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lonely-ey3s · 1 day ago

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Heartlines | Chapter Nine

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : Your last evening in the Maldives is nothing short of exciting.

chapter warnings: fluff, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), old money rich Castillos, anxiety, SMUT (18+ MDNI), soft!harry, dom!harry, flirting, semi public acts, angst, mentions of drinking, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 8.7k

a/n: just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !!

your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I hope you like this story. 🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

Tonight was the final night of your trip here in the Maldives.

The day had been filled with you and Harry street shopping with Simon and Liv, the kids being watched by Anne, Spencer and his parents, taking them to a local splash pad.

The four of you ended the afternoon with one last walk on the beach, coming up with plans to go on another trip together in a few months without the kids. Harry and Simon were adamant about you and Liv being friends and spending more time together now that you'd all spent more time together.

It was endearing — both of them so passionate about the women in their lives being close. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging from how they spoke about the future together.

It helped create a barrier from all the insecurities that would creep into your mind here and there. The whispers you felt you had to continually shove down.

That evening, the sun had started to slip lower, painting the bedroom in soft, molten gold. The ocean breeze drifted lazily through the open doors, stirring the white linen curtains like a breath, and the distant sound of waves gave everything a dreamy hush.

You stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, your skin still dewy from the shower. Harry was already dressed in slacks, a dark blue dress shirt unbuttoned, standing at the mirror, running a hand through his curls. His eyes flicked to you—and stayed there.

“Christ,” he muttered, his gaze shameless. “You’re not even trying, and I’m two seconds from losing it.”

You smirked as you walked past him, casually dropping your towel as you reached the bed.

Harry inhaled sharply. “Now, that was on intentional, querida.”

You laughed under your breath as you picked up your dress—the backless, light champagne slip that had earned his stunned silence earlier when you pulled it out to steam. You stepped into it slowly, smoothing it up over your hips, letting the silk glide over your skin like a second layer.

As you adjusted the straps and turned to check the side in the mirror, you caught his reflection behind you. He was frozen, eyes devouring every inch of you.

“You gonna put your shirt on or just stand there panting?” you teased.

He blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to hold it together over here, and you’re making it incredibly difficult, baby.”

You turned slowly, the fabric hugging every curve. “I know.”

He moved toward you, buttoning his shirt while he walked, “Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You tryin’ to kill me before dinner? Slowly?”

You raised a brow and turned to face the dresser, casually digging through your things. “You said fancy, so I figured I’d take my time? Make sure I look my best.”

“Oh, take your time,” he murmured, stepping behind you and brushing a strand of hair off your shoulder so he could press a kiss there. “I don’t mind being late. Hell, they can start without us.” he suggested with a husky voice, kissing your shoulder again.

You smirked. “You’re the one who said your mother made the reservation for seven sharp. And I don’t think she’ll be charmed if we show up an hour late just because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

He grinned against your neck, his hands finding your waist. “One hour? My love, you insult me.”

You giggled, then gently pushed him back with your hip. “Behave, Castillo.”

He sighed dramatically and flopped down on the edge of the bed, watching you sort through your jewelry options. “I’ll behave once we are at that table and have no choice but to behave.”

You hummed, twirling a bit in the mirror, looking at the necklace you’d put on then turned toward him and looked down at yourself, smoothing over the fabric, “Can you tell I'm only wearing the dress?”

Harry paused, his cheeks turning pink. “What do you mean?”

You looked at him innocently, smoothing the silk over your hips. “I mean... lines would show. The fabric’s thin. I can’t risk wearing anything under...”

He stared at you like you’d just told him gravity stopped working.

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” he asked, voice strangled.

You grinned, backing up just enough to give him a full view. “Nope.”

Harry looked skyward like he needed divine intervention.

“Voy a arder,” (I’m going to combust) he whispered. “I swear to God.”

You walked over slowly, stepping in between his legs, tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt, fixing it for him. “Arder?”

His hands came to rest on your waist, fingers flexing slightly as he stood. “Combust, mi vida…”

You hummed and smirked, “Just wait til after dessert to do that, hmm?” you said, brushing your lips against the edge of his jaw then kissing it lightly.

He exhaled a breath that shook a little. “You know what I love?”

You looked up at him. “What would that be?”

“That you know exactly what you’re doing to me. And you’re enjoying every second of it.”

You grinned, unrepentant. “I’m just soaking up my last night in paradise.”

He chuckled, but it was low and full of tension. His eyes were hungry. “Te ves como el paraíso.” (You look like paradise)

You were just about to lean into him again when he took a step back—barely, reluctantly.

“If I kiss you,” he said, voice tight, “we’re not making it to the restaurant.”

You tilted your head, amused. Your ran your eyes down his body, then back up and landed at his waist, biting your bottom lip, “Is that so?”

“Temptress,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face as he grabbed his watch and tried to get himself under control. “You’re actually sinful.”

You walked past him toward the vanity, letting out a small chuckle then grabbed your purse, “I’ll be sure to tell your mother that when I’m charming her over appetizers.”

He grumbled something to himself, making you giggle before you both headed out to the restaurant.

The restaurant terrace was straight out of a dream—nestled into the hillside with palm trees casting shadows across candlelit tables. The stone floors were worn smooth, and amber lanterns glowed from every corner, flickering against the warm cream linens and polished wine glasses. In the distance, the sun melted across the horizon, leaving the sky streaked in lavender and gold.

You’d barely made it to your seat before Harry’s hand found your thigh under the table.

He was subtle about it—at first. A casual palm resting just above your knee while the family passed around bread and sipped wine. He smiled easily, laughed at all the right moments, kept up with the conversation about family trips, and who had been the most sunburnt—but his fingers had a mission.

You crossed your legs. He squeezed in protest.

You shifted closer, loosening them a tad. He dragged his fingertips a fraction higher.

And then you turned yourself slightly and leaned in and whispered as your hand went behind him. Your fingertips trailed slowly down his back, “Careful now. We wouldn’t want a scandal on the last night here...”

Harry blinked once, goosebumps growing up his neck as your fingers went down. His throat bobbed as his hand stilled on your thigh.

“Not even a little one?” he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent.

You tilted your head and kissed his cheek before whispering in his ear. “Perhaps...”

You then turned back to focus on the table, taking a sip of your wine.

His hand gripped harder. You bit back a smile.

Around you, the table hummed with the sound of forks and glasses and chatter about how the next family trip should be in Greece—Santorini or maybe Crete. The women had already decided on a girls’ trip for next month and looped you in with zero room for refusal. You laughed, agreed, and made polite promises to send your schedule when you got back home.

Harry leaned in towards the end of the appetizers being served, lips ghosting your ear. “I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

You smiled sweetly and whispered back, “You’re holding up well, all things considered.” Then, you uncrossed your legs a bit in an attempt to further push him towards insanity.

“I am hanging on by a thread,” he growled, hand slipping a few inches higher under the table.

You caught his wrist gently. “Careful... Your mother is right there.”

He groaned under his breath, head tilting back briefly, praying for strength. “Don’t do that voice.”

“What voice?”

He turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowed with hunger. “That fake innocent bedroom voice. The one that pretends you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You raised your brows, feigning offense. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re killing me,” he muttered. “Me estás matando. Ese vestido. Esa voz. Incluso hueles delicioso.” (You're killing me. That dress. That voice. You even smell fucking delicious.)

His hand slid higher again—knuckles brushing the inside of your thigh. You let him touch, just barely, then shifted your hips, creating delicious friction that had his jaw flexing hard.

“Something wrong? You look like you’re in pain…” You murmured softly, your voice a little breathier than you meant it to be.

“Because I am.” He leaned even closer, voice so low no one else could hear. “I’ve had to sit through small talk, and family bonding, and polite smiles—when all I can think about is how wet you are under this table and how badly I want to find out if I’m right.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. His eyes dropped to your mouth and lingered there.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he whispered almost painfully.

You bit your bottom lip. “You like it, though.”

“God help me, I do.”

You looked around the table for a moment, everyone wrapped in their own bubbles and conversations with each other.

You leaned in again, brushing your nose along the edge of his jaw. “Tell me what you’d do if we weren’t surrounded by your entire family right now.”

He exhaled hard, adjusting his hips. “I’d pull that dress up, drag you onto my lap, and not stop until you were moaning into my mouth.”

Your pulse kicked, breath stuttering.

His voice dropped further. “Then I want your legs over my shoulders. My head between those pretty little thighs. Your hands in my hair while you scream my name, while my tongue had an early dessert.”

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

He smiled, dark and dangerous. “You asked.”

You dragged your hand up his thigh, your fingers barely grazing the obvious strain beneath his slacks. He choked on a groan, eyes slamming shut for half a second.

When they reopened, they were dark and full of lust, heat, and heat.

Right then, your arm brushed his mom’s as she leaned over to pass a dish, and it was like snapping out of a dream. You both straightened, blinked, and tried to look like you hadn’t been moments away from losing your minds.

While you waited for entrees to arrive, Simon was talking about Greece again. Anne brought up wanting to do a big family hike in the fall.

But your heart was thudding. And Harry’s hand was trembling slightly on the table with each passing minute.

He all of a sudden leaned forward slightly and held up his phone. “Excuse me for a sec. I’ve got to take a quick work call.”

He rose, smooth and composed, but before stepping away, he bent to kiss your cheek, lips barely brushing your skin.

Then he whispered, warm and rough against your ear:

“Meet me in the bathroom. Five minutes.”

And just like that—he was gone.

You sat there, wine glass in hand, breath shallow, skin prickling with anticipation.

You were out of your chair in four.

The bathroom was tucked down a short corridor just off the restaurant terrace — marble floors, amber wall sconces casting a moody glow over the stone. It was quiet inside, save for the faint murmur of clinking glasses and laughter from the dinner crowd outside.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside, heart thrumming in your chest. You weren’t sure what exactly you expected.

But you definitely weren’t prepared for Harry to already be there, leaning against the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, jaw tight and eyes dark.

You didn’t even get two full steps inside the bathroom before you heard his voice — low, dark, commanding.

“Lock the door.”

Your stomach dropped in the best way.

Your fingers trembled as you reached back and turned the lock. The click had barely finished echoing before you heard his footsteps — slow, deliberate, predatory. You turned just in time to see him close the distance, eyes blazing with desire.

Before you could say another word, his mouth crashed into yours.

It was all teeth and tongue, heat and need, want. His hands gripped your face, tilting your mouth to his, drinking you in like he’d been starved. You moaned into him, your fingers tangling in the open collar of his shirt as he walked you backwards until your back hit the bathroom wall in the heat of it all.

His lips dragged down your neck, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth grazing your collarbone like he wanted to mark every inch of skin he could reach. His hand making it's way to pull your dress up.

“God, this body…” he groaned. “This fucking dress, baby…”

You grinned wickedly against his mouth. “I should wear it more often if I get this reaction out of you—”

He silenced you with a kiss — slow and deep this time, tongues brushing, his hand inching higher until his fingers slipped between your thighs.

You gasped into his mouth.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “You really weren’t lying. You’re so wet for me already.”

You whimpered, grinding into his hand. “Harry—please—”

He kissed you hard again, his voice wrecked and low. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

He chuckled darkly. “You already have me, mi vida. Every inch. Every fucking heartbeat. But right now…” He pressed his palm flat against you, making you softly cry out, “You want my mouth or my fingers first?”

The question punched through you like lightning.

You pulled him close by his shirt collar, lips ghosting his. “Why not both?”

That earned you a growl — an actual, visceral growl — as he walked you backward until your hips hit the counter. His hands dragged up the slit of the dress, parting it slowly, reverently.

He kissed you slowly and deeply once more before dropping to his knees.

He looked up through thick lashes like he was about to make a meal out of you, his smirk sinful. “Spread your legs for me, baby. Let me taste what I’ve been dreaming about all fucking night.”

You didn’t hesitate.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, lifting your thigh as he buried his mouth against you — tongue dragging a slow, devastating path that made your foot slip off the counter.

“Ohmygod baby, fuck—,” you gasped, your hips jerking, your eyes shutting and head lulling back.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured against the inside of your thigh. “Let me see what I do to you.”

Then his tongue was on you again — broad, slow strokes that made you see stars. He moaned as he tasted you, devoured you, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you in place, his nose pressed against your clit. A moment later, he slid two fingers inside, curling and stroking, perfectly in sync with his mouth working your clit.

He fucked you like that with his fingers, tongue working circles at a relentless pace, until you were gasping, thighs shaking.

You were already spiraling, sweat beading on your spine, one hand gripping his shirt on his shoulder while the other braced against the counter top behind you.

“Right there—oh god, don’t stop—”

He ravished you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until your whole body tensed, your breath broke in the back of your throat.

"Fuck, I'm going to cum—" You cried out, hips bucking against him, hand flying to his hair as he groaned, anchoring you to him.

“That’s it,” he murmured between licks. “Let me hear you. Let me taste how good I make you feel. Want you shaking on my tongue.”

And you did — so close already, with the way he moved his fingers inside you while his mouth worshipped you like he was addicted to your sweetness.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned lapping your up. “So perfect. My perfect girl…”

You nodded frantically, looking down at him, barely coherent, gripping his hair tight as your hips bucked your cunt against the bridge of his nose, mumbling over and over, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come for me again. Be a good girl and fall apart.”

Your cry echoed off the tile as the orgasm hit again, white-hot and blinding, hips trembling as he coaxed it through, never relenting, licking you through the waves like he wanted to drown in them.

When he stood, his mouth was slick, his pupils blown, and his lips curved in the most satisfied, smug smirk you’d ever seen.

“God damn, baby” he breathed, moving in to kiss you with tongue and teeth and a moan. He pulled your hips against his, your drenched cunt pressed up aginst the aching bulge in his slacks. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

Your lips moved down to lightly suck the skin under his shirt and neck, softly moaning as he began rolling your hips against his, hands tightly gripping your hips.

You kissed sloppy wet kisses up his neck and jaw before finding his lips again, cupping his cheeks, pulling him closer to you, leaning back towards the mirror — pulling him with you, purring against his lips, “Baby, please — please fuck me,”

“Fuck you?” he growled against your lips, then helped you to your feet before walking you backwards towards the wall.

“Please, Harry, I—” You said while stepping backwards, against his lips.

He pressed you up against the wall beside the door, hard and thick through his slacks, grinding slowly against you. You gasped, hands on his chest, your back against the cool tile.

“You did that,” he said through clenched teeth. “Sat there all innocent and smug, driving me fucking insane. I should bend you over that counter and fuck you until you can’t walk back to the table.”

You whimpered. “Then do it.”

He hissed, one hand sliding beneath your dress, the other palming your breast.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, grinding harder. “You say one more thing like that and I’m gonna lose it.”

You arched against him, breathless as your hands combed through his hair, then tugged him closer against your lips. “Please lose it.”

That was it, you feel the snap of self-restraint he'd been trying to maintain.

He pulled your dress up, and unbuckled his pants with shaky hands. He didn’t even pull them down all the way—just enough.

“Look at me,” he whispered, lining himself up.

You did.

And the second he pushed in—hot, thick, stretching you open—your head fell back with a gasp.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he growled. “So fucking tight. Always so tight for me.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, mouth parted as he fucked into you slow, then faster, rhythm building like fire through your veins.

Every thrust was desperate. Hungry. Full of everything you’d both been holding back all night.

He lifted your leg around his hip, changing the angle, hitting that perfect spot that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted and watched your skin prickle with goosebumps, your eyebrows pinch and your chest heave with each soft moan.

“Yeah? Right fucking there?” he grunted.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

His hands were everywhere: your cheek, your waist, your ass, your thigh, then they were sliding up your torso, pulling your dress down just enough to expose your breasts, which he cupped, kneaded, and worshipped.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered, trailing kisses along your neck. “You make me fucking feral.”

Every thrust hit deep, angling perfectly, making you cry out each time his hips met yours with that sharp, obscene sound of skin against skin.

He was relentless — focused, growling into your skin as he muttered filth against your ear.

“You feel that? The way this pussy grips me like it was made for me?”

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut, head pressed back against the wall.

“Say it,” he ordered as he started to speed up. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasped, voice wrecked. “You, Harry. It’s yours—”

He let out a chuckle, a fucking chuckle — but annoyingly it only steered you faster down the hill towards orgasm.

“Don’t stop, fuck—” you gasped, panting heavily.

But just as the pressure inside you threatened to break again, there was a sudden rattle at the door.

You both froze.

“Occupied!” he called out, slightly panting.

He leaned forward after the both of you heard footsteps leaving, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Now, where were we?”

A shiver tore through you, and with a slow thrust of his hips, you were right back on the edge.

He picked up the pace again, thrusting deep and unrelenting. You were unraveling — legs shaking, walls fluttering around him, the heat between your thighs reaching a fever pitch.

“Let go for me,” he growled. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

And god — you did. It tore through you like a tidal wave, your vision going white as your climax rocked through your whole body, made all the more intense by his cock driving you into oblivion.

You were still trembling, chest heaving, when he slowly pulled out, kissing your shoulder.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

You blinked at him, dazed. “What?”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, before he gently unwound your leg from around his waist. “I want to see you,” he murmured, guiding you with him as he walked back and then spinning you around, gently, reverently, until your chest faced the marble counter and your eyes met your reflection in the mirror.

Your dress was rumpled and pushed up around your waist, skin flushed, eyes glassy with lust. You barely recognized yourself — but God, he looked wrecked. Hair messy from your fingers, lips swollen, shirt halfway untucked, his chest rising and falling like he’d been chasing you for miles.

“I want you to watch,” he said, low and rough against your ear. “Want you to see how fucking perfect you are like this. Dripping for me. Taking me so well.”

You whimpered as he bent you slightly over the counter, his hand running up your spine, down your hips — claiming, savoring you.

“Look how beautiful you are,” he whispered, eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “This body. This pussy. All mine.”

He lined himself up and entered you again, slow but firm, watching the way your face crumpled as you stretched around him. You moaned his name, and he groaned in return, snapping his hips forward with a little more force.

“You feel that?” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s what happens when you whisper things in my ear with no panties under your dress at the god damn family dinner table.”

“Harry—” you mewled.

“I’ve been patient,” he growled as his hips snapped. “I made small talk. I laughed at Simon’s stupid lobster joke. I suggested goin’ to France. And the whole time, I was thinking about this. About how tight you’d be. How much I wanted to bend you over something and fuck you just like this.”

Your knees nearly gave out, but his hand slid down your belly, then between your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing in circles that made your eyes roll back and a shaky broken moan get stuck in the back of your throat.

He picked up the pace, panting now, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the tile and glass. His fingers never stopped moving, keeping time with every thrust until you were trembling all over again.

“Look at yourself,” he said, voice hoarse, pulling you up so your back was flush to his chest. His arm across your chest, hand gently under your jaw to hold your head where he wanted it.

“So gorgeous. So fucking mine,” he grunted into your ear.

“I—I’m—” Your voice broke as the pressure started to crest.

And then—

Jiggle jiggle jiggle.

You both froze once again, except a moan escaped at the sudden halt of ecstasy.

Harry moved his hand over your mouth and called out — perfectly calm, perfectly composed:

“Maintenance! Be done shortly!”

You let out a muffled squeak against his palm, and he chuckled darkly, still buried deep inside you. You glared at him in the mirror, eyes wide.

“Shortly?” you mumbled against his hand, breathless and annoyed.

He leaned forward and growled, hot against your ear, “Oh no, baby. I’m going to take my sweet fucking time.”

And then he started moving again, not caring if they'd left.

Deliberate. Deep. Devastating.

Your moans were muffled by his hand, but your eyes told him everything — the way they fluttered, the way your back arched, the way your hips chased every stroke like you were starving for it.

“You gonna come for me again?” he whispered, licking the shell of your ear. “Gonna fall apart while you watch me ruin you?” He taunted.

You nodded, desperate and pathetic, grinding back against him.

He pulled his hand away and turned your head so he could kiss you again — open-mouthed, messy, dizzying — before turning your head back so your eyes stayed on the mirror.

“Don’t look away,” he said. “I want you to remember how good I make you feel. How much I love you. This body. This face. These sounds.”

You cried out as your climax finally ripped through you — hard, consuming, your body tightening around him until he cursed low and grunted, spilling into you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

You collapsed forward, breathing like you’d run a marathon, while he leaned into your back, kissing your shoulder and neck.

For a long moment, you both just stayed there — tangled, breathless, clinging.

The air was thick with heat, your breaths still uneven and overlapping as Harry gently pulled out with a hiss.

He was soft with his touch, careful, like he didn't want to overwhelm you.

You slumped forward against the marble counter, eyes fluttering shut, your palms pressing to the cool surface as your thighs trembled.

Harry reached for a nearby towel, his other hand smoothing down your spine as he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “Hey,” he murmured, quiet and sweet now. “You with me?”

You nodded slowly, blinking open your eyes to meet his reflection.

He smiled — that small, private version of his grin meant only for you. “Good.”

You watched as he gently cleaned you up, taking his time, careful and tender. Not a trace of embarrassment. Not a hint of anything but devotion in the way his fingers moved — worshipful, slow, even when your breath caught softly at the sensitivity.

“Sorry,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your lower back. “I bet you're sensitive…”

You smiled lazily, reaching back to thread your fingers through his messy curls. “No need to apologize. I just… might need a moment before I can walk straight.”

Harry chuckled against your skin, and you felt the tension in him shift — that gentle exhale that came when he knew you were okay.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmured, turning and letting him help you stand upright. You leaned your hip against the counter, still catching your breath. “You know that, right? When you get like this and get me like that...”

His hands settled at your waist, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every flush and glow. “I’m dangerous?” He arched a brow, amused. “You’re the one who showed up to a family dinner in a dress with no underwear. You started the war, baby.”

Your lips curved into a smirk. “I’m sorry, was that your way of filing a formal complaint? Bending me over the counter?”

He leaned in close, brushing his nose against yours, eyes dark with playful warning. “That was my way of filing a satisfaction survey — which I plan on giving another one later tonight, if you’re up for it.”

Your breath hitched again — but this time it was softer, lighter, woven with laughter and affection. He kissed you sweetly, gently, like he was pouring water over the fire he’d just started.

Then his thumb traced the curve of your cheek, and his voice dipped into something vulnerable again. “You sure you’re okay? I wasn’t too rough?”

You nodded, reaching up to rest your palm against his chest. “Yeah. I’m more than okay.”

He bent slightly and gently helped straighten your dress, smoothing the hem with care, brushing away wrinkles and adjusting the neckline before glancing toward the mirror. “Hair still looks perfect,” he said, stealing one more kiss. “They won’t suspect a thing.”

You snorted. “Please. Liv will know.”

“She won’t say anything.”

“No, but she’ll wink or smirk, and I will explode with embarrassment.”

Harry grinned, smoothing his shirt and rebuttoning the top few buttons. He tucked it back into his slacks, then turned to you. “Come here, mi amor.”

You let out an anxious breath and stepped closer, and he took your lipstick from your bag, popping it open and offering it like a peace offering. “Allow me?”

You couldn't help but smile before you tilted your chin up as he applied it gently, his thumb resting under your jaw, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes like he couldn’t decide what he loved more. When he was done, he kissed the corner of your mouth, leaving the faintest smudge of approval behind.

You laughed under your breath. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet, you followed me into a bathroom,” he whispered as he clasped your purse closed.

You rolled your eyes and nudged him with your hip. “I plead insanity.”

He chuckled, then reached for your hand and kissed your knuckles, one by one. “I’m serious, though,” he murmured. “You okay?”

You nodded again — this time slower, more sure. “I’m with you. I’ll always be ok.”

That was all he needed to hear.

He glanced toward the door, then smoothed a hand over your hip.

He grinned. “Give me two minutes. I’ll go back first. You follow afterwards?”

You raised a brow and gave him a teasing look. “To make it look like we didn’t just destroy each other in a five-star bathroom?”

“Exactly.” He winked. “We’re discreet, darling.”

You both burst out laughing as he slipped out the door, leaving you breathless and glowing against the counter.

When he returned to the table, Harry slid back into his seat with casual ease — too casual, which was exactly why Simon leaned in and smirked behind his glass of bourbon.

“Oi,” Simon muttered, his voice low and conspiratorial, “just a heads up… your fly’s open.”

Harry’s eyes darted down with alarm, hands flying to his lap before Simon burst into soft laughter.

“Kidding,” he grinned, then nodded toward the faint smudge just beneath Harry’s jaw. “But you do have some lipstick on your neck. Might wanna deal with that before Mom or Anne notices.”

Harry let out a sharp breath, scrubbing at the spot with his napkin and shaking his head with a dry smile. “Eres un gilipollas.” (You’re an asshole)

“Maybe,” Simon shrugged, sipping his drink. “But I’m not the one who just defiled a bathroom stall in a five-star resort.”

Harry chuckled, muttering under his breath, “Wasn’t a stall. It was very clean. Very… reflective.” He looked at his brother and grinned, knowing that'd shut him up.

Simon made a face. “Jesus Christ, details not needed. God damn…”

Just then, the glass door at the far end of the patio opened — and you stepped back out.

Hair was a little messier than before. Glow suspiciously radiant. Lips still slightly kiss-bitten.

As you stepped back onto the patio, the golden lanterns hanging above flickered in the island breeze, casting warm light over the table where Harry’s family sat mid-conversation.

You adjusted your dress discreetly, trying not to think about the very public indiscretion you and Harry had just partaken in. You swore your skin was still buzzing, lips tingling, thighs aching in the best way.

You slid into your seat, avoiding eye contact with everyone. Harry leaned over and gently kissed your cheek, trying to calm you as you looked a tad stiff.

You let out a breath and took a sip of water, feeling more at ease as you felt his hand land at the small of your back.

Spencer glanced over at you both, then turned more to Harry, then raised both eyebrows and grinned. “You alright, man? You were gone a while.”

“Yeah,” Harry said smoothly, reaching for his water. “Sorry, work call ran long.”

Liv gave you the most unsubtle side-eye you’d ever received.

You kept your face forward.

‘Do not engage. Don’t make eye contact. You will crack.’ Was all you could think.

Harry’s mom smiled warmly. “Everything alright, mijo? Hopefully it wasn’t Clarkson again.”

“Oh, no,” Harry said, casually brushing it off. “Just some quick logistics that Peter needed to verify with me.”

You reached for your drink, only to realize your hand was shaking slightly. You clasped it in your lap instead and took another breath to calm yourself.

“So,” Spencer said from across the table, “Y/N — what was your favorite part of the trip this week?”

You froze. You could feel Harry glance sideways at you. You opened your mouth, only to come up blank.

Because your favorite part of the trip was currently sitting beside you when his head was between your legs no more than twenty minutes ago. And now he was sitting there with your taste still on his tongue.

“I—uh,” you stammered, blinking hard. “I really liked the beach? Oh, and the snorkeling!" you almost shouted. "The water was really wet— I mean…”

Simon snorted into his drink.

‘Wet? Who the fuck says the water is wet?’

You cleared your throat and rambled, “It was really fun! Saw some turtles and fish, and rays, and it was warm and the water was clear—”

You wanted to die. This was utter embarrassment.

Harry bit his lip to hold back a laugh.

Anne leaned forward, smirking as she cut in, “Was it the coral gardens that you two liked? Or was there some... other reef Harry wanted to explore?”

Harry choked on his drink. You coughed, practically inhaling your cocktail.

“What reef, mija? Was there another one we missed?” Harry’s dad asked, genuinely puzzled.

Anne bit her lip, clearly amused by the sibling blackmail pot of gold she knew she had just struck with her Harry. “Oh, just... You know. The local ecosystem...”

'Please, God, make it end.'

Harry’s mom frowned slightly, turning toward her. “Which reef was this? We never made it past the lagoon side of the property.”

“It’s just—one of the hidden ones,” Harry said quickly, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Anyway, Mama, didn’t you mention they changed chefs at that Mediterranean place near your book club? What happened with that?” He attempted to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” she said, turning to him with all the drama of a woman deeply offended by poor seasoning. “They replaced Marcus — Marcus! — with some kid fresh out of culinary school who thinks sumac belongs in everything. You know I love fusion, but there’s a limit.”

As she launched into the great sumac scandal of 2025, Harry leaned toward you and whispered, “Knew that would get her off the trail.”

You exhaled, heart still racing. “Anne is a menace...”

He smirked, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I nearly lost it when she said reef.”

“You’re never living this down.” You joked.

“Neither are you, coral girl.” He teased.

You reached for your wine, trying to act natural. Across the table, Liv lifted her glass toward you in a slow, knowing toast. You refused to look at Anne, who was now smirking like the devil herself at you and Harry as she listened to her mom rant.

Harry leaned in, just close enough for you to hear, “It was wet?”

“Shut up,” you hissed under your breath, cheeks burning.

“You’re glowing,” he teased, pressing a quick kiss to your shoulder.

“I’m mortified.” You turned to him, trying not to smile.

“You’re adorable.” He cooed, fingers softly caressing your back behind your chair.

“You’re the worst.” You lied.

“You didn’t seem to think so 10 minutes ago when you were—”

You elbowed him under the table so hard he coughed.

As the conversation swirled back into the usual family chaos — debates over where the Thanksgiving should be, jokes about who snuck in the best naps on the beach (it was between Spencer, who was buried in the sand by all the kids, and Simon, who fell off his chair and got sand in his mouth), and Liv still ranting about the girls’ getaway next month — Harry slipped his hand under the table and laced your fingers together.

He leaned in again, voice quiet but playful.

“For the record, next time, I’m not waiting for dessert.”

You turned to him and couldn’t help but smirk.

“You say that like you did this time.”

He grinned. “Touché.”

Early the next morning, the airfield was hazy with a light mist, the sun barely cresting the edge of the horizon as the caravan of sleek black SUVs pulled up to the private tarmac.

Everyone looked tired — tousled hair, oversized sunglasses, coffee cups glued to hands like lifelines. A few yawns were exchanged instead of words as the adults slowly spilled out of the cars, stretching and complaining half-heartedly about the hour. The children were slowly being taken from the cars to load into the jet, all of them passed out asleep.

“This is inhumane,” Liv mumbled, pulling a cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Vacation should end at noon, not sunrise.”

“Agreed,” Simon said through a yawn. “This was Harry’s idea. Let the record show.”

“No, this was the flight crew’s idea,” Harry defended with a smirk, unloading one of his parents’ suitcases from the trunk of one of the cars. “I just booked it.”

Anne squinted at him. “Still suspicious.”

You stifled a laugh as you grabbed your own carry-on from the back of the car, slinging it over your shoulder and heading toward the steps of the private jet — the same one you’d arrived in with his family just days ago.

But just as you moved to hand your bag to one of the ground crew helping out, Harry’s voice stopped you.

“That won’t be necessary.”

You paused, mid-motion, turning to look at him. “What?”

Harry smiled, one of those soft, secretive smiles that made your stomach dip.

He stepped closer, gently taking the bag from your hand and passing it to another attendant — one in a different uniform, who then started walking towards a smaller jet positioned just across the tarmac.

Your brows furrowed as you followed the attendant.

“Wait… that’s not—”

“We’re flying separate,” he said softly, the morning breeze lifting the messy strands of his hair. “Just the two of us.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I figured we could use a little more time. Just us. One last quiet stretch before real life crashes back in.”

A flush bloomed in your chest. Your heart did a little flip.

“You chartered a separate jet... for the two of us?”

Harry gave a small, proud shrug. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Anne groaned dramatically from behind you. “Haven’t you two had enough alone time? You disappeared around one too many corners and last night you barely made it to the entrees…” She teased.

“That’s because your brother has wandering hands,” you said under your breath.

Liv snorted as she heard him it walking past you.

Simon slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders and leaned in. “You sure it’s not because she’s trying to escape my dad jokes? Possibly Anne’s ramblings about Nobu’s new decorator?”

“Oh, believe me, she’s not trying to escape those things — I am,” Harry said deadpan.

Their parents chuckled, watching the teasing unfold with fondness. His mom approached and pulled you in for a soft hug.

“You take care of him,” she said. “And yourself.”

“I will,” you promised, a little caught off guard by the emotion welling up in your throat. “Thank you for—” You looked down shyly for a moment, then back up at her, “Thank you for everything.”

She touched your cheek fondly, “Thank you for loving my sweet boy.”

You nodded and pulled her in for another hug.

His dad clapped Harry’s shoulder and gave him a nod. “Safe flight, son. Don’t be a stranger when you’re back, yes?”

“I won’t. And thank you. For everything.” He turned to give his dad a tight, loving hug.

One by one, goodbyes were exchanged — sleepy but heartfelt — until his entire family had filed onto the main jet, waving from the top of the steps before disappearing inside.

You watched the last of his family disappear into the jet before glancing back at Harry, lips curling into a grin.

“When we met, you said you ‘do well for yourself,’” you said, quirking a brow. “I thought that meant, like... occasional sushi dates and a good 401k. You failed to mention you meant ‘private jet well’ there, handsome…”

Harry chuckled, stepping closer until your bodies brushed. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve got a great 401k and sushi dates in store... plus a jet, a yacht, a summer home, a couple sports cars… oh, and a pretty good espresso machine too.” He grinned as he stepped to face you, looking down at you adoringly.

You stepped into him with a teasing smile. “Oh, so you waited until I was emotionally invested to drop the aviation bomb?”

“Guilty.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But just think—this is only the beginning.”

You hummed, leaning into him, moving your hands to slowly wrap around his neck loosely, teasing his curls back, “And what would it be the beginning of, my love?”

His hand slid around your waist, fingers splaying with easy confidence. His other, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of me giving you everything you’ve ever deserved.”

Your breath caught, just for a second. His voice — low, sincere — settled right into your chest.

“You keep surprising me, Castillo,” you said softly.

“I hope so,” he whispered back, “because I plan on wrecking your expectations.”

The morning air was quiet around you. He rested his forehead against yours, thumb stroking your waist.

“I know it’s just a plane,” he murmured, “but it’s also time. Time with you. Time away from the rest of the world. That’s the real luxury.”

Your throat tightened a little, the moment unexpectedly tender. “I hope you know, you’re making it increasingly harder to feel small when you say and do things like this…”

Harry smiled, eyes warm and full of promise. “That’s the idea, mi vida.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly once when his hand slid into yours and tugged you toward the stairs.

“Harry—” you managed before letting out a small giggle.

He glanced back, eyes glittering. “I plan on spending thirty thousand feet and the next sixteen hours finding new ways to show you more of what you deserve. You coming?”

New York didn’t slow down just because you two had.

If anything, it felt like the city had been waiting for you to return — arms crossed, toe tapping — ready to hurl you and Harry back into the chaos at full force.

Harry barely had time to unpack before Clarkson was on his ass. A major client had come back from vacation with demands, delays, and leverage, and somehow all of it fell on Harry’s desk. Meetings, pitch decks, negotiations, more late nights than either of you anticipated.

Meanwhile, you walked straight into a storm of your own. Sophia had kept the hotel afloat while you were away, but a massive cosmetic surgery conference kicked off the same week you got back, bringing in over 200 guests, media attention, and a hundred little fires that only you could put out.

The rhythm of the trip — slow mornings, soft skin, private glances — had been completely eclipsed by meetings, traffic, texts left on read.

Almost a week after getting back…

It was Friday — a night you’d both circled on your calendars before even leaving the jet after having a conversation about this exact thing with being a possibility of happening.

You’d had a long day yourself, but knowing the evening was yours — just the two of you — brought you a sense of warmth. Of anticipation. It was nothing extravagant. Just dinner at home. A little time carved out to be with each other, no distractions.

You picked up Thai on the way home. His favorite. Even splurged on dessert from that little French place you both found out you loved — the lemon tarts with the shortbread crust and brûléed top.

You texted him as soon as you walked in the door:

Just got home — can’t wait to see you ❤️

Then again, thirty minutes later:

Meeting running long? Want me to wait?

The first message stayed on ‘Read.’ The second on ‘Delivered.’

But no response.

After waiting another half hour, you ate alone at the kitchen island, slowly picking at your curry. The candles you lit just for ambiance now flickered too brightly. You left the second plate out, covered it with foil, and poured yourself a glass of wine that went mostly untouched as you sat and turned on the television to try and distract yourself.

By 11:00 p.m., the ache in your chest had settled into something cold and unfortunately — all too familiar.

You hadn’t heard from him all evening. Not so much as a ‘I’m sorry, baby. Rain check?’

So you showered. Got into bed. Your phone lay silent on the nightstand, face down.

It wasn’t the silence that hurt — it was that you thought this time it’d be different. It was what it reminded you of. The feelings you tried so hard to let go of since being with him. The voice that crept in when it was dark and quiet and no one was answering.

He’s getting tired of you.

He’s too busy to remember you.

You were naïve to think someone like him could keep choosing you every day.

Maybe she was right, maybe the fairytale magic is over.

—

The apartment door creaked open at 12:41 AM.

Keys. Shoes. A low thud against the wall — his blazer maybe.

Then the bedroom door cracked open.

You didn’t turn. You just listened, pretending to be asleep.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping into the dark room. “You still awake?”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the wall, your body curled under the covers.

“I’m so sorry,” he continued, his voice a little too loud. “Drinks ran long. This client — the one Clarkson’s losing his mind over — wanted to ‘celebrate’ prematurely.” he sighed as he started to take off his watch.

He continued, “We were gonna go for one round and then suddenly it was like... five rounds later.” He laughed under his breath then hiccuped. “I got in my head about tryna make this client happy and it got away from me.”

He paused, waiting.

You said nothing.

“I should’ve texted,” he muttered. “That was shitty of me. I just didn’t want to be rude, I mean — you know with them bein’ Chinese and all, with their customs and manners — I just… and then I figured I’d just—”

He stopped short when he realized you still hadn’t said a word.

“I promise I didn’t forget about tonight,” he added quickly. “I just thought we’d push it... I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine,” you said flatly, suddenly, voice quiet but sharp. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not when you’re obviously intoxicated.”

He blinked, taken aback. “I’m not that drunk.”

“You didn’t text,” you added, eyes still on the far wall. “Not once. You couldn’t be bothered to say you were going to be late. Or that we weren’t doing dinner anymore. Or you needed a rain check. You just left me here. Waiting.”

There was a long pause.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he said, defensive now, but trying not to sound it. “It was just a work thing, baby. It’s been crazy since we got back. You know that...”

You turned over slowly, just enough to meet his eyes in the low light. Your voice cracked, but your words didn’t.

“We had plans, Harry. You said tonight was ours. You said we’d make time for each other, but instead you left me sitting here — wondering why I wasn’t worth a message.”

You turned back around and said under your breath, although it wasn’t as quiet as you thought and he heard, “Wondering if maybe she was right.”

His brows furrowed. “Wondering if who was right?”

You shook your head, blinking fast to stop the tears from forming. “Doesn’t matter.”

He moved toward the bed. “Hey, don’t do that—don’t just shut down on me—”

“I’m done talking about it,” you whispered, cutting him off. “It’s late. I’m tired. I have an early morning. You do too. We need to go to sleep.”

He stared at you, shoulders tense and jaw clenched — not in anger, but in frustration, like he didn’t understand where this came from or how it got so bad so fast.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it?

It hadn’t gotten bad fast. It had been simmering — quietly, consistently — ever since the city swallowed you both back up. Ever since the silence started lasting longer than it should have between you two.

Without another word, he went to the bathroom.

You stayed frozen — eyes shut, fists clenched in the sheets — trying to hold yourself together. Trying to breathe past the weight in your chest that pressed like it wanted to cave you in.

You didn’t cry. You were too tired for that now. Too worn down by disappointment and the aching truth of how small and insignificant you felt for the first time with him — and it felt horrible.

By the time he finally slipped into bed beside you, your body had already gone still — asleep or pretending to be, even you weren’t sure.

He whispered your name once, low and careful.

Then he reached out, hand gentle at your waist, trying to pull you close. Trying to apologize. To make it right.

But when you didn’t answer — didn’t stir, didn’t lean into him like you always did — that’s when it hit him.

That’s when he felt the weight of what happened tonight, and it instantly sobered him.

He let out a quiet breath and laid back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling.

The room was silent, but his thoughts were loud — every one of them circling back to the same question.

'How do I fix this?'

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inkeddaydream · 17 hours ago

Text

THE DUKE AND THE DEBUTANTE

✦ Chapter One✦

"You never stopped choosing me"

Pairing: Duke Pedro Pascal x reader lady Bridgerton (Bridgerton AU)

Word count : 8.8k

Warnings : Age gap romance (reader is 22, Pedro is older), Period accurate societal constraints, Slow burn tension, Intense emotional yearning, Forbidden romance, Protective big brother energy, Power dynamics (nobility hierarchy, not kink-based), Fluff & angst & swoon

Summary: Pedro Pascal plays the Duke of Cardenas, a brooding, emotionally guarded figure—and your late father's closest friend. He shouldn't look at you the way he does. You shouldn't crave his presence like this. But longing knows nothing of propriety. And when reputation and desire collide beneath candlelight and carriage shadows, there's only one question left:

Will you choose the world... or each other?

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The chandeliers above the ballroom dripped with crystal fire—an elaborate constellation suspended in midair, each glass facet devouring candlelight and bleeding it back in warm golden floods. The ceiling, arched like the firmament, caught the gleam and flung it down onto a sea of silk and tulle. Gowns shimmered. Diamonds blinked from throats and gloves and tiaras. Laughter spilled like champagne into the air—high, sharp, performative. The sound of a hundred ambitions blooming all at once. Music curled up from the corner where a quartet—well-trained, but carefully unobtrusive—breathed life into a delicate arrangement of Haydn. It floated and turned like invisible ribbon, curling between the dancers and rising toward the polished domes above. A waltz waited in the wings, its rhythm restrained for now. But everyone knew it would come.

London's season had begun. The show was on. And you were in the center of it, caught like a deer in velvet ropes. You stood at the edge of the dance floor, heels barely grazing the gleaming parquet, every inch of your posture practiced to mechanical perfection. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared. Back straight. The very picture of composure. And yet beneath the corseted stillness, something in you rebelled. Screamed, even.

Around you, the ballroom bloomed with youth—girls of sixteen and seventeen, flushed with nerves and excitement, each clinging to her mother's arm or fan or smile like a lifeline. They were sweet, uncertain creatures, trembling on the edge of womanhood, eyes glittering with a thousand dreams of dukes and diamonds. You were not one of them.

You shared their silhouette, yes. Your gown was cut to the same rigid standards of elegance—ivory silk, so luminous it caught every twitch of light and turned it to liquid pearl. Your gloves were trimmed in diamonds, your sleeves edged with embroidery so fine it seemed conjured. And the tiara resting above your dark coiled hair was a family heirloom, once worn by your mother when she had made her debut a lifetime ago.

But the illusion went no deeper than your skin. Inside, you were still a scholar, still more at home in a quiet conservatory than a glittering ballroom. You had left London at eighteen, free-spirited and full of fire, bound for Vienna and its hallowed halls of music and philosophy. You had studied beside prodigies, argued in candlelit salons, wandered libraries until your fingers were ink-stained and your brain pulsed with thought. You had stood beneath frescoed ceilings with your violin and felt the world hush to listen. And now you were back. Debuting at twenty-two. A woman made into a girl again, because society could not fathom any other way to introduce you. A relic of your own making. Behind you, a fan fluttered.

"Smile, dearest," Violet whispered, the corner of her mouth barely moving as she leaned in. "You are a Bridgerton." Her tone was kind. Firm. Drenched in pride and worry in equal measure. But her words, sweetly meant, landed like lead in your chest.

You didn't answer. Didn't say the thing blooming sharp in your throat—that being a Bridgerton had never felt more like a prison than it did now, under the weight of six hundred eyes. You heard your name.

"Lady Bridgerton," the steward intoned, voice ringing across the floor like the opening note of a performance. "Presented to Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte."

Time narrowed. You moved. The ballroom pivoted toward you as if pulled on invisible strings. Faces turned—some politely blank, others lit with interest or disdain. The queen sat like a throne of her own, glittering and still, a mountain of brocade and diamonds, watching you as one might inspect a gem that refused to sparkle. You walked slowly, each step a study in elegance, your gown gliding behind you in perfect waves. The whispers followed, clinging to the hem like burrs.

"She's older—"

"Too much time abroad—"

"Her father's daughter, certainly, but—"

"She plays an instrument, I heard. Like a man."

You curtsied. Precisely. Every movement a ghost of your mother's training, passed down in parlor rooms and mirrored halls. The queen nodded. You dipped lower. And when you rose, you saw him. He stood just to the right of the throne, half-shadowed by a marble pillar wreathed in gold. Tall. Still. Apart from the pageantry like a stone set among glass. The Duke of Cardenas.

Pedro.

The name struck through your ribs like a swallowed breath. He had changed, and yet not. He wore no decorations, no silk flowers, no gaudy embroidery. Only a coat of black velvet, tailored to absolute precision, fastened with polished silver buttons that winked like eyes. His hair was longer now, touched with the faintest silver near the temples. His jaw was clean-shaven, his mouth unreadable. But his eyes. Oh, his eyes.

They found you before you even truly looked at him. Dark. Heavy-lidded. Lit with something that made your blood pull in unnatural directions. It wasn't curiosity. Or cruelty. It was memory. Recognition. Something older than this moment. He had not seen you in years—not since your hair was in braids and your teeth had stained red from pomegranate seeds in the garden at Bridgerton House. You had been twelve. He had been... already far too adult. A guest of your father's. His favorite friend. The quiet one, the one who always brought your brothers books and argued about music in low tones with your mother over tea.

He had rarely spoken to you. A nod, a smile, nothing more. But you had remembered him with absurd clarity. The sound of his laugh. The way he never fidgeted, even in silence. The way your father trusted him without caveat. Now, he looked at you like the past was a thread that had just tightened. You dipped your head in farewell to the Queen, the moment oddly unmoored, and turned—and his gaze did not leave you. You felt it trail you. Burning. Not cruel, but hot with pressure, like sunlight behind glass.

Behind you, voices again.

"Who is that?"

"The Duke of Cardenas. He hasn't danced in years." He hadn't. Not since his family estate burned. Not since the title was thrust on him like a brand and he vanished into the countryside. People spoke of grief. Others spoke of scandal. Some said he had lost someone in the fire. No one knew. And he had never corrected them.

But he was here now. And suddenly you were acutely aware of yourself. The slope of your neck. The way your gloves pinched just slightly at the wrists. The way every breath lifted your collarbone. You made your way from the dais, careful and slow, keeping your expression serene even as your mind spun. The music behind you shifted—strings lifting into a tempo more fluid, suggestive. A waltz, soft and elegant, began to unfold.

A young man approached. Barely nineteen, all curls and nerves and practiced bowing. He introduced himself with trembling lips. You offered your hand before his name even reached your ears. The dance began. He was polite, and you were kind, and the music made everything feel effortless—but it wasn't. You moved in time, the rhythm a whisper beneath your feet, the gown blooming with every turn.

And across the floor, always—his eyes. The Duke of Cardenas did not dance. Did not speak. He stood like a statue carved from midnight, utterly still but impossibly alive.

Watching you.

And just before the final chord, as the young man thanked you in a breathless voice, you caught the smallest movement across the room. A flicker. A pull at the corner of a mouth that had not changed in a decade. He smiled.

And you knew, without understanding why— Something had already begun

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The air outside was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of chill that didn't bite at first, but crept in slowly through silk and lace, nestling between your ribs and along your collarbones like whispered disapproval. Spring in May was supposed to be gentler. But tonight, it felt as though the world itself bristled at your escape.

You welcomed it.

Anything to numb the high color still blooming in your cheeks. Anything to silence the swell of your heart that had not steadied since the moment you stepped down from the dais and saw him watching.

You didn't come here to chase a memory. You had only needed a breath. A pause. A private corner of sky where your corset didn't feel like a punishment and your gloves didn't feel like a costume. You hadn't planned to vanish, not really. Just a moment—just enough distance from the ballroom to remember who you were before lace and diamonds were stitched across your body like chains.

But now the silence held you.

The moon, a thin silver coin, floated in the inky sky, its light too soft to see by but too bright to ignore. The hedges rose around you like cathedral walls, ivy veined and climbing over every surface as if trying to reclaim what the nobility had built. Gravel paths twisted and turned through the garden maze like the lines of a secret letter—just a bit too narrow for comfort, just a bit too winding for innocence.

And of course, you were alone.

Which was, by any measure, a disaster.

A debutante gone missing during her presentation ball? It would be enough to summon Lady Featherington's swoon and send half the Dowager Countesses into fainting spells. The rumors would start before you even returned inside.

You could already hear them:

Poor girl. Older, you know—desperate.

She's been away too long. Picked up foreign habits. Music, I heard. Philosophy. God save us.

Your fingers grazed the rough edge of the ivy wall as you walked slowly, deliberately, its texture biting softly at your gloves. Each step was measured, though your heart was not. It thudded like a soloist's drum, out of place and far too loud. And not because of the boy who had just danced with you—nervous, sweating, barely able to string a sentence together. He was harmless.

It was the man who watched.

Pedro's gaze had been like fire caught behind glass. Unmoving, but alive with some hidden heat you couldn't name. He had looked at you as if the years hadn't dulled anything. As if seeing you now was a problem he'd never learned to solve.

You hadn't seen him since you left England. Not truly. Letters had never come, though you had waited for one once—absurdly, foolishly—when your father's name was first spoken in a lecture hall in Vienna. But there had been nothing.

And now here he was. And there you were.

Alone in a garden like a girl in a Gothic novel.

A twig snapped behind you.

You turned before the sound had fully died—every nerve sparking in protest. And there, stepping from between two hedges where moonlight laced over his shoulder like a blessing he did not need—

Pedro.

The Duke of Cardenas.

He was not supposed to be here.

He looked like he wasn't supposed to be anywhere. His posture was too still. His coat—midnight black, sharp-shouldered, closed with simple buttons—was too plain for this crowd, and yet impossibly elegant. He wore it like armor, every inch fitted to hide something sharp beneath. His face, shadowed and severe in the low light, gave nothing away. But his presence told you everything you needed to know.

He had followed you.

"I imagine your brother would be rather displeased to learn his sister wandered into a hedge maze alone," he said softly.

His voice.

It hadn't changed much. Still low and textured, like rough velvet. The kind of voice meant for secrets and confessions—not for parlors and polite society.

You didn't answer at first. You studied him, your breath fogging faintly in the air between you. Then, with the same composure you had offered the Queen:

"Would he?"

The corner of his mouth moved—just enough to suggest a smile, or perhaps the ghost of one.

"He would."

A pause opened between you, just long enough to feel like something had shifted. His eyes moved then—not with haste, but with deliberate care. They traced the line of your gown, the pale sheen of silk against your body, the faint shiver in your exposed throat. And then they rose to meet yours.

"And I imagine," he continued, more slowly now, "he would be even more displeased to learn that I saw you go and followed, rather than summon him."

You tilted your head, arching a brow.

"And yet," you said, voice silked in frost, "here you are."

"I'm here," he replied, each word shaped with deliberate calm, "because the Ton already whispers enough about your family. And I have no interest in watching your name dragged through the mud over a moment's breath of air."

Your chin lifted, reflexively. "How noble."

He didn't flinch.

"You were alone," he said simply. "I made sure you weren't."

You bristled. Not at his presence—but at his logic. His arrogance. The sheer nerve of him, cloaking concern in superiority like it was a virtue.

"Then by all means," you said, stepping past him, "consider me saved."

You meant to walk on. To put a hedge between yourself and whatever this was turning into. But his voice came again, a little sharper this time, like flint sparking against steel.

"You shouldn't be here."

You stilled. Something in his tone was different now. Less performative. Less defensive. And when you turned slightly, enough to see him in profile, you noticed the way his eyes flicked—briefly—toward the house. Then back to you.

There was something in that glance. Not fear, exactly. But knowing.

"And yet neither should you," you said softly. "Unless you've made it your duty to guard every wandering girl this season."

"I don't make a habit of chasing debutantes into gardens."

You took a step forward. Just one. But it was enough to collapse the polite distance between you.

"No," you murmured. "You only chase the ones you knew when they were fourteen and heartbroken and mourning a father you once loved."

His reaction was not dramatic. But it was real. The smallest tightening of his jaw. A breath pulled in, slow and ragged. His lashes lowered.

"I remember," he said at last, and his voice was different now. Stripped of performance. "You were the only one who didn't cry at the funeral."

"I did cry," you said. "Just not where anyone could see."

A silence unfolded then. One that did not press, but lingered. It was full of unsaid things, things too sharp to survive under chandeliers and violins. You stood there, not quite touching, yet entirely exposed. The garden walls around you might as well have closed in to form a confessional. Pedro looked down. His hand, half-clenched, hung at his side like it ached.

"You shouldn't be here," he said again, this time quieter.

You exhaled.

"And yet you followed me," you whispered. "Like you always do."

That made him look up.

And there it was again—the stare that didn't belong to the man from your childhood. This one wasn't gentle. It didn't blink. It saw everything and flinched at nothing. It burned. Your breath hitched. This wasn't the Pedro who brought books to your brothers. This was the man who had spent four years trying not to think of you and had failed.

"I should go," you said suddenly, the air too thin now.

He nodded, but he didn't step aside. You moved past him anyway. Your sleeve brushed his hand—a whisper of fabric on skin—and something electric snapped up your arm. You nearly flinched. Nearly. He did not follow this time. But when you looked back—just once, just enough to see— He was still watching you.

Unmoving.

Unforgiving.

Undone

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You hadn't meant to look for him. Truly, you hadn't.

After the garden—after the hush of moonlight against hedges, the cold kiss of ivy, and the scalding heat of his gaze—after his voice coiled around your name like a memory that refused to die—you'd sworn you would forget it. You'd told yourself, stern and silent, that it had meant nothing. That it was an indulgence. An old thread tugged loose for one foolish night and now severed. You could tuck it back into the quiet folds of your memory, where it could fade like all things unspoken.

But you lied. You looked for him. You hunted for him.

Across parquet floors glistening beneath chandeliers. Over the rims of champagne flutes filled and refilled by white-gloved attendants. Between the dull thrum of conversations you didn't care to finish and compliments you didn't ask to hear. Your gaze wandered without permission. Always alert. Always searching.

You told yourself it was harmless. A flicker of curiosity. A passing thought, like the scent of an old book or the echo of a song you used to love. But it wasn't. Because he looked for you, too.

He didn't speak. Not once. Never crossed the ballroom with intention. Never dared ask for a dance. But he was always near. A shadow standing just beyond reach. A constant in every crowd. A figure leaning against columns or half-framed in mirrored doors, lingering near balconies, halls, thresholds. Places you weren't meant to notice—until you did.

And the distance between you was always just enough to make your skin ache. It made everything worse. Because the restraint, the proximity, the way he wouldn't touch you—it was all louder than any gesture. More intimate than any hand at your waist. And it turned every moment you spent breathing the same air into something dangerous.

It happened three nights later. Lady Danbury's ball.

The invitations had been floral and garish, stamped with pink wax and printed on ivory stock that reeked of wealth and unnecessary flourishes. The ballroom was a confection—gilded cornices, sprays of violets and lilies in every possible vase, musicians dressed to match the wallpaper. Everything smelled like honey and crushed petals and heat. Debutantes fluttered like paper dolls, each one soft-petaled and polished to gleam, their laughs like windchimes strung too tight.

You arrived in pale blue silk. The color your mother had chosen with unrelenting optimism, claiming it was "cooling, elegant, and subtle enough to smooth your edges." You had not bothered to argue, but the effect was the opposite. The blue turned your skin porcelain, made your eyes too sharp, your cheekbones more severe. You looked carved, not softened.

You liked it. Your gloves, pearl-buttoned at the wrist, were fitted like second skin. Your neckline modest, your earrings old family sapphires that caught the light like secrets. You moved through the crowd like a blade slipped into a bouquet. Every smile was practiced. Every word measured. You didn't belong here, but you wore your presence like a challenge.

And then you felt him. Not saw. Felt.

Like a cold spot in a church pew. Like a hush in the middle of a symphony. The moment a room turns, not physically, but metaphysically—toward something it cannot name.

Your spine prickled. You hadn't seen him on the guest list. But then, Pedro did not require invitations. The Duke of Cardenas answered to no one. And more importantly, no one dared to question where he placed his boots or his brooding silences.

He was beside you before you even turned your head. Not close enough to scandalize. But close enough to feel it. The gravity of him.

"Careful," he murmured.

The words slipped from the side of his mouth like a secret meant for your skin alone. His gaze did not shift from the room, but his voice was tailored to your ears.

"You've caught the attention of every man here."

The corner of your mouth twitched, but your voice remained even. "I've been back less than a week. I imagine it's more curiosity than admiration."

At that, his head turned—slowly, deliberately.

"Let them be curious," he said, eyes flicking briefly across your face. "They don't know you."

You met his gaze. "And you do?"

That stopped something in him. Just a flicker—a tightness around the mouth, a narrowing of the eyes, as though the question had pressed a bruise. He didn't look away, but he did hesitate. Just long enough for the silence to draw taut.

"I did," he said. "Once."

The music swelled behind you—another waltz, another cascade of strings and polite rhythm and glittering couples spun together like dolls on wire. Someone called your name. Loudly. A young viscount. Wide-eyed, polite, forgettable.

You stepped away from Pedro without looking back. Slipped into the arms of your next dance like a woman donning a mask.

The floor moved beneath you. The crowd turned and shimmered in time. The boy smiled nervously and asked too many questions. You answered with practiced patience. Let yourself be twirled and dipped and led across the room.

But the entire time—

You felt him.

Pedro's eyes.

Tracking. Burning. Unforgiving. Possessive.

And you hated yourself for liking it.

When the music ended, you thanked your partner with the barest of curtsies and moved toward the edge of the room. Not to flee. Not exactly.

Just to breathe.

The gold-draped curtains rustled slightly as you passed them. You stepped behind one, into a pocket of stillness—away from light, from noise, from pretense.

And he was there.

Waiting in shadow like he belonged to it.

You didn't face him. You didn't need to.

"You're playing a dangerous game," you whispered.

There was a pause—just long enough to feel intentional.

"So are you," he murmured, voice darker now. The low register of a man who no longer pretends.

You exhaled slowly. "You shouldn't speak to me like this."

"I shouldn't think of you like this."

That stopped everything.

The sound of the ballroom receded, as if drawn back by some divine hand. Your breath hitched. The velvet curtain shivered slightly from the heat in the room. You turned. And his mask slipped. He didn't move. Didn't touch you. But in that heartbeat, you saw it all. The hunger. The ache. The violence he had done to himself by pretending the last few years hadn't sharpened you into something he wanted. The way his gaze dropped—first to your lips, then lower, as if seeing you now confirmed every memory he had tried to erase. He leaned infinitesimally forward. A motion so slight it could be dismissed as nothing. But it wasn't.

Your hand trembled at your side.

You didn't move. Couldn't. The world had narrowed into this—into curtain folds and heat and a man you should never let this close.

Then—

"Lady Bridgerton—there you are!"

Anthony.

His voice cracked across the room like a whip—sharp, good-humored, utterly unknowing.

Pedro stepped back instantly. Like he'd been scorched. His expression closed like a door.

Anthony emerged between two guests, looking bemused and faintly breathless, as though he'd been weaving through conversation after conversation in search of you.

"You've been quite popular tonight," he said, smiling as he offered you his arm. "Come. Lord Ainsley has requested your next dance."

You placed your hand in his. Your spine was a rod of steel. Your face serene. But your pulse was a storm beneath your skin.

Anthony glanced behind you. Just once. His eyes landed on the gold curtain. Narrowed.

You didn't look back.

You didn't need to.

Pedro was already gone.

But the feeling of him—his voice in your ear, his gaze on your throat, the phantom heat of a confession barely spoken—

That stayed with you.

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He didn't come the next night.

Nor the one after.

You told yourself it didn't matter. That it was good. Sensible. Expected. That his absence was what you had wanted. What you had promised yourself you would want.

You lied.

Lady Edgecombe's masquerade passed in a blur of feathers, masks, and meaningless compliments. You danced. You smiled. You accepted three cards and declined two. You laughed at jokes that weren't funny and curtsied before baronets with teeth too white and opinions too loud. Your mask had a filigree edge that caught the candlelight like frost, and the entire evening felt like a pantomime you had rehearsed in a past life.

He wasn't there.

At the Featherington luncheon, you sat between Penelope and your mother, sipping lukewarm tea while conversation drifted through topics like embroidery, marriages, and Lord Halberton's new hothouse orchids. Your gloves were stained faintly with raspberry from a tart you didn't finish.

He wasn't there.

Even Hyde Park offered no solace. The day was crisp, the sky stubbornly clear. Debutantes paraded in pale muslins and pastel bonnets, laughing too loudly, fluttering their fans like nervous birds. Your brothers rode ahead, all polished boots and easy swagger, drawing attention the way Bridgertons always did. You walked with purpose. You nodded when spoken to. You answered questions you didn't hear.

But he wasn't there.

No velvet coat in the crowd. No sudden stillness on the periphery. No voice catching the back of your neck like breath.

He had vanished.

And it hurt in a place you didn't know had been open.

Anthony noticed, of course. He always did. He noticed everything. He had been watching you your whole life, sometimes out of love, sometimes out of duty, and often out of some mixture of the two that felt more like surveillance than affection.

And now, he wasn't just watching. He was waiting.

Waiting for the moment you'd slip. For a name to fall from your lips. For the glint in your eye you didn't know how to hide.

It came to a head three days after the ball.

The day had been dull, grey-skied and slow-moving. You were curled on the settee in the drawing room, one slipper tucked under your leg, pretending to read a collection of essays you had already memorized in Vienna. The pages blurred. The fire crackled. Your mother's knitting clicked softly in the adjacent parlor.

Then the butler cleared his throat in that discreet, funereal way reserved for inconvenient arrivals.

"His Grace, the Duke of Cardenas."

You didn't look up.

But Anthony did.

The air stilled like the moment before a ship tilts.

Pedro stepped into the room with the same impossible quiet that always preceded him. He was dressed in a coat so dark it could have swallowed light—tailored perfectly, without ornament or frill. His gloves were tucked beneath one arm, and his expression was a mask carved from stone. Controlled. Cold. Too cold.

He bowed. Precisely.

"Bridgerton," he said, addressing Anthony first.

"Duke," Anthony returned, standing slowly. His voice was clipped. Measured. No warmth. No pretense of cordiality.

You set the book down carefully, spine-first against the cushion. The room was too quiet. You could hear the shift of the coals in the grate. Neither man acknowledged you, and yet your presence thrummed between them like a live wire.

"I was hoping for a moment of your time," Pedro said. "Privately."

Anthony's smile was tight. Politic. "Anything you wish to say in my home can be said in front of my sister."

"I disagree," Pedro replied, and there was something in his tone—so perfectly civil it cut. "Some things require discretion."

Anthony's eyes darkened.

"And yet," he said, voice lowering, "you've shown precious little of that lately."

Your breath snagged in your throat.

Pedro's jaw tensed, just barely. A flicker of tension behind the eyes. He didn't speak.

"This is about Lady Bridgerton," Anthony went on, clearly emboldened. "And if it involves her name, it involves mine."

You stood then.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. But with intention.

"Perhaps," you said quietly, "you should let him speak."

Anthony turned toward you, as if just remembering you were flesh and not concept. "This man—"

"This man," you interrupted, "was your father's friend. My father's friend. And I am not a child, Anthony."

His mouth tightened. "You are a debutante."

You stepped forward. "And he is what? A Duke? Older? Uninterested in the games of courtship you so desperately thrust me into?"

Anthony's expression faltered. Just for a heartbeat.

Pedro's eyes cut between you both. And then he stepped forward, not between, but beside you—gently, firmly, a presence that turned the air heavier.

"Enough," he said.

One word. But it landed like thunder.

The silence that followed was complete.

He turned to Anthony first.

"Whatever you suspect," he said, voice low, even, "you may rest easy. I have not compromised your sister's reputation. Nor do I intend to."

Anthony crossed his arms.

"Then why are you here?"

Pedro hesitated.

And then, finally, he looked at you.

Not fully. Not deeply. But enough.

Enough to see it—just beneath the surface. That faint tremor in his restraint. The ache that never made it to his voice. The ghost of something he wasn't ready to confess.

"I came," he said, "to say goodbye."

The floor beneath you might as well have dropped.

"What?" you said. The word was barely breath.

He didn't meet your eyes.

"I'm returning to Cardenas," he said. "This season was a courtesy. An obligation to my family, to my station. But it's time I returned."

Anthony remained still. Silent. His face unreadable.

You could not remain silent.

"So that's it?" you asked. "You follow me through ballrooms, into gardens, you look at me like—like I'm something you cannot name—and now you run?"

Pedro's jaw clenched. His throat moved with a hard swallow.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

His eyes met yours. And the mask cracked.

"Because if I start," he said, voice breaking low and brutal, "I will not be able to stop."

The silence that followed didn't feel like silence. It felt like a scream under glass.

You stared at him. At the man who had haunted the corners of your season. At the man who had once been a story your father told over wine. At the man who had followed you into moonlight and left you with heat along your skin and nothing in your hands.

Pedro turned then. No drama. No apology.

He bowed—shallow and sharp.

And he left.

The door clicked shut with unbearable gentleness.

You didn't follow.

But oh, how you wanted

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You knew he would be at the opera.

No one said it aloud. His name wasn't printed in the programme, and his family crest didn't appear in any of the ornate, gilded invitations fluttering across Mayfair parlors that week. But you felt him.

The way one feels a storm on the edge of the horizon—silent, electric, too near to ignore.

From the moment your carriage turned onto Pall Mall, your pulse had refused to steady. Each gas lamp flickering against the glass, each rustle of satin and scent of beeswax candles set your nerves on edge. You crossed the threshold of the opera house and felt the air shift.

He was here. You knew it.

Not because he had told you. Not because he had written.

But because something inside you went very still.

The opera house was alight with spectacle: golden arches, crushed crimson velvet, perfumes so rich they clung to your gloves. The chandeliers glittered like chandeliers always did, but more cruelly tonight, more bright. Each lady's laugh rang a little too high. Every whispered gossip seemed to scrape across your skin.

Your mother smiled too much.

Your brothers, both in attendance, lounged in the family box with all the ease of men unaware of ruin.

You didn't breathe until the curtains rose.

And then, there he was.

Not in the boxes. Not with the dukes and barons and courtiers whispering through binoculars and fans. He stood at the very back of the gallery, half in shadow, dressed in a coat so plain it defied his station.

Pedro.

The Duke of Cardenas.

His eyes weren't on the stage.

They were on you.

It hit like a blow—his gaze. It found you amid the crowd, across distance and music and time. And it held. Not possessive. Not begging. Just there. Like an anchor beneath the ocean.

You didn't watch the opera.

You couldn't.

When the curtain dropped at intermission and the audience broke into polite applause, you rose from your seat too fast. Your mother began to speak, something about lemonade in the vestibule, but the words barely touched your ears.

You moved quickly.

Down the carpeted corridor, past footmen and wide skirts and smirking gentlemen too confident in their cravats. You descended the grand marble steps, the hem of your gown whispering against stone. Outside, the air was thick—perfumed with roses from the terrace and the faint, acrid bite of coal smoke.

And there he was.

Waiting in the half-dark, beside the carriages, where no chaperones dared follow and the lanterns cast long, lonesome shadows.

His presence didn't surprise you. Not anymore.

He looked as he always did—spare, restrained, unrelenting. But something was looser in him tonight. Something frayed.

"Lady Bridgerton," he said, and the formality sounded ridiculous on his tongue.

You didn't bother returning it.

"I received a proposal today," you said.

He didn't speak.

But you saw it—the flash of pain across his face. The catch in his breath before he buried it beneath that infuriating stillness.

"Lord Wetherby," you continued, stepping closer. "Twenty-five. Pleasant. Dull. My mother nearly wept with joy."

Pedro's jaw flexed. "He is... acceptable."

You let the word hang between you like ash.

"Is that what I should want?" you asked quietly. "Acceptable?"

He looked away. Not far—just toward the horses shifting in their harnesses, toward the flickering gaslight on the cobblestones.

He didn't answer.

So you took another step.

"I'm not naïve, Pedro. I know what this is. What it can't be. I know what people would say. What my brother will do. What your title demands."

Still, he said nothing.

"And still," you whispered, "I am standing here."

When he finally looked at you, it was like something broke. Not in him—but between you. As though the rules that had once kept you apart had been paper all along, and the night had torn right through them.

The expression on his face was not guarded anymore.

It was bare.

Grief. Desire. Rage. Guilt. All there. All raw and wretched in the pale moonlight.

"I have done everything right," he said, voice low and shaking. "I kept my distance. I said nothing. I let Anthony believe the worst of me to protect you. To protect us. And I would have left it there."

"But you didn't," you said softly.

His eyes closed, just for a second. When they opened again, he looked wrecked.

"Because I can't," he said. "Because the thought of another man's name on your marriage contract—another man at your side, in your bed, in your life—"

He couldn't finish.

You swallowed hard.

"Then take it back," you said. "Say something that cannot be unsaid."

For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of a sycamore tree nearby. A carriage creaked in the distance. The wind pulled at your skirts.

And then—barely more than a breath—

"I love you."

It wasn't elegant.

It wasn't rehearsed.

But it shattered something inside you with exquisite violence.

You closed your eyes. "You shouldn't."

"I tried not to."

You opened them. Stepped forward.

"I should walk away."

"You won't."

He was right.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like it had already ruined you. Like it had ruined him long before tonight. His hands caught your waist—not possessive, but anchoring. Yours tangled in the folds of his coat, clinging as if you could crawl into him, into the impossible truth between you.

The kiss wasn't sweet.

It was desperate. Hot. Real.

The kind of kiss that burned through silk and duty and logic. That said we will suffer for this—but kissed anyway.

When it broke, you were breathless.

Your head bowed. Your forehead pressed against his.

"What now?" you whispered.

His voice was barely a thread.

"Now we decide if we want the world... or each other."

You didn't hesitate.

"Each other."

And for the first time since you were children in a sunlit garden, he smiled.

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He found out the next morning.

Not from you, of course. You'd planned to tell him gently—in your own time, with your own words, with the dignity of explanation. Perhaps in the study, just the two of you. Over a fire. With care. With strategy. A small storm, not a tempest.

But London does not wait.

And scandal travels faster than even a Bridgerton's temper.

It began with a whisper—two ladies lingering too long near the terrace of the opera house, fans fluttering too frantically for innocence. It passed through the hands of a footman with ears sharpened by curiosity and coin. And by sunrise, your name was tangled in the Duke of Cardenas's like thread knotted too tightly to be undone.

Not a tryst. Not an affair. Not yet.

But a kiss.

A kiss behind carriages. In the dark. In the arms of a man twice your age.

A man your father once called brother.

The drawing room had barely begun to fill with light when Anthony arrived.

He didn't knock.

The door slammed open with a thundercrack of motion, and your elder brother strode through it like a soldier breaching enemy lines. His coat was half-fastened, his boots dusty, his cravat askew—not from haste, but from fury. Bridgerton fury. The kind that arrived before thought and left no space for reason.

"You kissed him?" he thundered.

You didn't startle.

You looked up from your tea—calm, quiet, deliberate. The porcelain cup rested lightly between your fingers, steam still curling from the rim. A servant flinched in the corner and wisely fled the room.

You met Anthony's glare without blinking.

"Good morning, brother."

His chest rose, then fell with a sharp, shallow breath. "You kissed him. In public. Behind carriages, no less. Do you have any idea—"

"Private carriages," you corrected, lifting the cup to your lips. "And no one saw but God and the stars, I'm told."

He looked as if you had slapped him.

"Is this—" he choked, voice cracking on disbelief "—is this some kind of rebellion? Some final act of defiance before you let us secure your future properly?"

You rose then.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The pale silk of your dressing gown fell in ripples over your figure, its embroidered edges catching the morning sun that now bled through the tall windows. You did not tremble. You did not falter. You were, for all the world, every inch the lady you were raised to be—but sharper now. Older. Your beauty carried weight, and Anthony suddenly looked at you like you were something he had never seen before.

"This is my future," you said evenly.

"He's your future?" Anthony spat. "He's twice your age."

"Not quite."

"He is our father's friend!"

That one struck.

You didn't flinch, but your throat tightened. There was a pause—brief but deep, like a wound exposed.

And then softly: "He is not my father."

Anthony's mouth parted—but no words came.

"He's not replacing him," you added. "He never could. But he saw me, Anthony. Before anyone else did. Not as a name. Not as a pawn to be brokered like a parcel of land. He saw me as a woman."

Anthony turned away, pacing to the hearth as if the motion could smother the heat in his chest. His hands clenched at his sides. His voice dropped, laced with something colder.

"He is a Duke. Do you honestly believe he is free to love whom he chooses?"

"I don't know," you said. "But I know I am."

His gaze snapped back to you.

"I know I'd rather be ruined beside him than adored by someone I don't love."

The words landed hard. Too honest. Too bold. Too true.

For a moment, there was nothing. Only the tick of the longcase clock in the hall, the soft clink of china against its saucer as your tea cooled on the table between you.

And then—another voice.

"Enough."

You both turned.

Violet Bridgerton stood in the doorway, framed by sunlight, every inch the matriarch you had always feared and loved in equal measure. Her hair was swept up with ruthless precision, her pearl earrings catching the light, her expression unreadable.

But her eyes—her eyes burned with something neither of you could name.

"I have listened," she said, stepping into the room. "And I have allowed this tempest to rage, because I know what grief does to brothers. I know what fear does to sisters. And I know what silence does to love."

You opened your mouth, but she held up a hand.

"I know what you think of him," she said to Anthony. "I know what the world expects you to think. But I knew him long before you were born. I saw him laugh with your father in a way few men ever could. I saw what loyalty meant to them both."

She turned to you now, softer—but not gentle.

"And I see what he means to you."

You nodded. Just once. Your throat was tight. You weren't sure you could speak.

Violet exhaled. "Then the only thing left is to ask: are you prepared to lose everything for him?"

You didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Anthony flinched, but this time—he said nothing.

Violet's shoulders sagged slightly, as if something in her had finally settled.

"Then I will stand behind you," she said.

Anthony turned to her, aghast. "Mother—"

"I will stand behind her," she said again. "And you will not make an enemy of your sister, Anthony. Not now. Not when your father would've done the same."

Silence fell again.

Anthony stared at the rug for a long time. His breathing was ragged. Controlled rage giving way, slowly, to a kind of reluctant, aching clarity.

Then finally, he looked up at you.

And for the first time in years—he saw you.

Not the girl who needed protecting.

But the woman who had already chosen her path.

And though he hated it—

He understood.

Eventually.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The summons arrived the next morning.

It came with no warning. No explanation. Only the distinctive crack of carriage wheels at the front steps and a knock so perfectly timed that even the staff held their breath.

The letter itself was brief.

Eight lines of elegant script. Sealed in purple wax stamped with the royal crest. Delivered by a footman clad in the Queen's livery—silver-trimmed plum velvet, his face as blank as carved marble. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The weight of the envelope spoke for him.

You were to present yourself at Queen Charlotte's private salon.

Alone.

The ride to Buckingham House passed in a blur. London's early light made everything feel too sharp: the clang of hooves, the chatter of pedestrians, the glint of dew on iron railings. Even your gloves felt too tight, your breath shallow beneath the lace of your collar. Your hair had been dressed quickly—your mother too stunned to argue—but you had insisted on the pale lavender silk gown, the one with the embroidered train that trailed like spilled ink behind you.

As if beauty could serve as armor.

The palace loomed as it always did: sprawling, ancient, and impossibly clean. You were led not through the main halls but through the side—a more intimate route, the kind reserved for confidences and consequences. Marble floors gave way to rosewood. Mirrors became narrower. Lamps dimmer. The silence was ceremonial.

And then the doors opened.

You stepped inside—and your breath stopped.

The Queen's private salon was smaller than the throne room, but no less grand. The walls were a pale mint, inlaid with gold filigree and framed portraits of dead kings and prized dogs. Two harpists played in the far corner, fingers gliding over strings too softly for comfort. The air smelled of myrrh, roses, and threat.

Pedro was already there.

He stood near the windows, stiff-backed, hands behind his coat. The morning sun caught the edge of his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the glint of silver threading his dark hair. He wore no embellishment. No jewels. No medals of service. Just a simple coat, pressed and severe, as if daring anyone to reduce him to decoration.

He turned the moment you entered.

And bowed.

Not just out of obligation—but reverence. You curtsied in reply, your knees light, your head bowed low, but your pulse—God, your pulse—was violent in your throat.

Queen Charlotte did not rise.

She sat in an armchair the color of crushed mulberries, her wig piled high with pearls and a miniature ship bobbing among the curls. Her gown shimmered with so many jewels it hurt to look directly at her. Her expression, however, was plain as stone.

She looked between you both as if appraising livestock.

"You," she said finally, "are quite the talk of the season."

Her voice was calm. Controlled. But not kind.

She stood with deliberate grace, her skirts rippling as she stepped forward. She stopped just short of the rug separating you and Pedro, eyeing you both as one might regard a pair of unruly hounds brought in from the rain.

"A fallen Duke," she said. "An aged debutante. And enough tension between you to singe my drapes."

You said nothing.

The floor beneath your slippers might as well have been ice.

The Queen walked slowly, deliberately, pausing in front of you. She tilted her head. Her eyes were sharp, appraising—not unkind, but surgical.

"I should be furious," she said, her voice low now. "A scandal. A spectacle. You kissed in the open, behind carriages. Do you know how many letters I've received in the last twenty-four hours? I've had to speak to the Archbishop about your lips."

Your mouth parted. "Your Majesty—"

She lifted one jeweled finger. The room froze again.

"And yet," she said, turning to face you squarely, "I find that I am not furious. Do you know why?"

You tried to answer—but the words withered on your tongue.

"No, Your Majesty," you whispered.

She turned then—quick, sharp, like a bird of prey.

To him.

Her voice hardened. "Do you love her?"

Pedro didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The words were not loud.

But they filled the room.

They dropped like a stone into still water—rippling outward, touching everything. The harpists faltered. The footmen stiffened. Even the air stilled, as if waiting for the world to crack in two.

The Queen stared at him. Long. Unblinking. Then—

"And you would marry her?"

"If she would have me," he said, voice thick with something close to reverence.

The Queen turned to you.

"Well?" she asked. "Would you?"

Time unraveled. The moment stretched, impossibly thin. The world felt far away—the throne, the court, the portraits, the harpists, the tapestries, your family, everything. All that remained was Pedro's eyes on yours.

The man who followed you into gardens. Who stood beside you in ruin. Who never asked you to choose, but chose you anyway.

"Yes," you said.

Queen Charlotte clapped her hands once—sharp as a pistol crack.

"Then I expect an invitation," she declared. "Gold trim. Proper calligraphy. And no mention of that nonsense in the carriages."

You blinked. "So... we have your blessing?"

The Queen smiled thinly.

"No. You have my attention. Do not waste it."

Then she turned, with the full drama of monarchs and theatre critics, and disappeared behind a curtain embroidered with peacocks.

The silence she left behind was holy.

Pedro looked at you then—not like a man forgiven, but like a man alive. His shoulders slackened. His breath eased. The worry that had lined his face for days began, slowly, to drain away.

You reached for his hand.

He took it.

And though the throne had not said yes, the world had not said no

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

The world was quiet again.

Not silent—never silent. There was birdsong beyond the window, light and half-curious. Somewhere far off, past the iron gates and winding lanes of the estate, a carriage rattled by on damp cobblestones, wheels whispering over gravel. The hearth crackled low, just embers now. The fire had burned hot through the night but faded with the dawn. And still, you hadn't moved.

Not even an inch.

The light was different here, softer than London's. It touched the sheets in long ribbons of gold, painting lines across your bare shoulders, his chest, the scattered folds of linen tangled around your legs. The curtains were drawn back, but the windows remained open, letting the morning in without hurry. The breeze smelled of cut grass, of distant rain, of something green and old and alive.

You lay half-draped across his chest, your cheek pressed to warm skin, his hand resting against the curve of your spine. One of his shirt sleeves was still clinging to his arm—unbuttoned, untucked, forgotten. Your own gown was somewhere behind the dressing screen, a pale mess of silk and dropped buttons. Your stockings were twisted on the floor near the armchair. His cravat, you couldn't find.

But none of it mattered now.

The chaos of it—the softness, the heat, the hum of flesh and breath and belonging—this was quiet. The kind that didn't demand stillness. The kind that wrapped itself around bare skin and tousled hair and hands that refused to let go.

His voice rumbled beneath your ear, low and rough with sleep.

"You're staring."

You smiled against his chest. "I'm memorizing."

He huffed, lazy and amused, his chest rising beneath your cheek. "You've had years to memorize me."

You shifted, tilting your face up, your chin resting along your forearm.

"Yes," you said. "But now I don't have to pretend I'm not."

His hand came up to brush your hair back, fingers trailing from your temple to your jaw. A slow, reverent motion. The kind he never allowed himself in public. The kind he had spent years denying.

"You've always been terrible at pretending," he murmured.

You arched a brow. "And you've always been terrible at staying away."

That made him smile.

Not the tight, polished one he wore under society's gaze. Not the diplomatic one, the cautious one. But his smile. The crooked one. The warm one. The one that had once been rare and fleeting, glimpsed only in moonlight, in stolen glances, in half-forgotten moments behind garden walls.

Now it was yours.

"I thought this would feel more impossible," you said after a while, your voice barely more than a breath.

Pedro turned his head slightly to look at you, brow faintly furrowed. "And does it?"

You shook your head.

"No." You leaned in and pressed your lips to the hollow beneath his jaw—where his pulse beat slow and steady. "It feels like we won."

"You always were the stubborn one," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

You grinned against his skin. "And you always let me win."

He let out a soft sound—somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

"I never let you," he whispered. "You just... never stopped choosing me."

You froze.

Just for a moment.

Not because you doubted it. But because it was true in a way you hadn't realized until now. Not fully. Not in words. But somewhere, deep in the marrow of you, you had always been choosing him.

Even when he left.

Even when you told yourself it was over.

Even when the world lined up suitors and whispered names and promised comfort.

You had still looked for him in every room. Felt him in every silence. You had kissed him in the dark and let the stars bear witness. You had taken the world's judgment in stride, faced your brother, faced the Queen, and said yes.

Because he wasn't just a Duke. Or a scandal. Or a fantasy carved from grief and nostalgia.

He was home.

🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal au #daddy pedro #pedro pascal oneshot #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal #pedrohub #zaddy pedro #pedro x reader #pedroispunk #bridgerton #Pedro x bridgerton #angst #fluff #one shot #imagines

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sturniluvr · 8 months ago

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your camera roll dating Pedro Pascal

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tteotlma · 3 months ago

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Mine to Keep

--- A quiet moment turns heated as Joel reminds you why some things are better kept just between the two of you.

Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader (4kwc)

tw: 18+ MDNI; explicit sexual content, heavy sexual tension, age gap, possessiveness, jealousy, hiding a relationship, emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, groping (over/under clothes), neck kissing, hair pulling, power imbalance (protective/possessive), soft dominance, slow-burn to heat, lingering touches, close proximity, unspoken intentions, introspection, private/domestic intimacy, mild language.

a/n: BC IM GONNA ACT LIKE NOTHING BAD HAS EVER HAPPENED EVER; have just for some reason been thinking a lot abt pedro lately it’s absolutely insane, also now that lent is over i’ve taken up gardening again and i’m just yearning so inspired again.

The wooden screen door swung open effortlessly, to your surprise, to a clean and empty kitchen save for the half drunk mug of coffee on the kitchen island. The jagged edges of the chipped paint on the door caused your skin to rise as you cushioned the door on your bare shoulder to not let the door slam shut.

You let in a breath about to call out, but the faint sound of music could be heard playing in the other room. Stepping lightly around the corner, and peeking behind the wall you saw your current beau— well, the back of his head but him nonetheless. He was sitting on the sofa, gazing down at something on his lap as the late afternoon sun showered him in rays of light. You watched as small dust particles floated around his frame, and it was then you realized you were holding your breath.

Letting out a small huff of air you hoped the floor wouldn’t creak beneath your shoes as you took slow steps towards the open room. You were in a quiet awe watching a moment of rare vulnerability, the man you figured was just permanently stiff now had his back hunched, causing his shoulders to slouch. Despite his slacked frame he was still broad, taking up a large amount of quiet space. Eyeing the outline of his body, you watched how the muscles of his traps dipped below the neckline of his shirt, only a sliver of sun kissed skin visible between the curls at the base of his head, and the fabric of his ratty t shirt and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of the exposed skin, you found yourself reactively sticking your hand out to grasp that warmth—and grab you did.

You let your fingers graze the side of his neck, finally giving away that you were here. The flesh beneath your fingers went rigid, and a small chuckle hid behind a puff of air left your body. Leaning your body over the back of the sofa your hands again finding the base of his neck fingers entangling in the strands of his outgrown curls tugging ever so slightly.

“Hi.” You whispered, pressing your lips to his temple.

“Almos’ scared me half to death,” He said, trying to play it off by flipping a page of the town newspaper. Your fingers left his hair and slid down his neck, and chest to clasp your fingers together, arms hung around the man.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist,” you snickered lightly, resting your chin in the crook of his neck staring at his fingers. “It’s not every day you see Joel Miller relaxing.” Your fingers started roaming his chest again, coming to toy lightly with the stubble on his jawline. His skin was warm from the summer sun, and the Wyoming heat. Joel cleared his throat, rustling the papers in his fingers shifting beneath your weight.

“I wasn’t relaxing, I was jus’ readin’ up.” He shook his shoulders lightly to try and shoo you off, and you did just briefly enough to realize he was wearing his reading glasses, yet another rare sight.

“Right, because Jackson Hole is so big.” You teased, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

He cleared his throat again, beginning to fold the pamphlet between his hands eyeing you from the side.

“Ellie?” He asks tossing the papers to the side, he then moves his fingers to take his glasses off, but you stop him, enveloping his fingers with yours.

“Out with Dina,” you say, a hand finding its way back to his salt and pepper curls tucking loose strands behind his ear.

“Are you—”

“Saw them with my own two eyes at that food hall.” You reassured him, already knowing if he was going to ask for reassurance.

“Next to your very much in love Brother and his wife.” You mumbled, and you felt a deep sigh leave his body and only the sound of music played softly in the background as a pause of silence passed between the two of you. Joel held your fingers, resting his prickled cheek against your forearm as you rested on his shoulders.

“Joel,” you whispered, you took his silence as a sign to continue. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about us?” you said softly, hoping your question didn’t just break this glass bubble you were both floating in.

But it was eating away at you, especially when you saw what seemed like everyone and their brothers' mothers in a tooth-rotting, core cringing relationship.

Joel cleared his throat and shifted in his cushiony seat.

“W-well, uh…” He cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable. You kept running your fingers through his hair, gentle and steady, trying to ease him. You knew he didn’t mean any harm with how he was fumbling—he was just like an old car that needed a few tries to get going.

“What’s got you thinking like this?” He quickly rushes out, grabbing your hand, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You debated on telling him the drawn out version of word jumble, and anxious rambling or tell him outright like you’ve been rehearsing.

“I would just—” You grabbed his hands again, thumbs caressing his calloused fingers noticing the faint tan forming beneath his wrist watch. Suddenly struck with shyness you shrug, toying with his hands. “Sometimes, I’d just… love to hold hands with you.” you said said, voice getting softer with each syllable.

“Sweetheart,” He whispers, pulling your hands, and bringing you around the arm of the sofa. Your hand trails the length of his right arm, muscles taut beneath the pads of your fingers. You watch the hairs on his arm stand, as your nails lightly scratch the surface of his skin. He makes you stand before him.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, placing you in the space between his legs, your knees pressing gently against the edge of the sofa. You feel yourself pouting, lips tugging downward despite your best effort to stay composed. Joel’s large hands wrap around yours, rough palms hot against your skin as he brings them to his lips. The soft brush of his mouth on the back of your hand sends a flush to your cheeks, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“As much as I would love to show everyone what’s mine…” he says, voice low, as he leans forward, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders. He kisses the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hands slide up the length of your forearms, settling at your hips, fingers curling into the small of your back.

“Right now…” he presses a small kiss just above your waistband, his lips lingering against your skin before he looks up at you, gaze steady, almost searching. “I just wanna keep this ours, for a little longer,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you. One hand dips lower, fingers brushing over the sliver of bare skin where your shirt lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring it.

"It’s good like this. Just you and me."

You feel him breathe you in, feel the way his fingers linger at your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of your body like he needs the contact to stay present.

"I think about it too," he says quietly. "What it’d be like, not keeping it quiet." His hand rests firm, steady against you, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. "But... I ain’t had something like this in a long time."

His voice trails off, thick with something unspoken, thumb still moving like he can’t bring himself to stop, can’t let go.

"I just... I wanna hold onto it a little longer, like this."

You cradle his head in your hands, fingers threading through his hair before dragging down the length of his back, nails scratching softly against the fabric of his shirt as you let out a deep, aching sigh. Joel’s thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch firmer now as he pulls back just enough to see you.

You meet his eyes, face to face, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at how good he looks—his glasses slipping low on his nose, jaw tense, eyes soft. It only makes your chest tighten more.

You huff, frustration bubbling up.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you say, quiet, yet certain.

Joel’s eyes stay on you, hands steady at your waist.

“I know you don’t.”

He swallows hard, more of his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, onto your skin.

“But this—what we’ve got right now—it’s the only thing in a long time that’s felt…” His eyes search yours, waiting for that unspoken understanding, and when he finds it, he leans in, voice low.

“I’m not ready to give that up. Not yet.”

Your forehead rests against his, as if the closeness alone could quiet the anxiety crawling its way up your throat.

“Can… we really keep going like this?”

Your fingers find their solace in the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with them in slow, nervous motions, your nails lightly tapping against the arms of his glasses with every other pass. You can’t help but watch your hands move, almost detached, like they don’t belong to you anymore.

It’s some quiet reminder—how much you already lean on him, how even now, you’re using the feel of him to steady yourself, to keep your worry at bay.

Joel lets out a soft chuckle to the side as he straightens up, leaning into the back of the sofa with a sigh, his eyebrows scrunched with disappointment but you knew it wasn’t directed at you.

His hands pull you easily, guiding you into his lap, like a missing puzzle piece. Straddling him now, your knees press into the cushion, chest light against his, the steady rise and fall of his breath meeting yours.

His hands move down your sides, and around the curve of your ass to rest against the sides of your thighs, his palm’s warm against the fabric on your legs. “You’re here. I’m here. Is there somethin’ else we need that I’m missin’?”

Your eyes search his, drawn to the fine lines at the corners, the way they crease softly when he looks at you like this. The sun has left its mark on him, scattering faint freckles and warm tones across his skin, like time didn’t just pass—it stayed, settling gently. As if in a trance, your eyes find a way to his lips, holding his face delicately in your hands, you shake your head slowly.

“Baby girl,” his fingers burn against your skin, his voice low, and rough, “I’m tryin’ to keep you to myself, just a little longer.”

His thumb drags slowly over your skin.

“Ain’t ready to let everyone see what’s mine.” And with one more look, you feel yourself caving. You subconsciously lean in closer, absolutely weak to whatever hold he seems to have on you.

“Damn you, Miller,” you whisper, and he lets out a small snort, breath fanning across your lips.

His hands slide up from their place on your thighs, slowly, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin before settling at your hips, pulling you closer.

You watch his hands, almost dazed, as your jean-covered knees shift, dragging his shirt up ever so slightly along his sides. The fabric rises, revealing the warm skin beneath—soft, familiar, the faint line of his waist exposed in the now dimming light.

You don’t look up. Not yet.

Your hands slide what feels incredibly slow from his jaw down his neck and chest, fingertips tracing the edge where his shirt had risen, drawn to the heat of him. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady, waiting.

And then you look at him, really look, taking him in for all he’s worth, and you lean in, tapping your forehead to his, the plastic of his glasses cool against the bridge of your nose. You dip your fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt and pull him closer. Your lips tentatively brush against his, light as breath, your eyes half-lidded, hoping—waiting—for him to meet you there.

When his lips finally touch yours, he kisses you, really kisses you, it’s slow, and deliberate at first, like he’s aware of how delicate this moment is. His breath hitches, just barely, but you feel it in the way his hands dig into your exposed skin, dragging you flush against him, no space, no air, just him.

His kiss stays soft, for a moment. The kind of soft that makes your chest ache, makes you lean in harder, chasing the heat of his mouth, the way his lips part just enough to taste you, to take more. Your hands trail up his neck and down his chest, in slack patterns stopping at times to caress his ears, or toy with his tousled hair.

His tongue brushes yours, just a flick, just enough to make your stomach twist. and you feel his hands slide, lower now, gripping at the curve of your ass, squeezing like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

You let out something between a sigh and a whimper, and that’s all Joel Miller needs.

The already searing kiss somehow deepens, rougher now, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothes it with his tongue, pulling you impossibly close, taking and giving all at once.

You sigh into him, your breath warm between you, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it as you shift in his lap. The cotton stretches under your hands, bunching in your fists as you press closer, the solid weight of him beneath your palms impossible to ignore.

Your hands roam, slow, dragging over his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric, your fingers curling, groping softly here and there—testing, squeezing, not quite gentle, not rough, just needing, just taking your time as you explore the shape of him. The way he breathes beneath you, steady but tight, makes you linger, pressing your palms flat before curling them again, feeling the give of muscle, the warmth that seems to rise with every touch.

Your hands drift lower, fingers dragging across the stretched fabric, and it’s only when you shift again that you feel it—your knuckles brushing against the sliver of skin exposed just above his waistband. You pause there, just for a moment, fingers tentatively skimming the heat of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, where the faintest line of hair disappears beneath the waist of his jeans.

He tenses, breath catching against your lips, and you can’t help the small smile that ghosts across yours.

One hand finds its way back to the curve of his neck, slipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, holding him there, grounding him, grounding yourself. You lean in to kiss him again, your hips pressed firm to his, and your other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his stomach, light at first, like a question, before smoothing higher, feeling the heat, the tension, the way he shifts beneath you like he’s trying to stay still, but he can’t.

His hand slides up your back, slow, firm, until his fingers are tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to pull you away.

When you let him pull you back, it’s only enough to breathe, to see him with his lips swollen, eyes heavy, chest rising hard beneath your hands. You stay close, your breath still tangled with his, the warmth between you humming, thick.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, fingers brushing the warm skin on his back, light, deliberate.

“My, my, Mr. Miller...” your voice is low, soft, but there’s no mistaking the edge of it, “I’m seeing all kinds of sides to you today.”

You feel the way he tenses under you, the pause in his breath.

Your thumb drags along the curve of his necklline, slow, tracing.

“Didn’t think you got jealous.” The words are almost a whisper, your eyes focusing on his skin exposed fingers ghosting, not quite touching.

“Didn’t know you could be so...” you pause, fingers slipping beneath the waistline of his shirt into the curls at the base of his belly button, your palm warm against the heat of his skin. He gazes down, and watches your hand move beneath the fabric of his shirt. “...soft.”

The heat of the room caused his glasses to slide further down his nose, as we quickly glanced up at you. Smirking slightly at his disheveled state you take your hand that’s on his shoulder and swiftly push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before a smirk found its way to your lips.

The weight of his gaze was heavy on you as he doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leans in, his breath hot against your cheek, and then lower, until his lips find the spot just below your jaw, kissing you slow, open-mouthed, like he has all the time in the world, like he’s content to feel you melt into him.

His hand moves from your body, sliding down your arm, fingers tracing lightly until they curl around your wrist, rough and sure. He doesn’t speak, just guides you, pulling your hand from his shoulder, slow and steady, down the curve of his chest, lower, until your knuckles meet the hem of his shirt.

And then he pulls you under.

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, joining the other hand already resting there, against the warmth of his stomach, where the muscles are tight beneath your touch, where the faint trail of hair leads down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he holds your wrist there, pressing your hand lower, like he wants you to feel just how much he’s burning, how much of him is wound up right beneath your palm. His breath stutters against your neck, lips still moving over your skin, kissing, nipping, but slower now—like he’s caught in it, too.

You feel the heat of him, the way he shifts beneath you, hips pressing up ever so slightly, chasing your touch as your hands move together, exploring the firm planes of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, groping, lingering, hoping to god you’d take more—but instead, your breath catches, something low in your belly pulling tight, and though you don’t stop, not really, your hands stay, palms still pressed to the bare skin of his stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the way he stays warm beneath you, the tension thick, still humming between your bodies, heavy and close.

You lean back—not far, not fully, just enough to draw in a breath, to see him, to take in the way he looks, the way he’s fallen back into the sofa, not letting go but giving in, his chest rising sharp beneath your touch, his shirt pushed up, bunched high enough that you can still feel him, still press into him, skin flushed deep across his chest, creeping high along his neck, blooming in his cheeks, the color settling there, soft and red and beautiful in a way you weren’t prepared for.

And you don’t move your hands—you can’t—because there’s something about feeling him like this, about having him beneath you, so undone, so real, that makes it impossible to pull away, impossible to even think about letting go.

His hair’s a mess, still tangled from your fingers, the curls at the nape damp with heat, and those glasses—slipping low, crooked, barely holding on—make him look ruined in the best way, like no one’s ever touched him like this, like no one else should ever get the chance.

Your thumb drags slowly over his waist, your other hand rising slightly, feeling the way his stomach still trembles under your touch, and your breath hitches—not from what he’s doing, but from what he is, from what you see, what you feel, what you know.

“Yeah...” the word leaves you soft, low, more breath than sound, your eyes locked on him, watching the way he stays with you, caught in it, flushed and open and completely yours. “No one else should see you like this.”

You feel him shift beneath you, his breath deepening, like he knows, like he’s heard exactly what he needed, and you press your hands to him, firmer now, like you’re holding him there—not just to feel, but to claim, to remind yourself that this, him, all of it, belongs to you.

And you’re definitely not letting anyone else have it.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

---

a/n: WAAAHHHHH I WANT TO KEEP HIM SAFE IN MY ARMS FOREVER (also not really edited so soz for the typos)

PLS REBLOG TO SUPPORT 💛

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oldsoul007 · 4 months ago

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Dirty Cash

rich!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: After a reckless hookup leaves you buying a pregnancy test in a pharmacy, the last person you expect to run into is your father’s wealthy but quietly tortured friend, Joel Miller—sparking a forbidden, dangerously irresistible affair where passion, power, and vulnerability collide.

available to read

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intoanotherworld23 · 9 months ago

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What We Both Wanted

Summary: Joel has had his eyes on you long before he even filed for divorce from his wife, and when the opportunity comes he isn’t holding back anymore

Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, cheating themes, infidelity, sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, minor spanking, dominant Joel, married Joel, submissive reader, dirty talk

A/N: if anyone wishes to be added to my Pedro/or Joel tag list please let me know and I’ll be happy to add you. Heart, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated and supportive. Thanks! XOXO

Hall Of Hunks

Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989

Tag list for Pedro Pascal: @pedrohoe04 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @milly-louise @kittenlittle24 @trisaratops-mcgee @subconsciouscollapse @hooked-on-penapascal27 @red-red-rogue @fellinfromthetop @drewharrisonwriter @vickie5446 @millerfan

"That's it baby, that's a good girl." Soft praises echo in your ear as you slowly sink down onto Joel's erect length. "Are you feeling all of me?"

"Mhm." Unable to speak as you concentrated more on adjusting around his cock. Twisting your face in an adorable way he couldn't resist leaning forward and trailing sweet lingering kisses onto your heated cheek and temple.

"Aw can you speak for me baby? Can you do that for me?" Keeping his voice barely above a whisper like he didn't want anymore to hear him.

"Joel please." Whimpering as you started to grind your hips back and forth making him chuckle at your eagerness.

"You like fucking married men? That turn you on?" He taunted you but it only made your cheeks burn up realizing he technically was still married. Soon as he filed for divorce he wasn't going to waste any opportunity with you since the tension was becoming so much it was affecting both of you mentally. "I've been waiting to feel this creamy cunt around my cock for so long."

He loved the feeling of your skin on his how soft you felt. The way that your body molded so easily into his perfectly. Joel almost felt bad for you watching your face contort each time you slowly and carefully sank down onto him.

"You're so fucking tight." Large hands handling the fat flesh of your thighs his thumb stroking your skin soothingly. Feeling so warm and so incredible deep. "Just never been fucked right."

Nodding your head unable to form any words as your hands gripped onto the collar of his shirt. Beginning to tremble as you flew your legs to raise yourself. Joel guiding your hips the whole time while looking between your connected bodies.

"Take it easy sweetheart. Don't want you to hurt yourself." Taking notice of how aggressive you were bouncing on him now. Even as his hands slide to your ass to squeeze them in warning. He didn't want you to over exert yourself and the moment is lost forever.

"I can do it Joel." Pleading with him and he couldn't help but smirk at how badly you wanted this. "You're so big."

"Fuck." He grunts before pulling your body down on top of his fully along the leather couch. Gasping as he lifted his knees up and started to pound into your tight pussy with no mercy giving you exactly what you wanted.

His lips warm and desperate as they peppered kisses along your neck and shoulder. While his hands kept a firm grip on your ass to help him leverage his thrusts. Growling into your ear with such animosity it had a shiver running down your spine.

"Yeah you fuckin like this huh? Dirty little girl like being fucked hard?" Hissing into your ear and in just mere seconds you're rapidly nodding your head, tears glistening in your eyes at the intensity. "Use that mouth like a good girl and tell me?"

"Yes Joel fuck it feels so good." Was all the words he needed to hear before he flipped you over onto your back unexpectedly his cock never slipping out. Grabbing your legs placing them over his shoulders, as he got back into the same rhythm.

Drilling into your sweet spot as he leaned slightly forward hovering his face over yours. Joel oozed confidence in every thing that he did whether it was just in general or sexually. The man knew the right things to say, and when to say them. The man was a professional in the sex department.

"Joel I'm so close." Warning him as your body started to shake a fire ignited in your stomach. Head tossed back in ecstasy as you struggled to hold on anymore. Both of you were chasing that sweet release, and Joel was more focused on you.

"Let go baby I'm right here." Cooing into your ear like he was telling you a secret. His deep and seductive tone sent you over the edge.

"Oh god I'm right there." Crying out as your orgasm was already swiftly approaching still extremely sensitive from your previous release. Joel looking up at your remarkable expression unable to look anywhere else. Loving that he was the one in control feeling like he held all the power in your pleasure, and it made him feel like a god.

Your senses heightened and overwhelmed not knowing how much longer you were gonna be able to last. Joel could tell that you were fighting to keep going, and he knew what would help you reach the finish line.

"Fuck sweetheart look at me." He instructed to which you followed as he reached a hand between your legs finding your puffy clit. Rubbing rapid circles along the nub making you scream with pleasure your nails scratching along his back surely leaving marks.

Your ribcage rising and falling with each quick breath. Hands falling down to your side feeling loose and numb. Stomach trembling from the resounding orgasm you just experienced. Your battered cunt was so sore from being stretched and abused. Feeling his hands gently caressing your trembling thighs as he stayed still inside of you.

"Fucked that pretty good so well didn't I?" His crude language had your thighs twitch, and you loved it all the same. Joel already knew the answer to the question, but he loved the reactions you would give him just for saying certain words.

“Too bad my wife didn’t walk in and catch us.” He joked and you couldn’t help but slap his arm at the comment, even though the thought kind of turned you on. “Sorry soon to be ex wife.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagines

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lazysoulwriter · 3 days ago

Text

in every line, i love you ── ✦

requested! thank you. ♡ | requests are open. content: age gap relationship, soft pedro insecurity, skincare fluff, vulnerability, emotional intimacy, gentle reassurance

He’s been quiet lately.

Not distant — not cold — just… softer. Less loud. Less teasing. The kind of quiet that curls in around the edges and leaves him staring a little too long at himself in the mirror.

You noticed it the other night, when he pulled away from your kiss too soon. When his hands lingered at your waist like he wanted to worship you but didn’t feel worthy. When he turned away from the mirror fast, like he didn’t want to see what you might see.

Tonight, he’s curled up on the bed, scrolling through his phone while you’re at the sink doing your skincare. You’re humming, bare-faced, palms still damp from toner, when you catch his voice behind you.

“Can I… join you?”

You turn around.

Pedro’s standing in the doorway, already in a worn t-shirt and sweats, eyes soft and hesitant.

“For skincare?” you ask, smiling.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. You always look so relaxed when you do it. Thought maybe… I could try.”

You nod gently. “Of course, baby. Come here.”

He steps close. You pat the counter so he can lean, and he does — hands gripping the edge like he’s nervous. You grab a clean headband and nudge it over his hair, pushing back the little grey curls that frame his forehead.

“You look very cute,” you say, voice light.

He gives you a crooked little smile. “Liar.”

You frown.

“Pedro.”

He exhales through his nose. “It’s just—” His fingers twitch against the counter. “I looked in the mirror earlier and thought… shit. You’re so young. And I’m just… not.”

You set the serum bottle down. Turn fully to him.

“Baby,” you whisper, stepping between his legs. “You think I don’t know how old you are?”

He huffs a laugh, eyes sad.

“You think I don’t love those little lines around your eyes? That I don’t melt every time I see your greys come in a little more?”

He looks down.

You tilt his chin up. “I love your face. I love you. Every version of you. Always.”

Pedro blinks a few times. Those big brown puppy eyes are glassy now, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper.

He nods.

So you do.

You dot serum along his cheeks, smooth moisturizer over the curve of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed when your fingers trace over his temples, when you press a kiss to the wrinkle between his brows.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur.

He opens his eyes again, blinking slowly, and gives you the softest smile in the world.

“Think you’re the only one who’s ever said that to me with this many wrinkles.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I think you get hotter every single day.”

His hands find your hips. His forehead presses to yours.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers.

You grin. “Then I hope I’m the last thing you ever see.”

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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beatrixpotteriamnot · 2 months ago

Note

would you ever do a dad!pedro x mom!actress smau?? xx 💖💖💖

PAIRINGS: Pedro Pascal x fem!reader

A/N: Love this request. I always have to think of a bit of backstory, so in this, I'm thinking they have been together for 5 or 6 years. Pedro is 50 and Y/N is 35, they are married They have 2 children, a 3-year-old and a newborn. Hope this lives up to what you wanted. Also send in any requests you might have.

yourusername

liked by pascalispunk, florencepugh, and others

yourusername: Oh yeah, I had a baby. Agustina Juliette Pascal, how we adore you.

tagged: pascalispunk

pascalispunk: This smile hasn't left my face since Lucas was born, by the way

yourusername: Can confirm

florencepugh: You guys make the cutest babies

pascalispunk

liked by yourusername, tololiver9, and others

pascalispunk: The last few weeks have been some of my favourite.

tagged: yourusername

view comments

yourusername: Me too, I love our little family

pascalispunk

liked by yourusername, grahnort, and others

pascalispunk: 7 years since we met, 5 years since we said I do, and 3 years since we became parents. I love you, Y/N Every day, I can't quite believe how powerful and strong you are. Happy Birthday, my love. Here's to a lifetime of love, documentaries, and teaching you Spanish.

tagged: yourusername

view comments

yourusername: Been trying to learn Spanish for 7 years, and all I know is Me gustaría una cerveza por favor. Love you

yourusername

liked by pascalispunk, popbase, and others

yourusername: First day back on set since having Agustina

view comments

florencepugh

liked by pascalispunk, yourusername, and others

florencepugh: Bumped into Mum and dad when I was in New York last week

view comments

pascalispunk: mum and dad love you!

yourusername: our first child tbf

#pedro x reader #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smau #smau

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lonely-ey3s · 1 month ago

Text

Heartlines | Chapter Six

pairing: harry castillo (materialists) x f!reader

chapter summary : You battle with self-esteem issues when you realize that Harry might be falling in love with you. Are you enough? Will you fit into his life? Perhaps when you're invited along to a family trip to the Maldives, you'll find out.

chapter warnings: fluff, Harry speaks Spanish (translations will be there), anxiety, self worth issues, self esteem issues, old money rich castillos, insecurities, mentions of a child having health issues, soft!harry, flirting, if I missed anything, lmk!!

word count: 9.3k

a/n: ya'll that new trailer that came out thursday for materialists - i will not survive... he looks so god damn good. ughh. enjoy 💗

also just a reminder! chapters will be every other sunday alternating ride or die !!

your feedback is very important to me, and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments, and likes. I secretly hope you like this story. 🤍

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune

Masterlist

The sunlight spilled across the bed in lazy golden ribbons, soft and slow, warming your bare shoulders beneath the sheets. You stirred first, still tangled in Harry’s arms, your cheek against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat the only sound you could register at first.

For a few blissful seconds, you didn’t move. You didn’t need to. His arms were still around you, one tucked low at your waist, the other lazily resting against your back, fingertips tracing idle shapes into your skin like they’d never stopped through the night.

Your lips curled slightly at the memory. His voice whispering into your skin. The things he said. The way he touched you like he already knew every part of you — not in a way that felt possessive or rushed, but like he worshipped you. Curious. Like he wanted to learn you all over again, just because he could.

And then… that moment.

"I’ll be right here, my love..."

He’d said it softly, almost as if to himself. Like it had slipped out in a moment of complete peace and vulnerability — unguarded and drowsy. A truth from somewhere deep in his chest, was spoken without filter.

You didn’t know if he meant it. Hell, you didn’t even know if he knew he said it.

And worse… you didn’t know what it meant. Not really. Not for someone like you — someone who’d been left, lied to, overlooked, or chosen only until the novelty wore off.

The warmth in your chest had spread fast the moment he said it… but now it mixed with a sting of fear.

It all felt so good. Too good to be true.

He’d been nothing but kind, nothing but steady — showing up in ways no one else ever had. And yet… that familiar whisper crept into your mind.

What if he doesn’t feel the same way when he’s fully awake?

What if you’re just a moment for him — something he’ll look back on and smile at before moving on?

What if you’re not enough again?

What if you’re not enough when he wakes up one day?

You hated how quickly your thoughts could spiral. How easily the doubt showed up to sit beside your hope, whispering, ‘don’t get comfortable’.

Harry stirred beneath you then, shifting slightly. You felt his hand press more firmly against your back, keeping you close.

His voice was low, thick with sleep. “Mmm, still here?”

“Still here,” you whispered, but it came out quieter than you expected — like you weren’t sure how long you were allowed to be.

He hummed softly and kissed your temple without opening his eyes. “Good.” his lips brushing your hair. “Then it wasn’t all a dream...”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and kept your cheek pressed against his chest, trying to hold onto the calm — the feeling of being wrapped up in him, protected, even if your heart felt too tender in your chest.

You pulled your head back to look at him, and the moment your eyes met his sleepy brown gaze, your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always did around him, slowly melting those anxieties.

He looked… happy. Unfiltered. Like waking up with you was something he hadn’t quite believed would happen.

“You’re staring,” he teased gently, voice still coated in sleep.

“I’m… admiring,” you corrected with a soft smile.

He grinned. “Different?”

“Completely.”

His thumb brushed your cheek as you hovered just above him. “This is… nice.”

You tilted your head. “Nice?”

He gave you a slow smile. “I’ve never really felt I’ve done this part right. The waking up next to someone I care about part.”

Your teasing faded into something softer.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing pretty well so far.”

He chuckled and let out a deep sigh, his arms wrapping around you more firmly. “You make it easy. You make me happy.”

You felt your heart squeeze, the words landing softly, deeply.

You moved up to lie beside him, looking up at the ceiling. “I still don’t think I’ve fully wrapped my head around this…”

Harry turned to his side, propping his head on one hand. “What part?”

“All of it,” you said quietly. “Waking up here. With you. Like this.”

His brow furrowed slightly, gentle concern tugging at his expression. He saw a small part of you that he saw when those walls were up — those walls he swore were all the way down, “You okay?” he kissed your shoulder ever so softly.

You nodded, hesitating. “Yeah. I just…” You searched for the right words. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is real. That something can be this good without… risk of it all falling apart.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. He just shifted closer, his hand finding yours beneath the blanket, fingers lacing through yours. “It’s real,” he said softly. “I’m real. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You turned your head to the side and looked at him, your chest tight and full all at once.

He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles and let out a quiet exhale. “Actually… there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Your heart jumped slightly, nerves flickering to life. “Okay…”

He hesitated — just for a second, before his tone turned light and hopeful.

“My parents’ 40th anniversary is next week,” he started. “Big family trip planned.” he pulled your hand up with his and played with your fingers, getting shy and nervous. “Maldives. Everyone’s going — my siblings, all the kids, the whole circus.”

Your brows lifted. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”

He nodded, fingers intertwining with yours. “It is. They rented this little resort — very chill. Private, beachside bungalows. Honestly, it’s rare we all get together like this.”

You watched him carefully, sensing where he was going. You remembered hearing the kids whisper about it yesterday, thinking they were being sneaky.

“I want you to come,” he said finally, eyes meeting yours.

You blinked, surprised — but your heart answered before your brain could.

“Really?”

“I know it’s big,” he said quickly, laying his head down and sneaking his arm under your neck and get close to you. “And I know it’s soon. And the whole family thing is a lot, especially mine…” He let out a nervous chuckle, lightly squeezing your hand.

“But after yesterday? After the way you were with the kids and made it through chaos, bedtime stories, and pillow forts… I don’t know, it just feels right. Like, I didn’t want you not to be part of it.”

He looked at you then, voice softening. “In truth, I don’t want to leave without you by my side.”

You looked down for a second, looking at your hand in his, processing the warmth building in your chest — the part that still wanted to question why you were so wanted. But the part louder — the part that believed him — was the one that answered.

You looked at him, smiling softly. “I’d love to come.”

Relief and affection broke over his face like sunshine.

You turned your body, reached to thread your fingers through the back of his curls affectionately. “But… I don’t have a passport...”

He chuckled and pinched your chin playfully, pulling you close. “Well, let’s get you one…”

You pressed your forehead to his, grinning. “Is it really that simple?”

“With me?” he murmured. “Absolutely.”

That flutter in your chest returned — not just because of his words, but the way he said them. Like being with him could be that easy. Like loving him… might not have to hurt.

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then your temple. “We’ll talk about it more later. There’s plenty of time.”

You nodded, nestling back into the pillows as he adjusted beside you, one hand trailing lazy paths across your bare thigh.

You both just laid there and admired each other. Memorizing eye color, making maps of each other's freckles, discovering dimples — falling in love with the little details that make each other themselves.

He hummed softly after a few moments, nudging your nose with his. “Speaking of. I was gonna make you breakfast in bed before you woke up, but someone woke up before me.”

Your brows lifted. “Really?”

“I’ve got a whole plan,” he said, shifting to sit up a little. “Coffee, eggs, something cinnamon if I can get fancy.”

“You cook?” you asked skeptically, even as you slid back slightly to let him move.

“Shockingly well,” he said, already climbing out of bed, tugging on the joggers he’d kicked off the night before. “Actually love it. It’s like meditation. But tastier.” He looked back at you and wiggled his eyebrows.

You giggled and propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him. “So I’m being spoiled?”

“You’re being courted,” he smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Stay here. I’ll bring you something delicious.”

He turned toward to leave the side of the bed, but before he could leave the bedside , you reached out and grabbed his wrist gently.

“Wait…”

He turned, brows lifted slightly in question.

“Five more minutes,” you said with a sleepy grin, tugging him back toward the bed. “Please?”

Harry hesitated a moment before his grin returned — wide and utterly smitten. “You’re going to be dangerous in the mornings before work, aren’t you?”

“Maybe…” you teased as you pulled him down, and he slid back into the covers with you, arms immediately wrapping around your waist again as you cuddled into him.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

You just laid there, wrapped around each other, legs tangled under the blanket, kissing slowly like the world didn’t exist outside these walls.

Eventually, you whispered against his lips, “You still planning to cook for me?”

“Eventually,” he murmured. “But you’re kind of hard to walk away from.” He cupped your cheek and leaned down to kiss along your jaw.

You smiled, curling into him. “Well that’s good to know…” You giggled, feeling his scruff tickle your neck as he leaned down a little more.

“Indeed it is,” he said, kissing your shoulder. “Because I think I’m starting to need this. You. Every morning.”

Your heart thudded again — softly this time.

After a few more minutes of lazy kisses and sleepy laughter, the two of you finally dragged yourselves from bed.

The kitchen was a warm haze of golden morning light and buttery air, soft music playing low from the speaker on the counter as you padded in barefoot, wearing one of Harry’s oversized concert tees and the faintest grin.

He was already at the stove — barefoot, shirt still rumpled from sleep, curls messy and perfect as always. The way he moved around the kitchen, flipping French toast in the pan, made it feel like you were watching something private.

He must’ve felt your eyes on him, because without turning, he smirked and said, “Careful, cariño. Keep looking at me like that, and we won’t make it to breakfast.”

You raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the island. “You can’t say that when you’re standing there looking like that. I can’t help myself…”

“Oh?,” he teased, reaching for the cinnamon. “Are you sayin’ you want me for breakfast, hermosa?”

“I wouldn’t mind a taste…” Then you hopped up onto the counter behind him. The cool marble made you shiver at first, but the way he glanced over his shoulder to look at you — his eyes dragging down your legs and back up again — made your skin warm back up instantly.

He turned the stove on low and a lid on the pan to allow the bacon and eggs to cook before he turned to the counter you were on where there was a cutting board, and started slicing strawberries.

He began to slice them like the knife was an extension of him, not needing to slow down or readjust. You watched in awe, but then you felt his hand reach for your chin gently. He turned your face toward him and leaned in, giving you a quick, sweet kiss.

Then another, this one longer.

He then pulled back and pressed one on your cheek, just to make you laugh, which you did.

You giggled as he brushed the tip of his nose against yours before going back to slicing like it hadn’t happened. “You taste sweet, baby…”

You hummed contentedly. “And you’re dangerous when you kiss me like that,” you teased.

“Hmm?” he said, licking a bit of syrup from his thumb. “Kiss you like what?” he acted innocent.

“You’re lucky you’re cute...” You tilted your head at him.

He paused for dramatic effect. “Correction: I’m lucky you think I’m cute.” He went back to the stove to tend the eggs and bacon.

You chuckled and reached over and stole a strawberry from the bowl, popping it into your mouth just as he flipped another slice of toast, quick so he didn’t see.

He moved around the kitchen to gather plates, mugs for coffee, and utensils to plate everything up. His hand slid behind your knee, squeezing lightly as he passed, another little touch that made your heart flip.

And then came the icing sugar.

He reached into the cupboard just above your head for a small scoop of icing sugar to dust over the toast.

He misjudged putting the bag back onto the shelf, and it fell, sending a soft puff of powdered sugar into the air — and directly onto you.

“Oh my goodness—!” You froze, blinking through the fine dust coating your hair and shirt.

Harry’s eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing. “Oh, shit, baby... You okay?”

You looked down at your powdered-sugar-covered lap and slowly narrowed your eyes, a giggle bubbling up. “You did that on purpose!”

“I swear I didn’t,” he grinned. “But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t kinda adorable.”

You reached up to wipe your cheek, but he caught your hand gently and used his thumb to brush some of the sugar away instead.

“You look like a powdered donut,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “My favorite kind.”

Your laugh turned into a squeal as he brushed more sugar onto your cheek deliberately, and you shoved him in the chest gently, playfully.

“Harry!” you giggled.

“Okay, okay,” he said, still chuckling as he leaned in to kiss the same cheek again. “Truce?”

“Truce,” you huffed, crossing your arms — even as you leaned toward him again, smiling.

He stayed close, his arms slipping around your waist as he stood between your legs, your powdered-sugar truce still hanging in the air like a secret only the two of you shared.

“You’re kind of a menace,” you murmured as you nudged his nose with your own, voice soft but full of amusement.

“And you’re kind of stuck with me now,” he replied, smiling as he moved to kiss just beneath your jaw — gently, almost absentmindedly.

You let your arms fall around his neck, your voice quieter now. “I think I could live with that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a flicker of something more serious in his eyes now — tender, unguarded.

“Come on,” he said, his voice roughened just a touch. “Let’s eat before I do something stupid and we forget we made breakfast at all.”

You chuckled as he helped you down from the counter, but he didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered at your lower back as he guided you to the table where he’d already set two plates and mugs of fresh coffee.

The two of you sat — barefoot, sugar-dusted, and completely smitten — across from each other in the golden light.

And for a few still, quiet minutes, it was just soft bites of cinnamon and strawberries, toes brushing under the table, and the kind of morning that felt like the beginning of something lasting.

Reader’s POV - 3 days later

The sun had just started to dip below the skyline as you walked the last stretch toward your apartment, phone pressed to your ear, tote bag slung over your shoulder, and your heart somewhere in your throat.

“…And then the kids dragged me into this full-on Barbie war with a lava monster and a wedding all in one,” you said breathlessly, trying not to laugh too hard. “It was absolute chaos. But it was… I don’t know. Kind of perfect?”

Lila’s voice on the other end was warm and amused. “Okay, so let me get this straight. The man not only introduced you to his family’s kids after, like, what? A couple of weeks? But you survived pillow forts, lava weddings, and tickle fights... and now you’re going on an important anniversary family vacation?”

“To the Maldives,” you groaned, letting your head fall back dramatically as you waited for the crosswalk light to change. “Who even lives this kind of life?”

“The Castillo’s do, and now — so do you,” she said, completely unbothered. “This is your life now. Spicy masquerade balls and island getaways with a smart, kind, sexy, charming, family-oriented man who brings you a different kind of flower every time he sees you.”

You blushed, stepping into your building. “When you put it like that, it seems so unreal… like I’m in some dream and need to be pinched.”

“Oh, I’ll volunteer! I’ll pinch you!” she joked.

You laughed, but it faded just a little as you entered your apartment and kicked the door shut behind you.

You dropped your bag by the door and walked toward your bedroom, grabbing your suitcase from the closet.

“I’m serious, though,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside it. “It’s all been so… fast. It’s not just that he’s good to me. He’s good. Like, heart-of-gold, make-you-laugh-when-you-want-to-cry, actually-listens kind of good.”

“And that’s scary?” your sister said gently.

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Terrifying. Because I keep waiting for the catch. Like… how could someone like him want someone like me?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end before she said, “You’ve got to stop saying that.”

You ran your hand over your face, voice softening. “But what if his family thinks I’m just some— I don’t know. Some ‘nobody’. Some girl who’s trying to weasel into their rich family. What if they think I’m a gold digger, or not good enough, or—”

You stopped, eyes stinging suddenly, hands pausing over the half-zipped suitcase. That old wave of panic rose hard in your throat. Your breath hitched.

“I’m not polished. I’m not… expensive. I can’t walk into a beachside bungalow and charm a bunch of lawyers and CEOs… or whatever they are. I’m just… me.”

And there it was — the fear, sharp and familiar.

“Sweetheart,” your sister said, her voice steady now. “You’re not some accessory. You’re not some ‘plus one.’ You’re someone he chose and continues to choose every day since you’ve met.”

She softly sighed. “I’ve known Harry for a long time. He isn’t someone to bring just anyone around his family… especially those kids. He invited you because he wants you there. He doesn’t invite you to the work party, or to spend the day with his little niece and nephew because you’re a nobody. Honey — he’s inviting you to his life. You’re everything to him.”

You didn’t know what to say, you still felt that knot fester deep down.

She tsked, and her tone became somewhat sarcastic. “You think a guy like that lets his nieces and nephews fall in love with someone he’s not serious about?”

You stared at your suitcase, barely packed, your clothes still half-strewn across the bed. Your mind not picking up the sincerity in her talking points.

“But what if I get there and they look at me and just… know I don’t belong?” you muttered.

“Then you smile,” she said softly, “and remind yourself that you do belong. Harry knows you belong… and not because of what you wear or your job — but because he looks at you like you’re his whole world.”

There was a slight pause, then she chuckled, “You knocked that man out of orbit, sweetheart. And no one’s done that to him in the 8 years I’ve known him...”

Your chest felt like it might crack open. You closed your eyes, gripping the edge of your suitcase with one hand.

“Lila… I think I’m falling for him, and that absolutely terrifies me…” You whispered.

“I know,” she replied simply. “I knew before he even took you to the ball,” she shrugged.

“That late-night phone call was the spark… I saw it.” she smiled.

You let out a watery laugh, and she let you sit with that quiet for a moment, breathing through the spiral.

Eventually, she said, “You’re going to be okay.”

You nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I just needed to hear it.”

“Call me when you finish packing, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hung up and set the phone down, looking at the mess of clothes on your bed — and then at the corner of your dresser, where Harry’s sunflowers still sat in their vase, soft and yellow and blooming.

‘Everything’s going to be ok…’

Harry’s POV

The dinner table was full of roasted chicken, garlic potatoes, and the unmistakable hum of family energy. Glasses clinked, stories of the last week passed back and forth, and laughter rose in waves across the room. It was comfortable, familiar — except for the knot forming in Harry’s stomach.

He hadn’t told them yet; he hadn’t mentioned it even to Simon. He needed to just get it out to everyone, all at once. Rip off the band-aid.

He waited until the plates had been cleared, until dessert had been passed — sticky fig cake and scoops of ice cream melting just a little too fast on the warm plates.

He cleared his throat in an attempt to gather everyone’s attention. “I, uh… I have something I want to tell you all...”

Everyone quieted. His mom looked up with soft curiosity, his dad with his usual patient interest. Simon was already grinning like he knew exactly where this was going.

Harry ran a hand through his curls and sat back slightly. “I invited someone to come with me to the Maldives next week.”

Simon’s grin widened. “It’s about damn time you said something.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Could’ve let me have the moment?” He lightly joked.

“I’m just excited,” Simon said, holding up his hands with a soft smile. “She’s great. And the kids adore her, haven’t stopped asking when they’ll see her next.”

His mom’s eyes lit up. “Oh, mijo, is this the same girl you mentioned last week? Y/N?”

Harry nodded, heart thumping, but steadied by her tone. “Yeah. That’s her.”

His dad leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “The one the little ones have been pretending is already family?” He chuckled.

Harry gave a short laugh. “That’s the one.”

His dad smiled, nodding thoughtfully. “Well. That’s good. Important that they take a liking to her.”

Simon chimed in, more serious now. “She’s the real deal, Dad. Kind, quick, funny as hell. Handled Savannah’s full Barbie monologue without blinking.”

Harry laughed, remembering. “And the lava monster. Can’t forget that.”

“She didn’t even flinch when she got tackled by both kids at once,” Simon added. “Took it like a pro.” He nudged his brother's arm gently, offering brotherly support.

“Ella suena encantadora,” (She sounds lovely) their mom said, voice warm. “I can’t wait to meet her properly.”

And then Anne spoke.

Her voice was slow, sharp at the edges. “You’re seriously bringing her? The girl you met at Ben’s wedding?”

The air changed, just slightly.

Harry looked across the table. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Anne blinked, like it was obvious. “Because this is our parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary trip, Harry. It’s not just some casual beach getaway for your little girlfriend and her bikinis to get her ‘tan on’. It’s family.”

“She’s important to me. She’s more than my ‘little girlfriend,’ she’s someone I care deeply about,” he said simply.

Anne’s nose crinkled. “You’ve only been seeing her what, a few weeks? This is all happening so fast. You barely know her.”

“Fast doesn’t mean wrong,” Harry replied, voice still calm.

Anne scoffed. “Right. And how convenient that she just happens to be single, and suddenly very available to hop on an all-expenses-paid luxury trip. Come on… sounds a lot like a—”

Harry sat up straighter, getting visibly more irritated. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” she went on, undeterred. “We’ve all seen you fall headfirst before. But this? Inviting someone like that to a family event?” She looked to their parents as if expecting backup. “It’s a lot.”

Harry’s dad cleared his throat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Anne, ya es suficiente.” (That’s enough)

She blinked like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“We raised you better than to make assumptions about someone you’ve never met,” their mom added gently, but firmly. “If Harry wants her there, she’s welcome. Fin de la historia.” (End of story)

Anne stared at them like the world had tilted.

“She’s different,” Harry said then, quieter now, but certain. “She’s not like anyone I’ve brought home before. She’s not after money or status.”

He smiled to himself as he messed with the hem of his shirt, thinking about you. ”Hell, she’s more likely to tease me for a designer label than admire it.”

Their dad let out a short chuckle. “Sounds like someone I’d like.”

“She grounds me,” Harry continued. “She’s down-to-earth, kind, smart, gentle, funny. Being with her feels… easy. Like, I don’t have to prove anything. Like I can just be.” He looked up at Anne, then looked at his parents, his eyes telling just how serious he is.

Simon nodded, offering a quiet, “It shows, hermano.”

Anne didn’t speak again, just pressed her lips into a thin line and avoided everyone’s gaze until the conversation slowly shifted.

Dessert finished, wine glasses emptied, and chairs began scraping back from the table — but Harry wasn’t done. He found Anne in the hallway a few minutes later, pulling on her coat.

He approached her, voice low. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She sighed and turned, arms crossed. “If you’re going to yell at me—”

“I’m not,” he said. “I just want to say… I get it. I know it’s fast. I know it might look crazy from the outside. And I appreciate you worrying about me.”

She looked at him, guarded.

“But she’s different,” he said again. “I’ve never felt more sure about someone. I… I think she’s it for me.”

Anne’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me you love her already?”

He didn’t blink.

“Yeah. And what if I do?” he said. “What’s wrong with that? Dad always says, ‘Cuando es el indicado, simplemente lo sabes’ (When it’s the one, you just know.)” He exhaled. “And I know with her.”

Anne said nothing.

Harry stepped back slightly. “All I’m asking is that you try, give her a chance. I know you’ll love her.” He gave a small smile before he softly sighed.

“Just— don’t make this trip harder than it needs to be. Don’t be cruel or unkind. Because if you say something to hurt her, or embarrass her, or make her feel unwelcome…”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “I won’t just be disappointed. I won’t forgive it.”

She looked away.

Harry didn’t wait for her to answer. He just walked back into the house where the warmth still lingered — and where he was already planning how to hold your hand on the plane, on the beach, through every moment — because this wasn’t just some fling.

This was real.

And he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it.

The house had finally quieted. The dishes were done, the lights dimmed, and the voices of his family had faded into background memory. But Harry couldn’t settle. Not with the way Anne’s words still echoed somewhere deep in his chest.

He stepped out onto the back patio with his phone in hand, the evening breeze cool against his skin, and sat down on the wooden bench near the garden.

He just needed you.

He hit Call before he could second-guess himself. The phone rang twice before your voice picked up, soft and familiar.

“Hey, handsome.”

His shoulders eased at the sound of you. “Hi, querida.”

You smiled quietly on the other end — he could hear it in your voice. “Dinner done?”

“Yeah. Just finished.” He slumped down on the bench and looked up at the sky. “Thought I’d call.”

“I’m glad you did,” you said gently. “How was it?”

He paused. “Honestly? It went well. My mom is thrilled you’re comin’. Simon wouldn’t stop talkin’ about you. The kids have apparently already written you into the family tree.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from you. “I’ll need a framed certificate, then.”

He chuckled, but when the laughter faded, there was a longer silence.

And then you spoke again, your voice more tentative this time.

“Can I say something a little… vulnerable?”

He sat up straighter. “You can say anything.”

There was a pause before your words came out — slow, like you were still working up the nerve.

“I’m really nervous, Harry.”

His smile faded gently, not with worry, but attention. “Tell me why, mi vida.”

“I just… I don’t want to be this awkward outsider on a big family trip,” you murmured. “Like, what if they all look at me and wonder why I’m there? I’m not glamorous or polished. I don’t come from money or… or know how to sail or whatever your family probably does on these getaways.”

He bit his cheek, holding back a smile at the last bit, but the emotion in your voice kept him quiet.

“I’m not flashy. I’m not… impressive,” you said softly. “I’m kind of just… normal. A little boring, maybe. I keep thinking about your parents, your sister… what if I’m not enough for them? What if I don’t fit?”

Harry let the silence stretch for a second longer before speaking, his voice low and steady.

“You know what I told them tonight?”

You didn’t answer, but he knew you were listening.

“I told them you’re grounding,” he said. “That you’re funny, and smart, and the most genuine person I’ve had in my life in a long time. That being around you makes me feel more like… well, me — than I have in years.”

You let out a breath, shaky and small.

“I know it’s easy to spiral,” he added. “But you’re not boring. You’re not ‘just’ anything. You are enough. In every single way. You don’t have to impress anyone — especially not my family. You already have.”

“They haven’t even met me.”

“They know you through how I talk about you. And trust me, I don’t shut up.”

You gave a soft, bashful laugh, and he grinned.

“Besides,” he added, “you’re not going in cold. Simon and the kids adore you. My mom is already picking which seat to save next to you on the plane.”

“I want this to go well,” you whispered. “I want to make a good impression. I want this to matter for all the right reasons.”

“It already matters, mi vida,” he said, and his voice was so certain it made your chest tighten. “You matter. And I’m so damn lucky to have you.”

You didn’t speak for a moment, and he didn’t push. When your voice came again, it was quieter.

“Thanks for saying all that. I don’t always… believe it. But I’m trying.”

He nodded, even though you couldn’t see him. “That’s all I want. Just stay close, and we’ll figure it out… together.”

Another pause. Then, teasing: “So… did you save me any of that fig cake you’ve been goin’ on about?”

Harry let out a relieved laugh. “You’re lucky you’re my girlfriend or I’d lie and say no.”

You giggled. “Oh, only because I’m your girlfriend, huh?”

His voice dropped a little. “Yeah. Well, and I may have other reasons...”

Another silence. A little weightier now — warm, not heavy. Like something unspoken passed between you.

Then, softly: “You also saving me a seat on the plane?”

“Always,” he said. “And a spot next to me at dinner. And a side of the bed. And about a thousand kisses to make up for the ones I’m missing tonight.”

You smiled quietly. “You’re gonna have to fight me for the best side of the umbrella at the beach.”

He chuckled. “Bring it on.”

The conversation softened from there. You exchanged sleepy goodnights and sweet nothings until your voice began to slow, and you said you should get ready for bed.

“You’ll call tomorrow?” you asked softly.

“Always,” he said again. “Sleep well, cariño.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

He waited until you hung up, just to hear that last click, then leaned back on the bench, smiling up at the stars.

Yeah… He was all in.

Even if the words hadn’t been said yet, they were on the tip of his tongue.

And when the moment was right… he knew he’d say them.

A few days later

The Uber slowed as it approached the gated entrance of the airfield — sleek, quiet, and so unlike the typical chaos of a commercial airport. You glanced out the window in confusion, brows drawing together as you took in the polished tarmac, the gleaming private jet parked not far off, and the luxury SUVs parked neatly in a small lot.

‘This can’t be right. Can it?’

The driver looked back at you with a half-smile. “This is the spot, sweetheart.”

You blinked, double-checking your phone. “I thought we were going to the airport?”

He gestured toward the jet. “Looks like you are. Just… the fancy side.” He grinned. “Flyin’ private, are ya?”

Your heart kicked in your chest. ‘You’ve got to be kiddin’ me…’

Of course Harry had mentioned the trip. He’d mentioned family, sun, sand, and a packed resort with bungalows. But this? Flying in a private jet? He left this part out.

You stepped out slowly, tugging your duffel over your shoulder, fingers tight on the handle of your roller bag. The air was cool, kissed by early morning breeze, and your breath clouded slightly in the quiet.

And then, you saw him.

Harry was near the trunk of one of the SUVs, laughing as his dad tried to get one of his mom’s oversized cases out of the back. Simon was wrangling bags as well. His mom handed Savannah a juice box and knelt down to comb little Harry’s hair back gently. It was barely 7 a.m. and already buzzing with easy, practiced chaos.

But none of that mattered, because as soon as Harry glanced up and spotted you…

He froze — then broke into a grin so wide, so bright, it made your stomach flutter.

“There she is!”

You didn’t have time to process the soft twist in your chest before he was crossing the tarmac toward you, fast and purposeful. And when he reached you, he didn’t hesitate.

He dropped your bag and pulled you into him with a soft “C’mere, carino,” wrapping his arms around your waist as you fell easily into his chest. You barely got a “Hey, you—” out before his lips were on yours.

The kiss was warm, slow, and grounding — not rushed, not over-the-top — but full of something that had been building over the past few days of missed calls, late texts, and long hours apart.

You sighed against him, melting just a little.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Hi,” he murmured.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling so big your cheeks ached.

“Surprise!” he chuckled nodding toward the private jet.

“You didn’t really think I was gonna make you fly coach?” He grinned.

You laughed, swatting his chest. “You didn’t tell me we were flying private.”

“Would’ve ruined the surprise,” he said, smirking. “Besides…” He tilted his head toward the plane. “There’s even a bed on board. Thought you might want a proper nap since you had an early morning...”

You rolled your eyes, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here you are.” he teasingly jabbed.

Before you could fire back, a small voice shouted, “Y/N!!” — and you turned just in time to see little Harry running full speed toward you, light-up sneakers thumping across the tarmac.

You barely had time to drop down lower before he launched into your arms. You caught him easily, hoisting him up with a laugh.

“Whoa! There he is!” you grinned, hugging him close. “I missed you, little man!”

“I missed you too,” he said, clinging to your neck. “Are you sitting by me on the plane?”

“I’d love to,” you said, pulling back just enough to ruffle his hair. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Harry stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching you with that look again — the one he always gave you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Full of something soft and deep.

His mum noticed too, nudging her husband as they both looked on. Simon smirked knowingly.

Harry shook his head slowly, still staring at you. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You blushed under his gaze, even as little Harry wiggled in your arms and pointed toward the jet. “There’s snacks on there! And games too!”

You laughed. “Well, that settles it. Best travel buddy ever.”

As you set him down, Harry came over and laced his fingers through yours again. “C’mon,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the chaos.”

His hand never left yours as he led you across the sun-washed tarmac. Despite the early hour, the air held a crisp brightness that sharpened every sound — Savannah squealing over snacks, luggage wheels humming over concrete as staff loaded up the plane.

And then, ahead, you saw her.

Lucia, Harry’s mom, stood in a pair of white linen pants and a lavender scarf looped loosely at her neck. She looked elegant in the effortless way some women are — like grace came built into her bones. Her eyes, however, were what struck you first: warm, sharp, deeply knowing.

She stepped forward with a smile already blooming. “You must be Y/N.”

You managed to nod before she pulled you into a soft, firm hug, motherly in a way that made your chest ache.

“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you,” she said as she pulled back, brushing a stray piece of your hair from your face in a gesture so natural and effortless it startled you.

“I— thank you,” you said with a bashful smile. “I’m so happy to be here. It’s so lovely to meet Harry’s family.”

Lucia turned slightly, glancing at Harry with a soft smirk. “Ella es preciosa. Y te mira como si fueras el único en la habitación. Ya veo por qué la miras como si fuera la indicada.”

You didn’t catch every word, but the look on Harry’s face told you enough — cheeks flushed, his jaw shifting like he was trying to stop a grin.

You squinted at him, amused. “Care to translate?”

Harry cleared his throat. “She thinks you’re pretty.”

Lucia arched a brow, then leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in your ear, “What I said was: you’re beautiful. And the way you look at my son… I see why he looks at you like you’re the one.”

You felt your breath catch slightly and your cheeks turn warm.

Lucia pulled back, smiling knowingly. “We’re so glad you came, hermosa.”

Just as you were recovering, another voice spoke up beside you.

“Rafael,” said Harry’s father, extending a hand. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and a quiet steadiness to him. Harry and Simon had a likeness to him, and both possessed his calm energy.

You shook his hand, firm and warm. “It’s so nice to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure’s ours,” Rafael said, his voice low and calm. “Harry hasn’t stopped talking about you since your sister’s wedding.”

Harry cleared his throat softly, becoming shy. “Papa...”

“I’m just saying,” Rafael said, nudging his son. “When someone brings peace back into your life, you don’t let them go unnoticed.”

You blinked at that, your chest tightening a little as the words landed deeper than you expected.

Simon approached with a smile, and after quick hugs and greetings, he gestured toward the girl standing behind him.

“And this is Lindee,” he said gently. “She’s still waking up, but she’s excited to meet you.”

Lindee gave a small wave, her oversized Taylor Swift hoodie swallowing her hands. Her sneakers shuffled against the pavement, hiding behind her dad’s leg.

You crouched to her level, letting the buzz of introductions pause for a moment. “Hi, Lindee.” You lightly tugged on her hoodie, her attention falling towards your hand. “You know, that’s my favorite album of hers...”

Her eyes lit up instantly, moving out from behind her dad.

“You like Taylor Swift?” she asked, more hopeful than surprised.

“Love her,” you grinned. “I almost wore my ‘Cruel Summer’ shirt today, but figured I should try to look a bit more professional…” You put a hand by your mouth and said quieter to be silly, “You know, meeting your grandparents and all.” You winked.

Lindee giggled. “I made friendship bracelets for the plane…”

“Okay, that officially makes you the coolest person I’ve met all week.” You smiled.

Harry watched the exchange with a soft smile — a quiet wonder in his chest he couldn’t name yet. But before he could say anything, a hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Camina conmigo, hijo...” (Walk with me, son) Rafael murmured.

They stepped aside, leaving you still chatting with Lindee.

“She’s kind,” Rafael said, glancing back at you, then back at his son. “Easy to talk to. Grounded.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice rougher than he intended. “She really is.”

Rafael nodded slowly. “She’s good for you. And you’re better with her.”

Harry swallowed and looked at the ground, then up again. “Thanks, Papa.”

“I mean it,” Rafael added. “It’s a good thing she’s coming.”

Harry nodded again, and for the first time since Anne’s words back at the house, he felt a real sense of calm settle in his chest.

When he returned to you, he found you mid-laugh with Lindee and his mom. You looked up at him with warmth in your eyes that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

He slipped an arm around your waist and murmured, “You’re fitting in a little too well.”

You smirked, resting your hand on his chest. “Isn’t that what you were hoping for?”

He grinned. “You’ve always exceeded my expectations.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, brushing your lips against his cheek. “Lucky you, then.”

Just as the luggage was being finished and everyone was prepping to board the plane, you glanced toward Harry, then reached into your personal tote and gently pulled out a slim, carefully wrapped box.

The wrapping paper was simple — elegant gold with a white ribbon tied neatly at the center. You turned toward Lucia and Rafael, your nerves fluttering just slightly.

“I hope this isn’t overstepping,” you began softly, stepping toward them, “but I wanted to give you something. I know this trip is for your anniversary, and I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

Lucia blinked, clearly surprised. Rafael straightened beside her.

Harry turned, hearing your words and pausing mid-sentence with Simon.

You held out the box. “It’s nothing extravagant, just something small I thought you might like.”

Lucia exchanged a glance with Rafael and took it delicately, untying the ribbon.

Inside was a hand-bound leather photo album, the cover embossed with their initials and the number “40” in small gold lettering. Inside, you’d added a few pages to start — a photo of Harry as a kid that Simon had posted recently (you’d secretly saved it), a printout of the photo from the aquarium you snuck where Harry sat by the touchpool with the two kids in his arms, and a note written on the first page:

“Here’s to forty years of love, family, and the stories still to come. Thank you for letting me be a small part of the next chapter.”

Lucia’s hand came to her heart as she smiled down at the book, tears just beginning to glisten in her eyes. Rafael ran a finger down the spine of the leather, his lips twitching into something warm and stunned.

“Oh, mi amor…” Lucia whispered, looking at Rafael, then Harry, then finally you.

She turned to Harry and said softly, her voice full of emotion, “Mira lo que ha hecho. Qué mujer tan considerada.” (Look what she’s done. What a thoughtful woman.)

Harry blinked, his throat tight. “You got them a gift?” he whispered to you, stepping closer.

You shrugged gently, cheeks flushed. “Just a small thing. I figured, if I’m going to crash their family trip, I should at least show up with a peace offering.” you lightly joked.

He laughed softly, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and burying his face briefly in your shoulder. “You continue to amaze me…”

Lucia stepped forward and hugged you again — firmer this time. “This means the world to us, cariño.”

“It was nothing, really,” you murmured, surprised and touched by how moved she seemed.

Rafael smiled, looking to Harry. “Has encontrado uno bueno, mijo.” (You’ve found a good one)

Harry chuckled, clearly flustered and proud all at once. “Yes, I have.”

Lucia wiped her eyes and turned to Simon, showing him the album. Lindee leaned in next, already asking if she could help add things to the empty pages.

The jet hummed softly around you, the world outside reduced to a blue-white haze as clouds stretched endlessly beneath the wings. The interior was dimmed to a gentle glow — overhead lights soft, windows partially closed to lull everyone into mid-flight calm.

You’d dozed for a while, curled up next to Harry, your head tucked against his shoulder as he ran lazy fingers up and down your arm. But eventually, as the hours passed and your internal clock had no idea what time it really was, you stirred.

Harry kissed your hair. “Hungry?”

“Only if there’s more of that lemon shortbread your mom snuck into my breakfast box.”

He smirked. “I think there’s a secret stash in the galley. I’ll go check.”

He left you smiling in your seat as you stretched and looked around — most of the family asleep or reading. Simon snored faintly two rows up; Savannah sprawled over his lap. Little Harry was curled up with a tablet in oversized headphones next to Liv.

You wandered forward and found Lucia and Rafael sitting at a quiet table near the front, mugs of tea between them, a deck of cards half-played and forgotten.

Lucia looked up and waved you over. “Come sit, cariño. You must be bored of my boy by now.”

You laughed softly and eased into the open seat. “Never. But I figured I’d give him a break from being used as a pillow.”

Rafael chuckled. “He always was a cuddler. Even as a kid.”

You smiled. “He still is.”

Lucia leaned her cheek into her hand, observing you. “So tell us — what do you do when you're not making our son moon-eyed and distracted?”

You blushed, laughing. “I uhm, I work at the Ritz. I’m the manager there. I’ve been there for roughly 8 years… but I’ve worked mostly in hospitality outside of there.”

“Ah, I knew I recognized you from somewhere! I must’ve seen you when I stayed there for a conference last year,” Rafael noted, sipping his tea.

You smiled and nodded politely, “That’s likely a possibility.”

Lucia said warmly. “We’d love to know more about you — especially what you see in our boy.”

You blinked, then laughed softly as you looked down at your hands for a moment shyly. “That sounds like a trick question.”

Rafael smiled behind his teacup. “It might be.”

Lucia’s gaze softened. “We’re not interrogating you — just curious. He’s been different since meeting you. Lighter.”

You swallowed and tucked your hands in your lap, thoughtful for a moment. “Honestly, it all started pretty unexpectedly. We were paired up — best man and maid of honor at my sister’s wedding. I didn’t really think much of it at first, but... from the second we were walking down the aisle together, he wouldn’t stop making me laugh.” You blushed to yourself thinking back to that day.

You looked at them, face bright. “And after that... we just never really stopped talking.”

You smiled to yourself. “It’s like we found each other at the right time, even if we weren’t looking.”

Lucia exchanged a quiet glance with Rafael, who gave a nod of approval. She leaned in just a little. “And what do you like about him? Besides his marrón grande eyes, of course.” She lightly joked.

You laughed and glanced down shyly. “He’s... generous. In many ways… not just with items or gifts — though, I won’t lie, I love the flowers.” you looked up at them, your cheeks pink.

“Flowers?” Rafael asked.

You nodded, blushing deeper. “He gets me a new kind of flower every time we’ve seen each other...”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling too much. “When he first surprised me at work, he asked me what my favorite flower was and well — I’m not sure of what type is honestly — so he’s just made it a point to get new ones each time, try to find my favorite.” you looked down shyly and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I’ve never had that before. That kind of steady attention. He listens. He shows up.” You looked up at them again, eyes soft, adoring.

Lucia smiled slowly, a warmth building in her expression. “That sounds like our Harry.”

“He makes me feel safe. And chosen. And I don’t think I realized how much I needed that until him.”

There was a pause, one you didn’t quite know how to fill.

Then Rafael asked gently, “And what do you want from this? From being with him?”

You blinked — surprised by the question, but not offended. If anything, it felt like a test you didn’t mind taking.

You met their eyes, your voice quiet but sure. “I want something real. I’ve had enough of things that burn out fast or fall apart. I want someone to build a life with. To laugh with when life gets messy. To be vulnerable with when I’m scared or insecure. I want a partner who chooses me on the hard days too — not just the good ones.”

You looked between them, letting the truth of it hang in the air. “I want someone to grow a life with. And I feel like I could have that with your son…”

Lucia’s lips parted slightly in surprise, her hand moving to cover Rafael’s on the table. Rafael nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful, pleased.

“Thank you,” Lucia said softly. “For being honest.”

“Ella es buena,” (She’s a good one), Rafael said to his wife, then looked at you. “We’re glad you’re here… happy to get to know you more this week.”

After the two of them shared a couple of embarrassing stories about Harry, they stood to excuse themselves, leaving you to sit alone.

Across the aisle, you spotted Lindee sitting alone at a small table near the window, her bracelet kit open, a few colorful strands already knotted halfway.

You stood and walked over. “Need a co-designer?”

She looked up and brightened immediately. “Yes! I was trying to make one that says ‘Vacation Mode’ but I think I spelled ‘mode’ wrong.”

You sat beside her, laughing gently. “Let’s fix it. You handle the colors, I’ll do the letters.”

For a while, it was just thread, whispered jokes, and concentration. But eventually, her fingers slowed.

“Do you think I’m gonna ruin it?” she asked suddenly, voice low.

You blinked, surprised. “Ruin what?”

“The trip. The whole thing. Everyone’s being really nice and careful, but it’s like they’re all waiting for something bad to happen.” She swallowed, looking down at her hands. “After the seizure… everyone has been so nervous… so scared.”

Your heart tugged. “I’m sure that was a scary thing to have happen,” you said softly. “But not because you did anything wrong. No one’s waiting for something bad to happen. They’re just trying to take care of you, make sure you’re safe.”

She nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be the reason people miss out.”

You shifted slightly to face her. “Lindee, listen to me — this trip isn’t about perfection. It’s about family. And families show up for each other no matter what. If something happens, it won’t ruin anything. It’ll just remind everyone why being together matters.”

Lindee sniffled quietly and nodded. “Okay.”

You smiled and held up the bracelet. “Also, look at this masterpiece. You’re a creative genius!”

She grinned, wiping her cheek. “Want one that says your name?”

“I’d be honored. Can I make one that says yours?”

Unbeknownst to you, Harry had returned with shortbread in hand and paused when he spotted the two of you. Lucia stood just behind him, equally silent.

They watched as you reached over to tie the bracelet around Lindee’s wrist, brushing her hair back gently.

“She’s a good one mijo,” Lucia whispered.

Harry nodded, his throat thick. “Yeah. She really is.”

Lucia leaned close, voice even softer. “So... it’s serious, isn’t it?”

Harry glanced sideways. “Yeah. It is.”

Lucia smiled knowingly, then tilted her head. “Your brother says you think she’s the one, is that true?”

He blinked. “Yeah, I believe she is”

Lucia glanced up at him. “We asked her what she wanted from this — from being with you.”

He tensed slightly. “Mamá…” he groaned. The last thing he wanted you to feel was interrogated.

“She wasn’t rattled,” Lucia said gently. “She didn’t flinch. She said she wanted something real. Steady. That she wants someone who chooses her even when it’s hard.”

Harry’s heart pulled taut in his chest.

“She said she wants to build a life with someone. Said she feels she could have that with you, mijo.”

He exhaled shakily. “She said that?”

Lucia nodded and leaned up to kiss his cheek, then cupped it like she did when he was a child. “She loves you, mi amor. Maybe she hasn’t said it out loud yet, but she’s already living like she does.”

Harry swallowed hard, his gaze locked on you now. The way you laughed when Savannah dropped her bead tray. The way Lindee leaned on your shoulder, and you didn’t move an inch.

“Yo también la amo, mamá.” (I love her too) He said simply, surely, with zero hesitation in his voice.

He looked back at her, smiling, his eyes softening, “Robaría la luna y las estrellas para ella.” (I’d steal the moon and stars for her)

She nodded and cupped his other cheek to hold his face in her hands. “

Just by that sentence alone, she knew you were the one, and her son had found the one.

Harry smiled, hearing you giggle with Lindee, and stepped forward, dropping the shortbread onto the table between you and Lindee.

“How are my two of my favorite girls?”

You looked up and grinned. “Good.”

Lindee held up one of the bracelets in the small pile. “We made one that says ‘Uncle H’ for you!”

He chuckled, sitting down next to you. “I love it! Can I make one too?”

Lindee gleefully handed her supplies over and helped her uncle make his own Taylor Swift while the two of you educated him on the Eras of her albums.

He sat there with a twinkle in his eye and truly couldn’t be any happier.

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

no pressure taglist: @thebeautytoyourbeat, @sarahhxx03, @blahkateisdone, @sunnytuliptime, @pedroscurls, @docharleythegeekqueen @pedritosgirl2000 @fancyyoouu @greendudenumber7, @queenofdisaster12 @axshadows @mystickittytaco @yxtkiwiyxt @alltheirdamn @punkshort @stylesispunk @iheartoldermem @mermaidgirl30 @mountainsandmayhem @sp00kymulderr @brittmb115 @poor-unfortunate-soul9927 @spacelatinos4life @pedge-page @pedropascalfab @readingiskeepingmegoing @sincerelywithheartt @youusunshineyoutemptress @lilasskicker-23 @melsuns00hine @wencontre @pedrofan @suzysface @orcasoul @misstokyo7love @bitchyfestnight @galotti7 @locaparapedrito @harrysrosetatto @bluenightmarepost @mukeovernetflix @pascal-mynightlyobsession @maryfanson @pasc4lfuzz @fancypeacepersona @crlsummer @iloev-heris @picketniffler @christinamadsen @persiar9 @harriedandharassed @copperhalfcent

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08luvmailz · 3 months ago

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★ ﾟ๑ BABYSITTING MISHAPS ୧ ⊹ ࣪ ❪ Sep, 10 2018 ❫

❪ 𝖶𝖧𝒾𝖲𝖯𝖤𝖱𝖲 ❫ babysiting oscar isaac's child with pedro pascal, leads to a couple of mishaps ─⠀ fluff ꒰ 🧾 ꒱ when life give you tangerines , 9th member of girls generation ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ i just imagine pedro being the fun uncle + based on a tiktok i forgot to like it but if you found it , its based by that

The house had settled into that sweet, heavy quiet, the kind that only comes after a storm of baby giggles, tiny tantrums, and runaway sippy cups. Oscar asked the two to take care of their sweet baby boy ─Eugene, as he and his wife, Elvira would take a four day escape in Maldives.

It wasn’t that the two of them didn’t love Eugene—they did—but they had to admit, there was a bittersweet sting to the thought of spending four days in the same house as a one-year-old and they wanted to go to Maldives with the couple. And that sting was layered with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be able to escape the diapers, the flying food, the midnight feedings, and the inevitable burping messes.

Pedro’s eyes softened, and he exchanged a knowing glance with Amari. “It’s like sending a piece of our hearts away,” he murmured. Oscar, seeing their hesitation, just chuckled and ruffled Pedro’s hair. “You guys got this. He’s a good boy, promise.”

Pedro shot him a dramatic, pleading look, his eyes wide like a puppy who’d been left out in the rain. “I know he’s a good boy... but the kid is like a tiny human tornado. He gets it from you,” Pedro grumbled, his voice half-joking, half-serious.

Amari laughed softly, shaking her head, but she knew they were in for a wild ride. “We’ll survive,” she assured Oscar, her smile gentle. “You deserve it." She smiled as she glanced at Elvira's knowing look of guidance and nervousness, "Just—please don’t forget to text us every hour or something. I might need a sanity check.” Amari laughed at her and hugged her to soothe her with ease.

In that moment, the gravity of the task mingled with humor, creating an atmosphere of shared responsibility and gentle teasing. As the couple instructed many things like, don't forget to place the toys after they were played or take the trash everyday. Pedro wrapped an arm around Amari’s shoulder as they watched Oscar and Elvira disappear down the hallway, their departure marked by the soft clack of shoes against the wooden floor.

The pair settled into the new rhythm with a promise to keep Eugene safe and loved—a soft, playful pact. And even as they braced themselves for the challenges ahead, they couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected gift of time: time to explore each other’s company in the peaceful silence of a house that, even for a few days, belonged entirely to them.

And with that, the two were off, leaving Pedro and Amari standing in the doorway with Eugene, now tugging at Pedro’s shirt as if trying to drag him toward the living room. “Alright, little man,” Pedro said, settling Eugene on his hip. “Guess it’s just you and me now.” Amari glanced at Pedro, her lips curving into a playful smile. “I’m starting to think I was the third wheel in all this, huh? You two look pretty cozy already.” Pedro laughed as he rocked eugene, him and his quirky dances.

“Great,” Amari sighed, but she couldn’t help but laugh. “Guess the real babysitting has begun.” Oh how wrong she was with those four days of suffering (joy).

The house had settled into that sweet, heavy quiet, the kind that only comes after a storm of baby giggles, tiny tantrums, and runaway sippy cups. Pedro was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest. Amari curled beside him, a soft blanket tangled around her legs, her head tucked neatly into the space just under his collarbone like a bird finally at rest.

The baby—finally full after a heroic battle involving mashed bananas and half a tub of yogurt—was waddling sleepily across the carpet, tiny fists rubbing his eyes.

Pedro chuckled under his breath, brushing a hand gently through Amari's hair. "You’re dangerous, you know that?" he murmured, voice low and syrupy, vibrating against her ear. "Feeding him, singing to him... I think you just stole his heart." She smiled as her fingers lazily draw circles, playing with the hem of his shirt, "Takes one to know one, oppa," she whispered, teasing.

Pedro tipped his head back against the couch, a soft, rumbling laugh spilling from his throat. His other hand reached for the baby, guiding him into his lap effortlessly. The little one collapsed against him like a drunk sailor, safe in the fortress of Pedro’s arms.

For a moment, Amari just watched—heart aching sweetly at the sight. Pedro, his dark curls messy, his smile softened into something golden and unguarded. The baby breathing deep against his chest. A slice of forever tucked into an ordinary night. But then—a low, subtle ache bloomed in her stomach, quiet but persistent. Hunger, threading itself through her senses. She hadn't eaten since early afternoon, too swept up in bottles, bath times, and tiny socks scattered across the floor.

The thought of food made her almost giddy with longing, but she swallowed it down with a small, guilty breath. She didn’t want to disturb the softness of the moment, the gentle miracle of it, Pedro warm beside her and Eugene breathing in even, delicate puffs.

Instead, she leaned into him for one last second, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell, the faint scent of him — baby milk, baby soap and something uniquely Pedro.

Pedro hummed low in his throat, not quite awake but feeling the loss of her warmth as she untangled herself slowly, like pulling free from a dream. She smiled faintly, standing up and padding quietly down the hallway.

Her footsteps were soft as secrets on the hardwood floor, the ache of hunger growing, but she said nothing. As she glanced at pedro still rocking little eugene to sleep she went to the counter where she placed — lotte cheetos as she grabbed it b her fingers slowly, lifting it and tucking in her waist. It was easier to slip away quietly, to pretend that everything she needed was as simple as stepping into another room.

꒰ ྀི ᥩ few minutes later

Finally, peace. Finally, her long-awaited Cheetos.

She placed her phone carefully against the white cabinets of the small pantry, the smell of leftover food and sweet spices lifting into the air, cradling her in a quiet kind of joy. Her figure, still wrapped in the cozy nighttime air, was bathed in the low kitchen light, all soft edges and sleepy laughter.

She hit record without thinking, planning to send the video later to Elvira—just a secret between girls.

With a sigh almost reverent, she opened the bag of junk food. Her hand, pinkie raised like a quiet crown, raced upward. The crinkling of the plastic was thunderous in the small space. The scent hit her first—cheese dust and pure happiness.

She popped the first Cheeto into her mouth, biting down with a dramatic crunch that echoed off the pantry walls. Bliss, pure bliss as she closed her eyes and leaned near the wall, but just as she was reaching for a second piece—

The door creaked.

The door just creaked.

Her eyes widened, as she was in mid bite glancing at her side was Pedro—hair a mess, socks dragging on the tile floor, looking like he had just survived a war. His eyes locked onto the bag in her hand, wild and wounded. Not that he is helping in his hand was a pair of a large pizza slice he stole from the counter.

A heartbeat passed. Then two.

And without a word, the two laughed uncontrollably, bumping into each other with such clumsy force that it sent them spiraling into another fit of breathless giggles, their shoulders colliding, hands scrambling for balance. Trying—desperately trying—to muffle the sounds, both of them pressed their palms against their mouths, bodies folding in half from the effort.

"You’re unbelievable," Pedro wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes—but his hand was already buried deep in the bag, fishing out another Cheeto with that same desperate, childlike glee. Amari elbowed him gently, breath hitching, laughter bursting in soft little puffs through her fingers as she fought for air. She clutched her side, trying not to collapse entirely.

"Close the door, close the door," she whispered, sharp and giggling, jabbing him with her knee as he just stood there uselessly, grinning like an idiot.

Pedro, still half-wheezing with laughter, flailed backwards and slammed the pantry door shut with his foot. But as his foot slammed accidently.... created a loud thud, waking the child.

unfortunately, it didn't save the peace.

Both of them froze, eyes wide, mouth agape.

A tiny wail echoed outside as amari hit his shoulder with her palm, "You woke him up, go there" as amari whispered at pedro, smacking Pedro's chest with the back of her hand. Pushing him slightly at the door, as Pedro just looked at her, half-terrified but with an adoring grin on his face. “Babe, you slammed the door,” he hissed, voice cracking.

"I did not, give me the pizza. You gonna walk in there and soothe him" She said as she lunged at the pizza. Pedro snatched the slice higher over his head like a playground bully, grinning wickedly.

"You're taller, go," she hissed, jumping for it, her fingertips just grazing his torso. "You’re lighter, you're faster, go," he countered in a whisper-shout, side-stepping like they were in a clumsy waltz inside the cramped pantry.

Another wail. Louder now.

"Pedro!" Amari gasped, scrambling to catch the tumbling cereal box while trying not to slip on a rogue Cheeto. He looked at her in dismay, as he breathe and bracing himself like a soldier.

"Fine! Fine!" Pedro gasped, surrendering the slice into her hands dramatically, like a knight handing over his sword. "But if he asks for me, tell him I love him." Pedro gaze lovingly at the pizza as she pushed his face with her palm, "Just go!" She murmured at him while giggling.

As Pedro closed the door with a pained look, mouthing exaggerated curses to the heavens, Amari caught the soft click of it latching and turned, breathless.

Her phone was still recording.

The screen caught her in perfect imperfection — hair a little mussed, cheeks flushed from laughter, cradling the stolen slice like a war prize. She grinned, triumphant, the kind of grin that creased her eyes and made her look half her age.

Without missing a beat, she lifted the half-eaten pizza to her mouth and took a huge, unbothered bite, cheeks puffing as she munched happily.

After a while, she sent it to the couple who is still in maldives and a couple of pictures of their sweet baby boy eugene.

She didn't know that after this, Elvira just tag her on her instagram story and she and pedro would never live the day after this.

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foxlorests · 9 days ago

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𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER SIX: THE BALLAD OF HARRY AND CATHERINE

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 9.4k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI, P in V Sex, 2 Rounds, Size kink, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum as Lube, Creampie 2x, Doggystyle, Missionary, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Age Difference, Catherine being submissive, Harry losing control, first fight, hospital visit, FLUFF, Slow Burn, Yearning, Mutual Pining, Soulmates, Romcom Vibes, Domestic Harry Castillo, Billionaire Harry, Harry learning how to fall in love the human way, Emotional vulnerability

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Dating life of Harry the billionaire and Catherine the composer.

AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Idealists Masterlist

Months passed the way good months sometimes do—quietly, quickly, tucked beneath the folds of routine. Not without its challenges, but gentler, more bearable when the days were stitched with shared meals and familiar faces. Harry worked. Catherine spends her days helping the studio. Sometimes, they occupied different orbits entirely, but they found their way back to each other more often than not. His reason was mostly because she needed to help him eat the groceries she bought before it went bad.

He had started sending for her. Not every day, but enough to call it a pattern. His driver would pull up outside her building like clockwork, and she’d emerge—always with something in hand, a coffee or a tote bag or a violin, talking on the phone, laughing. She never asked for the car, and when he offered to get her her own driver, she declined immediately.

“Mr. Williams is fine,” she had said, slipping into the seat and adjusting her coat. “He’s kind. And besides, he’s saving up for something. He could use the extra hour. I think his wife’s expecting again.”

Harry had blinked. “How do you know that?”

“I ask.”

And she did. She asked people things. How their day was. How they slept. If their mother was still in the hospital. She remembered names and faces and allergies. Mr. Williams—a scary looking man with a small scar on his lips—once told Harry that driving her around was therapeutic. “Talks my ears off,” he’d said fondly. “She reminds me of my youngest niece. One that thinks too hard about the world.”

Harry had laughed at that. “You’ll get a bonus.”

He said he would have done it without the bonus anyway.

It was astonishing, how quickly people opened up if you just knew where to look. Williams needed the extra cash, yes—three kids and another on the way. But more than that, he needed someone like Catherine in the car with him, asking questions that made the day pass easier. Something that Harry knew nothing about.

Catherine had that effect. A kind of soft interference in people’s patterns. She didn’t always mean to fix things, but sometimes she did. Harry saw it on a random Thursday near Times Square, when she stopped walking to listen to a busker with a bent trumpet and a torn glove. Some teenagers were heckling, loud and careless. She gave the musician a fifty and an address—her studio—and told him to come record something, no charge.

“You can’t run a studio giving free services to everyone,” Harry had said later, not unkindly.

“I know,” she said, tying her hair back. “But he’s talented. Think of it as an investment.”

And then he understood. Funny how she could speak his language so easily. She made the world a little more tolerable. For people like him and Mr. Williams. For Emma, too.

The night Catherine played a private concert for Emma’s anniversary—Harry wasn’t there, but he heard all about it the next day. Emma came into work glowing. She showed him videos, grainy but still lovely, of Catherine in a small personal fancy dining room that they rented, playing an impromptu rendition of a song Emma’s husband used to sing when they were first dating.

“She played it after hearing it once,” Emma had said, eyes a little misty. “And she made us laugh, too. I think she’s magic.”

Harry had nodded slowly, then asked her to send him the pictures—just the ones of Catherine. He said it was for some press kit. It wasn’t.

Catherine still spent nights at his place, though not every night. And most nights ended the same way—him watching her fall asleep mid-sentence, her hair splayed across his pillows, her breath soft and even. She’d kiss him, and they’d kiss some more, and sometimes her hand would slip under his shirt and stay there, and his heart would race, his body would follow. But eventually she’d fall asleep against him, warm and tangled, and he’d lie there, wanting her in ways he didn’t even have words for.

He had taken more cold showers in the last month than he had in the last decade. But he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t have changed it for anything.

Because something in the way she reached for him without thinking, curled toward him in her sleep like he was a constant, made it all worth it. Because this—this was a rhythm he could live with.

And even in his frustrated quiet, he knew what it meant. He was falling in love with her.

Not in the impulsive, blindfolded way of his younger years. Or the way he usually gets attached to someone, with his head and his needs. But slowly. Precisely. Differently than his past experiences when the urgency of getting old got to him. It was a slow process, especially for someone his age, but he didn’t really care. He did it happily. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there had never been any other outcome.

The first two months were nearly over before either of them noticed. Not because the days went fast, but because they were full. Appointments. Rehearsals. Meetings.

Catherine’s documentary deal was set to begin—her first screen project. She’d turned down films before, but this one felt right. A quiet, poetic piece from the BBC, part of a larger series about the universe. She’d read the project aloud to him once, on the couch, bare-legged and wrapped in his sweater, and he remembered thinking that only she could make gravitational waves sound romantic.

They decided to have a night out before the chaos began. A dinner. A real one.

He took her to Emma’s husband’s restaurant. It was fancier than the usual places he took his girlfriends. There were multiple utensils, arranged according to a specific etiquette that most of his regular girlfriends wouldn’t know, even the upper middle class. It was the kind of fine-dining place that required serious reservations, or at least knowing someone important—which, of course, Harry did. But he hadn’t ever bothered to go before. Not with anyone.

She noticed.

“Why haven’t you been here before?” she asked, between sips of wine. “I know it’s hard to get a table, but a couple weeks' wait isn't the end of the world. You could’ve asked Emma ages ago, or one of your colleagues. I’m sure you have business with important people.”

He folded his napkin with unnecessary care. “I guess I just didn’t like the hassle of putting my name on waiting lists.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t like romantic dinners?”

“I do, but not the hard ones.” He paused. “Not ones that required waiting.”

Her eyebrow rose. “What about your previous girlfriend?”

He took a sip of water before answering. A beat too slow. That slippery territory again. Still embarrassing.

“I guess I haven’t really bothered before,” he said finally. Or wanted to, he thought. “A multi-course meal isn’t just for anyone.”

He didn’t tell her that he used to take women to the same three places on rotation—quiet but forgettable to him. He liked women who thought a couple hundred was expensive. It made him feel like he exceeded expectations by just avoiding food truck meals. Conversations kept surface-level. Nothing that stuck. Nothing that lingered. He wanted the romance just enough to get by, to make them stay. He’d take them to a somewhat fancy place and they’re already looking at him like he’s amazing, like part of his charm is his money. He didn’t mind. Love had felt like something abstract and theatrical then.

“Besides,” he added, “this is to make up for our first date.”

Catherine smiled. “I love that burrito truck. It’s seen me at my worst.”

He chuckled.

Back at the penthouse, it was late but neither of them were tired. They talked for a while—feet on the coffee table, glasses still half-full—until the conversation drifted to early years. He told her about the time he’d somehow earned a B in high school art by charming his way through a final presentation. Claimed his poorly drawn still life was a commentary on irony in postmodernism. The teacher had blinked at him, probably too tired to argue.

“I had no idea what I was talking about,” he said. “Still don’t.”

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. He liked making her laugh. Probably more than he should.

And then, maybe out of some buried insecurity, he asked if she would get bored of him. If it was strange to date someone who couldn’t tell a C major from a D minor. Someone who, despite his power and polish, couldn’t really understand what it meant to be moved by your own creation.

“You think I pick people based on whether they can do art?” she asked, grinning, her voice soft in the quiet.

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

The pageant conversation happened by accident. A thread pulled too lightly, and suddenly it unraveled. One moment they were teasing each other over bad yearbook photos, and the next they were watching old videos of Catherine—aged somewhere between seven and ten—answering questions on a televised stage, her voice small but oddly composed. A pink sash, a tiara, a winning smile that looked practiced.

Harry hadn’t expected to find it so endearing. The clip was buried deep online, grainy and compressed, dug up through some obscure archive website with buffering issues. Catherine was red-faced the entire time, fingers clutching the edge of the couch cushion as if it might help her disappear. She kept insisting it was awful. She claimed her voice was too squeaky, her dress ridiculous, her walk stiff. But what Harry saw was a child who already knew how to charm a room. Articulate, even then. Witty in a way that didn’t feel coached.

“You won,” he said, softly. “Don’t know why you have to be so embarrassed.”

She rolled her eyes and reached forward to close the tab before the video could finish. He didn’t fight her on it—but he bookmarked the link. He’d watch the rest later, when she wasn’t looking.

Later that night, they were brushing their teeth together when her sister called, a picture of a woman who looked a little bit like Catherine but with darker hair glowed on the screen. Jane. The name flashed on the screen just as Catherine was finishing rinsing. She answered it without hesitation, putting it on speaker like Harry was already in the fold—just another pair of ears in the room, welcome to whatever family mess came through the line.

Jane’s voice was sharp, slightly amused. “Heard you accepted a movie deal.”

“It’s a documentary,” Catherine said, mid-spit.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not a movie,” she corrected. “It’s for the BBC. They’re interviewing Ashoke Sen.”

A pause. Then a scoff. “Like I know who that is.”

Harry tried not to laugh.

“I’m with Harry,” Catherine said, grabbing a towel to dry her face. “Say hello, Harry.”

“Hello.”

“The boyfriend, huh?” Jane said, too smoothly. “Heard a lot about you, Harry.”

They talked about some other stuff too, mostly about family. Harry trailed to his bedroom, half listening.

“Anyways, Jane, It’s late here and I’m having a sore throat. Plus tomorrow is my first day doing the soundtrack, so this is my last chance to get a really good rest.”

When she closed the phone, Harry already went rifling through his medicine cabinet, returned with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“For your throat,” he said simply, holding it out to her like it was nothing. “You have to drink it again tomorrow. Next time you feel sick, even just a little, you tell someone. Alright?”

She paused. Looked at him for a beat longer than expected.

Then nodded, quiet, and took the pill. He watched her slowly, making sure she really did drink it. He then took the glass and went out again to refill it, to put it on her bedside table— at least the one he assigned to her.

She stood in the bathroom doorway, sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her hair was half-damp, soft at the ends. She looked at him the way she always did—like she was trying to memorize him.

Harry waited, silent, the way he often did with her. Some words had to arrive on their own.

“I like you, Harry,” she said.

He smiled, slow. “Well, I should hope so.”

But something lingered behind her voice. A shadow of guilt, maybe, or melancholy. She’d said earlier how emotional she was about tomorrow—how work would consume her, how her schedule would change. That she hated missing things. Her friends, her studio. Him. There was something about knowing what was coming that made her softer tonight. Like she needed to hold onto something.

She stepped toward him and kissed him. Lightly, at first. A cautious hello, a silent sorry. Then she kissed him again. Deeper. Longer. The kind of kiss that said she’d been thinking about this all day. Her mouth tasted like peppermint. Her hands touched his jaw, the side of his neck, slow and certain.

He kissed her back and found her pulse with his mouth, just under her ear. She inhaled, shallow.

“Thank you for being so patient with me,” she whispered.

He laughed under his breath. “Hasn’t been easy.”

Her laugh pressed against his skin. Then she kissed him again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her hands curled into the back of his neck, her breath a pattern he already recognized. Familiar and new. He groaned before he could stop himself.

“You’re trying to torture me,” he murmured.

She smiled, full and amused. Jumped a little into his arms, light as she always felt in moments like this. He caught her easily, carried her a few steps toward the bed. Their routine.

He laid her down to his bed.

“I want you, Harry,” she said.

His heartbeat stopped. He stared for a moment, eyes refused to blink, dark with desire, looking down at her on the bed. His frame caged her in.

“I want you—”

“Don’t say that,” he told her quietly. “Not unless you really mean it.”

She looked at him. No blink. No hesitation.

“But I do,” she said. “I think about you all the time. I’m going to miss having you around.”

“You're not going anywhere,” said Harry, giving her cheeks kisses. “I’m going to visit your studio everyday. Check if you’re still alive or not.”

“Everyday? That’s an awful lot of time, isn’t it? You’re not busy?”

“Everyday.”

He kissed her again—soft, and long, and grateful. She was starting to kiss desperately, clinging to him harder than she had ever done before.

“Please, Harry,” said Catherine, her eyes dark with lust.

He looked the same way, but he’d argued his feelings were more intense. It was long bottled up and stored away, waiting for her to start the fire. “You don’t need to beg, sweetheart. My beautiful Catherine.”

His hands trailed her body, braver than he ever was before. He touched breasts, slowly at first, then rougher when she approved with her moans.

“I wanted you so much. Would’ve waited a lifetime,” he said. He took his shirt off slowly, then hers. She was eager, raising her arms then wrapping it around him again.

“I’m sorry it took so long. I wanted you too,” she said, bringing him for a kiss again.

He groaned. “Don’t say sorry.”

She moaned, and the sound woke something so guttural inside him that he stopped.

She kissed him still, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going too fast,” he said, his breathing heavy, inhaling more of her smell that somehow travelled down to his crotch, making his length hard, wanting to be inside her.

He was desperate. Oh so desperate. How long had he wanted this? So long, so long he wanted to touch her, to be inside her. To hear her moan as she writhed under him. The thought was too strong, traveling through his body like electricity.

“I’m not a virgin, Harry,” she whispered.

“It's not that,” he said hurriedly.

“I’m on the pill. Just started last—”

He groaned, stopping her words.

“No, it's just… I don’t think I can hold back, sweetheart.” He winced at the surge of feeling. How pathetic he sounded.

“You don't have to.”

It took a few seconds for the words to settle. Then Harry took off the rest of their clothes, and his hand moved rougher, faster. Took off her bra in a hurry, her panties with the same urgency. He touched her there, felt the wetness and groaned again.

“So wet, Catherine,” he said, his voice unfamiliar. Lower.

He touched her clit, his fingers moving in slow circles.

Harry loved touching her, making her sigh. It made him look at her in a different light, like she was older than she is. And when he touched her, he felt intoxicated. His fingers caressed her velvety insides, hot and wet. She was, simply, the most beautiful woman in the world. He’s not exaggerating. Her curves, entirely woman. Soft, lovely.

His lips trailed down her collarbone, then lower to her breasts. He took one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently before biting down softly. She gasped quietly as he moved lower still, kissing her stomach and hips before settling between her thighs.

Harry buried his face between her legs, his tongue licking up her slit before finding her clit. He sucked hard, making her arch off the bed. He was hungry for her taste and sounds. Her moans always urged him on. His tongue worked her with skilled precision, each lick and suck more intense than the last. His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her pinned down as he ravaged her.

“Fuck, Catherine”, he muttered against her. “Tastes so good.”

She moaned, a low sound that made him harder, had him searching for more friction. He groaned against her clit, the sound vibrating through her sensitive flesh. He knew he was pushing the limits of his own control, but he couldn't stop. He needed more of her sounds. More of her taste. His mind repeating the name Catherine like a prayer.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upwards to hit that spot deep inside.

Catherine let out a sound. The sound of her nearly screaming his name, but somehow lost in thought, like she felt too much pleasure she forgot. It nearly made him lose it. His fingers went faster, and faster.

He growled low in his throat. A sound of pure primal need.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her thighs as he moved back up her body quickly. “You’re killing me, Catherine.”

His cock pressed against her entrance.

“I want you too,” he said, desperately. “So much.”

Without waiting another second, for fear of his growing insanity, he pressed the head of his cock against her soaked entrance and pushed inward. Harry's mind went blank, his pulse inconsistent. It was, simply, the tightest, warmest cunt he ever felt. It made him forget all the others. He was sure nothing came close. He wondered how he went so long without it.

He took his time, savoring the feel of her tight heat enveloping him inch by tortuous inch. Once he was fully sheathed, he paused, his breath coming hard and fast against her neck.

Then in an effort to not pounce her immediately, he bit her neck, sucking, making a mark. He couldn’t even focus on her breath, didn’t even notice when her hands trailed around his back, urging him to move. He stayed there for a minute, holding himself back despite her moans. He couldn’t be too rough, even if he wanted to. Maybe someday, when they were both desperate for each other. But not now when he was sure his needs excelled hers. When it nearly clouded his control.

Harry began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that made her back arch off the bed.

He filled her up slowly, inch by inch, watching as she took him perfectly. He was overwhelmed by how good it felt. How tight, how it squeezed his cock almost painfully. It was a hard fit, but it didn’t matter. He liked the feeling. Revelled in it. It was hot, wet, and perfect. Frankly, he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

She was caressing him, as if urging him to go on. Her soft hands went from his shoulders to his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he finally said.

With a sound of pure desire, he began to move gradually faster. His hips slammed into her with brutal force, each thrust designed to take her to the edge and beyond. He fucked her harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur.

She begged, repeating the word “please” but never got to the end of the sentence. There was something about her voice, the way she said it that made Harry hungrier. She was so polite, so soft in her request. And although he told her not to beg, he loved it. Loved the way she said his name like a prayer, as if her desire is close to anything he ever felt for her.

His thrusts became punishing, almost violent. He watched as her breasts bounced with each snap of his hips.

He knew he wasn’t being gentle anymore. He couldn’t. His body took control, claiming her hard and deep like he always wanted to.

Her moans filled the room, pushing him further.

His large hands found her breasts, squeezed it roughly, thumbs rubbing her hard nipples. He leaned down to capture a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he continued hammering into her. His balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. He was grasping the last bit of control he had left, fucking her like a wild animal.

He switched between her breasts, lavishing them with equal attention. His teeth grazed against one sensitive nipple, making her gasp.

“Such beautiful breasts, sweetheart,” he growled, pinching one nipple between his fingers while he continued to suck the other. His hips still hammering.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. I can’t control myself, I’m sorry.” He went back to her mouth, kissing her again.

Her erotic face looked up at him, her brows furrowed, her voice softer, “It’s fine. I want you to.”

Those words were his undoing. He groaned so hard, his deep voice finally out from its restraints. Somehow, he thrusts faster. If his bed wasn’t expensive, it would’ve made a sound, would’ve moved with them and banged the walls. Internally, he cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet, focus on her body. Catherine, though, seemed to enjoy it. She didn’t mind that he went harder. Even better, she moaned right into his ears. The sound became louder when he groaned too. It was like a song, harmonizing, except it was erotic, filled with need.

His balls tightened, warning of his impending release. He squeezed her breasts roughly, sucked on her neck, marking her with hickeys.

Harry's body was a landscape of hard, coiled muscle beneath her trembling fingers. He could feel her hands. She mapped every ridge and valley, committing it to memory. He did the same, more out of need than to urge her. He explored the soft, yielding expanse of her skin. His hands roamed, possessive and hungry, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He cupped her breasts again, thumbing her nipples into aching peaks, before trailing lower, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.

"Fuck, Catherine," he groaned, his voice rough with desire, "You're exquisite. Every inch of you." He settled between her thighs, his hard length pressing against her slick folds, making her gasp. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Needed you."

She moaned louder.

"You feel incredible," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe and making her shudder. "Like you were made for me. Made to take my cock so perfectly." He began to move again, his thrusts deep and powerful.

Catherine’s fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails leaving red crescents in his skin. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper. Harry obliged, pounding into her with a fervor that stole her breath. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and their mingled moans and cries of pleasure.

Harry felt her tightening around him, her inner muscles clenching, as if close. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring her to the peak, to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. He was close, so fucking close, and he could tell she was too. He reached between her legs, finding her clit again and rubbing it furiously as he pounded harder and harder.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart. Milk me dry. Squeeze me, just like that,” he said, urging her on.

Catherine let out a sharp cry as she came undone, her body shaking beneath his as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her. His name came out in a desperate moan as he felt her pussy clench around his cock.

That squeeze of her release did something to him. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he found his own release. He let out a loud roar, his hot cum shooting into her pussy. He kept coming. His balls were emptying completely inside her.

Harry collapsed on top of her, still buried deep inside. His heavy breathing filled the room as he tried to catch his breath. His softening cock remained inside her, still leaking cum. God, he felt like he was a few decades younger.

“You did so well. Such a good girl,” he whispered against her neck.

“I could still feel you,” she whispered. “Your cum is so warm.”

He felt her warm breath on his neck and her squirming body against him. His soft cock twitches inside her, still sensitive. He presses a kiss to her neck, then her lips, swallowing her heavy breaths. He remained buried inside her, not ready to pull out just yet.

After some time, Catherine squirmed some more.

A deep groan escaped his throat as his cock started to harden again inside her, slowly. Some of his spent leaked from her, making a sound that sounded too erotic. He tried to tune it out, think of anything but how it good it felt to be inside her.

“Stop, Catherine,” he whispered against her lips, but his hips moved involuntarily, thrusting slowly this time. “You’re making me hard again,” his hand gripped her hips, trying to somehow stop it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because she needed the rest.

He looked at where they were joined. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the slight amount of blood on her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” he said apologetically. “You're sure you're not a virgin?”

Catherine, still finding it hard to speak, whispered, “I’m sure.”

He hissed, looking down at the mess they made. His thick length was almost fully inside her. He withdrew slightly, watching his shaft coated with her juices and a little blood. He was supposed to pull all the way out, but instead he pushed in slowly again. It was arousing, watching her pussy clung to him. He watched as some of his cum from a few minutes ago went down to his balls. The sensation made him want to thrust again.

She was so tight. Tighter than any woman he had ever been with.

“I want you again,” he said and winced as he tried his best to halt any motion.

She moaned, her eyes half-lidded. He couldn’t tell if she was tired or if she wanted more too. Then she squirmed again, and that did it for him.

"Fuck, Catherine," he growled softly, "you're so goddamn tight." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her and making her gasp. "It's like you were made for me, molded to take my cock, aren’t you sweetheart? To take every fucking inch of me. You can take me, can’t you? You’ll stretch just for me, hm?"

“Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “I can take you, Harry. I’ll be good.”

“Good girl,” he said. “So eager to please.”

Harry leaned down and sealed her lips with his in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers. He devoured her moans and whimpers, swallowing them greedily as he began to move faster, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room again, spurring him on as he lost himself in the exquisite feel of Catherine's body beneath him.

"That's it, baby," he panted harshly against her ear, "Come for me. Squeeze my fucking cock with your perfect little cunt. I want to feel you come undone again. It feels good, doesn’t it?"

“It does,” she said hurriedly, nodding. “You’re so big. I’ll stretch for you. It hurts so good, it feels so good. I want you deeper. Please, Harry.”

Harry agreed but too busy with ecstasy to say so, almost laughing with relief when she said it.

He flipped Catherine onto her hands and knees, his large hands gripping her hips tightly as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the head of his cock pressing insistently against her dripping entrance, ready to plunge back inside her welcoming heat. With a swift, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside her, making her cry out in a mix of pleasure and slight pain.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, pausing to let her adjust to the depth and girth of him stretching her open. "You're so tight like this. I can feel every inch of your little pussy clenching around me. You like it hard, sweetheart?"

“Yes, please, Harry.”

He began to move, his hips rolling in a deep, sensual rhythm as he held her hips steady. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside her, stroking that special spot that made her knees shake. His balls slapped against her clit with each thrust, the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room yet again.

One hand reached up to tangle in her hair, gripping it lightly as he pulled her back against his chest. She was smaller than him, yet still fit perfectly. His other hand slid around to her front, finding her swollen clit and rubbing it in tight, quick circles. Harry could feel her getting closer to the edge, her pussy fluttering and clenching around his pistoning cock.

"That's it, my good girl," he growled in her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine, "Come on my cock. Milk me, sweetheart. Good girl. So wet. Soak me. Tighten, just like that. Yes, just like that."

His words were filthy, dirty, and oh so effective. They pushed Catherine over the precipice, her body convulsing and shaking as a massive orgasm ripped through her for the second time that night. She screamed his name, a guttural, primal sound of pure ecstasy as her pussy clenched down on him like a vice. The sensation was too much for Harry, and with a roar, he slammed into her one last time before exploding, his hot seed spurting deep inside her spasming channel.

They collapsed together onto the bed, Harry's weight pressing Catherine into the mattress as they both struggled to catch their breath. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as the aftershocks of their intense coupling subsided. Harry pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, letting her finally rest.

⊹

Harry had never known anyone to disappear quite so completely into their work. Not the way Catherine did. She didn’t just work at the studio—she lived there. Morning coffee gave way to late-night tea, which bled into caffeine-fueled dawns. She existed on crackers and adrenaline. When her hand began to tremble, she brushed it off—this happens when I forget to eat, she’d said with a smile. He didn’t find it amusing.

So he made a point by bringing her food. Had asked for her manager’s number to keep track of her when she’s not answering.

A bag dropped off at odd hours. A thermos. A warm pastry in the morning. A full dinner in a box, even if it was eaten cold. Sometimes he sent Emma, always with the excuse that he was running late, but never because he forgot. It became a habit. A quiet rhythm. Nourishing her had become the most important part of his day.

Her replies slowed. A text here, a missed call there. Sometimes silence altogether. He could’ve taken it personally, but he didn’t. He knew the pattern. She usually doesn’t answer when she’s with the whole orchestra. When she’s too preoccupied with other people. He knew how she worked, now that he knew her.

So he came to her everyday. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Even if it was just for a few minutes. Even if he stood at the edge of the room while she adjusted microphones or ran through a melody again and again until the sound was right. He always made time, because there was always time, if you looked for it. Although, that hadn’t been the case before her.

During spring, when she was supposed to be done, the word done lost its meaning. The BBC sent back notes—two tracks needed to be redone at some parts— higher or lower or more mellow in the parts they needed it to be. At first, she handled it. Smiled. Shrugged. The usual. But then she stopped sleeping properly. Stopped leaving the studio at all. The notes had burrowed in. Perfection became an obsession. He watched her slow down between takes, sometimes staring at the same page for twenty minutes, searching for something only she could hear.

She didn’t complain, but he saw the shift— in the way she tucked her knees into the studio chair, in the clutter around her, in the quiet frustration that lived in her shoulders. She was usually very neat.

Their first fight came during that period of time. Partially, it came from sleep deprivation and cheap takeout. From too many nights curled up on the studio couch, too many cold coffees reheated twice. It also came from a bump on her wrist that had been growing for a few days, under the skin like a second bone trying to form.

Harry walked in just as Talia, her manager, raised the book.

He didn’t register it at first—just the sound of voices, laughter maybe, and then that strange, high-pitched urgency he recognized as Catherine’s voice. He moved fast. His hand caught Talia’s wrist mid-air. The book stopped inches above Catherine’s arm.

She looked up at him, annoyed. “Stop, Harry. I need it to get fixed fast.”

He didn’t answer her right away. Just looked at the bump. It’s not red, it just looked like her joint got bigger in size. Though he noticed how she winced when she moved it. That was enough proof that she was in pain.

“That’s enough, Catherine,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

“But I have to finish this song. And it’s hurting. I can’t concentrate—”

“You’ll finish it later.”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m so close. Just one more day. You don’t know how hard it is to get it right. I can’t get the harp to sound like it should—”

“Let’s go.”

“No.”

They ended up at the hospital anyway.

It was a quiet ride. She didn’t say a word. Just sat with her wrist in her lap, like a child sent to the nurse’s office. Her shoulders curled inward. He kept glancing at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

At the hospital, the verdict was clinical: a ganglion cyst. Harmless, mostly. Common in musicians. Sometimes painful, yes—but not dangerous. The doctor explained the options with the kind of voice that didn’t leave much room for comfort. They could drain it, but it might return. They could operate, but that meant downtime—weeks, maybe. A brace would relieve the pressure, but she wouldn’t be able to play. And then there were medications. Slower, but manageable.

She listened to each option like she wasn’t really there. She chose whatever got her back to the studio fastest without any more pain, which was draining it.

It wasn’t a hard procedure. The needle wasn’t even big, and she didn’t look like she was scared of it. But when it came time for it to be drained, she asked Harry to hold her and he could feel her other hand tightening on his shirt. It must’ve hurt.

When she finally laid back on the hospital bed, exhaustion took her almost instantly. She didn’t argue anymore. She just closed her eyes and folded into sleep like it had been waiting for her all week.

Harry stayed by her side, asking the doctor quiet questions in the hallway about recovery time and some other stuff they should know.

“She’s pushing herself too hard,” the doctor said. “That is a symptom from working her wrist too hard. What she needs is proper rest. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get sick with other symptoms worse than just a ganglion. She could get really sick.”

Like he didn’t already know that. Like he wasn’t already worrying everyday. He wanted to tell the doctor that he knew but the girl is too stubborn and stupidly drowning in her work. Instead, Harry just nodded. Noted it all. Took the pamphlets. When he came back into the room, she was still out cold.

They let her sleep until the nurse finished checking her vitals. The doctor woke her gently. She blinked up at Harry, a little disoriented. He didn’t say a word, just took her coat and helped her get up.

The ride back to his apartment was silent. Catherine had crossed her arms like a teenager, staring out the window with tight lips and a jaw that had locked into place twenty minutes ago. He didn’t speak. He knew her enough now to know it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

When the driver pulled up to the penthouse, she didn’t wait for the door to be opened. She was out of the car before him, stomping ahead like she meant to put distance between them. Her shoes echoed in the marble hallway. By the time he caught up, she’d already dropped her coat on the arm of the couch and was sitting with her legs curled up, arms crossed again, sulking with intent.

He closed the door behind them quietly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me back to the studio,” she said, not looking at him. Her voice clipped and fast. “I told you I could finish it in one day. Maybe even tonight.”

He didn’t respond immediately. She wasn’t really asking him. She just needed to release the tension building in her bones.

“The deadline’s a week away,” he said finally. “You have time.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “I want them to be impressed. I want them to hear it and think—wow, she did it fast and she did it well. I was so close, Harry. You have no idea. I just needed the harp to fall right and I would’ve been done.”

She rubbed her wrist without thinking. The soft bandage made it look more fragile than it probably was. He couldn’t look at it too long.

“I should’ve just hit it with a book,” she mumbled.

That annoyed him. He stopped in front of her. Took a breath.

“That’s irresponsible,” he said firmly. Harder than he ever spoke to her before. “You hear me, Catherine? You don’t do that again. Never— Never do that again.”

She rolled her eyes. “I did it once before.”

“And you’re lucky I wasn’t there,” he said, still pressing, still loud. “Because I would’ve dragged you to the hospital that time too.”

She sighed, deep and dismissive. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” he said, walking past her to the kitchen, already reaching for water, maybe something to put in front of her. “I’m being a responsible adult.”

She didn’t argue after that. Just sat there, silent again, sinking slowly into the realization that her body—like time, like deadlines—was something she couldn’t control completely. And Harry, in his stubborn, quiet way, wasn’t angry. He was worried. That was worse somehow.

He walked to the kitchen and reheated the food he’d picked up earlier that afternoon, still in its paper bag from the studio run—untouched, because the hospital detour had gotten in the way. The microwave hummed quietly as he leaned against the counter, watching the numbers count down like they meant something.

He’d probably been too sharp with her. Too forceful. But at least she was here now. Safe, if grumpy. And if she hated him for it—fine. She could hate him while getting one full night of rest. That was the bargain he was willing to take.

Then she was there, padding into the kitchen like someone coming down from a fever. Her posture softer, head low. Like she was ready to surrender but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured.

“I know.”

He stepped in first. Arms around her before she could collapse into herself. He didn’t realize until then how much she needed that hug—how much she had been holding in with caffeine and sheer willpower.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re not being dramatic,” she said into his chest. Her voice cracked just enough to make his throat tighten. “And I missed you. Missed my friends. I’m never taking a screen deal again.”

He smiled, his chin above her head, resting against her hair. “You might change your mind later. You liked the first half, didn’t you? Before the notes came in. You just overthink the rest. That’s what happens when you care too much. It’s harder when you’re making things for other people.”

She nodded against him.

“It’s not like an album,” he went on, quietly. “When the only person you need to impress is yourself. They’ll have notes. Opinions. And you’ll listen, because that’s who you are. You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

There was a pause, and then he said: “Should’ve done an indie film first. They’d be so grateful you could send them an out-of-tune violin and they’d say it’s ‘experimental.’”

She laughed. Her body shook against his. When he looked down, her eyes were wet.

“You just have to learn to balance your life,” he murmured.

“I should,” she whispered. “I get lost in it sometimes. In wanting to do good.”

“I know you do.”

“I was working hard to make it perfect, but the urgency in which I did it, it’s because I didn’t want to miss out. I tried to make friends with orchestra people, but they’d rather see me as a composer than a friend. I sensed it. And my friends, well they’re artists in their own time, with their own schedules, with time to date and party. I’ve spent so many years missing out. Missing everything, getting left out. I’d be the one asking what the joke was, and they’d say, ‘You had to be there.’ And I wasn’t. I was practicing.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want to miss out. On them, on you. But I keep needing to disappear to make great music. So I try to finish as quickly as possible, no matter how messy it gets, how unhealthy it is. As long as it means there’s no more inside jokes I couldn’t get, or a memory I missed.”

“We’ll make our own inside jokes,” he said. “Besides, nothing’s happening to me. Ever. And if something were to happen, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

She looked up, smiling faintly through the mess of emotion. “I just want it done quickly so I can go home and not miss out on anything ever again.”

“I want you home too,” he said. “With proper rest. But you have time. What’s one more day?”

And that was that.

She fell asleep early that evening, he changed her into her pajamas while she was barely conscious. She collapsed into bed and slept like she hadn’t in weeks—deep and dreamless. When morning came, she didn’t stir even when he moved around the apartment. He let her be.

He left a note by her nightstand before work, told her to eat something and that he will be checking. That she could ask Mr Williams to take her back to the studio when she’s ready.

And then he was gone, leaving the door softly shut behind him. The penthouse felt warmer with her there, even in sleep. Even in silence.

⊹

True to her words, Catherine finished the piece the day she said she would. The BBC accepted her revised renditions almost immediately, sending a short note of approval that made her breath hitch and shoulders finally relax. She was proud. That much was obvious. And Harry could tell, because she showed up at his office door with wine and flushed cheeks— unannounced, of course.

He didn’t know she was coming. He should’ve. Emma had been acting strange for the past hour, typing with too much energy and dodging questions with suspicious precision. When he pressed, she deflected with unusual efficiency. Only later did he realize Catherine had called to ask for the address, and Emma—predictably loyal—had played accomplice.

“I come bearing gifts!” Catherine announced, pushing open the glass door to his office, her grin already brighter than the last few weeks. “Well, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? If this were my office, I’d work every day.”

He laughed, unable to stop smiling. Still in disbelief that she was actually there, like a bolt of light into a room that didn’t know it was dim. “No you wouldn’t.”

She leaned over and kissed him like she’d always belonged in his life.

“I was going to pick you up,” he said.

“I know. I wanted to see you earlier. See where you actually spend your time.” She spun slowly in the middle of the room, eyeing the bookshelves, the windows, the skyline behind them.

“That’s nice,” he said, his eyes trailing her movement. “You want to go out?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I want to treat you to something.”

Of course she did. He knew he wouldn’t let her, but he let her think she might. That was enough.

“They gave me a bonus,” she added like a secret, and her joy was so unfiltered it made him warm in a way expensive scotch never could. “So tell me, what’s your favorite food? Anything. Your pick.”

He blinked. A strange question. An ordinary one. And yet, no one had asked him that before. Not any of his previous girlfriends. Not anyone. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

“I don’t think I have one.”

“Sure you do.”

He thought. “Bagel?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get you one tomorrow. But right now we’re celebrating. And you can’t possibly expect me to toast with carbs and cream cheese.”

He laughed, grabbing his coat, reaching for his wallet and phone in one movement. She was already halfway to the door, talking about possible options. He didn’t care where they went. It was the sound of her voice he was listening to.

Downstairs, as they exited the elevator, the doorman— more doorboy by the looks of it— smiled at Catherine with surprising familiarity. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Ainsworth.”

Harry squinted. “How’d you already know the doorman?”

“My heels fell off my feet when I was running in, and he helped me.”

“And you introduced yourself?”

“He asked who I was here for. I told him I was visiting my very important boyfriend.”

He looked at her. She was completely serious.

They settled on steak. Something grounding and simple, because Harry just wanted her to eat something filling and proper. The wine was good, the conversation better. She told him about the BBC meeting, how she finally felt a strange type of peace. Then, in between bites of potato gratin, she mentioned wanting to throw a small gathering. A celebration, with her friends, maybe some musicians. She said she’d need his help setting it up.

Harry mentioned he had a gala to attend tomorrow, some industry networking thing. She should come with him, he said. She’d be happy to, she said.

By the time the check came, Harry had already slipped his card to the waiter. She made a fuss about it for exactly ten seconds before yawning mid-protest. They were barely in the car when her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse, she was fully asleep.

He didn’t wake her. Just carried her upstairs. Still in disbelief, still grateful. The wine, untouched in its bag, sat quietly beside her coat.

He placed it on the table and turned off the lights. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t thinking about harps or deadlines.

Just sleep.

And maybe—if he was lucky—him.

⊹

His work gala came a day before her celebration party.

Catherine was the first girlfriend he actually invited in a while. His exes rarely came, and if they did, they never bothered to pay attention to the conversations. After noticing that they might like to stay home, he stopped inviting them. They wouldn't be interested, he knew. He had never minded if his girlfriends were uninterested in his life, he’s convinced few actually did. He had seen relationships differently back then. But now he had the need to show his life to Catherine. And more, he wanted Catherine to go. So he asked her.

Catherine had been excited to go, more than he expected. Maybe it was because he told her that most of his friends were in the industry—men with cufflinks and practiced grins who only saw each other during events like this.

The afternoon of, a few hours before they had to leave, he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and steam still clinging to his skin. There it was, laid out across the bed like a gift—an unfamiliar suit. Sharp lines. Seamless work. Stitching so fine it was invisible. It was expensive. Probably more expensive than the ones he already owned, and those were nothing to scoff at.

He didn’t ask. He just stood there for a moment, towel dripping, a little stunned. Then smiled.

She must’ve taken one of his suits when he wasn’t paying attention, had copied the custom sizing and improved. She knew his measurements better than he did. He felt it in his gut again—that fluttery, maddening thing she kept making him feel. The one that settled somewhere behind his ribs and just… lingered.

He put the suit on. Of course it fits perfectly. Of course it did.

He found her in the walk-in closet, standing in front of the mirror in the middle of getting dressed. Her reflection caught him and she smiled, real and soft. Then she turned around, not fully zipped up.

“You look so handsome. I must say, I’m pretty darn good at this gift giving thing, huh? Turn around,” she said, biting back a grin, eyes flicking over the suit.

He laughed. It should’ve been the other way around, really. But he did as told, like a good man. Then after a second, he stepped closer and told her to turn instead. She obeyed.

His fingers zipped her up in silence, steady, deliberate. She smelled like flowers and that expensive hair oil she refused to admit was expensive. She hummed under her breath. He wondered, in the space between their bodies, how this became their life. How something this delicate could feel so certain.

The gala was held in a hotel ballroom dressed up to look like something finer. Marble floors, gold trim on the ceiling. A sweeping chandelier that no one really looked up at. It was for something or other—an annual event to recognize client milestones and corporate achievements, mostly a chance for industry types to see who was still around. There was always one or two names missing from the list. The gala was, if anything, a gentle reminder that the game never stopped.

This year felt different. He felt it before they even entered. Before they gave their names at the door and got a nod of recognition, before they were handed drinks. The room looked at him longer. Or maybe, most likely, they were looking at her.

Catherine wore a dark navy gown with a clean neckline and a fabric that glinted when she moved. Nothing loud. Just elegant. A single curl behind her ear. A slight flush on her cheeks—not nerves, just her usual color. She held his arm the way she always did, casual, natural. As if they’d been walking into rooms like this together forever.

The first twenty minutes passed in a blur of names and champagne. Harry shook hands while Catherine smiled and remembered every name. She charmed the bartender within minutes, said something complimentary about the way the napkins were folded. She complimented the color of a passing woman’s shoes. She leaned down to speak to a server holding a tray of miniature pastries and asked about some type of pastry he never bothered to know the name of.

Harry watched from a few feet away, sipping his drink. She made people feel like people. He was used to faces glossing over after the second glass, names forgotten, wives clinging to arms like accessories.

“Who’s this young lady?” one of his colleagues asked.

“Catherine, nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Catherine. I’m glad Harry finally found a girl who looks happy to be here.”

“I’m happy to come,” she said with a small laugh. “The chouquettes were so good I asked for the recipe.”

“My wife would love you. She runs a bakery.”

“Really? Is she here?”

“Somewhere. I’ll introduce you.”

And he did. Catherine was whisked away to meet her, and Harry let her go without protest. She was like that. A tide. Moving from one person to the next, leaving everyone warmer than before.

He found her again ten minutes later, deep in conversation with his friend’s wife about sustainable packaging in pastry boxes. And although Harry was huddled with his friends— or colleagues— his eyes trailed to her.

One of his single colleagues, predictably, was two glasses of whiskey in and smirking. He talked to Catherine only briefly a few moments ago, yet she managed to make an impression on him.

“Where’d you find her?” he asked, leaning in.

“Cold Spring,” Harry said.

“Does she have a friend?” Another one of his colleagues asked. One that already has a partner.

“You’re not gonna have luck with that, she befriended the whole of New York already. She already introduced herself to the caterers. Give her a few more hours and she’d memorized all the names in this room.”

They laughed. Someone refilled their drinks. Somewhere between the toasts and the polite speeches, Catherine returned to his side and whispered something about how good the wine was and how she loved that the pianist played actual classical pieces instead of mainstream songs with repetitive melodies. She clinked glasses with someone’s wife, told someone else they had a nice laugh which made them turn scarlet and laugh harder than anyone was supposed to on these occasions, and remembered the name of a woman Harry hadn’t seen in ten years.

He hadn’t thought about it before, but it struck him then— how perfectly she fit with his crowd even with her unusual approach. Not like someone pretending. Just like someone who didn’t need the world to change for her. She shaped herself around it and still managed to remain exactly who she was, and somehow, she belonged. He didn’t know how she did that. But he knew this: they’d remember her long after the next course. Long after the speeches. And if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He would.

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tteotlma · 2 months ago

Text

Beneath the Table

-- You thought you were in control when you handed him the remote. But Joel’s patience is thin—and watching you fall apart slowly might be the only thing keeping him from ruining you in public.

Joel Miller x Reader 14K WORDS... do i know a number less than 5k?

anon req:

Listen…I saw something the other day while shopping. Came across…a remote control vibrator. With a car key looking remote…(Bellesa boutique something or other is the brand.) Might I bring to your attention; Joel. Miller. Game Joel specifically. And his beautiful wonderful little gf using a remote control vibrator while out on a fancy date and then doing it in his truck… He has the remote obviously…maybe he’s in a grumpier mood than usual, so he sets it on high, then slow…then high while the waiter talks to reader. Oh, Reader gave the waiter a little smile? Joel’s a little jealous at that. Sets that bad boy on high as punishment. Gawduhhhhhh I need it. Just me or…do we ALL need it? 🤷‍♀️

tw: 18+ MDNI; minimal use of y/n, minimal reader description; fem reader, explicit sexual content; PWP (porn without plot); public teasing; remote-control vibrator use; overstimulation; vaginal fingering; oral sex (f. receiving); semi-public setting (restaurant); car sex; cockwarming; squirting; light dominance; dirty talk; teasing/power dynamics; light choking/neck holding; possessive behavior; light embarrassment; mutual consent; emotional aftercare; tension-heavy buildup; mention of alcohol. if ur not a fan of slowwwwww then idt this is for u... "growling" is used quite a bit bc i dont know what other words exist a/n: yeah i can't believe this is 14k words... im so sorry... but nott really bc i needed all the words for this. NOT ENTIRELY PROOF READ

“The hell is this?” The gruff man sitting on the edge of the bed in front of you raised his eyebrows incredulously high, staring up at you through his lashes.

“Um, well…” Fiddling with your hands behind your back, you found yourself twisting from side to side under the scrutiny of his stare, heat rushing up your neck. “I-it’s a party favor,” you mumbled slightly.

Joel stared at the pink box. Then at you.

"Party favor?" Joel barked. "The hell kinda parties you goin' to?”

“Bachelorette party?” You were starting to feel dumber by the second. You knew it was a bad idea to bring it up to your old man, too set in his ways to try anything out of the ordinary. The small of your back was getting uncomfortably hot.

“Forget it—" You lunged for the box, but Joel leaned back, smirking, just out of reach.

He swung an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. The force causing a small “oomph” to leave your lips as he held you in place against him.

“Hold on a second,” he huffed, holding the labeled side of the box up to his face, still out of reach from you. “You ain’t even said anythin’ about anythin’ so before you get all huffy tell me what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”

Now it’s your turn to stare at him.

“Come on, princess.” He smirked, sitting up and taking you with him, so now you’re sitting on his lap. The heat of his denim-clad thigh prickles your skin. “Don’t be gettin’ shy on me now.” He teased, a strong hand on the small of your back.

“W-well,” you put your hands on his shoulders to try and find some grounding. “The other day… at T-tommy’s…” your fingers come to play with the distressed collar of his t-shirt, lightly toying with the hairs peeking through the cotton neckline.

“Tommy’s place?"

“A friend of Maria’s… was havin’ a party. Celebratin’ her marriage by using their house as the party venue… and well, when the night was over she and her friends were handin’ these out.. so I figured why not.” You shrugged shyly, eyes never leaving your fingers on his shirt, too embarrassed to look up.

“You know what it is?” He asks, and you hit him lightly in the chest.

“Duh,” you scoffed, followed by silence, making you look up. Joel was looking down at you with a smug expression on his face.

“So you took one…”

You huffed in irritation, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Miller, of course I did. Those things are expensive.”

“And you know this because…?” That stupid smirk was back on his face.

“Because I looked it up after I grabbed it! Ugh, just give it back—“ You tried reaching for the box again, only to have him pull back again.

“No, ‘m sorry, sweetheart,” Joel pulls you closer, “Y’know I just like teasin’ you.” He confessed softly, you looked at him with mild annoyance, debating if you should pinch his cheek or tug on his facial hair.

“Anyways,” Joel starts again before you can officially decide. “So you grabbed the favor, and now y’wanna use it.”

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t. The sheer idea of voicing your wants… desires out loud felt like jumping off a ledge straight into plunging cold water… so you just nod instead, cheeks burning.

“I-I,” you pause, looking at him, and he’s watching you expectantly, eyebrows raised as if to encourage you to speak. “I thought we could use it tonight… for our date.”

“Hmm…” is the only sound that leaves Joel’s mouth, and it’s silent. You close your eyes, and still your body… shame slowly creeping up your chest.

“You’re gonna have to tell me what it is, sweetheart,” Joel says, rotating the box in one hand, staring up at you.

“Sorry?”

“You wanna use this, but to be honest, sweetheart, I have no clue what this is.” He’s joking. He has to be. There’s no way his old Yeller-esque eyes couldn’t read the giant label printed on the side. He was just messing with you, toying with you, teasing. You breathed out a small chuckle in disbelief.

“It’s a vibrator, Miller, and I want you to use it on me.” Joel looks past the pink box, and locks eyes with you, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a shift in his posture gives way that he hears you loud and clear.

He clears his throat and stands, bringing you up with him.

“Where d’you wanna go?” He asks, voice breathless. Smirking, you grab the box from his hand, tossing it onto the bed. You find his now-empty hand, leading him to the shared closet.

“Why don’t we dress first?” Turning to face him, you run your hands down his chest and toy with the hemline of his shirt. Fingers grazing the warm skin beneath the fabric. Joel smiles and hooks his fingers beneath his shirt to pull it over his head.

—

For all the lingering touches and unspoken tension, you both managed to dress the part—elegant enough for the evening, though there was nothing refined about the thoughts you shared.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the ruched silk that sat low across your stomach. The deep crimson fabric clung to you like a second skin, catching the low light in soft, lazy glints. The dress hugged your waist where the hidden corset pulled you in, hips and curves shaped just enough to make you look like a sin waiting to happen.

Thin straps slid off your shoulders, baring the warm line of your neck and collarbones, the slit up your leg promising more with every step. You reached up, centering the pendant of your necklace against the bare plane of your chest, the silver chain cold where it kissed your skin — a sharp contrast to the heat building under your dress already.

You caught the first glimpse of him in the mirror — a dark, solid figure leaning in the doorway, watching.

Joel hadn’t said a word yet. He just stood there, taking you in with a look that made the air feel thick, heavy.

The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed up to his elbows, the fabric stretched across the broad line of his chest. His belt was half-buckled, like he’d been getting dressed but forgot how halfway through. A slow drag of his hand over his jaw, his beard rough and neatly trimmed, the silver in it catching the light —

His eyes locked on yours in the mirror.

Heavy. Unmoving.

"You ready, darlin'?" he asked, voice low and scratchy with restraint.

You swallowed, fingers twitching at the chain around your neck. “Not yet,” you murmured, clearing your throat. Then you moved to the bed, letting the dress shift around your thighs as you sat. You leaned back on your hands, one leg hiking up just enough to tease. A small show, just for him.

“Would you mind grabbing my shoes?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head to look at him through your lashes. “They’re the black ones with the strap.” Joel didn’t move, just adjusted his sleeve with a slow roll of his wrist, jaw ticking, gaze still glued to you.

You smiled coyly. “Please?”

Without a word, he finally turned toward the closet. Heavy steps. Steady hands. Reaching into the dark.

Joel set the shoes down gently beside you, the leather quiet against the bedspread. He didn’t speak — just reached for your foot, large hand curling around your ankle like it belonged there.

You watched as he slipped the first shoe on with careful precision, fastening the tiny buckle without looking up. His fingers brushed over your skin, feather-light, sending a tickling shiver straight through your leg. A squeeze to your ankle, then he moved to the second.

This time, it was the leg with the slit.

He eased your foot into the shoe, fingers trailing up your calf with just enough pressure to make you exhale. Then, without a word, he guided your leg up, settling it slowly on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The silk of your dress shifted with the motion, exposing your thigh, then higher.

Joel didn’t look up right away. He kept his head low, eyes on your leg as he pressed a warm kiss just above your knee. Then another, further up. His hands were steady on your hips now, thumbs hooked near the edge of your dress as he mouthed at the soft skin of your thigh — slow, open-mouthed kisses that made your stomach flip.

When he finally looked at you, his voice was low. Measured.

“Keep sittin’ real pretty like that, sweetheart.”

One hand slid into his back pocket. You saw it — the curve of the toy peeking between his fingers.

He smirked as your breath hitched.

“I ain’t gonna make you beg for it,” he said, voice dark with promise. “But I wanna hear you ask.”

Your breath stuttered when his thumb dragged along the underside of your thigh, rough skin catching on silk-smooth flesh as he coaxed the hem of your dress higher. The fabric bunched easily around your hips, a flash of cool air ghosting over the heat between your legs, your core already pulsing with anticipation. You could feel the weight of his stare, even when his eyes were down — the way his mouth lingered against your skin wasn’t just teasing, it was possessive, like he was memorizing every inch he touched with lips and breath and heat.

His nose skimmed along the inside of your thigh, nuzzling against the sensitive dip where leg met pelvis, not quite touching you, never quite enough. You gasped softly — not because he was rushing, but because he wasn’t. The restraint was maddening. Delicious.

Joel’s voice, when it came, rumbled against your skin. “Still sittin’ real pretty, huh?”

Your fingers curled into the bedspread, trying to keep still, to stay composed, but the throb between your legs was already too much, a need blooming in your belly so slow and deep it made your toes twitch inside the heels he’d just buckled for you. He shifted, a hand bracing the curve of your hip while the other finally slid under your dress and pressed at the thin fabric of your panties.

“Already warm, baby,” he muttered, voice thick now, a low marvel against the inside of your thigh. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

And then, with a deliberate slowness that made your whole body go tight with anticipation, he reached down again and retrieved the toy — small and unassuming, cradled in the palm of his broad hand like a secret. He glanced up at you, a flicker of something darker, like a hunger, heat, or ownership, flashing behind his eyes.

“You want it?” he asked, and it wasn’t teasing now. It was quiet. Intimate. Serious. Like he needed to hear it from you before losing his last bit of restraint.

“Yes,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “I want it.”

Joel’s lips curved, barely.

“Good girl.”

But instead of moving right away, he let the silence stretch, lingering in it, watching the way your chest rose and fell in shallow waves, how your lashes fluttered with the weight of his praise.

The toy stayed in his hand, warm now from the heat of his palm, but unmoving. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t rush. He just watched, the barest curve to his mouth, like he was savoring the sight of you perched there on the bed, all dressed up in that deep red silk, your thighs parted, one heel still resting against the breadth of his shoulder.

He could feel the way you trembled in his arms—not from fear, not from cold, but from want… from need, thick and pulsing and just beneath your skin, and still, he held back, letting you feel every second of it. Letting you come undone on your own.

Then his voice came low, smooth, just this side of mock-innocent.

“You’re gonna have to show me where it goes, darlin’.”

The words sank into your skin like warm oil, your brows knitting as your breath caught in your throat, not because you didn’t understand but because you did.

Because Joel Miller was not a man who needed help. Not with those hands of his, not when it came to your body, and certainly not with this. And still, he tilted his head, looking up at you through those heavy lashes, playing dumb with a softness that made your heart trip.

“Ain’t ever used one of these before,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious that the way he cradled the toy already had your thighs twitching. “'Less you want me fumblin’ around down here…” A smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth, sharp and wicked, but his voice stayed gentle. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

You hesitantly nodded, your hand reaching out slowly, fingers tentatively brushing against his as you guided him down—the way he followed your touch was reverent, like every little movement came with weight, like he was studying the map of your body all over again with every subtle shift of your hips, the way your breath stuttered when the soft silicone grazed your skin. You moved his hand with trembling patience, placing the toy right over your slit, and he stilled as you let go, his eyes locked on your face. You could feel the heat from his palm even after he withdrew, your panties tugged delicately aside, the throb between your legs a steady ache now, fueled more by how careful he was than how fast he moved.

“Right here?” he asked, not because he didn’t know, but because he wanted to hear it.

“Right there,” you whispered, and Joel’s breath left him in a low hum, like he’d been holding it just for this.

The magnet clicked beneath you with a quiet snap as he fastened the toy into place, and the moment it settled, he pressed—just slightly—just enough to make you gasp, your hips stuttered off the mattress, back curving in a soft arch as your breath tore free of your throat grasping at the fabric on his shoulder.

Joel followed the movement like a tide, rising to meet you, one hand still nestled between your thighs, the other sliding around your waist, anchoring you to him. His body was warm, solid, the heat of him overwhelming as he leaned in, his chest against yours, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your voice barely sound, and Joel exhaled a soft chuckle, low and satisfied. Fingers caressing the nape of his neck, you look at him, brows furrowed, eyes quietly pleading, the pulse between your thighs louder than the one in your chest.

“Watch that mouth of yours, sweetheart.”

Joel takes the hand from between your thighs and slides it up the plane of your body, stopping when he’s got the side of your neck resting in his palm. Calloused fingers dance over the heat of your skin, his thumb caressing along the hinge of your jaw before stopping at your chin, while his fingers curl gently behind your ear, grounding you there. His palm pressed firmly to the side of your neck, cradling that fragile stretch of throat, the thrum of your veins pulsing beneath the heat of his skin.

You watch his eyes intently before he looks away, gaze dropping to your trembling body pressed against his, then settling on your lips. His thumb toys with your glossed bottom lip, slowly pushing and pulling the soft skin, like putty in his hands.

He lets out a deep hum of approval, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he feels the sticky sheen smeared across the pad of his thumb. Then he leans in, breathing warm against your cheek as his tongue darts out between his teeth to lick the digit slowly, almost savoring it, just barely grazing your lip in the process.

“Cherry,” he murmurs, his voice low and amused. “That for me, baby?”

A small breath slips from your lip, one you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding, as you stare up at the man above you, his hand still firm on your neck, holding you there, grounding you in place. You nod quickly, the motion small and desperate, your free hand rising to wrap around his wrist, fingers curling tight like you need the weight of him to stay steady.

Joel’s eyes stay on you, never leaving, heavy-lidded and dark, dragging slowly from your lips to your eye, taking in everything you’re giving him, every quiet plea written across your face. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, just once, then rests there like he’s holding a secret.

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” he says quietly, like it’s just between the two of you and always will be. “But I’ll give it to you anyway.”

And then he leans in, not rushing, not forcing, just guiding your mouth to his, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that’s warm, deep, and slow. The kind that tastes like a promise of more to come. A soft press of lips, nothing more, just enough to taste the gloss still clinging to your lips. He starts to pull back, like that’s all he meant to take, his hand tightens just slightly at your neck, and he’s leaning back in.

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, catching any trace of gloss, and he hums lowly like it’s better than dessert.

The second kiss is different. Sloppier. Needier. His tongue pushes past your lips, dragging deep and wet into your mouth like he’s starving for it, like he needs to savor the heat of you just once before he lets you leave the house. He licks into you slowly, unhurried, groaning softly as he swallows your breath like it’s something sweet on his tongue.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless, lips wet and tingling, your whole body strung tight like you’d just been undone and put back together.

“Now be good at dinner, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

You remember him pulling you to your feet, his hand low on your waist, steady, grounding. But everything after that? The walk to the truck, the ride to the restaurant — it’s a blur. A haze of heavy hands on your legs, rough fingers tangled with yours, the occasional lazy stroke along your side that made your breath hitch.

What you do remember is the twitch, always involuntary and always constant, that came every time his skin brushed yours. The way the heat of his gaze burned into you every red light, or any other chance he could look at you without getting into an accident. The quiet, maddening presence of warm silicone nestled between your thighs, pressed tight and waiting. You squirmed the entire ride, high alert blooming beneath your skin, every nerve lit like a live wire just from the memory of his touch.

Joel finally, after what seemed like hours, pulled into the last available parking spot in the lot. Of course, it was in the back, away from the restaurant windows, and the stray streetlamp barely casting a shadow in the truck.

Joel turned off the ignition and turned to look at you. Not a passing glance like the ones he would sneak while driving. No, he took his time staring at you, the way your cheeks were slowly becoming flushed, lips parted, chest panting. Your eyebrows were slightly furrowed, in both frustration and—what looked like to him—slight worry. He quickly reaches out his hand, finger hooking beneath your chin, tilting your face towards his as he leans over the center console.

“Baby…” he drawled, thumb brushing your jaw. “I’ve hardly touched you — ‘n look at you.”

His eyes dragged over your face, then dropped to your chest, watching it rise and fall like you’d just run a mile. His voice dipped lower, almost thoughtful, like he was trying to figure something out.

“You scared?”

The question hit softly, but the weight behind it made your stomach flip.

You shook your head quickly, lips parting. “No.”

“No?” he echoes, like he wants to hear it again, like he needs to be sure—not just for your sake, but for his. He tips his head slightly, leans in a little closer, the leather of the seat groaning beneath his weight as he shifts. His voice drops lower, just above a murmur now. “You sure you don’t wanna try it first? Just for a second. So it don’t catch you off guard in there.”

You start to shake your head, lips parted in some vague protest, but you hesitate, and that pause is all he needs. Your eyes flick away for a second, like maybe you’re bracing for something, like your body’s already starting to curl in on itself from the weight of what’s coming, even if it’s what you asked for. And Joel catches it, the shift in your breath, the softness in your brow, the way your thighs press just a little tighter together.

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk, just something close to understanding. “Just the lowest setting,” he says, voice low and coaxing, like he’s offering you something kind. “Real gentle. So you know what to expect. So you ain’t startled when I turn it on in the middle of your drink order.” And it sounds like a joke—mostly—but there’s a promise buried in it too, and it makes your mouth go dry.

You nod, slowly this time, and that’s all it takes. Joel reaches into his jacket, fingers brushing past his wallet, keys, and the other everyday things he carries — and when he pulls his hand out again, it’s with something that looks so deceptively ordinary it nearly makes you laugh. Small, sleek, black — a car remote. Or at least, it would be, if it weren’t for the way his thumb lingers just above one of the silver buttons, his eyes never leaving your face.

He holds it up between you, like he’s showing you a secret. “Looks harmless, don’t it?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s amused at just how civilized sin can look these days.“Could sit it right on the table, and no one’d know it’s got you drippin’ under that dress.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs pressing just slightly together in anticipation as Joel finally turns his attention to the remote, thumb brushing over one of the silver buttons like he’s starting the engine to something he already knows how to drive. A soft click follows, then silence — at least in the cab of the truck. But your body reacts instantly.

The toy hums to life with a low, steady vibration, not sharp, not loud, but insistent, and it feels like the sound of it lives inside your skin. You gasp, softly, a tight little sound that barely makes it past your lips, but Joel hears it anyway. His eyes are still on your face, like he’s studying every flicker of response — the way your lips part around a shallow breath, the faint quiver in your thigh, the way your gaze falters for a moment under the weight of sensation.

“Itchy?” he asks quietly, and you nod, not because it’s uncomfortable, but because the low buzz is just there, maddening and constant, pressing against your slit like a secret you’re not allowed to touch. Not overwhelming, not even close, but enough to make you aware of every breath you take, every inch of space between your body and his.

Joel shifts in his seat, one arm draping over the back of yours, the other still holding the remote loosely in his hand. His voice stays low, steady. “Good girl,” he murmurs, nodding like he’s proud of you for handling it. “Now just sit with it a second. Let it settle.”

You try. You do. But the hum is sneaky, seeping into you slowly, like heat in a too-warm bath, and your body twitches again, thighs trying to resist the instinct to roll your hips toward it. Joel watches that too, eyes dipping down to your lap, then back to your face with something warmer than amusement — a quiet sort of awe that’s still somehow all possession.

“Can I see?”

The question breaks through your haze, soft but heavy, spoken like a request, but layered with something deeper—something that tells you he already knows you’re going to say yes. That he’s just giving you the dignity of saying it out loud.

You nod again, slower this time. “Okay,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes, already moving for him before the thought even finishes forming in your head, your thighs parting just enough beneath the hem of your dress to let him in. Joel shifts with you, his hand sliding slowly up your inner thigh. His palm is warm, fingers splayed wide, claiming space until they reach the edge of your dress. The hem of your dress rides higher, the air cools against your skin, the closer he gets.

His hand coasted higher, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the tender skin of your thigh like he’s dragging heat along your nerves. You can feel the weight of his touch even in the places he hasn’t reached yet—the way your skin prickles in anticipation, how your breath shudders in your chest as the hem of your dress creeps higher with every inch he claims. His palm cups the curve of your thigh fully now, fingers spreading wider as he slides up, the warmth of his skin blooming against yours, anchoring you there like gravity.

And then he finds it.

The smooth press of the magnet under your panties — the place where the toy sits snug against your slit — still humming low and steady. He lets his fingers linger, exploring the shape of it through the fabric, slow circles with his thumb that send a tremble down your spine. You inhale sharply, head tipping back against the seat, not because he’s moving fast but because he isn’t. Because he’s being so careful. Like unwrapping something breakable. Something his.

“Right there, huh,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, the pad of his finger dragging lightly over the top edge of the vibrator, feeling the buzz through the lace. “Already warm.”

Then he presses. Not hard but just enough to nudge it lower, slipping it through the soft, slick folds of your pussy until the curve of it slots between your lips, snug and perfect, the hum catching just barely on your clit.

Your whole body twitches. It’s not a reaction you can hide—your hips jump subtly in the seat, your thighs tighten around his wrist, and a quiet gasp pushes out of your mouth like it was waiting behind your teeth.

Joel groans low and quietly, but it still reverberates in his chest like he felt it too.

“There you go,” he says, thumb still rubbing gentle circles against your thigh while his other hand holds the remote like a second pulse. “That’s it, sweetheart. Right there where it belongs.”

The toy stays in place with the vibration now sharper, more direct, no longer a whisper under your panties but a presence. A pressure. Something alive.

You’re panting before you realize it, lips parted, eyes slightly hazed, every breath dragging heat deeper into your lungs. And he’s still just sitting there beside you, calm and steady like he isn’t the reason your thighs are trembling and your body’s already trying to rock down onto something that isn’t even moving faster than a heartbeat.

His hand lingers just a second longer than necessary, fingers flexing gently against the inside of your thigh like he’s trying to commit the current heat of your body to memory. Then, with the kind of tenderness that makes your heart seize up, Joel retracts his hand, adjusts the hem of your dress just enough to cover you again, and clicks the remote once. The hum dies in an instant, and the quiet that follows is somehow louder than the vibration itself.

You suck in a breath thorugh your nose like surfacing from underwater, your body still buzzing like the toy never stopped. The silence leaves behind an ache — a phantom pressure between your thighs that keeps pulsing, even without the stimulation. Joel places the remote on the console like he didn’t just nearly pull you apart with it, and before you can process what’s happening, he’s leaning in.

His hand finds your jaw again, and he kisses you—not with hunger, not like the kiss earlier that nearly stole your soul, but with something quieter, something that says I know exactly what I’m doing to you. His lips drag softly over yours, once, twice, his thumb caressing the hinge of your jaw. A hum slips from him low and restrained, like he’s holding himself together through sheer will alone, and then his hand drops back to your thigh, fingers squeezing once, possessive and full of tension.

“Still with me?” he mutters, nose brushing yours.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he chuckles like he’s tasted every inch of your want and is content to let it simmer a little longer. Then he pulls away, adjusts the collar of your dress with a little tug, and opens the truck door with a nonchalance that feels almost cruel after what he’s just done.

You hear the solid thump of his boots hitting the pavement, the soft jingle of his keys as he rounds the front. Then the passenger door opens, and there he is, hand outstretched, waiting. You take it without thinking, your fingers slotting into his, and he helps you down from the truck like it’s nothing. But the steadiness of his grip, the way his other hand comes to your waist when your legs wobble slightly upon landing, had you besotted. You were grateful for his touch, even if it burned.

You settle beside him on unsteady legs, and Joel’s hand finds the small of your back without hesitation, tethering you to him. The night air nips at the heat on your skin, sharp against the sweat forming behind your knees and at the nape of your neck. You smooth your dress as you walk, though no amount of fabric adjustment can make you feel composed. Joel keeps close, his hand drifting slightly lower as he walks beside you, the heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress reminding you that he’s there, that every step you take is still under his hand.

The proximity is too much and not enough. His body a wall beside yours, his fingers curling just slightly into your waist with every few steps. The memory of his fingers between your legs still stamped into your skin like a secret no amount of cool air can erase.

Your pulse is still racing when you reach the sidewalk, and then, just as your heel clicks against the curb, the vibration returns.

It’s soft, but sharper now—more direct. It hits with zero warning, and your knees buckle beneath you before you can catch yourself. A strangled whine escapes your lips as your body jolts, and you would’ve stumbled if Joel weren’t already there, solid and steady, hand tightening at your waist to hold you upright.

You latch onto his forearm like it’s the only thing securing you to Earth.

“Oops,” Joel mutters, voice smooth and maddeningly casual. “Thought I was lockin’ the car.”

You know he’s lying. The remote is still in his hand, tucked at his side, thumb pressing down with deliberate ease. You open your mouth to protest, but your words catch in your throat when the pressure eases and the setting lowers to a subtle thrum again, soft enough not to trip you, strong enough to keep you aching.

He turns to glance at you, not a smirk on his face, but something smug curled at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flick briefly to the restaurant doors ahead.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough only you can hear. “We’ve got a reservation to keep.”

You take a breath to collect yourself, but it does nothing. You’re still trembling faintly, still warm between your legs, still swallowing the phantom echo of vibration even as Joel quietly clicks the remote again, killing the buzz entirely. And yet, your body doesn’t get the memo, every nerve ending taut with the memory of what he gave and took away just as quickly.

He opens the door to the restaurant for you again like a gentleman, one hand guiding the small of your back as he leads you in with his heavy, quiet pressure never once lifting until you're inside. The restaurant is dim, the kind of warm, low light that seems to stretch shadows long and slow across every table. Candlelight flickers on wine glasses. The air smells like butter and oak-aged something, the low murmur of conversation a soft backdrop as you step inside. Low music floats somewhere near the bar, but all you can hear is your pulse, thick and slow in your ears.

Joel speaks low to the hostess—name, time, two for dinner—while you try to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t look at her, not once. Just keeps his hand where it’s always been steady, warm, proprietary just above the curve of your ass.

You can’t bring yourself to look up at him until she’s leading you to the table. He walks beside you, just a little behind, letting his palm slide lower with each step, letting his thumb press along the crease where your waist dips into your hip.

When you reach the table, he pulls your chair out for you like the proper gentleman he is, but just before you sit, his hand coasts down to your ass and gives it a soft, grounding squeeze. You let out the smallest sound, and you’re sure he hears it.

He takes his seat across from you, settling in slowly, like he’s got all night. Like he’s already had dessert and is now just watching to see what you’ll do next. You try to focus. On the flickering candlelight, on the menu in front of you. Suddenly, you see it, tucked casually beside his empty wine glass, fingers curled around it like it’s nothing more than a car key, was the remote. Small and inconspicuous. But you knew better. Your breath hitched in your throat as you dragged your gaze away from it.

“They’ve got filet tonight,” you murmur, tracing the words with your eyes even though they refuse to focus. “That’s what you like, right?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on you even as he lifted his glass and took a slow sip of water, the movement unhurried, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to squirm. “Mmm,” he hums, voice low and smooth. “I like a lotta things, sweetheart.”

You flush, instinctively looking back down at your menu, pretending to study the sides like your skin isn’t already tingling with heat. You try to read, instead you find your eyes darting around the page, willing yourself to calm down… focus on your breathing, on the flickering candlelight — but then you hear the softest click and feel it.

A low hum. Subtle. Barely there.

Except it is there, pressing soft and steady into your slit like a whispered secret, right where Joel slid it into place back in the truck. Your thighs twitch as your back straightens, and your breath catches. You glance up at him, wide-eyed, lips parting. Joel’s face is serene, unreadable—but the glint in his eye tells you he knows exactly what he’s done.

“Everything alright, baby?” he murmurs, dragging a fingertip along the side of his glass. “You look a little flushed.”

You blink, swallow hard, then force a smile like it’s not killing you. “Just warm,” you reply, your voice tight. “Candle’s hot.”

Joel chuckles, and you feel it like a hand wrapped around your ribcage. He says nothing more—just lets the silence stretch while the vibrator keeps humming softly and steadily against you. So you make a decision, slow and measured, born out of the same wicked impulse that made you take the favor in the first place. If he’s going to play, you’ll play too.

You slide your foot forward, slow and deliberate, the arch of your heel dragging along the floor until your toes bump gently against the cuff of his pants. Joel glances at you, his eyes darkening just slightly, but he doesn’t move. So you continue, inching up his shin, the toe of your shoe tracing along the inside of his leg —higher, higher— and you can feel him shift slightly in his seat.

You try to hide the smirk threatening to pull at your mouth, ducking slightly behind your menu as if it offers any kind of protection, but then you hear it. The subtle shift of leather under his weight, the low scrape of his forearm moving across the table, and then his voice—calm, quiet, but with a warning buried so deep it settles right beneath your skin.

“Careful, pretty girl, you don’t stop while you’re ahead…” Joel murmurs, eyes still skimming the page in front of him like he isn’t feeling every inch of what you’re doing beneath the table, thumb idly tracing the edge of the remote resting beside his water glass, “and I’ll turn this thing up ‘til you’re leakin’ all over that pretty little seat before they even bring the bread.”

Your mouth parts, but you play through it, pressing your lips together like you're thinking hard about the menu, like the heat blooming across your chest is from the candlelight and not the pressure building low and deep.

You glance at him over the top of your menu, soft and slow, lashes fluttering just enough to feign innocence. “Hm?” you murmur, tilting your head slightly like you didn’t hear him — or like you did, and want him to say it again.

Joel doesn’t look up right away. Just turns the page of his menu with the same deliberate care he’s used for everything tonight, like he’s not simmering just beneath the surface, like your foot pressing slow and steady against the inside of his thigh isn’t making him hard under the table, like the sound of your breath catching doesn’t curl around his spine like a fuse waiting for his thumb. And then, without lifting his eyes and twitching his expression, he presses the remote.

A soft click. A subtle shift. But the change is immediate.

The vibration sharpens.

You feel it immediately — not just against your clit, but in your spine, in your throat, in the way your breath catches hard and fast behind your ribs. It’s deeper now, more deliberate. Not a whisper, not teasing, but a steady pulse that digs in and stays there. Your thighs clench instinctively, but it only makes it worse — the toy presses harder, and you twitch in your seat, hips shifting with a jolt that’s completely out of your control.

A small sound slips out of you — high, breathy, barely a whimper — but enough. Enough for Joel to hear it. Enough for him to know he’s got you right where he wants you.

And in that same second — in that involuntary twitch — your heel slides higher, grazing the inside of his thigh, then up, up, until you feel it: the hard press of his cock beneath his slacks, hot and thick against the curve of your ankle. You freeze for a second, breath stuttering, pulse thudding in your ears. You hadn’t meant to find it—not yet-but now that you have, you don’t move.

Joel’s page-turning stops, and the air shifts.

His eyes lift, slow and sharp, cutting through the low candlelight like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this moment.

And then — as if on cue — the waiter steps up to the table, all cheerful professionalism and wide smiles, completely unaware that you’re one wrong breath away from falling apart.

You don’t move your foot. Not even when the waiter clears his throat gently and steps beside the table with a practiced smile, menus tucked beneath one arm. You do your best to meet his gaze, force a polite expression, but your lips are parted and your breath is uneven, your thighs locked in place as the vibrator pulses again, cruel and slow against your slick, swollen clit.

“Hi there,” the waiter says, tone chipper. “Welcome in, I’m Evan, I’ll be taking care of you two tonight. Can I start you off with anything to drink?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t give you away. He leans back slightly in his chair, slow and easy, like he’s completely untouched by what’s happening under the table — like your ankle isn’t still pressed against the thick heat in his pants, like you’re not one more pulse away from choking on your heartbeat.

He folds the menu closed with a lazy flick of his wrist and rests his forearm across the table, fingers casually brushing the edge of the remote like he might pick it up again any second.

“Red,” Joel says, voice smooth as honey and just as thick. “Somethin’ dry. We’ll share a bottle.”

The waiter nods, scribbling. “You got it.”

And that’s when you decide to push it — because the game is already on, and you’re tired of pretending you’re not drowning in it. So you press a little harder with your heel, not much, just enough to feel the way his cock twitches beneath the fabric, and Joel stills. Just for a second. His hand flexes once on the table, jaw working like he’s chewing back whatever sound nearly slipped free.

Then, under the table, slow, deliberate, he moves.

You feel the brush of his hand against your ankle, fingers wrapping around it with a grip that’s firm but not rough, his palm warm where it cups your skin. His thumb presses gently into the delicate skin just above the strap of your heel, right over the vein on the inside of your ankle, and stays there, grounding you. Possessive. Not pushing you away, not pulling you closer. Just a quiet, devastating warning that vibrates through you harder than the toy ever could.

He keeps his thumb there — steady, unmoving — like he can feel your pulse jumping beneath it. Like he’s counting the beats of your restraint thinning. And he still doesn’t look at you. He just holds you like that, calmly, while his other hand slides the remote slightly out of view, resting beside the napkin on the table like it’s nothing.

The waiter’s still talking, still smiling, still existing somehow in the periphery of this fever dream — but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not with Joel’s hand wrapped around your ankle like a leash. Not with the vibrator humming between your legs and your panties already damp enough to stick. Not with your heart pounding against the inside of your ribs like it’s trying to get to him first.

The waiter’s gaze lands on you, still all brightness and ease, completely unaware of the current running under the table. “And for you?” he asks, pen poised over his notepad, tone casual like this is any other dinner.

You blink once, lips parting, and try to remember what words are. But Joel hasn’t let go of your ankle. His thumb is still stroking slowly against your pulse, and the vibrator is still humming low and mean where it’s tucked between your folds, and your brain is nothing but static and heat. You clear your throat, force your hands to smooth the napkin across your lap, trying to keep them from shaking.

“I’ll, uh… I think the chicken. Roasted,” you say, voice a little higher than you intend, breathier. “That’s fine.”

“Good choice,” the waiter replies, smiling again. “It’s got this honey glaze—real messy but worth it. I always tell people it’s the kind of dish you should only eat with someone who already likes you.”

You laugh — too quickly, too bright — and it’s not that it’s that funny. It’s that you’re already vibrating in your seat, and any release, even a breath that doesn’t crack, feels like victory. You murmur something back, something like “Then I’m covered,” with a sly smile that doesn’t quite land steady, and the waiter chuckles, taps his pen to his notepad, and says, “You two seem like fun.”

You don’t even realize what you’re doing until you glance at Joel, and it hits you — the look in his eyes. Not annoyed. Not angry. Just watching. Sharp. Calm. Like he’s reading everything under your breath, beneath your laughter, through the curve of your smile — and knows it’s not for the waiter at all. It’s for him. All of it.

And he doesn’t let it slide.

The second the waiter turns to walk away, Joel’s thumb presses the button.

The setting kicks up a notch — not a jolt, not cruel, but enough to make your back arch subtly and your eyes snap wide as the vibrator roars to life with a more focused, hungrier pulse. Your thighs clamp together, body jerking just enough that your knee brushes the underside of the table, and you suck in a sharp, audible breath that sounds like surprise but tastes like surrender.

The waiter pauses mid-step, glancing back, concern creasing gently at his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joel doesn’t even blink.

His hand is still under the table, fingers still wrapped around your ankle like a tether, like a leash, and his voice is calm as ever, smooth and low as he glances sideways at you with that same unreadable patience. “Well, sweetheart?” he drawls, the words barely a murmur but aimed like a bullet. “You good?”

You feel it in your gut — the weight of his tone, the pressure between your legs, the heat crawling up your chest like wildfire — and you know this is him giving you the chance to say it out loud. To admit, with the waiter standing there, still waiting for your response, that Joel’s got you so wound up you can barely breathe.

The hum presses deeper. A pulse directly on your clit. His thumb strokes over your ankle like punctuation.

And now it’s your turn to speak.

You open your mouth to answer, to say yes, to pretend you’re fine — but the word won’t come. It lingers on your tongue, sticky and fragile, like it knows it doesn’t belong. The vibrator is still thrumming between your thighs, pulsing slow and deliberate against your clit like it’s synced to the rhythm of your heartbeat, and Joel hasn’t eased off — not even slightly. His hand is still curled around your ankle beneath the table, thumb circling your pulse like it’s a countdown.

“I’m—” you start, breath catching, and Joel’s eyes lift just enough to meet yours over the rim of his water glass.

There’s nothing rushed in his expression. No outward smugness. Just watching. Calculated. Patient. Like he wants to see what kind of lie you’ll tell, and how you’ll manage to say it with your legs trembling and your panties soaked straight through.

You force a smile — too wide, too quick — and swallow back the moan clawing at the back of your throat. “M’sorry,” you say, voice tight. “Just… caught my heel on the leg of the table. All good.”

The waiter’s concern fades instantly, replaced by polite relief. “No worries at all. I’ll be right back with that wine.”

He turns, walks off — and you let out a slow breath through your nose, trying to cool the flush crawling up your neck.

But Joel doesn’t let go.

He keeps his hand right where it is, thumb still brushing your ankle, and when he speaks again, it’s low enough that no one else in the room could hear him — just you, just this table, just the edge of something sharper curling beneath his voice.

“Thought we agreed you’d be good tonight,” he murmurs, not a question, not even disappointment — just a quiet reminder of what you promised and how far you’re slipping from it. “You gonna lie to him and me now?”

The toy pulses again — harder. Your body jerks.

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s not a protest. It’s need. Raw and flickering.

He leans in, not enough to close the space, but enough to make your breath stutter again. His hand slides just slightly higher on your ankle, fingers pressing in slow, deliberate — and his voice is silk dragged over grit when he says, “You’re soaked, pretty girl. Think I don’t know when you’re about to come just from my voice alone?”

The wine arrives like a cruel joke — deep red and glinting in the low candlelight, too rich, too full-bodied for the kind of breathless tension that’s sunk its teeth into you. The waiter sets it down with a flourish, offers some soft remark about the vineyard, about spice and body and fruit, but you don’t hear any of it. Not when Joel takes the bottle and pours, slow and deliberate, the glug of liquid into the glass nearly as loud as your heartbeat. He fills yours first. Then his. But doesn’t take a sip. Just wraps his hand around the stem, fingers tapping slowly against the base, like he's counting down something only he can hear.

You raise your glass with trembling fingers, just to have something to hold. The wine hits your lips cool and dry, but it’s the heat in your cheeks that flushes deeper, the buzz in your belly turning thick with alcohol and ache. You take one sip, then another. Maybe more than you should — but you need the weight of it, the excuse to swallow back the whimper lodged somewhere in your chest.

Joel watches. Not overtly. Just with those heavy-lidded eyes, that jaw ticking now and again, the hand under the table still cupped lazily around your ankle. He hasn’t moved it once. Just strokes the inside with his thumb in slow, idle circles — grounding you, claiming you, like he knows exactly how close you are to folding under the pressure.

“You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” he says after a while, low and amused, swirling the wine in his glass but not drinking. “Feelin’ alright, pretty girl?”

You glance at him, lips parted, throat too dry to speak even with the wine. You nod. You lie. You smile like you’re fine. But your body’s betraying you — the way your thighs are clenched, the way you shift in your seat again and again just to ease the throb between your legs, the way the stem of your glass is slick in your hand because your palms can’t stop sweating.

You set the glass down, but your hand stays there, gripping the stem like it might anchor you to the table, to the last shred of composure you’re clinging to. The wine barely settles in your belly before the heat between your legs threatens to rise and consume it whole. The vibrator is still on the same setting — not high, not cruel — but it doesn’t need to be. Not anymore. Not with how sensitive you’ve become, how wound-tight you are. Every pulse of it feels sharper now, like it’s echoing inside you, reverberating off the slick heat that’s been building there since the moment he first put it in place.

You shift again, hoping to ease the pressure, but the motion just slides the toy against your clit in a new, unbearable way — the kind of friction that makes your throat close up and your eyes sting with the need to react. You press your thighs together as discreetly as you can, but it’s no use. You can feel the wetness—thick and hot and shamefully constant—clinging to your folds, soaking through the lace that’s been useless for the last half hour. It’s a good thing your dress is dark, because you know, know, if you stood up right now, there’d be a slick, shiny patch where you’ve been leaking all night. You don’t even need to check — you can feel it. The way your folds stick when you twitch, the sticky drag of fabric every time you squirm.

And it’s not just wetness anymore. It’s slippery. It’s the kind of soaked that makes your breath come in shallow pants and your chest feel tight. You can hear it, almost, not in sound but in sensation — the faintest slosh when your hips move just enough, like your cunt is so wet it’s trying to cry for him. Your muscles keep clenching down around nothing, spasming as if to drag something in that isn’t there, like your body thinks if it contracts hard enough, it’ll summon his fingers or his cock out of sheer will. Every throb is worse than the last, and all the wine’s done is loosen the tight coil of control you’d been gripping onto for dear life.

Joel’s still watching you — calm, collected, like he’s enjoying some quiet little show he paid for in advance. He’s barely touched his glass. His hand is still on your ankle, thumb still stroking slow circles like he’s keeping tempo with your arousal. His sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, exposing those thick, strong wrists, the muscle and dark hair dusting down toward the veins in his hands — and fuck, it’s unfair. It’s criminal. He’s sitting across from you like every version of yes you’ve ever wanted: broad and bearded and composed, wearing your torment like a gift he hasn’t even unwrapped yet. And his eyes—his eyes—are glued to you like he’s a kid watching Bluey, fully enraptured, quiet and reverent and soaking up every twitch of your thighs like it’s gospel.

And you? You can’t even sit still.

Because there’s no air left in your lungs. Because the base of your spine is molten and your pussy is aching, wet and clenching and swollen around a toy that’s barely moving, and yet you feel like you’re going to shatter. The worst part is you want to. Want to give in, to cry out, to spread your legs and let him take it all — here, now, against this table, under this dim golden light with your wine half-drunk and your dress sticking to your thighs from how ruined you already are.

And he knows it.

He always does.

“You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” Joel murmurs again, voice silked with gravel. “Feelin’ alright, pretty girl?”

You shift in your seat, a subtle rock of your hips that sends the vibrator sliding just a little higher, grazing the swollen bundle of nerves between your legs with a pressure that makes your entire body clench. You try not to react. Try not to moan or gasp or reach for him across the table. But the motion presses your tits together beneath the tight bodice of your dress, the neckline dipping low enough that you know he sees it — the soft swell of them now beading with sweat, catching faintly in the candlelight like dewdrops on bare skin.

You lift your wine glass again, mostly to mask the twitch of your fingers, the way your other hand is practically shaking in your lap. Your lips wrap around the rim, your eyes fixed on him over the top. You drink — too much, too fast — and set the glass down with a breathless exhale that barely counts as composure.

“Yeah,” you say finally, voice soft and wrecked, the kind of tone that could mean fine or fuck me now. “Just… hungry.”

Joel’s eyebrow twitches like he hears what you meant, not what you said. And then, as calm as anything, as if you’re not soaked through your panties with wine-slick lips and trembling thighs, he reaches for the bread basket.

He tears off a piece of the bread, slow and unbothered, then reaches for the butter, spreading a thick layer across the torn edge with the side of his knife. He doesn’t look at you while he does it. Just works the butter in slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s spreading it over your skin instead of bread.

Then he sets the knife down, turns toward you, and holds the bite just a few inches off the table, fingers poised delicately around the buttered edge.

Your hand lifts without thinking, reaching for it, for the one tiny semblance of comfort you’ve been offered all night. But Joel stops you cold.

His voice is soft, low enough that no one else hears it, but it crashes over you like a command: “Nuh-uh.”

You freeze.

“Lemme take care of you,” he murmurs, eyes sliding back to yours, all slow heat and knowing stillness. “Open.”

Your breath stutters in your throat. You hesitate — not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Because the way he’s looking at you makes your nipples tighten and your pussy throb, and it feels obscene, the idea of letting him feed you like this in public. Like being fed is just a softer form of being fucked.

Still, you part your lips. Let your mouth open for him, slow and pliant, eyes fluttering half-lidded under his gaze.

He slides the bite in, presses the pad of his thumb against your lower lip as you take it, and you swear your whole body jolts. The butter coats your tongue, rich and warm and a little too much, but it’s not the bread that makes your breath stutter — it’s him. The feel of his thumb, the press of his skin against your mouth. He was just guiding the bite, just steadying it — but he stayed there. Just a moment too long.

And you take it.

Your lips close over him, soft and slow, and instead of pulling back, you draw him in. Deeper. Let your tongue flick against the salty slick of butter, the heat of his skin, and then you suck. Not hard, not obvious — but enough. Enough to make a sound. Enough to make his thumb drag heavy over your tongue like you’re tasting more than dinner. Like you’re offering him something sweeter if he’ll just let you.

He stills. His breath pauses. And your lashes lift just enough to catch the way his jaw clenches, the faint twitch of his fingers on the table like they want to curl into fists.

You pull back only when you’re ready, lips slipping free with a soft, wet pop, and sit back like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just wrap your mouth around him to make him think about your throat for the rest of the night.

You reach for your wine, take another sip to chase it, and this time when you set the glass down, there’s a flush crawling up Joel’s neck that he doesn’t bother to hide.

You lick your lips slowly, catching the last of the butter.

“Good bread,” you murmur, and smile like you didn’t just blow his goddamn mind with your mouth.

Joel’s still for a beat too long.

Then his hand drops slowly from the table, his eyes fixed on your lips like they’ve just confessed something filthy — and they have. Not with words. With tongue. With teeth. With the way you licked him like you’d do anything to have him in your mouth instead. You can see it in the way his chest rises once, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to swallow down the groan he nearly let slip. The muscle in his jaw ticks hard.

His voice, when it comes, is lower than it’s been all night — rough, warm, and soaked in need.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters, gaze flicking down to your lips, “and I’m gonna pull this tablecloth over your lap, slide under, and show you what else that mouth can do.”

Your breath catches — audibly. Your legs twitch beneath the table. And Joel doesn’t even blink.

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he adds, quieter now, so soft it feels like he’s whispering it against your skin. “My tongue in your cunt while you sip wine and try not to moan in front of a fuckin’ waiter.”

He leans in a little more, slow, patient—like he’s not even angry, just done holding back. His hand curls lightly around the stem of his glass again, but he doesn’t lift it. Just watches you like you’re the only thing in the room worth tasting.

“I can smell you, baby,” he murmurs, almost amused now. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s devastating. You don’t know whether to clench harder or crawl into his lap.

“Be a good girl,” he murmurs, voice slow and sanded down to nothing, “and just hang on a little longer, alright?”

You nod — shaky, desperate — your fingers flexing around the wine glass like it might hold you together. You try. You try. Try to sit still, try not to rock against the seat even though the pulse between your legs is demanding friction, some kind of pressure, anything to ease the ache that’s made a home in your cunt. The toy is still humming low and slow, but your body’s been clenching around nothing for so long you feel hollow, raw, and full and empty all at once. The heat under your dress is unbearable, soaked into the fabric, sticking to your skin. Every inch of you is flushed and restless. You shift again and your heel drags across the inside of his thigh, bumping his cock with the kind of soft pressure that feels like please.

Joel exhales through his nose, sharp and thin.

He’s trying — trying — to keep it together. To give you this last bit of structure, the illusion that you’re going to make it through a single civilized meal. But then he looks at you again, really looks — the way your head tips slightly, hair sticking to your cheek in damp curls, the pulse fluttering at your throat, the sweat beading along your collarbone and catching in the hollow between your tits — and it hits him: you’re not just needy.

You’re ruined.

And he did this. He did this with his mouth, his voice, his goddamn thumb. He made you squirm in a booth, made you wet through your panties without ever touching your pussy. You’ve been clenching and leaking for him since the truck, and he’s just sitting here with his dick throbbing in his jeans like he’s immune to it. Like he hasn’t been fantasizing about sliding that toy out of you and licking the mess off it before pressing his cock into the wreck he’s made.

No. He’s done. It’s over.

The waiter reappears, smiling, breezy, holding nothing but pleasantries and a little notepad.

“Everything still okay? Food’s coming right out.”

Joel doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from you. His hand slides from the table and curls under your thigh like he’s just steadying you, but his fingers squeeze hard enough to make you twitch.

“Actually,” he says, voice low and casual, like this has nothing to do with what’s soaking your seat, “we’ll take it to go.”

The waiter blinks. “Of course. Everything alright?”

Joel gives him a tight smile, thumb still dragging small, grounding circles into your inner thigh.

“She’s not feelin’ so hot,” he says, calm and warm — but you hear the edge beneath it. The heat in it. The promise. “Think we’ll eat in.”

Your breath hitches. You don’t speak. You can’t.

The waiter nods, polite and unaware, already pivoting to handle the takeout process, but Joel’s hand is already sliding from your leg to your waist, guiding you gently, reverently, out of the booth. The second you stand, your knees wobble, nearly give, your thighs trembling beneath the weight of what you’ve been holding in. You stumble forward just enough to make him reach for you — broad, calloused palm steady against the small of your back — and you could swear he lets his fingers graze just below the dip of your dress, just where your skin’s gone damp with sweat and heat and want.

He doesn’t say anything as he leads you out, just keeps you tucked close to his side, fingers curling tighter against your waist every time your body sways, every time your heels click unevenly on the tile floor. The hostess calls after you with a chipper Have a good night and Joel lifts two fingers in acknowledgment, doesn’t break stride, doesn’t even glance back.

You’re dizzy by the time the door swings open, the night air slapping hot against your cheeks and neck, cool compared to the molten sheen clinging to your skin. Your heart is thundering. Your thighs are still pressed together, trying and failing to contain the slick between your legs. It’s no use. You’re soaked. You know it. The lace of your panties has been clinging to your folds for the better part of an hour, and with every step, you swear you can feel it sliding, dragging, smearing down the inside of your thighs like you’ve been freshly fucked — and that’s before he even touches you again.

You moan, loud and helpless, and your hands scramble to grip something — his shirt, his neck, his jaw — you don't care, as long as it’s him. You pull him closer, fingers sinking into his hair as he nips at your earlobe, and you whimper, breathless, tilting your head back against him.

Joel moves fast after that. Like he’s lost whatever shred of patience he had left back at the table. His hands tighten at your waist, and he spins you, pressing your back hard into the cool metal of the truck. The contrast makes you shiver, the heat of your body pressed flat to the frame, chest rising in stuttering gasps. You barely get a breath before his mouth crashes down on yours, desperate and rough and messy — not a kiss so much as a claim, teeth scraping, tongue pressing in like he needs to feel the whine sitting at the back of your throat.

His thigh wedges between your legs before you even realize he’s done it, thick and solid and still denim-clad, and then—oh God. The vibrator, still tucked snug against your clit, grinds down hard between you, pressed cruelly between his jeans and the soaked silk of your panties. You wail into his mouth, the cry muffled and broken, your body jerking hard as the contact sends sparks through every nerve ending like a live wire snapping in your spine.

He groans into the kiss, hand sliding behind your neck to keep your mouth on his as he grinds you down. His thigh moves in slow, punishing circles beneath you, rolling up and against that perfect spot, dragging the pressure of the toy directly into your clit, and you swear you feel the vibration in your teeth. The friction is sharp and textured, the denim rough enough to scrape lightly over your tender skin through the lace, and it shouldn’t feel good, but it does. It does, and your legs are trembling from it, your knees beginning to buckle as you cling to his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“Feel that?” he pants into your mouth between kisses, lips slick with yours, the words hot and wet against your cheek. “That’s what you’ve been drippin’ for all goddamn night.”

You nod, frantic, tears prickling at your lashes from how badly you need it, need him, need him inside you before you come just from — from his thigh, from his mouth, from the weight of his voice dragging you under.

He nips at your lower lip, sucks it into his mouth, and bites down hard enough to sting, and the whimper that breaks out of you is raw, wrecked, needy. You grind once more against the thick muscle of his thigh, feel the toy slip, buzz harder, and your hips jerk uncontrollably, the slick of your arousal now smeared so thoroughly across the inside seam of his jeans you’re half-mad with the embarrassment, half-mad with the want.

Joel pulls back just long enough to look down, just to see the way you’re riding his thigh like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. His voice is low, nearly a growl, when he mutters, “You’re gonna fuckin’ come like this if I let you.”

“Joel,” you plead, voice thin and ruined, “please—”

He growls. Not just a sound — a threat. A warning. A promise. One hand shoves the takeout bag onto the passenger seat with a thump, the other curls around your wrist and drags you toward the back door. You stumble, dress hiking higher with each rushed step, heels clicking unevenly across the pavement.

When he yanks the door open, you lurch forward and he catches you, presses you against the frame of the truck, and kisses you. Filthy. Deep. His tongue pushes into your mouth before you can breathe, and you melt into it, whining into the hot slide of it as his hands roam low, gripping your ass through the clingy fabric like he’s already imagining how it’ll feel when he’s slamming into you from beneath.

“Coulda fucked you on the hood,” he mutters against your lips, voice frayed with lust. “Right here under this streetlight, with that ruined little dress ridin’ up over your ass. You woulda let me, huh?”

You nod, frantic, clawing at the hem of his shirt now. “I would. I would. I want—fuck, I need—”

He shuts you up with another kiss. This one is slower, heavier. Like he’s savoring your desperation. Like he’s trying to memorize how your lips feel slick and parted, already moaning into his mouth before he’s even gotten you in the truck. His hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, gripping tight, fingers digging into your skin like he’s making sure you don’t float away. You barely register the shift until your feet are off the ground, your dress riding high as he lifts you with a grunt and shoves you into the back seat — not careless, but certain, like he’s done it before in a dream and now it’s real and he’s not wasting a fucking second more.

Your ass hits the worn leather and your knees scramble to find footing, legs spreading automatically to make room for him as he climbs in after you, the cab filling instantly with the heat of his body, the scent of wine and sweat and want.

The door slams shut behind him, not loud but final, the sound echoing in your chest like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning. The air inside the truck is thick, heady with sweat and perfume and slick, the ghost of candle smoke still clinging to your skin like sin, like it followed you from the table where you tried to pretend you could behave. But there’s no pretending anymore. Joel’s presence overwhelms the cab instantly — broad and grounded, chest rising in deep, hungry heaves, belt unfastened and jeans riding low on his hips, the silver glint of the buckle catching a flash of streetlamp just before his hands find you again, not with softness or ceremony but with need, as though just touching you might anchor him back into his body.

You barely gasp before he’s there, dropping to his knees between your thighs, shoving the hem of your dress up with both hands, bunching the fabric into his fists like it’s offended him just by existing, like it’s dared to hide what belongs to him. The vibrator shifts with the movement, still buzzing where he tucked it against your clit, and the moment your legs fall open, he sees everything. His eyes drag to the soaked silk of your panties, nearly translucent now from how thoroughly you’ve ruined them — every ridge of your folds visible, every twitch of your core making the lace flutter against your skin. You’re glistening, shimmering under the truck’s dim light, leaking warmth and want like a prayer meant only for him.

His growl rumbles up from deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the seat beneath you and takes root in your spine. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He presses the flat of his palm over the toy, dragging it slow and hard over your clit, grinding the buzzing silicone into you until your thighs tremble around his shoulders and a choked, broken moan punches free of your lungs before you even realize it’s coming. Your hand flies to your mouth instinctively, fingers splayed across your lips like you can hold in what he’s just torn out of you.

But Joel doesn’t stop.

“Let me hear it,” he rasps, eyes locked between your legs like they’re tracking the center of the universe. “You think I dragged you outta that restaurant just to watch you squirm? No, baby. I want the fuckin’ symphony.”

And then he’s on you.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t tease.

He ducks his head and devours, his tongue dragging in one long, filthy stroke up your inner thigh before his teeth catch on the thin edge of your panties and pull. The vibrator slips to the side with a slick, obscene noise as he mouths over it, then tosses it somewhere in the dark, like it’s taken too long to get to what he really wants. And then he’s there — mouth sealing around your clit with a hot, devastating pull that sends your hips snapping up and your voice cracking open like glass beneath him. His tongue laves against you, thick and unrelenting, slow strokes alternating with sharp flicks that make your back bow against the seat, your hands flying to his hair to keep him there, to beg him without words to never stop.

He groans against you, deep and wrecked, and the vibrations pulse through your cunt like an aftershock. He licks you like he missed you. Like he dreamed about this exact moment. Like, he could live here. And just when your walls start fluttering with the edges of something too sharp, too bright, too much, he pulls back — lips shiny with your slick, the shine of your mess smeared across his chin.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you like you’re God.

“Gonna ride me,” he pants, dragging the words out low and rough as he fumbles his belt loose, pushing his jeans and boxers just low enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy and twitching where it rests against his stomach. “Right here. Right now. You’ve been beggin’ all fuckin’ night, baby. Time to earn it.”

You can’t speak. You’re already crawling into his lap, breath hitching as your thighs spread over his, the air between your bodies sharp and electric. Your cunt drags over his shaft — slick and hot — and the sound that leaves his throat is pure hunger. He grabs himself in one hand, smearing your arousal down his length, dragging the head through your folds with purpose, watching your face twist with need. His other hand grips your hip, guiding you closer, lining you up.

“Don’t run,” he breathes, his voice barely more than a growl, forehead pressed to yours. “Take it. Take all of it, baby. Be a good girl.”

And you do.

You lower yourself inch by devastating inch, the stretch slow and punishing, your body fighting to take him as your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath coming out in little gasps that sound more like worship. You feel your walls part around him, feel every ridge, every vein, every delicious ache as you sink down and finally, finally bottom out.

He holds you there. Doesn’t let you move. Not yet.

“Fuck,” he hisses, biting at your throat, his hands clenching around your waist like he’s anchoring himself in place. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You moan into his mouth when he kisses you again, sloppier now, wetter — more tongue than lips. And then you move — slowly at first, rolling your hips, building the rhythm that will destroy you. Every bounce draws a new groan from his throat, every grind makes your clit drag against the coarse hair at the base of his cock, sending jolts of pleasure through your spine. Your thighs burn, chafing deliciously against his jeans, the sting only heightening the dizzying high you’re chasing.

The truck rocks with the momentum, each thrust pushing the air from your lungs, each slap of skin against skin driving you closer to the edge. His hands find your ass, pulling you down harder, making you take him, and when you whimper, he chuckles dark and low against your throat.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it. You hear that?” he grunts, pressing his palm to your lower belly, feeling the bulge where he’s buried so deep inside. “That’s me in your fuckin’ guts.”

You whimper, high and aching, body pulsing around him as your thighs tremble from the stretch, the slick of your cunt dripping down where his jeans are still clinging to his thighs, the thick, musky sound of your bodies slapping together filling every inch of the cab like heat pressed into fogged glass. You’re still riding him — still grinding down with slow, relentless rolls of your hips that make your clit catch at just the right spot — but now you’re holding on. Arms wrapped tight around his neck, your face buried against his temple, your fingers tangled in his hair like you’re trying to fuse your body to his. You can feel him panting against your collarbone, open-mouthed and desperate, like he’s biting back something loud, something animal, something barely tamed.

“Christ,” Joel breathes against your skin, the sound more of a broken moan than a word, his voice wet and trembling. His teeth find your neck again, grazing the sensitive curve where shoulder meets throat, biting down just enough to make your pussy clench around him in response, and he feels it. Groans against you, lips dragging along the line of your jaw as he grinds you down harder, deeper, every upward thrust punching the air from your lungs as the belt buckle at his hip digs into the soft skin of your thigh.

You’re soaked... not just your panties anymore, but everything. Your dress is sticking to your back, your sweat mixing with his where your bodies meet, the scent of wine and sex clinging to your skin like perfume. The rough denim of his jeans chafes along the inside of your thighs with every bounce, friction catching against your sensitive flesh and only adding to the burn, the sting, the wild, unbearable pleasure. You don’t even want to pull away — you want more of it. Want the pain. Want the bruises. Want him everywhere.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Your body is starting to tremble harder now, thighs quaking as your pace falters, the overwhelming press of sensation knocking the breath from your lungs — and Joel knows. Of course, he knows. He tightens his grip on your hips, anchoring you in place with thick, bruising fingers as he drives up into you, over and over, filthy sounds echoing in the small space between the two of you. His groans are getting louder, raspier, his thrusts erratic and wild, teeth still grazing your throat as he pants,

“That’s it, ride it out, baby—fuck, you sound so fuckin’ pretty when you cry like that, you hear me? That’s all for me. All of it.”

You’re babbling now, nothing coherent, not even words, just gasps and little broken sobs of pleasure, your hips moving on instinct, chasing something bright and unbearable as his cock grinds right into that perfect, dizzying spot inside you. The belt buckle digs into your thigh again, a sharp kiss of metal that only makes your body clench harder, your legs locking tighter around his waist, and then—

The pressure mounts, unbearable.

His hand disappears between your bodies, fumbling behind your thigh before pressing something firm and familiar back against your clit. The vibrator. You hadn’t even realized he grabbed it. But now it’s back, and it’s vibrating, and you swear your vision blacks out for a second as he presses it directly against the swollen little bundle of nerves, the toy slick with your wetness and buzzing mercilessly in his calloused hand as he growls, “Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me. Come on Daddy’s cock — I know you’re close.”

You can’t even fight it anymore. Can’t hold back. The pleasure barrels through you like a lightning strike — brutal and hot and fast, your body seizing up around him, your head thrown back as you scream, high and wrecked and shaking, your thighs locking around him as your cunt spasms violently, clenching down on his cock like it’s trying to keep him.

And then — wetness. Heat. Everywhere.

It’s not just an orgasm. It’s something more. Something primal. You squirt around him, the gush soaking his jeans, your thighs, the leather seat beneath you, the sound obscene as your slick pours out uncontrollably, drenching his lap as you collapse against him with a sob.

Joel growls, so loud and feral it rips through the cab like thunder, and he slams into you one final time, cock pulsing deep inside your fluttering heat as he comes, thick and hot and endless, groaning your name into your shoulder as his body trembles beneath you. He doesn't pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just stays buried to the hilt, still holding the toy against your clit like he doesn’t want the high to end, like he wants to keep you twitching, leaking, falling apart on top of him until you forget what it feels like to breathe without his cock inside you.

Eventually, your hips go still. Your head drops onto his shoulder. His arms curl around your waist like armor, one hand stroking slowly up your spine, the other resting flat against your thigh, his thumb brushing the marks the belt buckle left behind. Your walls are still fluttering, milking him gently, your cunt wet and stretched and full, and neither of you move — not yet.

You cockwarm like that. Breathing in sync. Skin sticking. Heartbeats loud in the quiet.

Joel presses a kiss to your temple. Another to your shoulder. One more just beneath your jaw, slower this time, reverent.

He murmurs something into your skin. Something low. Something that sounds like your name and mine in the same breath.

And when he finally pulls out—slow, thick, sloppy—you whine from the loss, hips instinctively rolling forward like you’re trying to pull him back in.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice rough but gentle now, as he reaches for the glovebox, pulling out a crumpled napkin and whispering apologies as he wipes between your thighs, cleaning you up as best he can. His touch is soft. Almost tender. Like he just fucked you like a goddamn animal but is still the only man alive who knows how to hold you after.

He kisses the inside of your knee.

Helps you tuck yourself back into your dress, even though your panties are useless now, nothing but soaked lace barely clinging to your hips. His hands linger, smoothing down your skirt, tucking damp hair behind your ear, and when he finally slides out of the backseat and into the front, when the truck rumbles to life beneath you, your legs still feel like jelly.

He reaches for your hand over the center console.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just laces his fingers with yours — warm, steady, calloused — and drives you home. Still wearing your slick on his skin. Still thinking about what you tasted like. Still planning the next time you’ll let him ruin you just as beautifully.

a/n: TA DAAAA -- can u tell im touch starved?

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