zaddygrinch8756 - Tumblr blog

zaddygrinch8756 · 11 months ago

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‘34 château margaux

SUMMARY: Spencer never knew to feel about you. Actually, he did. You were a career criminal, but also a liaison for the FBI, which prevented your arrest. You’re cunning, manipulative, persuasive and oh, so seductive. Spencer was warned against you, and he knew it. But even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory couldn’t resist you. Even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory can’t help but lose control around a woman like you.

TW: mentions of smoking, wine, seduction, badass reader, s7 Dr Spencer Reid, mentions of organised crime, mobs and mafia, Spencer’s weak for reader the poor baby, Hotch slander, smut

STW: Spence doesn’t stop the reader from kissing him, marking, oral (f. receiving), brief handjob, praise kink if you squint, dirty talk but Spencer style, degradation I think, wine play (I think), temperature play as subtext, ass slapping, profiling during sex, threat of exhibitionism, light choking, switch!Spencer, switch!reader, pussydrunk!Spencer, slight overstimulation, fingering

SONG INSPO: Greedy by Ariana Grande, Acapulco by Jason Derulo, I Did Something Bad by Taylor Swift and Make you Mine by Madison Beer

Femme fatales had a specific profile.

The "femme fatale" is typically depicted as a highly attractive and enigmatic woman in her late twenties to early forties, often characterized by a seductive allure that masks her manipulative and dangerous nature. Her primary weapon is her ability to ensnare men through charm, beauty, and sexual allure, ultimately leading them to their downfall.

While her motivations vary, she is often driven by power, revenge, or hidden trauma. Early literary examples include the biblical figure of Delilah, who betrays Samson, and Salome, who demands the head of John the Baptist. In classical mythology, Circe and the Sirens use their allure to seduce and destroy men.

The femme fatale's archetype is also evident in later works like Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, who manipulates her husband to commit regicide. This profile of a femme fatale highlights her as a complex figure whose allure conceals a more sinister intent.

That was your profile.

Hotch had warned Spencer not to get too close to you, because you knew how to use your everything, and you had a sweet spot for the latter. Not because Spencer really was a likeable son of a bitch, but because you found him more fun than the other agents.

You were a pretty face, sure, but you were also a genius. A Dr Spencer Reid level genius, but you were the side of the spectrum that dissolved into a life of high crime and corruption.

Instead of becoming a federal agent - or law enforcement - you were the trusted advisor to a lot of the mafia and mob population, and even that was enough to put you away on charges of incitement/inchoate crime. But you were useful, extremely useful, so you also then became the liaison for the FBI whenever the mafia or mob circles became involved in an investigation.

This time, you were, as the unsub of a case in Las Vegas, Nevada seemed to be purchasing drugs like M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. It was a powerful mix and the dose was enough to cause immediate system failure and then death. The drugs were being purchased from casinos which were rumoured to be the cover of Vegas’ mob circles.

Your hotel room was the kind of thing Spencer only hoped to see in movies, with warm lighting, patterned red wallpaper, mahogany flooring with underfloor heating, glass and gold tables, mahogany dressers and a huge king-size four poster with curtains the same colour as the walls. There was a liquor cabinet as well as a fancy looking cooler, and it was nothing like Spencer had been used to seeing as he grew up in this very city.

It didn’t feel like his territory anymore. He wasn’t as comfortable as he usually was around these parts. He took the couple steps in, having closed the door behind him, now standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Maybe you weren’t in. Phew.

“Dr Reid.” Came the voice that made Spencer feel like he was on fire, a perfectly manicured hand brushing over his shoulder as you walked up from behind him, having come from the bathroom that was no doubt as fancy as the bedroom itself. After all, this was the penthouse.

You lived it big as a career criminal.

You stepped out from behind him, lips that he’d unintentionally imagined on his body stretched into a smirk as you picked up a quarter-full wine glass from the table and took a sip. You were killing him, wearing a black silk robe with just the right hint of lace, which stopped at your mid thigh and had a neckline that had his eyes dropping briefly before he schooled them and gave himself a very firm lecture inside his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Again, that voice, the cadence of it, Spencer couldn’t understand how something as simple as a damn voice could have him so unbelievably weak for you.

Spencer raised his hand in greeting with his bravest attempt at a smile, like he usually did.

“It’s a case.” He dug in his messenger bag, handing you some photos of some bodies. “Someone’s targeting bank workers around Vegas. It’s a ‘drug smoothie’ of M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. Morgan dubbed it that. Actually, smoothies are meant to boost the health of the drinker and contain nutrients from a liquid base such as yogurt or milk puréed with fruit, vegetables or items in a mixer, so I don’t see how this particular drug mix is a smoothie— a milkshake perhaps, as it hasn’t got as much nutritional value beside providing substantial energy through the intake of sugar and carbohydrates.”

He paused, seeing the soft, amused smile on your face, the light of the room casting a perfect shadow on the curve of your cheek. It felt like you were ethereal. “Did I say too much?” Spencer said meekly, rubbing his jaw.

“Not at all, Dr Reid, I completely agree. You can tell your friend Morgan to change it and you have my wholehearted support.” You gave him a nod, your head tilted and eyes looking big with the way you were looking at him. “You have no clue just how much your knowledge turns a girl on, baby, no clue at all.”

Spencer cleared his throat, realising that he was veering off topic and also almost salivating at the sound of you calling him baby. Having to lecture his eyes once again for looking at your legs that seemed to go on for days and seemed to also be calling for him to grab, knead and grip. “We need to stay on topic. Hotch needs the information about the case, and you need to give it.”

Spencer couldn’t help but always let his mind drop into the gutter at the sight of you. It was a Pavlovian response at this point— pure, unbridled instinct.

He couldn’t help but notice that with the way the robe draped on your body, you had nothing on underneath. That kind of assumed information had Spencer reeling.

You waved a perfectly manicured hand with scarlet nails, dismissing the idea of maintaining professionalism. “Hotch needs this, Hotch needs that. No offence to him, but he’s got a lock on you, Dr Reid. Enjoy for a night, let your hair down.”

“Well, t-the phrase ‘let your hair down’ originally was meant literally back in 1850, which was its first recorded usage but it has its roots in the 17th century. It was taken literally because women wore their hair pinned up in public, but the meaning of the phrase was to ‘get familiar’.”

Oh.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Spencer added hurriedly, searching for a notebook and pen in his bag. Licking his lips subtly at the sight of your v-neck and the way your hair framed your face. The curve of that pretty neck he wanted to kiss and lavish so it made those pretty lips fall open—

Jesus, keep it together.

“Anyway, do you want some wine?” You asked, tapping the bottle. “‘34 Château Margaux. This hotel really does have good taste.”

“I don’t drink on the job.” Spencer answered coolly. “And definitely not with criminals.” He would had Hotch not warned him— bad Spencer.”

You pouted, feigning upset. “That just breaks my heart. Putting my job against me? I’m only the advisor to some very powerful forty-and-above men who want some sexual gratification and overall ego boosts and also carry some lovely baggage with mommy issues written all over it. They want a pretty face to spill their secrets to, I give them that and get some cash in return.”

You saw the look on his face. “I’m not apologising for being a career woman.”

“Yet you liaise with the FBI about all that these forty-or-older sexually frustrated men tell you.” He countered quickly, firmly looking you in the eye. Not down at your lips, not at your tits, nor your thighs.

Spencer shook his head in exasperation, even though a shiver ran down his spine at how you advanced towards him, undoing his tie with a practiced hand. “What- ma’am, you can’t do that—”

“Ma’am?” You laughed, getting the maroon tie off and dropping it to the floor, unbuttoning his collar deftly. “Jesus, sweetie, that makes me feel old. Call me by my name, don’t be shy.”

Your name slipped off his tongue in barely a whisper, and became his only known prayer when he felt the warmth of your hands through his shirt, sliding up and up until the searing heat ran over his neck, resting in his hair and trailing down his arm, your nose brushing his before slotting in place.

Oh, God, he thought as you took his hand in your own soft one and guided it to press against your thigh, the fingertips of his index, middle and ring finger feeling silk while his palm, thumb and fifth finger felt smooth, creamy skin.

Oh, fuck, he thought as your lips got close enough to his to be a teasing venture into the cracks in his walls and defences that he’d flimsily put up against you.

“I’ll give you the information you need.” You said softly, in a way that had Spencer’s breath hitching. He should have looked away. He should’ve removed his hand from your thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was stuck like that, entranced by you. “You just need to let loose for me. For one night, I’m all yours. Drop that professionalism, Dr Reid. Let yourself go.”

“You’re a career criminal.” Spencer murmured, his hand beginning to rub your thigh, gripping slightly at the end of the downward stroke. Bad hand.

“Semantics.” You smirked, biting your lip— oh, hell, that did nothing for his self control. It made him want to kiss those lips until they bruised or swelled, until they numbed. His hand on your thigh made his tongue long to devour your pussy. The way you were looking him made him feel like he was merely a puppet on strings. “Come on, Dr Reid. Don’t deny yourself a good time, hm?”

Spencer would’ve answered, but then your lips pressed against his, and suddenly, he had clarity. That this was wrong, so very wrong. But it felt so damn good. His hand now kneading your thigh was wrong but felt electric.

He pulled back, but his mouth didn’t need to do the chasing that they ached to do. You did it for him, silencing any bubbling protest. You kissed him for the sake of coaxing him to give in, to just kiss and touch until his lips and conscience went deliciously numb.

“We can’t-” He felt your lips against his, a hum replacing his words, unknowingly stepping back towards the bed. Or maybe he knew. “We - mm - Hotch will - mhm—”

“Baby, what Aaron Hotchner doesn’t know what hurt him.” You murmured, pushing him back onto the bed. Spencer fell back without a protest, taking you in, especially as you straddled his lean form that had scooted up the bed, set his messenger bag aside and began popping the buttons of his shirt while grazing his lips with your own, teasing him, taunting him and daring him to let go as you rolled your hips slow and steady against his.

A grinding motion that drove him insane and made him moan and gasp. The fabric of his trousers really did nothing to alleviate the friction and pressure.

Spencer’s hands shot to your hips, unknowingly helping you and guiding your movements under the guise of getting you off him. “Ma’am, I mean—” He whimpered your name instead of saying it like a normal guy would, “please, d-don’t—”

Saying don’t stop was the intention, but he held himself back with the rapidly fraying thread of control. His eyes screwed shut then opened wide with a gasp, wanting to lose himself in you.

He wondered if this was his state with every woman or just you.

Definitely you was the answer when you took your mostly empty glass of wine, pouring the remaining contents over his chest. Your cold hand cupped the side of his neck, a shiver flitting over his warm skin as you then bent forward, lapping up the liquid from his chest. Sucking, drinking the earthy-noted wine with a suspiciously high efficiency. A moan that even surprised him left his mouth when you ground down against him again, your tongue on his skin, and he never hated his trousers more than right this moment as the fabric strained against his clothed need.

He loathed them when you reached for the sash of your robe, untying the waves of tantalising silk fell off your shoulders and over the side of the bed, revealing nothing underneath.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

He snapped.

Within a second, you were flipped over, Spencer’s lips crashing down on yours as he kicked his shoes off, toed his socks off as he kissed you like he was going feral, hand tangling in your hair as he practically rutted against you, hard and fast and oh, so relieving.

He was gripping your face, free hand pushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue and making the blazing journey down your neck, which you bared to him gladly.

“Is this what you wanted?” Spencer panted, sucking at your pulse. “You wanted me to lose control, baby? Yeah, you got it. You. Got. It.” He punctuated the last three with nips to your collarbone and followed up with presses of his mouth on the swell of your tits.

You couldn’t even think, just letting out moans and sighs and needy whimpers of his name and unintelligible sounds, which did good to satisfy his frustration. Spencer’s mouth enveloped your nipple, sucking while tweaking the other between his fingers to have you arching into him and a smirk forming around his temporary fixation.

He switched his attention, pushing you down by your waist with his free hand to keep you from arching up. “Sit pretty and take it.”

Oh, those words sent a hot shiver up your spine. And then back down again, straight to your already soaking pussy.

He let your tit go with a small gasp, his eyes zeroing in on the prize and prompting him to start kissing down your stomach and nipping at your thighs.

If you chose to wear that robe for another person in the near future, they’d see his marks on your thighs. His. That was a thought that had a warmth swelling in his chest and cock.

He pushed your legs apart, holding them apart with his elbows and biting his lip at the feel of your hand in his hair. Testing the waters, his middle finger pushed with no resistance into your throbbing pussy, which had you gasping and moaning his name, while Spencer groaned yours upon feeling how you squeezed merely one finger.

Spencer had long fingers. Imagine what that meant for all you ladies out there.

He would’ve began pumping it, but he withdrew it and began licking it clean, tasting you on his tongue and almost whining at how good it was. Ignoring your whimper at the loss of contact, he maintained very intense eyes contact with you as he licked one long stripe up your cunt.

That didn’t last very long. The moment he got one proper hit of you, his eyes rolled back, then closed, mouth fell open, and he properly got to work, drinking you up like you did that wine on his body.

You’d honestly never been with a man as dedicated to eating pussy than Dr Spencer Fucking Reid.

“I’ve profiled you, y’know.” He murmured, still lapping at you and acting as if you weren’t writhing, moaning and arching your back - a complete mess - while he was having a fucking casual conversation with you and being the little shit that caused it.

He paused to suck at your clit as if it was all casual and part of a daily routine, little hums and encouragements between words where he’d absolutely devour you and make it look like him playing poker. Easy. “You’re promiscuous - mmh - like Lady Macbeth, except without the - mhm - implied infanticide and insanity.”

Spencer used his elbows locking your thighs in place to spread you open and get a new angle, and god damn it worked, because while you were crying out his name to Jesus and the holy mother Virgin Mary he was acting like this was another day at the office. “You use your body to get what you want - that’s it, be loud, baby - and on all counts it works. You also know how to play into people’s - fuck - psyche. It’s what makes you a textbook femme fatale.”

His middle finger slid in again, along with his index - both ridiculously long - and he crooked them just right, reaching places you didn’t even know existed and hitting the bullseye that was your g-spot all while tracing his name on your clit. Again, acting like you weren’t a complete and utter mess by now, but you were too far gone to care.

“You have an ability to see someone’s emotional desires— now, for example.” Spencer glances up at you, his free hand massaging your thigh and his fingers working you, pumping in and out and making sure his thumb got your clit while he talked. “It makes you highly manipulative, a-and your confident demeanour makes it - so tight, pretty girl - easy for people to trust and confide in you, hence why you’re the advisor to a lot of the mafia bosses on the FBI’s most - mmh - wanted list.”

Upon feeling and seeing how close you were, even if you didn’t know it yourself, Spencer smirked up at your face, looking like the prettiest picture with your eyes rolled back, mouth open, hand holding the sheets and your cheeks as pigmented as they could go. “But you’re easy to read when you’re in a vulnerable position. So why don’t you be a good girl, and come for me?”

You came apart easily at his cue, your high crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, feeling him lap at your pussy to clean you up— or so you thought. He actually didn’t stop, murmuring something about “one more” as his brow furrowed in concentration, really zeroing in on his target.

Not stopping, not letting up.

You were pretty sure you saw God and his army of angels frowning upon the sinful deed you two were partaking in, and how you were partaking of each other, while Spencer continued to steal your thoughts with that damn talented tongue and fingers.

He moaned at the taste of you, feeling drunk on everything you were giving him. Your sounds, the feel of you, the taste of you— you consumed all his senses.

You were a forbidden fruit. He was eating it. Except he was taking more than just one bite of the apple.

When you came again after a few more practiced licks, you felt a lot more sensitive then usual, but the satisfied look on Spencer’s face told you he’d made you come twice instead of once.

Testament to his skill, you guessed.

Spencer wiped all the residue of you off his chin with his thumb, licking his lips and quickly sucking the slick off by popping the thumb into his mouth. He made it look like his everyday Tuesday.

Then he undid his belt buckle and dropped it aside, his trousers and boxers going with as he pressed kiss after kiss to your body on the slow journey up. Spencer groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock, your thumb teasing the head before your hand began to move up and down… until he stopped you.

“Not right now, baby.” He chuckled. “Another time. Statistically, I’m fifty percent more likely to come if you do that.”

“That’s the idea.” You winked, but removed your hand off his dick anyway.

“I’m sure it is.” Spencer smiled, then looked around. “Do you have condoms? J-Just cause using protection during sex, particularly condoms, is crucial for several reasons, both from a-a health and social standpoint. First, condoms are one of the most effective methods for preventing the transmission of sexually transmitted infections, i-including HIV. These infections can have long-term health consequences, some of which are irreversible or even life-threatening. By using a condom, you're significantly reducing the risk of both contracting and spreading these infections to your partner. Second, condoms are a reliable method of birth control when used correctly. They prevent sperm from reaching the egg, thereby reducing the likelihood of unintended pregnancies.”

Then you pulled out the top drawer of the bedside table, which was full of condoms of all sizes. Which had him both slightly jealous and sheepish. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Spencer grabbed one, tearing the foil off with his teeth and expertly sliding the rubber on and entering you so fast your moan came in delayed timing.

“Fuck.” You gasped, especially as you adjusted to him and even better when he started moving back and forth at a steady rhythm, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in, feeling your pussy practically mould to him in a way that had his eyes rolling back and hips snapping forward harder.

It made your nails claw at his back, which made him bite his lip and release it, claiming your lips in a hungry kiss. ‘34 Château Margaux. It had an earthy taste to it.

Your perfume was intoxicating, and he smelt of new books and a cologne that drove you mad. You also got notes of butter popcorn from his time watching Russian movies and his lips distinctly tasted of you and you only.

It felt like your claim on him.

Next thing you knew, he’d pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach and thrust into you again, his mouth latching to your shoulder and leaving marks as he took your neck by his hand, not squeezing hard, but just enough to let you know he was there.

“So tight. How’re you gonna look - shit - all those mafia bosses in the eye, huh?” He panted, punctuating his words with a snap of his hip while you were reduced to cries of his name. “When you can’t walk because of an FBI agent?”

“Spencer, fuck!” Was the only admittedly pathetic thing that came from your mouth, along with a whimper when his hand came down on the side of your ass, soothed by a rub.

“That’s right, baby, call out for me.” He murmured, sucking a mark under your ear. “Make sure everyone in this hotel can hear.”

You found yourself coming at the words, gripping the pillows with your eyes rolling back, Spencer’s own copying as he felt your cunt clamp down on him like a vice. His hand on your throat squeezed a little tighter - but he was aware that it wasn’t enough pressure to cut off an airway - with his head dropping to your shoulder, pressing kisses to the heated flesh as he followed with a few clumsy, shallow thrusts later.

Oh, he knew what he did was wrong. He just couldn’t help himself when presented with you.

Spencer pulled out of you, both of you practically spent of all your energy. You rolled onto your back, wiping away a forming tear due to your sensitive pussy being wrecked by Dr Spencer Reid, but it was worth everything.

“I forgot one thing.” He murmured, moving so he could pull you into his chest and kiss your hair. Remarkable how this man can go from a hot dominant to a hot nerd. “From your profile, I mean.”

“Yeah, Dr Reid?” You smiled, kissing him softly yet intensely, drawing a hum of contentment from his lips.

“You, ma’am,” Spencer cheekily emphasised between kisses, “are very sexually proficient.”

That got a laugh from you, breaking away to playfully swat his chest, which got a noise of surprise from him and a small "son of a bitch!". “Is that your way of telling me this was mind blowing sex?”

“That isn’t how you tell someone that?”

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zaddygrinch8756 · 3 years ago

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love made | reid x reader

summary: when cat adams shakes spencer's confidence, you help reassure him - and sometimes actions speak louder than words.

• nsfw/18+, smut, post-prison reid, fem!reader, oral sex (fem receiving), piv sex, fingering, body image issues

+++ +++ +++

Cat Adams stood in the living room of the apartment you shared with Spencer, grinning like the devil who just won the deal. “Does she even know the real you?” she asked. “Not the man you pretend to be, but the man with mommy issues a drug problem who throws women up against a wall and chokes them. You could do so much better,” Cat sighed.

“You mean with you?” he scoffed.

“I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to her,” Cat said, nodding at you. You tried not to glare at her from where you sat on the couch. It was all a game to her, you knew that. Spencer had told you all about Cat, and with Emily’s briefing you had everything you needed to keep an upper hand in the conversation. And you’d managed that - the team was en route to the location of the hostages she’d taken thanks to the information you pulled from her. But she couldn’t give up without digging her claws in.

“I mean look at you,” Cat said, returning her attention to Spencer. “You’re nothing like you were when I met you. I changed you, Spencie. The messy hair, the stubble, the anger you try so hard to hide. But just like those extra pounds you’ve put on, you just can’t manage to cover it up, can you? Because I’ve changed you. I made you.”

Cat let her eyes wander over him. “Then again, I wish I could’ve been more hands-on. You were more cute before. So innocent. Now you’ve let yourself go.”

Shame burned in his cheeks. It was the thing he tried not to think about, how he couldn’t button some of his old cardigans, or how he had to wear his pants lower on his hips now that he couldn’t quite tuck his tummy into them like he could before. He felt wider, broader, than he was before and he was always afraid of taking up too much space. Cat found his weakness and pounced on it, just as you knew she would.

“No matter how hard you try to deny it, you just can’t get away from me. I did this. So sure, maybe you saved the day,” she said, handing her phone over to him in surrender. “But even after I die, you’ll never stop thinking about me. I made sure of that.”

With the phone in hand you opened the door to let Luke and Emily in, standing there seething as Luke arrested Cat and the SWAT team cleared the apartment. Garcia and Emily stayed behind with you to debrief before mercifully leaving the two of you to decompress from the long day you’d lived.

You found Spencer sitting on the bed, looking utterly miserable. Honey-colored eyes cast downward, mouth pressed into a tight line, arms crossed securely over his chest to keep his feelings bottled in. Though the case had ended with no lives lost and Cat behind bars, you knew that the work still took a lot out of him. It wasn’t easy either for him to stare down the woman who had caused him so much trauma in pain - she’d taken months of his life from him, his sense of safety, and everything she could.

And all that taking took a toll.

You say down gingerly next to him, laying your head on his shoulder. “Hey. It’s been a day, huh?” you said.

His lip trembled. “She’s right, you know.”

“Huh?” You frowned. Not a word Cat had said made any sense, and it was even more confusing to hear Spencer agree with her.

“Cat was right. You deserve better. I mean, I’m a mess. I’ve let myself go, and I’m selfish, and - and wrong and you should be with someone better.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” he muttered. “Maybe if I were the old me, I could be good enough for you, but she was right. She changed me. She made me worse. And you deserve the best.”

Spencer may have been the profiler in the relationship, but sometimes it was hard for him to see past his own self-doubt. Those old insecurities blocking the truth and convincing him that the worst of him was all there could ever be, all anyone could ever see.

“You listen to me,” you said, tilting his chin so he had to look at you. “I want you. Because you are the very best for me. You’re a good man. You’re gentle and brilliant and so kind. You make me want to be a better person. And if I had to choose all over again, I’d choose you every time. Every version of you. Because I love you, and nothing is ever going to change that. Not even Cat Adams.”

His lip stopped quivering, but there was still a hesitance on his face. You could’ve talked to him all night, but you knew that sometimes actions spoke louder than paragraphs ever could. You placed a hand on his arm, giving it a soft squeeze of affirmation.

“Besides, I think she’s overestimating the effect she had on you. I mean, I deserve credit,” you said. You caressed his body, hands rubbing over his tummy and hips, smiling. “I put some of those new inches here with all those homemade meals. Making sure you actually eat. And all those weekends where I seduced you into cuddling up in bed with me instead of, I don’t know, working out? Not to mention encouraging those tight pants that show everything off because they just make your ass look so goddamn good.”

At that you grabbed his ass, smile turning into a smirk. “I stole a little bit of that innocence. And if those pants get a little extra tight, well, I expect I’m to blame for that, too.” Sure enough, as you pressed your palm to the front of his trousers you could feel his hard-on aching through the fabric.

“Maybe she left a mark three years ago. But I’ve been the one making you mine ever since. I’m the one who gives you hickies. Indulges your sweet tooth. And you started keeping your hair long ever since I pulled it when we were making out.” On cue, you tangled your fingers in his curls and tugged gently, pulling his face to meet you. “And it’s so hot, babe. You let yourself change for me. And you’ve changed me, too.”

“Tell me,” he begged.

“You made me brave. You made me more confident with how good you love me. You taught me more than I ever thought I could learn. And you’ve ruined me, you know. I could never even dream of being with anyone else, not after how you love me. Not after how good you fuck me. Nobody else could ever come close.”

His face was flushed for an entirely different reason now as you squeezed at his waist, fingers catching in his waistband. “You’re too hard on yourself, Spencer. But I know you better than that. I know you better than she does.”

He grabbed your face to pull you into a desperate kiss, crashing his lips against yours with a fierceness that made you shiver. His tongue in your mouth, his hips pressed against you, searching for contact. When he strayed down to suck at the pulse point of your neck, your hands found their way to his belt, blindly flicking open the buckle.

“You haven’t changed because of her,” you said. “You’ve changed because of love. Haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he murmured between kisses. “Yes. Let me prove it.” To you and to himself, you figured. He needed this reassurance. Need was certainly the word as he reached for your shirt, pulling it up over your head before helping you out of your pants and pushing you back onto the bed.

You lay before him in just your lace bra and panties and he just stared at you for a heartbeat before hurriedly ridding himself of his own trousers and joining you on the mattress. Spencer planted greedy kisses down your neck and jaw while his hands massaged your breasts, kneading the sensitive skin with the perfect amount of pressure. You lost yourself in the pleasure as he unhooked your bra and when his tongue circled your nipple you just couldn’t help the moan that escaped your mouth.

“God,” you sighed. “You’re so good at this.”

“You taught me,” he said, voice muffled by your skin. He slipped his hand past your panties, cupping your bare ass. “You made me this way.”

“You changed for me. You did that all on your own.”

“Because I love you,” he said, looking up at you, chin resting on your belly. “Because I love you.”

You reached for him, running your fingers through his messy hair, those perfectly disarrayed curls you adored. Pet his head softly, caressed his cheek. Spencer pushed his face into your palm, keening like a cat to your touch.

“Then ruin me, lover,” you pleaded.

Those honey-colored eyes flashed dark. “You might regret that.”

“With you? Never.”

He slid down the bed, hooking a finger in the band of your panties and sliding them down your legs. You spread easily for him when he positioned himself between your thighs, flattening you with his fingers and stroking over your wet heat. With one thumb on your clit, he pushed one long finger into you, testing your boundaries before curling against you in one smooth motion, hitting a spot that made your breath hitch. Once more, twice more, before he pulled back out and, without breaking eye contact, raised that finger to his lips, his tongue swiping over the sheen of your arousal left on his skin. His breath as shaky as your own.

“Only you do that to me,” you whispered. “Only you get me so wet.”

He said nothing, just grabbed your hip to pull you closer as his tongue found your core, so warm against every inch of you, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach as he devoured you like he’d been starved. The slight tickle of his stubble against your skin. One hand pawing at your breast, one squeezing your thigh as he sucked at your clit, licked at your heat, pausing only to gasp for air and press kisses against your hip.

It was overwhelming the way he wanted all of you, needed all of you. He was always like this, so focused on you, so intent on getting you off, the most generous of lovers. Cat Adams knew nothing of the man bringing you to the edge with every swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck, Spence,” you whined.

“My name,” he panted. “Use my name.” He’d had enough of nicknames that night you figured, and you were happy to oblige.

“Spencer. Spencer, my god, I-I’m so close.” He’d said nothing about terms of endearment though. “Please, lover. So… so close.”

He hummed against you in acknowledgment and you let your head fall back against the pillows as he did what he loved best. Flicking in and out of you, circling your clit with his tongue, using his fingers and his mouth to bring you further and further until the only things you knew were the warmth of him and the sound of his name, and how utterly heavenly that rush of obscene pleasure felt as it wracked through your body, engulfing you from top to toe.

Spencer crawled back up to kiss you as you came down, both of you so breathless as his lips brushed yours, the taste of you lingering on his mouth. As he hovered over you, you could feel the hard brush of his cock through his boxers, the ache he was ignoring in favor of your needs.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know. You love me so good, Spencer. And I love you so much.” You grabbed his hand in yours, thumb swiping over the back of his hand. “Hey, you don’t have to deny yourself, you know. Not because of her. That’s what she wants. You’re not selfish. You’re not a mess. You’re you. And you’re mine. Mine,” you repeated, biting gently at his collarbone.

You kissed the same spot, sucking a few times just hard enough to leave a faint mark, the purplish beginnings of a bruise. Just so he’d remember that the things that hurt weren’t the only things capable of changing him. Love left marks too, marks that didn’t have to be scars. The hickies that colored his body before fading. The softness of his belly and thighs that grew within the safety of a happy relationship and regular meal schedule. The flush on his cheeks when you whispered sweet nothings and the blood that rushed to his dick at the sight of you on your knees for him.

Love changed him. You changed each other.

“You’re mine. So make me yours, lover mine.”

That was all the permission he needed to strip off his hastily-undone shirt and the boxers that were already growing wet from the pre-cum leaking from his straining cock. You handed him a condom and he could hardly put it on fast enough, so frantic to get into you. He lined himself up with you once more, pushing in with a groan that had his head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed as you clenched around him.

Spencer found a steady pace, thrusting into you with gasp and urgency, and you took him in full each time, letting him fill you up in the most delicious way. His tummy slapped lightly against your waist with each stroke, and you tangled your fingers in his hair to tug him to you and steal a frantic kiss, your tongue in his mouth moved in tandem with the rhythm of your bodies as he fucked you so good.

You could feel the need vibrating in him, the way this wasn’t just fucking, but making peace with himself, proving to himself that this was what changed him, this was what made him. His newfound confidence built by your encouragement, his fierceness a way to protect you, his softness forged by the vulnerability he could show you. It was tender and necessary and desperate and something inside you just felt complete when he finally came with a shuddering cry and collapsed in your arms.

“Love made you this way,” you sighed, wrapping him in a hug. “Not Cat. Not prison. Love.” Everything about him, from his soft voice to his contagious smile to his body. All made for moments like this.

“Love,” he repeated, the word breaking just a bit. “I can live with that. Because if I’m made this way because of love, then everything I am will come back to you.”

You smiled into a sweet, sleepy kiss, letting his embrace wash away everything else from the day. All the heartache, all the anger. Leaving nothing but the love you made together.

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