The Luckiest Bastard In Pittsburgh

Family surprise birthdays are the best.

I need a mutual to let me brain rot about a very specific idea I have for Jack Abbot x doctor!reader. An outline of events, if you will.

I can’t get this out of my head:

Jack sees the shock on your face before he hears the words he had just said to you.

When had the wind been this defeaning? Or was it the silence?

“J-Jack…you don’t…don’t say th-”

“I’d do it with you. Have kids.” He said again, more definitely this time. More concrete. More real. He thinks about all the time he’s spent alone, of the kind of life he could’ve had had things been different. How you’re a different person, a different doctor, more fierce in every way when a child patient comes through those doors.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make his heart squeeze when he thinks what that can be like with you.

“We don’t have to get married.” He says, eyes watching how your throat constricts and your lips wobbles, tears threatening to free fall again.

His face leans in closer to yours, how it normally does whenever he’s seen you doubt yourself and willed every bit of confidence in you.

“But I want this for you, I want this with you. That asshole down there made you feel like you had to choose one thing and give up another, but you don’t have to give up anything with me. You can have it all, and I want to make that happen for you, if that’s what you want.”

Lord knows he’d rather chew sand than let himself be this vulnerable again.

But with you, he didn’t have to be afraid of anything at all.

JAW once said in an interview that “Carmy does not fuck” which is 1. hilarious and 2. in character and 3. intriguing, and I would love to hear your headcanons regarding this🙏🙏💕

of COURSE carmy doesn’t fuck. not because he couldn’t, but because he’s so emotionally repressed, chronically stressed, and buried under ten layers of guilt and self-loathing that sex would just be another thing he overthinks into oblivion. the man is hanging on by a thread and that thread is beef. so yeah. he doesn’t fuck—but if he ever did? it would be awkward and intense and kind of sweet in a “he’s trying so hard please someone give him a hug” way. and i have so, so many thoughts about that. okay—diving in.

Carmy’s not inexperienced, per se. He knows what sex is. He’s watched enough porn, read the occasional questionable Reddit thread, jerked off in rushed, guilt-tinged moments between 14-hour shifts and deep spirals of culinary self-loathing. But sex—actual sex, with a person who looks at him like you do? That’s a different kind of pressure. It’s a kind of heat he doesn’t know how to hold.

He prepped for this. Not like—intentionally, but… kind of. He showered longer than usual. Used the good soap. Trimmed everything down there as best he could and definitely nicked himself once or twice in the process—stood over the sink like it was a high-stakes mise en place, squinting into the mirror, muttering, “Okay, slow, slow, don’t fuck this up, chef…” The result is neat, if a little uneven. He smells like clean cotton and whatever expensive shampoo Sugar left in the apartment.

When it finally happens—when you tug him by the hand to the bed and he stammers something like, “We don’t have to, if you’re not—if this is too soon or whatever, I can wait, I’m chill,”—you kiss him quiet. He melts. Shoulders slumping. Lips soft and hungry. He kisses like he means it, like every second is precious, like he’s scared it’s going to be the last. And when your hand dips between his legs?

He gasps. Full-bodied, shaky. “Fucking Christ,” he chokes out, hips twitching. His cock’s already hard, hot against your palm. Not huge, not small—just right, pretty even. Cut, flushed pink at the tip, thick enough to make you feel it stretch you, but not enough to overwhelm. There’s a vein down the side that pulses when you stroke him, and he watches you like he’s watching God.

“Oh my god—yeah, okay, that’s—fuck, shit, sorry,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “That—feels better than, like—anything. Ever. I don’t—am I supposed to do something with my hands or—?”

You laugh, and he blushes so hard his ears turn red. “You’re good, Carm. You’re doing fine. Let our bodies do the talking.”

He groans like that line alone nearly finishes him off. “Ohhh—fuck, no, don’t say shit like that—”

You guide him inside you, and for a second, everything stops. His breath catches. Eyes wide. Muscles tense like he’s bracing for something catastrophic, like maybe he’s about to cry or come or die. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Are you sure—are you okay—do I need to slow down?”

You just nod, and he lets out this broken little sound. Kind of a moan, kind of a whimper, and so sincere it nearly undoes you.

At first, he’s awkward. Bumping the wrong angle. Hips moving in tiny, unsure thrusts like he’s terrified to go too deep. Keeps checking your face like he’s looking for notes. “That—no, sorry—was that weird? I can stop. I’ll stop. Shit. I—uh—yeah.” You kiss him again, thread your fingers through his hair, and roll your hips until he’s buried deep and shaking.

When you get on top, his brain shorts out. Full-on blue screen. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but his mouth is stuck on a loop. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. You’re so—holy shit, you’re—beautiful, baby, fuck, shit—” His voice goes high when you clench around him, like a whine caught in his throat. His hips twitch like they want to buck up but he’s scared to move, too scared to end it too soon.

And he does come too fast. Not in a tragic way—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that makes you want to kiss every inch of him. His hands tremble on your thighs, face slack with pleasure, mouth open as he gasps out, “I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—fuck, fuck, f—ohhh—shit—” and then he’s done, shaking under you, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

“Sorry,” he whispers after. “I—I swear I can go again. Like. Soon. Just—holy shit.”

And he does go again. He’s hard again in less than ten minutes, and the second time’s better. He starts to find rhythm, his hands more confident, his mouth bolder. He talks more, too—low, raspy praise between panting breaths. “You’re so fucking soft, baby, you’re perfect, so wet, so good for me—” He latches onto your tits like he’s been dreaming about them for years. He sucks and mouths at them like a man starved, eyes glazed and reverent.

“I’ve got a thing,” he confesses, voice rough. “With—y’know. Tits. Just—fuck. They’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

You ride him through it. Take control. And he loves it. Because it lets him feel without the pressure to perform. He’s sensitive, vocal—little gasps and sighs spilling out with every grind of your hips. When you tell him not to talk, just to feel, he moans so sharply it echoes. His whole body tightens, stomach clenching, hands white-knuckling the sheets.

“Ohhh, fuck—don’t say that—fuck, I’m gonna—” he whines, high and airy, and then he’s coming again, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle it, cock pulsing deep inside you. His thighs twitch. You feel his whole body flutter under you, coming undone again.

After, he holds you. Silent. Breath slowing, chest rising against your back. Face nestled into your hair. And for once, there’s no chaos. No kitchen yelling. No fire alarms. Just the sound of your heartbeat under his cheek and the soft hum of the city outside his window.

You trace his jaw, and he mumbles, “I was so bad at that, huh.”

“You were perfect, Carm.”

He sighs, a sleepy little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. Good. ‘Cause I—uh. Wanna do that again. With you. Like, a lot.”

And he means it. Every stammered word.

girls will say “this healed me” and it’s just pedro pascal’s massive biceps on jimmy kimmel

PSA these are anti-fascist titties

Do I write a fake boyfriend!robby situation? It’ll be very fluffy and very cute.

See now this is the disrespectful nasty but loving some some I’m talking abouttttttt 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

safe harbor

pairing: dr. jack abbot x day shift resident!female reader

summary: you've been pining for the night shift attending dr. jack abbot ever since you started at the hospital, and when you wake up in his bed—alone—after having too many drinks in the park after a particularly bad shift, you finally do something about it.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), unspecified age gap, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, come marking, hand job, pussy job, dry humping/thigh riding, big dick/tough fit, tit play/nipple sucking, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, pet names (angel), begging, teasing, aftercare, cuddling and snuggling, drinking and drunkenness (nothing happens while reader is drunk), mutual pining. this fic is inspired by the scene of the doctors and nurses drinking in the park after work in the pitt season 1 finale, but it could take place after any rough shift.

word count: 8.3k

a/n: here's my entry for the a doctor a day writing challenge!! thank you to @letsgobarbs, @ananonymousaffair and @clubsoft for hosting this event!! my prompt was "You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss." and my color was orange—and i'm really happy with how this turned out!! technically this is my first proper jack abbot fic (though i'm sure it won't be the last), so i hope y'all enjoy ♡♡♡

The soft orange light of a spring sunrise filtered into the room behind your eyelids, and for one hazy, wonderful moment, you drifted in the contentment that only comes from the liminal space between sleeping and waking. You were ensconced in warm blankets and the smell of earth and sunshine, and you wanted to live in that moment as long as possible.

Then, an almost gentle throbbing began behind your temple, a headache blooming to life as you slipped further into waking. Unbidden, memories from the night before flooded into your mind and you had to bite back a pained groan.

You’d had far too much to drink after work. Or, rather, you’d had too many beers for how exhausted you’d been after your particularly long and terrible shift. But you’d been riding high on surviving the day from hell, and it had been a pleasantly warm evening. And Dr. Jack Abbot had been there.

It had felt like some kind of small miracle—to get to share a couple drinks with the med students, doctors and nurses in the park across the street from the hospital. You hadn’t been the only one laughing too loudly, as if grasping onto the relief of making it through the day, because the alternative was sinking into the darkness.

You’d known that if you’d gone home and dragged yourself into your cold, lifeless apartment that you never had time or energy to decorate, you’d have ended up crying yourself to sleep. Instead, you’d accepted the invitation from your attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch—Dr. Robby—and joined the others for a drink.

The amber glow of the lamplights lining the paths of the park had been welcoming beacons, and you’d felt the weight of the world slowly slip from your shoulders as you accepted a can of beer, letting the conversation flow around you. As everyone talked, sharing stories from the day, things hadn’t seemed so bleak. 

So you’d lingered in the park long after you should’ve gone home, drinking far more than you should’ve considering how exhausted you were, and letting your eyes drift to Dr. Jack Abbot far more often than they should’ve. You couldn’t help it, though. You’d been drawn to the night shift attending ever since you met him at the start of your first day shift. 

You were Dr. Robby’s resident, and he was a capable mentor—firm when he needed to be, and kind when you needed it. You’d gained a lot working with Dr. Robby on the day shift, and you’d become a much better doctor learning from him and everyone else in the ER.

Yet you couldn’t help but be intrigued by Dr. Jack Abbot. You’d always admired the older, silver-haired doctor, the way he carried himself, coming in as your shift was ending and taking over easily. You always knew your patients were in good hands when you gave them over to Dr. Abbot. 

He was so competent and capable, and always so calm, even on the busiest nights in the ER. He was like a rock in the middle of a raging, tumultuous storm. Strong and steady. Safe. 

And you wanted to climb Dr. Jack Abbot like a tree, to live in his strong and steady embrace, to allow his presence to keep you safe and sane. You wanted him to be your safe harbor—and to be his, too. You wanted to be the person he’d come home to and slip into bed with, and trust to keep him safe and sane. 

In the park, under the amber lamplights, your thoughts had drifted to the idea of sliding into bed with Dr. Jack Abbot, curling your body around his beneath warm blankets, and sleeping the entire day away as you lay entwined together. You imagined waking up together, warm skin and gentle hands, soft kisses giving way to something more…

You hadn’t realized you were staring until light brown eyes caught yours and you’d startled back into the moment, heat rising up your neck and blooming in your cheeks. You’d known you should look away, but you hadn’t been able to, not with the electric tension thrumming between the two of you like a livewire.

Dr. Jack Abbot was as calm as ever, holding your gaze for a long moment. 

His eyes were dark and inscrutable in the dim light of the park, but you noticed a glint in his gaze that made the breath catch in your throat. There was something in his eyes, something like wanting, which had your heart beating harder against your sternum and warmth pulsing between your thighs. 

Then he’d tipped his can of beer toward you and dipped his head, giving you a nod while a smirk flickered at the edges of his mouth. Something in you had fluttered, low in your belly, and you’d wanted to squirm. You’d wanted to throw yourself at him, hold his face in your hands and kiss him until you were both panting and needy.

Instead you’d looked away and taken a sip of your beer, wondering if you’d imagined the warmth and hunger hidden deep in his gaze. You’d told yourself it must’ve been a trick of the dark amber light, the result of too much exhaustion, too much beer, and too many dirty thoughts about Dr. Jack Abbot.

The night had gone on, time unspooling slowly and leisurely the way it never did in the ER, and you’d drifted along on the current of conversation ebbing and flowing around you. 

You’d tried not to look back at Dr. Abbot too often, but couldn’t help yourself. More often than not, though, you found him already looking at you, that ghost of a smile on his face and that look in his eye that had you questioning your sanity.

At some point, you’d ended up on a bench between Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot, listening as the men commended the work you’d done in the ER that evening. Their words of praise had flitted in one ear and out the other, even as you nodded along like you were paying close attention. 

The smile on your face had everything to do with their praise, and nothing to do with Dr. Abbot’s warmth seeping into your side—at least, that’s what you’d told yourself.

Your memories got hazier from there. You remembered your cheek falling against Dr. Abbot’s shoulder, and staying there as your eyes slid closed; deft fingers gently prying the half-empty can from your hands; the smell of beer and something earthy, like moss; the deep rumbling of Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot’s voices as they talked over your head.

You hadn’t blacked out—you hadn’t had that much to drink—but the rest of the evening was too hazy to make out in your mind. You’d been so tired from working a 15-hour shift, and the alchohol had only exacerbated your exhaustion, leaving you to fall asleep on Dr. Abbot’s shoulder. 

You remembered breathing in the smell of him, an earthy scent that reminded you of hiking in the woods on a bright, sunny day. It was the same scent you were surrounded by in the morning light, your eyes still stubbornly closed as a headache throbbed behind your temple. 

Rolling over and pressing your face into your pillow, you took a deep breath. The fabric smelled so much like Dr. Jack Abbot that it made your head spin with confusion. 

Even as your mind reeled, your body responded to the scent of him, the memory of his caramel brown eyes. You could perfectly picture the way his freckled arms flexed when he crossed them, his t-shirt sleeves hugging his biceps lovingly—the way you wanted to.

Heat cascaded gently down from the crown of your head, coasting down your spine and pooling between your thighs. Even with the slight edge of a hangover at the periphery of your mind, you couldn’t help the way your body yearned for the ER’s night shift attending, wanting him so badly it ached.

Your heart and your body wanted Dr. Jack Abbot. You wanted the older doctor who could be your rock, your light in the darkness, your safe harbor. And neither your heart nor your body would settle for anything less.

Your fingers were just beginning to slip down your stomach, trailing toward the needy, throbbing place between your thighs, when the soft click of a door opening sounded beyond the bed. Your eyes flew open for the first time that morning and, for one disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were.

The orange light of dawn was familiar enough, but the bedsheets and pillows looked nothing like your own. Flipping onto your back and sitting up quickly, you ignored the annoying pang of your headache to peer toward the door.

A sigh of relief gusted from your lips when you found Dr. Jack Abbot framed in the doorway, his brow creased with concern as he raked his eyes over you, as if checking for injury or illness. 

You took the moment to look around the room, taking in the comfortable, masculine decor. Warm wooden furniture occupied the space, with plants positioned around the room in places that you were sure got the most light. A thriving monstera sat in a pot beside the dresser, a goldfish in a glass bowl on top of the wooden ledge.

On the floor next to the open door, there was a camouflage backpack, the only thing that appeared to be out of place. You recognized that backpack as the one Dr. Abbot always wore on his way into work.

Suddenly, your sleep hazy brain caught up and you realized you were in Dr. Abbot’s apartment—you were in his bedroom. In his bed. 

The soft sheets of Dr. Abbot’s bed slid against your bare legs as you brought them up to your chest, his warm, orange duvet draped around your waist. It was the same color as the sunrise that lay beyond the windows, which were half covered in blackout curtains, like he wasn’t sure which way you’d prefer them. 

It was all—all of it—almost too much for your mind to process. The headache behind your temples pounded a little harder as your body caught up to your sudden change of position, and you winced.

The expression of pain on your face seemed to spur Dr. Abbot into moving.

“You’re up,” he said, his voice low and soft like he was trying not to startle you. He padded to the bedside table beside you and set down a glass of water. “Do you remember how you got here?” he asked in that same tone, which you recognized as the one he used as patients. 

You frowned as you watched Dr. Abbot open a bottle of aspirin and shake two pills into his hand. You tried to think of an answer that didn’t make you seem like a silly lightweight of a resident as you plucked the medecine from his palm when he held it out to you. 

A shiver raced down your spine when your fingertips brushed Dr. Abbot’s warm, calloused skin, delightful tingles dancing along your nerves. You attempted to hide your reaction in a shake of your head, answering his question silently. But you couldn’t hide the way your shoulders trembled, so you busied yourself with taking the pills. 

Thankfully, your hand was steady as you reached for the glass on the bedside table and swallowed the aspirin with a gulp of water. The cool water felt like salvation to your parched throat, and you ended up drinking the whole glass before you could even think to stop yourself. 

When you were done, your found Dr. Abbot watching you, a hint of a pleased smile in the twist of his lips and pride in the glint of his gaze. You had the wild thought that if he looked at all his patients that way, you understood why his satisfaction scores were so high. 

He took the glass from you, his fingers brushing against yours, the movement feeling more deliberate than before. You were grateful when he turned away to set the glass down, because your shoulders trembled with another shiver at the electricity in his light touch.

“You fell asleep in the park,” Dr. Abbot explained in a voice that was endlessly patient and calm as he set the glass down. You noticed your phone beside it on the bedside table, plugged in and charging. “You were so exhausted, we couldn’t send you home on your own. My place was closest.”

Dr. Abbot straightened as he gave his explanation, arms crossing over his chest and staring down at you in a way that made you squirm. He didn’t look disappointed or disapproving, just concerned. And the knowledge that he cared enough to be concerned sent your heart pitter-pattering inside your ribcage.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured, dropping your gaze to your fingers, which were twisting in the blanket on your lap. “Yesterday was…difficult.” 

“Jack, please,” he said, his voice almost imperceptibly softer. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, looking at the silver-haired doctor from under your lashes. His smile was wry and your belly gave a happy little swoop—and that was before you heard his next words.

“You’re in my bed, you don’t need to be so formal.”

It was clear that he meant his words as a teasing kind of joke, but they only succeeded in reminding you that you’d woken up in his bed. Alone. Lamentably alone. The warmth between your thighs stoked higher, until his words fully penetrated your mind.

Your gaze drifted to the other side of the bed, which was still made with military precision. It was clear he hadn’t slept there, and you realized that meant he must’ve slept somewhere else…

“Oh god, I’m so sorry for kicking you out of your bed,” you rushed to say, looking back to Jack with wide eyes. “Where did you sleep?”

“I got a couple hours on the couch,” he answered, a little bashfully. He seemed eager to move on from the subject as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You should get some more rest,” he said, unfurling his arms from his chest and reaching for your empty water glass. “Your scrubs are in the wash with mine, they should be done in a bit.”

A memory from the night before surfaced in your mind: Jack standing with his back to you as you swayed on your feet and stripped out of your scrubs—leaving you in only a tank top, bra and panties. 

You’d removed your bra and left everything in a heap on the floor before dragging yourself under the covers of his bed, snuggling deep into their warmth and his comforting scent. You were asleep before you’d even heard Jack turn around.

Not only had Dr. Jack Abbot taken you to his home so you would be safe, given up his bed so you’d have somewhere comfortable to sleep, but he was washing your scrubs for you. 

There was something about the domesticity of it that pricked at your heart. You could so easily imagine throwing your dirty scrubs into the laundry with a load of Jack’s, washing them together, working side by side to put them away in the room you shared. 

You yearned for the life you pictured—and you wanted it with Dr. Jack Abbot. 

Before you could think about what you were doing, your hand darted out. Your fingers wrapped around Jack’s wrist as he reached for the water glass on the bedside table. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, strong and steady, if a little fast.

“Stay with me.” You hated how small you sounded, the desperate pleading in your voice, but your fingers wouldn’t let go. Instead, you squeezed his wrist tighter. “Please, Jack.”

For a long moment, long enough that you began to think he’d deny you, Jack just stood there. Half hunched over, his hand reaching past you, he stood and looked at you. His eyes stared deep into yours, his brows pulled together over his light brown gaze.

“Are you sure?” 

The question was rough and raspy, like he’d dredged the words up from the very depths of his soul. His eyes were bright and intense as he stared at you, his gaze searching your face for any hesitation.

The sound of his voice and the weight of his stare sent your heart fluttering, and your thighs squirmed beneath the blankets of his bed. But you weren’t uncomfortable, only eager. You were excited that he hadn’t brushed you off and denied you outright.

“I’m sure,” you said, nodding your head for good measure as you began sliding toward the center of the bed, tugging on Jack’s wrist. “I want you to stay with me. Please.”

Jack stared into your eyes for a beat longer, then nodded his head. He flipped his hand around in your fingers and squeezed your wrist before pulling away and giving you his back.

You watched the muscles shift and move beneath the white t-shirt Jack wore across his broad shoulders while his hands undid the button and fly of his dark cargo pants. Before your mind could wrap around what he was doing, he was pushing them down, revealing so much more of his pale, freckled skin below the edge of his navy boxer briefs.

Jack shucked off his pants and sat down on the corner of the bed, removing his prosthetic and massaging his leg for a moment while you watched unabashedly, unable to resist the opportunity to look your fill of the doctor you’d thought about for ages. 

You wanted to press yourself against his broad back and wrap your arms around him, clinging to his warmth and burying your face between his shoulder blades. You wanted to hold him and take comfort in him, you wanted to be connected to him.

Looking over his shoulder and breaking you from your thoughts, Jack caught your eye and you could see the question in his gaze. His quirked eyebrows were asking again if you were certain you wanted him to join you.

A smile curled the corners of your mouth and instead of answering him with words, you flipped down the corner of the blankets in a clear invitation. He held your gaze for another moment, but when you remained steady and smiling, he pushed himself up and slipped between the sheets.

Immediately, you felt his warmth and you let out a happy little sound while he settled on his back against the pillows—the same ones you’d pressed your face into after you’d woken up. You waited until he’d gotten comfortable, his gaze finding yours.

His light brown eyes, looking like warm caramel in the soft, tangerine light of morning, were a wondrous sight. It was a miracle, the way he looked at you in that moment, letting you see the hesitant hope in his eyes. 

Slowly, as if seeking permission with every tiny movement, you slid closer to him. With a small, flickering smile, he lifted his arm, making space for you, and you slipped into it delightedly, making another happy sound. 

Your cheek lay pillowed on Jack’s chest, the soft curves of your body pressing into his side. Without questioning the impulse, you slid your leg over Jack’s, hooking it around his thigh and shifting even closer, until you were practically plastered to his body. 

Contentment settled heavily around your shoulders, and you took a deep breath, letting Jack’s earthy, sunshiny scent fill your senses and comfort you. As you exhaled, your body softened and you snuggled deeper into the older doctor’s chest.

Jack’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers settling on the bare skin of your arm, and you made another delighted noise. His fingertips trailed lazily up and down your arm, like he was learning the softness of your skin, and he made a rumble in his chest that sounded content.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, his voice even deeper and raspier than you’d ever heard it.

The tenor of Jack’s voice sent little sparks of desire dancing down your spine to settle between your thighs. He wasn’t using the voice he used on his patients anymore, and you couldn’t be happier that you were seeing a new side to him, one you suspected few ever got to see.

“Mhm, sooo comfortable,” you mumbled, hiding an elated grin in his chest. 

It was true, you’d never been more comfortable, but you couldn’t seem to ignore the restless need in your body. You squirmed a little against Jack’s side, like you were trying to find an even better position, and all the while enjoying the feeling of his thigh pressing between your legs.

A soft, bitten-off whine squeezed from your throat and you shifted even closer to the older doctor, needing more of him pressed against more of you. 

“Jack,” you whimpered, your fingers fisting in his cotton t-shirt while your hips writhed against his side, your body searching for something you couldn’t quite grasp.

“You need something, angel?” Jack asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. When you lifted your head to pout at him, his eyes were hooded, and his mouth was curved into a knowing smirk. “You need some help before you can settle down and sleep?”

The hint of patronizing teasing in his tone was like a drug, making your mind go hazy and soft while your body melted in his strong arms. Your lashes fluttered as you fought to keep your eyes open, biting your lip while heat flooded your cheeks.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded in answer to Jack’s question. 

Jack’s eyes dipped to your mouth, the warmth in your face cascading down your body until it settled heavily between your thighs. You could feel yourself growing damp, your nipples hardening and pressing against the thin fabric of your tank top. 

But all you could do was stare at Jack’s mouth, framed by grizzled cheeks and freckled skin. How many times had you thought about kissing that mouth? Too many times to count. And you could hardly breathe when it seemed you might finally get to make your dreams come true.

Slowly—oh, so slowly, Jack’s hand came up and cupped your jaw, his head rising from the pillows as you leaned into him at the same time. Your mouths were drawing infinitesimally closer and closer like there was some kind of magnetic pull between them. 

He tilted your face until your mouths were aligned, and then your lips brushed his. Sparks zinged through your body and you sucked in a sharp breath at just that little touch, your exhale slipping from your lips in a keening, desperate sound. 

Whatever was left of Jack’s self-control seemed to snap, and he crushed his mouth to yours, as if intent on drinking down that needy sound while a hungry groan rumbled in his chest. Another whimper was silenced by his mouth, and you pressed even closer, like you wanted to crawl inside his heart. 

Your first kiss with Dr. Jack Abbot was hungry and greedy, with an edge of mutual adoration that made you light-headed. 

Jack’s hands on your body were strong and steady, but for the slight tremor in his fingers, his mouth careful and hot as he explored yours. When his tongue licked into your heat, dragging a moan from you, he huffed a pleased sound, angling your face so he could kiss you deeper, more thoroughly. 

Your hips rocked against the older doctor’s thigh as you tried to squirm closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and clinging to him while you whimpered into his mouth. Jack responded by trailing his hands down your back, curving around your ribs and dragging your body more on top of him.

“Oh god, Jack,” you panted, gasping for air while his mouth trailed kisses down the line of your neck. You tipped your head to the side, giving him more access as your wanton moans filled the room. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea.”

The confession spilling from your lips had Jack slowing, and even though you were practically on top of him, he eased back into the pillows so he could catch your eye. The light in the room was shifting from a honey orange to a golden yellow, but Jack’s eyes were still bright and warm like caramel as he stared into yours as he spoke.

“You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss.”

The depth of emotion in his words, the evidence that he felt the same way you did, brought unexpected tears to your eyes and you cupped his face. His silvery stubble was rough against your palms as you surged forward, capturing his mouth in a rapturous kiss.

“You’re mine, too,” you mumbled against his mouth before pulling away to look at him so he could see the honesty in your gaze. “You’re my calm, my safe harbor, my happiness and heart.”

“Angel.” 

The endearment was rough and ragged, an undercurrent of pleading in Jack’s tone as he wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and pulled you in. He kissed you harder, stealing the words freely given from your lips and locking them away in his heart—just like you’d done with his.

Emotion swirled in your chest and you nearly sobbed with need at the wet slide of Jack’s tongue between your lips, your mind going hazy as an aching need pulsed between your thighs. A desperate whine built in your throat, your hips squirming clumsily against his thigh. 

Jack’s hands trailed down your spine, deviating from their path to slide beneath your tank top and curl around your ribs, his thumbs brushing the soft mounds of your tits. You huffed a needy whimper, feeling him smirk against your mouth, before his hands slid lower, his strong grip guiding your body to writhe against his thick thigh.

Your hips rocked in time with his guided movements, grinding your core against him while you whimpered into his mouth. You were so far gone in a pleasant haze of your desire, that you didn’t pay attention to what you were saying when you whined, “Daddy, please.”

There was the briefest stutter in Jack’s movements, and then his hands gripped you tighter, his thigh pressing deeper between your legs. Against your lips, his mouth curved into an indulgent smirk. 

“Please what, angel? Tell daddy what you need.” 

The patronizing teasing tone had slipped back into his voice, and it made your core throb between your thighs, a whimper escaping your lips before you could bite it back. It had been a slip of the tongue that you’d called him daddy, but to hear it echoed in his deep, raspy voice was another thing entirely. It was exactly what you needed.

Your fingers gripped his shirt tighter, your body squirming harder in his hands, rolling your hips and grinding against his thigh while you finally responded to his command.

“Need you,” you huffed, as if the answer was obvious. 

A gruff chuckle rumbled in Jack’s chest and his hand slid up your back, thumb skimming the curve of your breast so teasingly, your body chased his touch. Arching your spine, you pushed your tits against his chest, but Jack’s hand kept moving. His calloused palm followed the line of your arm until his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist. 

Gently, he moved your hand down his front, over his soft belly, until your palm settled against the twitching bulge in his boxer briefs. He felt so thick and heavy already, even though he wasn’t fully hard yet.

“This is what you do to me, angel,” he rasped, breath ghosting over your cheek, his mouth moving against the corner of your lips. “You have me—any time, any way you want.” 

Your fingers wrapped around his girth through the soft cotton of his briefs, squeezing him gently and learning the weight of him in your hand. You stroked your palm up his length, thumb swiping over the tip and feeling the wetness of his arousal.

Jack grunted, his hips rising up off the bed to buck into your touch and the movement had his thigh flexing and pressing between your legs. You moaned into his stubbled cheek, the sound mingling with his heavy breaths as you stroked his length and rocked against him. 

“Jack.” His name was a gasp for salvation, a desperate plea on your lips that had him shuddering under your touch.

“Nuh uh, angel,” Jack chided in an endlessly warm tone, his smile pressed into the corner of your mouth. “Don’t stop calling me daddy now—not when it makes me so fucking hot for you.”

“Daddy, daddy,” you babbled breathlessly into his scruffy cheek, your desire thick in your veins at the teasing command in his tone. “I need you inside me, please—please, I need you so bad,” you whined, your fingers squeezing his cock through his boxers.

“Christ, you’ve got me, angel, just take me out,” Jack rumbled, his hips rocking up against your palm while you worked his length. 

Not needing more invitation than that, you reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock. He was still hardening and thickening beneath your touch, the velvety soft skin growing taut the tighter you stroked him. 

Jack groaned at your pleasurable attention, and the sound went straight to the slit between your thighs, your arousal leaking into your panties. You were so drenched, you were certain he could feel it against his thigh, but when you rubbed your pussy against him, he only grunted, his cock twitching in your hand.

“Want more,” you keened against Jack’s stubbled cheek, both your heads tilted to stare down your bodies and watch your hand pump adoringly up and down his length while he grew harder beneath your touch. “Want your fat cock sinking into my needy pussy, daddy, please.”

“Fuuuck,” Jack groaned, the edge in his voice almost pained. His hips bucked off the bed as he fucked into your fist, precum beading at the tip and leaking down the side, slicking your strokes. “Keep talking like that, angel, and I’m gonna blow my load before I even get inside you.”

“But daddy, we can’t have that,” you whined teasingly, laughing softly as you turned your face and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Then you were pulling away only long enough to shove your panties down over your ass and thighs, kicking them off into the sheets at the base of the bed. Once done, your hand wrapped around Jack’s cock again, greedy for the feel of him, loving the weight and warmth against your palm. 

Sliding your leg over both of Jack’s thighs, you moved your body until you were straddling his hips, your hand guiding his cock to press between the slippery folds of your slit. Your wet pussy pressing down on the length of his thick cock, your clit bumping against the ridged veins lining the shaft, had both of you moaning.

Jack cupped your jaw and guided your face back to his, his tongue sliding along your plump lower lip and licking lovingly into your mouth. He kissed you deeply, devouring your sounds of pleasure and groaning his own satisfaction like he’d never tasted anything as sweet—and he couldn’t get enough.

His other hand slid beneath the soft cotton of your tank top, his thumb brushing over your nipple and teasing the sensitive bud until it tightened into an achy, needy peak. Heat and desire pooled between your thighs, leaking from your pussy and coating his length as you rocked against him.

You broke apart only long enough for Jack to tear off your top, tossing it somewhere in the room you didn’t see because you were too busy slanting your mouth to his and greedily kissing him again. Your lips were swollen from kissing, but you couldn’t stop, you didn’t think you’d ever get enough of him.

It felt like the opposite of standing in the calm center of a storm—your body was a riot of pleasure and sensation, desperately rocking against the man between your thighs while the bedroom around you remained undisturbed, the light shifting and glowing brighter as the sun rose outside. 

And Dr. Jack Abbot was still your rock, your tether to the earth, grounding you with the rasp of his calloused hands over your soft curves, his expert fingers plucking and stroking your nipples while his hips lifted from the mattress to grind his hard cock into your cunt. 

You were so wet for him, so empty and aching, your pussy pulsed against his hard length, your desire coating him from root to tip. A sob was lodged in your throat, your hips working against his thick shaft in increasingly desperate movements. 

“Jack,” you cried, the sound pitiful even to your own ears. You needed him, you needed him more than you needed your next breath. And you knew he could hear it in the ragged edge of your voice as you sobbed his name. 

Thankfully for you, Jack Abbot was just as much of a competent, capable man as he was a doctor. He heard the anxious wanting in your tone and knew exactly how to handle you. He stroked his hands soothingly over your ribs and down your spine, cooing soft sounds of comfort against your cheek. 

“Take me inside your sweet pussy, angel,” Jack rumbled, the steel of his order softened in the honeyed warmth of his tone. “Let me feel you—need to feel your heat hugging my cock.”

“Daddy, yesss, please, can I?” you babbled, burying your face in the weathered skin of his neck. His scent was stronger there, and you huffed greedily, breathing in the smell of sunshine and earth on his skin. It filled your head with amber clouds of comfort. 

“Go on, angel, you’ve got this,” Jack murmured encouragingly, the calm warmth of his voice settling around your shoulders like the coziest blanket. He pressed a kiss to the pulse at the base of your throat, sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes, daddy,” you breathed on a exhale, shifting your hips until the tip of his cock caught at the entrance of your leaking hole. Sitting up on your knees, you lifted your hips and guided his cock to line up with your pussy. Then you pressed down determinedly.

A breathy cry burst from your lips when the fat tip of Jack’s cock pushed into your tight channel. He was thicker than anyone you’d taken before, and your heart fluttered against your ribcage in panic, the devastating thought occurring to you that he might not be able to fit.

“Oh god, fuck, you’re so big, Jack, I don’t know if I can—”

“You can take me,” Jack said firmly, interrupting your panicked babbling as he sat up to face you. He caught your wobbling chin in his steady hand and guided your eyes to look at him. “You can take me, angel,” he repeated, ducking his head and looking at you with confidence and pride written in the lines of his face. “You can do this.”

The belief Jack had in you—even about something as base as taking his cock—was enough to have tears gathering in your eyes. Your lower lip quivered and instead of giving in to the spiraling thoughts about how no one else had ever believed in you the way Jack did in that moment, you surged forward and kissed him. 

You kissed Jack Abbot the way you’d never kissed anyone before. You kissed him like he was your past, present and future, like he was the calm in the storm of your life. You kissed him like he was your safe harbor, the steady dock under your feet and the man who was your home. 

All the while, Jack kissed you in return, meeting the fervor of your lips with an adoration that had your heart singing in your chest. With every sweep of his tongue and nip of his teeth and pull of his mouth, he exulted your existence and promised devotion for as long as you’d have him. 

“Jack,” you gasped his name, wrenching your bee-stung lips from his as you pressed down further on his cock, incandescent pleasure radiating from where you were joined through the rest of your body.

“Feel so good, angel,” Jack rasped, kissing his way down the curve of your throat and past your collarbone. His mouth left goose bumps in its wake as he trailed kisses down to your chest. “More, angel, you can take more.”

Jack’s words were muffled in the plush curves of your tits, cupped in his big, strong hands. His head ducked down until his tongue was lapping at their tightened peaks, torturing the sensitive buds while your head tipped back and you moaned. He sucked one of your soft tits into his mouth, tongue swirling teasingly around your nipple.

Your back bowed and you thrust your chest into Jack’s face, your fingers sliding into his curly silver hair and clutching his head tight. A cry of pleasure tumbled from your lips, the sound devolving into a filthy moan as you sank down on his cock, taking half of him inside you. 

“God, daddy, you’re breaking me in half,” you whined, your hips writhing in his lap, lifting up and pushing back down for more of the stinging stretch. The pleasure bordered on pain, but it felt so good, you couldn’t get enough, pressing even further down on his hard cock.

Jack chuckled, pulling away from your chest with an obscene wet sound, your tit falling from his mouth while he looked up at you. His brown eyes were sparkling with mischief in the bright daylight.

“You love it, don’t you, angel?” Jack teased, in the warm, patronizing tone that sent your belly swooping. “You love the feeling of my fat cock sinking deep into your pretty cunt, splitting you open and spreading you so wide, huh?”

The filthy words went straight to your pussy, your tight hole pulsing around Jack’s hard shaft while you nodded your agreement. “Yuh huh, I love it, daddy, it’s sooo good,” you babbled, your fingers idly twisting in Jack’s hair as you clung to him and pressed your hips down on his thick length.

A small grin pulled across his face and he caught your eye, wrapping his lips around your other nipple and sucking hard enough to wring a squeal from your mouth. Your body bucked on his lap, and it was only his sinewy arm around your lower back that kept you anchored on top of him.

Spreading your knees wider on the bed, you pressed down hard on Jack’s cock until you were fully seated. The full, fat length of him was buried inside you to the hilt, stretching your tight cunt and punching the breath from your lungs. 

A surprised yelp slipped from your lips at the sudden, overwhelming fullness, but the sound soon dissolved into a deep, dirty moan when the slight sting gave way to scorching pleasure. Your body melted against Jack, his head lifting from your tits to take in the look of ecstasy on your face. 

“There we go,” Jack rasped, one of his hands pressing to your lower back, keeping your bodies locked together and still for a moment. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?” he teased, capturing your lips in a playful, nipping kiss. 

You huffed a laugh against his mouth, and shook your head good-naturedly, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you clung to your strong, steady doctor.

Jack pressed his forehead to yours, his voice lowering to deep rasp. “You’re taking me so good, angel—you’re such a good girl.” He brushed a kiss to the apple of your cheek, and it was only then that you realized you were smiling, pleased by his praise. “Are you ok, does it feel good?”

“Mm, yes, daddy,” you murmured, sinking into the feeling of having Jack’s thick cock seated inside you, pleasure pulsing from where you were joined. “Feel so good filled up with your cock—you fill me up so good, I wanna stay right here forever.” 

Your mumbled words were half lost to a moan as you rocked your hips gently, feeling his shaft drag ever so gently against your inner walls. It was intense and wonderful and felt so good, you couldn’t stop. 

Jack’s hands fell to your hips, and he gripped your soft curves, helping you grind down on him. 

“That’s it, just like that,” he urged, his own hips rolling beneath yours, bringing your bodies together in a delicious push and pull that wrenched a pleasured grunt from him. “Fuck, angel, you’re so tight and you feel so fucking good—so wet and warm. You’re making daddy feel so good.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” you chanted, lips parted and breaths panting against Jack’s grizzled cheeks as you bounced on his lap. Still, you wanted more, and you knew Jack would give it to you, all you had to do was ask. “Will you suck on my tits, daddy, please?”

“Fuck, of course, angel,” Jack rumbled in response, his head ducking down, mouth latching onto a nipple and sucking until your hips gave a reflexive kick. “Ya like it when daddy sucks on your tits, angel? Your perfect fucking tits.” 

His words were muttered, almost like he was talking to himself, and he didn’t wait for an answer before burying his face in your soft mounds. His lips and tongue worshiped your tits, showing you just how much he adored your body.

“Yes, yes, daddy, I love it,” you cried, rocking your hips faster, rolling them in a steady rhythm that had your clit grinding against the base of him. The pleasure was building fast in your core, until you were suddenly on the precipice. “Please, Jack, ‘m so close.”

 “Come on my cock, angel—fuck, I wanna feel you clench around my fat cock while you’re screaming my name,” Jack rambled in between wet, suckling kisses to your soft flesh. His hands cupped your tits, thumbs stroking maddeningly over your nipples before pinching them roughly. “C’mon angel, give it to me, show me what a good girl you are and come for me.”

“Jack—JACK!” 

His words and his cock and his hands and his perfect mouth sent you tumbling over the edge of your release, making you come on his cock. Your hips worked furiously as pleasure crashed over you in waves, helpless moans and cries spilling from your lips while Jack held you tight and thrust into you from below. 

He was hot and hard and everywhere, his thick cock still deep inside you, his arms wrapped around you, his chest and belly pressed against your soft curves. He was the calm in the center of the storm that was your release, and he carried you through it, whispering words of praise in your ear. 

You were still coming down from the height of your pleasure when Jack rolled you onto your back, his hips sliding between your thighs and thrusting his cock deep into you. It felt so good that you moaned loudly, your arms and legs wrapping around Jack and holding him as he fucked you, chasing his release. 

“You’re such a good girl, angel, taking me so well and coming on my cock like such a pretty slut. Fuck, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you, never felt anything as perfect. You’re perfect, angel, so fucking perfect—fuck.” 

Jack bit off a groan and pulled his cock from your tight cunt. He stroked himself to completion, his come spilling across your belly and mound between your thighs while you watched pleasure contort his face. 

He let out a fierce grunt, his shoulders shaking and arms shuddering as he hunched over your body. The hand not wrapped around his cock was gripping your thigh tightly—like, for once, you were his rock, his anchor tethering him to earth.

Bathed in the bright golden light of morning filtering into his bedroom, he looked magnificent, and you couldn’t help yourself. You grabbed Jack’s face and pulled him down for a kiss, tasting the pleasure from his tongue. 

His knuckles brushed your bare skin, more come leaking from the tip of his cock and onto your belly. He was covering you in ropes of his come, but you didn’t care, not when his lips were moving against yours in a sensual slide, his tongue slipping possessively into your mouth and groaning his pleasure.

With a final pull on his cock and one last kiss, Jack rolled off you, collapsing onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes while his chest heaved. He was still wearing his t-shirt and you pouted at it.

Still gasping for your own breaths, you slipped your hand beneath the hem of Jack’s shirt and raked your nails through the hair dusting his belly. He let out a shuddering breath, his cock twitching as another drop of come leaked from the tip of his softening length, seeping into the cotton shirt.

If you weren’t so limp and sated—and you weren’t afraid of making a mess of Jack’s bed with the come slowly drying on your skin—you would’ve leaned over and licked him clean. But that could wait for another time, when you both weren’t so tired.

Jack settled a hand on the back of yours, stilling your fingers where they were softly stroking his belly and giving them an affectionate squeeze. 

After a few moments of catching your breath together, he heaved himself up and reached an arm over his shoulders to yank off his shirt. He rolled onto his side and used the soft shirt to clean you up while you giggled happily.

“You good, angel?” Jack asked, his face hovering above yours, dark caramel eyes searching your expression for anything amiss.

A soft smile curved your mouth and you reached up to cup Jack’s grizzled cheeks, thumbs stroking over his skin. “I’m good,” you murmured, lifting up and pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth. “Thanks for pulling out—I can’t believe I forgot to tell you to use a condom.”

Jack made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat, but it was softened by the teasing smile on his face. “Not very responsible of you, doctor,” he said in a deep, playful rasp that had you laughing.

“Don’t act like you didn’t forget, too, Dr. Abbot,” you retorted, batting good-naturedly at his shoulder. He laughed along with you before sitting up and moving to the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything while I’m up?” he asked, putting on his prosthetic then standing and tossing his soiled shirt into the laundry. He paused at the foot of the bed to wait for your answer.

Lifting your arms above your head, you stretched languidly in the warm sheets of Dr. Jack Abbot’s bed, smiling like the cat that got the cream as you reveled in the feeling of him watching you unabashedly. 

It felt like warm, orange flames of flickering heat licking at your skin, his eyes bright and intense in the morning light as they trailed over every inch of your bare skin and naked curves. That adoration you’d felt in his arms was clear in the gleam of his eye and the slightly awed smile on his face. 

“I could use some more water,” you finally answered, exhaling deeply as you relaxed and settled into the bed. You were eager for him to return so he’d wrap you back up in his arms, and you could snuggle together.

“You got it,” he rasped, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then he wrenched his eyes away from you and seemed to force himself to walk out of the room. 

While he was gone, you got up and went to the bathroom, cleaning yourself up a little better. When you were washing your hands, you heard a knock on the door before it opened a crack.

“Got you a shirt if you want something to wear,” Jack said, opening the door only enough for his arm to slip in. He hung a t-shirt on the hook by the door and then closed it again. 

With a smile, you dried your hands and slid the soft cotton shirt over your head. It was plain white like the one he’d had on earlier, but clean, and it smelled like his earthy, sunshiny scent. You took a deep breath of the fabric, your nipples tightening and pushing against the fabric as warm pleasure flooded you down to your toes.

But then you remembered the man himself was waiting for you, and you eagerly exited the bathroom, finding Jack reclined against the pillows on his bed. He was sipping a glass of water, another full glass on the bedside table for you. You picked it up and drank half before setting it back down and climbing into bed.

Without hesitation, Jack lifted his arm and you slid into the space next to him. The two of you settled beneath the blankets together, your head laying on Jack’s chest, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your fingers idly traced the veins and freckles of his other arm, brushing through the hair dusted across his skin.

Outside, the soft, suffused orange light of dawn had given way to the bright, blinding light of morning. The sun was still climbing higher in the sky, but you and Jack needed rest. 

So your bodies relaxed together, laying entwined in each other’s arms. You drifted to sleep in the calm, still bedroom while the rest of Pittsburgh carried on in the world beyond. 

From that day on, Dr. Jack Abbot was your rock, your calm in the storm, the man whose arms were your home. He was your safe harbor. And you were his.

WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS SHOCKED FROM START TO FINISH HONEYYYYHHHHHHH

I NEEEEEED PART TWO

Safety Net: Part I | ~13.8k wc | Co-Written with @ovaryacted | Series Masterlist

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Motivated by boredom, Marcus goes on a sugar dating app and lands himself a date with you, the only person that captured his attention.

CHAPTER TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Plot with porn. Kissing/Makeout session. Dry humping. Premature ejaculation. Oral (f! receiving). Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation. MARCUS THE MUNCH! Sexual tension. Flirting & banter. First date chronicles. Lots of plot & world building beforehand. Takes place in Chicago. Marcus uses a sugar dating app. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Reader has feminine characteristics - wears dresses, heels, jewelry, & makeup. Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Chivalry isn't dead.

A/N: This has been in the works for far too long but finally, we managed to lock in and cook up some straight heat! This is what happens when you put two yapping hoes on a doc, so we hope everyone who feens for Marcus Acacius as much as we do enjoys the fruits of our labor lol. Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated. Support your BIPOC writers 🖤

Another lone dinner, nothing but the gritty sound of the song echoing from his record player to accompany him.

Tonight was meant to be a small victory. Marcus had enrolled in a cooking class to keep busy after the divorce, and this meal was supposed to put those new skills to use. But as he chopped, cooked, ate and cleaned, the expected satisfaction never came. Instead, a quiet boredom crept in—maybe even isolation.

It was like his body was moving on autopilot, simply going through the motions.

He brings the rim of his glass up to his lips, eyes falling down to the city below. From his penthouse, the skyline sometimes blurs beneath a soft haze of clouds, making the world below look like a dream. The wealth, the view, the opulence—it’s everything people imagine happiness to be. And yet… loneliness seeps into his bones, slowly debilitating his already precarious joy.

He assumed that divorcing from his now ex-wife would help pull him out of this stupor. They were both in agreeance that their marriage had been nothing but one out of convenience—the best thing for the both of them at that time. No romance, no passion, just a practical arrangement that worked. At least, until it didn’t.

Marcus hadn’t expected her to fight for the marriage, but he also hadn’t expected her to fixate on the prenup. One night, in the midst of her moving out, he’d overheard her gossiping on the phone with one of her friends. It would’ve gotten a lot nastier if I hadn’t gotten what I was owed.

The words hit harder than he expected. On some level, he had loved her. Not in the way a husband should love a wife, but in a way that still meant something to him. There had been care, respect, even a kind of tenderness—out of duty, maybe, but real nonetheless. He even enjoyed being a stepfather to her teenage son.

No resentment was held, not when they were about to part ways.

She was entitled to a payout, and he made sure she got it, wiring the full amount before the lawyers could sink their teeth into the process. No use in dragging things out or turning something empty into something bitter. 

So they ended it quietly and swiftly. One last dinner as husband and wife, a toast to a chapter closing, and then the signing of papers that made it official.

It has been months since then, and Marcus is right where he’s always been. The same life, the same routine—just without the pretense of a marriage. He’s outgrown the bachelor lifestyle and has no interest in jumping back to it. He’s in fifties with a divorce under his belt, family business in his care, and more money than he knows what to do with. 

Most men in his position would see this as a rebirth, an excuse to run wild. He’s seen it plenty—divorcees burning through their wealth to impress women half their age, indulging in recklessness until, eventually, they wonder how the fuck they lost it all.

The thought makes him scoff slightly, shaking his head as he continues to lose himself in his own mind, still gazing over the city.

Ever since word got out that he was single again, the men in his social circle have been relentless. They want him to “get back out there,” find some young thing to do more than stroke his ego and remind him he’s still got it. Their concern isn’t for his happiness—it’s for their own validation. They want him to fall in line, to indulge like they do, to prove they’re all still kings of their own little worlds.

The idea of dating brings a faint migraine thumping at his temples. No way in hell. He doesn’t have it in him to go through first date purgatory of asking the same grueling questions, only to have nothing in common with the person at the end of the night. And his work acquaintances aren’t suggesting anything so conventional, anyway. 

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve invited him to strip clubs or proposed outrageous tropical getaways filled with booze and paid company. They aren’t subtle about their misogyny, either. They brag about the escorts they’ve hired, the women they’ve bought for the night, offering him contact information like they’re handing out business cards. In case you get tired of using your fist all the time, they joke.

The detachment of sex is what he finds peculiar. It’s not about pleasure, it’s about seeking validation from other men while putting another notch at their bedpost. It’s why he rarely accepts their invitations. Avoiding their outings, distancing himself as much as he can… but only to a certain degree. Unfortunately, these men are his business partners, and in his world, he wasn’t exactly given the luxury of full separation.

The act of paying for sex isn’t the problem. He doesn’t care how they get their satisfaction, really, it only grates on him when their vulgarity spills into business meetings, when corporate lunches turn into competitions over who had the best night with the most expensive woman.

Take today, for example, when a longtime partner had sidled up to him as he was headed home for the day, practically shoving the phone into Marcus’s hands.

“Met this chick on that app I was telling you about and scored myself a date tonight. She’s hot.”

Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way this grown man was waving the information around as if it were something to boast about. He barely glanced at the screen—a woman in a tight dress posing in front of a bar. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Congratulations?

Before he had to give an answer, the elevator doors opened. A perfect escape. He handed the phone back and muttered a quick, “Have a good weekend,” stepping out and letting the doors shut on yet another conversation he wanted no part of.

Now he’s here, two and a half glasses of whiskey deep with a curiosity that feeds off his boredom. He retreats from his reprieve at the window, walking into the living room and settling on the couch. Flipping mindlessly through TV channels, nothing seems to hold his attention.

His fingers drum against the side of the glass cup before intrigue gives way, slipping a hand into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulls out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb, his whiskey resting loosely in his other hand. 

With furrowed brows, Marcus navigates through his phone at an infuriatingly slow pace. He squints slightly, trying to read the small text, and his large thumbs fumble across the keyboard, leaving a string of typos that have him muttering curses under his breath. He misspells the damn thing twice until finally, the name of the ridiculous app pops up in the search results.

The little loading circle spins, downloading the application to his phone. When the prompt to open it appears, he hovers, as if contemplating if this is even worth it. A few seconds pass before the liquor in his system decides for him, opening the app with a tap.

The first thing it asks is if he’s the benefactor or the beneficiary. He huffs, taking a sip of his drink, choosing his role as the sugar daddy before ultimately filling in the blanks needed for an account set up. It all feels ridiculous, but what does he have to lose?

Then he reaches the About Me section and stops. The blinking cursor taunts him, he can’t help but scowl at it, whiskey swirling in his glass as he thinks. What do you say about yourself when you don’t even know what you want?

Marcus A. 50+. Chicago. Business Owner. Not sure what to say here. First time trying something like this. I prefer a strong drink over small talk, but I appreciate good conversation with someone who has something to say.

Not his best work, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He skips through the rest of the trivial questions—religion, favorite movies, hobbies. The longer the list grows, the more tedious it feels.

Then comes the photo prompt. Somehow, this feels like the hardest part.

Marcus scrolls through his camera roll and realizes most of his photos aren’t of him at all—just landscapes from his travels, on-site projects, plenty from his trips back home to Italy, but few that actually put him in the frame.

He settles on a lone one from an important dinner a few years back. It’s stiff, formal, but at least it’s something. 

When he’s done, he studies the profile. Sparse. Impersonal. He’s not exactly proud of it, but he’s not here to impress anyone. He’s here to look—nothing more.

The next hurdle? Preferences. 

He frowns slightly, finishing off his drink before setting the glass on the coffee table. He sinks further into the couch, glaring at the screen.

He sets the minimum to twenty-five. Mature enough to have lived a little, young enough that he isn’t limiting himself too much. Local, of course. No sense in complicating things.

With that, he’s finally done.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected, but the more he scrolls, the less interested he becomes.

The app is filled with beautiful women—plenty of soft smiles, sultry gazes, perfectly angled selfies. Glossy, curated versions of themselves, posed just right, filters smoothing away any perceived imperfection. He sees them in designer bikinis lounging on yachts, captions that all seem to blur together. No hookups. Fluent in sarcasm. Just here for the pay pigs.

That last one gets a quiet chuckle out of him.

Nevertheless, it’s all the same. It bores the hell out of him. He swipes left again and again and again…

He’s about to call the whole thing immature bullshit when he comes across your profile.

No forced captions, no excessive filters, no painfully obvious attempts to curate some idealized version of yourself. You have a natural confidence, an ease in the way you present yourself. The way you talk about your interests—travel, food, new experiences—it doesn’t feel like a list of things meant to impress. 

And then there are your pictures.

Your hair is thick, wild with curls, framing your face in a way that makes you look like you belong in the kind of old-world paintings he admires when he’s abroad. Your brown skin, kissed with warmth, glows under the soft light of a restaurant where you’re pictured, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, a knowing, almost amused look in your eyes. There’s another shot of you at a market, caught mid-laugh as you react to something just out of frame. 

Marcus exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Damn.

He doesn’t message you. Not yet. 

He told himself that this app was just for curiosity, just to look and pass the time. He hadn’t expected to actually come across someone that made him consider.

The whole damn thing feels ridiculous. He’s a grown man, successful, established. And here he is, sitting alone in his penthouse, scrolling through an app designed to find a sugar baby of all things. What the hell is he even doing?

Without thinking about it, he taps the Super Like and immediately closes out the application.

You probably have a dozen other prospects already lining up in your messages, throwing out their best lines, trying to capture your attention. He’s just another name in the mix, another notification you might just skim over before moving on. 

So be it, he got it out of his system—whatever that was. Some passing curiosity, a distraction fueled by whiskey and boredom. By tomorrow, he’ll be preoccupied with work, meetings, actual obligations, and the whole thing will be nothing more than a brief lapse of judgment. Maybe he should save himself the trouble and just delete the damn app now, wipe his profile along with it before he even has the chance to regret it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders before making his way toward the bedroom. His night routine is as methodical as everything else.

Yet, as he settles into bed, he finds himself thinking about you and how for a moment, he had felt something he hadn’t in a long time—intrigue. 

The next day flies by quickly for Marcus, swamped with the countless meetings lined up for him at the architectural firm. Overseeing a new development in the city took whatever time he might’ve thought he had, his poor assistants making multiple trips to the coffee shops nearby as the day progressed. He was already greatly familiar with the boost of caffeine running through his veins, growing more on edge with every file that lands on his desk.

By the time he got home, he was damn near slumping against his front door, tossing his keys in the trinket tray by the foyer, tugging off his blazer and throwing it over the edge of the couch while dragging his tired feet to the kitchen. Yanking on his tie and popping it off with one swift pull, he removes his cufflinks and folds the sleeves of his button down up to his forearms, plucking a few of the buttons from his collar to finally allow himself to breathe.

Reaching over to one of the cabinets, he grabs himself a glass, dropping in some ice cubes and taking his favorite brand of whiskey, filling it halfway. The headache building at his temples ebbs away as he gulps down the amber liquid, palms resting on the granite countertop under him. He merely stares at the stone, eyes blank and now deep in thought. A frustrated exhale leaves his aquiline nose, running a hand through his graying curls as the stress of the day radiates through every cell in his body.

He knows he should probably just order something for dinner tonight over cooking, his mind too fried to put together an ingredient list, and the thought of washing dishes was enough to force the decision for him.

Marcus refills his glass and takes his phone to the living room, turning on the TV and leaving the news to play for some background noise as he sorts through his options of what he might be able to stomach.

What was he even in the mood for? Italian? Korean? Chinese? Some lo-mein sounds good, maybe with an egg-roll or two? Yeah, that sounds about fine.

He calls his order in, finding some spare cash and picks it up from the lobby. He didn’t bother to remove his leather shoes when he took the elevator 50 floors down for the handoff, coming back up the same way until he was munching into an egg-roll covered in duck sauce on the couch.

Food long gone and the glass coffee table now cleared of his takeout, the gold watch on Marcus’ wrist reads 10:30 pm when he finds himself weary of the late night news turned mediocre comedy segment. Grabbing his phone and pinning a few emails for him to read over in the morning, he swipes to his apps menu, spotting the new dating application he had completely forgotten about since setting up his profile the night before.

Fuck it, what the hell.

With no thought, Marcus opens the app for a second time, watching the icon load on the screen before he lands on the main page. Swiping to the chats section, his screen explodes with the 99+ Super Likes he had gotten over the past 24 hours. Yet, he could care less of the other profiles he has to sort through. The only match that loads on his screen is from your account, an unread message he had gotten no notification of despite it sitting idly in his inbox for a day. Nervously, he taps at the message box, your icon popping up on the screen along with what you had sent last night.

“So you’re just going to super like my account and not say anything?”

The corner of his lip twitches when he reads that over, his eyes scanning over the sentence more than once with a raised eyebrow. His brain short-circuits as he tries to find a suitable response that doesn’t make a fool of himself. He’s positive he already looks like an idiot by having an account in the first place, but he’s gotten this far, might as well stick around.

After a few minutes of typing and deleting a singular sentence, he triple checks his spelling until he’s satisfied with what he came up with before hitting send.

Marcus A.: “Must’ve missed the chat option when I hit your profile. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I’m new to this whole thing.”

His screen updates with the dot under your profile turning green, a sign that you were active again. You definitely saw his message, and the three little dots he notices at the bottom make his pulse spike, anxiously waiting for what else you had to say to him.

“That’s okay. Figured you had other things going on. You look like a guy that has a lot on their plate, Mr. Businessman.”

Now he was smirking.

Marcus A.: “You have no idea.” He typed the reply and sent it, and you responded just as quickly. 

“Try me.”

Should he talk about what he has to deal with on a daily basis with his work? Bore you with how he oversees the blueprints of different construction plans throughout the city and has extensive meetings that last all day? So much for a lasting first impression.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t want to bother you with work stuff. It’s not all that interesting.”

“I don’t mind really. I’m a little curious to know what takes up all of your time. Must be something serious if you’re all stressed out.”

No harm in being honest right?

Marcus A.: “Well, usually I have a lot of meetings and paperwork to handle while conducting new building developments in the city. But today was particularly hectic, I was swamped all day, probably drank way more coffee today than I had all year.”

Was that good enough? Not too much, not too little. Didn’t come off as petulant or like he wanted pity. This isn’t too bad, at least Marcus thinks so considering you were working on your reply.

“Sounds like a lot of intense work, lots of brain power. At least you have a team to help you out, takes a bit of the strain off your back. Hope you’re relaxing a bit now.”

Marcus A.: “Yeah, got home late but had some dinner. Just watching the news before I repeat the cycle tomorrow. How was your day?”

Bingo. Perfect bait and switch.

“Boring, honestly. Work was alright for the most part, finished a bit early. Ate a few hours ago, and was reading something before bed when I saw your message.”

Oh? Another avid reader?

Marcus A.: “What do you like to read?”

“A mix of things. Non-Fiction, Sci-Fi, History, Romance. It depends on my mood really, but right now it’s Circe by Madeline Miller.”

Marcus A.: “I read that a while back, it’s a pretty good book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“It definitely has my interest. I hit the halfway mark, so maybe I'll keep you updated once I finish it. :)”

Somehow, he wasn’t opposed to the idea.

Marcus A.: “I wouldn’t mind listening to your thoughts about it.”

The three little dots appear for a second before vanishing. Marcus stares at the screen for a beat longer, hoping it wasn’t just a fluke. Maybe he scared you off? Said the wrong thing, or something finally gave away just how out of touch he was to all of this. At this rate, he might as well get 50 & Divorced tattooed on his forehead in bright red ink.

There was no point in stressing out about this anymore, it’s late anyway, close to midnight and past his conscious bedtime. Switching the TV and lights off in the living room, he quickly showers and rinses the day off. Changing into some fleece pants and a baggy gray shirt, he brushes his teeth and spits out his mouthwash, flicking off the light as he steps into his bedroom.

As he slips into his too-big king sized bed, he untucks the cream sheets and rests his head on one of the many pillows, glaring up at the ceiling with a huff. Turning over to his side, he catches the lights of the downtown area reflecting by the window, trying his best not to think about how cold and empty the other side of his bed remained. With a sigh, he eases into slumber, hoping that whatever tomorrow brings will be significantly better than today.

The next day in his week was thankfully less hectic, but instead of document packets, his phone had been going off all day speaking to clients, other business partners, and suppliers. And that was only counting Chicago. He got other additional calls from properties in New York, Los Angeles, and now some new construction he’s attempting to get signed off in Miami. He was so preoccupied with his business phone that his personal device was left untouched for the majority of the day.

It was 8:00 pm when Marcus walks through the front doors of his penthouse, repeating the same mundane pattern of tending to his needs and finding something to keep himself occupied until he fell asleep. In the back of his head, he remembers the brief conversation he had with you last night, curiosity getting the best of him as he wonders if you left him something to read over this morning. 

Tensely, he opens up the dating app, heading straight to his inbox to click on your unread message from 18 hours ago.

“Maybe I’ll send you a full book review. Put it in an episode of a podcast. I think it would do numbers.”

The circle on your icon is green now, and he rapidly types something so he doesn’t lose this momentum.

Marcus A.: “Forgive me for the terrible response time, I had another busy day in the office, dealing with non stop phone calls this time.”

The three little dots turn up again, and Marcus sighs in relief.

“No worries. You have things to handle, just part of being a working adult.”

If he wants to take his shot, he knows his best chance is to do it now.

Marcus A: “Actually, I’d like to get your number, if that’s alright. Me and this app don’t mix well. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea and make you think you were being ignored.”

You begin typing before you disappear, the green circle now turning gray. He scared you off, maybe even gave you the ick when that was the last thing he wanted. Marcus was just doomed from the start, and getting on this app was a mistake. What would you even really want to do with an old man like him? It’s pitiful really.

Anxiously, he shuts his phone off and storms off into his bedroom, throwing some water on his face and getting into bed once more. He probably should’ve just went to sleep and left you alone, but his hands itch to see if you answered him. Twisting to get his phone from his bedside table and reopening the app, the empty space in his chest flutters when he sees you had left him a very clear yes with your entire phone number, right there for him to take it.

Copying and pasting your number into his phone, he sent you a quick text letting you know it was him, and you reassured him this was no problem, that you hated the app with a burning passion.

“I’m guessing it’s close to your bedtime now?”

Marcus A: “Unfortunately, I’m an old man remember? But, my phone will be on me tomorrow, so I’ll be around if you want to chat some more.”

“Sure thing, I’ll be around too. Don’t want to keep you up so I’ll let you go. Goodnight Marcus.”

He likes the way you say his name, type it out like it’s yours to say. With one last “goodnight”, his phone is off and his face is digging into the pillow underneath. For once, he is looking forward to tomorrow, and secretly hopes that you’d still be interested in talking some more. Maybe, he might just end up lucky.

Marcus quickly realizes he enjoys talking with you; at least when you both had the time to converse with each other, it was better than scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Texting is convenient for the most part when he can, sending little questions about you here and there, and you feed him breadcrumbs, still holding some control over how you want him to perceive you. He doesn’t mind, he’s mostly on your time, and if you want to play the cat and mouse game, he’ll play.

It was actually you that asked to call him the first time, a laconic talk just to hear his voice, to get a feel of him. Marcus didn’t know what to think of how you reacted to the way he spoke, but he knows hearing your voice might’ve been the catalyst to his growing interest in you. The conversation was short-lived, but it was good to hear you on the other end.

He has enough confidence to call you again later on in the week after work, a more extensive recap of both of your days. In the midst of laughing at a stupid joke he’s made, he’s thinking of the best way to formally ask you out. He’d been mulling over it for the past few days as you both tiptoed on getting to know one another, and he knows if he wants to take his shot, it has to be now.

“Out of curiosity, are you free Friday night?” He inquires, holding his phone close to his ear, anticipating every word you say.

“I might be, unless I just happened to forget my plans. Why?”

Shooter’s shot. 

“I wanted to take you out to dinner. There’s this steakhouse downtown by Kinzie Street, really nice food, intimate setting, expensive wine or cocktails if that’s your thing. Think it would be a good time.”

“You had me at cocktails.” You both chuckled at that notion. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does 7 work for you?”

“Make it 7:30. A girl needs time to get ready, Marcus. First impressions matter y’know?” It was his turn to laugh despite his hands sweating.

“Then I’ll come by at 7:30 and pick you up. Unless you want to go on your own, I can arrange a ride for you.”

You hummed on the other end of the line, contemplating your choices. Probably assessing what was the smartest way of getting out of the situation if things were to go horribly wrong.

“A ride to the place might be better. You don’t need to see me full of anxiety so early in the night.”

“Well, I want to see you either way. I’ll have my driver pick you up, alright? How does that sound?”

“Sounds perfect. It’s a date then.” There was no question or doubt from you, and he’s glad you were the one that determined what the occasion was.

“It’s a date. I’ll see you Friday night.”

The call ends, and Marcus missed how intense his heart had been beating in his ribcage the entire time. Setting a reminder to call the restaurant tomorrow to place the reservation, he spots the time on his phone screen blinking 11:45 pm on a Wednesday. Two more days until he gets to meet you face to face, and the thought alone brings an eerie sense of restlessness to his stomach.

He’s made it this far, there’s no way he could fuck this up, right?

Friday night rolls around, and the anxiety that’s been bubbling in Marcus’ gut since he asked you out to dinner rears its ugly head. He spent a significantly longer time getting ready, making sure to fit a haircut in during his lunch break and left some room for a beard trim after his extensive shower. Hyper focused on making the most ideal first impression, he dabbles some scented aftershave on his neck and mixes it in with a few spritz of his signature cologne, double checking to ensure it isn’t too overwhelming.

Sorting through the multitude of suits hanging in his closet, Marcus decides that sticking to what he knows would be the best thing for him. He pulls out a classic black suit set and matching dress shoes, foregoing a tie and leaving the first button undone, the skin of his neck slightly visible from the opening. Clicking his golden cufflinks into their designated slots, he finishes his look for the night with his golden watch on his left wrist and slipping on the emerald signet ring on his right pinkie. Before stepping out the door, he takes the bouquet of long stemmed roses he picked out for you, giving his styled curly hair a look over and walking out the front door.

Regardless of how put together he appears, he is anything but composed. Finding himself way out of his comfort zone, his lack of experience in the dating department catches up with him on his drive downtown. His phone rings with a message from you letting him know you’ve been picked up and will be meeting him soon. It was 7:15 pm when you sent that text, and the lump in his throat worsens his breathing the closer 7:30 pm comes.

He’s been mentally preparing for your arrival for the past ten minutes, repeatedly staring down at his watch or his phone to see if you’ve said anything else to him since your last message. Waiting out front, roses in hand, his mind resets to his default settings of methodical overthinking once it hits 7:35 pm.

Did you stand him up? No, maybe something happened on the commute. Must be sudden traffic, it is a Friday night after all. Or you finally came to your senses and your cold feet convinced you to turn his car around and head in the opposite direction.

By 7:40 pm, the familiar view of one of his Escalades rolling into the driveway quiets his mind, brown eyes focusing solely on the figure that steps out from the vehicle.

He is immediately struck.

The dress you’ve chosen is sinful in its simplicity—long-sleeved, form-fitting black fabric hugging every curve, sculpting you like it was made for your body alone. The light jacket you wear does little to hide your figure underneath it; the dress flows over your hips and clings to your waist, cuts off right above your knee leaving your calves bare for him to admire, not to mention the neckline teases just low enough to show the swells of your breasts.

Your curls are pulled back in a half-up style that showcases your beautiful features accentuated by your makeup, leaving the delicate slope of your neck bare—an invitation, a temptation. The golden accents—your earrings, your rings, and the necklace that rests against your collarbone—catch in the evening light, making your warm brown skin glow like you’re drenched in sunlight.

He swallows hard, his grip tightening around the bouquet in his hand as he watches you step forward, poised and self-assured, utterly unaware of the effect you have on him.

He’s staring. He knows he is, yet he can’t help it.

Because right now, with the city lights flickering behind you and that unreadable expression on your face as you scan the area for him, you look like something ethereal. Like a star that shot down from the sky and landed right in front of him, impossibly real, impossibly his for the night.

He stands frozen in awe of you until your glossy lips move, talking to him in the flesh.

“Marcus, right?” you ask, holding on to your purse with one hand. “I’m so sorry for being late, the traffic was more active than usual. I hope I didn’t ruin anything?”

He finally finds his voice in the next couple of blinks.

“No, it’s alright. It’s a Friday night, I forget everyone else has plans set.” That gets you to laugh, and he exhales at the break in tension. “You look beautiful.” It’s sincere as he says it, and from the way you smile at his words, he thinks he’s doing something right.

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.” You were a witty one, at least from the tone of your voice and demeanor, he can tell this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You didn’t have to get me flowers.”

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I came empty handed. A little birdie told me that first impressions matter, remember?” The corner of your mouth curls up at the way he echoes your words from two nights ago, a light chuckle escaping you. He extends his arm to hand you the bouquet, observing your reaction as he did so.

“They’re lovely, thank you,” your voice softens as you speak to him, a faint warmth settling on your cheeks under your makeup.

“Of course. Ready to go inside?” He suggests, and with a nod you take a step forward to the restaurant’s entrance.

As the hostess ushers you through the restaurant, Marcus keeps the steady weight of his palm on your lower back, just the right amount of pressure to not seem too forceful. You are brought to a more quiet section of the place, a few other dining patrons nearby but limited in number. The setting is intended to be intimate with the dim warm-toned lighting, a mixture of stone and archived pictures of an industrialized Chicago decorating the walls around you.

The hostess steps away once you reach your table, and Marcus swiftly helps you remove your thin jacket, placing it on the edge of your chair and pulling it out for you to take a seat, pushing you in afterward. Now situated in your designated place, the older man steps around you, watching him as he undoes the front button of his suit jacket before sitting down, looking in your direction and offering a gentle smile. Mimicking his expression, you drop the flowers at the center of the table, feeling the delicate tablecloth in front of you.

“Have you been here before?” He queries once you are both settled, a waiter coming by to fill your glasses with water.

“No, I’ve been trying to score a reservation here for months but I heard it’s been booked out way in advance. Not entirely surprised you found a way to grab a table so quickly, but color me shocked.”

“I’m a man of many talents. It’s a good thing you found me when you did.” The same waiter from before returns to pass the menu, prepared to give the tailored list of the chef’s specials for the night. “Feel free to indulge. Get whatever you like.”

As tempting as the invitation is, you are more than conscious of what you order off the menu. Playing it safe with a classic salad, a hearty steak, and two glasses of wine that leave you satisfied in terms of appetite. Marcus surprisingly does a good job of keeping you engaged throughout the night with simple conversation, easing into the comfortably of letting his curiosity speak for itself with the questions he asks. Though, he quickly comes to realize you’re charismatic with your responses, almost trained to know what to expect, how to answer and the tone you should be using.

It’s by the time the entree hits your table and you finish your first glass of wine that you loosen up, flipping his questions back to him, finding out more about his career, who he is, his likes and dislikes. Your grin widens more with every sip of your drink, pacing yourself to be sensible in your consumption while you eat.

Now almost finished with your second glass of expensive red, you swirl the last drops that pool at the bottom of the glass. You glance at him from across the table, eyeing him closely with a hint of mischief. He mirrors your expression, his cheek dimpling as he looks at you from the other end.

“You’re an awfully observant man, Marcus.” You remark, a slight edge to your voice, glossy lips staining the rim of your glass as you finish off your drink.

“When something is deserving of my attention, I have a habit of not cheapening out.” He playfully shrugs, his glass running empty a while ago, declining a refill as he’s taking it easy tonight. “Are you in the mood for dessert?”

Whether he meant the next course or something else, that was for him to know and for you to find out. Though, as enticing the prospect is to take it there, you don’t want to misread the situation beyond what it is.

“I actually don’t think I have room for anything else, the steak did a number on me.” An upbeat giggle pours out of you, and he laughs along with you.

“Then unless you want another glass of wine, I can ask for the check. Or…” his voice drifts off, the suspense grabbing your attention.

“Or?” That’s when he sees it, a spark of intrigue that fills him with a boldness he’s been harboring since sitting down at this table.

“Or you can join me for a drink, back at my place, if you’d like of course. If not, I can drop you off at home before heading back to mine.” Marcus is asking you to go back home with him, at least that’s what he thinks. Yet, it almost seems like it’s more than a suggestion, but a subdued command. Not that you’re complaining, you were hoping he’d ask at some point.

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

He tries to hide his surprise at your answer, but after seeing the faint gleam in your eye, his cheek dimples once more.

With a quick gesture of his hand, Marcus whips out his black card and covers the tab, his palm taking its place on our tailbone as you both walk out of the restaurant together. His tinted Escalade rolls onto the street, and he steps to the side to let you in first, closing the door behind him and setting his address as the next destination. Throughout the ride, there is a comfortable distance between you, stuck on opposite ends in the backseat, throwing each other side glances when looking away from the window, a smile here and there. Still, he keeps his hands to himself, thick fingers thrumming on his lap and you hold your bag in yours, the anticipation of seeing where the older man lived incrementing inside you.

Twenty minutes later and a brief dinner recap, he extends his hand to help you out of the car, faintly squeezing your fingers as he does. He remains steadfast in keeping his touch on your lower back as he guides you through the lobby hall, the doorman greeting you both whilst passing him.

Entering the elevator, he taps part of his key on the scanner and presses the PH button at the very top of the selection, what you assume to be the penthouse. He gives you a knowing look, a gleam in his eyes as you’re sent up higher in this modernized building.

Crossing through the hallway that awaits you once the elevator doors open, you are brought to a pair of double doors. Allowing Marcus to formally unlock the door, you step into his space for the first time, and you can’t help the gasp that slips out of you.

Guided through the foyer of his apartment, you find high rise ceilings and earthy tones surrounding you, hints of creams and metallic accents left everywhere to find. The kitchen is fully decked out with modern stainless steel appliances and light wooden cabinets, a marble island taking the empty space in the middle. The open concept layout allows you to see the living room, sunken into the floor at a lower level, spotting a plush dark brown L shaped couch with smaller cream cushions behind a deep wooden coffee table, paired with a twin set of auburn armchairs and an overarching lamp between them. A fireplace is built into the accent wall, a plasma screen TV seamlessly hanging in contrast to the wooden panels that cover that portion of the room.

You can tell there is probably more for you to discover, another hallway that would allow you passage to an office or his bedroom, but that will be left for another day. What really catches your eye is the wall of books to the farthest side of the room, close to the frosted windows and balcony that grant a perfect view of the Chicago Loop area at night. The shelving carries a catered collection of works that were found over the years, and your curiosity piques to see what titles he might have in there.

The space is gorgeous, surprisingly warm and inviting, simultaneously masculine and calming. A harmonization of colors and textiles all in one space. You envy him just a tad for having such a nice apartment, though you might consider this one to be the best interior you’ve seen so far.

“What do you think? Hopefully it’s not too much,” you hear Marcus utter from behind you, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it off to the side. He offers to take off your overcoat, allowing his hands to lightly caress over your shoulders as he tugs the layer off, hanging it next to his. He also grasps the bouquet you’re holding, setting it down on the table closest to the door to grab later on your way out.

“I think you’re a man of fine taste for both exteriors and interiors.” You continue to marvel at your current backdrop. “Did you design all of this too?”

“Partially. Worked with an interior designer to figure out the dimensions of things, what exactly I needed to achieve my vision. But for the most part, the colors, textures and where everything goes was all me. The sunken living room was definitely my idea, did not sit well with the building managers but they came around.”

“I’m amazed you managed to get away with that.”

“You pick up a few things here and there the more you learn about the industry.” He looks at your side profile for a second before he speaks again. “Do you still want that drink?”

“That depends. What do you have?” You turn on your heel to face him, a coy smile on your pretty face.

“Anything really. Wine, whiskey, I can mix a drink for you if you’d prefer that.” For some reason, the potential of seeing Marcus make a drink tugs at your chest. Taking a second to think of a solid option, you settle on a reasonable cocktail.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” You watch the way his face quirks up at your choice of drink.

“Sure do. Make yourself at home.”

Marcus wanders off to the kitchen where he has what looks to be a whole bar built into a portion of the sectioned off room. You walk around the space he’s tailored to be his, running your fingertips over the edge of the couch and admiring the paintings hanging on the wall by the bookshelves. Scanning over the varying book titles, you note the multiple accounting and real estate books, some shelves primarily only having that with the rest filled with classics you recall him mentioning to you in passing.

The sound of ice shaking forces your attention back to Marcus whose focus was primarily in making your drink. From the corner of your eye, you see he has his sleeves rolled up his forearm, his bicep flexing as he holds the shaker in his broad hand, moving it with efficiency, a curl falling over his forehead from the effort. You look away when he pops the top off of the shaker, hoping he didn’t see you ogling him longer than you should have.

Playing clueless, your eyes land on a certain part of his book collection, titles relating to history and the world catching your eye, global wars and conquests amongst other things. You were too busy scanning the spines of the different books to notice Marcus observing you as he walked in your direction with a glass in each of his hands. Turning once you feel his presence by your side, you whisper a thank you and take your drink, tentatively sipping through the small straw he offered you, to taste the perfect mix of lime and aged rye.

“How is it? I eased up on the whiskey, figured you wouldn’t want something too strong.”

“You should’ve done bartending instead of real estate. Bet you would be a hit with the ladies, make a hell of a lot of tips.” Marcus chuckles, a pleasant sound that emits through him.

“Guess the mixing classes are paying off.”

A coltish smirk lands on your face in amusement, tilting your head to the bookshelf to grab his attention. “Wouldn’t take you as a history buff.”

“What can I say? I like learning about the world, the past shaping the present and influencing the future. Plus, it keeps me well rounded as one would say, pairs well with traveling.” You hum with a nod, pointing to a specific title you notice.

“SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome by Mary Beard. I was obsessed with Ancient Rome when I was a kid, well that and mythology. Sort of ironic considering you’re from there, you’d fit in.”

“It’s a special interest of mine, but I’m curious about the history of the general area, besides what’s been passed down by family members.” He states casually, letting you wander around a bit more before heading to the couch in his living room, his hand instantly holding yours as you step down into the sunken floor along the way.

With every sip of your cocktail, you find yourself more entranced by Marcus, your eyes drawn to the muscles in his arm contracting when he takes a gulp of his whiskey. Time flies by as you converse more with him, the ice melting in your glass as you sit your empty cup on the coffee table. Your heels are now somewhere scattered on the floor, legs folded over one another as you lean into the couch on your side, facing your date. He stays seated on the corner of the couch, body angled towards the fireplace and his legs spread with his hands on his leg as he listens to you talk.

“You never mentioned it, you know, why you’re on the app to begin with. You don’t seem like the kind of man to bother with this whole sort of thing.”

“And why do you think that?” He twists his head to look at you, curious in your reasoning.

“You’re too smart to be bullshitting around with anything, and I think relationships are the same. Something happened along the way, no?”

Ah, there it is, the feared question. Why was he on that app? Originally it was a joke, he wasn’t taking it seriously, and yet here he is, sitting on the couch with someone from a sugar daddy app of all places. He could lie to you, say he just wanted some company for the night just to save his own ass. But one look at your face and he knew the last thing he wanted to do was use the usual facade that fed the void in his chest. 

He pauses for a beat before finding his words.

“I was married for a few years. The divorce was finalized a few months ago, but feels like it happened way before that.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus.” Your palm flies to his knee in a supporting pat, the action not lost to him as warmth springs from your touch for a moment before taking it back.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Things just didn’t work out, it wasn’t in the cards.” He fidgets with the ring on his right hand, a nervous tick he’s adopted over time as the air thickens in the room. Moving the spotlight from himself, he flips the question to you. “And what about you? Why were you on the app?”

“Honestly, I forgot I still had an account after doing this a few times, never really worked out in the past. I was about to deactivate my profile when I saw your super like. Didn’t want to pass up the opportunity, so I answered. Besides, I was curious about you.”

“You must’ve had hundreds of profile matches at that point.” You chortle under your breath.

“Oh, please. You open the app and it’s just all up in your face. It’s so…overwhelming. But if it’s any comfort, you were the only account I liked back.”

Marcus’ neck pivots to peer at you, sincere in your confession to him. He fights the urge to have his lips curve upwards, instead he shifts his gaze back down to the floor with a shake of his head.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m serious,” you jest, straightening your back and jokingly slapping his bicep. “You’re sitting here acting like you didn't have hundreds of likes coming out of the woodworks.”

“Seeing that high number took me off guard, I’m surprised my phone didn’t glitch from it and I was spared from getting a headache. But I didn’t really care much for the rest. I liked your account and turned my phone off, called it a day.”

Your eyes bore on to Marcus’ face, staring at him incredulously. “You didn’t.”

“I did. Lots of beautiful women on there, don’t get me wrong. However, I’m more particular about what I like.” He ogles at you, as if he needed to make it any more obvious he found you attractive. The thought brings heat to your cheeks, the alcohol doing wonders to lower your inhibitions.

Your sight detours to his hand where his thumb runs over the emerald signet ring on his pinkie, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“What’s with the ring?” You jut your chin out to point to the shiny piece of jewelry.

“Family heirloom. Been in my family since my grandfather, went to my father, and now passed down to me. Just something I mess with often.”

“Can I see it?” You move your hand towards him, suggesting that you want to see the emerald piece up close.

Marcus offers you his hand, your fingers grazing his palm as you look at the ring. He tries his best not to think too much about the way your touch feels, how your soft fingers sweep his calloused ones as you examine the way the ring circles around his thick digit, running your thumb over the emerald stone at the center.

To his disbelief, you bring his hand to your cheek, his knuckles caressing over your jaw and ear before guiding it towards your neck. The knuckle of his pointer finger rasps the front of your throat and the divot of your collarbone, your fingers circling his wrist and slowly bringing his touch down the middle of your chest. His heart pounds in his ribs when you drag his hand over your midriff before placing it on your waist, comfortably laying on your hip and he gives you a nervous squeeze.

Swiftly, you shift your position on the couch, bending on your knees to crawl towards his lap. Marcus watches you the entire time, leaning backwards and letting you get situated with zero protest. The end of your dress rides up your thighs slowly, your hands on his chest, sensing the tension radiating off of him in waves. He keeps both of his hands on your waist, his head angled back to hold your gaze, concealing the groan that threatens to escape from feeling your body over his.

“Is this okay?” You ask, seeing him nod. “Marcus…” you entice him with a whisper, leaning towards him, the tips of your noses edging together. “I really want to kiss you.”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up to his forehead as he gawks at you, slightly tipsy from your earlier drink coursing through your veins. He’s considerate enough to keep his hands on your waist, holding you steady as you stare at him with stars in your vision.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” You press yourself against him, one hand on his chest as your words captivate him. His focus lingers in your hazy eyes, then drifts to your lips, watching how they part subconsciously with every breath. Succumbing to his desires, he nods again, and you tip forward to slot your mouth over his.

It’s the lightest of pecks, brief and sweet enough to not overwhelm either of you, a test of boundaries. You briskly pull away, carefully watching Marcus’ reaction, reading his body language to see whether or not he wants to pause or keep going. He squeezes your waist, and that is all the initiative you need to kiss him again.

With a faint grin, you offer him another peck, then another, and another. After every kiss, the gloss on your lips fades and transfers to his mouth, and by the fourth peck, he pinches your chin and brings you forward to kiss you with more intention. Your body ignites with the prolonged feel of his mouth against yours, the curve in your spine deepens and your hands move on their own.

Marcus lets you lead him into the kiss, following your pace and sighing in content when your fingers thread through the hair on his nape, tugging the strands a little to angle his head differently. A groan rumbles in his chest from your touch, taking advantage of this position and teasing your tongue over his bottom lip, signaling you want to taste more of him.

Granting you passage, his mouth opens to welcome your tongue, curling around his own and keeping your grip on him. Slanting your head to the side to get the right angle, your body inches nearer as your hips press over his. Without much thought, his hands move up your back, the feel of his palms a comfort against your heated skin, trailing lower to cup your ass. The action forces you to gasp, pulling away to find darkened brown eyes staring at you carefully and bringing his hands back to your waist, the start of an apology dying on his lips before you interrupted him. “It’s okay, Marcus. You can touch me.” You coax his hand down to your lower back, fingers intertwined with his and urging him to squeeze your tender flesh. “I want you to touch me.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing, the desire he’s been carrying all night dominates the rest of his self-doubt. Palming your ass with one hand and keeping the other on your side, he swoops in for another passionate kiss, more comfortable in initiating this time around. You simply let him have it, the edge of your dress riding up your thighs as your hips settle over his, the center of you pulsing after another greedy squeeze.

The need for his attention grows more ravenous as you sit prettily over his lap, carding your fingers through his graying strands. Discreetly, your hips hesitantly shift over his hips, feeling the evident bulge developing under your thigh. Marcus bites your bottom lip at your slight movement, pushing his hips closer to yours as his cock hardens in his slacks.

Plucking your lips away from his, you litter kisses over his cheek and the side of his jaw, nipping at the juncture where his jaw meets his neck. He grunts when you finally reach his neck, gliding your tongue over the vein that pulses along with the rest of him. Head thrown back on the edge of the couch, he lets you touch him however you want, kneading your rear with his thick fingers, skimming over more of your bare skin as your dress moves higher up your body. 

It all feels too good, the realization of just how touch deprived he is hits him like a ton of bricks. Here you are sitting on his lap, grinding against him in such a way he can feel your heat through his clothes, your scent wafting under his nose with your close proximity. It’s almost too much for him to take.

And he doesn’t want you to stop.

Controlling your movements over him, you adopt a steady rhythm gyrating your body against his thighs, his hands encouraging you with every push and pull. Your panties begin to stick to you, the gluttony enrapturing you growing to new heights as the erection hidden under expensive material twitches the harder you grind. Decorum out of the window, Marcus fantasizes what it must feel like to be between your legs; imagines if you taste just as sweet as you smell, or if your cunt would tighten and clench around him when he brought you to the edge over and over again until the only thing you remembered was his name.

His own imagination paired with your incessant humping forces his body to hit his peak prematurely, shuddering under you with a rasped groan. You’re stunned as his body betrays him, the bump in his pants deflating once the wave of pleasure is done washing over him, his grip tightening around your hips.

The air around you crackles despite the silence, stiff as you observe the man underneath you trying to catch his breath. You can tell he wasn’t expecting this to happen, much less to feel so much he ended up spilling in his briefs from a little bit of kissing and movement. His bearded cheeks are shaded with hints of pink and his eyes distantly off to the side, avoiding your observant gaze.

“Fuck, I am so sorry,” Marcus starts, the self deprecating thoughts running rampant in his head from his mediocre performance.

He curses himself, thinking he should’ve been better prepared for this, maybe jerked off before the date to begin with in hopes he would last longer. This certainly is a first for him, coming prematurely like a fucking teenager was not something he’s known for, and should be reason enough to bury him six feet under from the embarrassment.

“Don’t be. Honestly, it’s kind of flattering,” you affirm bashfully as the last bits of your arousal settle in your gut. “I think it’s hot.”

“Really?” Marcus flexes his eyebrows, seeking your reassurance.

“Feeling so good you just couldn’t help yourself? It’s sexy. I’ll take it as a compliment,” you express, kissing him sweeter than you had for the past thirty minutes. “I can clean you up if you want…”

Your hushed words make his cock twitch again despite already making a mess in his briefs. His mind is going into overdrive, envisioning you on your knees, pretty mouth wrapped around his length and your manicured nails handling the rest.

Next time.

“No, it’s alright. I’d rather repay the favor.” Sure, it might’ve appeared to be a form of damage control, but the reality is he’s developed a craving that only you could satisfy.

“You don’t have to Marcus, it’s fine really. I don’t mind.”

“I’m not the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied. Not in my character.” He kisses you again, reviving the same familiar pulse from between your legs. “Let me make you feel good.”

A whimper threatens to slip past your lips, but you swallow it down. From the way he kissed your lipstick off, you wondered what it would feel like to have his mouth on another part of you, granting you something you desperately needed since getting in the car from the restaurant. Reason had already left your mind a while ago, and your body spoke of your intentions before you confirmed them yourself, muttering an airy okay with a nod.

You barely register how smoothly he maneuvers you, the shift so seamless it feels like second nature. You’re sinking into the couch, your back meeting the plush cushions as he takes control.

Marcus doesn’t rush. He never does. Not in business, not in conversation, and certainly not in bed.

But right now, with you spread out on his couch, looking at him like you’re daring him to take whatever he wants, he feels something hungry unravel inside him.

He moves with intention, mouth against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. Your spine arches, breasts pressed up against his chest, fingers ghosting over his shoulders, clenching when he drags his lips from yours to your jaw, then down your neck.

You smell divine.

He lingers at your neck as he inhales against your skin, your perfume an aphrodisiac that disorients him, fogging his mind. It makes a groan vibrate deep in his chest, the sound sending goosebumps over your skin, your nipples hardening beneath the fabric of your dress.

Marcus cups your tits in his large hands, relishing the weight of them, the way they fill his palms so perfectly. He squeezes, kneading the satin-covered flesh, his thumbs dragging over stiffened peaks.

His deep exhale fans over your plump breasts before he continues downward, dragging slow, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His facial hair grazes your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips.

He licks the swells of your chest, teeth nipping at the supple skin, making you yelp playfully and you can feel the small smirk that pulls at his lips before he moves lower, veiled brown eyes flitting up to your flustered face as his tongue mouths your nipple over the dress, biting down on it softly.

“You like that?” He asks, already knowing the damn answer, the satin dampening beneath his tongue as he flicks and sucks at the hardened bud.

“Yes, Marcus…” The breathy sigh of his name is like music to his ears, neck tilting back as your eyes flutter close when he repeats the action on your other breast, kneading its twin in his large hand.

“You are so gorgeous.”

He shifts again, going lower, pushing the skirt of your pretty dress up until it’s bunched at your waist. His palms are warm and firm as he trails kisses above your mound, teasing you with his descent. Your thighs twitch under his touch, anticipation buzzing through you like an electric current.

He spreads your legs wide, pushing them up to your chest and keeping you in the position he wants by pressing his hands to the back of your thighs near where your knees bend.

The sight of your barely covered sex is more erotic than if you had forgone the undergarment all together. Short, dark curls tease him over the flimsy hem of your panties and his cock stirs at the sight despite the mess he’s already made in his slacks.

“She’s real pretty.” His voice drops an octave, the rasp in it making the compliment sound wanton. Your hips move on their own ever so slightly, a natural reaction your pussy is having to his tone, chasing the sound.

Marcus hums, a quiet sound of appreciation, feeding off every little tic of yours. His lips part slightly, tongue rolling over them as his attention remains on your thong.

Thin black lace, skimpy. Practically useless.

His fingers toy with the waistband, slipping beneath it, testing the stretch. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, he pulls and it gives, the sound of the fabric tearing setting you off even more.

He almost scoffs. The material of it feels expensive beneath his touch yet it rips so easily. He could easily buy you a hundred of these. Better.

Your eyes lazily find his and for a moment, there’s nothing but a silent exchange between you—a subtle tilt of your head, the slight arch of your brow, questioning. Are you really going to do it?

His smirk is slow, knowing. A dimple dents his cheek.

Yes.

And with that, he grips the lace and rips the damn thing off, throwing it over his shoulder. The ruined panties fall onto the coffee table behind him, forgotten.

Now you’re completely bare, the lips of your pussy spread from how he’s got your legs parted, sex aching and glistening beneath the dim opulent lighting. A perfect, needy mess just for him.

The soft trail of hair that leads down to your pretty cunt has Marcus leaning in, nuzzling his strong nose against you, inhaling the musky scent that lingers there, letting it invade his senses and seep into his bloodstream like an intoxicant. 

His tongue follows next, broad and slow, dragging up the length of the strip, savoring the contrast of coarse curls against the slick warmth of his mouth. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, earthy and sweet. You let out a drawn out moan, palms sinking into the couch as you attempt to ground yourself amidst the sensation.

“Shit,” the curse word is muttered, barely audible as you feel delirious from feeling him so close to where you need him. You don’t remember how long it’s been since you craved the touch of a man like this, and it doesn’t help that the alcohol you’ve been consuming all night is amplifying your lust.

Your pussy flutters involuntarily, a fresh trickle of sweet arousal slipping lower, trailing down to the curve of your ass.

Marcus is enraptured, taking in your exposed, creamy flesh, how your smell infiltrates his nose and it’s like his eyes gloss over with a carnal desire to devour you, eat you until you’re crying and begging him to stop.

He needs to reel it in, remind himself that it’s only the first night. He can’t overwhelm you too quickly, scare you away before he’s able to show you what he’s truly capable of. Of how good he can actually make you feel.

“So wet,” he mutters as he maps wet, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers sink into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading—reverent in his touch. He drags his lips closer, his breath ghosting over your messy cunt, teasing but never quite giving.

“Hard to hold back when you’re spread out like this,” he murmurs, nosing against the sensitive crease where your thigh meets your core. “But fuck, sweetheart… I don’t think I want to.”

“Didn’t get the impression that you could hold back.” The timbre of your tone makes him pause, pulling away slightly to look at you properly.

“If I really let you have it…you’d already be begging me to let you breathe.”

The glint of amusement that flickers through your gaze is gone in a blink, replaced by unguarded desire.

“I can handle it.”

His smoldering stare rises to meet yours, narrowing just slightly, a silent challenge passing between you. His thumbs press into your skin as if testing the truth of your statement.

You’re bracing yourself beneath his touch, muscles tensing in anticipation, as if proving to him that your words aren’t just bravado. You mean them. You want this. You want him.

Good. He wants you to need this as badly as he does.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, savoring, as if he’s tasting something forbidden, something he’s been denied for too long. But patience? That doesn’t last. It shatters the second he gets his first real taste, and the groan that rumbles deep in his chest is downright filthy.

Marcus is gone.

He buries himself into your pussy, tongue dragging flat up your slit before going taut and flicking up to your clit, testing what makes you gasp and elicit more of those sweet noises that fill his ears.

“Oh Marcus, just like that.” It’s as if he flips a switch that has your words pouring out. “You’re doing so good.”

Your praise melts into him, impassioning him. He’s been craving this kind of lust for years. It’s been too fucking long since he let himself indulge in his roaring sexual appetite.

He swirls your sensitive nub around with his tongue, sealing his lips around the pert flesh. He suckles on it, making out with your pussy, having you wail out like an aching woman.

Marcus thrives off the way your hips rock toward his mouth, groaning like he’s savoring a meal far more decadent than the dinner from earlier tonight.

Your heady and potent taste drowns his taste buds, clit pulsing against his tongue—all of it is enough to make him lightheaded. His big hands curl around your thighs, pulling you somehow closer, the friction of his nose and beard rubbing against your pussy making you keen and further lose yourself in the pleasure he is giving you.

“Fuck don’t stop, oh my god.” Your sounds turn pornographic, tugging at his hair while your other hand moves up to palm your own breast, the fabric of your dress slipping until your chest is exposed, nipples sensitive to the cool air.

The hand at your left thigh traverses up, nudging your hand out of the way and you let him grab a handful of your tit. The growl he emits vibrates against your sex as his fingers begin to roll and pull at the perky bud.

Marcus’ tongue then slips inside your fluttering entrance, fucking into you as his aquiline nose rubs your slick pearl.

The obscene sounds of his mouth working you over fill the room—sucking, slurping, the guttural groans that rumble from his chest every time he dives back in like he can’t get enough. Because he can’t. He’s drunk on you, addicted after only minutes, and the more you writhe beneath him, the more he loses himself in it.

Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. His name becomes a hymn as your orgasm looms, taunting you, threatening to end this beautiful, salacious act despite you wanting to live in this pocket of pleasure for the rest of the night.

You did not expect him to be this good or fucking eager. Most men treat a woman’s pleasure like an afterthought, something to be checked off a list before they roll over and chase their own release. But not him. He’s eating like he’s never going to get the chance again, showing you with every flick of his tongue, every messy, open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, exactly how much he enjoys this.

Your hand moves on instinct, covering his where it grips your breast, your nails raking over his knuckles and the sleek face of his expensive watch, dragging down until you can feel the veins running beneath his skin. His tongue doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, even as you babble through a desperate plea.

“I’m right there, mmm don’t stop, please.”

You gyrate against his handsome face, claiming him in the messiest, most unceremonious way, coating his chin, his nose, those full lips that have been driving you insane all night. 

He can feel your desperation in how your fingers clench his hair or how your other hand moves to grip the back of the couch, back arching high off the cushions. You’re unraveling for him, and fuck, that just makes him want to push you further.

Marcus doesn’t need his fingers to make you come. Just his mouth. Just his tongue plunging into you, curling, lapping up everything you give him, working you until you’re trembling—until those soft gasps turn into ragged, broken moans.

And when you finally finish, when you sob his name like it’s the only thing you know, Marcus still does not stop.

He takes your orgasm, drinks it down, tongue still lapping at your sex as your thighs snap shut around his head, as if you’re trying to pull him deeper, to keep him there. And he lets you smother him, lets himself drown in you.

It’s overwhelming. Your vision blurs, lashes wet with tears, streaks of mascara and eyeliner running down your cheeks. You’re coming apart under the relentless assault of his mouth again, your second orgasm stretching, rolling, growing into something bigger than yourself.

“I—I—” The words tangle in your throat, lost in the heat of it all, stolen by the wicked, practiced flicks of his wet muscle. When he pulls back, it’s only to drag his tongue over his bottom lip, hollowing his cheeks and spitting filthily onto your throbbing cunt.

“Thought you could handle it?” He taunts before diving back in, both hands returning to keep you firmly against his face.

You can’t think straight, thoughts slipping through your grasp like water. “T-Too much, oh—” you attempt to pull your hips away, body writhing as if you were a possessed woman, the overstimulation of it all feeling like you’re burning from the inside out in the best way possible.

But Marcus keeps you locked down tightly, staring intensely up at you, letting the edges of his teeth graze along your sensitive clit. A white-hot jolt of sensation rockets up your spine and makes you scream so high-pitched, you’re sure the windows of his penthouse rattle from the force of it.

Your back bows violently, stiffening as the pleasure crashes over you, unexpected and devastating. Your release gushes out in a messy, sinful rush, soaking the lower half of his face. Marcus groans deeply, slurping it, shaking his head against your cunt to smear it all over, the primal feel of it all only intensifying with each drop of yours that he tastes. 

Only when you finally slump against the couch, spent and trembling, does he ease up, pressing lingering kisses to your clit, enjoying how your pussy twitches from coming so hard. A thin string of your essence clings to his lips as he finally—reluctantly—pulls back, breathing heavily, dragging the back of his hand across his slick beard.

The blissfully wrecked look on your face is one that’s going to be burned into the back of his eyelids for eternity. It’s in this moment; as he takes in your swollen lips, ruined makeup, and your ravished body, that something in him clicks. It makes Marcus recognize that whatever this is sprouting between you two is something he wants to continue to chase.

He flashes you a lopsided smirk, one that deepens when the single curl falls onto his forehead. Kisses are placed on each quivering inner thigh in an attempt to soothe the tremors still running through your body, before he begins his ascent, reversing the path that led him to the heaven between your legs.

The skirt of your dress is smoothed down with careful hands, his large fingers tugging the fabric into place, covering you as if he’s tucking away something precious. Then, with the same tenderness, he draws the neckline back over your chest. But his lips don’t stop their journey. They find your neck, trailing up to your jawline, the corner of your mouth—teasing—before finally claiming your lips.

The smell of your pussy clings to him as he kisses you passionately, making you taste yourself. It makes the kiss filthier, his mouth moving against yours with the same fervor he’d shown between your thighs. You whimper into him, feeling the lazy roll of his tongue as he takes his time with you. Neither of you wants to break the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, still kneeling between your legs, his hand coming up to cradle your face, thumb grazing your cheek before tugging at one of the curls that’s slipped loose from your updo. “Taste so good, too.”

Your smile comes naturally—not coy, not calculated, but soft, bubbling over, breathless. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, and Marcus feels himself get lost in it, entranced by the way you look at him. If this is what he’s rewarded with every time he makes you come, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again.

“Thank you for not holding back,” you finally manage, your voice still wrecked, but carrying that teasing lilt. Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging lightly as you take him in—his dark, blown-out gaze, the shine of your slick still glistening on his beard. “Even if it looked like I was tapping out there for a second. You’ve got real magic in that mouth of yours.”

Marcus huffs out a laugh. “Thanks.” His brown eyes soften while he wipes the streaks of your makeup away with his thumb. You could stay like this all night, just looking, feeling, letting the attraction simmer until it boils over and you’re tangled in his sheets with his name on the tip of your tongue.

But you both know better. This is something to savor and let breathe, allowing chemistry to take the lead.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“More than I anticipated.” 

The answer strokes something deep in his chest, an ego he rarely lets get the better of him. But with you? He allows it, just a little.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. If it wasn’t obvious.”

You sigh, still reeling from his ministrations, tilting your head, unable to stop drinking him in. “Same here. You are a very intriguing man, Marcus.”

“And you are a very fascinating woman.” He gently takes the wrist of the hand in his hair, bringing it to his lips, placing a kiss on your palm. It makes your heart stutter. “I’ll call the driver to take you home if you want to go freshen up.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing, “Oh? You’re kicking me out?”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.”

The invitation lingers in the air between you, heavy with temptation. And it is tempting, yet despite the fact that he had his mouth buried between your thighs not even five minutes ago, you don’t want to lay all your cards on the table just yet.

“I’ll get out of your hair. My bed beckons me.” 

Marcus stands, offering his hand as he helps you to your feet, pointing you to the direction of the master bathroom. You feel the intensity of his gaze as you walk away, aware of how his eyes track the intentional sway of your hips. You can’t help but smirk.

Only when you disappear behind the door does he exhale, rubbing a hand down his jaw, feeling the sticky remnants of you still clinging to him. He glances at the ruined scrap of lace on the coffee table, sporting a smug smile of his own, grabbing his phone to call the driver.

Once your ride is handled, he moves around the space to gather your things, adjusting himself in his pants, cringing at the reminder of the mess that’s there. 

You emerge a few minutes later, face wiped clean, hair slightly more composed yet just as gorgeous, your legs carrying the delicious remnants of euphoria in every shaky step.

“Mailing you my doctor bill if this problem doesn’t go away anytime soon,” you joke, sinking onto the couch to slip your heels back on.

Marcus smirks, shaking his head as he watches you, holding your gathered belongings in his hands. “Think of it as a souvenir. Something to remember me by until we see each other again.”

“Yeah? And when will that be?”

“You tell me.”

You hum, pretending to consider as you rise to your feet, your body brushing just close enough to tempt. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

You reach for the delicate scrap of lace left abandoned on his coffee table. “You owe me a new pair, by the way.”

He chuckles, helping you slip into your jacket, then handing over your things. “That thing was on its last thread. Surprised it didn’t just dissolve off you with how soaked you got it.”

You roll your eyes, biting down on your lip as warmth creeps up your neck at the memory. He watches the way you react, the way your body still responds to him even now, and it only cements his need to see you again.

Guiding you out of the penthouse, he keeps conversation light, the easy chemistry between you both lingering like an unspoken promise. But the moment you step into the lobby, you feel the burn of the doorman’s knowing stare, his amusement barely concealed as he tips his head in greeting.

“Have a good night, miss,” he says, and you fight the urge to duck your head in embarrassment, thanking him quietly.

Outside, the cool Chicago night air wraps around you as a sleek black Escalade idles in the porte-cochère, waiting. Marcus, ever the gentleman, steps ahead to open the car door for you.

You stop just before getting in, looking up at him, your voice soft. “Thank you for tonight. I had a wonderful time—you’re great company.”

He grins. “Likewise, beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t deactivate your account when you did.”

Your heart flutters at that, and before you can second-guess it, you lean up on your toes, pressing a series of slow, lingering kisses to his lips. He hums against your mouth, his hand naturally finding its place on your waist, the metal of his ring grazing the fabric of your dress.

“Let me know when you make it home, alright?” he murmurs against your lips.

“I will.”

One last kiss, then you pull away, climbing into the backseat. You share a final, lingering glance through the open door.

“Good night, Marcus.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

You smile, and with that, he shuts the door. The SUV pulls away, disappearing into the city streets, swallowed by the skyline. Marcus watches until you’re gone, your touch still burning against his skin, your scent still clinging to his shirt.

He exhales heavily, running his fingers through his hair before turning back toward the building.

“Have a good evening, sir?”

Marcus smirks, the memory of your body, your taste, your voice still fresh in his mind.

“The best I’ve had in a long time.”

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

5:45 A.M || michael robinavitch

summary : before the rest of the world is even awake, Robby likes to steal a few more minutes of sleep.

warnings: none. just a slow and sweet drabble

pairing : michael “robby” robinavitch x fem!reader

a/n : if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

—

SOMETIME IN THE EARLY MORNING, when the sky is still in its inky blue-gray hues, Robby opens his eyes.

He looks over to the nightstand next to his bed and groans slightly as he awkwardly reaches for his phone to check the time.

He sees the time - 5:45 in the morning, and the alarm you asked him to set just below to go off at 6:15.

Robby blinks a few times, trying not to yawn too loudly as the phone awkwardly clatters back onto the side table after he turns the alarm off.

Just because he had to get up early doesn’t mean you had to. But you insisted because you wanted to make him breakfast before he left.

He looks over to you and smiles softly, a small huff escaping his lips. You’re still asleep, hair mussed and lips puffed out as you breathe softly.

The irony of you wanting to get up before him makes his chest rumble, you were not a morning person whatsoever.

He likes watching you like this, when you’re still somewhere between awake and asleep.

It makes his heart bloom with a warmth he hasn’t known in a long time – but with you, he feels safe to want everything with you.

Robby scoots closer into the middle of the bed. One of his arms sneaks underneath your side, while using the other free hand, big and warm in comparison to yours that always ran cold, to scoop you up into his embrace.

He pats the back of your thigh softly as his other arm holds you close to him, shushing into your ear softly.

Robby slings one of your legs softly over his waist, your foot from your leg that’s against his side tucked just under his leg to keep warm.

He knows he doesn’t have long before he has to get up and make coffee for the both of you, but he loves being like this more than anything.

Tucked in under the warmth of the comforter and your love, Robby moves to lie on his back so you’re more comfortable and he can keep himself wrapped around you. Like he wanted to protect you from the rest of the world. Like the only thing he knew for certain how to do was love you.

Your sleepy moan perforates the hushed silence, and Robby mumbles low in his throat with that syrupy slow morning drawl of his,

“Go back to sleep f’me, sweet’art.”

There’s only a hum from you, eyes still heavy and laden with sleep as your hand dances under his shirt, lightly scratching his side lovingly before tucking that too to keep warm.

Sleep comes back to Robby easily.

Yeah, the coffee can wait.

—

© espressheauxs, 2025