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pixielillies · 1 month ago

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No Pretending

Pairing: 2025 CM Punk x Reader (F)

Warnings: NSFW, Oral Sex, Giving and Receiving

Word Count: 4,528

Song: Gibson Girl By Ethel Cain

Summary: You're a 29-year-old backstage assistant for WWE, and have been working closely with CM Punk all summer. What started as quiet chemistry finally builds to a breaking point after a Monday Night Raw taping in Dallas.

The crowd’s roar has long faded into the background, replaced by the low murmur of production staff packing up equipment and talent filtering out of the building. You’re still in the bowels of the arena, clipboard tucked under your arm, headset now resting around your neck. It’s been a long show, but not a bad one.

You’re buzzing a little, though. Not because of the job. Because of him.

You’ve been around Phil Brooks, CM Punk, for months now. Close, but not close. You’re his assistant, his right-hand in the chaos of WWE’s ever-shifting backstage maze. You’ve worked through logistics, calmed producers, fixed timing issues, helped navigate last-minute creative changes, and through it all, he’s been... him.

Sharp. Dry. A little closed off. But with you, there’s always been a softness under the surface. The way he speaks to you. The way his eyes find you in a room full of people. The way he says your name like it matters.

And lately, you feel like he’s letting that softness show more and more. Just for you.

You round a corner, heading back toward talent services when you see him. He’s fresh from the match against Seth, water glistening on his forehead from his after match shower, his hair messy and damp.

He’s standing near the catering table, drinking bottled water, talking to someone from production. But the moment his eyes catch yours across the hall, he stops mid-sentence.

He nods once. Subtle. Just for you.

You walk over like you’re not replaying that moment in your head.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, gravelly. “Was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“You knew where to find me,” you say, tilting your head. “I’ve been running all night trying to keep this show from falling apart.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s why I like having you around. You actually keep this place from imploding.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve said that to like five people today.”

“Nah,” he says, and this time, he really looks at you. “Only meant it once.”

You feel it, the way that makes your chest tighten. Your fingers curl slightly against your clipboard, grounding yourself.

“I caught your segment,” you say, trying to shift the energy before it swallows you whole. “Crowd was white-hot.”

“Yeah?” He leans back against the wall slightly. “Felt good. You?”

“You were solid. Genuinely looked like you were having fun. Which, let’s be real, doesn’t happen that often anymore.”

He raises a brow. “You saying I’m usually a grump?”

“I would never say that,” you deadpan. “I’d just…. heavily imply it.”

Phil grins. That soft kind of grin he gives when no one else is around.

“You heading out soon?” he asks, casually.

You nod. “Just wrapping a few notes. Then I’m out.”

“Same hotel as me? The Hilton down the road?”

“Yup.”

He pushes off the wall slowly, like he’s weighing something. Then says, “Ride with me?”

The air between you tightens instantly.

This isn’t the first time he’s offered, but something about the way he says it tonight feels heavier. Less casual. More… intentional.

You search his face for a moment. “Yeah,” you say, steadying your voice. “Okay.”

Phil nods once, like he’s relieved, or maybe just trying to keep himself in check. His eyes flick over you, quick but unreadable, and then he turns, adjusting the strap of his duffel as he starts walking toward the back lot.

You follow him, your shoes echoing on the concrete floor of the now mostly empty hallway. Everything backstage is quieter now. The chaos has settled, the adrenaline is wearing off, and people are starting to disappear into the night. But next to him, the air still feels thick. Electric.

He holds the door open for you at the loading dock exit, his hand brushing the small of your back as you step outside into the muggy Dallas night. The heat wraps around you instantly, sticking to your skin. The smell of asphalt and distant rain lingers in the air.

His rental is parked a few rows away, tucked in a shadowy corner beneath one of the floodlights buzzing overhead. It’s quiet here, far from the ring, the fans, the production chaos. Just the two of you and the hum of the night.

Phil unlocks the car with a soft click and walks to the passenger side first, opening the door for you without a word. You hesitate for a second, caught off guard by the gesture, then slide in, murmuring a quiet, “Thanks.”

The interior is still warm from the day’s heat, but it’s clean, comfortable. Smells like cologne and leather and the faintest trace of spearmint gum. He walks around and gets in on the driver’s side, starting the engine. The dashboard lights up with a quiet ding, and the radio kicks on at a low volume, some old AFI song you both know, but neither of you comment on it.

He adjusts the AC, glancing at you briefly. “Too cold?”

You shake your head. “Feels nice.”

He nods, shifting into reverse with one hand, the other still resting on the wheel. His forearm flexes as he turns, eyes scanning behind him as he backs out of the spot. You catch yourself staring. You don’t look away fast enough.

His eyes flick to yours. He doesn’t call you out on it, but you see the smallest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth as he pulls onto the road.

Neither of you says anything for the first few minutes. The city lights pass in streaks through the windshield. The silence should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels like both of you are holding something back. Like the words are there, just waiting for permission.

You rest your elbow on the windowsill, looking out. Then you glance sideways at him. His jaw is tight. His fingers tap the steering wheel like he’s fighting the urge to say something.

You decide to break it first. “You always this quiet after a show?”

“Sometimes,” he answers, eyes still on the road. “But it’s not the show that’s got me quiet tonight.”

You know what he means. You feel your stomach tighten, heat rising slowly under your skin.

You tuck your hands in your lap, voice low. “Then what is it?”

Phil exhales through his nose, and his next words are honest, almost too honest. “You.”

You blink. Your throat goes dry, but you manage a quiet, “Oh.”

He smiles softly, but doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, pulse still picking up speed. The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice soft but steady.

“Why is that?” you ask. Then, with a tiny smirk: “Do I scare you?”

Phil laughs, quiet and low, the kind of laugh that rumbles in his chest, not his throat. His hand tightens slightly on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just lets the question hang there between you.

“You don’t scare me,” he says finally, eyes still on the road. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

You tilt your head toward him. “Then in what way?”

He takes a breath. You can see the hesitation there, not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does.

“It’s not fear. It’s... awareness.”

You frown slightly, not expecting that. “Awareness?”

“Yeah.” He glances at you again, eyes flickering down to your lips and back up. “I’m always aware of you. When you’re in the room, when you walk past me. When you talk to other people. Doesn’t matter how focused I try to be on everything else, my attention goes right to you.”

The car is silent again, but it’s not empty. Every word he just said lands like a hand pressed to your chest, gentle, but firm. Honest.

You sit with that for a moment, staring straight ahead, then whisper, “You’re not the only one.”

Phil shifts gears at the next light. “I figured.”

You don’t even try to hide your smile.

“So, what do we do about it?” you ask.

His eyes cut toward you again, darker now. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If you want to do something about it… or keep pretending we don’t feel it.”

You look at him, really look at him. There’s something vulnerable in his face now, buried beneath the sarcasm, the edge, the tattoos and years of walls. You’re not used to seeing that part of him. But it’s there.

You swallow the nerves bubbling up and answer honestly.

“I don’t want to pretend.”

That changes something in his expression.

The next few minutes pass in quiet, but you feel the air between you shifting, no longer just tension, but permission. Anticipation.

He turns into the hotel lot, parks in a quiet corner. The engine cuts off, but neither of you moves. Not yet.

You glance over at him again.

“So... now what?” you ask, a little breathless.

Phil looks at you for a long moment, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, in the dim glow of the dash lights, hair a little messy from the long night, cheeks warm from everything unsaid.

Then he leans back against his seat, eyes still locked on yours.

“Now,” he says quietly, “I ask you if you wanna come upstairs.”

You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the city around you. The soft glow of the dashboard light casts gentle shadows across his face, shadows you suddenly want to memorize.

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I want to.”

Phil’s lips curl into that slow, knowing smile again, the one that makes your stomach flip. He reaches over and unlocks his door. The night air rushes in when he opens it, thick and warm, carrying the faint scent of rain and asphalt.

You slide out of the car first, heels clicking softly against the concrete. Phil’s hand is near yours, almost brushing, but he holds back. It’s electric, that tiny space between you, the promise of something more.

You walk side by side toward the hotel entrance, the lights casting long shadows down the sidewalk. The lobby is quiet, just a few late arrivals at the desk, and the cool air from inside is a welcome relief from the heat outside.

Phil lets you go first through the glass doors, then follows, his presence close behind you. The elevator ride up is silent except for the soft hum of the machinery and your own breathing. You stand just a little closer to him than usual, feeling the warmth radiate from his body.

When the doors open on his floor, you both step out into the dimly lit hallway. The carpet muffles your footsteps. Phil glances around, then back at you.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asks quietly, voice rough and low.

You meet his eyes and smile. “I’m sure.”

His hand moves to brush a loose curl from your face, fingers lingering. You pause, your heart pounding, then ask softly, “Does my age bother you?”

Phil’s eyes widen just a bit, and he meets your gaze fully. “No. Not in the way you’re thinking.”

You tilt your head, searching him. “What do you mean?”

He steps closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “I’m aware of everything, your energy, your fire, the way you carry yourself. I respect that. It’s not about numbers.”

You feel warmth spread through you at his words, the tension between you growing more electric.

He pulls out his keycard, unlocking the door. The room’s soft light spills out, inviting.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he says gently. “We take it at your pace.”

You step inside, heart racing, and smile. “I want this.”

He closes the door behind you, turning back to you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling around yours, steadying.

“Then let’s not wait any longer.”

Phil’s fingers tighten gently around yours, grounding you. The softness in his eyes makes your breath catch. You take a step closer, heart pounding so loud it feels like it could fill the room.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you lift your face toward his, closing the last inches between you.

His lips brush against yours, tentative and warm, testing the waters. The world narrows to just the two of you, the heat of his breath, the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

You part your lips slightly, inviting him in. His kiss deepens, growing more urgent, more hungry, but never losing that careful tenderness. His hands slide from your fingers to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as if memorizing every line.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. You feel his weight settle against you, solid and reassuring.

When he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead rests against yours.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

You smile softly, eyes half-lidded. “So are you.”

Slowly, his hands trail down your back, and you move together toward the bed, sinking into the mattress like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

His lips find yours again, roaming and claiming, and you respond with all the hunger and softness you’ve been holding back.

Phil's hands explore your body with measured intent, never rushing, always checking for your signals. His touch is confident and knowing, but also patient and gentle. You feel the contrast, his strength tempered by care, yet his desire is balanced with restraint.

You arch into his touch as he palms your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. A soft moan escapes you, and he immediately shifts to capture it with his mouth, kissing you deeply before grabbing the bottom hem of your shirt and lifting it over your head.

His lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, sending pleasant shivers through you.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, fingers tracing the curve of your breast before reaching behind you to unclasp your bra, letting the material fall off of your frame. Phil smirks, before taking one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking gently. You gasp, arching into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. His hands slide around to your back, supporting you as he lavishes attention on your breasts. You can feel the dampness between your thighs growing, the coil of tension tightening in your core. Phil moves lower, kissing along your ribs, dipping his tongue into your navel before reaching for the waistband of your jeans. His fingers make quick work of the button and zipper, and he pushes the denim down your hips with deliberate slowness.

He slides your jeans down your legs, before throwing them practically across the room. Phil's gaze darkens as he takes in the sight of you, his hands settling on your hips as he pulls you closer. His lips brush against your stomach, tongue dipping out to taste your skin. You shiver, goosebumps jumping across your body. His hands slide up your back, fingers tracing the contours of your body before hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pauses, meeting your gaze with an unspoken question. You nod, a soft moan escaping as his thumbs hook into the fabric and slowly lower your underwear.

Phil's breath catches as he reveals you completely, his eyes dark with desire. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft skin before spreading wider, touching the edges of your inner thighs.

His fingers soon trail up your legs with light touches, teasing and coaxing, until they finally reach the apex of your thighs. His thumbs part you gently, and you can feel his hot breath against your most sensitive skin. You bite your lip, bracing yourself.

Then his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging a slow, wet stripe up your slit.

“Fuck,” you groan, your back arching as intense sensation surges through you. Phil hums against you in satisfaction, his tongue pressing and circling your clit with expert precision. One hand slides up to grip your hip, holding you steady as he devours you. The other hand spreads you wider, his fingers tracing the folds of your pussy before dipping inside. He moves slowly at first, letting you adjust to the stretch as his tongue continues working your clit. You can feel your muscles clenching around his fingers as he pumps them in and out, his pace gradually increasing.

"You taste amazing," he growls between licks, the vibration sending intense sensations through your body.

Your hands clutch at the sheets, fingers twisting in the fabric as pleasure builds steadily. Phil picks up his pace, his tongue flicking over your clit faster now, his fingers curling inside you to hit that perfect spot. You can feel the coil of tension in your core tightening, your breathing growing ragged.

"Don't stop," you gasp, hips rolling against his mouth instinctively. Phil groans in response, the vibration sending intense sensations through your body. His free hand moves to your stomach, holding you down as he redoubles his efforts. The hand inside you adds a third finger, stretching you as he thrusts deep.

Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, your back arching off the bed as you clench around his fingers. Phil doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to work your clit through the waves of pleasure as you cry out his name. When the intensity finally subsides, he slows his movements, gradually easing you down from your high. His fingers slide free with a soft, wet sound, and he kisses his way up your body. You can taste yourself on his lips as he claims your mouth, and the intimacy of it sends another shiver through you. He pulls back just enough to speak.

"You okay?” He asks, voice rough with need.

Your body is still humming from the intensity of your orgasm, but your mind is sharp and ready for what comes next. You nod, a breathless smile on your face.

"Yes. I'm more than okay. I want more of you." Phil's eyes darken at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He stands, quickly unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his thighs before kicking them off. He follows by taking off his shirt, slipping it over his head and adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor.

You take in the full sight of him, muscled torso, defined abs, broad shoulders. Sure, you’ve seen him in less clothes plenty of times in the ring, but this was different. Your gaze travels lower, where the thick outline of his erection strains against his underwear. Phil notices your attention and steps closer, reaching down to palm himself through the fabric. "See what you do to me," he murmurs, voice thick with desire.

You reach out, fingers tracing the hard length through the cotton before wrapping around him fully. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into your touch. You squeeze gently, thumb rubbing over the head where the tip of him pushes against the material. Phil's hands come to rest on your shoulders, gripping lightly as you continue exploring him. "God, that feels good."

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull them down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already glistening at the tip. You lick your lips instinctively before leaning forward to take him into your mouth. The taste of him fills your senses as your tongue swirls around the head.

Phil groans, hands tightening in your hair as you take him deeper. "Fuck, yes," he breathes, hips giving a small thrust forward. You relax your throat, allowing him to push in further as your hand wraps around the base of his cock.

Phil's fingers tighten in your hair as he sets a slow, deep rhythm, pushing into your mouth with restraint. You can feel his control wavering, his muscles tense as he fights to maintain his pace. His breathing grows ragged, each thrust accompanied by a low groan. You suck hard as he pulls back, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his cock

"Oh god," he murmurs, voice thick with need. "You're incredible. Just like that, baby."

Encouraged by his words, you increase your pace, bobbing your head as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you draw back. His fingers tangle in your hair, guiding but not forcing, giving you control over the depth and pace as he lets out a string of appreciative groans. "You're going to make me come if you keep doing that," he warns, releasing his cock from your mouth with a 'pop'.

You lick your lips, looking up at him with a challenging smirk. "Then come for me," you say, voice low and husky.

Phil's eyes darken at your words, his jaw clenching as he grips his cock and begins stroking himself. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, fingers gently massaging your scalp as he works himself toward his release. Watching him pleasure himself, seeing the way his muscles tense, his breath catch, sends another wave of arousal through you. You move closer, opening your mouth in invitation. Phil doesn't need more encouragement. With a groan, he steps forward, guiding his cock back into your mouth.

You take him in again, sucking hard as he thrusts into your mouth. His rhythm is uneven now, controlled only by the thin edge of his self-control. His free hand grips your shoulder, fingers digging in your skin as he gets closer.

"Fuck, I'm close," he groans, voice strained. You hum in response, the vibration sending him over the edge. With a final thrust, he spills into your mouth, hot and intense. Phil throws his head back in pleasure, biting his bottom lip as he cums. You swallow instinctively, continuing to suck as he pulses on your tongue. When he's finished, he pulls back, spent but still hard. You lick your lips, tasting the last of him as you look up at him with satisfaction. "That was amazing."

Phil exhales shakily, his hand still on your shoulder as he catches his breath. "Fuck," he murmurs, voice thick and warm. "You are absolutely incredible." He helps you to your feet, pulling you close for a slow, deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, the salt of his release on your tongue. The intimacy of it sends another rush of heat through your body. When he pulls back, his eyes are still dark with desire, his cock still half-hard against your stomach. "You okay?" he asks, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

He smiles, the kind that pulls a little crooked, the kind you’ve seen a hundred times backstage but never like this. Never with this much affection behind it. He leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, lips lingering there like he doesn’t want to let go.

His voice is low, almost hesitant. “I don’t want to rush anything. We don’t have to do more than this tonight.”

You look up at him, heart fluttering at the quiet care in his tone.

“I know,” you say, fingers brushing lightly down his arm. “But I wanted this. I still do.”

Phil nods slowly, then reaches for your hand, guiding you gently toward the bed. Not with urgency, but like he wants you near. Wants you beside him. Wants to stay in this moment with you.

The sheets are still slightly rumpled from earlier, but neither of you seems to care. You sit beside him, and he leans back against the pillows, pulling you into his side without a second thought. His arm wraps around you, and you rest your head against his chest, your leg draped over his.

The room is quiet now, just the hum of the AC and the occasional distant sound of traffic from the streets below. But in here, everything feels still.

Phil’s fingers trace patterns on your bare shoulder as you lie there, skin against skin.

“You sure you’re okay?” he murmurs again, like he just needs to hear it one more time.

You lift your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I am.”

A pause.

“And you?”

He nods. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

You smile, heart swelling. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way he’s looking at you now, like maybe this means something more to him than just heat and hunger. Like he’s letting down every wall you’ve ever seen him hide behind.

You reach up and brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead, letting your hand linger.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper.

“Which part?” he asks, voice raspy, playful.

“That I didn’t want to pretend. Not anymore.”

He exhales slowly, eyes softening. His hand comes up to cup your cheek again.

“Then we don’t.”

You curl closer, tucking yourself against his side as he kisses the top of your head. His other hand finds yours beneath the covers, fingers lacing gently.

There’s a long pause, peaceful, but weighted. You feel his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his breathing slowing. But his hand tightens slightly around yours.

Then, in a quiet voice, he says, “I don’t just sleep with people.”

You lift your head a little to look at him, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his tone. His eyes are already on you, steady, open.

“I don’t do casual,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not for a long time. I’m not wired that way.”

You say nothing, giving him the space to keep going.

“I want more than this,” he says, voice raspier now, like it’s costing him to be this honest. “With you.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve wanted it,” he adds. “For a while. I just didn’t know if you did too, or if I was just imagining the way you look at me sometimes.”

You swallow the emotion building in your throat, blinking up at him.

“You weren’t imagining it,” you whisper. “I’ve felt it, too.”

His jaw clenches slightly, like he’s holding something back, then relaxes. His thumb strokes gently along your cheekbone again.

“I like waking up knowing someone’s in it with me,” he says quietly. “I want that again. And I want you to be that someone.”

You shift to face him more fully, your hand resting on his chest. “Then let’s see where this goes,” you whisper. “Because I want that too. I want you. Not just tonight.”

Phil stares at you like he’s memorizing every word. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, warm, unhurried.

Not hungry or rushed like earlier.

But tender.

A promise.

When you finally settle back into his arms, he holds you even tighter than before, tucking your head beneath his chin.

And as the night settles around you both, that steady rhythm of his breathing, slow and steady, matches your own.

Neither of you says another word.

Because now, you don’t have to.

#cm punk #wwe #cmpunk #phil brooks #wwefanfic #wwe raw #cmpunkfanfic #cm punk fanfiction #wwefanfiction #wwe fanfiction

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pixielillies · 18 days ago

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No Pretending-Part 2

Pairing: 2025 CM Punk x Reader (F)

Warnings: NSFW

Word Count: 6,899

It’s strange how much can change in fourteen days.

Two weeks ago, you were in Phil’s hotel room, tangled in sheets and silence, unsure what came next. Now? Now you know.

Because sometime between Monday night tapings, quiet car rides, late-night phone calls, and shared breakfasts in half-empty hotel dining rooms, things became clearer.

You’re not just flirting anymore. You’re not just circling each other with half-smiles and heated glances.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

It doesn’t happen with a big, dramatic conversation. It happens in pieces.

It happens when he reaches for your hand in the elevator and doesn’t let go. When he kisses you on the cheek in front of Sami Zayn and doesn’t bother to explain. When he introduces you as “my girl” to someone in the production truck, and you don’t correct him. When he looks at you during a late night dinner at Denny’s and says, “I haven’t wanted to be around someone like this in a long time.”

It’s in those things, the soft, steady unfolding of something real. My girl. You loved hearing it. Especially from him.

Sure, you’ve thought about how you’d break it to your parents and friends, how you’d explain that you’re basically dating someone almost twice your age.

You imagine the looks. The questions. The assumptions.

Is he controlling? Is it just a phase? Is this going to end badly?

They don’t know him, though. Not like you do.

And tonight? It’s a Sunday in Boston. The two of you, sharing a hotel room ahead of Monday Night Raw.

The moment you step out of the bathroom, you find him waiting, sitting on the edge of the bed with that casual Phil smirk.

But this time, it’s different. Very much real. Very much yours.

His eyes widen the second he sees you.

You’re wearing an emerald green silk dress that hugs you just right, with a slit that rises high on your thigh when you move. Paired with strappy black heels, it’s not the kind of outfit you wear for just anyone.

It’s the kind you wear when you want to be remembered.

Phil’s eyes drag slowly from head to toe. His arms uncross as he stands, gaze fixed.

“Damn,” he breathes, low and genuine. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

Your lips twitch into a small, teasing smile as you lean against the doorframe, watching the way his eyes haven’t left you once.

“Just wanted to make an impression,” you murmur, smoothing your hands down the sides of your dress.

Phil chuckles under his breath, standing slowly like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes stay locked on yours as he closes the space between you.

“You did more than that.”

His hands settle gently at your hips, his touch warm through the silk. He looks you over again, less like he’s checking you out, and more like he’s trying to memorize you.

“You’re unreal,” he says softly. “I’ve seen you in a hundred different ways. Laughing, stressed out, completely pissed off... and now this.”

He brushes his knuckles lightly along your bare arm. “And somehow you just keep getting better.”

You swallow, the heat in your chest pooling low and slow.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you say, eyes flicking over the sharp line of his jaw, the tattoos peeking from under the slightly rolled sleeves of his black dress shirt, the way his cologne still lingers in the air between you, familiar and comforting now.

His smile turns a little crooked, head tilting. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you nod, voice soft.

But he doesn’t move right away. He just keeps looking at you.

And then, like he can’t help himself, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not about the dress or how you look. It’s slow and meaningful, his hands firm on your waist as his lips find yours. You melt into it, into him, one hand coming up to rest on his chest as you press your body gently against his.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours for a moment.

“Just had to get that out of the way,” he murmurs.

You smile, breath warm against his lips. “I’m glad you did.”

He steps back, reluctantly, and grabs his keys off the dresser.

“C’mon, green dress,” he says with a smirk, reaching for your hand. “Let’s go make this night count.”

And as your fingers slip into his, the silk of your dress rustling softly with every step, you realize something,

You’re not nervous anymore.

As the two of you walk out of the hotel room, the soft click of the door behind you echoes in the quiet hallway. You’re hyper-aware of everything, the silk of your dress brushing your legs, the subtle scuff of your heels on the carpet, the warm weight of his hand in yours.

And him.

The way his eyes keep flicking over to you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

You step into the elevator and the doors close with a soft whoosh. It’s just the two of you, and suddenly the space feels too small and too full of tension. Not the uncomfortable kind, no. This is warm, humming, full of that low, unspoken heat that’s been building for weeks.

Phil looks at you through the mirrored walls, one hand in his pocket, the other still linked with yours. “You know,” he says casually, “you walk into a room in that dress and every guy’s gonna forget his own name.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous already?”

He leans in slightly, eyes sharp with a glint of something darker. “I’m not the jealous type.”

You smirk.

“But,” he adds, “I am the type to let people know you’re spoken for.”

You swear your heart skips at that.

The elevator dings.

He doesn’t let go of your hand as you step out into the lobby. The front desk is quiet, a couple of late check-ins murmuring nearby. No one pays you any attention, but even if they did, you don’t care. Not anymore. Not with the way Phil’s thumb is brushing over your knuckles like he’s still trying to ground himself in you.

You step out into the warm summer night. The Boston air is thick with the scent of pavement, ocean salt, and the low hum of the city winding down for the evening. The street lamps cast a soft glow over everything.

Phil unlocks the car with a click, and like always, he opens the passenger door for you.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease as you slide into the seat, smoothing your dress down.

He grins. “Only for you.”

He rounds the car and gets in behind the wheel, glancing over at you before he starts the engine.

You don’t miss the way his eyes linger on your legs for a second longer than necessary.

“What?” you ask, biting your lip.

“Nothing,” he says, trying not to smile. “Just… can’t believe I get to take you out like this.”

He reaches over and lays a hand on your thigh, casual, but firm. His fingers curl just slightly into your skin as he pulls out onto the street.

You rest your hand on top of his.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The city passes by in a blur of lights and quiet music humming through the speakers. His thumb strokes small circles against your thigh, and even through the fabric, it sends heat curling low in your belly.

You glance over at him, his jawline sharp in the dim light, one hand on the wheel, the other still on you. Focused. Steady. Yours.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking over.

You smile. “Maybe I like what I’m looking at.”

He smirks, then finally turns toward you, eyes dark. “Good.”

You don’t need to say anything else. Everything that matters is in the way his hand never leaves your leg, the way your body leans toward his even across the center console, and the way this doesn’t feel new, not really.

The drive doesn’t take long. Boston’s lights stretch out, casting shadows across his face as he weaves through the city with surprising ease. His hand stays on your thigh the whole time, warm and grounding, thumb stroking gentle, absentminded circles that send little sparks down your spine.

Neither of you says much.

There’s no need to.

The silence between you feels full, but calm. Every once in a while, you glance at him, and he’s already doing the same. It’s like you’re speaking in looks now, in small, steady glances that say we’re here and this is real.

Phil pulls into a quiet side street and finds a spot just a few storefronts down from the restaurant. The street is cobblestone, lit with old iron lampposts that cast a soft amber glow. There’s something almost romantic about it, like the whole night’s been designed just for the two of you.

He parks the car and kills the engine.

The music cuts off. The quiet feels different now.

Still intimate. Still warm.

He doesn’t move for a moment. Just rests one arm across the steering wheel and turns his head toward you, his eyes tracing the side of your face as if memorizing every angle.

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft, grounded.

You nod. “More than.”

But neither of you reaches for the door yet.

Instead, he leans in slightly, his gaze slipping down to your legs again, bare where your emerald silk dress parts high at your thigh, and then slowly back up, over your hips, your collarbone, your lips. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you like you’re something rare. Precious.

“I’ve wanted to do this,” he says finally, “for longer than I’ll admit.”

Your throat tightens, heart skipping. “So have I.”

He exhales through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of relief, and that same crooked smile tugs at his mouth. Then he’s out of the car, rounding the front like muscle memory, pulling the passenger door open before you even reach for the handle.

“Let me be a little old-fashioned tonight,” he says.

You don’t argue. You let him offer his hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you as you step out of the car. The summer air kisses your skin, mild and balmy, carrying the faint scent of ocean salt, warm pavement, and jasmine from the nearby florist’s display.

Phil doesn’t drop your hand as you start walking. In fact, he pulls you in closer.

You don’t miss the way people glance as you pass, a couple lingering outside a bar, a valet chatting near the curb. Some recognize him. You see it in the way their eyes widen and subtly shift. But he doesn’t look at them. He’s looking at you.

He nods toward the restaurant’s entrance, a small smile on his lips. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you say softly.

He opens the door for you. The soundscape changes instantly, the quiet hum of low conversation, gentle clinks of glasses, the soft sound of live jazz drifting from somewhere near the back. Warm light spills across the wood floors, bouncing off glass bottles lining a tall, backlit bar.

It’s not flashy. It’s timeless.

The hostess greets you with a quiet smile and leads you toward a booth along the windows. The leather seat is smooth and dark, tucked in just enough to feel secluded without being hidden.

Phil lets you slide in first before sitting across from you. As soon as you’re both seated, he leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table, gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid to blink.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

You feel the heat in your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from how seen you feel. Like this is the first time in a long time someone’s really looked at you. And not just looked, noticed.

“You clean up dangerously well,” he finally says, eyes still roaming from your neckline to the curve of your shoulders. “That dress should be illegal.”

You smirk, resting your arms on the table, leaning forward slightly. “You’re just saying that because it’s the first time you’ve seen me in something that doesn’t have an all-access badge clipped to it.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “You were already driving me crazy in that tank top and jeans backstage. But this?” His jaw flexes slightly. “This is gonna live in my head.”

You hide your grin behind your water glass, sipping slowly, just to buy yourself a second to breathe.

The waiter appears, friendly but professional, placing menus in front of you both and offering the wine list. Phil glances at you as if to say your call, and you nod, eyes scanning the options.

You order a glass of red, letting the waiter disappear again.

Phil watches you as you choose, the candlelight flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t know you were a red wine kind of girl.”

“You don’t know everything about me,” you reply, tilting your head slightly.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But I want to.”

Your chest tightens, not from nerves, but from how easy this feels. How natural. Like it was always supposed to happen this way.

You reach for your menu, trying not to get too lost in it, though you can feel his foot brushing yours under the table. Intentional. Warm. Teasing.

You glance up and catch him looking again.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head, smiling like he can’t help it. “Just having a moment.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of moment?”

“The kind where I’m sitting across from someone who makes me feel like I’m not wasting my time on the road every week.”

You don’t have a response to that. Just a slow, genuine smile that curls in your chest and settles there.

Outside the window, Boston glows. Inside the booth, it’s just the two of you, finally sharing the same page, the same breath, the same intention.

The waiter soon arrives with drinks, sparkling water for him, a chilled glass of wine for you. Phil doesn’t bat an eye. You know he’s straight edge. No alcohol, no exceptions. It’s one of the things you admire most about him, how unshakably he lives by what he believes.

You raise your glass. He lifts his own, filled with fizzy water and a slice of lemon.

“To tonight,” he says, eyes catching the light. “And whatever this is.”

You tap your glass against his. “To this.”

The wine is deep and velvety, warming you from the inside out. Or maybe that’s just him. The way he’s leaning forward now, propped on one elbow, his eyes flicking from your lips to your collarbone and back again.

“You ever notice,” he murmurs, “how quiet it gets when you’re with the right person?”

You nod slowly. “Like your brain finally shuts up for a second.”

“Exactly.” He smiles, tilting his head. “You quiet mine.”

Your heart gives a small, unsteady kick in your chest. It’s not just the words, it’s the way he says them. Honest. No performance. No walls. Just Phil, sitting across from you in the low light of a city that suddenly feels quieter than it’s ever been.

Dinner comes not long after, your pasta, his steak, still sizzling slightly on the plate. The food is good, really good, but you both eat slowly, distracted by conversation. He tells you about the weirdest cities he’s wrestled in, the hotel with no working toilets in Toronto, the fan who tried to hand him a puppy mid-signing in Texas.

You’re laughing before you even finish your wine. Elbows resting on the table, one heel slipping off under the booth as you curl your leg up beneath you. Comfortable. Open. Maybe more yourself than you’ve felt in weeks.

He watches you like it’s his favorite thing.

At one point, he reaches over and twirls his fork into your pasta without asking. “Gotta make sure yours tastes better than mine,” he says, grinning.

You smack his hand lightly, laughing. “Unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he teases, chewing and nodding like he’s just confirmed something important. “Yep. Yours is better.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling the whole time.

Halfway through the meal, he sets his fork down and rests his hand across the center of the table again, palm up. Waiting.

You don’t even hesitate. You slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl around yours gently, grounding you. The noise of the restaurant fades a little, and it’s just the two of you again.

He rubs small, slow circles along your wrist with his thumb, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know where this is going,” he admits. “But I know I want to see it through.”

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Another beat of quiet passes, one that’s not awkward, just… full. His eyes roam your face like he’s mapping it for memory. His thumb brushes your skin again, slower this time. Intimate.

And for a moment, you realize, this isn’t about age. Or timing. Or figuring it all out right now.

It’s about the way he’s looking at you. The way your hand fits into his. The way being here, together, feels like something that matters.

Dinner ends too soon.

He insists on paying, and you don’t fight him. Not tonight.

You step out of the booth and feel his hand slide against your lower back again, warm and steady. As the two of you head toward the door, he leans in close, murmuring into your ear.

“You wanna walk for a bit before we head back?”

You nod, lips brushing against a smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He opens the door for you again, and the summer night greets you yet again, soft and warm.

The two of you fall into step easily, like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Phil’s hand brushes against yours as you walk, fingertips grazing the silk of your dress. The street is quieter now, most of the dinner rush settled into their booths or wandering off into the night. You hear distant music from a bar down the block and the faint rush of water somewhere nearby, the harbor.

Phil leads you that way without saying anything, just a slight tug of his hand and a glance that asks, come with me? And you do.

The sidewalks glisten slightly beneath the streetlights, still holding the warmth of the day. You can feel the open air on your skin, cool against the back of your neck where your hair’s fallen loose. Your heels click quietly with every step, and Phil slows his pace to match yours, easy, unhurried.

“Been a while since I did this,” he murmurs after a few blocks.

You look up at him. “Walked?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No. Walked with someone like this. After dinner. On purpose.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not heavy, just thoughtful.

You glance forward again. “Yeah. Me too.”

It’s true. You’ve had dinners. You’ve had conversations. But not this. Not the way he reaches for your hand again without even thinking. Not the way your fingers tangle easily, like they’ve always belonged there.

You reach the edge of the harbor, where a stone ledge curves around the water. The breeze picks up slightly, just enough to lift your hair and send the hem of your dress dancing against your knees. You stop to look out, the lights of the city shimmering in the reflection of the waves, quiet boats rocking gently in their slips.

Phil comes to stand behind you, close enough that you can feel his body heat. He doesn’t touch you yet, but his presence wraps around you like a coat.

“Used to come down here late at night,” he says softly. “After shows. When I needed to clear my head.”

You turn slightly, enough to catch his profile in the glow of the harbor lights. His jaw is set, calm. His voice low and honest.

“I get why you did,” you say, looking back out at the water. “It’s peaceful. Feels like no one’s watching.”

He nods slowly. “Exactly.”

And then, finally, he steps closer. One arm comes around your waist, slow and deliberate. Not pulling, holding. Like he’s grounding himself just as much as you are. You lean into it, letting your back rest gently against his chest, and his other hand comes up to rest lightly on your arm.

Your head tilts back slightly, just enough to feel the soft graze of his stubble against your temple.

“You were married, right?” you ask softly, not pulling away from him. Not accusing. Just... wondering.

Phil goes still behind you. Not tense, just quiet. Thoughtful.

His breath is warm near your ear as he answers. “Yeah. I was.”

You nod a little, letting the silence sit between you for a second. He doesn’t rush to fill it. You give him space, and he chooses to step into it.

“It was a long time ago now,” he continues, his voice low and even. “We were different people. Or maybe just... not the right ones for each other.”

You shift slightly in his arms so you can look up at him. His eyes meet yours, steady. Honest.

“Was it hard?” you ask.

He gives a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Divorce always is. Doesn’t matter how mutual it is, or how much sense it makes. It still breaks something.”

Your hand finds his, fingers gently curling around his. “But you’re okay now?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ve made peace with it. Doesn’t mean I forget it. Doesn’t mean I didn’t learn from it.”

Another pause. The air feels a little heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Just real.

“I’m not trying to bring baggage into this,” he says, voice softer now. “But I also don’t want to pretend I don’t have a past.”

“I don’t expect you to,” you reply gently. “I’ve got my own history too.”

He studies you for a beat, and then his expression shifts, softer, clearer.

Phil chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “What, were you married too?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, no.” You lean into him a little more. “I’ve barely been in anything that could even qualify as a real relationship.”

He tilts his head, curious now. “Seriously?”

You nod. “A couple situationships. A guy I thought I was in love with when I was like, nineteen. Mostly just... people who liked the idea of me more than the reality.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Their loss.”

You glance up at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You think?”

He looks down at you, all sincerity now. “I know.”

That earns another quiet laugh from you, but there’s a blush creeping in too. You look ahead again, watching your footsteps move in sync with his along the harbor’s edge.

“Honestly, I think I was just focused on work,” you admit. “I didn’t have a lot of time, or energy, for anything serious. And I didn’t want to settle for someone who didn’t really see me, you know?”

Phil’s thumb brushes the back of your hand. “Yeah. I get that.”

A beat of silence stretches between you again, but this one’s softer. Calmer.

“I think that’s what scares me a little about this,” you murmur.

He glances over. “What does?”

“That you do see me.”

He stops walking, and so do you. His hand slides into yours fully, warm and steady.

“I do,” he says, quiet but firm. “And it doesn’t scare me.”

You look up at him again, caught in the way the city lights flicker off his eyes. There’s no distance there. No wall.

“It’s not just some backstage fling for me,” you say. “Even though maybe it started that way.”

He nods slowly. “Me neither.”

You breathe out, unsure whether it’s relief or adrenaline or both. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“You wanna head back?” he asks gently, thumb still rubbing over your knuckles.

You give a small nod, then add, “Yeah. But... will you hold my hand the whole way?”

He grins. “You trying to make me fall harder?”

“Maybe.”

Phil drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh. You sit beside him, one leg tucked under the other, your body angled slightly in his direction. The city lights blur past the windows, painting soft reflections across his face. Every so often, you glance over at him, at the slope of his nose, the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, the focused calm in his eyes.

By the time he’s unlocking the door to your shared room, it’s almost midnight. The hallway is still and dim, carpet muffling your steps. Phil pushes the door open and gestures for you to go in first, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

You step inside, greeted by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the muted city glow filtering through the curtains. The room is neat, but lived-in, his tennis shoes by the chair, your makeup bag slightly open on the bathroom counter. The bed you made together that morning, a little lopsided now.

Phil closes the door behind you with a soft click.

You kick off your heels near the dresser and sigh, relief flooding your limbs. “I’m never wearing those again unless I’m getting paid.”

He chuckles behind you. “Worth it, though.”

You glance over your shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “For you or for me?”

“Both,” he says, shrugging off his flannel and hanging it over a chair. “But mostly me.”

You snort and walk to the edge of the bed, smoothing your hands over your dress. “Do you mind unzipping me?”

Phil stops mid-step. You can practically feel the shift in the air.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I got you.”

You turn your back to him, sweeping your hair over one shoulder. His fingers find the zipper easily, tugging it down slowly. The silk loosens with a soft whisper, your shoulder blades exposed to the room’s cool air, and to his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel it, the tension, the awareness, the weight of the day shifting into something more tender. More charged.

When the zipper’s all the way down, his fingers linger for just a moment longer than they need to. Then he steps back, giving you space.

You glance over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

His eyes are steady on you. “Anytime.”

You pull the dress off your shoulders, letting it pool at your waist before stepping out of it. You turn to face him, standing in only your black lacy bra and underwear, feeling suddenly aware of how exposed you are.

Phil exhales softly, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the curve of your hips. "God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, and there's something raw in the way he says it.

You step closer, your hand resting on his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat is steady, strong. He smells like a mix of aftershave and cologne, his skin warm under your touch. You tilt your chin up to look at him.

"Kiss me."

The words have barely left your lips before Phil is moving, one hand cupping your face while the other slides around your waist. His lips meet yours with a desperate intensity, all the pent-up need of the evening exploding in that moment. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you deepen the kiss, pressing your body against his. Through the thin fabric of his dress shirt, you can feel the heat of his skin, the muscles rippling beneath. His hand on your waist tightens, pulling you closer as he walks you backwards toward the bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the mattress, and you sit down, pulling Phil with you. He follows willingly, his body settling between your legs as he cages you in, one hand braced beside your head. His other hand traces down your side, fingers skimming the edge of your bra before hooking beneath the strap and pulling it off your shoulder.

“I want to see you," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot. "All of you."

You arch into him, your nipples pebbling as his fingers trace along the lace cups. With a flick of his wrist, he unhooks your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall open between you.

You slide your arms free, letting the garment fall away as Phil's gaze drops to your exposed chest. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he drinks in the sight of you. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as he lowers his head, capturing it between his lips and sucking gently.

"Mmmm," you moan softly, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shoots through you. His hand squeezes your other breast, kneading it as his tongue swirls around your nipple, sending jolts of electricity through your body.

He releases your nipple with a soft 'pop' and trails kisses along your collarbone, up to your neck.

“Do you want to?” Phil murmurs, his lips brushing your jaw between soft, lingering kisses.

The question hangs in the air, warm and honest.

Truthfully, the two of you haven’t gone all the way, not yet. Just touching, exploring, a few heated nights of giving and receiving. But without protection, things naturally paused before crossing that line.

You pause, heart thudding a little louder in your chest. It’s not nerves, at least not the bad kind. It’s anticipation. The quiet thrill of finally getting here, with him.

You lean back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you have protection?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Phil stills for a second. Then a slow, sheepish smile spreads across his face as he gently strokes your hip.

“Actually,” he says, his tone light but honest, “I do… now.”

That catches you off guard, and you laugh, surprised and a little flustered. “You do?”

He shrugs, a little smug, a little sweet. “Figured I might want to be prepared, if things kept going the way they were. I didn’t want to assume, but... I hoped.”

Your lips part, breath catching slightly as your fingertips graze the collar of his shirt. “Well,” you say softly, “you hoped right.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, deeper, with a tenderness that burns just beneath the surface.

You tug at his shirt and whisper, “Take this off.”

Phil obliges without hesitation, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside. Your hands glide over the smooth planes of his chest, tracing the lines of his body with wonder. You feel his breath hitch as your fingers trail down his abdomen, dipping beneath the waistband of his pants. His cock is already hardening, pressing insistently against the fabric.

You pop the button of his pants open, sliding the zipper down slowly, your knuckles brushing deliberately against his growing length. He exhales sharply, his hands tightening at your hips.

"God, you're killing me," he mutters, voice rough with restraint.

You smirk, guiding his pants down just enough to see the wet spot from precum in his boxers.

“Hold on, cowgirl,” Phil mumbles with a crooked grin, before turning away and walking toward his suitcase. He crouches down, unzipping the bag with ease, and reaches into the inside sleeve. A moment later, he pulls out a condom and glances back at you with that smug you’ve seen hundreds of times. He holds up the packet between two fingers, the foil crinkling faintly in the quiet room. "Ta-da."

Your gaze flicks between his face and the condom, amusement and excitement swirling together. "I didn't know you were so well-prepared."

Phil approaches the bed, his movements purposeful as he sets the packet aside and positions himself between your legs. His eyes roam your body appreciatively, taking in every curve and dip. "Wanted to be ready for anything," he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your collarbone.

His fingers trail along the waistband of your panties, teasing the sensitive skin just above. "Is this okay?"

You nod, words sticking in your throat as he traces the lace edge. His touch is gentle, his fingertips just barely brushing your skin. It's both frustrating and thrilling, the way he takes his time, the way he watches your reactions like they're something precious to him.

"Yes," you finally breathe out, arching slightly to meet his hand. He smiles against your skin, his mouth still trailing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your breast. His fingers slip beneath the fabric now, skimming the smooth plane of your stomach, circling lower, teasing.

"Please," you whisper, your fingers curling into the sheets as he drags out the delicious agony.

You reach between the two of you, slipping your hand under the hem of his boxers and giving them a tug. Phil smirks, the kind of slow, knowing grin that curls heat through your belly, and then slides them off without breaking eye contact.

“So needy,” he mutters, voice thick with affection and amusement.

His cock springs free, already fully hard, thick and heavy against your thigh as he settles between your legs again. The heat of him is intoxicating, the way his body slots against yours so perfectly. You wrap your hand around him, feeling the pulse of his vein beneath your fingers as you give him a slow stroke.

Phil inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly into your grip. "Fuck," he groans, dropping his forehead against yours.

"I want to make you feel good," you whisper, squeezing him gently as you move your hand.

"And you will," he breathes. "But first—" His fingers hook into the sides of your panties and tug them down in one smooth motion.

The cool air hits your skin as Phil discards your underwear somewhere beyond the edge of the bed, leaving you completely bare to him. You lift your hips obediently, allowing him to peel the last barrier away. He grabs the condom that lay next to you and rips the wrapper open with his teeth, before slowly and precisely rolling it over his throbbing cock.

Your breath catches as you watch him, the rhythmic slide of his hand as he sheathes himself. There's something unbearably intimate about this moment—how carefully he handles himself, how focused he is on ensuring every movement is perfect.

Phil leans back, his eyes dark with need as he looks at you sprawled beneath him. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, and the sincerity in his words sends a flush of heat through you.

He positions himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against you with just enough pressure to tease. You feel your body open for him, aching for him to move.

Phil brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone.

"Tell me if it's too much okay?" Phil says, reassuringly. Your head tilts back slightly as he presses inside you, his cock stretching you deliciously as he moves with slow, deliberate thrusts. You can feel every inch of him filling you, your inner walls clenching around him instinctively.

"God, you feel amazing," Phil breathes, his forehead resting against yours as he sinks deeper. He pauses when he's fully seated inside you, giving you a moment to adjust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails lightly scratching as you revel in the feeling of being completely connected with him.

"Mmmm, yes," you murmur, rolling your hips slightly to take him even deeper.

Phil groans, his body tensing as you move against him.

"Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, voice husky with need. His hips start to move in a slow, steady rhythm, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that sensitive spot inside you with every thrust. You can feel the heat building in your lower belly, coiling tight as your body responds to his movements.

"Yes, just like that," you moan, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. Phil's pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he chases his own pleasure. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, accompanied by your soft gasps and his low groans.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly as the pressure builds inside you. "I'm so close," you whimper, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts. Phil responds by reaching between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with firm, deliberate strokes. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, and your breath hitches as your muscles start to tighten around him.

"Already? Come for me," he growls, his hips snapping forward as he hits that perfect spot inside you. The combination of his cock and his fingers sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave.

Your back arches off the bed as pleasure rips through you, your inner walls clamping down around Phil's cock in rhythmic pulses. He groans, the sound deep and rough as your tight heat pulls him deeper. His thrusts become erratic, chasing his own release as he rides out your climax.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, his fingers digging into your hips as he powers into you. His movements become shallower and faster, his breath coming in short bursts. You can feel his body tensing, his muscles straining as he pushes toward the edge.

Phil buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin as he gasps.

His hips stutter, and then he's coming, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills into the condom. He holds himself deep, his entire body shuddering with the force of his release. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he rides out his orgasm, feeling the way his muscles twitch and convulse.

When he finally stills, he collapses onto you, his weight warm and comforting. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then your neck, then the corner of your mouth. "Fuck," he murmurs, voice still rough with spent passion. You hum in agreement, your fingers trailing down his back in slow, soothing strokes.

Phil rolls off you with a contented sigh, careful not to crush you under his weight. He removes the condom and ties it off before tossing it into the nearby trash bin by the nightstand. You watch him move with that same fluid ease as before, muscles shifting beneath tattooed skin as he lies back beside you. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer until your back is pressed against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"That was... perfect," you murmur, voice still rough and husky from earlier.

Phil nuzzles into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Damn right it was," he agrees. His hand skims up your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist. "You're amazing."

You smile at his words, small and content, letting the softness of his touch settle into your skin. The room is quiet now, save for the faint hum of city life outside the window and the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you.

“You always say the right thing,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers draw lazy shapes against your stomach.

Phil chuckles low against your neck. “Only when I mean it.”

You shift slightly, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His eyes are half-lidded, but focused entirely on you, a relaxed kind of affection written all over his face. No sarcasm, no walls, just Phil, honest and unguarded in the dim light of the hotel room.

“I still can’t believe this is real sometimes,” you admit, voice quiet, almost more to yourself than him.

His brow furrows slightly, and he shifts up on one elbow to look at you better. “Hey,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s real. I’m here. You’re here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your chest tightens, not in fear, but in that kind of aching gratitude that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

“I know,” you say. “I just… didn’t think I’d ever have something like this. Someone like you.”

Phil smiles then, soft and boyish and completely unlike the version of him most people see. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. You close your eyes and let it sink in, the warmth of his body against yours, the rough comfort of his voice in your ear, the gentle weight of his hand still tracing idle circles over your skin.

It’s not just the sex, not just the chemistry, it’s the way he stays. The way he makes you feel safe after. Like nothing else matters beyond this small space you’ve carved out together.

You snuggle deeper into his arms, your fingers finding his beneath the blanket.

“You tired?” he asks, his voice a little raspy now.

“Not yet,” you murmur. “Just… comfortable.”

“Good,” he says, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand. “That’s exactly what I want you to be.”

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