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peachesofteal · 3 months ago

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Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, size kink, forced orgasm.

“Ghost.”

He looks over the rim of his glasses before sliding them off completely and tossing them onto the stack of papers spread out in front of him. "Gaz."

“You out of here soon?” Kyle’s in the doorway with his arms crossed, slight smirk twisting his lips.

“Tryin’ to be.” The administrative side of this job will be the death of him one day, leaving him buried beneath mountains of paperwork. “Guys get their gear done?” He nods. “Shoot test?”

“All complete. Evals loaded in the portal.” He’s frighteningly efficient, something Simon’s come to rely on.

Kyle has no idea there’s a recommendation for promotion in this stack of nonsense on his desk.

He’s going to miss him when he makes captain.

“Good work as always then.” His phone buzzes. Three times.

>I think I should be another hour, or maybe less.

>But of course don’t feel like you have to rush over here, I’m fine to wait. I don’t mind. I know I gave you a time estimate this morning so of course I don’t expect you to work around me.

>I just meant to say I’m ready whenever. That’s all. But no rush, again.

Kyle sighs with a chuckle. "That your girl?" Simon waves him away.

“Have a good weekend, Lieutenant.”

“You too, Captain.”

“Hi.” Something in him settles at the sight of you. Tired, but excited. Half ready for bed, half ready for him, you’re standing in the shop next to one of the little tables, your work bag and jacket slung on a chair.

“Hi sweetheart.” You’ve shed some layers in the last week, become a little less inhibited with him, a little more confident, slowly adjusting, and he’s proud of you.

You’ve been good.

“How was your day?”

“Oh, fine. I’m tired.” Your eyes go wide with panic. “Not too tired though, not like t-tired I want to go home. Like, to mine uh, I still-” It doesn’t take much to knock you off balance, still exploring this new world, the one he’s building for you, his sweet fresh fawn.

“It’s alright.” He reaches, cupping your cheek. Physical contact seems to soothe you. He thinks it’s because there’s a live, tangible tether connecting you to the now, to him, instead of whatever is going on in your head. “You were up really early sweetheart, it’s understandable you’re tired.” You were awake before him this morning. Sent your usual wake up text well before the sun rose with a hurried explanation about a last minute catering order and a panicking bride.

I said I’d do it. I felt bad.

It wouldn’t be so rough if you hadn’t been at work late the night before for something else.

It’s clearly wiped you out, and he’ll need to shift gears. “Are you ready to go?” You take a half step back and hold up your pointer finger, inclining your head towards to the back of the bakery.

“Uh, wait. I forgot something, one sec.”

You return with a big white box cradled in your hands.

“What’s in there?”

“Oh I made you something. Us. I made us something. For after dinner, if you want. Obviously if you don’t want it that’s fine you don’t have to eat it, it might not even be your thing, which is fine, I just-” He steps into your space and you trail off, eyes going to his without prompting. He blocks the world out, closes in, palms the back of your neck.

“It’s me baby. Just you and me, and there's nothing to worry about. You’ll never make a single thing I won’t like, right?”

“R-right. I know that.” You’re bobbing in a continuous nod, looking away to study something on his shirt.

“What is it?”

“Pie. Boston cream pie.” Cream pie. Blood flows to his cock and he momentarily gets lost in his own head.

“Tell me.” Fat tears roll down your cheeks, hands following him desperately as he rears back and folds your knees to your chest, staring at where his cock is moving in and out of your body, everything about him too big, nearly too big to fit inside you. “Where do you want daddy to put his cum?”

“I-inside. I want your cum inside me daddy, pl- oh- please.” His balls tighten as he grinds his hips, licking an errant tear running down your face. His girl. His. In his arms, his bed, crying on his cock.

“Only good little girls get daddy’s cum, baby. Have you been good?”

“I’ve been good, I’ve b-been so- ah- f-fuck-” The wand buzzes to life, hovering just over your clit as you shake your head frantically. “No nonono, I can’t anymore, I c-can’t.”

“Yes you can,” he thrusts deep and you gasp. You’ve already come four times, but he wants more, needs more, wants to wring every single one he can get out of you before he empties his balls inside your pussy.

When he finally slides it across your swollen little nub, you howl.

“Oh- no-” you whine, nails digging into his forearms, muscles already bearing down on him, breaths turning into short rasps.

“I know. Breathe baby,” he glides it back and forth, kisses your cheek, your mouth. “Breathe through it- that’s my girl. You can take it.” You’re oversensitive, battling a war between pleasure and pain, and your legs instinctively try to close, prevent the impending explosion you know is coming. “Keep your knees open.” He gives the head of the wand firmer pressure, and you cry, shaking your head no again.

“It’s too- too much.” Your feet are on his sides, partially bent in half, and he forces one of your thighs wide, giving him a better view of your puffy, tortured clit.

“Knees open baby girl. One more and daddy will fill you up nice and deep.” You nod, already so close he can feel it, scorching heat pulsing around him, legs trembling as they go lax. “There you go…” he pets your hip, mouth at your ear, soothing and comforting as it rips through you. It pushes him over the edge and he tosses the wand, pins you. Traps you beneath him. All his.

“Oh my god,” you slur, still riding the wave of your own orgasm, eyes rolling back in your head. It pushes him over the edge.

“Good girl, good fucking girl, so proud of you, takin’ my cum- fuck-” his own voice is choked off as he floods you, ruts like an animal, instinctively forcing as much of his seed into your belly as he can.

When it’s over, he drinks in the sight of the milky white cream dripping out of your hole before scooping it up with two fingers and pushing it back inside. You’re limp the whole time, and when he slips the plug in, you barely notice. You’ll be pumped full of him until later, and he’ll take it out to give you more.

“Daddy?” You mumble, half asleep, and he brushes his lips across yours, tucking you into his chest.

“Right here, baby. I’m right here.”

“- it’s not really. I mean, the best part about it is the cream, you know? That’s what makes the cake but the layers have to be moist on their own. You can’t just rely on the…” He swallows your words, licks them out of your mouth, cups your face and presses his thumb into your bottom lip afterwards, edging it across your top teeth. “Oh.” You blink, blindsided, and he runs a hand down the back of your head, strokes the back of your neck.

“Ready then?” You lean into him, a little dazed, off kilter.

“Y-yeah.”

Your toes scrunch at the threshold of the living room, afraid to cross until he flattens his palm on the small of your back.

“Go get comfortable sweetheart.” Battling nerves with a need for sleep, you were unsettled at dinner, sitting at the table, swallowing over and over again long after your food was chewed. There’s something more at play, something larger weighing on you. You left your plate half empty, fork resting at three oclock, twirl of spaghetti and red sauce waiting, and he should have told you to finish, or take one more bite.

But it's a slow game right now. A careful one.

“Alright.” You scamper towards the couch, settling into the far side, toes tucked between the cushions. It’s a balancing act, not too much, too too little, and when he sits down next to you with a giant slice of the cake on a plate, you watching him anxiously. Curiously.

He forks a piece free, and holds it in front of your mouth. “Open.” You do. Immediately. You trust him to feed you, and it calls to the thirst thrumming in his blood, the power of control. “Good girl.” He waits, patiently, ignores the flex of your throat, the butterfly flutter of your lashes. There’s plenty of time for it all. There will be a lifetime (if he’s alive to live it) with you. "What do you say?"

“Thank you.”

“Thank you…” He leads, and you follow. His good fucking girl.

“Daddy,” your whisper is shy, cautious and brave at the same time. “Thank you daddy.” A kiss finds its place on the corner of your mouth, then the full furl of your lips, and you burn alive, flames flickering in your eyes. He takes a bite himself and groans

“Christ baby.”

“Do you like it?” When he nods, you grin.

“Not everyone likes them because they expect a cream pie and that’s not what they get, it’s a cake with vanilla cream between the layers, see?” You point to the thick custard. “It’s not like coconut cream pie, or a banana cream pie, you know?” Cream pie. If you say cream pie one more time.

“It’s really good sweetheart. Too good.” He helps himself to another bite, offers you one, and then has a third before finally setting the plate down. Silence hovers in the air and he lets it languish, giving you time, all the space you need to give him the worry, the doubt, the weight that's holding you back.

“Simon.” He smothers his surprise. It’s not the first time you’ve used his name, but your voice wavers on it. Wide doe eyes stare back at him, and then they find the floor. That won’t do. “I don’t know what to do with…”

“With what sweetheart?”

“You. This. U-us? If that’s… if that’s what-”

“That’s what it is.” He closes what little gap there was between the two of you and pulls your knotted together fingers free, dwarfing your hand with his. “That’s what this is, baby.” The hope, the happiness, blooms across your cheeks and lasts for all of two seconds before worry overtakes it, and you begin tracing the lines in his palm, head down, focusing on the task, slightly shaking. Giving you a chance to walk away would be the right thing to do.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

He’d never give you up now.

“I’m not… I’ve never… done something like this, I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay sweet girl, you don’t have to.” The nervous tracing turns to a light scratch. He lets it continue for a beat before folding your hand between his, stopping the movement.

“I don’t?”

“No. I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you, make sure you have everything you need. I’m going to keep you happy and healthy and safe, and you don’t need to worry.” A shaky exhale rattles free from your chest, weight of a thousand questions evaporating into thin air, decisions and deliberations rapidly falling away as you settle into a new reality, a new life. One where you’re cared for, supported, and loved. “All you need to do is listen, okay?”

“Okay daddy.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #raspberry girl fic

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r3starttt · 5 months ago

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CAITLYN X YOUNGER READER

CW: hc's. requests. mentions of spitting, slapping, fingering, strap-on sex. Caitlyn masturbating at the thought of reader (yum) finger sucking and lots of self indulgent filth tbh.

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @nosferatuv

There are whispers about the two of you everywhere, a constant murmur. People talk—always do, always will—assuming you’re just another one of her fleeting indulgences, another girl caught in the gravity of her wealth, her power, her privilege. They say she’s using you, and that you, in turn, are using her. Yet, neither of you make any effort to deny them. If anything, you fuel the speculation, feeding it with the quiet, effortless way you let her spoil you.

She buys you everything—things you ask for, things you don’t. She knows your desires before you even voice them. There is no request too trivial, no whim too extravagant. From the simple comfort of a warm meal waiting for you after a long day, to the brush of her fingers working the tension from your shoulders, to the extravagant, glittering pieces of jewelry she insists will suit you perfectly. A handbag you mentioned in passing, the scent of a perfume she once caught on your skin and decided you should always wear. Every detail, every fleeting thought that crosses your mind—she captures it, makes it tangible. You have learned that with her, indulgence is not just a habit but a language of its own.

Caitlyn parades you through the gilded halls of her world without hesitation, pulling you into the orbit of champagne-soaked galas and whispered gossip. She tells you what to wear. "I know you better, love. Trust me—you’ll look stunning in this." And you do, always. With a hand at the small of your back, she leads you through the crowd, a silent declaration of possession in every touch, on your thighs, on your hips, on your neck sometimes. Her gaze never shies away, trailing over you with a kind of hunger that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. She watches you—the curve of your hips, the slope of your neck, the fat of your tits and your ass.

She loves the attention you draw, revels in the way others look, but it’s not just vanity. It’s the thrill of knowing that no matter how many eyes linger, you are hers and hers alone. And she makes sure you never forget it—whether it's the press of her lips against your throat in the dimly lit corner of a gala, or the way she pulls you into a secluded bathroom to claim you over and over again.

Caitlyn adores taking care of you—if that isn’t already abundantly clear. She carries it like a quiet devotion. She notices the signs of your exhaustion long before you do, catching the subtle shifts in your voice, the tired droop of your shoulders, the distant look in your eyes. And she never lets it take hold. She’s there before the weight becomes too much—making sure you eat properly, that your restless nights don’t stretch into patterns of self-neglect, that your health is carefully preserved. When she’s not near, her absence is softened by the quiet efficiency of the staff she’s instructed to ensure your routine is upheld. Meals prepared just the way you like them, reminders whispered with gentle concern, a structure built from her care, constant even when she's not home.

But when she is with you, her attentiveness takes a different shape, something more intimate, more tangible. After one of those long, glittering nights at yet another gala, when the champagne has flowed too freely and the weight of the evening sits heavy in your limbs, she’s there—her arm intertwined with yours. The warmth of her hand pressing gently against your back, guiding you through the haze of indulgence and into the soft sanctuary of your shared bedroom. She settles you onto the bed with an effortless grace, her fingers ghosting over your skin, tracing delicate paths across your arms, through your hair, whispering soft reassurances that melt against your senses. Her lips find the curve of your temple, the corner of your mouth, the pulse at your throat—each kiss grounding you, pulling you closer into the gentle lull of her presence. She holds you like a precious thing, cradling you until sleep finally claims you.

And you can only thank her in the ways you know how. Dressing in the silks and lace she’s so carefully chosen for you. You wait for her return after too many days apart, anticipation humming beneath your skin as you let her enter first, savoring the moment before you follow. Your hands find her shoulders, trailing soft kisses along the nape of her neck, lingering there before moving to her jawline, each touch a silent welcome.

You guide her to sit, undoing the buttons and ties of her clothes with a slow, deliberate tenderness. And then you let her touch, let her remove each piece of tender fabric from your body until her hands are on your hips, guiding you to sit in between her legs. Rocking your body up and down her skin just to feel the heat of your whines against her neck, your nails digging into her shoulders when she grabs your ass almost too aggressive. And then when your wet exposes all of you, when the sounds get so loud it's almost too obscene, there she lets you take her fingers, kissing your breasts and putting your nipples into her mouth while you ride her hand. If she's not too tired then she'll take her strap, laying you on the bed to admire each reaction your body makes, each tone your lips let pass, each frown your eyebrows create. Or maybe she'll let you handle it as you wish, just holding your head while you suck on the blue length, or holding onto your ass and hips and waist while her mouth almost drools at the sight of your breasts bouncing with each thrust on her strap.

Caitlyn is acutely aware that your age can sometimes create a quiet distance between you, a rift born not of intention but of circumstance. She knows it can be the root of certain insecurities, both yours and hers, though you may never speak them aloud. Yet, she meets these uncertainties with a steady resolve, constantly reminding you in her soft, assured way that she doesn’t care about such things. Caitlyn sees the brilliance in you, the sharp wit and unflinching curiosity that often leaves her in awe. She adores the beauty you carry—both the kind that turns heads and the quiet kind, the one revealed in the soft moments when you think no one is watching.

Because just like you she sometimes finds herself in an expensive room away from you, hands sliding her clothes off her body with no shame but desperation, circling her fingers around her clit, grasping at her breasts like they were yours. Only when she feels her slick dripping she allows herself the sensation of her fingers, thrusting in and out of her wet pussy, hoping they could be yours instead. Or brushing her hair over one of her shoulders while her knuckles turn white at how hard she's gripping the sheets, trying to make the soft of the pillow feel as good as your skin.

Caitlyn loves the maturity in you, the resilience, the determination to carve your place in the world. But she loves the immaturity too, the moments when your youthfulness shines through in bursts of enthusiasm, naiveness or stubbornness. To her, it’s all part of what makes you you. And more than anything, she delights in giving you the freedom to explore the world the way she wishes she could have at your age.

But Caitlyn also knows the experience, and she’s certainly not afraid to remind you of that, even when you don’t want to hear it. There’s a quiet authority in her, a subtle yet unyielding belief that she often knows better than you.

And when you forget you’re in a relationship—one built on love and balance—and not simply some casual arrangement. It’s in these moments that her condescension slips through, not out of malice but from a place of confidence in her own wisdom.

You’re standing in front of the mirror, frowning as you adjust the straps of the dress Caitlyn picked out for you earlier. It's stunning, of course—she has an eye for these things—but something about the way it hugs your body, the way it reveals just enough, makes you hesitate. You tug at the fabric, trying to convince yourself it’s not too much, too daring, but before you can slip into self-doubt, Caitlyn’s voice cuts through.

"Stop that," stepping closer, her reflection appears behind yours in the glass. She's already dressed, flawless as always, effortless confident. Her hands find your waist, grounding not only your thoughts but your body in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"I know you think you have a say in this," her tone like she’s humoring you. Like she knows exactly what you’re thinking before you do.

You roll your eyes at her reflection, but she just smirks, tilting her head slightly as she watches you. That gaze of hers—assessing, knowing—has a way of stripping you down more thoroughly than any dress ever could.

One of her hands slides up your bare shoulder, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your collarbone, "but let me remind you—when it comes to things like this, I always know best."

Her lips brush against your neck, and it’s infuriating how easily she takes control, how effortlessly she disarms you with a mixture of amusement and authority. "So be a good girl and wear the dress."

The way she says it leaves no room for argument—not that you’re inclined to fight her when she’s looking at you like that, when her touch is so deliberate, her words laced with something you can’t quite name but crave nonetheless. You swallow hard, nodding slowly, and Caitlyn hums in approval, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath your ear before stepping back.

"That's what I thought." And just like that, you let her win—because deep down, you love it when she does. Mostly because of the reward that comes with it.

And oh, Caitlyn despises it when you’re disrespectful—whether it’s to her or to the carefully curated world she surrounds herself with. She expects a certain grace from you, a poise that matches her own, and when you falter—when your eyes roll in front of her colleagues, when your lips curl in disdain at the mention of a woman who so clearly yearns to be in your place—she doesn’t let it slide. Caitlyn is patient, indulgent even, but there are limits, and she’s always swift in reminding you of them.

She waits, of course, never one to make a scene. But later, when the champagne flutes have emptied and the polite smiles have faded into the background, she’ll take your hand, leading you through the corridors of some grand, gilded venue until you’re behind the locked door of an opulent bathroom. The kind with marble counters and mirrors that stretch too high. Her fingers, steady and knowing, trace the hem of your dress—the very dress she picked out for you, ensuring it would allow her effortless access when the need arose. And now, it seems, the need has indeed arisen.

She’s meticulous in her control, sliding beneath the delicate layers of fabric with a slowness that feels deliberate, a punishment in itself. Her touch is firm, possessive, her lips brushing just below your ear. "I dress you for a reason, love," she whispers, her tone dripping with authority, "so I can do exactly this when you misbehave."

She loves teaching you lessons like this—loves the way your bravado crumbles under her touch, the way your protests dissolve into soft gasps and whispered apologies. She keeps you there, pinned between the cold marble and the heat of her body, circling the pads of her fingers around your clit, smiling at your neck at how wet you are already, how damp your panties are. She sometimes thinks you're rude on purpose, just to get some fun at the boring of such events. Just to end up laying on your stomach on top of her lap, legs separated while her hand plays with the fat of your ass, spanking with no warn before sliding her fingers inside of your panties and scissor your folds, playing with your clit until you're wet enough and a wining mess. Only there she lets you have her fingers, her right hand busy holding your face in place as she lets you suck on her fingers, her rings still on. And her left one pumping in and out of you at the slowest rhythm. Maybe one day you'll learn to behave like she expects you to. Like you should.

#𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ arcane ❫#A��𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( arcane )#( 𝕽 𝜊S.mut )#caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x you #caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn smut #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn kiramman x female reader #caitlyn kiramman smut #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader #arcane smut

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millerillusions · 16 days ago

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Invest In Me | Harry Castillo x f!reader

Summary: Your life has always been structured, dependable. You don’t stray, and it’s gifted you affluence. When you rashly decide to go on a blind date and they don’t show, you’re left with another fruitless, lone night of solitary. Until one equally lonely Harry Castillo invites himself to your dinner table and offers you a partnership just maybe worth investing in.

Pairing: Harry Castillo (Materialists) x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected piv (don’t be silly, wrap your willy.), oral (f!receiving), pull out and pray, cum eating, praise, wealthy hedge fund manager reader, lucy doesn’t exist/isn’t mentioned, fancy wine drinking, smoking, fluff, so much flirting, the authors limited knowledge of business and chess, no description of reader other than female anatomy and wears a dress/heels, a little easter egg referencing the kitchen scene bc i couldn't help myself

A/N: yes.. i did just post about my current wips.. but then i watched materialists, and came home and immediately wrote (no major spoilers in this). wanted to write something where Harry finds a partner who's also rich and work-oriented. i caved too quick for him and had to. sorry. thanks to anyone who reads <33 dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Masterlist

Blind dates are foolish.

You knew this. You’ve always thought this. Have never been convinced otherwise.

They’re wishes; a hopeful fantasy that two people will somehow be able to run an effective, effortless conversation despite knowing nothing about the other prior. They’re unorganised, variable.

Inconsistent. Nothing in your life is inconsistent.

You wake up at 5:30AM. Have a shower. Do your hair. Face. Slip on business casual clothes. Breakfast paired with a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. At work by 7AM. At your desk by 7:30AM. Home by 4:30PM.

Sure, sometimes the schedule can dip and maneuver in the later hours of the night in accordance with your current work load, but the point is- you have a schedule. It’s unwavering, sustained. Perfectly crafted to suit your needs and the straining pressure of your job.

You don’t do foolish acts like going on a blind date that the incompetent Rebecca you sometimes have a decent conversation with who sits at the desk opposite yours coerced you into believing would be enjoyable.

Witless, you think, as you stare blandly towards the empty plate opposite yours, framed by silver cutlery and a flawlessly folded napkin, pressed to delicacy. The third glass from the 2020 bottle of Argiano Toscana clenched between your impeccably manicured nails that tap an insistent, mindless rhythm against the stem. The liquor swirls like a bleeding wound in your glass, swishing up against the edges in crimson waterfalls each time you twirl it. It’s bitter on your tongue. Some blackcurrant and dark cherry bullshit of a far too expensive amalgamation of Merlot and Sauvignon Blanc.

Plus, there’s also the delicate lace-trimmed Stygian black dress curled around your body that flows down to your shin with a slit up along to the thigh, paired with simple but efficient silver heels. It’s not the most comfortable item you’ve ever worn- but it’s nice. Extravagant, if you look at it close enough.

Reckless, you think, glaring across at that empty plate on the opposite side of your two-person table that belongs to a person who hadn’t shown up. Toby, Troy, or something. Someone who apparently worked in luxury Real Estate, but who couldn’t even sell you one night of fulfillment or anything close to it. You had to call three different acquaintances to even acquire this table booking tonight, and this is apparently how gratitude is expressed back for your effort.

The candlelight flickers and illuminates the few tables scattered around the devastatingly wealth-painted Italian restaurant, the light laying across one side of your face like some sort of forlorn, two-faced golem sat isolated in the corner. Each of the other tables are occupied, mostly with couples on some feigned romantic date they paid too much to obtain, murmuring words of faux-affection across the flutter of a gentle flame and small portions of meals that took half of their last pay to afford.

“Were we still waiting on ordering, ma’am?” A voice abruptly chips into your carefully molded self-preservation, drawing your gaze slowly up to the waiter with the unpigmented mesh apron wrapped tight around his waist. You blink, eyes unfocused after glaring sharpened blades into the plate ahead of you like it might magically force a meal and a person to form.

“Yep. Still waiting,” You confirm, a grimace tugging at your features as you watch the waiter hesitate, glancing between you and the empty chair opposite. The situation you’re in is ridiculously obvious, like an open gash starkly revealed to everyone in the establishment.

He nods in understanding anyways, pivoting on polished shoes to leave, when you chip up to him, voiced edged with an indignation you fail to swallow back.

“Mind fetching the bottle?”

The man blinks back over his shoulder, peering down towards the glass in your hand, mapping out which wine bottle he needs to fetch. His brows twitch for just a beat- though you’re not sure if it’s in concern or awe- before he’s offering you a polite smile and dipping his head, whisking back to the kitchen to follow through.

You exhale sharply through your nose like the very breath is strenuous, eyelids fluttering closed before you’re leaning back in your chair. Dragging your gaze across the restaurant, the tungsten lighting- warm, reassuring, meaning to console the guests. Currently, it just makes you feel dreary.

You’re preparing to go on another wistful subconscious rant about the disadvantaged woes of blind dates whilst wondering if your vibrator’s batteries have been charged when a figure does appear. Looming like an assured shadow before lowering down into the seat opposite. Your head reels up to stare rather owlishly towards the newcomer’s sudden appearance. He leans back into the wooden seat like he belongs there, has already marked ground, a suave kind of allure hovering around him that you’re surprised you don’t immediately find smarmy, especially combined with the easy grin that upturns the corner of his lip.

Brown eyes are amongst the first things you notice.

The kind of brown that ensures it peers right into you without missing a beat, cooling the simmering apprehension in your chest like it’s effortless. Then the way he’s dressed. A black mesh top- formal enough for the establishment but not so lavish it’s considered profligate. He has a Roman kind of curve to his nose, full lips with a littering of a mustache that combs out into a stubble. He’s handsome, to say the least. Enough to make your heart stutter in a beat, but you blame it on alarm.

His brow curls upwards in a quirk at you as though expecting you to speak first, breaking you away from your pensive observation, mouth slightly parted like you’re spellbound. This can’t be Troy, Toby, Something. He looks too put together to fit the category of Rebecca’s acquaintances.

“You’re not my blind date sent by Rebecca, are you?” You ask blatantly.

He doesn’t look offended by the question. Rather, he seems amused.

“You’re the Hedge Fund Manager.”

His voice comes as a lower drawl than you expected. You can’t pinpoint the accent, but it’s like a rumble of a lullaby past your ears, twirling in mollifying notes with the gentle lull of the piano chords whisking in the air through the speakers. His residence here within just moments of seeing him is zephyr-like, as though he shifts and changes in accordance to the room he’s stationed in, all whilst commanding it with just the broad capability he clearly holds.

Your face falls slightly at his unforeseen mention of your occupation. You tilt back in your own chair, unsure if you’re trying to build an air of nonchalance or trying to create distance between you and this stranger that isn’t just the polished timber of the table.

“I dabble in that, sure,” You reply candidly, idly cautious. His eyes seem to lighten with satisfaction in the faint sandstone lighting. Like he’s trying to breach the space you created, he leans himself forward, tucking his elbows onto the table.

“You recently funded the last deal I brokered. Luxe Escapes,” He explains coolly. You perked slightly, gaze whisking along him, trying to regard him with a more inquisitive glance, wondering distantly if you had ever communicated with him before. It feels unlikely. You think you would’ve remembered a face like this.

“How were you involved in that?” You question, distantly wondering if you had clashed with him over the deal and that’s why you dismissed his existence following the conflict; act as though it never happened until the complication eventually dissolves itself into ash whilst you’re left with your triumph.

“I was the Sales Executive,” He assures, noting the slight pull of your shoulder blades in anticipation of a tense conversation. You blink, frets smoothed over swiftly.

“You were the Sales Executive?” You echo, giving him a once-over. Truthfully, it’s not difficult at all to imagine him pacing around a vast space of some grey-painted living room, footsteps leaden and quick as he prattles on about why some company or item would be efficient and worthwhile to invest in.

“That’s me,” He confirms, but he doesn’t look exactly supercilious or smug. Definitely not like that hotel branch company of luxury stays that conform the guests into the daydream of ‘escaping reality’ is rapidly becoming worth millions of dollars.

“And you are?”

“Harry.”

You tsk softly, tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth, seemingly unimpressed. Your head tilts, along with your wine glass as you circle it with mindless consideration, tone sardonic. “Harry. Fancy.”

He smirks lopsidedly, fingers flexing where they curl neatly over each other on the table. “Thought it’d sound less formal than saying Harry Castillo outright like this is a business meeting.”

“You’ve only talked about business so far,” You remind him facetiously.

“That’s fair. Let me try again,” He concurs. Then he rolls his thickset shoulders back to fixate his posture, a good-natured smile stretching along his inviting lips. He tilts himself forward, outstretching his hand towards you over the table. “Harry. I saw you sitting here over here alone and thought I’d come join you.”

You pause for just a beat, gaze fluttering to his outstretched hand, then back to him. Brazenly and uncharacteristically, you decide to amuse whatever this is. Leaning forward to meet him, you stick out your arm and take his hand, offering your own name back. His palm curls over yours, practically swallowing the proportions of your hand. It makes your throat tight realising how large he is, taking up the space like a polished, debonair boulder.

“You didn’t think about if I’d tell you to go away?” You hum, squinting towards him in silent challenge, attuned to keeping up this impression of satire he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand is still engulfed over yours- and instead of shaking, he squeezes once, before attentively turning your palm downwards, until he’s holding just your fingers in his grip. He bends down further, dipping his head down to lay an amiable but lingering kiss against your knuckles.

But what sends your heartbeat tripping calamitously in your ear drums is the way he keeps his eyes perched towards you, unwavering and unmoving. Drowning you in a melody of heat that seeps over you like dripping, melted sugar. That subtle flicker of interest swirling within the embrace of coffee-coloured warmth.

“I did. But I just had hope that you wouldn’t,” He rumbles in reply as he lifts back up, tentatively dropping your hand. It hovers sluggishly in the air for a beat too long before you finally regain control of your motor functions and let it fall back to your thigh. You huff a short, disbelieving laugh disguised as an exhale.

“Hope sourced from what?”

He crosses his hands over his lap, head cocking to the side as he considers the question for a moment, a sense of susceptibility murmured through the language of gaze. It’s not exactly pitying, just heartening.

“From the way you look like you could use some company,” He answers sincerely, his eyes flickering over you in an appreciative once-over that doesn’t feel like he’s leering, only valuing like you’re something cherishable. “And, admittedly, in good faith I couldn’t let that dress go to waste. It looks too good on you to do so.”

Jesus, he’s pulling out every move in the game.

Atypical in comparison to your usual indifferent composure, you can feel your cheeks heating, burning your skin. Actually flustered for the first time in what feels like months.

As if your own personal saviour dedicated to assuaging all your needs, the waiter swoops back in with the bottle of wine you requested held in two hands. He pauses for a second as he notices Harry, incredulity flicking through his eyes. But then he sends you a pleased smirk and unscrews the cork of the bottle, refilling your glass with repeated precision.

You murmur a quick gratitude, and the waiter takes the initiative to fill up the wine glass in front of Harry, who nods his own thanks. He plucks it up from the stem, gaze flickering from the rich scarlet liquid as he swirls it before returning back to you as he takes a sip, gaze remaining set on you. You mimic his actions, eyeing him from over the translucent rim, gaining back your conviction.

“Merlot,” He muses as he lowers the liquor from his lips. Your purse your own with amusement.

“You know wine?”

“No. The bottle's label says Merlot,” He says matter-of-factly, mirth ringing in his tone as he gestures off-handedly to the bottle. You blink quickly, that flushed tint coiling back over your skin, which only spurs him on.

“Fancy,” He comments steadily.

You breathe out sharply, lifting the glass back to your mouth to take a quick sip, lifting your shoulders in a careless shrug. “Didn’t think I was going to have any company.”

“I hope I’ll live up to any expectations you had for tonight,” He says, intentions genuine. But he clearly noticed how the table was set up for two when he approached, and yet only holding you.

It’s correctly jarring and disorienting considering your former thoughts on blind dating just a short while ago. Sure, this meeting wasn’t set up between you and Harry- but it was still accepting an offer of company from a stranger you knew nothing about prior, just as you would on a blind date. Harry continues to persuade you into telling him more about yourself, which you tentatively immerse yourself with.

Much to your bewilderment, you don’t entirely despise the conversation that you slip into with him. It’s smooth, undemanding, and light.

You tell him mundane things like what you had for breakfast, how early you usually wake, your pet lizard who lives back at your parent’s home in LA- before dipping into the story of why you were seated alone in this abundantly ornate and elaborate restaurant. Sheepishly laying out the story of how Rebecca had somehow coerced you into going on a blind date with a guy you can’t remember the name of, and how he stood you up. You shield any mortified winces with expressions of contempt, fingers starting up that irritable tapping against the stem of your glass again.

You go back and forth on sharing short, meaningless information about yourselves. Learning how Harry got into sales, explaining he grew up being surrounded by factors of money and influence constantly. He gestures back to a pair sheltered in a side booth, both hunched over the table and murmuring to each other like deadly secrets are being transferred. He elucidates with a grimace about how they’re newly-weds, boisterous and too sickeningly loving, which is what first led him to approach you when he couldn’t stand another second of third-wheeling his own kin and his newfound wife.

“So I guess we were both just feeling a bit lonely tonight,” You evaluate, chin tilting your face sideways slightly, wondering, are you lonely just like me?

“I suppose so.”

“Any thoughts on how to quench loneliness?” You ask, tone coy, one leg lifting to cross over the other. His gaze follows the movement, dropping to the table as though he can see it through the glossy wood.

“You want me to be honest?” He murmurs, eyes returning to your face, your features cast with casual curiosity.

“Of course.”

“I’d like to invite you back to mine tonight,” He admits, unhesitant.

Your moulded expression falters with the outright confession, heart tripping with it.

“You would?” You almost gawk.

“Only if you’re interested,” He assures, mouth thinning slightly as if he mistook your reaction for apathy.

“It’s not that I’m not entirely interested,” You correct, drawing out a soft sigh to collect yourself, propping one of your elbows onto the table. “I’m just.. weighing the pros and cons.”

He gives a slanted grin as you rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “Pros; you won’t be spending the night alone. Cons; you have to deal with repeats of Pink Floyd continuously playing during the car ride.”

You can’t help the gladdened snort that falls from you at the jest. You purse your bottom lip thoughtfully.

“And what do you expect to get in return?” You try to keep your voice methodical.

“Company,” He answers easily, his tone not housing any insistence for you to acquiesce.

You squint towards him, studying and observing. Maybe slightly teasingly, weighing the options over in your head like you’re being faced with a task from your employer.

“It sounds like an investment strategy,” You comment off-handedly.

“More like a mutual agreement.”

You lean back into your chair, hands falling back into your lap, giving a purposeful show of tipping your head to the side again.

“To fuck?” You question crudely. You catch the brief surprise that whisks along his features, but also the way the corner of his mouth twitches in the starts of a smile.

“To not be lonely,” He rectifies.

“Just for a night?” You test, your arms crossing over your middle loosely in a subconscious move of defence.

“Or we could see where it goes after,” He says with that enticing interest painted over his eyes again, with maybe some mingled hope tangled through it.

“After we fuck,” You lift your chin up, humour dour, like the thought of going back to Harry’s doesn’t send adrenaline pulsing through your veins.

He lets himself grin at your bluntness this time around. “Sure.”

“And if I’m thinking about saying no?” You croon, just to scrutinise his reaction, see if this gallant, poised persona of his can stumble.

His jaw clenches in consideration. “How do you usually approach your possible investments?”

You only pause for a beat.

“Like a game of chess.”

“Chess?” He parrots, intrigue evident. You nod.

“Investment is a game of chess. You think about all the strategies you need to win the board over, not just about your next move,” You cerebrate, eyes tipping down to your wine glass, fingertips etching a mindful pattern over it. “Each piece has its own pros and cons, like multiple investments do. If you move a piece in the right direction, it can become a more powerful player. It can grow in importance over time. But, a rash decision can leave you vulnerable and perceptible to attacks, or you can strategise and reach a checkmate. You need to invest foresight before anything else.”

His eyes round towards you as you tatter contemplatively, a deference evident in the solemn features of his gaze.

“So it’s a high-risk, high-reward situation,” He suggests, drawing your attention squarely back to him. A sly, knowing smile pulls at your mouth.

“That’s only considering it is a high reward.”

He doesn’t back down, fishing out a lighthearted jest, willingly taking the extra leap to solidify the blatant idea whisking between you. An idea you both already know was agreed to the moment he complimented your sleek dress earlier. “You could always find out. The customer is offering a first-hand demonstration.”

“Well, I do have to adapt to my opponent’s moves,” You hum wittingly, an easy, unarmed smile replacing your artful coquettishness.

“Is that an agreement we’re coming to?” He questions, optimism lighting his face the same way the candlelight casting along the strong curve of his jaw does.

“A mutual one, yes,” You assent, your stomach fluttering like a rocket preparing for launch, excitement twirling through you in searing ambers now that you’ve concretely settled on your decision.

“My driver can be here in the next ten minutes,” He suggests, brow raising. You agree zealously, smoothing your slightly clammy hands down the front of your dress as you rise to a stand. Harry fetches both his wallet and phone from his pants pocket, swinging a text his brother’s way to let him know he won’t be returning to advise him on how to keep his freshly-made wife appeased, and then calling his driver to your location. Placing a few hefty bills as a tip on the table even though neither of you ordered any food- which you belatedly realise- before he’s turning back to you, guiding you out of the establishment, his hand hovering just above the small of your back, barely grazing his touch along you.

You breathe out sharply as the pair of you move out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, the New York nighttime traffic bustling, the usual tumultuous honk of a horn and the blinding streak of striking lights second-hand nature to you by now. You lean back against the rust-coloured brick of the building, hooking out a cigarette from the packet you kept stashed in your purse, just a pick-me-up in case Troy, Toby, Something ended up being a mundane bore.

Now you light the end, watching the embers burn as they smear tobacco into your lungs in hopes it’ll cool your anticipation long enough to arrive at Harry’s place first before you accidentally slip up and decide to crash your lips against his now and try to lick that blackcurrant wine right off his tongue against this brick wall.

“Drive shouldn’t be too long. I have a penthouse just up in up-town Manhattan,” Harry explains, peering down at his phone to confirm the driver’s journey to you both, settling next to you. You exhale, the smoke pluming up above you, catching away with the blur of a gentle breeze that’s swiftly turning frigid despite the mellow spring weather.

“You own a penthouse in up-town Manhattan?” You echo with only a tinge of bemusement intertwined.

“That surprising?” He raises a brow with a serene look.

“Not really,” You answer quickly. It wasn’t surprising at all, truthfully. He carried the staunch of his wealth with every step, his frame swallowing up the space he accompanied like he had banked out millions worth of cash just to own it, even somewhere as mundane as a sidewalk. It makes your breath hitch all the more as you watch his sombre eyes flutter down to your lips as they part to allow a plume of whitened smoke to trail up past your nose.

“Good,” He murmurs, gaze flickering back up to meet yours after a moment too long has passed.

You swallow gratingly at the simple way he eases into such a winsome persona, glamour and charisma tailing him constantly. He ushers you forth with a warm hand at the top of your spine as the car arrives, letting you stub out your half-smoked cigarette on the sidewalk before holding the door open for you as you slide into the backseat of the lush vehicle, smiling stiffly towards the driver, nerves growing fretfully in a churn in your lower stomach. Harry settles into the leather seat beside you, addressing the driver deferentially and directing him to upper Manhattan, back home.

As promised, the trip is entirely filled with the pleasant, tranquil lull of Pink Floyd drifting through the speakers, mingled with occasional talk between you and Harry. But for the most part, there’s just an effortless, unworried quiet between you; no demand to appear modish or shrewd- just a mutual understanding of comfortability.

The driver pulls up to the curb not long after, Harry swiftly hopping out of the car and trudging around to help you out. This time around, his hand settles more firmly against the base of your spine, fingers curling slightly as he leads you up to his penthouse with a phlegmatic gait, nodding his chin in polite greeting to the staff you pass. Your face is shrouded with a sanguine expression, heartbeat growing more erratic as you step inside the elevator.

Harry opens the dark-oaked door for you, allowing you to move inside the space first, his hand falling away from your lower back. Just with a first glance, you can tell how sumptuous it is. A wide, inviting hallway that opens out into a lavish living room and curves around to a dining table and kitchen, extensive floor-to-ceiling windows combing the expanse of the far wall. The hallway has two other doors perched at the opposite end, which you suppose lead to the bathroom and bedroom. It has similar lighting to the restaurant, only lit by the oscillating flutter of the city lights outside the windows, casting shadows inside and streams of gentle light, along with the low copper glow of a lamp sitting on the coffee table.

“You want a drink?” Harry asks, trotting through the living room in the direction of a side-bar set up opposite the dining table. You turn your gaze back to him, away from the darkened New York City skyline, a sight that somehow augmented your confidence.

“You don’t want to get straight to the business part of tonight? Close the deal?”

He pauses by the counter littered with liquors, blinking over his shoulder back towards you, a beguiled surprise whisking along his features. He diverts his actions, hand falling away from the wine he had been reaching for, instead turning around to face you. He leans back slightly against the bartop, a brow lifting with a teasing fashion.

“Well, I was hoping to try and charm you a bit first,” He replies steadily, his gaze looking even darker in the subdued lighting, casting over the entire length of you. Your body tenses slightly under the regarding look of cherishing esteem, your blood buzzing alight beneath your skin, anticipation coiling.

You take a step forward to meet him, which prompts him to kick off from the edge of the bar, taking purposeful steps towards here.

“Inviting me here was enough,” You murmur when he’s only a few short footsteps from you, deliberately fluttering your eyelashes and craning your neck up to meet his auburn-painted eyes swallowed by a blazing darkness. The side of his mouth twitches, as if with amusement, before it’s mellowing and darkening into something more decisive, nearly hungry-looking.

“Well, in that case..” He mumbles, more to himself, closing the distance between you. His hands lift to steady themselves on your hips, fingers curling around your frame with a durable finality. Your throat tightens with suspense, hopefulness whisking through you as his head tilts, eyes dropping down towards your lips. But neither of you shy away, your gaze mimicking his and wavering down to the fullness of his mouth that suddenly seems so close.

He leans in, and you mirror the movement, going to meet him- his breath brushes along the skin of your mouth which parts on instinct, eyes dropping to slip closed. His hands flex against your sides, and he pauses, pulling back with just a murmur of dubiety shadowing him.

“Though- you can pull out of this investment at any time, you know,” He reminds you, earnestly searching your gaze. You appreciate the effort to reassure and console you, but you fear your knees might give out beneath you if you have to go back and forth with this bashful, coquettish teasing any longer.

“Okay. Enough with the business metaphors. Just kiss me,” You husk back, one of your hands sliding up to curve around the nape of his neck and bring his face back down to yours. He meets you halfway, your lips meeting in a secure, firm kiss.

Your other hand lifts to balance yourself against his covered chest as his mouth slots over yours. It’s not rushed or heady like you might have expected in this case; but instead slow, deep. Assured. Bounding in a way that makes your lips part when his tongue drags along your bottom lip, coaxing. You acquiesce easily, sighing as his tongue meets yours, tangling in a precise dance that gradually grows more resolute, determined.

You sigh into his mouth as if you’re alleviated as his arms curl around your waist, tightening his hold on you, large hands tracing over the dress painted over your back. You tilt your head to the side to purposefully deepen the kiss, which he easily follows, movements quickly growing more desperate, a heat you thought had become a long-lost friend burning at the base of your spine, looping around in curling tendrils to your belly, warming. Your hand traces up from his neck to the edge of his jaw, then up into his hair- softer than you expected, threading through your fingers like silk.

You tug gently, urging. He sounds a low groan into the kiss, arms pulling you flush with the firmness of his body, the two of you swaying slightly to the side, unbalanced. He grips at your waist and guides you backwards. You stumble slightly in your heels, to which his hands curl tighter around your sides, nearly lifting you from the floor and carrying you backwards. He delicately but hurriedly pushes you back against a small side-table where he placed his keys by the door in the hallway, mouth working more urgently over yours. You respond with equal enthusiasm, a desperation clawing through each of your movements as your ass presses back into the edge of the wood, hips tilting.

He keeps one arm wrapped around your body whilst the other dips down, fingers toying with the edge of your dress where the split ends on your thigh. His fingers tilt beneath the fabric, carefully skimming along the softer skin of your inner thigh, making you keen towards him. He then swiftly grabs at your hips, and hoists you up onto the table.

The sudden action has you gasping with incredulity, lips disconnecting from his. He doesn’t waste a beat of not occupying his mouth, head dipping downwards to attach his lips to your neck. He kisses down the length of your throat, tongue tipping out to drag along your pulse, feeling it flutter frantically beneath the muscle.

He travels down further with open-mouthed kisses, to the exposed line of your collarbone. He curls his lips, sucking a small, blooming mark of purple into the small dip by the bone, his tongue smoothing over it. You should scold him, knowing you’ll have to cover it when you go into work next- but your thoughts are swiftly disoriented as he steps between your legs which part instinctually for him, his body moving flush to yours. You can feel the bulge of his arousal pressing into where your dress begins to hike up.

Need barrels into you harsher than you expected. With hasty fingers, you slide both of your hands down his body to his waist, hands working urgently at his belt. You barely get the buckle undone before his hands are covering yours, fingers dipping down to curl over your wrists and cease your actions.

He tuts, lifting his head from your neck.

“Not yet, honey. Wanna taste you first.”

You go to groan your objection, but it’s quickly swayed and swallowed by his mouth again, laying a prompt yet lingering kiss before he’s nipping at your chin, your jaw, working downwards. He lathes swift, small pecks of his lips over the curve of your chest, before following further down to your middle, his hand returning to your thigh, dragging beneath the hem of your dress beneath the slit, gliding upwards to your inner thigh, right by where you need him most.

He drops down more, his knees crouching down with a slight strain, and you notice the gentle wince that pulls at his face, the angle just not right. The table an inch too tall for him to comfortably try and settle between your thighs without an awkward position of having his body half-hunched and knees bent gracelessly, like some clumsy structure of a tower.

“You don’t have to crouch awkwardly, Castillo,” You inform through a rather breathless laugh, mirthful. Not mocking him, just finding his rushed enthusiasm endearing. You tug gently at his hair, coaxing him back enough for you to slide off the edge of the side-table so you’re pressed back against it again, ass squished against the wood. “I can just lean back on this.”

His eyes flutter up to yours with an inkling of vulnerability that’s quickly replaced with his own amusement as he comfortably settles onto his knees in front of you, now at the precise height to meet you.

“Great point. Underestimated my height,” He rumbles with gaiety, hiking one of your legs up so it’s resting half on the table, whilst looping your calf over his shoulder, opening you up further to him.

His fingers curl over through the fabric through the slit on your thigh, hiking up your dress enough to rumple it around your hips and give himself more access, both of his hands curling around your shins, before sliding up the expanse of your legs to your thighs with a reverent touch, like he’s sculpting a statue from just the rawness of his fingertips. He opens your dress like he’s unveiling a museum artifact, slowly opening the sheen curtains of the hem.

A nearly distraught sound falls from him.

“Jesus,” He breathes, eyes rounding, locked towards your covered core. Wrapped in a delicate black lace. His thumb swipes out to prod and stroke gently over the gusset he finds already damp, making his eyes flutter and his eyes drop with a ravenous look.

Your breath hitches, and his insatiable attention lifts up to you, locking his gaze on yours like an enchanting siren call.

“This was for him?” He mutters, calling back to your blind date who never showed up. He keeps his eyes on your face as he dips forward, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh.

“Not anymore,” You reply throatily, fingers carding through his hair, urging. He smiles, nearly smug, boastful. Then lowers his head and presses another kiss to you, this time right against the soaked fabric of your panties, over your soaked folds held beneath. His hands slide higher beneath your dress to your hips to hook his thumbs through the waistband of the lace, dragging your panties down your legs with meticulous slowness. He curls the moist material in his fist after hooking it over your heels, before he’s tucking it into the back pocket of his pants like a secret fantasy hidden away.

His eyes drop down to where you’re now revealed to him, hands returning to your inner thighs, widening the stance, slotting his broad shoulders between them. You hear his breath stumble as he takes in the sight of you; puffy folds drenched with need, clit basically begging for his attention, hole clenching around nothing like it’s already calling him directly to you.

“So pretty, darlin’,” He murmurs, his thumb stroking out to swipe along the edges of your lips, spreading them wider for him. You feel your heart loop around in a scattered carousel as he lowers his face completely between your legs, his tongue flicking out to flatten against your cunt, then smooth upwards in one slow, long line.

You gasp at the wet heat of his tongue, and he responds with a drawling groan, his hand wrapping tight around your thigh. Then he’s lapping more insistently at your dripping slit, collecting your juices on his tongue like it’s the sweet nectar of a maple tree. His mouth lifts, suckling your clit past his lips, his tongue stroking over it in a smoothing motion that makes you twitch, chest arching upwards with a sharp inhale.

His tongue dips down, experimentally sliding inside you, curling to taste the slick right off your fluttering walls, slick pooling on the muscle. The motion has a devastating whimper slipping from your lips, your hand tightening and yanking lightly at his hair. He moans into you, the sound reverberating right up your spine in a quiver and making your hips flex into his mouth, which he only responds to with an eager, nearly debauched slurp, his mouth covering the entirety of your pulsing core like it’s his personal alter.

He licks into you, maneuvering between plunging his tongue in and out of your hole and sucking against that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your knees threaten to give out. His eyes slip closed with a fervent expression as he suckles against your clit, his hand coiling up from your thigh to work his middle finger into you, your tightness wrapping around the digit as your mouth parts pendulously, body eagerly accepting the stretch of his thick finger.

He begins to dip his finger in and out of you with strenuous slowness, letting you feel each drag of it along your walls, making you drip more shiny slick onto him, drooling down onto his palm. He swipes his tongue out to collect it right from the source, drawing a ragged moan from both of you as he experimentally plunges his tongue into you alongside his finger. The act is followed by an obscene squelch as he licks up your fallen juices, the curve of his nose pressing against your clit.

“Oh, shit, like that-” You puff, chest heaving upwards. You urge him impossibly closer to you with the end of your heel pressing into his shoulder blade. He avidly complies, his finger moving faster inside you, submerging his tongue and twirling it inside you, curling and lapping. Your hips twist as he finger fucks you, but he stills you with one hand against your hip, whilst the other dips down to flatten his palm against your mound, his thumb slicking out and circling tightly over your clit.

You jerk, a whine curdling up past your throat as the tendrils simmer through your pelvis, the triple stimulation of his finger fucking into you repeatedly alongside his tongue catching any of your dribbling slick, and the rub of his thumb over your bundle of nerves making you lean further back against the side-table.

"Tha's it. You gonna come for me?” He asks into your cunt, voice muffled into your skin, sending another shiver up along your spine whilst you nod earnestly, quickly, lips pursing with another impure moan.

He redoubles and amplifies his efforts, sinking his middle finger deeper inside you, fucking it into you with rougher, sharper movements designed to make you uncoil like thread around his digit. His tongue continues to cuff and curl inside you, licking at you. His thumb strokes acute, tight circles around your clit until your thighs are clenching around his head.

Your hips roll down eagerly, impaling yourself further onto his tongue and finger, eyes slipping closed as your rapture tightens through your system, burning up along your spine and lashing over your chest like a smoothing of velvet honey. You’re pushed and diving thirstily down into the looping ravines of bliss, gushing down onto his tongue, your hand fisting in his hair.

He makes a starved sound against you, his tongue eagerly pushing and swiping, drinking down everything you have to offer like it’s something holy, an amalgamation of sweetness and headiness he’s rapidly becoming addicted to.

You wrench at his hair more insistently as he continues his ministrations against you, although slower, savouring each drip of your slick onto his skin and tongue. You whimper as the overstimulation of the flick of his tongue has your hips tilting away, his thumb a steady pressure against your puffy clit. He grins against you, smug, but relents, lifting his face up from between your thighs and peering up towards you with a lopsided smirk, pleased and satisfied.

“Okay?” He asks raspingly, like his lower face isn’t smeared with your release, lips glossy with you. You don’t reply, instead curling both of your hands over his cheeks and practically dragging him back up your body, lifting him up from his sore knees until his mouth is pressing back to yours, fervent, like you’re starved. You lick into his mouth to taste yourself on his tongue, moaning against him.

His nose bumps against yours as the kiss escalates, famished and keen, his hand grabbing at your jaw to direct your face and deepen your movements, his slick middle finger smearing your want against your skin. His other hand grabs at your hip to steer you away from the side-table, leading you backwards to those two doors by the end of the hall, mumbling into your mouth. “Want you in my bed.”

You both stumble slightly, but quickly anchor yourselves, polished leather and the plastic of heels clacking against the linoleum floors. His hand on your jaw drops down to snake behind you and fiddle with the zipper of your dress until it eventually comes loose, dragging it down to the base of your spine. The glossy material slides off your frame, pooling at your ankles. He helps you step out of it, guiding you backwards through the doorway to where you assume is his bedroom, his lips never breaking away from yours.

He kicks off his shoes whilst you wrestle off your heels, dropping down a few short inches as his hands covetously travel over you, melding over your curves like he can’t trace enough of you in the time he has- which is the entire night. He unclasps your bra, discarding it carelessly to the side with a soft clatter, leaving you completely bare for him.

His large hands come to immediately cup your breasts, squeezing carefully, his thumbs swiping over your nipples that quickly pebble under his attention. You whimper softly, pulling your lips from his and pushing your chest up into his hold, head slinging back with a breathy sigh. He takes the initiative, dipping his head down and attacking along the underside of your jaw, his tongue prodding at that sensitive skin behind your ear.

It’s heady, potent, a mix of heavy breaths and mingled want clashing into a nearly violent need. A different kind of greed than that of desire for wealth, desire for love or affection- but instead something rawer. Unbridled, weighty lust.

You barely get a glance around the costly expanse of his bedroom as you’re grabbing at his shoulders, directing him in a pivot until the back of his knees hit the edge of his king-sized mattress. You gently yet imperatively shove him back onto his bed, the silk sheets shifting with his weight as he lands back against them, his arms falling away from you.

He moves further up the pillows as you climb up onto the prodigious bed to join him, thighs framing his waist. His eyes draw up your bare frame towards you, inky black, his pupils swallowing out the brown of his irises almost completely in the soft lighting and in the consummation of his want.

His hands settle around your waist, squeezing as you dip down to press a swift kiss against his lips, your breasts squishing against his chest whilst your fingers slide down and tangle with his half-open belt, looping it finally through the fabric, before flicking it to the side. You nibble at his bottom lip before pulling away and unbuttoning his pants, zipping them down. You slide down briefly to urge and tug the fabric away from his legs, whilst he takes measure to tug his long-sleeved top over his head.

You crawl back over him, legs straddling his hips, your hands dropping to splay over the broad, warmth expanse of his exposed chest, his body left in just his boxers beneath you, an inviting happy trail of darkened brown hair littered above the waistband. Licentiously, you roll your hips down into him, dragging the soaked state of your core over the bulge of his boxers, making his cock twitch beneath the fabric, a groan rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” He huffs, head falling back into the pillows, hands gripping your waist as you move against him in a teasing downwards grind, a carefully precise rhythm. “Can’t wait to have that sweet little cunt wrapped around me.”

You bite down against your swollen bottom lip, body straining with arousal, and hook your fingers through the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs, swiping them off his legs. Your throat tightens. His cock, thick and throbbing, slaps up against his stomach, the tip red and engorged, dripping a bead of translucent pre-come onto his belly, his balls full and heavy between his thighs. He keeps his gaze settled on you as you gawk like a renaissance painting; his eyes needy, dark, hungry. Unrestrained.

You exhale shakily, hand gliding down to curl around the base of him, manicured nails delicately smoothing over the sensitive, soft skin. You give him the smallest pump with your fist loosely clenched, and his cock twitches in your grip, hipbones flexing beneath you.

“Gotta be honest. M’ not gonna last if you tease me like that, baby,” He rasps sincerely, lips spreading with a rugged exhale like he’s struggling to contain himself and this bubbling need threatening to boil over between you. The confession only sends electrified wire sizzling along your veins in the form of arousal, and you nod in acknowledgement quickly, lifting your hips. You squeeze gently at the base of him, angling his cock until it’s nudging against your entrance.

“There you go,” He breathes, exhaling out through his nostrils, whilst you tilt your hips slightly, slowly sinking down onto his thickness. Your mouth dries at the sheer size of him stretching your clenching walls, jaw falling slack as your hips roll, determinedly swaying down until he’s entirely sheathed inside you to the hilt. You both sound a simultaneous groan of thrill, his brows pinched with concentration as he gives you time to adjust, your hips continuing to absently swirl in circles as the prior dull pain swiftly bleeds out into pleasure, hooking into the base of your spine like a hook.

His jaw works in a grating clench when you tighten around him as you slowly lift your hips, as though your body is trying to keep him inside you. You raise until just his tip is notched inside you, before you’re sinking back down. Slow, steady, his cock curving against the deepest part of you, nudging against that soft, sensitive place that makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

You gradually begin to increase the pace, elevating your hips just to drop back down on him, repeatedly stretching yourself over his girth. His gaze hops over you like he doesn’t know where to settle his attention on; your tits bouncing with your steady pace, the slick of his cock as he’s sheathed in and out of your gripping pussy, folds spreading around him, the inviting line of your neck pulsing as your hips roll. He finally settles on your face, captivated in watching the way your eyes twist with bliss, pleasure striking up along your body, your thighs squeezing around his waist.

“Fuck.. look at you,” He pants, his hands curling tighter around your waist, aiding you, guiding your hips into a slightly firmer tempo. “Look like a goddess on top of me. Like a bloody gift sent just for me.”

You whimper, nodding quickly, cunt squeezing around him, egging him on.

“So pretty taking this cock,” He mumbles mindlessly, eyes drawing to watch where you take him again, your inner thighs quivering. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails digging soft, crescent moons into his skin as you heave yourself up, before slamming down harsher, both of you moaning wantonly at the pressure. Your ass begins to slap wetly back onto his thighs as you rise and fall quickly, your back arching each time his cockhead brushes and prods into your G-spot.

“Other guy doesn’t know what he missed out on,” Harry husks, eyes drawing a searing line up your body as if he’s mapping you out, committing you to memory. His hips sway, grinding himself up to meet your repeated dropping motions, rolling himself flush into you each time. He chuckles, the noise strained with pleasure. “I can’t say I’m that sympathetic for him, though.”

His hands smooth further up along your curves, before he’s hiking himself up enough to wrap his arms around your body, your chest arching into his. You buck down into him, his face burying against the crook of your neck, breathing hot and rasped against your skin, your pulse fluttering frantically beneath it, tensing with each shameless moan that crawls out from your throat.

“Get it all to myself, huh?” He mumbles, sucking against that spot he left on your collarbone earlier, darkening it further, the bruise blooming with red and violet, like a stain against your skin you currently wear with unadulterated pride. Your cunt makes a vulgar, moist squelching sound around him as you jerk yourself onto his cock, riding his lap with a lacerating wildness.

“Yes, baby, fuck- like that,” He moans, tilting his head back to peer up at you, his blackened-out eyes shimmering with lust and something bordering on worship. “S’ all for me, yeah?”

“Mhmm- yes, all you,” You agree haplessly, your tits jerking with your body as you bounce on his dick, chasing that twist you already feel pulverising and chewing at the frayed edges of your burning bliss.

His hand dips down between you, the tips of his fingers consciously rubbing sternly over the engorged swell of your sensitive clit that’s peeking out beneath the hood. You jolt at the added stimulation, pace stumbling, and Harry takes the chance to curl his robust arms tighter around your frame, and before you can process his movement, your vision is whirling in a blinded blur as he flips you both, his cock still impaled in you. He lowers you down into the cushiony comfort of the mattress, silk spilling out around your head.

“You’ve had your turn,” He says with a crooked smirk, dipping his head down to bite gently at the edge of your chin. You go to grumble in petulant protest, but he cuts the sound off from the tip of your tongue with an unyielding, borderline harsh thrust into you, silencing you with his cock.

He repeats the action, slower this time, letting you feel the ridge and veins of his length, sliding through your slick, sensitive walls. Grinding down into you, that coarse thatch of curls at the base of him that’s slowly greying rubbing against your swollen clit peeking out from beneath the hood. You sound a rapturous, libidinous moan, head falling back into the pillows and chest arching upwards with a heave.

His hips jerk at the sight, before restraint snaps like a thread untying, the chain unsnapping that shielded the rabid dog to the pillar. He slams into you, hips slapping wetly against yours, cock plunging into you with brisk speed, firm.

“Yeah, you can take it, can’t you baby?” He moans in a gruff rumble, a sheen of sweat tilting over his temple. “So fuckin’ good. Feel so good wrapped around me- better than I imagined.”

You whimper, arms looping beneath his, hands curling over to his back. You dig your nails deeper into his skin than you meant to, leaving dim, red marks down the length of his back. But he doesn’t seem deterred- if anything, it spurs him on to pound into you swifter, relentless.

“So sweet and wet,” He mumbles more to himself than you, fucking you into his mattress. “Dripping all over my cock, aren’t you?”

His hasty, muttered questions are rhetoric, slipping from his lips like the drip of honey, curdling with sweetness. You couldn’t think to answer even if you wanted to anyways, shameless moans pouring from you in tumbling sways of bliss, body sliding up the bed with each jackhammering thrust of his hips.

You squeeze around him, legs loosely splayed wide for him to pummel into you, cunt slick and hot around his throbbing length, your face flushed and hair splaying widely around your head on his pillows. His hands settle on either side of your head, his eyes settling on yours intensely as his hips swing into yours, his eyebrows saddled with focus, dense breaths and groans drawing out of him. His chest shines with a thin line of sweat, his biceps flexing and the veins in his forearms bulging as he bucks himself forward, fucking you ruthlessly.

It’s shameless, a tangle of bodies and limbs that intertwine like second nature, like your frames automatically blend into each other. As if you hadn’t just met tonight, starting as strangers when you were both meant to grovel around in your own solitary. As if you were both molded to be here; with you beneath him, his cock hammering into your pulsating hole.

“Fuck, m’ not gonna last much longer,” He admits, glancing down between you to watch where your abdomen rolls to grind your hips up into his sharp, plunging thrusts. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

Your mouth feels numb, eyes glazed over with the pleasure that curdles along you. But you nod eagerly, nails digging further into his flesh. He pants, using the last of his renowned energy to buck harder into you, chasing you both to those releases burning through your blood, sizzling to an unstoppable height before it captures the pair of you.

His head drops down, forehead pressing to yours, your mingled noises tangling in the heated air between your mouths.

“Go on, honey. Come for me. Let me feel you squeezing me,” He mutters frantically, and his mumbled coaxing that rasps past your ears are the final length that stretches before that release curls around your veins, splashing like liquid ecstasy through you. Your mouth catches open in a noiseless whine, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Your thighs clamp around his waist, cunt tightening around him before spasming, juices slicking over him in streams, dripping down to his balls and smearing each time they slap against the curve of your ass. He sounds a groan that sounds pained, his hips stuttering in their pace as your walls squeeze and flutter like they’re trying to milk him of everything he’s worth.

“Fuck. That’s it, that’s it, so good for me-” He groans jarringly whilst you mewl hopelessly, hips bucking up. His thrusts turn erratic, uncoordinated as he unceremoniously chases his own orgasm, slamming down into you with propelling hips, sinful, the force staggering.

His mouth pinches in effort as your cunt slicks another gush around him, and with a hiss of restraint, he pulls himself out of your wet embrace at the last moment. His hand hastily dipping down to wrap around himself, length soaked and throbbing. He barely pumps himself once before his thighs are locking up, a trembling moan that whisks off into a whimper as the bliss hits him squarely in the gut, and his cock is jumping in his hold, ropes of thick white painting over your stomach in ropes of heat, nearly reaching your breasts.

You squirm, limbs aching, dipping your chin down towards your chest to see where he weakly strokes over his cock to milk out the last of his come, which dribbles down to your mound, warm and smooth and sticky.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the hoarse panting of your shared breaths as you both reel through the after effects, foreheads still pressed together. Your eyes flutter closed, body sated, a content afterglow burning low through you. You feel him shift above you, dipping his hand down to your stomach.

Slowly, reverently in a way that feels nearly pious, he swipes a thick finger through the layer of his come on your belly, smearing it over your skin and collecting it on the pad of his digit. And then-

He’s carefully lifting it up between your warm bodies to your parted, swollen mouth. His finger taps softly against your bottom lip, coaxing your eyes open to meet his. They’re still dark, inky, but there’s a softer kind of benevolence swimming through them now, tender.

You swipe your tongue out to collect his come from the tip of his finger, letting your jaw fall slack as he guides it into your mouth. You moan softly at the salty taste of him, stifled as you curl your lips around his finger, sucking the essence of his release right from his skin. You hear his breath hitch as he laboriously slides his finger out again, swiping over your bottom lip. A beat passes before he’s dipping down and pressing his mouth to yours, tasting himself on you.

The kiss is delicate, still amorous but with a fondness burning through it. He pulls back, his tongue carefully swiping over his lower lip like he’s relishing the flavour of both of you combined, your need like a physical, potent taste.

He gives you an unhurried, warm smile, before his hefty body is moving from atop you, and he’s dragging himself off the bed with strained, exhausted movements. You exhale shakily into the slightly humid air, your skin gradually cooling as he pads into the connected ensuite. You hear the tap running as the room lulls around you, head drooping to the side, eyelids feeling heavy.

He returns a moment later, crawling to your side. You almost jolt as the warmth of a damp washcloth meets your sensitive skin. He prods it gently over your stomach, cleaning his own release from you, padding it gently against your sore, puffy core. His movements are nothing short of reverent.

He carelessly chucks the rag onto the floor, before he’s maneuvering your body onto your side, settling down behind you, his brawny arm curling around your waist, your arms tucking in front of you. His fingers brush against your wrist as his body presses into yours from behind, broad and assured.

For a while, neither of you speak, simply relishing in the afterglow that drapes over you like a blanket, especially after Harry moves the glossy silk of the sheet over the two of you, the coolness inviting on your warm skin. Consoling, he presses a slow kiss against the curve of your shoulder from behind.

“You know, I’d like to invest further in this, if you’d be so kind as to allow me,” He murmurs into your skin, careful but unhesitant in his decision. There’s a tinge of amusement intertwined with his tone at the inane ridiculousness of the continued jesting metaphors of a business transaction being shared between you.

“What are you offering?” You whisper back into the dull smoothness of his lavish bedroom, a knowing smile lilting up the corner of your lips. You feel his own mouth upturn in a grin against you.

“A second date. If you want it.”

You’re gladdened by the fact he can’t entirely see your face so you can shield the giddy, elated expression that tilts over your expression. Your heart thumping with a vertiginous stutter at the thought of going out on another date with Harry, to share precious time with him again.

Time where you’re both aren’t under the restraints and tensions of your jobs, where you can relish in the taste of each other, the feel of each other, the simpleness of comfort found within tenderness and lasting looks. A time in which you don’t have to be perfect- you can just be.

You tilt your head back, coaxing his face into the crook of your neck, hearing him inhale softly as he breathes you in, the scent of sex and something softer lingering in the air.

“That can definitely be arranged,” You answer, coyness blooming in your voice, but settled with an undeniable soft rawness. His arms tighten gently around you, the both of you ravelled in the other in his large bed, the milk-dipped moon waving somewhere high above the heights of colossal towers that loom like spires, the scintillating but gentle whisk of the city lights peeking into the room, something like nectar settled on the tips of your tongue, saccharine and honeyed, settling into the air like promise.

And now you think; when you return to work, maybe you actually will thank Rebecca for convincing you to go on that blind date.

“But I have infinite tenderness for you. I always will. All my life long.” - Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013)

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