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Don't Gloat
(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)
CW: Â Richie being Richie, swearing, mild violence (a misunderstanding), smut (PiV, protected). 18+ only.
Word Count: Â 7289
AN: Â Requested by an anonymous person, place, or thing!
AN2: Drabble? I don't know her, apparently.
Your first real fight is over chicken.
You squabble, pretty much from day one.�� Carmy hires you to help in the kitchen, and Richie immediately takes an intense dislike to you. Adding you upsets the delicate ecosystem of The Beef. You are unnecessary. Richie makes it known on your first day.
âDonât get comfortable,â he warns an hour into service. âCousin doesnât run things.â
âSeems like he does,â you shoot back.
âIâm the manager here.â
Here is where the dislike really starts. Richie is rude and sarcastic, but youâre a chameleon. You can shift and change your demeanor to match what someone is giving you, so when Richie is rude and sarcastic to you, you respond in kind.
You call him âMister Managerâ in a tone dripping with sarcasm, and by the end of that first shift, Richie completely hates you.
The feeling is mutual by the end of your second shift.
At first, you just squabble. You trade barbs and insults. When Richie throws a temper tantrum over Carmyâs organization of the spices, you pout and turn to Ibra and posit that Richie is grumpy because he needs a juice box and a nap. Which makes Ibra cock his head at you. He speaks English impeccably, but sometimes he misses the finer nuances of language like sarcasm.Â
âI do not think we have juice boxes here,â Ibra says, and Tina swats him as she walks past.
âSheâs being sarcastic, you old bitch,â she tells him.
The allusion to Richie being a toddler isnât far off. He acts childish all the time. He flings cookware around when heâs having a tantrum. He swears, he throws out middle fingers like an angry pre-teen.Â
He hides your expensive Henckles knives. He turns the heat up or down when your back is turned. Once, he parks you in behind The Beef, and when you go to leave, heâs nowhere to be foundâyou end up doing a thirty-six point turn, a fraction at a time, before you can properly pull out and drive away.
But your first real fight is over chicken.
The meat delivery is wrong one day. Youâre short on beef, but thereâs five whole chickens, and Carmy throws up his hands and tells you to come up with something.
So you do.Â
You roast them low and slow so they stay tender, and youâre putting the finishing touches on the sauceâan adobo-based barbeque thatâs the perfect blend of tangy and smokyâwhen Richie strolls in. Heâs in his stupid leather jacket and ridiculous blue track pants, and he announces himself with his usual grinning, âwhatâs up, you fucking lizards?â
Sweeps and Manny call out their hellos, but Richie ignores them. Heâs already super-focused on youâŚand the sauce youâre stirring over a low heat.
âWhat the fuck is that?â he asks. He stands too close to you, dips his head close to the pot, and takes a loud sniff of it. Then rears back with a grimace, like youâre simmering a pot of shit and not a finely balanced sauce for your roasting chickens.
âItâs barbeque sauce. For the chicken.â
âWhat fucking chicken?â
âMeat delivery was fucked up,â Carmy calls across the kitchen.Â
Richie scoffs and turns to Carmy, and he gestures at you and your sauce. âNo offence, Cousin, but the place is called âThe Beef.ââ
âNo offence, Cousin, but fuck off,â Carmy replies.
âHeaven forbid we try something new,â you add. You snap the heat off and settle a lid over the pot to allow the flavors time to mellow together. Once the chicken is done, youâll shred it and mix it in. You have a red cabbage slaw planned for it, and thin slices of sharp cheddar to round it out. You turn towards the refrigerator, but Richie blocks your path.
âNothing Italian about whatever the fuck that is.â He glares down at you; heâs half a head taller than you, but he has a way of puffing out his chest like a bantam rooster spoiling for a fight.
Maybe other people are cowed by his posturing, but youâre unimpressed and not scared at all.
âItâs about as Italian as âJerimovich.ââ
His chest puffs out more, and he takes a half step closer to you. This close, you can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to him, the old man cologne he splashes on with a heavy hand, the subtler scent of laundry detergent.Â
âPeople come here every day and get the same thing,â he says. âSame order every fuckinâ day. No one is gonna order whatever fancy Noma bullshit youâre trying to pull out of your ass.â
You take a half step up to him and puff out your chest, and it makes Richie falter for a moment. He leans back, just a fraction, but you note the movement and smirk up at him. You reach out and poke him in the sternum with a forefinger, driving home each point.
âOne, this isnât Noma bullshit. Itâs literally slow-roasted chicken. Two, itâs a pretty simple sauce. Maybe it seems fancy to you because itâs more challenging to your palate than chicken nuggets. Three, some customers might appreciate a change in their usual lunch order. Not everyone is so resistant to change, Cousin.â
Your use of the familiar nickname makes his nostrils flare and his eyes widen in anger. âIâm not your fucking Cousin.â
âSure you are, Cousin.â
âStop it.â
âIâll save you a sandwich, Cousin.â The thought occurs to you that youâre being childish now, that Richie has brought out some immature part of you, and you think itâs kinda fun, being a juvenile brat at work and leaning into the fight.
âFucking stop it.â
âStop what, Cousin?â
He turns away from you so quick, it makes you blink in surprise. âFucking bitch,â he mutters to himself, but heâs striding across the kitchen towards the office, and heâs calling for Carmy, so you follow at his heels and call for Carmy too.
âYo, Cousin, can you fucking fire her already? Jesus fucking Christ, Iââ he starts, but you cut him off, mimic his growling voice and Chicago accent.
âYo, Carmy, when are we gonna fire Richie already? I mean, the place is changingââ
It makes Richie go fully nuclear. The mention of change makes him apoplectic. He turns and crowds you against the door jamb, and he gets right in your face: so close that you can see his eyes arenât completely blueâthey are flecked with grey, like bits of mica in pavement. Youâre startled for a moment, surprised to find that his eyes are beautiful, but you obviously donât say anything because heâs snarling in your face.
âFuck you!â he spits out, and he points a finger inches from your face. âFuck you! Nothinâ is changinâ here! Nothinâ needs to change!â
And then he gives you his patented Richie double-chin flick, and he mutters some Italian insult you donât know, and heâs marching through the kitchen to leave.
Not before he sweeps your mise en place off the counter, sending thin-sliced cabbage and vinegar flying.
Carmy stares at you with a look that is purely beleaguered. He sighs, he scrubs his face with his hands, and he runs them through his hair before he sighs again.
âWhatever you and Richie have going on? Squash that shit, Chef.â
You nod, embarrassed at risingâor sinkingâto Richieâs childishness. âYes, Chef,â you reply.
-----
âSquashing itâ mostly means that you and Richie only fight when Carmy isnât within earshot.
Your fighting still entails getting in each otherâs faces. It still means you insult each other, albeit more quietly. You hiss insults at him, he grumbles them back. You part when Carmy shows up, and you each stew in your separate corners and wait for the next round.
You start to suss out where the limits are. You insult him as a father one single time, and the flash of hurt on his face makes you hold up your hands in a truce and apologize.Â
He insults you once as a woman with daddy issues, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You did grow up without a fatherâhe died when you were six, and your only memories of him are full of pain from the stomach cancer that slowly killed him. But you must show the hurt on your face too because Richie takes a step backwards away from you, stammers out an apology too.
All told, once you know each otherâs hard limits, you actually fight pretty nicely, and if anyone notices it, no one says anything.
-----
Sunday nights are a good time to come in to The Beef and set yourself up for the week. You work it out with Carmy because it gives him a break and gives you a few more hours. You enjoy the time there with the restaurant being closedâyou blast your music, you sing along at the top of your lungs as you rotate stock, make detailed shopping lists for Carmy, and make sure everything is clean.
If one thing infuriates you, itâs the way certain national media outlets focus on Chicago as a cesspool of violence. But it is a large city, and violence does happen, so when youâre in the basement of The Beef and hear the beep of the alarm system as it is deactivated, you immediately feel ice cold all over. The alarm system, Ibra told you once, is easily overcome, and The Beef has been robbed before.
You glance around and see that youâre trapped, unless you want to rush up the steps (not advisable) or shimmy out a tiny window at street level (also not advisable). Thereâs nothing in the way of weapons in the basement either, so you arm yourself with a half-burnt cookie sheet and tremble as you listen to the heavy tread above you.
Maybe theyâll just trash the place and leave. Thereâs nothing worth stealing, unless they want to wheel out the massive, ancient Hobart. Maybe theyâll get into Marcusâs stash of good vanilla. Maybe theyâllâ
Maybe theyâll make their way to the top of the stairs. Maybe theyâll pause there and start walking down to where you wait. You try not to breathe too loud, but your heart is hammering in your chest, your pulse is in your ears, and youâre flooded with adrenaline as the shoes of your would-be assailant come into view.
You donât hear Richieâs voice when he calls out your name. Youâre too panicked. You donât hear him, and you donât even register him when he rounds the cornerâheâs in his usual track pants and leather jacketâbecause youâre fully in fight-or-flight modeâŚand independent of your will, your body chooses fight.
âFuck you!â you scream, and you swing the cookie sheet directly at his head with all the force you can muster. Your assailant stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, and you drop the pan and try to scramble past him, but you trip over his foot in your panic and fall hard, cracking your shinbone against the lowest step.
If you ever idly wondered how youâd react in a real life-or-death scenario, here is your answer:Â you scream and scream, and you clutch one hand to your throbbing shin but flail your other hand at the person reaching for you, and itâs not until you smell himâthe familiar cigarette/old man cologne smellâthat your panic ebbs a little.
And then you see those blue eyes flecked with grey, and even if Richie is your enemy at work, heâs never really been an enemy in the true sense of the word. The relief that you arenât about to be raped or murdered floods you so suddenly that you burst into tears.Â
And then you hug him, your arms so tight around his middle that he breathes out a sharp oof, but then he wraps one arm around your trembling form while the other clutches his bleeding nose in an attempt to staunch the blood.
âWhat the fuckâs wrong with you?â he asks. His voice is thick and nasally, but thereâs a hint of amusement to it.
âThought you were an intruder.â You release him from your hold, and you will yourself to stop shaking.Â
âCarmy.â He shakes his head. âGuess Food and Wineâs Best New Asshole didnât tell you I was coming by.â
âHe did not.â
Richie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wrinkled napkin. He presses it to his nose and winces, and your panic is replaced by shame. Youâll never live this down, you realize. Richie is going to tell everyone first thing tomorrow, and heâll add his usual Richie flourishes to make your screams more shrill, your flailing more erratic in the retelling.
His nose stops bleeding, and he checks it tentatively. He prods at the swollen skin, red that is going to bruise by morning. He fixes you with a curious look.
âYou hit harder than I would have thought.â
âI play softball.â
âWhere?â
âLincoln Park. At the North Avenue fields.â
He huffs at that. Clears his throat. âYeah, my daughter has t-ball there.â
Your panic is gone now, and you feel more like yourself. Your leg throbs at where you banged it, and it will be bruised by morning like Richieâs face. You limp over to the big table and gather up your coat and purse.
âDonât do that,â you tell Richie.
âDo what?â
âDonâtâŚwhatever. Talk to me nice. Tell me about your daughter. Donât do that.â
He snorts and says, âwhy the fuck not?â
âBecause weâre not friends, and you scared the shit out of me, and now Iâm all keyed up and just want to get home instead of having an impromptu bonding session with the one guy at The Beef who truly, honesty hates me.â
âAlright, fine. Youâre a fucking head-case to freak out the way you did, and I think you broke my fucking nose. Better?â
It startles a laugh out of you, and your laughter makes Richie grin. Itâs shy, and he ducks his head, but you catch it all the same.
He clears his throat again, then asks if you drove there. You tell him noâyou had a premium parking spot on your street, so you took the L. He nods at that, and he seems to be thinking through something, so you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder and wait for him to say something.
âLet me drive you home, at least, âhe finally offers. âYouâre all sorts of fucked up.â
âIâm fine.â
âThe hell you are. Someone looks at you wrong on the train, gonna catch an assault charge.â
âYouâd love to see me in prison,â you reply. âOut of your way. No one left to defiantly make a delicious chicken sandwich special and destroy the system here.â
âAsshole.â He shakes his head, then gestures for you to take the stairs ahead of him. âIâm driving you home. Letâs go.â
You canât admit that a ride sounds fantastic. You do feel keyed up, anxious and twitchy, and even if itâs Richie, youâre grateful for the offer.
Even so, as you limp upstairs, the pain in your leg makes it easier to admit to him. You turn as he resets the alarm, and you thank him, softly.
âYeah, fine. Whatever.â He points at his car, then grumbles, âcâmon already.â
-----
Somehow, it becomes a thing.
Sunday evenings become yours and Richieâs thing. The work should go twice as fast, but Richie doesnât work so much as⌠not work. He leans in the doorway of the walk-in as you take inventory, he perches on the counter as you make giardiniera for the next day. He sits in the office as you write out the order list for Carmy, and he gripes about how long youâre taking, how he has better things to do.
If that were true, why does he spend every Sunday with you? You doubt Food and Wineâs Best New Asshole told him to, yet he shows up every week and complains the entire time. He complains the entire drive to your place, and when you thank him for the ride, he either flips you off or makes a jacking-off motion with his hand before he peels away from your curb.
âYou almost done?â he asks now. âGot shit to do.â
âYou donât have shit to do.â You check the takings from last week, do a quick calculation in the margin of the print-out. âIf you did, you wouldnât be here.â
âSomeoneâs gotta keep an eye on you.â
âWhy, you afraid I might introduce a dish that isnât entirely Italian-American approved?â
He grumbles, ânothinâ needs to change. Menuâs fine the way it is.â
âYou really donât have to stay, Richie. I can handle myself.â
âBullshit you can.â He leans forward, taps the side of his nose. âYou handle yourself so well, you dislocated my fucking nose.â
âAnd it gave your face some character,â you retort.
âWhatâs wrong with my face?â
You glance at him, roll your eyes. âAside from the fact itâs always in my face, glaring or stirring up shit? Nothing.â
He leans back in his chair again and sighs. âI donât stir up shit.â
âYou do.â
âDonât.â
âYes, you do.â
âNo, I fucking donât.â
âYou talk way too much, Richard.â
âDonât call me fucking Richard. You sound like my asshole mother-in-law.â He pauses, then amends it to, âmy former asshole mother-in-law.â
A long beat of silence passes. You calculate the meat order, the vegetables, the shelf stable stuff. You balance out the order against where thereâs already overdue billsâCarmy is juggling the vendors as best he can, and you try to give him relief where you canâ
âDone yet?â
âNope.â You cross out the one line for the produce vendor, split it between two vendors. âWhat are you in such a hurry for?â
âTold you. I got stuff to do.â
You glance over at him. He does seem more keyed up. His leg bounces up and down, and he wrings his hands in his lap.Â
âWhat sort of stuff?â you ask.
He mumbles his answer, and you miss it at first. When you arch an eyebrow at him, he repeats it. An embarrassed, âgot a date.â
You pause in your writing and turn to face him. Fak told you once about Richieâs imploded marriage, and he had heavily implied that Richie was still pining for his ex-wife. âA date?âÂ
He shrugs. âKind of a date.â
âWhatâs kind of a date?â
Another shrug, and he fixes his gaze to the dirty tile floor. âWe went out last week, and we talked about grabbing a drink tonight. I was gonna text her after I drop you off.â
âSounds like a regular date to me.â
He lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then lets them fall again. âI dunno. Wasnât really feeling it, you know?â
You turn completely to face him, your list forgotten. âThen why agree to a second date?â
Another shrug, a sheepish lift and fall of his shoulders. The two of you are toeing the line of near-friendship, your usual squabbling turning into an honest-to-god friendly chat, but maybe Richie doesnât have any confidants in his life, because he sighs, then mutters about how she seemed cold, how she wasnât charmed by his Bill Murray voicemail greeting story, but how he thought he should try anywayâ
âRichie, Iâm not your gal pal in a rom-com, but if you arenât feeling it, donât do it. Jesus, thatâs just common sense.â
He fixes you with a glare. âOh, Iâm sorry. I didnât realize you were a goddamned relationship expert.â
âItâs common sense.â
âWhen was the last time you went on a date?â
You bristle at the question. Your love life is about as dead as The Beefâs commercial credit, but Richie doesnât need to know that. But you hesitate long enough that he can guess, and he laughs at you, and you bristle more.
âI knew it!â He points at you, and you swat at his hand until he lowers it. âYou give off this whole âhasnât been laid in a long timeâ vibe.â
You turn away from him and bend your head back to your ordering list. âShut up,â you mumble.
âAll those prissy little dishes you add to the menu. Youâre all wound up. It makes sense.â
âMy culinary excellence has nothing to do with my love life or lack thereof.â You hope your tone is even and nonchalant, but you fear it comes out as defensive. Which it must, because Richie holds up his hands again.
âNo judgement. Itâs tough out there. I get it.â
You groan and turn away from him, twisting yourself to get his smirking face out of your peripheral. âYou should leave. Go get ready for your kind-of date.â
âNah.â
âSeriously, you can go.â
âNah.â You hear his deep breath, then a beat later, he continues.
âIf you ever want to blow off some steam, we couldâŚâ He trails off, but his intent is clear, and you feel a prickly heat break out across your skin.Â
ââŚshut up, Richie.â
You turn a little and he reappears in your peripherals. He presses his hands together in a prayer position, then presses his fingertips near his mouth in an expression of thoughtfulness.Â
âShut up, Richie isnât no, Richie.â
âItâs most certainly no, Richie.â
âLook at me.â
âI gotta finish this list and send it to Carmyââ
âLook at me, sweetheart.â
You canât. You stare at your handwritingâthe 50 pounds of cake flour Marcus needsâand you feel yourself heating up at the sudden image of you and Richieâno, you shove the mental image away, shake your head to clear it, and the man notices all of it.
âWhy canât you look at me?â he asks, and his voice is soft, low. A graveled rumble, roughened by the cigarettes he chain-smokes when heâs not inside, and you donât know if it really has been that long, but itâs a step-progression of reactions in your body. The prickle of heat along your skin, the way your skin feels too tight. The way your mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.
The strong, traitorous pulse of desire between your legs. Fuck.
âWouldnât have to mean anything,â he continues with that low voice. âNo one would have to know.â
âShut up, Richie.â
âStill not hearing a no, sweetheart.â
You breathe in deeply through your nose, then turn to face him squarely. You look him right in his eyesâthose bright blue eyes, flecked with grey, beautifulâand say, âNo, Richie.â
He stares back at you, and a smile slowly unfurls across his face. A real smile, not his usual shit-eating grin or smarmy smirk. A real smile that, paired with his gorgeous eyes, makes his face transform into something beautiful. Itâs like heâs lifted his mask for a moment and is showing you who he really is.
âYouâre tempted.â He sounds in awe of the revelation, and he leans back against the wall. âHoly shit, youâre really tempted by it.â
âNo, Iâmââ
âBullshit,â he cuts you off. âYou are.â His smile stays fixed on his face, and he shakes his head. âHoly shit, sweetheart.â
You grumble out the weakest rebuttal, but he only laughs and shakes his head again, and the last half hour is passed in uncomfortable silence:Â you as you email the shopping list to Carmy with hands you will into steadiness, and Richie as he grins at you and chuckles to himself.
Of course he drives you home, just as he always does.
And of course he parks his car and comes up to your apartment when you invite him up, which is a first.
*****
A therapist would have a lifetime of secure business if Richie ever decided to pursue therapy for himself. Not that he wouldâfeelings are bullshit, and life is tough all overâbut if he didâŚthereâd be a lot of deep shit to mine.
At the core of him, Richie is desperately insecure. He had a dicey childhood, and he glommed on the Berzatto family to make up for his own familyâs shortcomings. He had Tiff, for a glorious while, then lost her. He has his daughter, but only part-time. He lost Mikey, the nearest thing to a brother, and now heâs slowly losing The Beef as it becomes something more than a sandwich shop.
No wonder he feels lost all the time. No wonder he lashes out and hurts those closest to him.
No wonder heâs been riding your ass for months, trying to get you to quit even as his initial dislike has mellowed out to acceptance and then toâŚsomething else he wonât name.
He canât lie to himself: that night in the basement shifted things. Maybe you concussed him along with the dislocated nose. Maybe he has slight brain damage. He canât account for it any other way, how seeing you so terrified caused a sea-change in him. How feeling your arms around him, clinging to him and trembling so hard, softened him towards you.
He wonât name it. He wonât even think it. The most heâll admit is, âmaybe I donât completely hate her.â
Which somehow turns into this moment. The two of you awkwardly standing in your entryway, unsure if the other is bluffing, unsure if the other is serious. Thereâs too much bad blood in your shared past, and you each are expecting the other to say âsike!,â to turn it into a humiliating story to share in the morning with the crew.
Youâre both wrong.Â
âSo, uh, nice place.â He looks around your apartment and rubs the back of his neck. âYou got a lot of books.â
âI like to read.â
âYeah. Nice.â He takes a few steps deeper into your place, and he studies the titles on the nearest bookshelf. âStephen King. Clive Barker. You like the spooky shit, huh?â
âNothing as scary as being ambushed in the basement at night by you.â
He snorts, shakes his head. As heâs softened towards you, your teasing has gotten gentler too. Youâve always rose to meet his energy, and now that heâs not actively despising you (he wonât name it, he will not), you arenât actively despising him.
âNothing as scary as seeing a giant fucking sheet pan flying at your faceââ
You cut him off. âOkay, Richie. Enough.â
âIâm just sayingââ
âEnough words. More action.â You face him and lift your eyebrows challengingly. âUnless this was all a ruse.â
He shakes his head.
âUnless this is just a prank to embarrass me later.â
He shakes his head again, and he flexes his hands along his sides. Heâs itching to reach out and touch youâhe remembers the feel of you in his arms, the way you tucked so perfectly against him when you were scared. You had been relieved to see it had been him; you had felt safe enough to reach for him, and heâs been chasing that high ever since. A therapist would make short work of this moment, but Richie wants to feel important to you again. He wants to feel like you need him to protect you, to shelter you. He wants to feel like a man, needed, necessaryâ
Youâre talking but he doesnât register the words. Instead, he reaches for you, pulls you to him, and when you look up at him in surprise, he dips his head and kisses you.
Itâs brutal at first. Heâs out of practice. Heâs certainly never kissed someone like youâsomeone so infuriatingly challengingâand he mashes his lips too hard against yours, can feel your wince as you struggle to kiss him back. So he breaks the kiss and tries again, much more carefully, and itâs so much better: the softness of your lips, the quiet moan you give as you kiss him back.
Maybe you need it bad, but he needs it just as bad, and when he considers why he does, he pushes the thought away completely. Because if he thinks on it too much in this moment, if he thinks on how good it feels, the way you tug at his clothesâeager but shy, your hands steady but your eyes unable to meet hisâheâd have to face an uncomfortable truth.
Still, he needs to see you. Needs to look you in the eye. He grasps your chin and tilts your face until youâre looking at him.
âYou okay with this?â He says it softly. He says it as kindly as he can.
âYeah.â You nod, then add, âno one needs to know, right?â
âRight.â
âNo one needs to know.â
âExactly.â
You offer him a smile, and itâs genuine. Itâs not your normal smart-ass smirk, the way one corner of your mouth lifts higher than the other. Itâs a real smile, and he has to push that uncomfortable truth away again because if youâre cute when you smirk, youâre beautiful when you smile, and Richie canât dwell on the fact.
âCâmon then, Richard. Bedroomâs this way.â
âAsshole,â he huffs out, but you push his jacket off of his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, and you tug him down your hallway.Â
You alternate and he lets you strip him and yourselfâa piece of his clothing, a piece of yours. You leave a trail so that youâre both nearly naked once youâre in the bedroom. He stands in front of you, his boxers tented, and he takes in the sight of you. In standard, everyday lingerieâdark grey bra and pantiesâbut the everyday shit makes his mouth run dry. Elaborate lingerie is not really his thing, but seeing a woman in her everyday shit, the comfortable cotton shitâŚthat feels more special, somehow. Like you woke up that morning and put on the functional stuff, but now here you are, nearly naked for him.
You always rise to meet his energy. Heâs openly ogling you now, and you gaze back at him, openly staring back. He has a moment of doubtâmaybe he should lift more, cut back on beers after workâbut your eyes are blown dark with desire, and it makes his cock twitch to see it.
You seem to want him as much as he wants you.Â
âCâmere, you fucking pain in the ass,â he growls, and you roll your eyes but bridge the distance between you. You press the length of your near-naked body against his, and the sudden touch makes him bite back a groan. He puts his hands on your waist, and you lay your palms against his chest, and you kiss again.
The kiss grows and grows. He bullies his way into your mouth, sweeps his tongue and licks against your mouth, and you answer in kind. You kiss him back, and your hands stroke his chest, his shoulders, his arms. One snakes lower and grasps him through his boxers, and he swears against your lips at the feel of your palm stoking him.
He pushes you backwards towards the bed. He pushes you until you hit the bed, and then he pushes you down, but you reach out and grasp him golden chain and tug him down to join you.Â
You always rise to meet him. He takes charge and slots himself between your legs, but you move eagerly. When he lowers himself onto you, still partially dressed, you lift yourself up and press against him. Your clothed breasts against his chest, and he dips his head and tugs the cups of your bra down until youâre exposed to him. He lowers his head and kisses you, works his mouth against you. He sucks a mark on each curve of your breast, right where your bra will cover. He wants you to see them and think of him, a pair of mementos to this moment.
âFuck, Richie.â You breathe it out, and your hand cups the back of his head. You hold him against you, and heâs too happy to stay here for a while: sucking against your nipples, biting lightly until you squirm. Laving your tender buds with the flat of his tongue, pinching and tugging until you shove him away with a groan.
âToo much,â you whine, but you tangle in his chain again and tug his mouth to yours. He kisses you, relishes how flushed your skin feels under his lips as he kisses his way across your face, down your neck, across your bare shoulders. He pauses long enough to undo your bra in earnest, tosses it aside. Then he kisses his way down your chest again, traces his tongue further down to your soft belly until his chin is perched right on the waistband of your panties.
âCan I?â he asks. He traces a finger under the lace edging, and he watches your face. You gaze back at him, your eyes still dark and pupils blown. Your lips are swollen, and your chest rises and falls with how hard youâre breathing.
You nod. âYou can take them off.â
âIs that it? Nothing else?â
You laugh, breathless. âSome other time. Really want you to fuck me instead.â
Some other time. The thought makes Richieâs dick twitch at the idea of doing this another time.
You feel him twitch against you. You laugh again to feel it, and you lift a leg to hook it clumsily along the waistband of his boxers. You try to push them down, and then youâre chanting âcome on, come on, come onâ as he scrambles to shuck off the rest of his clothing, scrambles to hook his fingers under your panties as he draws them down your legs.Â
âCondoms in the bedside stand,â you tell him, and he opens the drawer, snags one. He notes the bright pink vibrator there but doesnât remark on it. Heâll tuck the image away and revisit it days later in the shower: a rich bit of fantasy where he pictures you masturbating to the thought of him.
He tears the foil with his teeth, and he watches you as he rolls the condom on himself. Youâre absolutely fucking gorgeous, better than he ever imagined, and a galling little voice in the back of his head asks, âso youâve been imagining her, huh, asshole?â
He ignores the voice and what it might say next. He stands over you and asks instead, âhow do you want me, sweetheart?â
Another smile. A genuine one. âHowever you want it.â
âAnal, then.â
It startles a laugh out of you, and Richie thinks he might love thatâthe way he surprises you into laughing. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him. You kick out a bare foot and press your toes low against his belly, centimeters away from touching the tip of his cock where it stands at attention.
âNot that,â you chide. âThat requires prep.â
âNot a no, sweetheart.â
âItâs a no for this moment.â
âHmm. Interesting.â He grips your ankle and circles it with his hand, and he bends your leg. Pushes it away from him, pushes it closer to you, and it reveals your gorgeous pussy to him: the neat-trimmed curls, the slick arousal, the swollen bud of your clit.
âJesus Christ, sweetheart,â he groans to see you. âGotta tell me how you want me, and fucking quick.â
âMissionary works for me,â you reply. âOld reliable.â
So he climbs onto you. He kneels between your legs, then pushes them apart obscenely wide. You stay propped up on your elbows, watching him, but when he settles between your thighs, you fall back against your pillow.
âGood?â he asks.
âYou havenât done much,â you point out.Â
âSmart-ass.â He reaches down and grasps his cock at the base, and he drags the tip of himself through your folds. He coats himself in your arousal, feels the heat of your pussy even through the latex, then notches himself at your entrance. He looks down and pushes just the tip in, and the sight of itâbarely inside you, the promise of burying himself inside youâmakes his vision go fuzzy around the edges.
âRichie.â You reach up with one hand to cup his face, and you peer up into his eyes. âFuck me, please.â
Your other hand finds the small of his back. You canât quite reach his ass, so you lay your palm against the small of his back and urge him forward, and he pushes into you. He goes slow but steady, and he hears your small gasp as your tight cunt makes room for him. He feels the stretch of it, the smooth muscles twitching at him, and he studies your face for any pain but finds none.
âPussyâs gripping at me,â he grits out once heâs seated in you. âGuess you needed it bad after all.â
âDonât gloat.â You bear down on him, squeeze him like a fist, and it makes him choke out a curse. âYou needed it bad too, I think.â
âNot complaining here, sweetheart.â
You take his chain in your hand and tug him down to you again. You kiss him, then mumble against his mouth, âso fuck me then, Richard. Move.â
He does as you ask. Youâre a pain in the ass, and youâre a representative of all the change occurring in his life without his permission, but he wants to make it good for you. He remembers the way you clung to him that night in the basement, and he wants to capture that feeling againâŚeven as he shoves the memory aside and begins to fuck you in earnest.
He doesnât thrust in and out so much as up and down; he learned this move a long time ago and knows it feels better for his partner. His thrusts hit every partâeach reseating brushes the tip of him against the end of you, and it makes you whine each time. The slide in and out, at this angle, draws along the firm bud of your clit. And each time he pushes himself home, the base of him grinds along your clit too, and it makes him feel like a million bucks when you gasp out his name, warn him that youâre closeâ
âFuck, fuck. God, Richie, Iâm c-close. Donât stop, donât stop, donâtâ"
And then it tears out of you: the hard snap of your hips as you lift them to meet his most punishing thrust, the way you tremble under him, your legs shaking, your eyes rolled back in your head. The way your cunt grips him, ripples against him until it feels like heâs being pulled into your body, and the thought takes hold of him. He wants to crawl inside you, wants to fill you with himself, wants to merge with you, and the thoughts are so rapid-fire he feels insane for a moment before he settles.
You open your eyes and blink up at him, surprised. âHoly shit.â
âTold you.â
âDonât gloat.â You lift your head and kiss the side of his neck, and he adjusts himself and keeps fucking you.
Heâs hit his rhythm now; he deals you hard thrusts and you take them. You beg for more. His arms burn as he arches over you. His calves burn as he drives his cock into you, and sweat beads along his hairline. Heâs covered in a sheen of it, but he doesnât stop. He fucks you hard, and his gold necklace swings in time to his thrusts. It hits you in your face until you hook it with a finger and put the fucking thing in your mouth, and he doesnât know why it's so hotâmaybe it makes him think of your mouth on parts of him instead of just his necklace.Â
He makes you come a second time, and it breaks around you again, leaves you trembling and incoherent, but after you recover, you push him over. Itâs easy for you to doâheâs winded as fuck from all his smokingâand Richie finds himself underneath you as you ride him.
Heâs happy for the break, but heâs happy to see this side of you. Any shyness from earlier is long gone. You sit astride him and bounce on his cock, and it makes your tits bounce too, and he can look down at where he disappears into your tight, wet pussy.
Heâs not going to last much longer, and he tells you so.
âSâfine,â you pant out. âWant you to come too, Richie.â
Then you reach down and take his hands in yours, you place his hands on your tits, and he sort of loves how you take charge at the end. You push your chest into his hands and ride him, and once heâs touching you thereâpinching at your nipples until you arch your backâyou reach down and touch yourself. He watches, transfixed, as you rub a tight circle against your clit, and he can feel you getting close now. Two orgasms down, he can feel the warning signs.
âTry to come with me,â you order him. âWant to feel it.â
Heâs close. Heâs been close for a while, has been forestalling his own pleasure by listing out White Sox statistics in his head. But now he wants to come with you as youâve asked (he wants to do everything for you, anything you ask, he wants all of it, and he struggles to push the thoughts away this time). He breathes in time with your riding, and he feels his balls tighten as his orgasm approaches.
âIâm close,â he warns. âFuck, sweetheart, are you close?â
âY-y-yes.â You close your eyes and drop your head, focusing on whatever youâre feeling.
âGonna come with me?â
âMmm-hmm.â You take a sharp breath, then moan as you come a third time, and if he doesnât quite come with you at exactly the same time, itâs close enough: the way your pussy grasps at him, draws him in deeper is enough to push him over the edge, and he shifts his hands to your waist. He pulls you down onto him and stills, feels the pulse of his orgasm as he spills in the condom.
It takes him a long while to recover. He feels weightless. Boneless. He feels like heâs melting into the covers of your bed. Like he could sleep for a hundred years. Like he could give up cigarettes and Xanax if he could just stay here and fuck you whenever his anxiety or insomnia are too muchâŚ.
You dismount on shaky legs, and you disappear. When you return, youâre in an oversized t-shirt that skims the top of your thighs, and you hand him a warm washcloth.
âYou can take your time,â you tell him. âNo rush.â
Richie reaches down and pulls the condom off. He ties it off and looks around until he sees a waste bin. He tosses it, then flops back down on your bed.
âJust need a minute,â he says, but his voice is already thick with sleep, and he doesnât remember anything else until morning when he wakes up to the smell of strong coffee and sizzling bacon.
He doesnât remember you standing over him, bemused as you watch him snore. He doesnât remember you lying down beside him, covering both of you with a blanket.
And he certainly doesnât remember reaching for you in his sleep. He doesnât remember how you wrap your arms around him, just like that night in the basement of The Beef, and how he sighs at the feeling of you tucked against him again.
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