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rotten-womb · 2 months ago

Text

wildfowl

her relationship with her boss remains precarious. (skittish secretary x unwavering boss)

john price/f!reader, 6.4k wc, rated m, ao3

They were on opposite sides of the room, the interstice between them thick and stifling.

The constant white noise of pen against paper, of the man on the other side of the room breathing in his cigar, the never-ending ticking clock, grating at her ears.

The vanilla-tobacco-scented smoke engulfing the room burned its way down to her lungs, making her eyes water, but she wouldn’t dare ask him to crack open a window.

It was dark. After hours, the higher-ups had sent her boss a deadline he couldn’t meet without her, so she’d done the noble thing and stayed. Stayed in that suffocating room with him. Captain John Price. Her superior, and the main subject of her thoughts ever since she was impelled into that airless room with him, subvocally kicking and screaming.

She was immured in his office. Given the lack of space and prestige of her job title, they were expected to cohabitate. He had no need for a secretary but took her on as a favor for Laswell, giving her a desk and a paycheck so she could help lighten a load that was no plight to him.

She hadn’t wanted a job in the first place. Nevertheless, by virtue of being Maria’s friend and, to an extent, her wife Kate’s, she had too many people overly invested in her life. They forced– persuaded her to get this job on the basis of ‘Breaking out of her shell,’ and to ‘Stop acting so fucking spooked around men.’

The everlasting consequence of being locked away in an all-girls school for the entirety of her adolescent years. The effects of it still batter her in waves, she still doesn’t know how to act around them. Men. Stupid, obscure beings. It made her feel less than, like an interloper amongst women, after seeing how effortlessly they communicated with the inverse sex, how they could have them wrapped around their finger with nothing but well-aimed hooded eyes and a sultry smile. Like everybody else had cracked the code but her.

This man, in particular, left her breathless; fumbling, she didn’t know what to do with herself around him. Her heart turns into a pit in her chest, constantly weighing her down whenever she parts from him, as if it can’t stand the interspace created between them, wanting to anchor her body to his.

But, as much as it wants, it aches. Aches from her untold desires. She craves his presence as much as his absence. Yearns for his touch while condemning it.

She spends her working hours after finishing her comically light workload wallowing in fatuous fantasies, dozes off, and indulges in idealistic versions of themselves; a princess and her sworn knight; a siren and the lone sailor she bewitches to sate her desire; the god watching her while she basks in the green fields, pomegranate seeds aching to be laid on her wanting tongue held in his palms; a woman unafraid to be unveiled for love and a man acquiescent to love her in whole. Her accustom to his company remains precarious, though.

A gruff “You alright over there?” called from across the room wrenched her away from her thoughts and brought her back to actuality. She could feel his gaze on her; it made her burn all over, but she refused to meet it. She cleared her throat and responded lowly: “Yeah– um, yes all good.” her cheeks heated from embarrassment at getting caught running her mind far away, so she turned her focus back to her work, swiftly finishing the file sitting open in front of her, she let out a silent sigh of relief the last one, thank god, and added it to the pile with the others, glad at all this being over, already excited by the idea of returning to her sparse little flat, sinking into her bed, and expelling all thoughts of John Price out of her mind.

She gathered the completed files and–with her gaze down–walked over to his desk to dispose of them with slight ceremony then hastily announced her departure and turned to gather her things, eager to leave, but was stopped by his request to “Check somethin’ real quick for him,” he beckoned her towards the file lying open in front of him. She hesitantly turned back to the front of his desk, but he lured her in further with a simple gesture from his pointer and middle fingers.

She mindlessly obeyed and–with his sharp eyes tracking her every move, as if a predator stalking its prey–rounded the desk to amble closer to him, penetrating the smoke-filled aura that seemed to surround him loyally, interlaced with his entire being.

It was intoxicating. It made its way under her skin and buzzed in her veins, filling her with the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and burrow her face into his neck so she could inhale him in full.

She settled a few steps away from his imposing figure–always heedful not to get too close. He towered over her even when seated, and she felt unnerved under the shadow cast over her like it could swallow her whole in the blink of an eye and leave her swaddled in darkness for all her life. He had slowly–without taking his eyes off her–swiveled in his chair to meet her directly.

“What’d you need, Mr. Price?” she softly asked.

He took a beat before responding to raise his cigar and suck in a hearty amount of smoke, all while drinking her in with his battle-hardened eyes. Incessantly, she had noticed on the rare occasion she gained the courage to meet the heated gaze that prickled at her neck, was how he looked at her. As if he were attempting to decorticate the hard skin off her body to reveal her soft core. It makes her want to leap out of her body to take a good hard look at herself, just to see what’s so fucking interesting to him.

Taking care to exhale the smoke away from her, he circumvented the question with a reproachful tone, “Didn’t I tell you to call me John, sweetheart?”

She shut her eyes in perturbation, “Right, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply, but not unkindly, “Don’t start apologizing over nothing.”

Her eyes blink open, and she breathlessly exhales a vague oh sound– he levels her a pointed look as if to stress his point, like she’d committed a grave sin by simply apologizing. They let the unoppressive silence hang in the air. He’s so… she can’t find the precise word to describe how he is with her–forbearing, gallant, gentle, and unyielding, he’s almost ineffable.

It unsettles her for him to behave this way regarding her. Like his care is anything but artificial, she doesn’t know what she’d do with herself if it weren’t. If he thought of her as a person instead of merely the nervous secretary who was dumped on his lap.

His voice snaps her out of her reverie, “Come look at this, love.” He picks up the folder and moves it to her line of sight, “This can’t be right, could it?”

She drew nearer to look at what he was referring to, unwittingly shifting closer to him. She couldn’t tell what he meant, though, it all looked accurate. She turned her head to ask him to clarify what he meant, but froze in a way reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights when she realized how close their faces were to one another.

She couldn’t help but be painfully aware of how close their lips were, she could sway forward and press hers against his. His cool and composed eyes bore into hers; wide and skittish, she seemed seconds away from fleeing the room, but his gaze cemented her body in place, turned her statuesque–as if she had been staring into Medusa’s eyes instead of her infallible boss’.

He breaks eye contact to cast his gaze down to her lips, eyes shining in captivation, and then he brings his eyes back to hers and tilts his head, seemingly in challenge.

The provocation interlaced with his demeanor awakens a dormant defiance in her and tempts her to sink her teeth in the bait; she feels drunk on the tension engulfing them. When she thinks back on this, she’ll thrash her head in dismay and cry Why, why did I cross the line with him? I’ve fed the insatiable beast, and now it can’t stop– won’t stop fiending for more scraps, it’ll scratch and bite at my hand til I grant it more but it won’t be satisfied til I split his chest open, pry open his ribs, and rest with his beating heart held in my greedy palms. But for now, she bites into the self-imposed forbidden apple and leans in, entranced and intent on capturing his lips. Pleas run in her mind, verging on prayer; Let me have what I want without acidic shame burning my skin. Let me be happy. Please.

Just as she was a hairbreadth away, a loud bang paired with a cat’s angry yowl dries out the heady air, causing the reality of the situation to come rushing back to her, and she takes a staggering step back, horror flooding her face.

She rushes to gather her belongings, “I– um, God fuck–” she stammers out, her voice growing faint til the last word comes out barely louder than a whisper, “I have to go. Goodbye, Mr. Price,” she can’t hide the tremor in her voice, already turned away from him to let her back take the brunt of his stare.

She quickly darts out of the room and inadvertently slams the door behind her, escaping into the corridor, barely hearing his pleas for her to “Wait–!”

She hurriedly flees the base and dashes through the parking lot to her car, her bag and coat crowded in her arms, the cold nips at her entire body but she can’t feel it over the molten spread throughout it–she almost slips and cracks her skull on the icy ground but she barely spares it a thought other than righting herself, her vision tunneled to a single objective.

Upon reaching her car, she quickly unlocks it–her shaking fingers only mildly fumbling the keys–and wrenches the door open, seeking refuge in its familiarity. She allows herself a second to catch her breath and thumps her head against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to scream.

After a few moments of contemplating driving her car through the nearest tree at full speed, she gathers herself and instead pulls out of the lot–at a completely safe and reasonable speed–to make her way home.

The drive and everything that came after was a blur, only a loud ping in her otherwise silent flat pulling her out of her static-filled mind. She turned over in bed to check the message, but nothing registered in her brain but sharp brightness burning her retinas. She put her phone back down, pulled the blanket over her head, and drifted into a restless sleep.

—

“See, I told you!”

Maria’s voice came clearly from the speakers of her phone, aimed at Kate, but all she could register was a faraway voice. She’d called her bright and early to confirm one fact or another, not wanting to waste any time proving herself right to her wife.

Sitting in front of her vanity, she met her own eyes in the mirror and attempted to mentally prepare herself for another emotionally arduous workday chained to John Price.

In all the months she’d started working for him he never relieved her of his presence for more than a few days at a time, apparently his infamous task force had finished a major and time-consuming mission sometime before she’d arrived so the higher-ups had offered them the grace of a respite and sent them out to shorter, less lethal missions for the time being.

Pity, she thought, I’d’ve loved to be rid of that horrid hat for a few months. Still, as soon as the thought strikes, her tender heart immediately clenches at the thought of him being in mortal danger on a battlefield instead of on his plush chair, chain-smoking and suffocating her while she steals glances at him to tuck away in her greedy mind.

She could still distinctly remember the first time she saw him, and he saw her in turn; he barged into his office, body still punitive and movements still stiff from combat, he was big and tall in a way that unnerved and excited her simultaneously.

Her gaze timorously swept over the length of his body; his thick, unkempt beard obscured his features, his fatigues brazenly displayed his body, showing off thick biceps she wanted to be enveloped in and a wide chest she wanted to burrow in. His alert eyes, shadowed by his Boonie hat, immediately zeroed in on her for a few breathless moments before passing his eyes over Kate and taking a perfunctory glance around his office, then settling on them again.

Kate had talked to him about her beforehand, and he’d already agreed to take her on, of course, so that first meeting was nothing more than a handoff. She’d felt like a wobbly preschooler being entrusted to a teacher while her mother implores them to take it easy on her, she’d felt his gaze straying from a talking Kate to her a few times but refused to meet it, still praying he’d change his mind and throw them out on their asses at some point, but he’d let her stay.

His scent had already formed a rigid impression in her brain by the time the meeting ended.

Heavy eyebags tormented her face, her dreams were plagued by memories of last night. She could still see it so vividly, her mind tacking on to the insignificant detail of a tiny mole residing under his blue eye, illuminated by the moonlight, she could still feel herself leaning in, she fabricated what comes after, though, indulging in a fantasy where she let herself want him and he wanted her in turn, let herself press her lips against his and climb onto his lap as he embraces her in his strong, safe arms before the scene fades to black and repeats over and over again.

She can hear Maria and Kate’s whispers to one another like a buzzing in her ears, conferring in a language fluent only to them. Kate was settled offscreen, and Maria’s face was angled towards her, but she didn’t need the full picture; she’d seen them lost in their own world before and could easily fill in the gaps. Seen the way their bodies mirrored one another and mindlessly fit together like puzzle pieces.

She yearns for an affinity like theirs, yearns for someone to lodge their hands in her chest and reach for all the love embedded in her soft flesh, to unstopper all the shame and guilt obstructing it from spilling out of her.

“–ey! Hey!”

Maria’s fretful voice violently pulled her out of her mind, she was mindlessly going through the motions of her routine. Normally, it’d comfort her, but now it’s another burden weighing her down.

Her light makeup felt glutinous and heavy–it made her want to scratch the skin off her face, her clothing felt restricting on her body, and the simple loose style she pulled her hair into felt like it was tearing at every hair follicle on her head.

She wanted to rip everything off her body and lie on her floor, motionless, in an infant position as if she could protect her vulnerable underbelly from the world just by curling in on herself.

But she made a promise to Maria to try. She’ll, unfortunately, do just that, keep going even when it gets too heavy. Damn, my manners.

“You good? You kinda went away for a second there.”

She plastered a too-bright smile on her face, “Yeah!” Her voice came out too high, “I’m good, everything’s terrific.” She couldn’t muster the energy to lie better.

“Okay,” Maria drawled the first vowel, deadpan, “You wanna tell the truth this time?”

She let the smile drop, “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,” she was reaching for her makeup remover, cotton pads already in hand, not caring to try today.

“She’s tired!” Her tone betrayed her disbelief, and her mouth was slowly lifting in a mischievous smile, “Tired from the oh-so-strenuous work John gives you? Please! He barely lets you lift a finger,” she took a moment to tack on a lilting tone, “Y’know,” her smile grew, “I think he’s sweet on you.” She brandished her frankly unnecessary opinion like it was a God-given prophecy.

Her face heated and she attempted to don a hardened look on her face, “Get your head out of your ass, Maria, you’re talking nonsense.”

“No,” she drawled the word, “I think I’m talking just right, don’t you think so, Kate?” She turned to face her wife, unfairly bringing in somebody else to gang up on her.

She could hear Kate humming in faux contemplation before replying, “You’re always right, love.” Maria turned back to face the camera, wearing a victorious look, “His eyes did seem…” Kate continued, before trailing off to find a suitable word, “Obsessive, I guess, in how he looked at you, last time I visited the base. The man could barely take them off you for longer than a few seconds. It was terrifying, honestly. should send him for a psych eval soon.”

Maria let out a loud sound of delight.

She couldn’t suppress her eye-roll, “You’re both delusional; when’s the last time you had a black mold inspection done?” She finished wiping her makeup off, sighing in relief, then threw the used cotton pads in the bin near her vanity.

Maria laughed, “All of our mold is fine, thank you! And you know I’m right!”

“I don’t know shit about that, and now, since some of us have jobs, particularly ones brutally forced on them, I have to go, so goodbye!” She pressed the end call button, effectively cutting off Maria’s cackle.

—

The cold bites at her skin as she exits her car, and gray, brooding clouds loom over her, promising to bring nothing but whipping winds and piercing, needle-like rain.

She makes her way to the compact building, the base offers nothing but temporary habitation for soldiers–she doesn’t know what’ll happen to her when they decide to move on. Will he march her out of their office and send her off with a Thanks for nothing, darlin’? Eager to be rid of her nesting on her shabby desk? Taking up space just to do fuck all?–It sits there in all its glory; cramped barracks, a tiny cafeteria, and outside, at the edge of the structure, a flat surface serves as a small helipad that can be accessed by the ever-open doors adjacent to it on the building.

She passes by it en route to her office and catches the dreaded object of her thoughts from afar, dressed in full gear, standing ways away from a chopper and debriefing his squad.

Soldiers buzzed around them like worker bees–each with a delegated task, ensuring to keep the cogs of the hive turning.

Then, she sees rather than hears John release his squad with a firm, sharp dismissal. They disperse from around him and bestow a clear, unobstructed view for her to get lost in his towering figure.

She knows that if he turned and allowed her to ogle at his muscled back and broad shoulder blades, she’d die, so she sends him a silent thank you for sparing her a mortifying death and facing resolutely to the side, overseeing the loading of the equipment.

Through the haze of John, she glimpses from her peripheral Soap attempting to climb a large yet-to-be-loaded container, boasting about his ability to do one thing or another to Gaz–who was not-so-subtly egging him on–but was yanked back in place by Ghost’s tight grip on the back of his tact vest, looking all but an enervated mother who’s mostly given up on keeping her unruly children in check.

It’s strange, she thinks, to see them filled with such spirit–as if their lives aren’t on the line more often than not. She wonders how they do it, how they can go on when a scythe hangs a hairbreadth away from their delicate throats, only a tiny push needed from a well-aimed bullet, or a well-placed knife for it to penetrate their flesh and claim their damned souls.

She stares at them, splitting her attention between John and his squad.

She can’t help but be envious of how even the dead men walking can find instances of bliss, but whenever she tries to grasp it, she pries open her fist, and only bitter ash slips through her fingers. She wondered if the promise of a bullet to the head could blow life into her.

She wants to dissect their minds. Pin their bodies down, steady their heads, and take a bone saw to their skulls, then scrutinize the inner workings of their bruised brains to try and imitate their happiness. She prophesied these stolen moments are what drag their half-dead bodies–inured to the scent of death and gunpowder–back to a civilization that condemns them.

She feels the weight of his familiar gaze on her and immediately meets it, drawn to him with no choice in the matter.

A beat passes while the rest of the world becomes an ambiguous blur for her, and the only lucid being to her is John. John.

She wants to scream his name, whisper it, moan it, caress it, and violently trap it between her gnashing teeth.

John, John, John.

She’d never allowed herself to say it aloud, no matter how the urge clogs her throat when he reminds her of his blessing. It’s dangerously intimate to her–her heart sharply skips a beat whenever he calls her name, and she wants to sew his mouth shut every time he does, teetering on the edge of wanting him never to speak it again or having it be all that he utters.

She catalogs the minute facial expressions that flit across his face and tucks them in a neat box reserved for John in the back of her mind. Even with her back-breaking systematizing of his every look, word, and burning touch, he remains enigmatic to her, she can’t quite seem to grasp the meaning behind his every action. Still, God, the overwhelming want to understand, boils her body from the inside out.

After what seemed like an eternity, she breaks their distant contact and hastily makes her way to the office.

—

Looking out from the window to the cold torrent of rain, its frigidity seeps through the walls and cools her skin, and its persisting pounding on the roof mixed with frequent rumbles of thunder makes her shudder.

She nervously picked at her nails, bemoaning the moment of weakness she submitted to the fatigue weighing down her weary bones, and took a nap.

It was supposed to be a short one, honest to God, thirty minutes tops. She cuddled into the rickety couch sitting in the corner of the office, soothed into a deep sleep by the then light pitter-patter of rain.

She was roused from her sleep, Lord knows how many hours later, by the sound of booming thunder, completely ignorant of the alarm she had set earlier.

She was too scared to drive under these conditions, envisioning losing control of the wheel and hydroplaning off a bridge or lightning striking the car, frying her on the spot.

I’ll just wait it out, how long could a storm possibly last, she took a deep breath, in and out, I’ll be home soon, I’ll finally catch up on my show, maybe even take a hot bath, do some pre-sleep yoga, get a routine started, it only takes twenty days to form a habit, right? Maybe it’ll stick this time, and everything will be just fi–

The door opening behind her made her jump before whirling to see who the culprit was.

She found John with his hand still on the doorknob, his body tensed for a split second at the sight of her before relaxing.

Her body freezes at seeing him, and her nerves get even more frazzled.

Fucking perfect. I pray for a months-long mission only to be granted one that didn’t even last five minutes, spec-fucking-tacular.

He didn’t seem to be cursing her existence like she was doing his, seemingly content to idle under the door’s archway. Hm, mission must’ve gone well.

The rest of the 141 are probably scattered around base and going about their post-mission rituals. She doesn’t know John’s; they always arrive in the dead of night, so this is a first for her.

A beat passes without a word from either of them.

Then he calls her name, and she lifts her head to face him, his body hangs still, head tilted to the side, and eyes intent on her–like a hound that’s spotted a rabbit.

“What’re you doing here so late?” His gravelly voice felt like it was caressing her, and she shivered.

She weakly gestured to her desk, “I got caught up with work,” their heads turned in sync to her glaringly empty desk.

It was a flimsy lie, and the motion of his lips, lightly quirking beneath his beard, shows that he knows it.

Closing the door, he abandoned his post from the archway, then noiselessly approached his desk.

He’s light on his feet for a big man, giving her many almost heart attacks from how he sneaks up behind her.

Opening his desk drawer, he grabs an ashtray, a lighter, and a cigar.

Then he went to sit on the couch that still held her sleepy warmth. He placed the ashtray on the armrest, lit his cigar, then raised it to take a drag.

She found herself entranced through it all–the flame illuminating his handsome face, the evident exhaustion draining from his body with one smoke-filled exhale, eyes shut in bliss, and his head tilting to rest on the back of the couch, exposing his throat, all while spreading his thighs wide.

She wanted to sit on his inviting lap, bite his vulnerable throat, and leave her mark on him.

It’s like he’s begging me to jump him–what a sick, sick man.

She was rooted to her spot, at a loss for what to do and flooded by images of what had happened the last time she was trapped in this very room with him, late at night.

“Why don’t you sit?” He unseeingly calls out to her, “Get a leg off.”

She stared at him in disbelief, appalled at the simple request, and racked her brain for an escape route, but came out dry. She’s not comfortable enough around the base to wander off in the dark for solitude.

Reluctantly, she gives in and slowly inches to the couch, way more cautiously than the situation warranted. Her eyes shifted towards him, then quickly away, but he remained apathetic.

Sitting as far away as the couch allowed, she crowded herself on the edge opposite him.

Her body was taut, every part of her rigid and distinctly uncomfortable, a stark difference to his deliquesced figure.

A chuckle came from him, breaking the silence. It grated on her; she wanted to turn and ask him what was so funny, but her resolve to be as discomfited as possible–to wordlessly communicate how much she didn’t want to be here with him–won over.

She didn’t need to ask; he told her anyway, “Scared the shit outta me, seeing you standing there in the dark. Had my heart dropping to my ass, ‘specially after an op.”

“Oh…” She didn’t know how to respond or why he was telling her this. “My bad.”

He hummed noncommittally in response. “Came straight here to work on the reports, can’t get proper shut-eye with it hanging over my head.”

Normally, she’d offer to help, but she didn’t want to stay in his overwhelming presence any longer than needed, so she said nothing.

He makes idle conversation she can only respond to in choked monosyllables; it doesn’t seem to bother him, though, merely using this moment to unwind after an exacting day. With her.

It isn’t like he had any other choice with how she greedily takes space, no matter how small she tries to shrink her presence.

From her peripheral vision, she saw him half-lidded and staring into nothingness, then taking a long drag from his cigar and blowing tendrils of smoke into the stiff air. Heat pooled in her lower abdomen as if it were hitting her directly instead.

The ticking clock taunted her. She further averted her gaze. If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna explode.

“I think the storm’s letting up.” She was lying through her teeth, but she needed to get out. “So, I’m gonna get going.”

Just as she went to get up, his piercing tone cut her off, “Don’t be daft, sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere with how it’s pissin’ outside. Car’ll probably fly off the road five minutes out. ”

“It’s not that bad.”

A sharp look from him shut her up and had her burrowing into her end of the couch, back bowed in defeat.

Then a sudden heat encompassed her knee, his paw of a hand enfolded her in apparent comfort.

She could no longer feel herself breathe, every nerve going into overdrive from his touch, sending blaring warnings of pleasure to her brain neurons.

“It’ll be alright, love.” She couldn’t face him, her eyes were locked on his warm touch, a painful polarity to her icy skin. “I’m sure you’ll be home soon.”

She gave a shaky mhm in response. His thumb was steadily caressing the side of her knee in a careful rhythm, halting her temporal lobe from processing his words. Every nerve was focused solely on his touch.

“What’s got you scrambling, anyway? Got somebody waitin’ on you at home?” No amount of injected lightness could hide the trepidation in his tone.

“Uh…” She blinks her eyes to shake off the John-induced haze, but his touch leaves her stupefied. It wasn’t a common occurrence for her to be felt like this.

He called her name, and she turned to him of her own accord.

“Do you?”

Without taking her eyes off his, she lightly shook her head and murmured a barely audible No.

He hummed in satisfaction. “Good.”

The air felt still, and everything else but John was blurred to her. They stayed like that, captivated by one another’s gaze, and John’s hand inches higher bit by bit.

The space between them seemed to grow smaller by the second–fortuitously drawn to each other like puppets on a string, til they were breathing the same air and their faces were a hair's breadth away from one another.

She didn’t know what it was about him that could have her drowned in a daze and miles away from a comprehensible thought.

Further leaning in, he lingered near her lips, while his hand flexed in restraint. She wanted to close the distance but found herself hesitant–her final rational action. A soft, distant voice in her mind implores her to stop and think about what she’s doing, but she finds her every crevice exhausted at being cautious, so she throws it to the wind and kisses him.

It’s clumsy and frantic at first, weeks of need finally reaching a boiling point and spilling over. Then his free hand reaches up to cup her cheek and gently angles her face to his liking, she reaches up and grabs his wrist to anchor herself in the overwhelming sea of spilled emotions.

She lets out a low moan, then feels his hand tighten around her knee before trailing up to grip her waist.

His kiss deepens, and his body crowds hers before he pulls back enough to pull her over his lap–manhandling her like his pliant doll.

He kisses her hard, like he’s trying to infuse mountains of past frustration into it, tongues at her lips before she parts them to let him in. His hand goes to her nape while the other encircles her waist. He holds her in place to devour her to his heart’s desire while she tries to keep up with the heady taste of him.

She feels lost in his encompassing warmth, her hands are squished between her chest and his, and she can’t help but feel like an old-fashioned movie heroine locked in the tight embrace of the kind, chivalrous romantic interest, but she knows he’s anything but. Something coils beneath his skin, rears its head and waits for the perfect opportunity to strike.

She unconsciously grinds on the growing bulge she can feel under her, her cunt throbes and she lets out a soft whine at the staggering pleasure that pulses through her and she hungers for more.

He pulls away from her with a low growl and stops her movements with one hand to her thigh, then tucks his face into the junction between her neck and shoulder, his heavy breaths make her shiver.

He lightly nips her skin before resurfacing, staring at her with voracity in his eyes, and the flush in his cheeks to the tips of his ears makes her keenly aware of hers; his lips are red and swollen and glistening, and she knows she looks just as wrecked as he does.

Both his hands come up to cradle her face and she feels small beneath them. He lightly tilts her head to the side before leaning in to kiss the corner of her lips, then her cheeks, then down her neck to her collar bones, while whispering a soft “please, please, please,” in between.

“Let me take care of you,” she hears whispered in the hollow of her neck.

She yields in turn.

He guides her back onto the couch, then goes to kneel before her. He sets his palms on her pressed thighs and caresses them, trying to coax her into relaxation.

He strokes her from her thighs to her knees, up and down again and again while softly kneading her. Then his hands settle on her knees before gently prying them apart, he stares up at her momentarily before refocusing on her parted legs.

Hands on the back of her knees pull her towards him before traveling up to slowly ruck up her skirt.

She feels exposed already, his eyes are intent on her clothed core, and she can feel them focused on the wet staining the cotton. His hand reaches up to thumb it, and her thighs would’ve shut if it weren’t for his broad shoulders straining them open.

A broken whine escapes her when he presses on her clit, he placidly rolls her thumb over it and she can’t help but push into his touch, seeking more.

Suddenly pulling away, she jolts at the deprivation. He reaches to take her underwear off, slowly revealing her to him. His mouth goes dry at the strands of wetness clinging to the cotton.

The sight of her bare cunt only has him growing harder, his bulge strains in his pants and he palms himself to offer meager relief.

She’d turned away from him, unable to stand the sight of him removing the final barrier between them. A harsh “Fuck.” reaches her ears and it pulls her gaze to him.

The sight of him leaves her breathless. He’s enrapt by her–the darks of his pupils have taken over the blues of his eyes, and his rough breathing fills her ears. He looks ravenous, and her skin buzzes half in anticipation and half in fear over what he might do to her.

He hooks his hands beneath her knees, lifting and placing her legs over his shoulders before sinking lower into the chasm of her thighs.

His lips graze her inner thigh, placing a singular, tender kiss. His beard scratches the sensitive skin.

Hearing a deep inhale, her cheeks heat over the thought of him taking in her scent. The feeling of his breath, every hard inhale and exhale, on her heated core makes her writhe and fist the cushion beneath her in impatience.

He uses his thumbs to spread her folds apart to admire. Her back arches off the couch, and he sits still, torturing her with his need to look. Her hips tilt upwards towards him, and she feels like she’s going to burst if he doesn’t do something about the pulsating ache between her thighs.

Unhurriedly, his head travels lower, and he finally gets his mouth on her. She trembles with the first lick and moans.

One arm drapes itself across her lower stomach, and the other settles itself upon her upper thigh, inching towards her mons.

With every drag of his tongue her head gets emptier and emptier, then it fills with sudden, devestating static when his thumb grinds against her clit. She cries out, and vibrations from his moans turn her pleasure all the more potent.

Her body contorts to the rhythm of the storm, and his unrelenting in devouring her pulls her every nerve taut, and she’s so unbearingly close it makes her teeth gnash.

The cadenced pleasure flowing through her body feels like the incessant pressing of a bruise. She grinds her cunt against his mouth and locks her thighs against his head–uncaring if he suffocates in her desperate chase of her peak.

Her body goes tight, then unwinds in white hot pleasure. A cried “John!” is ripped from her throat, and her hand knots in his hair to hold him still; he allows her to ride her climax out. Her chest heaves, and she’s molten in his hold.

Gradually, she comes to and the static in her mind melts away to the twin sounds of their lurching breaths.

She meets his gaze from where he lies on her thigh. He looks ruined, and she can’t imagine she looks any better.

The lower half of his face is flushed and soaked, and she can practically see the tension running through his body.

He stares up at her with flames licking at his gaze, but she looks away, out towards the window and the waning storm.

There’s nothing more she wants to give him.