Chapter Text
Sunday morning, March 14, you woke up to soft, cloud-filtered light sliding around the edges of the blackout curtains in your Midtown apartment. The weather had that late-winter, early-spring uncertainty, damp and chilly under a dull sky. The mood in your body was heavy and hopeful at once, like you had been saving up softness for this day. Somewhere down in the lobby, you could hear the faint swish and thud of the elevator doors opening and closing, the sound carrying up the quiet shaft like a mechanical heartbeat.
You lay plastered against Joel’s side, cheek on his bare chest, his skin warm and faintly salty from sleep. Bread had taken up her usual position on the far corner of the mattress, a compact gray loaf with her back determinedly turned to you both, tail tip twitching like she had Opinions about being demoted from your sternum for the night.
You had told yourself all week that this morning was going to make up for the last six months.
You had been in New York a year now. A year since the promotion email had hit Joel’s phone in Boston — Senior Partner, Manhattan branch, too good to pass up, big leagues, baby — and he had lit up with a boyish, disbelieving grin that knocked the breath out of you. A year since you had looked at the ACLU office you could practically navigate blindfolded, your almost-guaranteed Senior Counsel track, and thought: I love him enough to figure it out.
So you had done exactly that, trading your near-senior status at MA ACLU for “Staff Attorney” at NYCLU, learning new subway lines and new judges and new acronyms, writing declarations late at night while Joel snored beside you with his phone face-down on the nightstand.
It had been fine. That was the script: it’s fine, he’s supporting us, you told your mother, your father, yourself. The apartment was impossibly out of reach on your salary alone, all gleaming lobby tile and friendly doormen and an elevator that never rattled, and Joel covered about seventy percent of the rent without blinking. You covered groceries, MetroCards, Bread’s care, and did not calculate who owed what too closely.
Today, at least, was supposed to be easy. Your thirty-first birthday, a Sunday, specifically designated “no alarms, no Bloomberg, no work email, just sex and carbs” week in advance. Joel had promised — unprompted, for once — that you would be young and stupid for a day, do DINK things like blow money on tasting menus and overpriced cocktails, sleep late, and have sex until your thighs ached.
His phone started vibrating on the nightstand just as you were drifting back under, wrapped in that delicious half-sleep where his heartbeat was the only rhythm in the world.
You burrowed closer, nose into the warm curve of his neck, inhaling the faint mix of skin and detergent. “Ignore it,” you mumbled, your voice scratchy with sleep. “It’s my birthday. The market’s closed. Capitalism can wait.”
Joel’s chest rumbled with a half-laugh, half-groan. “Baby, it might be—”
“Spam,” you said, sliding your thigh over his hip, “or God punishing you for shorting something.”
The phone buzzed again, insistent. Bread gave it a withering side-eye and hopped off the bed in a soft thump, offended by the interruption.
“Jesus,” Joel muttered, reaching past you. The screen lit his face blue-white as he squinted at it. “It’s Marcus.”
You felt your jaw tighten before your brain caught up. Of course it was. Of course the other golden boy of the firm was calling at— you squinted at the digital clock on your side — 8:14 a.m., like time zones and weekends were folklore.
“Don’t,” you said, catching his wrist before his thumb could swipe. You flattened your palm over his sternum, letting your fingers drift toward the faint hair trailing down his stomach, playing dirty with intention. “You promised. Bed. Me. Us. No work.”
His gaze flicked from the phone to your face, affection and something like apology warring in his eyes. “I know, babe, but if he’s calling on a Sunday…”
The phone buzzed a third time, vibrating against the wood.
“He can leave a voicemail,” you said, even as you knew he wouldn’t. Marcus understood how to get what he wanted; that was how sons of firm owners were raised.
“I just need to see what it is,” Joel said, voice softening, as if lowering the volume of the sentence would make it kinder. “Two minutes, tops.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to demand that for one morning you outrank a spreadsheet. Instead you exhaled through your nose and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers etched between the faint cracks in the paint.
He answered. “Hey, man. Yeah?”
Marcus’s voice spilled through the speaker, tinny and excited, but you caught enough: “position,” “Asia,” “timing,” “need you on this,” “can’t do it without you, dude.”
You stared at the ceiling and felt the last bits of your birthday script unravel.
No, you thought. Not yet.
If he was going to vanish into that world later, you were going to take what you could now.
You turned back onto your side and studied Joel. He was propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, the sheet pooled low on his hips. He was always good-looking, objectively: strong jaw, soft mouth, a body honed more by expensive trainers than by stress. Right now, there was sleep in his eyes, and you knew his tells well enough to see the start of arousal too — the way his breathing had shifted, the faint flush high on his chest.
You moved with the kind of lazy certainty you wished you felt.
You swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, your slip dress riding up as you did. The cool air kissed the back of your thighs while his warmth seeped into the front of them. The dress had already bunched around your waist from sleep, the thin straps slipping off your shoulders so the silk barely covered your breasts.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Joel said into the phone, though his attention had snapped to you, his pupils widening.
You settled your weight on his lap, and there he was under you — half-hard, thickening, the press of him an anchor against the jitter of your frustration. You rolled your hips once, slow, dragging your pussy over him through the thin barrier of your panties and his boxers, and felt him twitch and grow.
Joel’s mouth parted, a small, strangled breath escaping as his hand flew to your waist.
“Uh—” he said into the phone. “Yeah, I’m— hang on.”
You smiled, slow and sharp, and bent down, bracing your palms on his chest. The angle let your breasts spill forward, the dress slipping further, nipples tightening as they brushed the air.
“Morning,” you mouthed silently, even though it was halfway through.
He narrowed his eyes at you, half-exasperated, half-lit-up, and you felt a petty, hungry satisfaction bloom in your ribs.
Marcus’s voice kept going, a distant buzz, talking about some trade, some opportunity, numbers that were apparently more urgent than your birthday. You rocked your hips again, firmer this time, deliberately pressing along the length of him, and you felt his cock answer, filling out completely beneath the thin cotton.
You slid one hand down from his chest, fingers tracing over his stomach, under the sheet, until you could curl them around him. He was hot and solid in your grip, heavy enough that the feel of him made your own breath stutter.
Joel’s abdomen tensed. “Yeah, yeah, I see,” he said, words flattening around the edges. “That’s… big.”
You pumped him slowly, thumb brushing the sensitive head through the fabric, and watched his throat work as he swallowed. The obscene thrill of it — your boyfriend trying to sound coherent about market openings while you knelt over him and made his body betray him — licked at your nerves in a way that felt almost like power.
You leaned in until your mouth brushed his ear. “Hang up,” you whispered, voice low. “Hang up and fuck me.”
He looked up at you like he wanted to obey and couldn’t, not yet. The conflict in his face — duty, ambition, desire — sparked that old ache in your chest. You tightened your grip on him in a way that made his hips jerk.
“Marcus, man, can you shoot me the term sheet?” he said, the words rushed. “I’ll look it over and call you back in, like, twenty.”
“Twenty?” you mouthed, incredulous.
You let go of his cock and reached under your own dress instead, pushing your panties to the side. You were already wet; your body had been primed since you first rolled into him. You took him out properly now, freeing him from his boxers, and he sprang up, thick and flushed, the sight of him knocking something hungry loose in you.
You guided him to your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick, teasing yourself as much as him.
“Make it ten,” you breathed in his ear, and he shivered.
“Ten,” he amended quickly, voice climbing a note. “Ten, tops.”
You held his eyes, and then, slowly, you sank down.
The stretch made your breath catch — familiar, but still enough to make you gasp, your cunt clenching around him as you took him inch by inch. He filled you so fully that it stole the taste of the morning from your tongue, leaving only him, the drag and burn and slide of him inside you.
“Jesus,” Joel choked, the word crackling over the line.
You bottomed out, pelvic bone nestled against his, and sat there for one steadying heartbeat, adjusted around him, feeling every throb. You could hear Marcus’s voice faintly on the phone, asking something, but Joel’s responses had turned to meaningless syllables.
You rolled your hips, slow, deliberate. He groaned, the hand on your waist tightening enough to bruise.
That was the thrill — you on top, in control of the pace, riding him while his world tried to claw him away.
“Baby, hang up and fuck me,” you mouthed again, and you clenched around him for emphasis.
Something in his face crumpled, and you watched the decision land.
“Look, I— yeah, send it, okay?” he said, the words tumbling out. “I just— I’ve got something here, so I’ll— I’ll call you back.”
You didn’t stop moving while he talked, little circles of your hips that made him stutter. The second the call ended, he tossed the phone blindly toward the nightstand, missing; it thumped onto the carpet and spun.
“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he said, voice rough now, finally present.
“Then you better make it worth it,” you said, breathless, already lifting and dropping onto him.
He met you halfway then, hands gripping your hips, guiding you down harder, faster. You rode him with intent, chasing your own pleasure as much as his, the wet slide loud in the quiet bedroom. The headboard thumped softly against the wall as you moved, the rhythm building with your heartbeat.
His eyes roamed over you, hungry — your tits bouncing with each movement, the flush creeping up your chest, the way your mouth fell open when he angled his thrusts just right. He reached up, hooked a finger under one slipping strap of your dress, and tugged it down completely.
“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he said, sounding almost dazed. “Birthday girl wants to get fucked before I save capitalism, huh?”
“Birthday girl wants you to stay,” you thought, but what you said was, “Birthday girl wants to come on your cock.”
“Yeah?” he rasped, hips snapping up harder. “Then come on my cock, baby.”
The crude encouragement made heat curl low in your spine. You ground down, chasing friction against your clit, and the angle shifted, dragging him over that spot inside you that made your vision blur. You rode him like that, panting, nails biting into his shoulders, letting the feeling spiral and crest.
“I’ve got you,” he said, hand drifting to your lower belly, thumb pressing lightly where he was inside you. “You feel so good. Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“Don’t talk about the market,” you gasped, half-laughing, half-moan.
“Only talking about you,” he said quickly, like he could flip a switch that easily.
The orgasm hit fast and hot, breaking over you in sharp, pulsing waves. You cried out, clenching around him, body locking then shuddering as he held you down on him, letting you ride it out. Your muscles fluttered around his length, and you felt him groan, deep and helpless.
“Fuck, I’m—” he started, voice breaking.
“Inside,” you managed, nodding, even though he was already too far gone to ask twice. “Come inside me.”
He thrust up once, twice, then went taut beneath you, spilling into you with a low, ragged sound. You felt him throb, warmth flooding you, and for a second, with your chest pressed to his and your forehead against his, it felt like what you had both promised yourselves this day would be — reckless, private, yours.
You stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, your cunt still fluttering around him as he softened slowly inside you. Sweat cooled on your back. Bread reappeared at the edge of the bed, leaping up with a put-upon chirp and circling your feet like she wanted to audit whatever just happened.
Joel’s hand slid up your spine, fingers tracing lazy patterns between your shoulder blades. “Happy birthday,” he murmured, kissing your temple.
You swallowed the lump that rose, wished it could be enough.
“Thank you,” you said, voice small and rough around the edges.
You lifted yourself carefully off him, his cock slipping from you with a thick, wet slide, his come already threatening to leak down your thighs. You winced at the loss of warmth and pressure, and the small, empty ache that came with it.
He watched you as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, dress falling back around your hips. The bathroom’s cool tile bit at your bare feet when you padded in, and you leaned one hand against the counter as you grabbed a wad of toilet paper with the other, cleaning yourself with practiced motions.
In the mirror, you saw your reflection: flushed cheeks, messy hair, strapless silk clinging to your curves, a faint mark blooming where Joel’s hand had gripped your waist. You looked like someone who had been thoroughly fucked, not like someone whose plans were about to be reorganized around a trade deal.
You heard him moving around the bedroom, the rustle of fabric, the telltale ding of an incoming email on his phone.
When you came back out, he was already half-dressed — boxers replaced with navy slacks, belt threaded, shirt hanging open, tie draped loose over his shoulders. That specific “I’m leaving soon but I want to pretend I’m not” stage.
“Hey,” he said, eyes soft when they found yours. “Come here.”
You stepped closer, letting him pull you in by the waist. His hands were warm on your bare skin where the dress had slipped again. He kissed you, gentler now, apology woven into the press of his mouth.
“I’m really sorry,” he said against your lips. “You know I didn’t plan this. Marcus says there’s this insane opportunity with the Asia desk, and if we don’t move this morning, we lose the spread, and—”
You felt your brain start to glaze over at the jargon, like static rolling over a clear signal.
He saw it, and his tone shifted. “I’ll be home for dinner. I swear. I made the reservation at that place you love — the one with the duck and those stupid little cocktails you like posting.”
“The place is fine,” you said automatically. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cut in, eager. “We’ll get stupid drunk, we’ll order too much, you can make fun of the finance guys at the next table. I’ll make up for this, okay?”
You wanted to say: I don’t need the restaurant. I need you to remember you picked me before you picked the firm. I need you to not look like you’re halfway out the door while you’re promising the exact opposite.
What you said was, “Okay,” your voice coming out flatter than you intended.
He winced a little at the tone, then smoothed it over with a smile, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “Hey. Don’t do the robot thing. I hate the robot thing.”
You tried for a smile you did not feel. “I’m not being a robot.”
“You’re literally doing the thing where you sound like Siri,” he said, but it was teasing, not cruel.
You stepped back, breaking his hands from your waist. “Go close the market or whatever,” you said, and this time your voice landed somewhere between joke and surrender.
He hesitated like he might argue, then glanced at his buzzing phone, the decision flickering and setting in his eyes. “I love you,” he said instead, quick and earnest.
You held his gaze, the words tasting heavier in your throat than they used to.
“I love you too,” you answered, because it was still true, even if it felt more complicated than it had in Boston.
He grabbed his blazer, leaned in for one more fast kiss, then was out the bedroom door. A moment later you heard the front door click shut, the quiet of the apartment rushing in behind him.
Bread hopped into the warm spot he had left on the bed with ruthless efficiency, curling into a neat gray loaf. You climbed back onto the mattress and tugged the sheet around your shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne and sex wrapped around you like a question you weren’t ready to answer yet.