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weirdomellow · 12 days ago

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🥵🥵🥵🥵

Damn... I mean Andy is dicking her down so good but sex in the dressing room? 🥵

Also I loved how he knew she was not gonna choose the dress she was wearing 😌

Currents Sweeping Through [I'm Your Man]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader Word Count: 3.8k Summary: You receive a surprising phone call while things progress with your impending nuptials.

Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, sex in a public place)

Author Note: Happy SINday, hoes! A shorter installment, but hopefully just as aggravating satisfying!

Previous Part | Full Collection

You’re showered, dressed, feeling reasonably normal at the table with Andy, eating breakfast together, but as you stretch your arm to reach for an orange, you feel the soreness in your body from being well and thoroughly fucked the night before.

You try to keep your face nonchalant as you peel the orange.

The sun slants in through the kitchen’s east windows, gilding the marble island and picking out golden threads in Andy’s hair. He’s already dressed for work—crisp white shirt, blue tie, dark grey suit jacket today. You admire how he manages to look freshly pressed and casual at the same time.

"Are you planning to avoid eye contact with me all morning, or just until you finish the fruit?" he prompts, laying down his phone.

You reach for your coffee and take a sip to avoid answering immediately, and eye him over the rim of your cup, feeling the bruise of his hands on your hips like a dare. It would be nice, you think, to be capable of ordinary domesticity. Nice to just eat breakfast and laugh about wedding colors or guest lists, not weigh every moment for its undertone of strategy and surrender.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmm, very well after you had me fully spent, boneless, and drove every lingering thought from my head.”

He smirks. “Exactly what you asked for last night.”

You give him a look—playful, but edged—and pop a slice of orange between your lips. The memory of last night flashes hot beneath your skin. Maybe this is the way you’ll survive him: surrender to the moment, pick your battles, and let your body have the pleasures it craves while your mind keeps a running tally. Even now, you’re cataloging the moments of weakness and control like beads on a string.

Andy leans back, stretching with feline grace, and lets his eyes rest on you. You want to believe it’s affection, but you know yourself too well to surrender to that fantasy—his affection is another form of possession, and you are acutely aware which parts of you belong to him and which remain your own.

“What’s on today’s agenda?” you ask, tossing the last bit of orange into your mouth, tasting its acid sweetness.

Andy lifts a brow, considering you for a moment before answering. “The details of my day are better left a mystery to you.”

You snort, but something in his tone catches. “Is it a dangerous day, or just one of those endless meetings where you stare down a boardroom full of terrified men until someone soils themselves?”

“Why not both.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, gaze never leaving your face. “I have a call with a contact in London, a meeting downtown, a private lunch, and—if all goes well—a few hours to myself before dinner.” The different tone when he mentions the private lunch is just noticeable enough to register. You file it away alongside your other suspicions.

You peel off another orange segment for yourself. “And tonight?”

He sets his mug down, the sound precise. “Tonight my calendar is clear. For you.”

It’s said kindly, but you hear the other side: he expects you here with him.

You are about to retort, when Andy’s phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the caller ID, then at you, and silences it with one flick of his finger. Yours buzzes half a second later, as if the universe demands symmetry, and it’s also a call, not a text, which is rare. You glance at the screen and almost drop the device: Uncle Robert. You’ve texted a few times, but haven’t seen or heard from your uncle in almost two years.

You look at Andy, whose eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but you press accept and raise the phone to your ear.

“Uncle Rob?” you say, curious but wary.

On the other end, your uncle’s voice is bright and faintly incredulous. “I’m looking at a wedding invitation with your name on it. And I just called your mother, and she sounded like she’d won the lottery. Is it real?”

You step out onto the back terrace before you answer. “Yes, it’s real.”

There is a tangle of silence, as if Robert is parsing not just what you said, but how you said it. "Well, Christ, kid. In three weeks?”

“Yeah, it’s all happening really fast,” you say.

He is your mother’s younger brother, the one who used to sneak you candy before dinner, who’d take you to baseball games and let you sit in the good seats while he drank beer and explained the stats in a way that made sense, who had you and your sister over for summer adventures in New York City after he relocated there.

He lets a beat of silence fester, but then he laughs. “Your mother cried on the phone, you know that? Happy tears, like she can’t wait for this to happen.”

“If you already called Mom, why are you asking me if it’s real?” you laugh.

He sighs. “Look, I know I’ve been off the grid for a while. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it on the other end of the line. “No, we’re all busy these days.” And you genuinely meant it. You know your uncle traveled a lot for work, and you didn’t hold it against him. He’d always cared, and he always made up for his absence.

“Is he good to you?” Robert asks, his voice lowering into that cautionary register only overly protective lifelong bachelor uncles possess.

The question lands a little hard, a little sincere, and it draws more out of you than you meant to show. “He’s… really something. He takes care of me. He’s good in his way.”

Your uncle hums low. “He must be something, to get your parents on board. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him though.”

You smile, letting the warmth of the morning sun settle into your skin. “I’d like that. I want you there, Uncle Rob.”

“I’d come even if you didn’t want me,” he says.

Your heart swells and aches.

He seems to swallow hard, voice gentling. “You happy, kid?”

It isn’t the kind of question you expected, and you find yourself fumbling for the answer. You imagine Andy in the kitchen, probably able to overhear every word, his attention on you even now. You think of the endless house, the rush of the last month, the way your life has transitioned into something new and alarming. “I don’t know,” you say finally, honest as you can be. “As happy as I can be. It’s all just happened really fast.”

There’s another silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. “That’s the thing about the big changes,” your uncle says. “A little time, and you’ll know either way if you made the right call.” His tone has a rueful edge, a kind of melancholy you remember from one too many late-night conversations when you were both younger and more raw. “Just let me know if you need anything at all, okay. Day or night, I don’t care if you think I’m busy, one word, and I’m there.”

You close your eyes, feeling a young version of yourself—the one who idolized her uncle for every little kindness—flutter in your chest.

He sighs loudly, but it’s a happy sound. He says something about hotels and black suits and promises to get in early for the rehearsal dinner, and you hang up feeling a little more solid than before.

When you come back inside, Andy is still at the island, swirling the dregs of his coffee, eyes on the middle distance. His phone is turned over, screen black. You sense something cautious about the way he waits for you to speak first.

“Well,” you say, “I think you may have your work cut out to try and win over my uncle, and if you don’t, he’s likely to try to punch you out at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Andy says with a smirk, and the glint in his blue eyes is delight rather than intimidation. “Family loyalty is an admirable trait. Perhaps I’ll spar with him myself and see how I fare.”

You roll your eyes, but his smile—genuine for once, not a weapon—leaches some of your wariness. “He’ll eat you alive if you let him,” you warn.

“Good. I could use the exercise,” Andy counters.

You snort, pouring yourself more coffee. “God help us all.”

It feels strange, to joke together, uncoiled from the tension and power games that usually script your time with him. Your uncle’s question—are you happy, kid?—lingers in the back of your mind. What could have been is so tangled in good and bad with what is and what might be. But moments like this… if you can have enough of them, maybe they start to erase the moments you don’t want.

The next day your stomach is full of nerves and excitement all morning.

It’s wedding dress day.

With such little time before the wedding—and the circumstances of your totally unconventional engagement—this is the first thing you’re doing to celebrate and commemorate with those closest to you. Two of your three bridesmaids will be there along with your mom, and you’ll be texting pics and videos to Thea since it obviously didn’t make sense to try and get her to Boston twice in three weeks.

Mark and Shep drive you into town, butterflies in your stomach, and an odd and dizzying nostalgia for all the romcom cliches you’d grown up on swimming in your head. You wonder if it will feel completely performative, or if maybe the right dress can conjure up the euphoria you’re supposed to have when you try on the white dress and see yourself as a bride.

Your mom meets you downstairs at the bridal shop, already in tears, and your two local bridesmaids—"the Boston contingent," as you refer to them in your head—are both over-caffeinated and high on gossip. The shop staff welcome you warmly and usher you through a door into a private suite, which is decked out in white flowers and mirrored walls and there’s ample plush seating, and, impossibly, in the middle of it all:

“Thea!” you shriek, and the two of you rush each other, crying and laughing.

You nearly knock her over, unable to believe it, but yes, your best friend is here, in the flesh, wearing a floral dress you swear you’ve seen in photos as far back as 2016.

“You idiot,” she hisses, eyes sparkling with emotion. “Did you think I was going to miss this? Not when you have a husband with more money than god,” she whispers the last part so only you can hear.

There are tears and full-bodied laughter and a champagne glasses in everyone’s hands within seconds.

Your mother is bemused, radiant, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in years. The staff manage it all with gentle efficiency, and you savor the first minutes as you shed your jacket, take a real breath, and realize this, at least, is about you and the people you love.

It helps, you suppose, that your soon-to-be-husband has pre-paid for the entire experience, stocked the dressing room with your favorite pastries, and made sure you had carte blanche in the accessories department. There’s a small voice in you that wants to resent the extravagance, but why? Especially when one of those extravagances was your best friend being flown in from across the Atlantic.

There’s a scramble as everyone coos over Thea and demands travel stories as she claims a seat at the end of the velvet bench. Shep and Mark, ever the silent sentries, hang by the door in unassuming suits. You catch Shep’s eye, and he gives you a warm, complicit smile, as if to say, Look, it’s all coming together.

Back in the dressing room, you slip into the first dress the attendant brings, a complicated mesh-up of tulle and boning and improbable structure designed, you are certain, for someone with a completely different body than yours. There is a long zipper you can’t quite reach, and a row of covered buttons that seem like they’ll take a team of five to close. But when they do close it, and you step onto the little riser in front of the triple mirror, the room hushes.

“Holy—” one of your friends murmurs.

Your mother’s face scrunches up like she’s trying to stop a sneeze, but the tears are already streaming and she’s laughing at her own predictability. Thea grins at you, wolfish and bright.

“You look like the bride in a Fellini movie,” she says, and you’re not sure if that’s a compliment, but it feels like one.

It’s not the dress, but it makes you feel truly bridal, and it immerses you fully into wedding dress mode.

In the second dress, you feel more yourself. The sleeves are poetic and the skirt drapes nicely. The third dress has more elements that you like.

The fourth dress is almost absurdly beautiful, all silk and restrained elegance, as if designed for someone who gives nothing away. Your mother clasps her hands to her mouth, one of your friends starts to cry for real, and Thea, never one to be sentimental about clothes, simply nods her approval and says, “I could see you running an empire in that.”

Yet in the dressing room, you catch your own gaze in the mirror and see that you’re still searching.

You’re unzipping the back of the sample gown, struggling with the tiny teeth, when you hear a click and the door opens an inch. You’re about to call for help, but instead you freeze, suddenly aware of a familiar presence behind you.

Andy closes the dressing room door behind him.

You gasp, spinning to clutch the half-zipped dress to your chest. “Andy, you can’t be in here! It’s—” you search for the right word, your mind scrambling for a rule to hold against him, “it’s bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.”

He leans against the closed door, his expression somewhere between amused and proprietary. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice, “we both know this isn’t going to be your dress.”

You want to snap something back, but you can’t move for a second, stunned by his audacity and by the way the dressing room seems to shrink around him. He steps closer, and in the reflection of the triple mirror you see his eyes flick over your exposed shoulders, the bare curve of your back, the precarious drape of the gown. He looks at you as though he can undress you with a glance, which, you realize, is probably not far from the truth.

You press your hands into the thick silk at your ribs, fighting to keep your voice level. “You can’t just—”

“That one’s nice, but it isn’t you.”

You stare, caught somewhere between outrage and a wild urge to laugh. “How would you know what’s me?”

He cocks his head, a slow smile spreading across his face—a look you’ve learned means he is already halfway down the path to getting what he wants, has in fact already mapped your capitulation and is just savoring the formalities.

“I thought we were past you underestimating how much I know and notice about you,” he says, stepping close enough that you feel his breath on your ear, his reflection in the mirrors swallowing the rest of the world. “Even now,” he adds, “with my ring on your finger, you’re still looking for a dress that feels like a rebellion.”

You shiver, because he’s not exactly wrong, but also not entirely right. You hold the silk tighter, suddenly aware of how little it covers and how much it reveals. You want to tell him to get out, that you need space, but the words evaporate when you meet his gaze. The look on his face isn’t just hunger—it’s admiration, and something else you can’t name. Maybe pride. Maybe awe.

He slides his hands to your shoulders, thumbs brushing the edge where fabric meets skin. His touch is electric, and you feel the charge run down your spine. “You’re trembling,” he observes, so softly you’re not sure if it’s a taunt or a promise.

You try to muster outrage but your body sings for more. You want to say something clever, call him out for being a cliché or a menace, but you can’t summon wit when his hands are already mapping your arms, your waist, the silk bodice. The mirrors multiply the spectacle: you and Andy, alone in this cathedral of bridal performance, the dress a white flag you never meant to raise.

“Andy,” you try again, but it’s more of a gasp than a protest.

He ushers you forward, closer to the mirrors. The zipper at your back is still half-stuck, but he tugs it down in a single, practiced motion. The gown nearly slides off your hips, but his hands are there, holding it in place. Your skin flushes everywhere he touches.

“I have two minutes before your mother gets suspicious,” he murmurs, and his hand is already under the skirt, finding the backs of your thighs. “Put your hands up on the glass.”

Without hesitation, you do as he asks, palms braced flat against the mirrored glass. Your reflection fragments around you, multiplying this forbidden tableau: you, half-draped in white silk, flushed and wide-eyed; Andy behind, suit immaculate, gaze unwavering, jaw set in a line that tells you no part of this is a joke to him.

You know what he wants the moment his hands climb your thighs, fingers deft and unrelenting, gathering the silk above your waist. In the mirror, you watch your own mouth part in expectation, cheeks flushing pink as he tugs your panties aside and runs the blunt heat of his cock along your seam, once, twice, before notching himself inside you.

"Keep your eyes open," Andy whispers, his breath hot over your neck as he presses at the base of your spine to get you to arch your back, to take him at a better angle. "Watch me fuck you."

You do. You watch: the white dress pooled at your hips, Andy’s suit so dark in contrast, the way your face gives everything away. He pushes into you slow, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass. Your fingers spread on the mirror, bracing, desperate for something to anchor you. Each slow thrust is obscene in its deliberateness, calculated for maximum effect—on your body, on your mind, on whatever part of you still thinks it could ever belong to anyone but him.

From the main room you hear the muffled laughter of your mother, Thea, and your friends. You picture them, just on the other side of a thin wall; the forbidden, obscene thrill of it ratchets the pressure inside you even higher. Your knees buckle, slightly, but Andy’s hand clamps your hip and holds you there, obliging you to take him, to see every moment of your own unmaking.

“You look perfect like this,” he says, the words vibrating through your ribcage. “Like you were made for it, sweetheart. For me.”

The display is humiliating and exhilarating; you wonder if this, too, is part of his calculations, but as he quickens, losing a little control, you suspect for once he might just want you that badly. His voice turns raspy as he loses the ability to keep the mask in place, and you see, in every glassy angle, how he watches your every reaction, as if your pleasure is both the point and the evidence of his dominance and devotion.

The friction, the risk, the inhibition, it’s all too much. You come embarrassingly fast, a wave of pleasure so sharp you nearly cry out. Andy’s hand covers your mouth just in time, eyes burning into yours in the mirror. He follows you half a second later, grip bruising at your hip as his own control slips and he chokes back a groan.

You both go still, breath ragged and uneven, his suit jacket a dark shroud behind your bare back, your palms still flat against the glass.

In the mirror, your eyes meet his. He looks nearly as undone as you, cheeks flushed, tie now slightly askew, a wildness in his face that both thrills and unsettles you. For once, you think, he isn’t in charge of the moment. For once, maybe, you’ve mastered him as surely as he has mastered you.

You both move at the same time—him reaching to right his tie, you hastily tucking the dress back up over your chest. Andy stoops, and you wonder what for, but then feel the coolness of a tissue wiping the mess away from your cunt, efficiently cleaning up the evidence of your mutual pleasure. He stands and kisses you, quick and rough, then sets his jaw and fixes his cuffs like nothing in the world is out of order as he steps past you to the door.

"Wait three minutes," he murmurs, "then come out in the next one." Then he’s gone, shutting the door with a soft click. It’s as though nothing happened, but your body buzzes with aftershock, the echo of his hands and the high-wire memory of your own ruin in front of the mirror.

In the quiet that follows, you try to school your face back to something bridal, not just debauched. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, and fix the slip of silk and the zipper as best you can, hands trembling with adrenaline and the sudden, illicit sweetness of having been claimed and seen at the same time. It leaves you hungering for more, which is both terrifying and, in its own way, a relief: at least the wanting is honest, even if nothing else is.

You gather yourself, and three minutes later run your hands over the front of the next dress, and step out. The small audience in the lounge—your mother, bridesmaids, and Thea—look up, their faces already primed for tears or squealing. No one suspects a thing. Maybe your hair is a little tousled, maybe your eyes a little dazed, but if anyone draws a conclusion from this, it’s that dress shopping is, as promised, emotionally overwhelming.

A wild Thea appearance!

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