came back slow. Knee to the mattress. Then the weight of him pressing into it. Into me . 

He hovered over me. His breath steady and I could feel his eyes scanning my face as he analyzed every microexpression. I also could feel him down there. Hard, heavy, and nestled right where I knew this was going.

His hand slid between us, guiding himself. I subconsciously spread my legs wider, making more room for him. I felt the first press and sucked in a sharp breath. Not pain yet. Just the awareness of what was about to happen.

He paused.

“Breathe,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

I tried. I really did. But as he pushed in, notching the tip to my clit and dragged it along the slick fold to cover his length on my arousal, the pressure bloomed fast and deep. My hands clenched. Eyes shut. It wasn’t unbearable. It wasn’t easy either. And he didn't even try to put it inside.

He froze immediately. Hands bracing, voice soft. “Hey. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I was just nervous.”

“Okay,” he said, calm as ever. “I’ve got you. You’re doing great. Just breathe through it.”

His thumb brushed a slow line along my ribs as he finally pushed in. It felt so much bigger than the halfway tragedy. Too much. Like my body was trying to decide if it could actually do this.

“Dave, Dave, Dave!”

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathed heavily, one hand moved to cradle my jaw to grounding me again. “Breathe. It’s going to feel tight at first. Your body’s still learning me.”

I let out a shaky laugh. Somewhere between mortified and relieved.

“It just–it hurts,” I confessed.

“I know, baby. I know,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Your body’s opening up for me and I’m not going anywhere until you’re ready to take all of me.”

Holy. Shit.

I exhaled and he eased in another inch. My hand flew to his shoulder, digging my nails to his skin like I was transferring the discomfort to him. No use but worth trying. Still uncomfortable. Still burning from the unwelcome intrusion. Everything was clenching and throbbing violently down there. 

Yet he was patient. He was giving me time, checking me in, waiting for the exact moment I stopped flinching.

When I finally loosened under him, he pushed in deeper. I winced. Hard. Then I felt his lips on my temple.

“I feel so full,” I said, voice shaking. “So filled. Is everything there? Or there’s still more?”

“That’s everything,” he whispered. “That’s the hardest part. You’re doing so fucking good.”

I opened my eyes and met his gaze. Completely open, completely there.

He was fully inside me. Absolutely didn’t fit there, hot, and throbbing. I was glad that he didn’t move–not right away. He just stayed there, anchored in place. For someone who’s been doing this for decades, I bet he knew my body needed a second to adjust, to understand that this was actually happening.

His forehead rested against mine. His breathing matched mine. At that moment, everything started to slow down. The panic, the tension, the noise in my head. It all dropped out like a dial being turned down. 

“You’re doing good,” he said again, quieter this time.

And I believed him. Also I hated how much those words made me want to cry. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was the honesty. The calm. The way he wasn’t treating me like I was fragile but still looked at me like I mattered.

He started to move. Not a deep stroke. Not yet. Just subtle, rocking motions. Letting me feel the friction, the weight, the raw realness of being filled for the first time. The connection as he coaxes my body into it. Not forcing anything.

I gasped. But it wasn’t from pain this time. It was from the stretch. The sensation. The sudden realness of him moving inside me. 

His hand found mine. Fingers threading through mine against the mattress.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said, somehow not sounding demanding. Just… curious. Attentive.

“Still a lot,” I confessed, my voice cracked when I said it.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked gently and it split something open in me.

“No,” I shook my head frantically. “But keep going. Slowly. Please .”

He did. Every movement was deliberate. He pulled back just a bit, then pushed forward again. The pace was almost torturously careful. My thighs trembled around his hips. My hands gripping his shoulders like I’d fall apart if I let go.

I wasn’t gonna lie. It still hurt. But underneath the discomfort, I felt something else was building. Warmth, pressure, and something else I couldn’t put my fingers on. Something that made my breath catch in a whole different way.

He watched every flicker of my expression like it told him what to do next. I felt one of his hands slide down, gripping the back of my thigh, and guiding it up higher until I was nearly folded beneath him.

“Better?”

My eyes glued on him and nodded. This time, it wasn’t a lie.

He started to move again. Still slow and careful as he was learning me second by second. The stretch still ached but it no longer felt like too much. Just weirdly a lot. Intense and consuming. 

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the tears slide down into my hairline. His hand left my thigh and moved to my face again. His thumb brushed the wetness away from my temple gently.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let it happen. Let it be what it is.”

God. That wrecked me. First, he wasn’t asking me to perform. He wasn’t waiting for me to moan or fall apart or act like it was everything I’d ever dreamed of. He was just… here. Inside me. On top of me. With me.

My body began to adjust to the rhythm. The slide of him pushing back in deeper now. The sting was still there but dulled. Muted by the way his thumb kept circling just under my eye. By the way he kissed the side of my jaw. By the heat pooling low in my stomach, tighter every time he moved.

I let out a sound. Half gasp, half sob.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You’re doing so good.”

Fuck . The word hit harder than it should have.

His pace shifted just slightly, testing how much I could take. My body finally–finally –began to meet him halfway. I could feel the difference. Less resistance, more pull. That slow build where pressure blurred into something warmer, thicker, and realer.

My hands were on his back now. My nails were dragging along his bare skin, not to urge him faster but to hold on.

He kissed me on the lips again. A friendly reminder that he was there. I kissed him back, shaky and open, My hips tilted up on theirs and I let him go just a little deeper. It followed by my body starting to tremble from the sheer intensity of trying to hold it all together.

Oh yeah, he noticed. He slowed, nearly stopping. His breath was hot and unsteady. “You okay?”

“Too much,” I nodded, my legs felt like they were about to give out beneath him. “Sensitive.”

His hand slid down between us again. My breath caught when two fingers pressed against my clit.

“Let me take care of you.”

His fingers started to move, circling gently around where I needed it most. Then there was a slow stroke. Not pushing too hard or rushing. Just there. Controlled.

I moaned loudly, one hand flying to his wrist as if I could anchor myself to the moment. It was too much and not enough all at once. Something sharp curling in my belly. Hungry and fragile and on the edge of shattering.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered, mouth in my ear again. “Come for me.”

My thighs clenched around his hips as it hit. There was no scream. Not even a cry. Just a broken sound from the back of my throat as my body pulsed around him. My eyes fluttering shut and my back arching just a little under the weight of it.

He kept going as he worked me through it. Watching every second like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, low in his throat.

“It’s okay,” I said, reaching up to cupped his face.

He chased his own release. He thrusted into me sloppily, biting his lip and grunting deeply. He buried himself in me one last time before finally letting go. His whole body went tense. His jaw clenched and breath shuddered. He came hard deep inside me.

And then… silence. Not the awkward or a cold one. Just still. 

His hand stayed on my thigh. Mine stayed curled against his wrist. Our skin slick, our chests rising and falling out of sync. The air was heavy with everything we didn’t know how to say. 

He didn’t move. Neither did I. I just stared up at the ceiling because for the first time in a long time, I had no idea what came next.

 

Notes:

I’m so sorry for the wait. I’ve been procrastinating for days and yesterday I was like, fuck, it's been four days? So, that’s it. I’m going to write something only to rewrite this chapter many, many times. This one was like my sixth attempt. Then there’s the shitshow at my workplace and the fact that I couldn’t find the right song for me to play in a loop to help me set up the mood was driving me nuts. Let alone get the words out of my head and the language barrier. Like, why can't I find the right words? Why is the flow not flowing? You know what I’m saying?
So yeah, apologize if there’s repetitive words here and there. Or make the spicy scene sound a bit awkward–a lot, even–and somehow doesn’t make any sense and causes confusion when you read it. I love you guys so much for staying this far with me. I’m trying my best not to make you guys wait long enough for the next chapter.

Chapter 11: Like the Movies

Summary:

The very adult care and conversation.

I sat on the toilet with elbows on my knees and my forehead resting in my palms. As I stared at a crack in the tile, my brain kept replaying what happened earlier. Before I crawled in here to pee because Sarah’s voice echoed in the back of my head.

Okay, fine. I might have exaggerated it. I didn’t literally crawl but my legs did feel like Jell-O. Every step I took threatened to collapse and hit my face first into the floor and it was not funny. At all. 

It felt like an eternity. He was inside me. On top of me. Pressing me into the bed with his weight. I was too scared to say anything. Or move. Maybe I was too dazed. I wasn’t sure which. I just laid there and breathed in his scent. His intoxicating scent. Staring blankly at the ceiling as I savored both the discomfort and the ghost of pleasure he caused.

Once he’d caught his breath, he pulled himself out with a deep rumble coming from his chest. It was a surreal experience for me because I felt it. That very vibration against my chest. And I liked it. For being that close with someone. Physically. Skin to skin. And here I was, someone who thought she wasn’t a fan of any kind of physical touch. 

It followed with the warmth that began to seep out down there. I felt the mess slowly dripping between my thighs, all the way down to my–I don’t wanna go into detail for that part. It was just too… graphic.

Then I felt his fingers there, gathering the mess. Sort of. Only to push it back up into me. And I watched him. I watched the way his brows furrowed with such sharp concentration. Or the way his lips parted slightly like he was deep in the middle of a thought. 

His eyes didn’t waver. They stayed locked down there. At the mess dripping out of me. At how I parted my trembled legs so he could get a better view. Or better access. That alone made me shudder. It was hot and filthy. And hot.

I vividly remembered when his hand cupped my jaw and leaned in to give me a kiss. That one kiss was different though. Somehow too soft. Too slow. Too much. Dare to say it was the kind of kiss that makes your heart seize up and smile at the strangers idiotically. And honest to God, I’d never had that kind of kiss before. Not until tonight. 

I also remember the part when he brushed my hair away from my face to kiss me on my forehead. He was saying something about the taste of honey and got off the bed when I started to giggle. Again. Giggled! The sweet, high-pitched, and annoyingly adorable kind of laughter that often happened when I was nervous. 

Right after I heard the soft click from the bathroom door shut, the silence started to fill the room. And just like that, my brain started to function again. 

I winced, now rubbing each side of my temples a bit too hard as I remembered what I did next. I started to freak out, completely abandoning any pretense of being calm and collected. Instead, once reality came crashing down–hard–I did a bunch of stupid things.

That was super embarrassing. I don’t even want to go into the heavy details. But look at the bright side. At least I know that trying to wrap my naked, exhausted, and boneless body in a blanket while simultaneously picking up scattered clothes proved to be quite dangerous. I nearly cracked my skull on the coffee table when I stepped on the edge of the fabric and tripped. Seriously, that only looks cute in the movies.

Fuck movies. They need to stop cutting the steamy scene into that glorious, over romanticized post-sex scene that always sets in the peaceful morning. They keep debating about cinematic realism, only to put something unrealistic. 

As someone who’d watched hundreds of movies, they need to put this. The cleanup. The awkward waddle to the bathroom. The weird panic that maybe something tore even though logically you know it didn’t.

To make it even realistic, I think they need to show the part where the girl is sitting on the toilet while having a full mental breakdown. Wondering if she did it right. Or if she moaned too much. Or not enough. Or if the guy was just being nice when he said she was doing good for a first timer. Or if she imagined the way his voice softened when he accidentally said her name. Or the guilt that started to creep in, make her feel conflicted. Or ashamed because she felt like she just committed one of the greatest sins when she doesn’t believe in God anymore. That’s what you called realism.

Wait a damn minute. What was the sudden rage for?

Shook my head in disbelief, I finally reached for the sprayer and angled it between my legs. The pressure was right but the temperature was something else. Too warm. I clenched my jaw, pretended it was nothing. It was just water. Just hygiene. Just do what Sarah told me to.

“Movies,” I scoffed, attempting to ignore the weird sensation between my legs every time I move, even the subtle one.

I flushed, washed my hands and turned toward the mirror. Jesus Christ. I wasn’t expecting that. The way my reflection stared back at me. I looked… I don’t know. Glowing. Stunning. Disgusting. Defeated. Probably all of them.

I dried my hands by wiping them on the bathrobe. Yeah, the bathrobe. It still irritated me on so many levels that Dave had nagged me about it while picking it up from the basket beside the bed and handing it to me. 

I told you, honey, everything you need is in the basket.

In my defense, he talked to me when I wasn’t being myself. I was still high from one of the greatest orgasms I’d ever had. So technically it wasn’t my fault if I didn’t catch it right away.

As I studied my reflection in the mirror, my eyes caught a red spot on my collarbone. I quickly shrugged the fabric over my shoulder, just enough to bare my skin. There were not one, not two, but a lot of them. Bright and looked almost painful. From my neck down to my breasts.

Without even thinking, I let the bathrobe slip off completely and let it pool silently on the floor. My fingers trailed over each mark. They were soft bruises, more like pinkish-purple kind of shadows actually. Memories pressed into skin. 

I looked back and forth between my reflection and my breasts. They were tender when I cupped them, marked where his mouth had lingered. The sensitive buds looked even bigger and redder than I could remember.

Then there was the ghost of a handprint blooming red across my upper thigh. Faint but unmistakable. His hand. Large. Spanning across the skin like a flag planted.

My thighs pressed together instinctively. When I was about to bend down to pick the bathrobe, I caught my reflection on the mirror once again. I was blushing. God. I was still sore and yet a part of me wanted him all over again.

I needed a reset. A do-over. Something. Anything.

I stepped into the shower. The water was lukewarm and smelled like expensive soap and regret. I scrubbed harder than necessary. I kept telling myself this is how I normally take a bath. When in reality, it was my attempt to get rid of the ache, the stickiness, the echo of his touch against my skin.

Unfortunately, it didn’t wash away. If anything, it lingered louder.

***

“Dave, I was thinking maybe I should probably–”

I cutted myself and let the words hang awkwardly. I absolutely didn’t expect this. Expect that! A housekeeper. Made a brief eye contact with me while making the fucking bed!

My first impulse as the housekeeper went back to smooth out the sheets was to run. 

My second impulse, admittedly a little more subtle, was to go back to the bathroom and lock myself in there.

In the end I didn’t run or hide because that would’ve really made me look stupid. I have no choice but to go with the only other option available to me–stay there, locked in, and act like this whole thing was… part of the routine that I was totally very familiar with.

Dave was by the window, watching the housekeeper smooth the last crease out of the new bedsheets. He glanced at me. Nothing lingering or invasive. Just a glance. Like I hadn’t just bled all over the bed and ghosted halfway through a conversation we never had.

My eyes flicked to the bed. The sheets were gone. A new set already stretched tight over the mattress. Then I caught a glimpse of a housekeeping cart stacked with towels and half-filled laundry bags. There it was. The crumpled sheets, the smeared stain of us, of me, right in there. It was our bodies and my body and my blood stretched across pristine white cotton. And I felt like I could evaporate.

The housekeeper gave a small nod and left with a polite ‘good night.’ Dave tipped him with a good amount of money, I guess. A thank-you for… whatever the favor he asked for. Also kept the silence that felt deafening.

When the door clicked shut, he turned to me. “Shower helped?”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. I didn’t know how to answer that simple question. I didn’t know what to say. My towel suddenly felt too tight. My skin was too raw. My silence was too loud.

So I nodded only to immediately regret it as water flung off the ends of my hair. More than enough for him to raise an eyebrow, tilted his head slightly like he was waiting for something more but somehow didn’t push.

“Come here,” he said, walking to the bed and reaching for another towel from the basket. “Let’s dry your hair. You shouldn’t sleep with it wet.”

I hesitated. He patted the edge of the bed. I sat, mostly because I didn’t have the energy to resist.

He came up behind me and gently tossed the towel over my head. The fabric muffled everything for a second. The hum of the heater, the faint soft jazz from the distance, the clatter in my brain.

Then his hands. His hands started working through the damp strands. He wasn’t rough or impatient. It was steady and focused, like he was doing something ordinary. Like this wasn’t weird at all for him. I have a strong feeling that he’d done this many, many times before. Probably to his kids. His wife, occasionally. That’s why it felt so natural. Not like I was someone he just–

“You’re going to catch a cold like this,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

I almost laughed. But I stayed quiet with my breath caught in the space between disbelief and something dangerously close to comfort. Let him keep going. Let myself pretend, just for a minute, that this kind of moment exists. 

Funny because no one had ever done this for me. Not when I was sick. Not when I fell. Not even when I cried myself to sleep and woke up puffy-eyed and shaking. I’d always handled it. I always took care of myself. Quietly and efficiently.

When he finally stopped, he gave the towel one last scrunch at the nape of my neck. 

“There,” he said, tossing the towel back to the basket. “Not perfect, but dry enough.”

I nodded again, still mute. I didn’t trust my voice. Let alone the thought that was swirling in my head right now. It felt caught somewhere between my throat and my chest.

He crouched in front of me, eye level. “Did you bring extra clothes?”

I blinked. Of course I did. What kind of question was that?

“Uh, I did,” I said, finally. “Yes, I did. It’s in my bag and, uh, I think I put it somewhere on the couch.”

When I started to move, to stand and go get it myself, he reached out. Not to grab me, but to still me. 

“I’ll get it.”

Before I could argue, he was already across the room, picking up my tote. He rummaged through it as it wasn’t his first time doing that. He pulled out my regular underwear, an oversized striped tee, and the shorts I always wore at home. 

He returned, dropped everything on the bed, and casually said, “Take it off.”

This time I laughed. The panicked one. Only to see him gave me a look. Not impatient. More like something… practical. 

So I did. 

I loosened the tie around my waist, the fabric of the bathrobe slipping open like a sigh. For a second, I hesitated before letting it fall from my shoulders. It pooled at my hips in a soft, defeated heap. 

Dave didn’t say anything. But I swear to God, I saw his pupil dilated. His gaze flickered, once, like a quiet intake of breath. Then he reached for the clothes beside me. His movements weren’t rushed or awkward. Just… careful. 

“Arms up.”

I obeyed. I lifted my arms and he slipped my tee over my head, smoothing the fabric gently over my skin. His fingers brushed my sides, lingering only for a beat too long. As if memorizing the shape of me. A touch that should’ve been clinical but wasn’t. 

Then the underwear. I steadied myself on his shoulders and he helped me step into them. When he pulled the fabric up over my thighs, something shifted. 

His thumbs grazed the inside of my legs. Slowed. Just a second too long when they met the soreness between them. It was definitely not deliberate nor teasing. More like acknowledging. He didn’t say anything but his eyes flicked up to mine. Checking.

He pulled the waistband into place and let his hands rest on my hips. Almost possessively. Then he reached for the shorts next. Before he moved again, his fingers brushed the faintest bruise on the curve of my sensitive breast. I inhaled sharply.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, almost sounding like he was apologizing to the skin itself.

He finished dressing me without saying another word. Just quiet and competent movements. The shorts slid up next, his palms warm against the backs of my thighs as he guided the waistband into place. 

Then he stepped back. Not far but enough to look at me.

“I don’t remember writing this part in our agreement,” I said jokingly, desperate to break the tension. 

He didn’t say anything. Just picked up the towel, folded it in half, and rubbed gently at the ends of my hair again like it was second nature.

“There,” he murmured. “All done.”

He tossed the towel into the basket and moved it somewhere else. I just stayed rooted to the bed because I have no clue what I should do next. When he came back, he reached for the comforter and pulled it down, patting the pillow once.

“Lie down,” he said simply. 

I do exactly what he told me to. 

He pulled the blanket up over me, tucked it just a little at my shoulder. Then, just before stepping away, he smoothed a hand over the crown of my head. A single, absentminded pass of his palm. I bet it was a reflex. Like I was something delicate he didn’t know how to hold, but wanted to anyway.

***

I woke up warm. It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from a blanket or the sun creeping through the blinds. It was the kind of warmth that came from someone. There was breath on the back of my neck. A steady rise and fall pressed against my spine. A weight draped over my waist like a second blanket. 

It took me a second to register where I was. Whose bed. Whose body.

Then I remembered. Him. Last night. All of it. 

I didn’t move. I kept my eyes closed at first, hoping maybe it was a dream. Or a glitch. Or a moment my brain invented just to mess with me. But the arm across me was real. The way his hand rested low on my stomach, relaxed but still firm, was real. So was the warmth of his chest against my back. 

I blinked slowly, adjusting to the light. When I shifted just a little, careful not to wake him, I found his face. He’d somehow ended up on my side of the bed. We’d somehow shifted in the night and ended up sharing a pillow.

He was still asleep. Mouth slightly parted. Lashes resting against his cheeks. I didn’t think I’d even seen his face this close. Not in sleep. Not without all the weight he usually carried when he was awake. Even now, his brow was drawn. The faint line between them carved deep like it’d been there for years. As if the tension never fully left him, not even in dreams.

Still. He looked… handsome. I liked the rough edge of his jaw. The faint shadow of stubble. The shape of his mouth was softer now than I’d ever seen it. 

I didn’t mean to stare. But I did. And for a second–one reckless, quiet second–I had the urge to reach out. To touch his cheek. To trace that line between his brows and smooth it out. 

But before I could do anything, he stirred. His nose scrunched. His fingers twitched where they rested on my stomach. Then his eyes opened. Slow and unfocused. Locking on mine before either of us could pretend otherwise. 

“Morning,” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

I swallowed hard, trying to pretend I hadn’t just been caught staring like a complete idiot. 

“Morning,” I whispered back, suddenly unsure where to put my hands.

He looked at me for a beat longer. Then he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You sleep okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Like a baby.”

“You sore?”

My face burned. I hated how my whole body reacted to the question. No. Not because it was inappropriate. But because it was kind. Casual. Like it was normal to ask, something he should care about.

“A little,” I admitted, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s, uh, manageable.”

“Next time,” he said, leaned in and kissed my forehead as it was the most natural thing in the world, “We’ll take it slower.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I wasn’t even sure what we were doing right now. This morning-after softness. This talking . This very adult care and conversation.

So I did what I always do when something felt too real. I deflected.

“I have a question,” I said, voice quiet. “A bunch, actually.”

Dave hummed beside me. That soft, noncommittal sound that meant, ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’

I turned my head slightly. He was on his side now, one arm propping up his head. His hair was sleep-mussed. There was something unfair about that. About how he could look so unbothered and well-rested while I felt like my insides had been through a washing machine.

“Was that–”

I paused, clearing my throat harshly.

“–Was that normal?”

“What part?”

“All of it,” I said, gesturing vaguely between me and him. “The, you know, the mess. The way I couldn’t stop shaking. The fact that I cried a little at one point and you didn’t even look surprised.”

“It was good,” He said simply. “Intense. But yeah, normal.”

“Oh.”

“And for what it’s worth,” he added. “You weren’t the only one shaking.”

I scoffed at that. “Yeah, but you weren’t the one with blood and… fluids leaking out like a failed science experiment.”

“You’d be surprised what I’ve leaked after some first times.”

“Dave,” I groaned.

“What?” he asked, grinning now. “You started it.”

I rolled to my side to face him fully. “Fair enough. New question then.”

He nodded.

“Why on earth your penis is so… big?” I asked, eyes narrowing. “Is that, like, a gene thing? Is that like your super power? You were just out here traumatizing women before me, weren’t you?”

That got a laugh out of him. Real and deep. His arm moved then. Slowly and deliberately as he let his hand rest against my side, fingers splaying out across my waist.

“I do my best not to traumatize anyone,” he said. “But yeah, probably a gene thing. My dad used to complain about having special order briefs.”

“That’s not real,” I debated.

“I wish I was lying.”

I felt his hand move slightly. Traced the dip of my waist. Dipped lower. Exploring. Casual. Confident.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, voice lower now. “The size?”

“I underestimated it,” I confessed. “It caught me off guard, yes, but I thought it wouldn't be that hurt.”

He nodded like he understood. His hand slid around to my back, pulling me a few inches closer until our knees brushed. I let it happen. I let everything happen. 

I let the silence stretch between us. His hand was still at my back, warm and unmoving. It felt… safe. Which was strange, considering I’d met him through an app that matched people based on the specific flavor of their emotional dysfunction. Don’t forget his reputation as everybody’s enemy back at the agency. 

“Can I ask you something kinda insane?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That's a strong preface. Go ahead.”

I rolled onto my back again, eyes on the ceiling. “How many people’s virginity have you taken?”

He went still for a second. “That’s the insane question?”

“Well, yeah.” I turned my head to look at him. “Most people don’t ask that. It’s tacky or whatever.”

“I don’t think it’s tacky.” His voice was calm. “I think it’s honest.”

“So?” I prompted.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know the exact number.”

“More than five?”

He smiled slightly. “Yes.”

“More than ten?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not collecting tokens.”

I made a face. “Ugh, now I feel like one.”

“You’re not.”

I paused. “But I am different, right?”

He looked at me for a long moment, like he was deciding how much of the truth I could handle.

“You’re the first person who asked if it was normal,” he said. “The first who didn’t pretend to know what they were doing. And yeah… the first who looked me dead in the eye after and asked why the hell my penis is that big.”

I groaned. “I knew you’d bring that up again.”

His grin widened. “I liked that you said it.”

I tried to suppress my smile. Failed. “You’re just saying that because you’re into being humbled.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against mine. “Or maybe I just like you.”

I stopped breathing for a second. Then I looked away. There it was again. That quiet, sneaky intimacy. And I had no idea what to do with it.

“I still can’t believe you’ve done this more than five times,” I said.

“More than five,” he confirmed, amused.

“And I’m not even the tenth?”

“No.”

“Jesus.”

He gave me a look. “You want me to lie?”

“No. I just–” I paused, unsure with what I’m gonna say next. “–I wonder what it feels like. To have that kind of privilege.”

He blinked. “What kind of privilege?”

“To be the one someone remembers. Like, the person who marked a before and after. The first.”

I was already regretting saying it, but the words were out, floating between us. His expression changed. Subtly. Less teasing. More serious.

“I don’t think they remember me,” he said after a moment. “Most of those happened when I was younger. College, early twenties. Sometimes it was on purpose. Sometimes they didn’t tell me until after.”

“Oh.”

“But this,” he added, fingers brushing along my side like he needed something to do with his hands. “This is different.”

“How?”

“You knew exactly what you were asking for. You were honest about it. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t trying to fake it.” He paused. “And it’s been years since I’ve done this with someone who was actually present . Not just going through the motions.”

I swallowed. My chest tightened.

“Honestly,” he said, quieter now, “I was nervous too.”

I turned to him. “You? Nervous?”

He nodded. “You were… disarming. All that honesty. All those questions.”

“I asked why your penis is so big.”

“You did,” he said, laughing softly. “That really helped.”

I cracked a smile. Then I bit my lip. “I wasn’t trying to be charming. I genuinely panicked.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why it worked.”

And then we just lay there. No touching. No moving. But something in the air shifted. As if the gravity tilted slightly toward each other.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for staying this far. Also, I'm back. I know, it's been nearly two weeks since the last update. I have tons of shit to do in my life and I was reading Cleopatra and Frankenstein which I had love-hate relationship with that book. It affected my mood. But hey, I'm here now and hopefully I could finish this fanfic before August.

Chapter 12: Emotional Roller Coaster

Summary:

Something shifted between you and Jared.

Something shifted between me and Jared. Maybe he sensed something. Maybe I changed.

At first, I didn’t want to make a fuss about it. He showed up on time with that boyish grin on his face and acted normal. And by normal, I meant the part where he patted my shoulder that somehow felt awkward and made silly comments about the way I walk that looked funny. More than enough to give me a mild panic attack because I almost told him everything–I just had sex last night for the first time. And I still can feel Dave inside me in a way I couldn’t explain with words. Even now.

He also mansplained that men were taught to buy things for women. Not because they wanted to own us or control us, but because they’d been handed these primitive little tools for showing interest. Ones that didn’t require actual vulnerability like paying for everything. Super normal.

In the end, he let me pay anyway. He bought the tickets. I covered the snacks. That was like both the basic math and logic of hanging out with friends. Enough for me to shut his mouth even just temporarily. 

But there was something hard for me to ignore. The way he brought himself around me. I noticed he was inexplicably holding me at arm’s length. Desperate to create a safe distance and keep me close at the same time. What a stark contrast to our usual easy friendship. If there was one.

“Is everything okay?”

Jared, who kept squirming in his seat, finally glanced at me. There was a surprised jerk in his head. But then his features locked into an unyielding mask.

“Are you upset that I paid for the snacks?” I tried again, gesturing to the drink on his seat and the popcorn bucket on his lap. “Why do you make it such a big deal? Like, out of the blue? We always split everything equally.”

He ignored me. He trained his gaze to the big screen, attempting to look invested in the trailer of some superhero movie but failed miserably. 

“Or is it about something else?” I added. “Are you changing your mind? I warned you before, you know. It’s an almost four-hour long emotional roller coaster in the form of movies–Bollywood movies, to be specific.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed as he leaned back to his seat, still avoiding me. “Can you just let me watch these trailers in peace?”

“I’m just trying to talk to you,” I retorted, my voice tighter than I intended.

Jared finally turned towards me. His eyes briefly met mine and before he could darting away, I instinctively grabbed his face. Holding him with both of my hands. He seemed surprised. So did I. But at least I caught his attention and made him stop squirming.

“Look, can you just stop it? We’re here to watch a movie, aren’t we?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the screen, as if the blank expanse could back him up. “There’s nothing to talk about right now. Or maybe later when the movie’s over if that’s what you desperately desire. I’ll listen to whatever you have in mind. How’s that sound?”

“Not when you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

I blinked. I couldn’t answer that simple question. Even when I already have the entire speech in my head, where the words are dancing on the tip of my tongue. I decided not to because why did I act like this all of the sudden?

Maybe I was reading this too much. Maybe I was trying so hard to prove my suspicion–that there’s something shifted between us when there wasn’t.

I let go of his face. That’s when I noticed a faint flush creeping up his neck.

“I’m normal,” he sighed. “Everything’s normal.”

“Super normal.”

“Can you just… behave? People are staring?”

My frustration was building. I know that tone. A sound heavy with exasperation. A desperate attempt to convince the universe that both he and I are indeed normal.

This was so unlike him. Our easy banter, even our petty squabbles, usually dissolved into laughter or a quick resolution. This felt different. It almost felt like he was building a wall, brick by uncomfortable brick. 

“People are staring because you’re practically vibrating out of your seat,” I said in a sharp whisper.

He stiffened. His gaze fixed rigidly forward. “Shut your mouth. Will you?”

And just like that, this wasn’t a conversation. It became a quiet, escalating war that was fought in hushed tones between two seats. 

Before I could snap another retort, before either of us could say something to hurt each other’s feelings we might genuinely regret, the last lights in the room flickered and died. The murmur of the audience quieted. Replaced by the low hum of the projector.

The massive screen went completely dark. Then the first title card of the film in a language I didn’t understand began to play. From my peripheral, I noticed Jared startled by the sudden shift. He slumped back into his seat, the tension in his shoulders still palpable. At least he was forced into silence for now. 

***

“I’m confused.”

I glanced at him. He looked back and forth between me and the screen. The tension between us was still there. The discomfort still evident in his face, mixed with pure confusion and curiosity.

“Which part?”

“Rahul,” he said quietly. “What happened to his biological parents? And why Madeline–”

“–Nandini.”

“Nandini,” he repeated, his voice low. “Seemed to love him so much more than her biological son? It’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?”

I bit back a smile. I almost lost my shit over that simple question. How can I stay mad at him?

“It’s not creepy,” I whispered back. “I think it has something to do with maternal things.”

“How are those maternal things?”

Jared shifted, his confusion deepening as his eyes fixed on the screen where a younger Rahul was having a poignant moment with Nandini. I couldn’t help but lean slightly towards him as if I’m sharing a secret.

“Okay, so for Rahul’s biological parents,” I began, lowering my voice even further, “the movie never really explains. They’re just… not in the picture, I guess. The grandma just explained that he was adopted when he was two and the Raichands are his only parents in every sense that matters.”

I paused, considering his followed up, more loaded question. But none.

“As for Nandini,” I continued, pointing to the screen where now the song Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham started playing. “It’s not that she loves Rohan less. Dare to say it’s different. Think about it from her perspective.”

He shot me a look. Even in the dim light, with the song blaring in the background, I still could hear gears turning in his head. 

“She adopted Rahul when she likely thought she couldn’t have children,” I added. “Rahul filled a void. He was her first son. Her first experience of motherhood. There’s a special kind of fierce and protective love that comes from that. A profound gratitude for a child she chose, who brought so much happiness into her life.”

He gestled towards the screen. “What about Rohan?”

“That’s a miracle,” I shrugged. “Both Yash and Nandini love him equally. But Rahul was the one who came to them. Who, you know, made them a family when they might not have been otherwise. He represents her initial joy, her fulfilled wish. Plus, he’s the elder son. The one expected to carry on the family name even though he’s adopted. There’s a weight to that, and a deep, almost spiritual connection because of it.”

He was silent for a moment, absorbing the information.

“So, it’s like… I don’t know,” he sighed heavily, earning a cough from someone in the back row. “A different kind of bond? But not a stronger one?”

“You can put it that way, yes,” I affirmed.

He muttered something under his breath. His gaze was still on the screen but his expression was softer now. Less bewildered, more thoughtful. I smiled faintly before looking back to the screen. The ease finally returned between us.

***

“Let me guess,” he said, his head nodding along the beat of Say Shava Shava. “Dad wants Rahul to marry this Naina girl but he already fell for Anjali?”

“That is correct.”

“I think Dad has a crush on her,” he grinned. “Or maybe Naina has a crush on him. Or both of them. The father and the son.”

“Stop calling him Dad,” I chuckled. “He’s not your dad. And yeah, I do think Yash has a thing for Naina. Their dynamic somehow… interesting.”

Jared leaned back in his seat. He was humming along now, a little off-key to the infectious beat of the song. The earlier stiffness completely gone, replaced by an easy going slouch.

He then nudged me playfully with his elbow. “The serious rich guy and the bubbly, simple girl. Oh. Don’t forget the perfect daughter-in-law. I get it now.”

“Classic, right?”

***

The iconic strains of Suraj Hua Maddham filled the theatre. The screen dissolved into sweeping shots of Rahul and Anjali, now in Egypt, bathed in golden light against the pyramids and the Sphinx.

Their gazes were locked, their bodies never quite touching but always agonizingly close. The wind whipped Anjali's sari around her, highlighting the curves beneath, and Rahul's intense stare seemed to burn right through the screen. Every slow-motion turn, every prolonged eye contact, every whisper of the lyrics created an almost unbearable pull between them.

Jared, who had been leaning forward, slowly sank back into his seat. His mouth slightly agape. His earlier playful commentary had completely vanished. He shifted, restless. His eyes darted from the screen to me, then back to the screen. As if checking if I was seeing what he was seeing. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“What now?”

He mumbled something under his breath. So low I barely caught it. He cleared his throat, adjusting himself in his seat. The sexual tension radiating from the screen was thick, palpable, a slow-burn seduction without a single touch.

To hear him better, I instinctively leaned my head closer, offering him my ear. It was a small movement, but it seemed to electrify him. His eyes that were already wide, widened further. A fresh wave of panic washed over his features.

He jerked back almost imperceptibly. His gaze skittering away from my face as if burned. The sudden closeness seemed to utterly disarm him, leaving him speechless and rigid in his seat.

He swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbing. For a long moment, he just stared straight ahead. Completely unable to meet my gaze or articulate whatever thought had been forming.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out, shaking his head slowly. "Okay, wait. This is... intense."

I grinned. “How come?”

He looked at me. His eyes wide, a flicker of genuine shock mixed with something else. Discomfort, maybe, but also a raw fascination. 

"It's so much worse than an actual sex scene,” he said. “Like, this is making me genuinely uncomfortable. How are they doing that? How can you enjoy that?"

“Because they didn’t show sex as either explicit or, if implied, quickly resolved,” I shrugged. “This was a whole nother level. This was a sustained, escalating wave of desire. It was the build-up, the agony of, you know, nearly there. The way every single frame screamed ‘want’ without a single touch. It was pure, unadulterated yearning and it was supposed to be overwhelming.”

He ran a hand through his hair, disheveled now from running his fingers through it repeatedly. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was bewildered by its effectiveness. By how something so chaste could feel so much more potent than anything he’d ever witnessed on screen. He looked almost… humbled by it.

“Don’t say you’re getting hard right now,” I teased.

He groaned and shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

***

The movie swept on. The stakes were getting higher and higher. And then there was the devastating climax of the first half–Yash Raichand’s explosive confrontation with Rahul. The grand drawing-room, usually a symbol of family unity, became a battleground of wills. 

There was a loud, collective gasp when Yash’s thundering declaration of him disowned Rahul echoed through the cinema. Rahul’s silent and heartbroken acceptance was loud. His eyes brimming with unshed tears as he stood before the father he adored, resonated deeply.

I felt Jared shift beside me. At first, it was just a restless movement. But then I heard it–a faint, choked sound. I glanced over. His shoulders were hunched and furiously blinking, trying to fight back what was clearly welling up. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to muffle a small and ragged sob that still escaped. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

My own throat tightened. I've seen this movie countless times. But Rahul’s pain and the sheer injustice of it always hit hard. Now combined with Jared who is usually so composed and openly emotional like this was disarming. My heart ached for him.

Reaching into my bag, I fumbled for a tissue and held out the soft packet to him. "Hey. It's okay."

He didn’t take the tissue. Instead, his slightly trembling hand reached out and found mine. Closing around it with a surprising and desperate strength. His grip was tight. Almost bruising as if anchoring himself. As if the raw emotion on screen was too much to bear alone. 

He kept his eyes fixed on the screen. His thumb began to rub small and frantic circles on the back of my hand. Tears now freely tracking down his cheeks. I couldn’t help myself. I wiped it with the back of my free hand. He clearly needed something–anything–solid to hold onto in the face of such overwhelming on-screen heartbreak.

***

As the scene on screen faded and the story now jumped forward to London, Jared slowly released my hand. His fingers still brushed mine. He no longer cries but he does sniffle every now and then.

"Okay, wait," he said, his voice still a little thick. "I thought Rohan was like… ten when Rahul left? And Poo was tiny? They look way too old to be in their early twenties now. Did they hit a growth spurt and an aging accelerator at the same time?" 

I bit back a laugh. “Seriously?”

He squinted at the screen, genuinely perplexed. "Seriously. Are they supposed to be, like, twenty-seven? Thirty?"

“How about you just watch it?”

He shook his head. He then pointed at the screen where Rahul was now talking to Rohan, disguised as a distant relative. 

“And what the fuck was that?” he scoffed. “He just let this ‘random dude’ who looks evidently like his little brother stay in his house? For weeks ? He’s framed as this sharp businessman but he’s letting a complete stranger infiltrate his family on a vague premise? I mean come on. It’s so obvious!”

***

Jared cried again when Nandini saw Rahul for the first time after so many years. As well when Rohan begged Rahul to come back to India. Or when the grandma died and her last wish was two of her grandsons and her son to perform her last rites and light her funeral pyre together. Or when Nandini confronts Yash and her powerful speech shatters his pride and makes him reflect on his actions. Or when Yash admits his mistake and acknowledges his deep love for Rahul, finally welcoming him and Anjali back into the family.

He sobbed uncontrollably. It grew more profound, no longer muffled, shaking his entire frame. Without a word, I leaned into him. Gently sliding my arm across his shoulder. My palm rested lightly on his bicep and I began to stroke it with my thumb. A small, comforting motion. It was an unspoken acknowledgment of his pain. A quiet promise that he wasn't alone in feeling it. He buried his face in his hands but his shoulder dipped into my embrace. Accepting the comfort as his sobs continued to wrack him.

The screen shimmered. The vibrant colors of the reconciliation fading into the stark black background of the credits. Names and titles scrolled by, a blur of English and Hindi. The final emotional strains of the score slowly softened, giving way to the film's lighter, more celebratory themes.

We stayed like that, unmoving, as the credits continued their ascent. The theatre lights hadn't come on yet, offering a lingering shroud of privacy. Jared's sobs eventually subsided, tapering off into shuddering breaths. His head remained bowed, resting against my shoulder, and I could feel the lingering tremors in his body. I continued the slow, steady rub on his shoulder. Not pressing for words, just offering my presence. The weight of his grief, and now the quiet aftermath, settled between us. Thick and strangely intimate. We waited in the comforting darkness for him to simply… breathe again.

***

The house lights finally flickered on, bathing the cinema in a soft, revealing glow. Jared slowly straightened up, clearing his throat. He mumbled something about needing to use the restroom and quickly, almost awkwardly, extricated himself from my side before heading up the aisle. I watched him go. I feel a strange mix of concern and a new, bewildering awareness of the space he’d left beside me.

When he emerged from the men's restroom a few minutes later, he seemed more composed. His posture straighter, his usual easy stride back. But the tell-tale signs were still there–the slight puffiness around his eyes, the faint redness in their whites, betraying the emotional storm he'd just weathered. He walked back to our row and avoided my gaze.

"Don't," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the murmurs of the exiting crowd. He didn't even look at me as he slid into his seat to grab his jacket. "Don't say anything."

I nodded, my lips pressed into a thin line. I understood. He wasn't looking for commentary, not now.

As we stood to leave, the theatre slowly emptying around us. Then he reached out. His fingers brushed my arm, then wrapped around my wrist. His touch wasn't harsh. It was firm, more than enough to stop me mid-step. I turned, surprised, as he pulled my hand just a little closer. His thumb begins to slowly–almost reverently–brush against the delicate skin of my inner wrist, directly over the pulse point. His eyes, though still a little red, were glued to the subtle dance of his thumb against the faint blue line of a vein. The touch lingered. A silent, weighty moment in the half-lit cinema. It was a stark contrast to his earlier flustered avoidance.

Then, he released my wrist, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine, raw and unwavering.

"I like you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Yet it felt impossibly loud in the quiet space. There was no trace of his usual bravado, just stark vulnerability. "And I know you don't like me the way I like you."

My breath caught in my throat. I opened my mouth to respond, to deny, to ask, but he held up a hand, stopping me.

"But I'm not giving up," he continued, his eyes locked on mine. "I've been waiting too long. This… this is me finally making my move. Because it's either risking our friendship now, or losing you forever and drowning in regret."

The words hung in the air. Thick and heavy. Pulling every ounce of oxygen from my lungs. My mind reeled. Jared? Jared liked me? And not just liked, but clearly, intensely, to the point of risking everything. 

The entire afternoon, his earlier awkwardness, the mansplaining, his flustered reaction to Suraj Hua Maddham, even his unexpected tears during the disowning scene–it all clicked into place with a sickening thud. He hadn't been uncomfortable with the movie's intensity. He'd been uncomfortable with me . With his own feelings. Seeing reflections of his unexpressed desires on screen.

My heart hammered against my ribs. A frantic drumbeat against the sudden, shocking silence that had fallen between us. What did I even say to that? I wanted to say he was wrong. That our friendship did not even count as a friendship–it was something more complicated in a way. That this was all just a misunderstanding fueled by a four-hour Indian emotional epic. But looking at his earnest, slightly red-rimmed eyes, I knew he wasn't wrong about his feelings.

He was still staring at me. Waiting. The remaining few people in the theater started to shuffle past our row, their low chatter a distant hum. The movie, which had been a shield, a topic of easy conversation, now felt like the very catalyst that had shattered our comfortable equilibrium.

"Jared," I finally managed, my voice a strangled whisper. It was the only word I could form. My mind raced, searching for an answer, a soft landing for us both. But there wasn't one. Not right now. Not here, in the echo of a Bollywood movie.

He didn't speak. He just held my gaze. His own eyes burning with a hopeful, terrifying intensity. The raw vulnerability on his face was something I’d never seen before. That alone made him look like a stranger and, paradoxically, more exposed than I’d ever imagined.

I forced a shaky laugh. A brittle sound that felt entirely out of place because what the fuck should I do?!

"Wow, okay," I said, trying to infuse my voice with some semblance of lightness, though my hands were clammy. "That was... a lot. And here I thought Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham was the most dramatic thing happening today."

A flicker, hesitant twitch formed at the corner of his lips. He didn't smile. Not really. But the rigid intensity in his eyes softened just a fraction. He actually looked away for a split second, glancing at the now completely blank screen.

"It is pretty dramatic," he conceded, his voice still low, but the confession had seemingly released some of the pressure. "Especially the part where the dad disowns the adopted son. Who cries like that, right?" 

He attempted a self-deprecating chuckle, though it was still a bit hoarse. The redness in his eyes was still prominent. A silent testament to his earlier breakdown.

I nudged his arm, a tiny, nervous gesture. "Hey, no judgment here. I've seen that scene a hundred times and it still gets me."

I paused, then added, trying to bring some normalcy back, "Though maybe not quite as... profoundly. You really went for it."

He finally offered a weak, genuine smile. 

"Yeah, well, it was a lot. And then… this," he shrugged, running a hand over his face. "So, about that regret thing? I think I might avoid it. What do you say?"

My heart continued its frantic beat. His attempt at a smile, however small, gave me an opening. The directness of his question–What do you say?–still hung heavy in the air. I knew I couldn't address it head-on, not right now, not here. We were still the only two lingering in the row, bathed in the soft, revealing glow of the house lights.

"You know what?" I said, my voice perhaps a little too bright, a little too quick. I pushed myself up from my seat, trying to inject some normalcy into the charged atmosphere. "All that emotional roller coaster has made me absolutely ravenous."

I turned, gesturing vaguely towards the exit.I started walking slowly up the aisle, giving him a chance to follow, to process, to respond on his own terms.

He hesitated for a moment, still rooted to his place. His eyes fixed on me. The intensity was still there, a silent question. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up. He still looked a little bewildered. A man emerging from a cinematic trance, but the raw edge had softened.

"Noodles," he said, his voice a bit rough but with a hint of his usual tone. "Yeah, noodles sound... good. I could use something solid after that." 

He fell into step beside me as we made our way towards the lobby. The distance between us was just a little smaller than it had been before the movie. Before his confession.

I didn't look at him directly. Just kept my gaze forward, navigating around the last few stragglers.

"Good. Because I'm pretty sure I could eat an entire cow right now,” I snorted. “Maybe even two. All that drama really takes it out of you."

I chanced upon a quick glance. He was watching me. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He hadn't forgotten his words and neither had I. But for now, the promise of food, and the bustle of the outside world, offered a temporary and much needed reprieve.

 

Notes:

Thank you for staying this far.
I love you guys so much for being patient with me. I have to read a bunch of English fiction to enrich my vocabulary. I recently just finished The Perks of being a Wallflower and it changed my life. Also affecting on my writing style. Also, yeah, things started to get messy from here. I promise, I'll update more often next week.

Chapter 13: Red Peonies

Summary:

Sarah wanted you to meet her boyfriend. And then there was Dave. (But better and with a right amount of spice.)

Sarah held up a hand when I approached her at the bar. She was draining her third dirty martini. One in her hand and two empty wide, conical bowl glass in front of her. So, I counted it three.

I made myself comfortable, moving her purse from the empty stool that she’d reserved for me to the bar. The stool squeaked loudly under my weight. The sound was so sharp it turned heads. I couldn’t help but give them thumbs up. A silent announcement that I was doing alright and not dying from the awkwardness it caused.

“I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

My head snapped to her instantly. “Which one?”

She snorted. Instead of answering my genuine question, she gestured to the bartender to bring her another drink. She tapped the surface bartop a couple times then angled toward me. Her beautiful face was as composed as ever. Yet I noticed uncertainty swam under her eyes. 

“Oh, come on,” she scoffed. “You don’t know him, actually, because I haven’t told you. Yet.”

My brows shot up. Sarah keeping a secret? That’s… new. Normally she shared everything with me. Everything. Hold on. Why does my chest ache a little? Why does it feel like she left me out of something I was supposed to be part of?

“Tell me then,” I said nonchalantly. “From the beginning to why you want me to meet him. Go.”

“His name is Harry,” she began. “I met him at my cousin’s wedding like… I don’t know. Back in January? Five-ish months ago. I think I get that right, no?”

“Was that the same wedding that made you stuck in New York for two weeks?”

I paused when the bartender put in Sarah’s drink. He asked me what drink I’m going to get. Since it was a weekday and I was–still am–a responsible adult that happened to have a low tolerance of alcohol, I told him I’m going to have a vanilla milkshake.

“Because you were terrified that your mom would find out you forgot where the last time you put her pearl earrings and couldn’t find it?” I continued, as soon as the bartender left. “And the earrings were inside its box the whole time?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, dragging the glass to her side. “I never lost my mom’s earrings, by the way. It was… all a lie.”

I laughed at that. A genuine one.

I knew it was a lie from the start. Not because I thought she made it up to fool me. Sarah was a terrible liar, in the most charming way. It was the way she told the story. She made it sounds like she was pitching a brand new film idea to the studio exec. Too smooth, too structured, too marketable.

She went into full detail. Exact dates, earrings with missing origins, a whole subplots with her mom. She never bothered with the boring parts. Normally, she just gave me the wild headline: I ran into my ex. I accidentally hit someone’s car and gave him the wrong number. My goldfish jumped out of the bowl and I swear I don’t even own a goldfish. 

But this? This had scenes, transitions, and probably deleted footage. It was too polished to be true.

Life already had no tendency to give her a break. But the earrings story was too much. Especially when I knew her relationship with her mom wasn’t great. It read more like a cover-up than a confession. And as her really good friend, I never question it. I just play along with her.

“No, shit,” she added, “I’m dead serious.”

I didn’t say anything. I just simply snatched the glass from her hand right before she could empty it in a big gulp.

“Rude,” she scoffed. “I really need that, hon.”

“No,” I said simply. “It’s Wednesday. You can’t have that much martini even when alcohol is allergic to you.”

She gave me the finger, casual as breathing. The bartender who came back with my vanilla milkshake seemed awkward to get caught in the middle of… whatever was this. I returned it with a content smile because I knew she didn’t mean it. Even when she called me an uptight bitch under her breath. 

The silence stretched between us. Sarah slumped forward against the bar and buried her face in her palms. I placed a hand on her back, rubbing it gently as I scanned the room. Up and down, from the small of her back to right under the clasp of her bra. Which, surprisingly, she’s wearing. She must have just attended a formal event or something.

“I stayed at Harry’s apartment the whole time,” she sighed, finally looking at me. “We fucked. Like, a lot. No. Made love. Like, all the time. Day and night. Basically on every surface of his–”

“–Got it,” I cut her off. “I got the whole picture. Keep going.”

“It was supposed to be meaningless sex with a stranger at someone’s wedding. He just happened to be the best man and the brother of the groom,” she laughed. “But, honey, he’s different. He makes me feel… valuable. He said something nice and–fuck–he kissed me with his whole body.”

Again. I didn’t say anything. I just gave what I hoped was an understanding look.

But seriously, what does that mean? A man kissed someone with his whole body? How do you even do that? I didn’t know that was a thing. Maybe I should ask Dave about that.

“When I had to fly back here, I thought that was it,” Sarah continued, eyes glassy now. “I thought he’d forget me the second I walked out of his building. But then he texted me. The next day. And the day after that. Every single day. Just… checking in. Saying good morning. Telling me he missed me.”

Sarah cursed under her breath before she reached for the martini and chugged it.

“And then the flowers started coming,” she said. “A giant bucket of red peonies because I told him I hate mediocre flowers. I looked it up on Google because why not, right? And you know what I found? Red peonies symbolize love, passion, respect, honor, and prosperity. Apparently. And I know that sounds stupid but I, you know, I don’t know. He listens.”

Oh, wow. This Harry guy was good. No wonder Sarah looked like she’d been hit by a truck full of feelings. Shook to the core.

Sarah reached into her purse. I thought she was about to pull out a wallet, ready to close her tab and move to her place–or mine–to spend the rest of the night basically doing nothing. Or maybe a compact mirror to fix her eyelash or her lipstick. Something normal. Instead, she placed a small, velvet box on the bar. No words. Just thunk.

I blinked at it. Then at her. Then at the box again. 

She jerked her chin to the box, silently telling me to open it. Which I did. And I gasped, followed by a horrified, strangled kind of sound coming from the back of my throat. Dramatically. 

Inside was a ring. A real one. I have limited information about engagement rings but I think that one was an emerald cut. Big, heavy, intimidating. Weirdly it reminds me of Xylitol gums but it was a real diamond. It was the kind of ring that looked like it came with a very complicated prenup and an exclusive golf club membership. Not just engagement, the diamond screamed statement.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, half-enchanted, half-terrified. “Sarah? What the fuck?”

Sarah didn’t even flinch. “He gave it to me last night.”

“Oh my god,” I laughed now, closing the box and putting it back in her purse. The idea of getting robbed here was too much. “Oh my fucking god.”

“He picked me up from work yesterday. Said he missed me so he flew all the way here. He took me to dinner. You know, some candlelit and bathed with fairy light rooftop situations. And then he just… slid that across the table.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know,” she squealed, nodding frantically. “I said, ‘Well, that’s lovely. I’m going to ask my friend first.’”

I nearly choked on my own saliva. “Oh my fucking god! I mean, I know you were panicking. But what the actual fuck? Why do you have it with you? So you can discuss it with me or something?”

She shrugged, acting like it was a friendship bracelet. Not a grand gesture of a man that asked her to spend the rest of her life to be his lifetime partner. And I knew she was playing it cool while spiraling down internally.

“He insisted. He specifically told me to bring it–show it to you. That it might help to convince you he’s a good guy. That he won’t break my heart.”

I just stared at her. Did she talk about me to him? During, maybe between their heated, animalistic kind of sex?

“And,” she added, “he wants to meet you. Right now and he’s gonna be in here any second. I thought, since you work at the agency, maybe you could use your interrogation skills on him. Find out if he’s a really good man or not.”

I snorted. “Sarah, I work in the archives department.”

“Same shit to me,” she said, now dragging my untouched milkshake and taking a sip. “You work with these so-called secret agents, no? I bet you know the basics, like, smell a liar in their sleep.”

“Okay, fine,” I sighed. “I’ll meet him. But only because I want to see if he blinks when I ask him about his true intentions with you.”

Sarah grinned at me. She was clearly too pleased, too chaotic. Then she tilted her head, pointing her fingers at me and didn’t even bother to mask the disgust on her face.

“You look like Handy Manny in those overalls, by the way.”

I couldn’t help but look down at my outfit. I was wearing an overalls jeans, a green basic tee, and my worn out Converse knock off. In my defense, she texted–basically asked me to come at the very last minute. 

At the same time I have nothing to wear since I haven’t done my laundry yet. So, I have limited choices in my clothing situation.

“Handy Manny never wears an overalls,” I countered. “Just the basic jeans with the talking tools.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed. “Add a wrench and a belt clip, you look like one.”

***

“And the final question is,” I said, clasping my hands while leaning to the table just like what the field agents about to break a suspect, “would you still love her if she were a lobster?”

Harry, who sat right across from me, just smiled. Then he reached for Sarah’s hand and she didn’t pull away. Framed beautifully with the dim light and gigantic bucket of red peonies in this secluded booth. 

I couldn’t even mock her when she blushed as he pressed his lips to her knuckles. Not because I was being nice. Or supportive. But because I know this man was respectful. Not in a performative, TED-Talk on ‘How to Date a Strong, Independent Woman’ kind of way. Just a man who seemed to actually see her as a real person. Which was quite jarring because most men Sarah dated could barely see past her legs.

And now he gave me a look like, that’s the best you’ve got?. As if I didn’t just ask him about his financial situation including debt, savings, and his income ten minutes ago. Or his opinion in couple’s therapy because both Sarah and I believed it was a fraud. Or his reaction if she doesn’t want to do the prenup when we all know that he was filthy rich. 

I was impressed because he just answered the questions. Calm, direct, and again, respectful. He even admitted he wasn’t trying to fix her. He just simply wanted to stick around long enough to understand her. He does enjoy her company. Maybe with kids that look exactly like her if Sarah wanted a family.

“Then I’ll build a tank,” said Harry. “Protecting her from the predator. I’ll build her a home with coral walls and make sure no one ever boiled her alive. I’d probably be more careful when I hold her, though. So yeah, I’d still love her.”

I glanced at Sarah. Her eyes were doing that glassy, soft thing again. I rolled mine just so they wouldn’t do the same.

“Well, Harry, I was impressed,” I confessed. “Maybe a bit alarmed since you’re like a million years older than my dearest friend, but–”

“–What a surprise.”

The voice came from behind me. Deep and low. My spine did the thing–where it snapped upright like I’d just been caught doing something illegal. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Dave.

I turned slowly. Memories from the last time I saw him flooding my brain now. He kissed me deeply to the point he was ready to claim me all over again. His hand cradled the back of my head when he backed me up to the wall. I got the impression that he was preventing me from leaving the hotel room. Which is embarrassing because it made me clenched around nothing. Hard. 

“Mr. York,” I said, my voice came out neutral as I got up abruptly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“It’s not that fancy.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Harry, bless him, stood and offered a hand like this was a networking kind of night out. Meanwhile Sarah just sat calmly with her watchful eyes.

“Where are my manners?” I said, forcing a smile. “This Dave York, I can’t find a better way to introduce him, but he's technically my boss’s boss at the agency.”

I paused, gestured to him awkwardly, then to Harry. “And this is Harry.”

I held my breath when they shook hands. Like that simple touch might spark an earthquake. Sarah who picked up my panic and discomfort states shot me a knowing look–shoo him away right now.

“And this is Sarah,” I added, gesturing to her.

It was Dave's turn to shoot me a knowing look. He gave her a polite nod and Sarah returned with a tight smile. I really wish he didn’t say something stupid like, ‘You must be the best friend. I’m Dave, the man who took her virginity.’

“Since I met you here,” Dave said, now gesturing his coffee to me, “can I have a word with you?”

I know it wasn’t a question. He clarified it with him already turning and walking. I have no choice but to excuse myself. Explained to both Sarah and Harry that it won’t take long before I follow him.

“I know it’s none of my business but what are you even doing here?” I asked, keeping up with him. “With who?”

“Meeting with my guys,” he said calmly, as if we weren’t speed walking toward the back hallway. “Work stuff.”

“At a bar?”

“It has chairs. That’s enough.”

I didn’t get to ask what kind of ‘work stuff’ he was doing. Or why he led me into the bathroom. Because the moment the door shut behind us, he tossed his coffee in the trash. 

He spun around and had me caged in before I could blink. His hand found the base of my neck. He wasn’t rough nor gentle. Just there, holding me.

“What the–”

“–Quiet.”

He slid the straps off my shoulders while walking me back. The fabric fell, hit the floor slowly. Then I felt one arm around my waist. He lifted me up like I weighed nothing and set me on the sink before stepping between my legs.

My voice caught as my bare skin met the cold porcelain. My hands instinctively reached for him, looking for something to hold on. My overalls now pool around my ankles like it had decided to abandon me.

“What are you doing?!”

He didn’t answer right away. He ran his hand up inside of my thigh, the pad of his fingers dancing over the edge of my panties. It almost feels like he was reacquainting himself with a favorite memory.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he murmured, fingers pushed aside the thin fabric so he could press his thumb against my clit. “But I’d lose control.”

My head hit the mirror from the sudden jolt of unexpected pleasure. His eyes met mine. He was awfully calm while tortured me with the slow and deliberate circle while his fingers ran through the folds, seeking for the sleek entrance.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. “This is not–this wasn’t in the agreement!”

“Fuck the agreement,” he said, right before two fingers pushed inside me. 

I gasped. Loud and sharp. My hands sliding twice before gripping the edge of the sink like it could anchor me. The craziest part about this was my legs were already spreading wider for him. Ready to take whatever he was going to do to me.

“What the fuck, Dave?! This is crazy,” I hissed, trying to sound like I meant it.

His thumb pressed against my clit even harder, adding just enough pressure to make me squirm while his fingers moved inside me. He leaned in, close enough for his breath to graze my throat.

“No,” he muttered. “This is inevitable.”

I clenched hard to that. My legs locked around his waist when his fingers curled just right to hit something sinful inside me. Every muscle wound tight around the heat building low in my stomach. I was so close it hurt.

“Dave,” I whimper, now clutching on his shirt. “What are you doing?”

If anything, he pulled out. A sharp whine escaped before I could stop it. As if it wasn’t enough, he spun me around and turned me to face the mirror above the sink with zero warning. Not rough but firm.

“Hands,” he demanded.

I planted my palms against the cold surface. He kicked my legs wider and I heard the sound of his zipper. Without giving me a heads up, he filled me. Painfully, agonizingly slow. My forehead rested on the mirror, overwhelmed from both the pain and the pleasure as he stretched me out.

“Eyes up, honey,” he said, voice steady. “Look at yourself.”

I did. God forbid, I fucking did it. I don’t know why. Maybe because I couldn’t not obey him. Even when I was still processing what’s happening here. Maybe because I wanted to see what he was doing to me. To see the way his brows knitted together, burning in desire while fucking me. 

He moved with purpose. Rough and devastating while burying himself deep inside me. Every thrust getting the wind knocked out of me. It hurts but it feels good in a way I couldn’t explain. 

One hand on my hips. The other came up to cover my mouth.

“I told you, be quiet,” he groaned. “You don’t want them to hear, do you?”

That should’ve snapped me out of it. But it didn’t. It only made me wetter, angrier, and hotter all at once.

I tried to match his pace, pushing back into him to chase the delicious friction. But he didn’t let me catch it. His rhythm stayed firm. Punishing. Out of sync with the climax I’d been so close to.

I bit down on his hand. He didn’t flinch. It only fueled him. And just like that, he came. Hard and fast, spilling hot spurts inside me.

He draped himself against my back. His head fit into the crook of my neck. His mouth was seeking out the curve of my jaw when he pulled out with a deep grunt that rumbling in his chest.

I stayed bent over. Panting and hollowed out. What the fuck just happened?

From the mirror, I saw him adjusting his clothes. Then he knelt to lift the straps back onto my shoulders like it was nothing. My cheeks burned. I thought he was going to use his mouth since I haven’t finished. To make it even so much worse, he had the audacity to wipe the sweat on my forehead before tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“Go back to your friends,” he said, voice low. “You look beautiful when you flushed, by the way.”

Then he walked out. I watched him walk out like nothing happened. And I just stayed there. Staring at myself in the mirror. Still trembling. Still wanting. Still unfinished.

***

It started with a pillow. It wasn’t intentional, let alone planned. I just simply need a certain kind of pressure down there. Under me, between my thighs. Right where Dave left me unfinished after he fucked me with no explanation. 

My hips moved slowly. Rutting and grinding against the pillow. The pressure wasn’t enough and I was soaked through my shorts.

At least Sarah and Harry didn’t question me when I came back to the table. I lied about the crisis we had with something that I can’t go into detail since it was classified. Which explained a lot of why I look anxious and uncomfortable. I have to excuse myself because I feel like I was about to lose my mind anytime soon.

It wasn’t convincing enough. Even worse, I think they knew.

I opened my eyes and let out a deep sigh. The light in my room was dim. It irritated me on so many levels on how I couldn’t have an orgasm. Especially after I watch the porn or read the smut that was long forgotten. I even tried thinking about him while touching myself. It didn’t work.

I rolled to the side of my bed, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. When I turned it on, the screen lit with nothing. Still no reply after I sent him a series of texts on Kindred.

Me:
Hey, that was great, I guess, but what the actual fuck?

Me:
I think you owe me an explanation.

Me:
I think it was rude to not let your sex partner finish.

Me:
I know you read these, Dave!!

I sat up and caught my reflection on the mirror across the room. God, I looked miserable. My hair was all over the place. Don’t even get started with my nipples poking through my tank. I would like to call it a piece of evidence from how turned on I am right now.

And that was when the most ridiculous idea to get his attention popped up in my head.

Without a second thought, I grabbed the pillow and climbed down the bed. I walked towards the mirror and tossed the pillow to the floor. I took off the shorts along with my panties. Then I sit on top of it, placing the pillow between my legs. One thin strap slid off my shoulder, hanging limply at my side.

Then I arched my back just enough to make my chest look flushed. The pose was… angelically erotic. But not provocating enough. So I clutched the pillow. Like I was pushing it hard between my legs.

I hold the phone to the mirror, making sure it obscures my face. I took a picture and sent it right away. Yeah, I was that desperate and I wasn’t proud of it. 

It didn’t take long until my phone buzzed from a notification. I smiled when I saw his name pop up on the screen.

David:
Pick up when I call.

My heart launched into my throat when the call came instantly. I swallowed thickly before answering it.

“What the fuck was that for?”

I feel bad for feeling more aroused than ever after hearing his low, controlled voice. I pressed my phone a bit too close to my ear. My hips subconsciously rolling against the pillow.

“To get your attention,” I breathed. “It works.”

“What do you want?”

My cheeks burned. My thighs trembled slightly from the anticipation.

“You know what I want.”

There was silence. A long one. I was convinced he hung up on me. Until–

“Touch yourself.”

“Dave–”

“–Do it. Now,” he said, his voice rough from the other line. “Put your fingers inside your tight cunt.”

My hand slid between my legs before I even realized I was obeying. My fingers met the slick heat, pushed a finger and gasped into my phone.

“Good girl,” he growled. “Tell me what you feel.”

I added another finger, moving it slowly. I imagined it was his hands touching me. His skilled fingers that would make me come without even trying.

“It feels good,” I whimpered. “Not as good as your fingers. Fuck, Dave, I wish you let me finish.”

“You wanted to come earlier, didn't you?”

I pulled out my fingers, smearing the slick over the sensitive bud before circling it tightly. My breath came in shallow bursts as my fingers moved faster.

“Answer me.”

“Yes. Fuck, yes,” I moaned.

He chuckled darkly. “You begged for it with that photo.”

“I didn’t–”

“–You did,” he taunted. “You wanted me to see you like that.”

“I just want to come.”

“Why?”

I blinked. What was that even supposed to mean? Was this part of the… I don’t know. Dirty talks that spiced things up?

“I–because I'm yours,” I breathed heavily. “Yours only, Dave.”

He went silent. But I could hear sheets rustling on the other line. Was he touching himself too?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grunted. “Come for me.”

My body seized in an instant. My mouth opened on a soundless gasp as a wave of orgasm crashed into me. My fingers didn't stop until the aftershocks left me shaking.

I pressed the phone against my ear tightly. I could hear him panting. He does touching himself. The image of him wrapping his hand around his thick cock and pumping it furiously made me shudder. 

“Don't ever wear those overalls again unless you're ready to pay for it.”

Before I could say something, he hung up.

As I laid on the carpet, slowly coming down from the orgasm, it hit me. The first night when I saw him at the hotel. 

I was wearing the overalls and he said he'll bend me over the nearest flat surface and will fuck me until my knees give out. And he kept his fucking words.

 

 

 

Notes:

Yapping time!
It pissed me off knowing that Materialists won't release till August in my country and I couldn't save my ass from the spoiler. Yes, Harry was THE Harry Castillo. Also, apologies if the steamy part wasn't steamy enough. I'm trying and still learning here. I still feel a bit weird to go fully... explicit because it doesn't match my flow. I think it was spicy enough even though it was not exactly what I had in mind when I'm writing it down. I'll try harder. I promise.
And as always, thank you for staying this far. I was so excited during writing this chapter. I hope you guys enjoying this as much as I enjoyed the writing process.

Edit:
I finally edited it because why not. I think this version is much better with the right amount of spice.

Chapter 14: Clear the Air

Summary:

You get confused over something, you ask Dave for clarification.

“What?”

“What… what?”

“You’re staring.”

I did. I was in the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub, legs dangling as I watched Dave shave. It all felt intensely domestic. Almost mundane. The rhythmic scrape of the razor against his jaw. Or the crisp scent of his aftershave. I bet this was what his wife had to deal with for the rest of her life.

Maybe this could be a part of my future. I found it weirdly relaxing. Just being there. In the same room, enjoying each other’s company without saying a word or needing to fill the space. In silence. If I were lucky enough to meet someone who loved me, of course. Or crazy enough to choose me as the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Like, I don’t know. Jared?

But that was not the reason why I was staring. There was something bugging me after the–let’s say–bathroom incident.

Don’t get me wrong. It was undeniably hot. A little bit too close to the sun, I admitted. But why did he do that to me?

The way he just… took me. Without a word nor question. Just a firm hand on my shoulders as he slid off my straps. Then I was bent over the sink. My body opened up even as my mind reeled. 

The pain lingered for days. Understandable since it was only the second time I’d been with anyone. But the pleasure drowned me. Sharp and overwhelming. He’d claimed me. Like I was a puzzle he intended to solve whether I wanted solving or not. And then he left me. Shaking, hollowed out, and all alone.

I know. I could simply just ask. I mean, that’s how things work, right? You get confused over something, you ask someone for clarification. Easy peasy.

Except it wasn’t. The hardest part was that I’m scared. Not scared… scared. More like, what if I was just overthinking? What if that was just what sex was like? What if my inexperience blew it out of proportion? Made me dramatic for nothing?

He was the expert here. He was the one who’s helping me with the ‘exploration.’ Maybe that was just another facet. A wild, unexpected path I was supposed to follow without question.

But that gut feeling, that tight knot in my chest told me otherwise. Told me it crossed the line. Even if I couldn’t articulate which line or why it felt wrong. Maybe because I didn’t ask for it. Or it wasn’t part of the agreement. 

There was an ache inside me that hadn’t gone away. Somewhere between mad–both to him and to myself–and sad, laced with the uncertainty that makes me want to cry. And internal tremor that echoed the one in my body that night. Still unfinished. Still buzzing with a need that felt both primal and violated. 

The image of his hand over my mouth and the demand for silence looped in my mind. That alone should've snapped me out of it. But it hadn’t. It had only made me… I don’t know. Wetter and hotter. 

And that was the part that truly terrified me. The way my body betrayed my mind. The way I wanted him. Even now. And that little voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t stop whispering something that rhymed with grape. 

He caught my eye in the mirror. His gaze was sharp. He finished a stroke and rinsed the blade under the faucet before turning to face me. More than enough to make my stomach churned.

“Spit it out,” he said, drying his face with a fresh towel. 

My throat felt dry. My eyes darted to the glossy white tiles beneath me. I fucking hate that familiar demanding tone laced with a hint of something else.

“I wanna try… missionary.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

Fuck me.

“The agreement,” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “I specifically said no conversations outside of this. Our Saturdays, I mean. But the other night–you know, the bathroom–that wasn’t part of it and I would like to talk about it.”

I took a shaky breath as I finally looked up. He was closer now. Too close. A nervous flick of my hand pointing vaguely back to the bar, to the memory of it, only makes it worse. 

“That night,” I continued, “the bathroom. That–like I said, that wasn’t in the agreement, was it? And you… I don’t know. I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask. Which is weird because you always ask. Like, always. Before you touch me. Before you–you know what I’m saying.”

He was quiet. Watching me as my words started to stumble, tripping over each other. Honest to God, I hated that look.

“What I’m trying to say here is… what was that for?” I asked quietly. “Because it was hot. I think I even liked it. But why did you just do that?”

There it was. The questions finally spilled out. A desperate, confused mess of them. Loaded with contradictions I couldn’t untangle. 

His gaze never wavered. He just watched me. Silent. Letting my clumsy, babbling fears fill the quiet space between us. And then his voice, low and dangerous, cut through it all like a blade. 

“You think I hurt you.”

My lips parted but I didn’t speak.

“Are you saying I raped you?”

“Wow! That’s your word. Not mine,” I replied in a heartbeat. “I’m just… asking. I don’t know. It doesn’t sit well with me.”

Without a word, he closed the distance between us. Each step was deliberate–almost commanding. He didn’t just kneel. He dropped into a low crouch, bringing his eyes level with mine as he practically boxed me in without touching.

“The overalls,” he started, his jaw tightened. “I told you what that outfit does to me. And when I saw you, I lost my head. I should’ve just walked away. I should have. But I didn’t.”

He sighed. My legs twitched when he placed his hand on my knee.

“When you’re exploring, sometimes you push further than you meant to,” he said, voice softening slightly. “I saw you respond. I saw you give. And I kept going. I relied on that–on you saying no, or not saying anything that implied it.”

He paused. 

My eyes glued on how his thumb made those circling motions on my bare knee. I don’t know if I want him to stop or scream into his face.

“I never meant to make you feel used,” he sighed. “Or taken advantage of. That wasn’t my intention.”

He lifted my chin. His gaze met mine. Steady.

“It was just… pure reaction. Me losing control in a way I didn’t anticipate,” he continued, his voice firming. “As for why I left you, I was at my limit. If I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I need to walk away before I take something from you I shouldn’t have.”

“Jesus,” I muttered. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It won’t happen again,” he promised. “Not like that. Not without more clarity.”

He looked away, towards the steam still rising from the shower. Now his hand moved to the inside of my knee, as if he was looking for something to keep him grounded.

“And it wasn’t just sex for me.”

I stared at him. The silence in the bathroom suddenly became heavy with the weight of his last words. Great. A new, unspoken layer had been added to our already tangled arrangement. Promising a future that would undoubtedly get much messier.

“It wasn’t just sex for me,” he repeated, almost a whisper. 

The question formed on my lips before I could stop it. Compelled by a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and something I couldn’t quite name.

“What do you mean?”

He took a moment. Maybe grappling with the question himself. Or maybe just choosing his words with care. His gaze met mine once again. This time intense and unblinking.

“It means,” he finally said, his voice deeper. “That with you, it’s different.”

I frowned. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?!

“It’s the chase,” he continued. “The push. Knowing I can get under your skin in a way no one else can. It’s about knowing I can make you burn–make you feel things you’ve tried to bury. And seeing you respond to that. Just simply seeing you .”

“You can’t–”

“–I’m not done,” he cut me off. “It’s not just physical. Not when it’s you. When it’s… engaging. A challenge. You make me want to push harder. To see how far you’ll go. How far we’ll go. It’s a game, honey. An actual game I actually want to play and I don’t play games with just anyone.”

I noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes. A tight pull in his jaw, like he was chewing on something heavier than words. I didn’t know him deeply, but I knew that look. When someone’s overwhelmed but trying to stay composed. The one where they stay silent, smile through it, and lose their mind one polite breath at a time.

“And since we talk about this,” he said, his other hand cups my face now, “I think it’s better if we scrape the itinerary.”

I blinked twice. What the fuck just happened? I mean, the audacity to move on to the next subject that easily was beyond.

“I want to call it off, actually,” I blurted. “I–you’re spending hundreds of dollars on this room. It makes me feel like a fucking call girl.”

He recoiled slightly. His knuckles brushed against my cheek. “Don’t say that.”

“Even worse,” I laughed dryly, the sounds brittle. “I feel like I’m stealing time from your kids. Time you should be spending with them. Or with their mother.”

His eyes, which had softened for a fleeting moment, hardened. He didn’t flinch at the mention of his family. But I noticed a subtle tension radiated from him.

“Then let’s not do weekends anymore,” he said calmly. “Weeknights. Mornings. Whatever works. You pick the place.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, brushing his hand away from my face. “You make it sound like rescheduling a dentist appointment. These rooms aren’t cheap, Dave. I know the agency doesn’t pay you that much.”

He just stared at me. A faint smirk playing on his lips. “I got it covered.”

“You mean the shady side gigs?”

The rumor had circulated through the agency since the first day I worked there. It became everybody’s favorite gossip after some high-profile ‘favors’ had mysteriously materialized. Whispers about him doing certain jobs for certain powerful people. Things that were never officially sanctioned. Never leaving a paper trail. Part-time hitman, fixer, or cleaner. The gossip was wild, baseless, and utterly compelling.

He chuckled now. A low, dismissive sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

“It’s not shady. Just favors for people who pay well.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “And they pay very well. Enough to keep us coming here. As long as I want.”

As long as I want. 

He was shutting down my attempt to end it. He twisted the conversation back into his control. 

I could feel the tears pricking at my eyes. A hot, unwelcome sting. It was too much. The confession. The denial. The hidden meanings. The sheer audacity of him.

“I want to end this,” I managed, my voice cracking. “Dave, I can’t do this anymore.”

“If you want to end this,” he said, his voice softer, almost a coax, “then why do you look like you’re going to cry?”

A single, hot tear escaped. Tracing a path down my cheek. I hadn’t even realized I was crying until it hit my jaw. Until he reached out. Catching the tear with his thumb. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

“Still think it’s just sex?”

The question was a loaded weapon. He was asking as if I still believed his earlier words, as if I still believed my own. That this was just some physical arrangement and he wanted this. This raw, complicated, terrifying thing between us.

“You want me to be your mistress now?” I choked out.

He sighed. His gaze flickering down to my trembling lips. He lifted his hand, cupping my jaw again. His thumb brushed my skin as his eyes searched mine. As if weighing how much truth to reveal. How much vulnerability he dared to show.

“No,” he whispered. “I just want to keep this going. Keep us going. Because with you, it’s more than that. It’s… necessary.”

I stared at him. My heart was pounding a chaotic rhythm against my ribs. Necessary. The word echoed in my mind. That was a chilling whisper and a seductive promise all at once.

It wasn’t the kind of word people normally used lightly. It wasn’t about desire or wanting. It was about survival, a fundamental, a primal need. And the way he looked at me, those dark eyes boring into mine, it felt like he was seeing directly into the raw, exposed core of me. The way his eyes held mine, implied a possessive, consuming need that felt dangerously close.

My throat tightened. I should say no. I should stand up and walk out of this bathroom. Out of this room and never look back.

My logical mind screamed at me that this was wrong. All of it. The lie, the manipulation, the dangerous game he was playing. The way he so easily slipped from discussing my trauma to changing our entire arrangement as if it were a simple negotiation.

But then there was the other part of me. The part that I had just admitted. In the privacy of my own head, that I wanted him. Even now, even after everything. The part that still tingled from his touch. From the way his thumb had wiped away my tears. The part that responded, almost involuntary to his raw and possessive confession of ‘necessary.’

He saw me. He saw the parts of me that I usually hid. The parts that burned and yearned and were terrifyingly, utterly confused. And he still wanted it. All of it.

His gaze flickered to my lips once again then back to my eyes. The silence stretched, filled only by the frantic beat of my own heart. He waited. Patient in a way that felt both generous and predatory.

I swallowed. The lump in my throat was almost choking me.

“Okay,” I said, my voice was a strangled sound, barely audible.

Just that. A breath of a word, a fractured surrender. Not a resounding yes nor a declaration of commitment. But a quiet and fragile acceptance of the messy, dangerous, and undeniably compelling thing he was offering.

A faint, almost imperceptible shift crossed his face. It was not a broad smile or his infamous smug smirk. It was a subtle softening around his eyes. A barely-there relaxation in his jaw. He knew. And I knew he knew.

He held my gaze a bit longer. In the unspoken understanding that hung between us, the agreement was made. A new one. More complicated and infinitely more perilous than the last.

“Still wanna try missionary?” he whispered.

 

 

Notes:

I know. I said I'm gonna upload this chapter last Saturday but I was conflicted for a while since it contained a sensitive topic. I have to asked my sister her opinion which is quite embarrassing since we're not close but since she's an english teacher in this international school and has like more experience about these stuff, I have to. She said I should keep it--which I did--because it added realism into it, that I'm being completely honest on this particular thing. I know exactly what she was saying and I hope you guys get it too. That, you know, it's all about consent no matter how adventurous you were at the moment. It's just really hard to say it in english. Fuck language barrier.
Anyway, thank you for staying to the very last word of this chapter. Ilygsmih.

Chapter 15: Safety Net

Summary:

You wonder are you gonna pretend you're asleep till morning. Dave wonder who'd break first.

Breathe in slowly through your nose. Hold it for four seconds. Now breathe out slowly through your fucking mouth. 

I opened my eyes. Fuck. I don’t like this. Anxiety really had me in its grip, manifesting as an unbearable restlessness.

I pulled the blanket up and tucked it under my chin for the third time in five minutes. Then I released it with a sigh, hoping it was imperceptible. The sight of a clock on the nightstand only makes things so much worse. It seemed to mock me. Each minute hand movement is a slow, agonizing crawl. Counting out the seconds of our… renewed and more complex agreement.

I tossed and turned carefully. The sheets tangled around my legs like a snare. Acutely aware of the warm presence beside me that now felt so distant. A stranger sharing my space yet miles away. Not that strange by now.

The weight of our conversation pressed down. Thick and suffocating between us. It wasn’t just the quiet. It was the unspoken that screamed louder than any argument I’d ever had before. The silence was a tangible thing. Even widening the gap.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to catch the faint outline of him in the dark. I know he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too even and too controlled. It almost looked like a performance of calm that mirrored my own frantic charade.

Fuck it.

“Are we gonna pretend we’re asleep till morning?” I whispered.

“I was wondering who’d break first,” he muttered back.

I turned fully this time, shifting onto my side. The blanket twisted around my waist like a tether I didn’t know if I wanted to untie.

“I can’t sleep,” I said quietly. 

“Figured.”

I hate the fact that I could pick something unusual about his voice. The way he said that single word made it sound like he’d expected this… I don’t know. Restlessness. Maybe he felt it too.

In the near darkness, his eyes were open. Glinting with a familiar unreadability. The vulnerability of the moment felt too raw to deflect.

“Good to know I’m predictable,” I replied, sarcasm a brittle shield. “This is weird, by the way. Sharing a bed, I mean. The last time I did this, I was too exhausted to notice anything.”

He shifted then. A subtle movement that was enough for my every nerve ending to prickle. I could feel the heat radiating from him. The ghost of his touch from the other nights is now haunting in its proximity.

It was a cruel irony, really. This closeness. When emotionally we felt leagues apart.

A long silence stretched. Punctuated only by the distant hum of the hotel’s ventilation and the frantic beat of my own heart.

I wanted to reach out. I wanted to bridge the gap that now felt miles wide. But what words could mend something that had been so carefully and painfully laid bare? What touch could undo the weight of all that truth?

“And now?” he asked, finally.

“Now I notice everything,” I admitted. “I have so many questions.”

The silence returned. Not as harsh. Still sharp enough to breathe wrong on. 

“Do you always overthink like this?” he asked, this time his voice low, almost a whisper. “Don’t you get tired, hon?”

Even in the dark, I could make out the faint crease between his brows. That permanent furrow that made him look like he carried too many things alone. Then, without thinking, I reached out. Smoothed a thumb across his forehead.

“Do you ever relax?” I countered.

He blinked. I’m glad he didn’t move. Didn’t stop me either.

“Old habit,” he said.

“The frown?”

“The weight.”

I didn’t pull my hand back. I just let it rest there longer than necessary. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to comfort him or prove something to myself.

“I just really have to ask you about everything that’s been bugging me,” I said. “And you don’t have to answer if it’s too much.”

He covered my hand with his, holding me. Then he nodded slowly.

“The side gigs,” I began. “Why do you do it?”

His jaw tightened. I could feel a muscle jumping in his cheek under my palm. He didn’t flinch, but a deeper stillness settled over him.

“Is it the money?” I continued. “Or is it about needing to be in danger?”

Dave exhaled through his nose. For a split second, I freezed. I thought he was annoyed. I was convinced he’s gonna brush it away. Just like what my parents did when I asked too many questions. It was just fatigue. Honesty hovering like smoke.

“When the department shut down after McCall disappeared, I thought maybe it was over,” he said, eventually. “That part of me. But it wasn’t.”

McCall.

I’d heard that name before. Pretty sure Jared mentioned it a couple times. When he told me the story from his glorious days before he got transferred into the archives department. Something about black ops. Performing high-level, off-the-books kind of missions.

“McCall?”

“Robert McCall,” he sighed. “I worked with him. You know, the ones they sent in when they needed results and didn’t care how messy it got.”

“What happened to him?”

Dave paused. He pulled his hand away and I took it as a sign to pull mine. I grabbed the edge of the blanket again as I watched him contemplating. As if he had to measure the version of the truth I could handle.

“He died,” he grumbled. “Or… we thought he did. The department assumed it. Scrapped the whole unit when he vanished.”

“He didn’t?”

“Turns out he was alive,” he confirmed with a single nod. “Laying low. Doing his thing.”

“Which is?”

“Justice,” he said, like it tasted bitter. “The kind that doesn’t come with a badge anymore.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know the man. But I knew enough about ghosts. About the way a name could hang in a room long after the person was gone. 

“And yeah, I started as money,” he continued. “It always starts as money. Me, Resnick, Kovac, and Ames. But then… I don’t know. I think I liked knowing I could still do it. Still be someone who mattered.”

“And Jared?” I asked. “He told me he was in black ops before he took over the archives department.”

He paused for a moment. Then continued, each word measured and heavy.

“He’s the youngest of all of us. Jumpy one. Often make stupid decisions. We don’t need him.”

And then my brain did the thing it always does. Connecting the dots.

McCall vanished. The unit dissolved. Dave lost the part of himself that made sense. So maybe the side gigs were just his way of staying relevant. Useful. Then Jared finds out about the little reunion. He was mad and felt left out. Maybe that was the reason why he hates Dave so much. Because he was excluded from… the boyband. 

“How about your wife?”

“She doesn’t ask.”

“Why not.”

“Because we stopped being curious about each other years ago.”

Oh, boy. I feel bad now. I should’ve kept that one to myself.

“Her presence,” he went on, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “Her company. Her support. Especially with the kids. That’s what’s necessary now. That’s what holds us together. And yeah, that’s the ugly side of forever, honey. Where love turns into something else. Something… functional. You learn to accept it. Or you break.”

Honest to God, that was worse than cheating. That was a slow rot. The kind you couldn’t see until it hollowed you out. Just exactly what happened to my parents.

“Have you ever tried to fix it?”

“We tried,” he said. “Then we stopped trying. Then we pretended we tried.”

My breath hitched. It was brutal honesty. Stripped bare of any romantic illusion.

“Including this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely between us. “The open marriage situation?”

He didn’t answer. And I was totally fine by that. In fact, I get it. It all made sense, in a fucked-up way. 

They stop wanting each other. Stop touching each other. Sex isn’t the thing anymore. But the loneliness stays. The needs stay. So they make an agreement: Get it elsewhere, but come home clean. 

That wasn’t cheating. That was survival, in a way.

And maybe that’s what they had. A mutual understanding wrapped in apathy. A broken contract where no one bothered to file for divorce because neither of them wanted the paperwork.

So yeah, Dave was right. The thing between us, how complicated it was, it is necessary. For him. And it explained a lot of why I didn’t feel guilty. Not really. 

I mean, if she didn’t want his body, if she wasn’t the one touching his face in the middle of the night while he whispered the names of dead men, then why should I feel like a thief?

He wasn’t hers anymore. At least not all the way.

I turned onto my back, now staring at the ceiling. As I laid there, I tried my best not to think about how familiar that sounded.

My parents had been two polite ghosts trapped in the same house for the sake of our well-being. Affection was something reserved for holidays. Or emergencies. Hopefully he didn’t do that with his wife.

“You know growing up in a house like that fucks you up from hundreds of different directions, right?”

I glanced at him only to find out he was already looking at me.

“Teaches you love is distance,” I added. “Teaches you to be grateful for crumbs.”

“No worries,” he muttered. “Carol and I were pretty good actors.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. Of course he would say something like that. Or maybe I was just stalling.

He shifted closer, reached out. He grabbed me by the waist and dragged me into his chest. I felt he gently threaded his fingers into my hair. Then he kissed me. Quick and quiet. Over and over. Quick and quiet. On my temple, my hairline, the curve of my skull. 

His fingers moved through my hair in slow, absentminded strokes. He just did it. Like he wasn’t thinking about it because some part of him already knew I needed it. And that’s what scared me the most.

“Have you ever wondered why this is happening?” I asked. “Why did the thing between us feel easy? Too easy, even?”

He said nothing. So I kept going because I couldn’t stop now.

“I don’t do this, you know,” I said, letting out a bitter laugh. “Connection bullshit. I just… I don’t click with people in an instant. Not really. Not fast. But with you, it feels like–”

I rolled onto my stomach. The weight of my body resting on his chest, the solid plane of it warm beneath me. My arms instinctively splayed across him. My fingers found the sharp line of his jaw. I began tracing it. A hesitant, almost nervous exploration. 

“–It feels like,” I started again, my voice softer. “Like I’ve known you for years. Even though half the time you’re an infuriating stranger.”

He remained silent. I felt the slow and steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. His hand, still in my hair, paused its absentminded stroking. Then it tightened just slightly, pulling me closer. 

“Like this, right now,” I added. “It’s the most natural thing in the world and that terrifies me.”

“Maybe that’s how it works sometimes.”

My thumb brushed along his jawline, then dipped into the hollow beneath his ear. “What? Fate?”

“No,” he said softly. “Familiarity. Even if you didn’t know me personally, you knew of me. We work in the same orbit. Same building. You probably saw me a dozen times before this.”

“Still doesn’t explain the… this ,” I mumbled, now pats his cheek slightly.

“You felt safe. Maybe not with me, but with the idea of me.”

Huh. That was… interesting. He wasn’t wrong though. I do knew him. I mean, who doesn’t? Everyone back in the agency knew who he was.

“Are you saying that if things went bad, I could go to HR?”

“Exactly,” he smirked. “Safety net.”

I bit back a smile. God, that was so fucking unsexy.

“I’m just saying you’re smart. Your gut picked up on something long before your brain caught up.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that I’d never hurt you.”

That shut me up. At least for now.

We fell quiet again. This time it wasn’t tense. It wasn't comfortable either. More like a shared acknowledgment of the unsettling and undeniable ease that now defined us.

Still laid gently on his chest, my hand found its way to his side. Then I felt it. A subtle bump under the fabric of his shirt.

“What’s that?”

“Probably the bandage,” he mumbled. “From earlier this week.”

I sat up without thinking. The next thing happened, I reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The warm light washed over him. Soft but sharp enough to reveal the outline beneath his tee.

“Take it off.”

“You said you’re not in the mood to have sex.”

“I’m not,” I clarified, my voice firm despite the sudden rush of curiosity. “I–Dave, I just want to see it.”

He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were unreadable in the soft lamplight. Then, with a slow exhale, he sat up too. His fingers went to the hem of his t-shirt. He pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. Tossing it carelessly to the floor.

I looked back and forth between him and his bare torso. His chest was a landscape of old stories. In this proximity, I could see ghosts of healed wounds. There was a jagged scar that ran along his left ribcage, disappearing beneath his waistband. 

A series of smaller, silvery lines crisscrossed marks his shoulder. But the most prominent, the one that had caught my attention was a fresh bandage plastered just above his right hip. 

I leaned closer. My fingers reached out almost involuntarily, touched the edge of the bandage like it might burn.

“What happened?”

“Work,” he shrugged, his gaze fixed on my face as watching my reactions.

My fingers continued their exploration. Moving from the rough texture of an old burn scar on his biceps to the smoother, almost invisible line near his collarbone. I felt a strange urge to press my lips to each one. To somehow soothe the echoes of pain they represented. A sincere apology for not noticing it right away.

“What happened here?” I asked, my thumb brushed over a small, circular mark near his sternum.

“Got shot. Years ago.”

“And this?” I asked again, now moving to another scar on his right chest.

“Knife. Close call.”

“This one?”

“Glass. The window blew during a mission. Caught the edge.”

I traced each one like it was Braille for a language only he spoke. He stayed perfectly still under my touch.

“What’s your wife think of these?” I asked. “Of you coming home looking like this?”

He finally flinched. A subtle tightening of his muscles beneath my hands.

“She doesn’t ask and I don’t tell,” he said simply. 

I looked up at him, my eyes searching for him. The casual bravado he often wore was gone, replaced by a quiet vulnerability. In the lamplight, the lines around his eyes seemed deeper. Etched by years of living a life he couldn’t fully share. 

“Does it… bother you?” he asked, almost hesitant. “Seeing all this?”

I shook my head. My fingers were still tracing the faded maps on his skin. 

“No,” I whispered. “It just… makes me wonder what else I don’t know about you.”

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the way he looked at me. Like he didn’t expect softness. Maybe it was the silence. Thick and pulsing. Or, maybe I just wanted to stop thinking for one fucking second.

I leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Barely there. A brush of lips more curious than confident.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t deepen it. Didn’t pull away either. So I kissed him again. A little longer this time. A little closer to meaning it. 

He inhaled like it caught him off guard. It followed by his hand curling around my jaw. Tentative but steady before he kissed me back. Still slow. Still unsure. But this time deeper now. Almost feels like he was trying to figure something out between our mouths.

We broke apart just barely. He rested his forehead against mine. Our breaths were mixing. 

I opened my mouth to say something only to find out the words jammed in my throat. All I could do was look at him. And he looked at me like he was trying to memorize the moment in case it was the last time.

“Do you want this?” he breathed heavily.

I nodded.

“Say it.”

I swallowed. “I want this.”

His mouth twitched. Probably both from frustration and arousal.

“Damn it, honey. Say the word.”

My chest ached. “Dave, please. Make love with me.”

 

Notes:

Oh, god. I feel so bad for procrastinated this fic for two weeks. But I'm here now. In my defense, it's getting close to the end and I wasn't ready--still am. If I was get the timeline right, there's like 10 chapter left and I don't wanna this to be end soon. I mean, things finally good between the reader and Dave. Who am I trying to ruin their little happiness?
Again, I will never ever get bored to say thank you. You guys are amazing for being patient with me. I love you guys so much from the bottom of my heart.

Chapter 16: Silent Surrender

Summary:

Walls fall. Clothes drop. Something irreversible begins.

The words hang heavily between us. Raw and unfiltered. A fragile bridge I’d finally dared to cross. 

His dark and heavy-lidded eyes searched mine. In their depths, I saw nothing but a profound understanding that stole my breath away. He brushed a feather light thumb over my trembling lower lip. An innocent touch that met the immensity of my surrender without once shrinking it.

“Okay.”

His voice was low and rough. The deep rumble from his chest vibrated through me, settling deep inside me. It was a single weighted word. An acceptance that left me breathless.

He leaned in slowly. Giving me every opportunity to pull away, to retreat from the precipice. But I couldn’t. Not when I was the one who asked. Begged for this.

His forehead rested against mine. Our breaths mingling, warm and steady. I could feel the low thrum of his heartbeat against my chest. A grounding rhythm against the frantic chaos of my own. 

Those eyes–those dazzling eyes locked onto mine. In that unwavering and protracted eye contact, I felt something deep within me unravel. The years of carefully constructed emotional distance, the analytical self-consciousness, the fear of raw vulnerability, all began to dissolve under the heat of his steady gaze.

He moved his hands gently. From my face down to my neck, then settled at the hem of my oversized tee. He didn’t pull or yank. Instead, his fingers slipped beneath the soft cotton. They felt warm against my skin. Easing the fabric upwards with deliberate slowness.

The tee slid over my head, muffling the world for a second. When it came free, he tossed it carelessly to the floor. The cool air kissed my exposed skin. As well as his hands. Warm and firm, cupping my bare waist. I felt the low hum of electricity where our skin met.

My own hands, as if compelled by an unseen force, rose to meet his. Hesitant at first but managed to guide him to the clasp of my bra. Every movement felt like a quiet agreement. A shared unspoken yes. A mutual agreement to strip away the barriers between us. Layer by painstaking layer.

I watched his muscles flex. The subtle movement of his skin as he slid the straps over my shoulders. His eyes never left mine when it came off. His pupils dilated as he cupped the soft swell of my chest. 

A strangled moan clawed its way out of my throat as I felt it. Sharp and immediate pleasure shooting straight to my core when he rolled the sensitive buds that were hyper aware of his presence. It earned me a low, rough sound from him. Something deep in his throat that made my skin prickle. 

He reached for the waistband of my shorts. His knuckles brushed against my stomach, sending shivers through me. Slowly. Meticulously. He peeled them down my trembling legs, along with the soaked panties. The simple cotton shorts felt incredibly intimate in their removal. 

I kicked them off just as he reached for his own. His gaze still locked on me. Both challenging and inviting. The soft rustle and the faint whisper of fabric against skin filled the quiet room as his boxers joined the small pile of discarded clothes between us.

Now, only skin separates us. 

One of his hands came to rest on my lower back. The other at my hip. The pressure was firm and steady. I felt the slow and warm slide of his palm along my side as he guided me backward.

My body willingly, instinctively complied. My breath hitched in my throat as I tipped back. The mattress received me with a soft sigh. I landed gently. A feather falling onto a cushion. Utterly receptive to his silent command.

He followed. A shadow to my form as he lowered himself over me. Hovering above me, his weight supported by his hands braced beside my head. More than enough for me to feel his breath fan over my face. Slow and steady, mirroring my own ragged breathing.

Our eyes remained locked. A silent dialogue unfolding. No words were needed.

I shifted under him, almost instinctively. My hand skimmed the curve of his jaw down to his shoulder. The need to trace his weight on top of me with my fingers was unbearable. 

He exhaled hard. It seemed the touch knocked something loose before buried his face in the crook of my neck. He needed to be hidden at that moment. As if he was feeling too much and trying to stay quiet about it.

He kissed me there. Soft at first. Then again. Slower. Then his mouth opened against my skin. I felt the gentle pull. A kiss turned into something deeper. His tongue. His breath. He sucked gently to make it last. 

His mouth was still at my neck when shifted. Lower, heavier. Settled between my legs with an ease that made me gasp. He wasn’t inside me yet. Just… close. So close I could feel every slow roll of his hips drag against me. 

The heat. That delicious friction stole my breath away. Not fast. Just enough to lose my sanity.

With every slow grind of his body against mine, I could feel myself opening. It wasn’t about wanting him anymore. But needing him. I wrapped my legs around his waist to hold him close, to keep him there.

He kissed my shoulder up to my jaw. He murmured something I couldn’t even register because I was already too far gone. My body aching, shaking, and dripping for him.

"You taste like honey."

“What?” I whispered.

He lifted his head, smiling sheepishly. “I told you that. The first time. Right before you freaked out and locked yourself in the bathroom.”

My stomach dropped. I remembered the bathroom. The shame. The panic. The way I ran like something inside me split. But not that. Not that he said that.

“You remember that?”

He kissed my neck again, softer this time. “I remember everything.”

I pulled him by the neck, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress even more. Our lips met in a slow exploration. A long, open-mouthed kiss that steeped me in the taste of him. The raw, intoxicating scent of him. 

His hands roamed, firm and deliberate. Exploring every curve of my body. Mapping me with a touch that was both demanding and infinitely tender.

He found me wet and aching beneath him. Slowly, with agonizing care, he pushed in. The stretch was intense. It was a burning pressure that threatened to consume me. My body arched, the kiss broke when a gasp tearing from my throat as I clawed at his bare back.

“You’re beautiful. So much more than you know,” he whispered against my lips, his voice strained. “Eyes on me, honey.”

I obeyed. My eyes remained fixed on his. I saw the grimace of effort. The tight control in his jaw. The raw desire that sharpened his gaze. Everything. 

Then he moved. Slow and deliberate strokes at first. Teasing the edges of sensation before building into a powerful and rhythmic push. 

My body responded. A primal instinct taking over, meeting him, clenching around him. The pain was there, yes, but it was quickly eclipsed by a building heat. A swirling vortex of pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter in my core.

My eyes welled up, tears blurring his perfect face. Not from sadness but from an overwhelming rush of tenderness. From being seen, truly seen, for the first time. Happy tears streaming down my temples. 

He saw them and I saw his own eyes softened. A deep, knowing understanding passing between us. He didn’t wipe them away. He simply let them be. It was a testament to the raw honesty of the moment. 

His rhythm grew urgent, relentless, and I lost myself in it. My hands found his strong shoulders. My fingers were digging in, holding on. My moans now escaped freely. Raw and broken. Mingling with his deep groans.

The world narrowed to his face above mine. His eyes locked on my every reaction. His hands were gripping my hips now, urging me deeper and closer into the earth-shattering wave.

A blinding and consuming release tore through me, shaking my entire frame. A guttural cry escaped, unbidden as my body pulsed and shattered around him. He matched me. His own release a ragged groan, a shudder that rocked his entire body. Pouring himself into me as he collapsed. Buried his face into my neck while gasping for air. 

We lay there. Our breaths were ragged, tangled and slick. The air was heavy with the aftermath of pure unadulterated sensation and emotion. His weight was comfort and familiar anchor. My fingers curled into his hair, not wanting to let go. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I whispered, tears still tracking trails through the flush on my cheeks.

He lifted his head. His eyes still dark with the intensity of what had just passed. He looked utterly undone yet utterly content.

“Just stay a bit longer, will you?” he rasped, brushing the damp hair from my forehead. “I promise you won’t get an UTI.”

***

I woke up to an empty bed. The sheets beside me were cool. Wrinkled and empty. I just laid there for a second. Staring at the ceiling like a complete idiot. Of course he left in silence. What an excellent dick.

The warm ache between my legs reminded me exactly what had happened. The emptiness next to me reminded me exactly how fast things could change. Fucking great.

I sat up slowly. Everything in me was sore in the best and most terrifying ways. I pulled on my tee and underwear, too lazy to dig for the rest. Then I started gathering my things. Bra, charger, shoes, whatever dignity I had left.

I was checking on my phone when I heard it. Muffled voices. A man’s voice. His voice, to be exact. 

I moved toward the sliding door that led to the balcony and peeked through the sheer curtain. Dave. He still here. Barefoot with phone tucked between shoulder and ear. Both of his hands moved as he spoke. 

Right before I turned around, going back to whatever I was doing earlier, our eyes met. I froze.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave either. He just crooked a finger. Something I could interpret as a  silent come here.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. Limbs stiff and skin still humming with aftershocks. The morning breeze hit me. So did the realization that I wasn’t wearing a bra and my nipples were doing the absolute most under this thin shirt.

He looked at me like he already knew what I was worried about. And just like that, without breaking conversation, he pulled me gently into his side. One arm around my waist. Followed by a kiss pressed to the top of my head.

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle. “But it’s for girls only, remember? Mom told me Jake wasn’t invited to the party. Listen, I’ll make it up to, okay? Have fun with the girls.”

He was quiet for another second, then sighed.

“You can’t have both. Pick one,” he added, his thumb brushing slow circles on my waist. “Atta girl. Yes, ma’am. I’ll get the yellow one. Tell mom I love her.”

I blinked.

He was talking to his daughter. Maybe both kids. While having me tucked under his arm like I belonged there. 

He hung up and looked down at me. “You okay?”

“Sore,” I blurted. “But manageable.”

“Good,” he smirked. “That’s what I was going for.”

Before I could snark back, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a tiny dust bag. He stared at me until I took it. 

“What? Are you giving me drugs now?”

He rolled his eyes. “Open it.”

I untied the cord and pulled out a necklace. Maybe gold, maybe silver. I have no clue. The pendant was a teardrop-shaped emerald, set in a smooth silver frame. 

“Are you asking my opinion or something?” I asked, still holding it like it might bite me. 

He stared at me, borderline offended. “What?”

“I mean, it looks great,” I shrugged. “Timeless. It goes with anything, really.”

“It’s for you, actually.”

My heart stuttered. He bought the necklace? For me?

“You never wear jewelry,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Saw it in a window at this pawn shop the other day. I thought it’ll look good on you.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My fingers tightened around the chain. 

Without asking, without giving me a break to catch up, he took it from me. He stepped behind me, flipped my hair out of the way and clasped it around my neck. His fingers brushed my nape. He kissed me there, a soft one, before he turned me around to face him. 

“And I was right,” he continued. “Looks good on you.”

Fuck. 

“Thank you, Dave,” I chuckled awkwardly. “I’ll get you something in return.”

“Don’t insult me.”

I grimaced. It wasn’t what he said, it was the necklace that settled just above my collarbone. Heavy and cool against my skin. 

“Get ready,” he said before pressing another kiss on my temple.

“What for now?”

“Kids are out all day, back this evening,” he replied without missing a beat. “I wanna take you out.”

I swallowed. Oh my fucking God. I think I forgot how to stand for a second. 

“Like a date?”

“Food. Sunlight. Public decency,” he shrugged. “Maybe even a conversation that doesn’t end with me inside you.”

I should’ve made a joke. Or said something sarcastic. Instead, I just stood there. Somewhere between panic and flabbergasted. My hand rising to touch the necklace, hoping it would ground me.

 

Notes:

I might got diabetes from how sweet this chapter is. Like, come on. I know I suck at write the smut part so I try another approach only to find out I'm pretty good at sweet nothings. Anyway, thanks for reading this chapter. I'm trying to update this fic more often.

Chapter 17: Freshly Fucked

Summary:

You told yourself to calm down. He meant it and that made everything worse.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hundred percent.”

“Have you checked the bathroom?”

I didn’t answer right away. I swear, I was about to. I just need to text Sarah really quickly. Typing frantically as I gave her a brief yet detailed update about what happened last night. As well with the necklace. Or the way he held me in his embrace this morning. It’s mandatory.

I caught the sound of footsteps when I hit the send button. Before I could even look up from my phone, he was standing there. Right on the other side of the room with my makeup pouch dangling from his fingers.

“Always check everything twice,” he lectured.

I felt a prickle of offense at the familiar tone. I think it was the universal tone that every parent used when they were nagging about something. Thank God I was in a good mood. So I brushed it away.

My gaze drifted up from the offending pouch and that’s when I really saw him. Something stirred inside me. He was wearing jeans and black plain t-shirt. Don’t miss the leather jacket too. I’d never seen him out of a suit. So yeah, the unexpected sight of him dressed so casually made him look… incredibly handsome.

I cleared my throat, tucking my phone to my back pocket. I’m totally normal about this. It’s just him, wearing that stupid t-shirt where I can see the veins on his arms very clearly.

“Heard,” I shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “You look good, by the way.”

As if that outfit was not enough to make me feel hot and bothered, I caught him smiling. That genuine and soft curve of his lips that was rarely seen.

“Handsome,” I added while gesturing vaguely to his direction, still not looking directly at him. “Handsome is the right word.”

My breath hitched when he stepped closer. I finally looked up when I felt his hand rested on my hip, forcing myself to smile when he leaned in. His lips found mine in a gentle and lingering kiss.

“You look adorable when you’re flustered,” he murmured against my mouth.

I hate this. I hate the way he looked at me. I hate how I started giggling like a complete idiot because I don’t know what to do or what to say. I hate how I enjoyed a bit too much of the comforting warmth seeped into my skin as his arms enveloped me. 

I hate the fact that I completely fall for him.

Still holding me close, he slipped the pouch inside my bag. Then he kissed me once more. A quick, sweet brush of his lips. Like he just wanted to take the taste of me one more time before casually grabbing my bag and his own. 

He led me out of the hotel room and an immediate awkwardness settled between us. From walking down the corridor to waiting for the elevator, it felt strange and unfamiliar.

I think it’s safe to say because we’d never arrived or left the hotel together like this. No wonder if the silence, though not unfriendly and somehow confronting in a way, was thick with unspoken newness.

It’s quite embarrassing because all I could think right now is how hot it can be if we make out here. In the corridor. Where he just, you know, backed me up to the wall and kissed me senselessly. 

Or in the elevator. When he put his hand behind my head as he pinned me to the cold metal wall while the other hand just… I don’t know. Caught my thigh and lifted it. Guiding it up until it hooked around his waist so he could grind his–

I blinked twice, feeling the familiar heat pooling in the bottom of my stomach. Oh, God. What the fuck is wrong with me?

As I followed him closely towards the parking lot, he reached for my hand. In response, my hand flew back in a startled reflex.

“What are you doing?” I asked before I could even think.

Dave slowed, turning halfway toward me with an unreadable expression. 

“Relax,” he said. “I just want to hold your hand.”

“Here?”

He had the audacity to give me that look. 

“No, Dave, I didn’t say anything stupid,” I muttered, definitely sounding defensive. “I’m just–what if someone sees us? You and I walking out of a hotel, looking freshly fucked, and holding hands like it’s the most normal thing in the world?!”

“Freshly fucked,” he smirked. “I liked that.”

“Oh my fucking God,” I groaned. “I’m dead serious right now.”

“So do I.”

I hesitated. I looked back and forth between his outstretched fingers and his face. That was dangerous. Because everything about this felt dangerous. Walking side by side in broad daylight, out of a hotel, with our bags and our leftover intimacy still clinging to my skin. 

I rolled my eyes. Our. Seriously?

But then, I don’t know. I gave in anyway. Maybe because I was tired of pretending I didn’t want it.

Our fingers laced together. I winced as I felt how firm and steady his grip was. And just like that, the tension in my shoulders unraveled a little. We walked in sync like people who had done this before. Like we were… something real.

Still, my mind buzzed with static. All it would take was one familiar face. One coworker. One wrong glance to rewrite the entire story into a scandal. Yet the warmth of his palm in mine was soothing. Familiar. Unsettling in the most addictive way. 

When we reached the car, he let go to open the passenger door. I reached for the handle before he could. I was determined to at least pretend to be capable. 

“We’re on a date, remember?” he said nonchalantly. “A nice gesture of mine won’t kill you, hon. Trust me.”

“I–”

“–Get in.”

I stared at him a bit longer than necessary. Then I blinked, shook my head and stepped forward to climb in. But then, as I started to duck inside, I felt his hand gently come down over the crown of my head. Guiding me down so I wouldn’t bump it against the roof.

I froze because what the fuck was that?!

As if that wasn’t enough, he helped me with the seatbelt. I had to hold my breath, looking away as he adjusted the strap before clicking it.

I wasn’t familiar with… whatever that was called. It was so gentle and careful. Thoughtless in the worst possible way. Clearly he’d done it a thousand times before.

“What was that?” I asked, stunned.

Dave shrugged. “Force of habit,” he said. “Carol used to hit her head all the time.”

Right. The wife. The real one. The original player two. The mother of his kids. How the fuck did I forgot he’s married with kids?

And I was right. That little touch, the one that made my heart stutter, was just a muscle memory. A flicker of reflex coded from years of someone else and that person is absolutely not me.

I nodded, swallowing the taste of something stupid and bitter. He checked the seatbelt one more time before closing the door gently. 

By the time he got in on the driver’s side, my hands folded in my lap like a girl on her best behavior. He didn’t say anything. Just glanced at me once before starting the car.

“Where are we going again?”

“We’re going to this place for brunch,” he muttered as we pulled out into the street. “Make a quick stop at this bookshop to grab something for my kids and we can do whatever you want.”

“Right,” I said, toying with the strap because I don’t know what to do with my hands. “Dave, I have something to say.”

He glanced at me. “I’m listening.”

“Can we not call this as a date?” I chuckled awkwardly. “And can you stop with the princess treatment? I’m gonna be honest with you here, I don’t know how to accept… that.”

“That?” he echoed, one brow lifting as he turned the wheel with practiced ease.

“You know, you being all–”

I paused, couldn’t help but waved my hands vaguely in his direction. 

“–Sweet. Gentle. Like, the present, opening the door, and holding hands. The forehead kiss thing? I thought my brain was going to implode. It’s just, you know, I don’t think I could return that.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept driving. His eyes fixed on the road. But I could tell by the slight shift in his jaw that he heard every word.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said eventually, not even looking at me when he said it.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” I mutterded, half under my breath.

That got him to smirk. 

Then I caught his expression softened again. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel. He looked like he wanted to say something else. Maybe something meaningful. But he couldn’t quite get it out. Or maybe it was me over reading this situation. 

He glanced at me. Once. Twice. He made it feel like he was measuring how far to push it.

“Okay,” he said, his voice calmer now. “Whatever makes you comfortable. And I’m going to say this again, honey, that the thing between us is not transactional.”

“Thanks.”

And that’s when I told myself to calm down. He meant it and that made everything worse. He wasn’t trying to win or flirt or get in my pants. That was him giving a fuck. He cares about the thing between us. 

It was nothing. It’s just sex with a twist here and there. Just touch and skin and late-night naughty texts.

Again. It was nothing. I didn’t have to spiral every time he kissed me like he meant it. I didn’t notice the ghost of his hand still lingering against mine. This thing didn't make me dare to dream of something I couldn’t have in the first place.

 

 

 

Notes:

I know, I know.
It's been weeks since the last time I updated this fic and all I can say is that I'm having a hard time. I've been, let's say reconstructed this chapter few times before I finally had the final draft. But then I was like, no shit, I have to tweak it a bit because that didn't sound like our narrator and it just doesn't make any sense anymore. So yeah, forgive me. I definitely gonna update this more often since we're getting close to the end.

Chapter 18: Sylvia's

Summary:

Dave take you to his favorite's place and take a walk near the lake.

The restaurant was small and intimate. A wooden chalet nestled deep in the forest, somehow both cozy and slightly exposed. Inside, the red and white checkerboard tablecloths covered every surface. It struck me as funny, how that kitschy pattern clashed with the wildness just outside.

The host greeted Dave like they were old friends. We got a window seat with the most beautiful view. Below us, the calm and expansive surface of Lake Anna stretched out, reflecting the sun in a dazzling display of light. The shoreline was a patchwork of green trees and distant docks. There were a few small boats drifting lazily on the water, making the whole scene feel peaceful and endless.

“I haven’t been here for a while,” he mumbled while flipping the menu. “Still look exactly the same though.”

“I’ve never been here,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “What’s this place called again?”

“Sylvia’s.”

What a perfect name for the perfect place. I loved it here already. Especially the wild flowers in those little vases. A perfect final touch. A little reminder of what the place was holding back. 

The moment I finally scanned the menu, I started spiraling. Everything was in French. No translation. Just a bunch of words I couldn’t pronounce and price tags that made my eyes water.

“Okay. Wow,” I muttered, running my fingertip on the paper. “This is a lot of French.”

“Need help?”

I looked up and there he was, already looking at me. He raised his brows with concern and I couldn’t help but laugh. God, I hate it when I start getting comfortable with people I shouldn’t. 

“I do need subtitles,” I nodded, pointing to something with too many vowels. “This one sounds delicious. What is that all about?”

“That is Crevettes à la Provençale. Basically it’s shrimp sautéed with lots of herbs and aromatics and unfortunately you can’t have that,” he explained, flipping the page for me. “Brioche sounds good. It comes with homemade mixed berry jam. You should have that.”

A sudden panic washed over me. I’d never told him about my shellfish allergy. In fact, I’d never told him anything personal at all. 

Then how the fuck did he know? Had he gone through my bag while I was asleep and seen the EpiPen? Is that how he found out?

“How do you know I’m allergic to shrimp?”

“I have watchful eyes.”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s a creepy way of saying you’re stalking me.”

“You could say I do thorough research, hon,” he countered. “I’m good at my job, remember?”

“Even creepier.”

He put his menu down, took mine too, then looked at me. It was unsettling, the way there was always something unreadable in his eyes. Something I could never quite decipher. Then, without warning, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Fair enough,” he sighed. “Let’s make it less creepy then. Tell me everything I should know about you.”

I blinked. Wait. What is happening?

“Like… what?”

“Start with something small.”

I don’t know what to say. At this point, all I could do was stare at him, unable to articulate anything. Even my subconscious went silent.

But the moment I opened my mouth, it just poured out like a dam bursting.

“I was born in a small city no one talks about,” I began. “Middle child. You know, the ‘okay one.’ My brother is the prodigy with endless offers of scholarship and my sister is the rebel.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just nodded for me to keep going.

“My parents had an arranged marriage and treated each other like polite coworkers who only speak during lunch breaks,” I continued. “Then–oh! I came to the agency because I needed a job. I never planned to stay. I thought I’d do it for a year. Maybe two. But then I got good at it. I’m not saying I’m passionate about keeping things organized. It's just, you know, efficient.”

I paused when the waiter came. I let Dave order the dish. The soft bread with mixed berries jam for me and a fluffy omelet filled with cheese and mushroom for him. He got fresh-pressed juices and sparkling water too. 

“Should I be worried about your credit card limit?” I joked. “Or are we pretending money isn’t real right now?”

“We’re on the next level, no?” he retorted casually, taking a sip of his water. “You’ve seen the part I don’t share with the world. I stayed when you tried to push me away because it makes you feel something.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. To any of that. So I sipped my water. My fingers gripped the glass a bit too tight.

I owed the waiter for saving my life when he came back with a tray filled with our food. Dave thanked him when he informed us before turning and flouncing back into the kitchen.

He reached for the bread, slathered it with the jam, and placed it gently on my plate. I stared at it rather dubiously.

“You should eat,” he said.

I said nothing. I was just simply tore into a different piece of bread, ignoring the one he made for me. It tasted like something I would’ve loved if I wasn’t sitting across from someone who knew my allergies and had my heart hammered wildly against my ribcage from that silly, little gesture.

I was highly aware he watched me. From tearing the bread, spreading the jam evenly, to where I put it into my mouth. Not in a weird way. Just… in that unreadable way again.

“Okay, fine,” I sighed, picked up the bread he prepared for me and shoved it into my mouth. “Happy now?”

He finally turned to his own food, cutting into his omelet like he hadn’t just psychoanalyzed me after giving a satisfied hum. We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn’t the unsettling kind of silence that I’m familiar with. This one was different and I couldn’t find the right words to describe it.

He leaned back, gaze drifting to the lake. “You know, I never bring people here.”

“That line probably works better when the menu’s not in French and the jam isn’t life-changing,” I said, tearing off another piece of bread. “Do they sell this jam?”

“I’m serious.”

I believed him. Which was the core of the problem because I have, like, zero doubt.

“Why me?” I asked. “Does that mean you never bring your family here? Even your wife? Or someone who actually smiles when they talk and… I don’t know. Doesn’t mentally critique everything within a ten-foot radius or something?”

“Because you listen. Even when you pretend not to.”

Something in my chest tightened. Sharp and sudden. Especially when knowing that his eyes didn’t leave the lake. 

“You listened,” he repeated. “And you don’t flinch when I say things that should make you run.”

“That’s depressing.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smile fading just enough. “My parents died in a car crash when I was sixteen. I went to live with my grandfather–toughest man I ever knew. The military was the only thing that made sense. Everything after that just… followed. And that’s honey, what I considered as something depressing.”

“And now you’re here,” I said, almost to myself. “I guess that’s the reason why you always look like you’re holding back a secret. Do you get off on being mysterious or is it just a side effect of being emotionally repressed?”

He laughed. An actual one. Not the low amused huff he usually gave me and that makes my chest warm.

“That was a good one.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“You want honesty?”

“God, no,” I muttered. “That would be too healthy for whatever this is.”

Then I felt it. A sticky dab of jam at the corner of my mouth. I was about to wipe it. But before my fingers got there, he swatted my hand away. Soft and quick, like he’d been waiting for it.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

And then, he did it. Reached across the table, his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth. Light. Precise. It was something that he’d done in my dream. 

I stared at him. I didn’t move. Let alone breathe.

He didn’t drop his hand. No. Not right away. Instead, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean while his eyes still locked on mine. 

“Fuck,” he said softly. “That’s better than I thought.”

My brain short circuited in an instant.

He smiled again. This time smaller as if he was holding it in. As if there was something warm behind it.

***

We took a walk near the lake behind the restaurant. It was stupidly beautiful. The lake beside us was catching the last streaks of sunlight. The crunch of gravel beneath our shoes and the soft slosh of water kissing the rocks filled the silence between us. 

I liked it. It made the moment feel real in that tender and mundane way.

I paused at a bend in the path where the trees parted just enough to frame the lake perfectly. The golden light hit the surface like spilled glitter. I fished out my phone, held it up, and snapped a photo.

“Proof I was here,” I muttered.

Dave turned to me. “You sound like a hostage sending evidence.”

“I mean, kind of,” I smirked. “If I disappear tomorrow, this is the last known location.”

It happened so casually I almost missed it. He tugged me close with one smooth pull as he let out a short laugh. He slipped his arm around my shoulders and he did it again, kissing the top of my head. 

I went stiff for a breath. That caught me off guard, but it didn’t take long for my body to give in. I leaned in. My own hand settled on his waist, resting my head on his chest. He kept looking ahead like it meant nothing but I could feel the shape of a quiet smile on his face.

“Let me take one of you.”

“No,” I said immediately, pulling myself away while clutching my phone tightly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t–I don’t know how to pose,” I winced, already feeling stupid. “I always look weird. Or stiff. Or like I’m being threatened off camera.”

“You just admitted you’re basically a hostage, so it checks out.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Let me be the anonymous blur behind the camera.”

Thank God he didn’t tease further. He just shrugged as if it really was fine either way.

He pressed another kiss, this time on my forehead before holding out his hand.

I hesitated. “What is it with you and hand-holding lately?”

“I like the way your hand fits in mine.”

Of course he said that. Of course I melted and took it.

He kicked at a pebble on the path and kept walking. I followed closely, feeling suddenly and ridiculously warm in the chest like I’d dodge something and missed out on something all at once.

We kept going, the path narrowing a little. It was shaded by old trees that swayed like they were whispering to each other. 

I thought that was it. I thought he’d let it drop. But a few steps later, he turned to me with that boyish grin on his face which is something new.

“You don’t have to pose, you know,” he said. “I could just take one of you. Being here. No looking at the camera. Not doing anything.”

I glanced at him. “So, like, paparazzi-style stalking?”

“If that makes it easier.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re persistent.”

“I’m a dad,” he said simply. “I’ve had to negotiate with toddlers holding scissors once.”

That made me laugh. That embarrassing kind I only shared with Sarah–where my nose does a little snort and my chest caves in. I hated how easily he could do that. I hated that it felt good.

So I handed him my phone. I turned my back to him, faced the lake. I decided to say nothing. I let the wind pull a few strands of hair out of my clip, let the sun find my cheek. 

“Okay.”

The shutter clicked once. Then again. I looked over my shoulder because I was curious as to why there were no instructions. I couldn’t help but smile sheepishly when our eyes met.

He walked up beside me a moment later and handed my phone back. I took it and went to the gallery right away. The photo was… surprisingly fine. It was just me, standing there like a normal person. 

Then there was another me looking straight to the camera. Smiling. Not weird. Not stiff. Just small in front of something big and beautiful.

“I don’t hate it,” I said, finally. “Thank you, Dave.”

“High praise,” he replied, smiling.

And we kept walking. We walked in silence for a bit.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“About what?”

“The jam.”

He smiled gently. “They didn’t sell it. Sorry, hon.”

I looked at him, unsure how to take that.

“But you know what? You’re more than you think you are,” he continued. “You should try connecting with yourself. With people. Making yourself busy isn’t just a numbing agent. You deserve more than numbness.”

Didn’t see that coming. 

“That’s rich coming from someone who’s still legally married yet fooling around with other people.”

He took the jab in stride. “Touché.”

“I think you don’t have to stay in a dead marriage,” I said without even thinking. 

He stopped in his tracks. He turned to me. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked out at the lake before bringing his attention back to me.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “Me? Without the complications?”

My stomach tightened and it was not from hunger. It was a knot of something I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was the thrill of being seen even in a small way. As well as the terror of what that might mean. 

Bastard.

“What, no,” I chuckled awkwardly. “What I’m trying to say is that staying for the kids is not noble. It’s like… emotional asbestos if that makes sense to you. It lingers. It ruins things quietly. I mean, do you know how many people stay in shitty relationships just because they grew up thinking love looked like detachment? Or turns into this… really bitter person who only sees everything from the bad sides?”

The wind tugged at my hair again. It got in my eyes. He reached out to tuck it behind my ear to fix it.

He just looked at me. The way he did it almost felt like he was trying to memorize the version of me that wasn’t hiding behind sarcasm. Or sex. Or skepticism. Like he wanted to bottle it. Like it scared him.

“We should go,” he said softly.

I nodded. My body agreed. My legs were already aching from the walk. My brain, however, had other plans.

“Dave. Wait.”

I reached out, grabbed his arm just enough to stop him. He looked at me, puzzled, but didn’t move away. 

I cupped his face with both hands with purpose. He froze as my fingers touched his jaw. That spot right beneath his cheekbone. That place I’d been dying to hold but never allowed myself to. And then I kissed him.

Not because I wanted to shut him up. Not because we were in a hotel room. Not because I was spiraling or starving or scared.

But because I wanted to. Because I could. Because after all the things we’ve done, I do want him to walk away from what eats him alive and walk straight into my arms.

He didn’t kiss me back right away. His hand hovered, afraid to break the spell. It didn’t take long for him to finally sink into it. His lips moved against mine with something that wasn’t heat. It wasn’t even hunger or desperation. It was a relief.

When we finally pulled apart, I couldn’t breathe right. 

“You kissed me,” he breathed heavily. 

“Don’t make it a thing,” I whispered.

“Too late.”

He reached for my hand again. And this time, I let him take it.

We walked back to the car in silence, but it wasn’t awkward anymore. It felt like something had shifted. Something tiny and permanent. Something I wouldn't be able to undo.

 

 

 

Notes:

Yapping time.
So the other day I put my playlist on shuffle and I stumbled into the song I used to obsessed when I was in high school. And I was like, wow, it's been forever, let me take a look of the lyrics real quick since it's a bollywood song one. It called Ishq Mubarak. And yup, it literally translated, "Blessed be this love, blessed be your pain." And I was like, that's it. That's what this chapter about. Because once you accept the love, you have to endure the pain as well.

Chapter 19: Security Cam

Summary:

Pathetic, really. Jealous of his kids like they were rivals, when you just spent weekend with him.

I put back Hedwig plush down to the shelf when I saw the price tag. 40 bucks?! For a goddamn plush? And it was before tax? That’s outrageous.

No, wait. I’m the one who’s overreacting here. I forgot how expensive the official merchandise could get. I mean, that’s where the company makes all the money, right?

“What’s the occasion again?”

Dave, who was deep in search, glanced at me. He returned his attention back to a shelf filled with journals. His fingers ran along the colorful spines as he searched for the perfect one. The sheer focus on his face told me this was a serious mission. Far more important than my own existence.

Hold on. Why on Earth do I sound jealous?

“No occasion,” he said. “I promised my kids I’d buy them whatever they wanted if they behaved for seven days straight.”

I stared at his basket. Twho Hufflepuff journals, two Hufflepuff pens, two Hufflepuff house mascot plushes, and two Fantastic Beasts collection sets. Special edition one. I’m not good with math but I can tell that they’re worth somewhere 500 bucks.

“Are you sure?” I asked again. “And by ‘behaved’, what exactly are you referring to?”

“Didn’t give their mom a headache, did all the chores, and stayed off the phone and the tab. Also called their grandma because that’s what good grandkids do.”

I blinked at him. I definitely am not judging his parenting style but something about it doesn’t sit well with me.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“ Huh. ”

Something flickered across his face when he finally looked at me. I think he caught it. The disbelief, almost doubting tone in my voice.

“What?”

“I think you’re a good father. Like, actually a really good one,” I said before I could stop myself. “My parents never go easy on me. When I was a kid, I had to get perfect A’s or work my ass off, convincing–no, begging to buy me anything that they deemed ‘unnecessary.’”

He stared at me longer than he normally did before jerking his chin toward the aisle.

“Grab whatever you want,” he said softly. “Even books. We’re already in a bookstore, after all.”

“Respectfully, Dave, fuck you,” I muttered, get defensive instantly. “I’m not broke and I do have my own money. I can buy whatever I want. But in this economy? I have to be wise with my spending.”

I noticed the way he fought to stay neutral. That tiny tremor pulled at the corner of his mouth clearly betraying the smile he was trying to hide. 

“I’m not saying you’re broke,” he replied evenly. “I just want to spoil you. I can assure you, honey, it won’t hurt your pride.”

I didn’t have a single coherent thought. My brain hit a wall and an internal alarm blared, telling me to abort the mission and retreat immediately. 

Yet I found myself snatching a pile of novelty bookmarks, a miniature reading lamp, and a stack of postcards. I even grabbed a paperweight that I clearly didn’t need.

We wandered the store a little longer. Somewhere between fiction and cookbooks aisle, I got that awful feeling in my gut. What the fuck am I doing?

I silently put everything back. One by one. Pretending to browse while making sure each item was tucked exactly where I’d found it. 

Maybe he was looking for me since we split up. When I glanced up, he was already there. Watching me. Not with annoyance. Not even with disappointment. Just this… I don’t know. Quiet awareness like he’d clocked the whole thing and decided not to say a word. 

 

***

 

Back in the car, he started the engine but didn’t pull out immediately.

“You know,” he said, glancing at me with that almost smile, “you’re terrible at letting someone spoil you.”

“You already spoiled me with brunch,” I countered. “And the hotel, as well as the room service. I mean, come on. You’ve already spent hundreds of dollars. That’s more than enough for one day and I got the message. Loud and clear.”

He hummed. I don’t know why he did that but my guts told me he didn’t believe me. I don’t mind, really. That was something I can’t control. So, why bother?

His hand reached mine and for one dizzying second, I thought he might actually be going to hold it again like earlier. Boy, I was wrong. Instead, he simply set my hand down on his thigh. 

Of course my brain short-circuited. My mouth went dry and I went very still.

He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate. No shift in tone, nor lingering squeeze. Nothing. He just simply rested my hand there as if I’d done that before. Which was unfair because my mind went straight to other times his thigh had been involved.

I stared out the window, determined not to make a sound.

Meanwhile, he drove like nothing was out of ordinary. His thumb brushes over my knuckles every now and then. Each absentminded pass lighting me up like a static. It took me everything not to move my hand and start to… I don’t know. Explore him?

My head flooded with the filthy things I’d read when I was… let’s say bored. Seriously though, there’s so many activities we could do here. In his car. No need to pull away. We just have to do it very, very carefully.

Maybe he was silently telling me to give him a handjob. Even better, a blowjob. Fucking my mouth while he was driving. No. That’s not him. He would let me know, say it right to my face.

My fingers twitched on his thigh. I shifted, pressing mine together while hunting for a position that eased the heat blooming low in my stomach. His warmth bled through the denim sending a tingling rush up my neck. More than enough to curl my toes inside my shoes.

By the time we pulled into my street, my hand was still on his thigh. I could hear blood rushing in my ears. I didn’t even know if he noticed how tense I’d gone. He didn’t comment. Too focus parked as if it was any other drop-off.

Or, maybe he does notice and acts like nothing happened. Bastard.

I should’ve just gotten out. I should’ve thanked him for the day, for the necklace, and gone upstairs.

Instead, I heard myself say, “You want to come up?”

With one eyebrow arched, he finally looked at me. “Are you offering me coffee?”

Jesus Christ. That faintest tug at his mouth. I would do anything to see it again.

“More like tea,” I nodded. “Since I don’t really drink coffee.”

He hesitated for maybe half a second before killing the engine.

The walk from the street to my unit went in a blur. I remember the part when I startled as he placed his hand on the small of my back. Or when I nearly dropped my keys because he stood right behind me, carrying my things, and his breath warm against my neck. 

Inside, it got so much worse. The air felt heavier. It thickened the second I shut the door. From the corner of my eye, I watched him set my bag on the couch before letting his eyes wander. Clearly he was cataloging every inch of my living room.

My stomach twisted. It wasn’t from the chipped coffee table or the stack of books and paperworks on the floor. It is because I realized this is the very first time I’d invited a man in here. Ever.

“The kitchen’s this way,” I said, already halfway there.

I didn’t wait for him. If anything, I busied myself with the kettle and tore open two bags of cheap tea.

He hovered near the counter. Too large for the small space. Too present. When the water boiled, I poured, stirred it evenly before slid one mug toward him.

He took it. Maybe muttered thanks or something like that. I didn’t really catch it and I’m glad I didn’t.

I hopped up on the counter. It was a muscle memory, really. I always did this when I was pulling late nights. Too late to get back on the floor. All I can do right now is pretend this was normal. Pretending he wasn’t watching me like that.

The silence swelled. Thick and unbearable. Only the low hum from my refrigerator and his finger drumming against the rim in steady rhythm.

I cleared my throat. The sound came out like a pathetic attempt to break the tension. 

“What time do your kids get back?”

The drumming on the mug stopped. His eyes, which had been fixed on me, dropped to his watch. “Seven. But I like to be home by six to get dinner ready.”

So basically I still have him for the next thirty minutes. All alone. By myself. Technically I can do anything, right? Whatever I want?

My chest clenched from the adrenaline. Fuck it. 

“Come here,” I said as I put my mug far enough. 

He didn’t move right away. He just stood there with a mug still in his hand. Still watching me like he was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. 

“Dave, come here,” I tried again, this time extending my hand to him. “Please.”

This time he set the mug down and stepped closer. That was all I needed. I grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked him till he stood between my legs.

My fingers curled tight in the fabric like I could hold him there by sheer will. My mouth found his jaw later. It wasn’t even a kiss at first. It was a clumsy and desperate attempt at contact.

My breath snagged in my throat, but I forced it out. “Stay a little longer.”

At first his body was stiff. It didn’t take long for him to bend down. The scruff of his jaw grazed my cheek before he found my mouth. The kiss was deep and sloppy. Clearly we’d skipped the warm-up and went straight to the chorus just exactly what I wanted. 

His hand planted on the counter by my hip, steadying us both as I wrapped my legs around his waist. The heel of my sneaker dug into his ass and that earned me the faintest grunt against my lips.

I knew I was playing dirty. Using my mouth, my hands, basically every inch of me to keep him here just a little longer. But I can’t help it. I wanted him, all of him, just for me.

“Remember that NDA clause we scrapped?” I breathed between kisses, fingers already fumbling at his belt.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and sharp. 

“Which one?”

I didn’t answer him right away. If anything, I palmed the outline of his cock through his jeans. He tipped his head in surprise, followed by that deep rumble coming from his chest. 

I swear to God, I have never been this frantic before. My body lit up in an instant the second I pushed his belt free. I stroked him once through his briefs, just enough to feel his thick and heavy cock twitch against my hand. This time earned me a strangled moan coming through his teeth. 

“The one about… recreating scenes.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Let’s do it. I always wanted to try this scene.”

“What –fuck– what show?”

There are three specific moments in these sex scenes that have been altered in my brain like… forever.

First, the way Nick caught both of June’s wrists in one hand and shoved them above her head before burying them into the pillow in the first season of The Handmaid’s Tale. Sure, it was average but something about it was so intimate for me. It almost feels like he couldn’t stand the thought of June touching him back because it’ll make things so much worse than it already is. He was trying to keep himself in control only to lose it once June took over and, well, rode him. 

Second, the song sequence from this underrated Indian film called Shabd. I once did a deep dive into how the Indian film industry works because I couldn’t stop wondering. Like, how the fuck did they make that scene so sexy, so haunted, so aching with longing without even showing that much? They didn’t even kiss on the lips because it was forbidden at the time. They really just relied on the way they touched, lingered, the soft graze of mouths against each other's neck and shoulder. And it burned hotter than half the naked sex scenes I’ve ever seen. 

The last one, that kitchen scene in the second season of Succession between Shiv and Tom. Maybe I was reading that scene too much. It didn’t even start sexy at all. At the begining of the episode, Tom wanted a quickie before work but Shiv brushed him off. Said she was running late when she clearly doesn’t want that. But later that day, she dropped the bomb that her dad wanted her to be his successor. You could see it hit Tom. The way air left him and she saw it too. The discomfort and the shift was too apparent. So she fixes it the only way she knows how: she kisses him hard, drags him into the counter, and suddenly claws at each other. They cut away before it turns into sex, but I know exactly where it’s going. Sometimes that’s worse. Sometimes better. And I wanted that right now with him. 

I smirked and bit his lip. “Won’t tell you. It’ll ruin the fun.”

“You’re sore from last night,” he laughed, soft but disbelieving. “You won’t last more than two minutes.”

“I can take it.”

“You have the lowest pain tolerance of anyone I know.”

This man. My hand pressed harder against him for emphasis. My hips were shifting, the counter creaks as I make more room for him. 

“I will make exceptions for you.”

That flicker of amusement in his eyes sharpened into something hungrier. Still, he tried to bargain.

“How about I fuck you with my fingers instead? Or my tongue?”

“Babe, I need your cock,” I purred, my words rough and filthy. “I’m soaking wet right now just from the thought of having you deep inside my tight pussy alone.”

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” he murmured. “Begging for my cock like a desperate little slut. When did that happen?”

Oh. I clearly didn’t expect that but it only fueled me even more.

“Your cockslut,” I affirmed. “Please.”

He leaned closer, brushing his lips along my ear. “How do you want it?”

“Start with this.”

I yanked him back into another messy kiss. Loud and wet. My laugh slipped out against his mouth when his hips jerked into my palm, betraying how much he wanted it. 

We wrestled with denim and buttons. His hands finally on my jeans too, impatient but still letting me set the rhythm. It wasn’t graceful. A lot of teeth clashing, breath uneven, me practically whining into his mouth while I shoved his jeans down enough to free him. 

My own pants were half open. His hand finally dove down, shoving them the rest of the way. His eyes shut, jaw flexing when found out how wet I was. I could hear the squealch sound as I rocked against his palm shamelessly.

“Still want my cock?” he rasped.

I nodded while wrapped my fingers around his thick shaft. I loved the way he’s growing thicker and harder in my hand as I gave him a few lazy strokes. 

“Say it,” he ordered, breath hot against my cheek. 

“I need you to fuck me with this cock,” I blurted, voice cracking into a whine. “Please, Dave.”

He reached down to line himself up. It was quite a sight, watching the blunt head of his cock pushing inside my slick hole. Slow enough for me to feel how he stretches me.

I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. The counter bit into my ass as my body clenched around him. I was glad it didn’t take long for the sting and the stretch blurring into something so sharp it made my vision flash white.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned as I tightened my legs around him, locking him in. “So fucking tight.”

“Move,” I begged, half a sob, half a moan. “Fuck me, please.”

He set a rough rhythm. Each thrust jolting the counter against the wall, making me yelp and then moan louder. His hands clamped my hips, guiding by pulling me down onto him with each stroke.

I clawed at his back, meeting his thrusts with my own desperation every time he hits something sinful deep inside me. The sloppy kiss turned into breathless cries. Filthy words spilling out before I could stop them.

“Feel so good, Dave,” I moaned loudly. “Fuck me harder.”

“You’re loud,” he growled against my ear, one hand gripping the back of my neck and forcing me to take him.

“Make sure it catches it.”

His thrust faltered. He stilled, eyes flashing up to mine. “What?”

I laughed, breathless as I bit his lip hard enough to sting. 

“I have a security cam here,” I whispered, grinding down on him. “I hope it recorded this. So I can watch it later while I fuck myself. Or maybe use it as leverage if you ever try to walk away from me.”

He was somewhere between amused and shocked from the confession. But his cock twitched inside me violently. 

“Imagine it,” I added, “me getting off to this exact moment. You fucking me in my kitchen. Wrecking me. On a loop.”

He kissed me rough, biting back a sound that was closer to a growl. He continue fucked me like he owned me. Wet slaps echoing off tile as his cock dragging out and slamming back in. I'm definitely gonna walk funny tomorrow. 

His thumb found my clit. Ruthless and circling hard as he fucked into me. The coil in my stomach wound tight. Each drag of him inside me unravelled me more. I knew I was close from the way I couldn’t even kiss him. Only bite his jaw, moan into his mouth, and pant his name like a prayer.

“Come for me.”

I shattered. My body seized around him with mouth open on a broken cry. The orgasm was ripping through me so hard I thought I’d black out. 

“You’re gonna be milking me,” he hissed as he pounded through my orgasm. “Feral little thing. Begging for my cock like this.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I babbled, too far gone.

He groaned into my neck, hips stuttering before driving in deep one last time. His breath went ragged, jaw clenched as he spilled inside me. 

For a moment, all I heard was the hum of the fridge and our wrecked breathing.

When he pulled out, I felt the hot spill of him leak down my thighs. Humiliating. Perfect. I went to move to close my legs but he held me open with a rough grip.

“Look at you,” he muttered, dipping his fingers between my folds to scoop up the mess. “Dripping all over your kitchen like a filthy little slut.”

Then he shoved his fingers into my mouth. Pushing past my tongue until I gagged. My breath hitched, shame igniting into something darker. 

“Taste it. That’s what you wanted so bad, wasn’t it? To be full of me.”

I moaned around his digits, sucking him clean. My eyes fluttered shut as I swallowed. It was embarrassing how quick the heat flooded my stomach all over again. 

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching me with something between hunger and disdain. “Good little cockslut. You’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you? How about my office next time? Bend you over my desk, let everyone on the executive floor watch how this pussy takes my cock?”

“Yes,” I gasped when he pulled his fingers free. “Anywhere, please. Just… don’t stop.”

“Good girl.”

“Stay,” I whispered. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

His hand slipped from my face, zipping his jeans. That softness in his expression vanished. 

“Don’t.”

“Just for another ten minutes–”

“–I have to go.”

The drip of his come sliding down my thigh made me feel feral all over again. And the sight of him buckling his belt like nothing happened made me want to scream.

“Right. Dinner with your kids.”

He lingered just long enough to kiss my temple again. Softer this time. It almost feels like an apology. 

I heard the door click shut. Silence rushed in quickly. Heavy and suffocating. 

Every nerve fried from how hard he’d fucked me. My body was still buzzing and trembling. Fuck. My mouth still tasted like us.

Then the shame came flooding back. As well as disgust. At myself. At how desperate and needy and pathetic I’d been. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Begging in ways I swore I never would. And that's because I was jealous of his kids.

I stumbled down from the counter, ignoring the damp spot right there. My legs were still weak, I nearly fell to the floor. I started searching blindly for my phone. Anything to anchor me back in reality. Anything to prove I wasn’t just some ruined mess waiting for him to come back. 

When I found it, my hands were still shaking. I opened Jared’s chat and typed before I could think better of it.

Me:
Craving blueberry cheesecake. Wanna grab one tomorrow?

 

 

Notes:

I would like to apologize for taking so long to update this one. But I make it up with make this chapter spicy. I think I'm getting better at writing the steamy scene, no? Also fun fact, I did write two articles about intimacy in Indian film industry in IDN Times like somewhere between late 2024 and early 2025. I actually write film trivia there which I'm trying to be more active.
Anyway, thank you so much for reading this. I love you guys!

Chapter 20: Blueberry Cheesecake

Summary:

You agrees to be with Jared, not out of romance, but out of exhaustion. However Dave still lingers like a curse you knows you’ll have to face.

I love blueberry cheesecake. I really do. Blueberry cheesecake is just about the best food there is. I mean, the regular one is already delicious. Especially the baked New York style. Classic. But when you add the sweetness with a touch of tartness from blueberries and finish it with a crumbly streusel topping? It becomes irresistible.

And that’s not even the best part. It’s seasonal. You can’t just get it every day. You have to wait for the right time each year. That kind of rarity makes it perfect.

I love it so much. So much. I thought there was nothing taht could ever top it. At some point, I was certain I wouldn’t be able to lve anything as much as I love blueberry cheesecake and I was okay with that.

Until him.

York. Dave. God, just thinking about him makes my heart flutter in a weird way already. 

Yes, I’ve fallen for him. Badly. There’s something about him that makes me feel… I don’t know. Valuable. Seen, maybe. And it’s not just the sex even though it’s beyond everything. 

I think it’s the way he makes things that usually feel impossible become easy. He doesn’t make romance look like some tacky Hallmark shit I’ve spent my whole life sneering at. With him, it doesn’t feel impossible. If anything, it feels… natural.

I’m not even trying to fight it anymore. I embraced it. I love him. I do. That’s for sure. Absolute, even though I don’t really know him. And I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’ve never loved anyone else this much before.

But I also hate him equally. I hate that he’s the one who managed to prove me wrong. I hate that from all the men in the world, it has to be him. A man who already belongs to someone else. I hate that the only time I’ve ever understood what people mean by love, by being cared for, by being wanted is with someone I can’t have.

To make it so much worse, I found out recently the older one is in second grade while the youngest is still in preschool. The idea of these kids probably still asking him to tuck them in the night makes me feel sick. 

Oh, boy. Now I feel like I'm that ugly, immoral witch with funny hair trying to steal their happiness. Like I’m trying to kidnap their dad and burn their house to the ground. Especially after the other day, when I felt jealous of his kids. 

I know that was not okay. Totally unacceptable. But I couldn’t help it. I want him, all of him, by myself. I don’t want to share him with anyone.

Also yes, I know the marriage is already sinking. They have this… messy agreement to keep their heads above the water for the kids’ sake.

So what does that make me? Pathetic? Delusional? Or just the cliché I swore I’d never be? The woman who ruins families because she can’t control her feelings?

Homewrecker. Or whatever the fuck people call it.

“You’re somewhere else.”

“What?” I asked, gradually returning to reality.

“You heard me,” teased Jared who sat across the table, interrupting my confectionery cogitation. “You’ve been staring blankly while stabbing your precious cake for the last five minutes.”

I blinked, realizing I’d been torturing my third slice of blueberry cheesecake like it might give me the solution to this complicated situation I’ve been dealing with.

“Sorry. I just, you know, need a break,” I lied. “My stomach is full. Need to make some room first.”

His eyes softened. I know he didn’t buy it. Yet he let it slide. 

He continued digging into his tiramisu with that patient look of his settling in. It almost looked like he had all the time in the world to wait me out.

“What is your obsession again with blueberry cheesecake?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Dare what?”

“You’re fishing.”

“Maybe,” he smirked. “You know, I’ve got a theory.”

My fork froze mid-air. Now he smiled like a complete idiot. He knew exactly what he was doing and I hate him more than anything for it.

“Listen carefully,” he continued, smug as hell. “You’d rather jump off the cliff with the biggest smile plastered on your face than tell me how you’re actually feeling. And you’re always deflecting into something else. Most of the time, your obsession with the cake. It feels like a code, at least to me. Like you’re implying something in the… let’s say the only honest thing you ever hand over.”

I let out a laugh. It was sharp and too loud because what else should I do?

“I mean, you already know the lore,” I scoffed. “And I always tell you the truth, okay. I never lied to you, Jared. Ever.”

“Yeah, sure. When you were a kid, people asked too many stupid small-talk questions. Favorite color, song, food. You hated it, so you made something up. Blueberry cheesecake. Rolled nice off the tongue but you never had it, didn’t even care to. Yet it stuck. Until one of your shittiest days of your college life, you passed a bakery and saw your favorite cake and you thought you should try it and guess what? You loved it. Your stupid lie turned into truth,” he chuckled. “And no need to be so defensive now. No one is calling you a liar. I’m just saying that for the whole three years–”

“–Four.”

His eyes narrowed. “Really? That long?”

I nodded before taking a sip from my drink. 

“Four,” he repeated, correcting himself. “What I was talking about again? Right. Four years we’ve been friends, I never hear you talking about your own feelings. Not once. Not even a single slip out. You’re actively avoiding it like a plague. Even now.”

I scoffed again, insulted this time. “Wow. Congratulations. You cracked the code. Do you want a medal or something?”

He just smirked. Then he leaned back, completely unbothered while sipping his black coffee. He was enjoying this too much. 

I should’ve just shut up. I should’ve stabbed the cheesecake again and then moved on. But something in me snapped. Maybe I was tired of holding it in, pretending like I wasn’t rotting from the inside out. 

“Fine,” I sighed. “You want honesty? I’ve been seeing someone. You know that part already. And, uh, the part you didn’t know it’s… complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“He’s married,” I blurted, avoiding his gaze. “Disclaimer, he’s in an open marriage situation and has two kids. So I’m not a homewrecker or something like that. Or trying to be their stepmom. God, you know I hate kids. Even when I was one.”

He took another sip. “Huh. That explains a lot.”

“Explain what?”

“On why you’ve never had a real relationship in your twenty-six years of existence on this planet. You only go for disasters.”

“Fuck you.”

He shrugged, then he spoonfed another bite of tiramisu. I liked the way he didn’t give a shit about my personal hell. If I tell this to Sarah, she will probably take me to the nearest church and make the priest do the exorcism.

“How the fuck you trusted him easily?”

My lips parted, but no words came. So I did the only thing that crossed my mind and it was the stupid one. I fiddled with the napkin until it shredded between my fingers.

“At least you double checked his background first, no?” he added.

Instead of answering his question like what normal people do, I cleared my throat harshly and became mute. That’s because I didn’t do that. I just, well, relied on whatever information Dave’s provided me. And I inhaled it without an ounce of doubt. I–I trusted him with my whole life. 

Fuck. I never felt this ashamed before in my entire life.

“Jesus Christ. No wonder you feel like shit,” he said, more serious than ever. “You should just end it. What’s the point of dragging it out if you’re miserable?”

I hated how simple he made it sound. I really wish pulling the plug on my feelings is as easy as deleting an email. 

“I was thinking about it,” I muttered. “I'm actually going to do it today.”

“Cool. Do it.”

I rolled my eyes to cover the way my throat tightened. Or how my chest felt too tight.

We finished the rest of lunch in silence. It wasn’t awkward, really. It just felt heavy because of the unspoken thing. The harsh truth he would address directly to me when I did something stupid, to be exact.

The silence still followed us by the time we started walking back to the office. He kept glancing at me every now and then. Making sure he didn’t walk too fast because he knew walking in heels, even the chunky pump kind, was a nightmare for me.

Out of nowhere, or maybe couldn’t handle how loud the silence was, I blurted, “Are you serious about it?”

The question slowed him down. He looked at me, more like side-eyeing me.

“You said you want to be my boyfriend,” I explained when he said nothing. “Do you still want that? Even after all the shit I just told you?”

Now he has stopped walking. He turned around. The annoyance on his face faded, replaced by the puzzled look. I take that as a good sign since I have his attention. 

“You’re asking me this now.”

“Yup,” I replied quickly, too quickly. “Answer the question.”

“Like I’m a backup plan or something?” he snorted. “Knowing you can’t have him, so you go after me instead?”

Shit. Why did it come out that bad when he said it out loud?

“That’s not–why do you make it sound like that?”

“How else am I supposed to take it, hmm?” he shot back. “You never looked at me that way. Not even once in four years. And now suddenly… what? I’m convenient?”

I took a step forward, closing the gap.

“You think I’d humiliate myself like this if it was just about convenience?”

“You think this doesn’t feel like scarps?” he pressed, his voice low and angry. “Like I’m standing here waiting for leftovers from a guy who’s already married with kids? You think I don’t see that?”

I clenched my jaw. Ouch. The words stung more than it should. Why? Because that’s true. He’s spitting the truth I’ve been denying for weeks.

“If I wanted scraps, I’d keep going with him, Jared,” I countered. “At least that would be easier. But as you can see, I didn’t. I came to you.”

That shut him up for a moment and I feel like I finally can breathe again. He looked at me. His eyes hardened as if he was deciding whether to keep fighting or finally listen. 

“I don’t need you to be a consolation prize,” he said finally. 

“You’re not,” I snapped. Then softer. “You’re not.”

The silence stretched between us. It was heavy and raw. From how desperate I wanted to push away these uncertain feelings, I rested my hand on his arm. 

It was reckless. Stupid, even. It feels like I’m giving in to a reflex I didn’t fully understand. A part of me wanted to shove him away and keep my wall intact. Another part wanted to cling because I needed a great distraction before I walked away from… whatever happened between me and Dave.

His eyes flicked down at my hand, then back at me. No mockery this time. No smug grin. Just patience. And it made me hate him even more because patience was exactly the thing I couldn’t give myself.

For a split second, I thought about pulling back. Maybe I joked that I wasn’t serious about it before pretending it never happened. 

But my hand stayed where it was. Because maybe, for once, I wanted to stop running from how much of a disaster I really was. And if there was anyone I could risk settling with, it was him. Jared.

“God, you’re impossible,” he exhaled, almost a laugh.

I chuckled awkwardly, squeezed his arm lightly. “I’m aware.”

Then his eyes softened, just a little. He shook his head in disbelief and laughed.

“Fuck. I still want to be your boyfriend,” he said without hesitation. “You’re the most sharp and cautious person I’ve ever known. But when it comes to this–”

He gestured vaguely between us, like the word itself was too stupid to say out loud. Or maybe he didn’t want to hurt my feelings even further.

“–You’re dumb as fuck.”

“Fair,” I admitted, which shocked even me.

“If you give me a chance, I’ll show you what real love is.”

Oh, no. What have I done?

“Okay.”

His eyes widened. “Okay what?”

I couldn’t help but offer him my hand. Because apparently my idea of romance was a handshake. Smooth. Real smooth. He stared before finally taking my hand and giving a gentle shake. 

“We’re a couple now,” I announced.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

We shook on it like two idiots making a business deal. When I leaned in to seal it with a kiss on the mouth, he tilted and pressed one to my forehead instead. 

Cute. Romantic. Whatever. Now all I had to do was figure out how the fuck I was supposed to deal with Dave.

 

Notes:

I should've upload this chapter last week. But things went south. You might heard this before but yeah, there's a riot here in Indonesia, the country where I lived in. As things getting better now even just a bit, that the parlement finally erased the housing allowance and the other nonsense, I think it's okay if I updated this now.
And yeah, tomorrow I'll post the following chapter. Be safe, y'all.

Chapter 21: About Time

Summary:

You have a rough night and Dave happened to be there.

I normally don’t enjoy romcoms. Something about it doesn’t sit well with me. They always feel like propaganda–women only reach ultimate happiness when they stumble into their so-called true love. Which is total bullshit.

I’m not against the whole soulmate thing. I’m not saying they’re wrong, either. Some people do find their happiness in someone who used to be a total stranger. Good for them. My problem is how romcoms make the rest of us feel like failures for not meeting ours. Yet.

Seriously, the world doesn’t end if you don’t have some cute guy chasing you with a grand romantic gesture and a love confession that was stolen from Nora Ephron’s movie monologue. You can still be happy. Do your hobbies. Waste your money on stupid shit you don’t need like magic wand salt and pepper shakers. Rot in bed while doomscrolling, watching those random videos if you want. Whatever makes you feel relaxed and lets you stop worrying about everything for once.

But About Time is my only exception. Not just because it’s Sarah’s favorite, even though that’s the only reason why I give it a chance in the first place. But because it actually has something. It isn’t just some overproduced fantasy about the so-called perfect couple. The film makes love feel broader and bigger. Family. Time. The little things that make life worth it. And for once, it doesn’t feel like a lie. 

So as I tucked my head into Sarah’s neck, arms wrapped around her that made me look like I was trying to anchor us both to the couch while watching it for only-God-knows-how-many times, the tears just wouldn’t stop. No matter how many times I wiped them away, more kept spilling out. Like my eyes just decided to turn into a leaking faucet.

I mean, all we can do is do our best to relish this remarkable ride. Come one, who’s immune to that beautiful and soul crushing epilogue?

“Oh, honey,” said Sarah, brushing hair away from my forehead. “I told you this is a bad idea.”

“I wanted to,” I sobbed. “Especially tonight. Before you…”

I didn’t have to finish the sentence. She already knew. This is gonna be our last night like this. Stay in her place after going out into some fancy bar, mostly holding her hair when she empty her stomach from having too many martini. Only she didn’t drink tonight because she needed to pack it all up to move in with her fiancé.

“Can’t you just make Harry move his firm here?” I asked, my voice cracked. “You’re persistent. And he loves you so much, I bet he would do anything to make you happy. I believe you can convince him.”

Sarah laughed softly, tugging me upright by the shoulders until I was sitting properly beside her instead of half on top of her like dead weight.

“I’m sorry.”

I fight back the tears and the urge to hug her. I ended up forcing myself to sit up straight. Mostly because I realized I’d been draped over her like a pathetic koala for the last twenty minutes. Not exactly a flattering look. 

“You don’t have to,” I replied. “I missed you already.”

I caught the quiver in her lips. The almost-tears she swallowed back. Typical Sarah. Never let it spill. Instead, she rolled her eyes before shooting me a grin.

“Relax, hon. You know my phone’s practically fused to my hand. Whatever time you text, I’ll answer.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out broken. She helped me wipe the fresh tears that stream down my cheek agonizingly slow with the back of her hand.

“Okay,” I nodded. “Anyway, promise me you won’t get mad if I ask you something.”

“I’m trying my best. Are you about to confess a felony?”

“I’m dead serious, Sarah. Come on.”

She huffed like she was already regretting it. “As you wish, babe. I promise. No yelling. No murder. Go.”

I fiddled with the hem of my sleeve. I have a strong feeling she might slap me. Not that hard. But hard enough to leave her handprint on the side of my face.

Fuck it. I need to let it out of my chest or I’m going to lose my shit.

“The man I’ve been seeing,” I began carefully. “The reason I never told you who he was, it’s because he’s married. With kids. And before you blow up, I’m ending it. For good. That’s why I’m dating Jared now.”

She froze, then smacked me in the arm. It was so hard that the sound of it echoed through her living room. And even though I was in so much pain, I understand her frustration.

“You dumb, fucking bitch,” she scowled. “How many times did I tell you, huh? Married men are walking red flags with credit card debt. They lie, they cheat, and they never leave their wives.”

I winced. She slapped me on the face with her words. And it hurts more than anything.

“I know! That’s why I’m over it.”

Her face softened, only a little.

“Good. At least you came to your senses. But Jared? Really? From all the men in the world? Jared?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Besides the fact he once made a gross joke about you and tried so hard to take me into his bed at that very office party?”

Right. The joke. And how he was aggressively flirting with her to the point she had to threaten him to make him stop. And by threatening, she showed him the pepper spray she carried in her purse. I think he knew how it works–it burned your eyes and your nose for hours before it subsided and when you wash it, you basically activate it back. No wonder if he backed off.

“That was years ago,” I said, almost sound to myself. “He’s changed.”

“Has he?”

This bitch.

“It’s not like I’m marrying him,” I replied. “I just, you know, want to experience it, okay? That’s it. Sarah, I’m closer to my thirties than my early twenties and I’ve never had a real relationship before. I think he’s a safe option. I have worked with him for years. I know about him even if it’s just on the surface. He’s… familiar.”

Something shifted in her expression. She wasn’t mocking anymore. At first I thought she was pitying me. I was wrong. She just looked tired. Or maybe I convinced myself she does look tired when it’s the opposite.

“Relationships, love, whatever you want to call it, they don’t fix you,” she explained. “Don’t lose yourself chasing something that isn’t absolute. And the most important thing is I don’t want to see you sink just because you wanted to prove you could swim.”

Guilt swirled in my chest. She didn’t have to say it, but I knew she felt responsible. She’s one of them who kept pushing me to get out there, test the waters. And now here I was, stuck between a married man and a coworker whose love felt like a trap dressed as safety.

I wiped my face, sniffling loudly as I stared at the TV. The credit scene was still rolling and I caught our reflection on the gigantic screen.

“I’ll be fine,” I lied.

Sarah nudged me with her shoulder. “You’d better be. Or else, I’ll hunt those men from breaking your heart. Then I’ll haunt you before I’m even dead.”

That got a laugh out of me. She scares me sometimes, but at least I know her love and affection towards me was genuine.

 

***

 

Back at my place, I slipped into autopilot. Bag on the kitchen counter. Glass of water. Cold leftovers from the fridge. Shoes abandoned in the hallway. The kind of brainless routine that made it feel like the day was over.

In my bedroom, I wrestled with the zipper of my dress like it was the enemy. My hands shook so badly I couldn’t grip it right. I tried tugging up, then down, then up again, hoping undoing a simple piece of fabric might untang;e everything inside me.

By the time it slid free, I was breathless. Half from frustration, half from the leftover static buzzing under my skin. I yanked the dress over my head, followed by my bra. I tossed them somewhere on the floor and pulled on the oversized T-shirt. The one that swallowed me whole, soft, and shapeless. It was the closest thing I could find to armor.

When I walked into the living room, I was a second away from having a heart attack. There he was. Dave. Sitting on my couch like he belonged there, flipping through one of my paperbacks. Still wearing those stupid suits with the American flag pin worn on the left lapel.

I froze mid-step. My throat dried out instantly.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped. “How did you even get in?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just turned to another page. Completely unbothered. Like I hadn’t just caught him trespassing. Then his eyes lifted to me. The air snapped out of my lungs when I noticed that look. Steady and calculating.

“You still ask me that question?” he said finally, his tone flat, almost bored. “Also, you’ve been avoiding me.”

“It’s been two days,” I shot back.

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth. It wasn’t soft nor kind. It was something else I couldn’t put my fingers on.

“Exactly,” he said. “Two days. You couldn’t reply to one text? Or pick up one call? And now seeing you like this. Your eyes are red, face swollen. You’ve been crying. For how long?”

My stomach knotted. “That’s none of your business.”

He let the book fall shut with a soft thud. His gaze never leaves me. Then he crooked two fingers. The silent kind of command that didn’t need words.

I swear to God, I hated it. I hated how automatic the reaction was. My body moved before my brain could scream don’t you fucking dare. But I went to him anyway, step by step, until I was standing in front of the couch.

He tilted his head, studying me like I was some specimen under glass.

“Closer.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. Still, I obeyed. My knees are brushing the edge of the coffee table now.

Satisfied, he leaned back into the cushions. I rolled my eyes because he did it like a king settling into his throne. He reached up, knuckles grazing my swollen cheek.

“I missed you.”

I wanted to slap his hand away. Instead, I just stood there. Slowly burning under his touch. I clenched my fists at my sides, hating myself for how my breath hitched.

“I wonder who you wasted all that saltwater on.”

“I said that’s none of your business.”

His lips curved, not quite a smile. “Honey, everything about you is my business.”

His knuckles continued to skim my cheek gently. Almost. Then he pulled away only to crook his fingers again. This time toward his lap.

“Have a sit.”

“You’re insane if you think–”

“–Sit,” he repeated, calm as a command line. 

And I hated myself all over again when my body obeyed before my brain caught up. I lowered on his lap stiffly, almost looking like a hostage sitting for her mugshot.

His arm wrapped around my waist. The other caught my thigh and suddenly I was straddling him. Then his hands were lower, shamelessly on my ass, pushing me right onto the hard bulge he wanted me to feel.

“Now,” he said, moving his hand to turn my face toward him with a grip just shy of tender. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. We’re doing this together. You’re not alone. If something’s on your mind, you come to me first. Communication is key.”

The words stung, hitting the one bruise I didn’t want him near.

“Is it working in your marriage, Dave? Communication?”

His grip tightened on my jaw. For a second I thought I’d actually hit him. I was completely wrong. Instead of snapping, he laughed.

“That mouth of yours,” he smirked. “It’s a good thing I love you.”

He loves me.

My brain short-circuited. He said it like it was nothing. He made it sound like it had always been true. Like I was insane for doubting it.

My chest tightened. If he meant it, if he really meant it, then what did that make me?

“Was it him?” he asked softly. “Or was it her? Because judging from your face, honey, it wasn’t just a movie that got you bawling like this.”

The words were too precise. It was comfortable on the outside with interrogation underneath. Enough to pinned me in place by my own fucked-up need for him. Hating every second and wanting more all the same.

His eyes flicked over my swollen face again. His thumb lingered at my jaw, tracing like he was mapping me. 

“You don’t cry like this for nothing. So, who pushed you this far?”

“Just drop it,” I whispered. “I’m tired.”

He hummed low in his throat. Unconvinced. Then, casually, almost like an afterthought, he said, “Like I said, I missed you, honey. That’s why I’m here.”

I wanted to laugh in his face. Call it bullshit, call him out for trespassing like some psycho. But before I could do that, he rolled his hips, rubbing his clothed cock into my core.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Fuck, it felt good. Then it hit me. I only wear my panties beneath this oversized T-shirt. No wonder if it felt that good.

“You break into my place,” I said finally. “To what? Read my books and interrogate me?”

“And to see you,” he said simply, with that dangerous calm that left no room for argument. “Clearly, I was right to worry.”

His hand tightened on my waist when he rolled his hips again. Harder this time. Just enough to remind me I was stuck on his lap by choice. Or maybe not a choice at all.

“Dave–”

“–Shhh,” he murmured, almost soothing. “You keep telling yourself it’s none of my business. But look at you.”

His fingers pressed at my chin until I had no choice but to part my lips. The command was silent. He pressed his thumb against my tongue, slow and deliberate. He didn’t move until I’d wet it. My mouth burning with humiliation while heat crawling up my neck.

“Leaking all over your friend’s shoulder,” he continued, dragging it over my lower lip as if he was marking me. “Coming home with your face wrecked. Do you think I wouldn’t notice? Do you think I wouldn’t come?”

His hand caught the hem of my T-shirt now. The air hit my skin when he was bunching up in his fist until it was no longer a shield. I froze. Every nerve is on fire as I feel his slick thumb pressed where I needed him the most. Didn’t even bother to push aside the thin fabric of my panties. Just sliding slowly, unhurried.

His touch knocked the air out of me more than his words. I stay still, fighting the urge to grind against him for even the smallest relief.

Yet my body leaned into him. A traitor to everything my head screamed. His warmth, his scent, the cage of his arms, it all pulled me in even as his words pressed me harder against the truth I couldn’t afford to admit.

My breath caught. “Are you… are you spying on me?”

“I told you. I have eyes everywhere.”

God help me, I melted. My body tipped into him while my head screamed a hundred reasons why this was wrong. But none of them mattered when he finally pulled aside my soaked panties before pushing a finger inside me.

“So fucking tight,” he chuckled darkly. “You let me see you cry. Now let me hear you say it. Tell me what’s been bugging you.”

The words clawed up my throat. Caught there, choking me. 

“Tell me, honey,” he pressed, adding the second finger. “Or I’ll stop right here.”

“I went to Sarah,” I gasped, shame and hunger tangled into one. “And we… we watched About Time.”

His eyes darkened. Satisfaction flickering across his face as his fingers pushed deep, knuckles burying inside me. A reward.

“That’s better,” he mumbled, pumping his fingers in and out slowly. “See? Not so hard. What else?”

Stubborn, I shook my head and bitted back the words he wanted. However my hands betrayed me. They clutch at his shoulders for balance. Nails digging in as my hips began to move with his rhythm.

Just when I started to move with him, riding the rhythm he set, he stopped. Completely. His fingers stayed buried but motionless. 

Desperate, I rocked against him to chase what he withheld. A choked whimper escaped me before I could bite it back. He didn’t budge, not willing to give me anything.

“You think I don’t notice when you shut down?” he muttered. “Talk to me. Let me in.”

I shook my head again. My whole body screamed for relief but he stayed still. If anything, his free hand skimmed my thigh lazily. Soothing in a way that made the stillness even crueler.

“I’m helping you,” he continued, voice calm as ever. “You’ll feel better if you stop hiding from me. If you tell me what's eating you alive.”

I swallowed hard. “Sarah’s moving out to New York. She’s… she’s leaving.”

His fingers started to move again, curling them upward expertly and hitting something sinful inside me. His free hand now pressed into my waist, pulling me closer. His mouth brushed mine before claiming me in a deep, searing kiss.

As if it wasn’t enough, he rubs his thumb over my sensitive bud as he fucks me with his fingers. I moaned into his mouth, feeling myself dripping and gushing his thick digits.

“There you go,” he whispered against my lips. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I hated myself for nodding.

“Who else made you cry tonight?”

“I can’t–”

“–Yes, you can,” he interrupted smoothly. “What else is eating you alive?”

Tears pricked my eyes again. “The guilt.”

“About?”

“You,” I confessed, the word spilling out with a sob. “About wanting you. About being with you when you already belong to someone else.”

His reward this time was brutal. He pulled out his fingers without warning, leaving me clenching around nothing. Then my stomach dropped when I heard the sharp rasp of a zipper. 

Dave shifted beneath me, undoing his pants with the same deliberate patience he used for everything. My hands slid down to his chest, wanting to help him. But he grabbed my jaw.

“Eyes on me.”

His hand tightened at my jaw until I met his gaze. Make sure I couldn’t look anywhere else while he moved beneath me. 

His eyes darkened when he dragged his tip through my folds. Then he notched himself to my entrance with that deep rumble from his chest. 

My mouth fell open as he buried himself in me all the way to the hilt in one go. The stretch is too much. I let out a deep sigh, adjusting myself to his girth.

“You’re doing so well,” he praises. “What’s next, baby girl? Tell me and I’ll give you everything.”

I began to roll my hips, rubbing my clit against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. Fuck. No wonder he had me in his grip. His cock felt incredible. So thick and so hard. Easily reaching the spot where I could see stars.

“No more,” I moan loudly.

“I know there’s more,” he countered. His hand gripping my ass and bouncing me up and down on him. “Or I stop. Your choice.”

My whole body screamed in protest. The need was too sharp and too deep. I couldn’t bear him stopping now. So I gave in.

“I’m jealous of your kids,” I blurted. “Fuck, Dave. Don’t stop.”

His eyes widened, then softened into something dangerous.

“Jesus, honey,” he grunted.

He squeezed my ass tighter. He fucks me expertly. Each thrust was deep and intentional. Caused me clenching hard around his shaft.

Satisfied, he let go only long enough to grab the hem of my T-shirt. A quick tug and the oversized fabric was gone. Leaving me bare under his eyes. His hands roamed instantly, everywhere at once. Spanning my waist, draggin up my sides, cupping my breasts, and sliding down to grip my ass again. Touching like he owned every inch of me.

“There’s more,” he said quietly. “Something you haven’t given me yet.”

“I told you everything,” I lied, breathless.

His hands continued to roam over me until his fingers brushed the chain at my throat. The necklace he’d given me.

My throat tightened. I should’ve taken it off. Throw it back at him. Instead, here I was, wearing it like it meant something.

He caught it between his fingers, tugging just enough to draw my face closer to his. I feel his cock throbbing inside me.

“Tell me,” he pressed. “Tell me why you’re suddenly clinging to Jared.”

Oh, fuck.

“Don’t.”

“Why him?”

His thumb found my clit. Combined with the way his cock dragging out and slamming back in hard, I’m getting closer to the edge.

“He’s safe. Predictable,” he breathed. “And I know you. You don’t choose safe unless you’re running.”

“Dave–”

“–Say it,” he ordered, his voice calm as a scalpel. “Or I stop.”

The threat hung there. My body screamed for a glorious release and furious at my pride at the same damn time. 

“Because he’s easy,” I whispered. “Because he won’t break me.”

His eyes darkened as satisfaction curled across his face. Clearly he’d been waiting for that admission all along. Then his pace changed. Harder, deeper, and ruthless in the way he drove me toward the edge.

I tried to hold on, fight the inevitability. But it ripped through me anyway. My whole body seized, a cry tearing out of me as my vision splintered. The orgasm was violent, shattering, and shaking me until I thought I might come apart in his arms.

He held me through it. Forcing me to ride every last wave until I was trembling and boneless against him. 

Only then did he let go himself. A low, guttural sound escaped as he pressed me tighter to him. His body shuddered against mine, painting my walls with rope after rope of his hot seed.

For a long moment after, we just stayed there. Both of us wrecked and tangled in silence. Still buried inside me, I could feel he started to soften. My chest rose and fell too fast. Shame clawed its way back in faster than I anticipated.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered at last. “Dave, it has to end. Permanently. This time I mean it.”

His hand stilled where it rested on my thigh. Then he tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes were surprisingly steady and calm.

“You can say that,” he said evenly. “You can even believe it. But you and I both know this isn’t done.”

“I want it to be.”

“Then I’ll make it simple for you.” He leaned in, his breath hot at my ear. “I’m not done with you. Not until I’ve fucked you in every room where you installed those little cameras. And that means your bedroom.”

Oh my fucking God. Cameras.

The first time, it had just been spice talk. A joke I never thought through. A desperate attempt to make him stay. I hadn’t even looked at the footage yet. 

And now? We’d just fucked in my living room. Which meant there were two sex tapes already sitting on my hard drive. Soon, there’d be three.

Terror spiked sharp in my chest. My eyes went wide, my throat closing around the realization. 

He caught it instantly. Of course he did. That damn smirk returned, slow and cutting.

“Don’t worry,” he said nonchalantly. “Think of it as a farewell gift. Something to remember me by… in case you miss my cock in the future.”

I blinked at him. “What the fuck?”

He leaned back into the couch. I could feel him still twitching inside me. His hand began to trace down my spine, steadying me like I might topple off him. A brutal reminder I couldn’t escape him.

“Give me a minute to catch my breath,” he murmured, smug as sin. “I’ll carry you to your room. I know your legs are useless now. Then I’ll fuck you from behind.”

Heat crawled up my face. Humiliation and arousal flooded me. Because the bastard was right. I wasn’t sure I could stand, let alone walk. And the idea of him taking me from behind was… compelling.

This is fucked. Especially from how he read me like the back of his hand. But look at the bright side, though. At least he didn’t snap. At least he didn’t throw a tantrum or turn violent when I said I wanted to end it.

He just… took it. Easily. Too easily. As if he’d already factored my rebellion into the equation.

Relief trickled in. It shouldn’t have but it did. The bar in my head had sunk so low that a man not exploding at me felt like a win.

 

 

Notes:

I keep my words. I'm having so much fun writing this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this too!

Notes:

Hi. This is the very first time I'm writing fanfic. Thank you for staying this far. Also, apologies for the error here and there since English is technically my third language. So, let me know what you guys think about this one.