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Girl, you need a tequila and a cock in you right now.
Taggie hates to say it, but Shelley might be right. Well, about the tequila, certainly.
The second point feels slightly ambitious considering Taggie hasn’t properly flirted with anybody besides Rupert Campbell-Black in what now appears to have been the equivalent of several geological eras, according to Shelley. So you're telling me you didn't even fuck? Christ, how does that work? Isn't it a bit pathetic?
Quite, Taggie thinks, as she downs her fourth—or is it her fifth?—shot of gold tequila heat scorched right through the back of her throat.
She throws her head back, her damp, auburn curls tangling wildly around her shoulders. A few rogue strands are glued directly to the warm, flushed column of her neck where she’s been working up a sweat, hands sliding over her own ribs, feeling the damp cotton of her dress clinging stubbornly to her skin.
It is stiflingly hot in the room, thick with perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and the heavy scent of alcohol and sweat, but for once, the claustrophobia feels liberating. Taggie closes her eyes, a breathless, slightly unhinged laugh escaping her lips as she lets her arms float up.
Back when they still lived in Fulham, she’d done this once in a while, sneaking out with her school friends into the neon-lit blur of London, dancing until her shins ached, and then spent the entire tube ride home chewing peppermint gum and panic-praying that her parents wouldn't catch the smell of alcohol on her breath.
The bass thuds directly into the soles of her feet, a vibration that demands she keep moving, so Taggie twists her hips, her eyes locked shut as a giddy, reckless smile stretches across her face.
The fabric of her dress catches on her skin, damp and heavy, dragging deliciously against her chest every time she throws her hands up and she wishes someone was there to drag it up her arms, tugging the fabric up the sensitive flesh of her shoulders til it reaches the floor. No, Taggie thinks, not just someone.
She wants Rupert — no, scratch that, she needs Rupert. She feels like a spoiled child when it comes to him, wishing for him like a schoolgirl wishes for her Christmas presents, thinking about him morning, noon and night, her thoughts full of terrible, terrible things he would do and say to her til she's crimson in the face.
She doesn't want someone's hands, she wants Rupert’s heavy, calloused hands—the ones that handle those massive polo mallets with such sickeningly perfect precision—to be the ones bunching the cheap cotton of her skirt in his fists, his eyes the ones to rake over her like he wants to eat her alive, his tongue the one to plunge deep into her mouth til she can't breathe anything that isn't him, his—
Yeah, she thinks, Shelley is absolutely right.
"Hello?"
"You're awake!" Taggie chimes, a giddy, breathless laugh bubbling up in her throat. Hearing his voice cut through the static makes her heart do a ridiculous, happy flip, a sudden spike of heat pooling low in her belly.
"Taggie?"
"Hi," she slurs happily, twisting the coiled phone cord tightly around her fingers, a brilliant, unhinged smile stretching across her face. She is practically melting against the glass, her shoulder slumped heavily against the sticky partition of the payphone booth, her feet sliding slightly on the floor as she tries to keep her balance.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and she can just picture the frown forming in the crease between his eyebrows. In the background, there's the distinct, muffled rustle of a duvet being shoved aside as he sits up. "Taggie?"
"Yes, I'm brilliant!" she chirps, leaning her entire weight against the glass panel, which leaves a fogged-up circle from her warm breath. She glances around the dim, smoky corridor, then leans in closer to the mouthpiece, dropping her voice to a breathless, conspiratorial whisper. "I've had a bit of a drink." She says it in a tone like one would say a delicious, scandalous secret, her eyes closing as the sheer thrill of it makes her head spin.
"A bit, uh?" he asks.
"Yeah," Taggie sighs happily, her index finger tracing a slow, lazy circle over the cold metal of the coin slot. She shifts her weight, the damp fabric of her dress dragging deliciously against her sensitive skin, sending a fresh, heavy ache straight between her thighs. "A bit of a big drink."
"Are you alone?"
"I was with Shelley but well, she's a bit... occupied right now."
"Occupied?"
"Well, you know..." Taggie laughs, a sudden rush of heat making her face burn as she twists the coiled phone cord around her wrist.
"I don't, angel," he rasps, a faint, amused breath escaping him. "I've literally just woken up."
"She was, well..." Taggie drops her voice to a scandalous, tequila-soaked whisper, her heart hammering frantically against her ribs. "She was giving one of the twins' a..."
"Blowjob?" Rupert cuts in, his tone completely blunt and utterly unbothered.
"Yes! Blowjob! Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that to you." Taggie squeals into the mouthpiece, burying her blushing face in her free hand as a breathless, shocked laugh rips out of her.
"There's no need to be a prude, Tag." Rupert draws out, "Though I must say, it's a bit of a shock hearing it come out of your mouth."
"I'm not a prude," she says, her voice dropping into a defiant, breathless little pout as she tugs the phone cord tight.
"Aren't you?" Rupert murmurs, and she can practically hear the wicked, devastating smile in his voice. "Could have fooled me, angel."
"I'm not," she insists, her head rolling back against the glass partition. She swallows hard, her voice dropping to a soft, conspiratorial whisper. "Rupert?"
"Yes?"
"Are you alone?"
"I am."
"Where is Cameron?" she asks, her brow furrowing slightly as she tries to keep in mind that he's not hers, that he sleeps in a bed with someone who isn't her, that he fucks someone who isn't her. Bugger.
"I don't know, angel."
"I know we're not... that we're..." She trails off with a soft, tired sigh, unable to articulate the complicated space they inhabit. Giving up on the words, she leans forward, reversing her position to press her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the neon lights of the street outside blur together. "But could you...?"
"I'm putting my shoes on," he says. "Where are you?"
"Oh," she murmurs, a gentle, grateful smile finally touching her lips. "Uhm, Bar Sinister."
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Rupert replies, the rustle of his keys already tingling through the receiver.
"You can't possibly make it in ten minutes, Rupert."
Taggie can practically hear the slow, knowing grin spreading across his face on the other end, that familiar, confident warmth she knows by heart.
"Is that a dare, angel?"
She realizes, in a quiet burst of clarity, how much power she still holds over him, and how desperately she wants to protect him from it.
"No," she says softly, "I don't want you to speed and get hurt."
There is a brief, breathless pause on the line, she can feel him moving around through the speaker, the sound of his lips smacking together before speaking again.
"Oh, Tag."
He had said it exactly like that once before—in the quiet suspend of a heartbeat, right before his fingers had traced her hips and he had leaned in to kiss her.
Taggie grips the phone a little tighter against her ear, her mind helplessly drifting into the dangerous, quiet space of wondering. Would he still do it? If he walked through those doors right now, looked into her eyes, and saw how desperate she was, would he kiss her again?
Rupert arrives in less than ten minutes, a smug smile on his face when he spots her through the crowd. She stays frozen for a beat, her heart doing a nervous, excited flip in her chest. Seeing him in the flesh, detached from the safe distance of a phone, makes the reality of her decision rush back all at once. He looks entirely too good, entirely too solid, and far too comfortable crossing the crowded floor toward her.
"Nine minutes and forty seconds," Rupert says as he finally stops in front of her, his voice cutting through the bass of the music. He folds his arms, looking down at her with a mix of amusement and pure, gentle warmth. "I believe you owe me an apology."
"Look at you," she giggles, her voice a little too loud before she quickly claps a hand over her mouth. She beams up at him, her eyes bright and beautifully unfocused, a rosy tint flushing her cheeks. "You're like... a magic trick. Poof. Here is Rupert."
He's wearing a dark blue sweater and casual corduroy trousers, clothes that look so comfortable, so completely unlike the sharp, fancy suits she's used to seeing him in. He looks more handsome than usual, if that's even possible, with that unruly mop of hair he clearly tried to tame before getting into his car.
"You're very drunk." he says softly as he takes her gently by the arm, his fingers wrapping around her skin with a firm, protective grip as he guides her out through the heavy doors and into the crisp night air. God, this is pathetic. One squeeze of his hand and she's practically melting.
It’s infuriating how much she wants him, how much she wants to drag him into the nearest dark alley, rip that ridiculously sweater off his shoulders and touch those arms she's dreamt of for so long. Instead, because she has exactly zero dignity left, she just leans into his side like a lost puppy, letting the cool wind whip her hair across her face.
"I'm not," she insists, her tongue tripping over the syllables as she looks up at him with a pout. "I'm b-buzzed. Is that how you say it? Buzzed. Can you spell it?"
Rupert lets out a low, incredibly gentle chuckle, adjusting his pace to match her uncoordinated, zigzagging steps, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizingly sweet circle over her bare skin that makes her want to whimper.
"B-u-z-z-e-d," he spells out slowly, his deep voice a rich murmur right next to her ear. He gives her arm a knowing, supportive little squeeze, entirely attuned to the way her brain scrambles letters even when she isn't completely plastered. "The double-Z is a fucking drag."
Rupert keeps his arm firmly around her as they navigate the rest of the sidewalk, essentially steering her like a prized, fragile bicycle until they reach his car. He unlocks it quickly, opening the passenger door and carefully lowering her into the seat. Taggie feels completely liquid, her limbs heavy and uncooperative as she tries to fish the seatbelt out from behind her shoulder. Her fingers slip off the plastic buckle twice. She lets out a frustrated, pathetic little huff, staring down at the metal clasp like it’s a Rubik's cube.
"Here, I'll do it."
Taggie sinks into the passenger seat, tilting her head back briefly against the leather while Rupert leans across her to pull the seatbelt over her body. Which is a mistake. A fucking huge mistake.
Because suddenly he’s everywhere — one hand braces beside her hip, his curls fall slightly into his eyes as he reaches across her, mouth only inches from hers for one dizzy suspended second. Her hands twitch against her lap, her fingernails digging into her own palms to stop herself from grabbing his locks and tugging hard til he groans in his mouth much like he'd done the first time.
He smells like the crisp, biting winter air he just walked through, underlined by the faint, bitter edge of tobacco smoke, but beneath that is something entirely, purely Rupert. It’s a clean, intoxicating warmth, the familiar, expensive scent of his cologne mixing with the rich wool of his sweater and the bare skin of his neck.
"You smell nice," she hears herself whisper, the words slipping out in a soft, clumsy mumble before her brain can even attempt to construct a filter.
The metal buckle clicks home into the receiver, the sharp sound echoing in the silence of the car, but Rupert doesn't pull back immediately. He freezes, completely suspended over her, trapping her beneath the heavy, delicious weight of his presence. His hand remains braced tightly beside her hip, his knuckles digging into the leather seat.
In the amber glow of the streetlights bleeding through the windshield, his green eyes drop instantly to her lips, tracking the slight, breathless parting of her mouth, and for one terrifying, brilliant second, she thinks he might actually break. She can see the exact moment his pulse leaps in the hollow of his throat, his breath hot and ragged against her cheek.
"You, on the other hand, stink, angel," he murmurs, his voice a low breath so close that her lips catch the air of it. He tilts his head just a fraction, his nose brushing her hair.
Taggie wrinkles her nose, instantly indignant. "I do not—" she argues, though she completely ruins her defense by pointing a finger at his chest and missing by a good three inches.
Rupert’s lips twitch, a helpless grin breaking through his serious face. He catches her rogue finger mid-air, his hand warm and incredibly gentle as he folds it back down onto her lap. His eyes follow hers as they lower into their tangled fingers, pressed gently against her belly.
"Right," he murmurs, more to himself than to her, as he backs out of the passenger side entirely. Through the windshield, she watches him stand under the glow of the streetlight, taking a deep, chest-expanding breath of the freezing night air. He runs a hand through his already wrecked curls, looking up at the sky for a moment as if asking the universe for answers.
Taggie slumps deeper into the leather seat, cheek pressed lazily against the headrest while Rupert finally circles around the bonnet and slides into the driver’s seat, bringing a faint, welcome breeze of the warm summer along with him. She watches the movement of Rupert’s hands on the steering wheel, her tongue pressing absently against the inside of her teeth as he adjusts the mirrors one-handed, his long fingers, the blue-green veins beneath warm brown skin, the callouses roughened into his palms that she felt on her cheeks when he kissed her.
You need a cock inside you.
God.
Shelley may actually be a visionary.
Because Taggie does. She really, really does.
Rupert keeps his eyes locked strictly on the road ahead, his jaw tight enough that a tiny muscle leaps under his tan skin. He drives for exactly half a block, his knuckles whitening on the leather steering wheel, before he lets out a rough, defeated laugh that sounds more like a pained groan.
"Taggie," he starts, calm as a monk. "You need to stop looking at her like that."
"Like what?" she asks, the words slipping out small and breathless, completely lacking any real innocence.
Rupert lets out a low laugh beneath his breath.
“Angel,” he says quietly, eyes fixed dead ahead now, “I’m already having a genuinely terrible evening.”
Taggie shifts, curling her bare legs up onto the leather seat and tucking her knees to her chest.
"Tell me about it?" she asks, the question slipping out so sweetly, so entirely devoid of the game-playing he’s probably used to, that the tight line of Rupert’s shoulders immediately gives way. A faint, remarkably genuine smile touches his lips as he keeps his eyes on the dark, tree-lined road, but the hard edge in his jaw softens.
"It's Helen," he says quietly, his voice producing a deep, exhausted sigh that makes Taggie's chest ache. He takes a breath, his fingers loosening on the wheel. "She wants full custody of the children."
"She can't do that, can she?" Taggie murmurs, her brow furrowing deeply.
Rupert lets out a low, rough sound that tastes entirely like a cry for help. "She can, and she will. No one will deny her request, not when her ex-husband is such a... reprobate."
"I mean, reprobate..." Taggie slumps back against the headrest, her head rolling to the side so she can keep her eyes locked on the elegant arch of his nose. "If anything, it almost makes me forget you're a Tory."
A genuine, booming laugh breaks from his chest, loud, bright, and entirely helpless. It’s the first real sound of life she’s heard from him in weeks, and he shakes his head as he glances over at her, his green eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that makes her heart do a violent flip.
“You know,” she says lazily, drawing out her words, “you’re very pretty when you laugh.”
Rupert groans softly under his breath.
“Taggie.”
“No, seriously.” She gestures vaguely toward him with one limp hand. “Men shouldn’t be allowed eyelashes like yours. They're longer than mine."
He cuts a quick, flashing look at her profile, his lips twitching, though his hands grip the steering wheel a fraction tighter. "Are you envious?"
"Immensely," she murmurs, her tongue feeling heavy and clumsy against her teeth as she sighs into the leather. "You get to look like that, while I'm just..."
"Stunning," Rupert corrects quietly, "You're just stunning, Taggie."
"Mm. You're just being nice."
"I have never been accused of being nice in my entire life," Rupert chuckles.
"Well, you are to me," Taggie insists. Her head leaves the headrest as she sits up straight, her eyes wide, bright, and intensely focused on him.
Rutshire drifts around them in sleepy streaks of moonlight while the heater hums softly against Taggie’s bare legs. Rupert drives one-handed again now, slower than usual, fingers loose on the wheel while the other rests near the gearstick. Every few minutes his eyes flick toward her automatically, checking she’s all right without seeming aware he’s doing it. Taggie watches him do it over and over again.
God. She wants to crawl into his chest cavity and live there permanently. She wants him unbearably. Not only sexually — though God, that too, in humiliating quantities — but in every possible way a person can want another human being. She wants to know every thought in his head. Wants to crawl into his bed and under his skin and into the empty aching spaces inside him he never lets anybody touch properly.
“I don’t want to go home,” she says quietly.
"Where do you want to go, angel?" Rupert asks quietly.
"Wherever you're going," she says.
The Jaguar slows gradually, the buzz of the engine dropping into a rumble that vibrates straight through the floorboards and up into Taggie’s thighs. Gravel crunches softly beneath the tyres as Rupert turns off the road into a dark, empty layby hidden entirely beneath a dense canopy of overhanging trees.
He kills the headlights and the world outside vanishes, swallowed by the thick, ink-black Rutshire night. The only illumination left is the faint, ghostly glow of the dashboard clock and the tiny, hot pinpricks of light from the climate control, and even though she's practically in the middle of nowhere in the company of a reprobate, she's never felt safer in her whole life.
Rupert’s hands remain locked around the steering wheel for a long moment after the engine dies. Taggie watches the rise and fall of his chest in the dim glow of the dashboard, slower than before but deeper somehow, like he’s trying to physically breathe his way back under control.
It doesn’t appear to be working particularly well.
"I've got to get you home," Rupert says, his voice a little too quiet, a little too level.
"That's not why I called you," Taggie says.
The click of her seatbelt releasing is shockingly loud in the silence of his car. Rupert’s eyes flash sideways, tracking the movement as she slides across the leather seat, closer to the center console. She leans forward, invading his space, until the warm, shallow puffs of her breath are brushing directly against his cheek.
"No?"
"No," she whispers.
He lets out a slow, ragged exhale through his nose, his own breath fanning over her face, hot and smelling faintly of the crisp night air. When he finally turns his head to look at her, they are so close their noses almost brush. In the dim, ghostly amber glow of the dashboard, his green eyes are almost black, dilated and heavy.
"Why, then, darling?" he murmurs, gently as a caress.
"I called you because..." She hesitates, her lips nearly brushing his jawline as she speaks, her voice dropping even lower. "Because Shelley said I need a..."
Rupert doesn't blink. He doesn't move a fraction of an inch, but his long fingers grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. "Yes? What do you need?"
"A c–cock inside me tonight," she breathes. The words are heavy and clumsy on her tongue, an obscene secret shared between them in the dark.
Rupert’s chest heaves once, a sharp intake of air rattling in his throat as her breath hits his mouth.
"A cock?" he repeats, almost mockingly.
"Yours," she whispers, her gaze dropping dead on his mouth, then sliding down to his lap where his trousers stretch tight over his thigh. "I want yours."
Rupert looks down at her, tracking the desperate, wide focus of her eyes, the dark flush staining her cheeks, and the way her lips are parted, wet and trembling, waiting for him. Before Taggie can even draw breath, his large hand crashes against the back of her neck, his fingers burying deep into her hair to anchor her, and his mouth slams down onto hers.
The impact is sharp, almost violent, sending a blinding jolt of adrenaline straight from the crown of her head down to her toes. It's nothing like the tenderness their first kiss bestowed upon them, soft, tender pressure in the hue of her kitchen, lips moulding slowly against each other til they became one.
He tastes of the dark, expensive tobacco he always smokes, the clean, bitter edge of the gin she knows he drinks before bed, and beneath it all, the deep, spicy sweetness of his own skin. Every breath she tries to take is just him. He is breathing directly into her lungs—hot and thick with a desperate, unchecked hunger that scares her as much as it thrills her.
Her ears are roaring with the sound of their combined pants, her lips are entirely crushed beneath his, and her skin feels like it is melting wherever his heat touches her. She is completely trapped, entirely consumed, and she has never felt more alive.
"Tag, Tag, you're drunk," he groans against her mouth, the syllables broken and heavy, but he doesn't pull away. His forehead presses against hers in the dark, warm and feverish just like hers. "I'm trying... I am trying to behave honourably here."
Oh, not this again.
"'M not," she whines directly into his mouth, the sound a desperate, frustrated whimper.
She drags her hands up his chest, the crisp cotton of his sweater bunching beneath her palms, until her fingers bury themselves deep into his hair. It’s longer than it was when they kissed the first time, thicker, wilder, curling slightly over his collar. She grips it ruthlessly, fistfuls of dark silk, tugging his head back down to hers so he can't escape the heat of her.
"You've always been a bastard," she gasps out, her lips brushing his stubbornly, her voice dropping to a fierce, reckless accusation. "Everyone says so. Why on earth do you need to be decent now?"
Rupert lets out a rough, scraped-back sound—halfway between a laugh and a sob—as her fingers tighten in his hair. He doesn't shake her off, but his large hands find her waist, holding her still, keeping her from grinding herself completely against him.
"Because of you," he groans, nudging her cheek with his nose. "Don't you see that? You make me want to be so good, Taggie. Good like you."
A hot, tight ache surges up her throat, and for a terrifying second, she thinks she might actually sob. She doesn't want to be his angel. She doesn't want to be the cure for his soul tonight, hoisted up on some pristine pedestal where he can only look and never touch.
She wants the man from the headlines. She wants the insatiable rake who knows exactly how to ruin a woman, who knows how to take what he wants without asking permission. She wants to be consumed by him, entirely and irreversibly, until there is nothing left of the quiet, safe life she’s outgrown.
A single, hot tear escapes, tracking a burning line down her flushed cheek, but her grip in his hair only tightens, her fingernails digging ruthlessly into his scalp.
"I don't want you to be good," she whispers, her chest heaving against his as she leans in until her lips are grazing the sensitive shell of his ear "I want you to be bad. So bad, Rupert. Please."
He seems to be under her spell, for his massive hands lock onto her waist like iron clamps, his long fingers digging unmercifully into the soft flesh above her hips, dragging her closer and closer til her shins bump into the cold console.
She scrambles for purchase, her hands clawing at his sweater, her fingers bunching the material as she clambers over the barrier, landing on his lap with a bounce, straddling his thighs in the cramped dark of the driver's seat.
Oh god, she thinks, her head spinning as the sheer size of him swallows her whole. Finally. Finally. Her skirt is pushed all the way up to her hips, leaving the bare, sensitive skin of her inner thighs pressed flush against the rough fabric of his trousers.
She feels feverish as his hands leave her waist and slide down to grip her bare buttocks, his long fingers burying into her flesh, lifting her slightly and slamming her back down against the line of his cock.
"God, I missed this pretty mouth," he groans against her lips, kissing it one two three times til she pins him against the headrest and starts snogging him in the earnest.
"Just my mouth?" she whines, her hands tightening in his hair, tugging just enough to force his eyes to meet hers.
"All of you," he chokes out, "So much, Taggie. It's been absolute hell."
His fingers twist slightly, his knuckles brushing her forehead where her hair now frames her face. He has a tender look in his eyes, the one he reserved for her when she was splayed on the floor with Marcus and Tabitha, eyebrows softened in a way that makes him look younger.
"I like your hair like this," he murmurs.
He slides his fingers through the shorter strands, letting the silk of it slip through his palms.
Before she can even process any of his words, before she can utter a pathetic thank you, his large hands are moving with a frantic impatience that matches perfectly her own. He leaves her hips, his long fingers finding the small, delicate buttons running down the front of her sundress. He doesn't tear them, he values her too much to ruin her hard worked things, but he snatches them open with a trembling speed that makes her heart leap into her throat.
The linen parts with a series of satisfying pops, and Rupert doesn't even bother taking the dress off her shoulders. He just hooks his large thumbs inside the neckline and pulls the flaps of the fabric outward, spilling her breasts right out into the cold air, completely bare to the waist.
Taggie watches him from underneath her eyelashes, completely frozen, her breath caught in a tight, shallow knot in her throat. She can’t take her eyes off his face, not when he seems so entranced by her soft nipples.
"Pretty," he remarks. "Just like you."
She blushes, a fierce, lovely crimson that bleeds down her neck and spills across her bare chest, making her feel completely exposed and incandescently beautiful all at once.
"Need to suck on these," he murmurs, hooking his palms around her hips, pulling her down harder against his crotch. Her hips roll instinctively, melting against him as she grinds down sloppily, completely consumed by the sheer, blinding heat of him beneath her.
Before she can even catch her breath, his dark head dives, and his warm, wet mouth locks around her nipple. Taggie almost shrieks, her back arching off his lap as she grips his shoulders for dear life. He sucks her nipples like he's feeding off her, his tongue swirling around the peak until she is whimpering, her hands tangling desperately in his hair as he leaves her chest wet with his warm saliva.
"You've been driving me crazy with these little dresses," he groans against her skin. He pulls her in even deeper, his teeth grazing the sensitive base of her tit just enough to make her gasp. "Hiding these pretty things from me."
Taggie rocks against his lap again instinctively, and Rupert groans softly against her skin, forehead dropping briefly to her chest. His hands tighten possessively at her hips like he’s restraining himself from pulling her even closer.
“You’ve got absolutely no idea,” he mutters roughly, “what it’s been like watching you walk around in these.”
The concept of Rupert, who's been constantly surrounded by women in heels, women in suits, women with plunging necklines, struggling to get it together at the sight of her unimpressive summer dresses has her chuckling a little against his forehead, gently kissing the skin there.
His fingers drag teasingly along the hem of her dress, tugging it up til she's quite literally half naked in the lap of a still completely dressed man. She has to remedy that. She grabs fistfuls of his sweater and practically yanks it over his head in one impatient movement, half laughing when Rupert’s curls come out even more wrecked than before.
“There,” Taggie says breathlessly. “Better.”
Rupert barely has time to grin before she’s kissing him again, her hands roam shamelessly over his bare chest, nails scraping lightly through the dark hair there just to feel the way his body reacts. Rupert groans straight into her mouth and drags her harder against him by the hips, his restraint visibly fraying now with every second she spends writhing in his lap.
“Jesus Christ, Taggie,” he mutters against her lips.
She loves when he sounds overwhelmed by her. Absolutely loves it.
Taggie kisses down his throat greedily, mouthing at warm skin while Rupert’s head tips back against the seat with a rough exhale. She can feel how hard he is beneath her now through his trousers, hot and insistent every time her hips shift accidentally against him.
Rupert’s hands close around her waist the second she deliberately grinds down against him, his fingers digging into the bare skin of her thighs hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow.
“There she is,” he groans quietly. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Taggie nods against his throat immediately, too gone now to pretend otherwise. Rupert’s breathing roughens at the movement, his mouth brushing hotly against her temple while his hands slides slowly down between their bodies.
His fingers hook into the edge of her panties, and Taggie lets out a soft, needy whine, lifting her hips instinctively to give him whatever he wants. Rupert strips the cotton down her thighs, casting them aside into the dark footwell of the car, spreading her legs wider on his lap til her knees bump into the console again.
The sudden rush of cool air hitting her bare skin makes her shiver, but everything around her vanishes the exact second his large, hot palm cups her mound. Taggie gasps aloud, her entire body locking up as his hand molds perfectly to her heat. He is devastatingly warm, the rough calluses of his skin sending a shockwave of friction straight through her wet, aching cunt. She buries her face back into the crook of his neck, her teeth grazing his jaw as she tries to rock her hips into his hand, eyes rolling back when she feels his fingers slide through her wet lips. Oh, God. God, I'm gonna die.
"Oh, Tag. I knew an angel like you would have the prettiest cunt," he groans, the words muffled against her ear as he pushes a long finger deep inside her.
Taggie grips his broad shoulders for dear life, her bare hips rolling in a sloppy, desperate circle as she tries to swallow his finger completely.
"Another one." she whines, biting the back of her hand when his mouth resumes the gentle torture on her puffy nipples, tongue laving the sensitive peaks til she's a boneless puddle in his arms.
"Taggie, darling, slow down," Rupert murmurs against her neck, incredibly tender as his thumb finds her swollen, sensitive clit. "You're so tiny, angel. Let me open you up first."
"No." she sighs, pressing closer into his hands. Rupert complies, because that's what he does when it comes to her, sliding a second long finger right alongside the first. Taggie wails, her eyes flying wide as her walls are forced to widen to accommodate him.
"There," Rupert mutters softly, his breath hitching as her slick walls instantly clamp down around both fingers, pulsing in tight, desperate waves. "Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes," she whimpers, her head tossing back against his shoulder as she loses all rhythm, her bare pelvis grinding sloppily, heavily against his hand while his lips trail a hot, wet path from her collarbone back up to her jaw.
"Rupert, it's too much," she gasps, but she’s not pulling away—she’s doing the exact opposite, throwing her weight forward, her bare thighs sticking to his trousers as she grinds her pelvis ruthlessly against his knuckles. She lets out a loud, unbothered laugh that morphs instantly into a whimpering sob when his thumb bears down on her swollen little nub. "Oh God. You're... you're doing it on purpose."
"Doing what, angel?" he mutters, his breath hot against her tender collarbone. He doesn't slow down, rubbing her clit over and over until her vision goes spotted.
"You know what," she pants, her fingers tangling desperately in his short, dark hair, pulling his face up because she wants to taste him. Rupert groans against her lips, a deep, defeated sound that vibrates straight down into her chest. He hooks his arm under her thighs, lifting her slightly to change the angle, driving his fingers deeper and oh, that's good. That's really good.
Taggie’s forehead thumps against the leather seat behind him, her chest heaving, her pleasure isn't a gentle wave, but a violent, blinding pressure building right behind her belly button. She can feel her internal walls starting to twitch and clamp around him, getting tighter and tighter until it actually hurts a little, a good, desperate kind of hurt.
"Rupert, I'm—," she wails, her slurred voice rising in a blind panic as the ceiling of the car seems to spin.
"I know, angel." he groans, his own face flushed, his green eyes locked onto hers with a terrifying intensity that makes her feel completely seen, completely adored. "Come on, Tag. Give it to me."
He delivers three fast, heavy strokes, his thumb tantalising her clit one last time, and Taggie snaps. A loud, unraveled shriek tears from her throat as her body goes completely rigid, her back arching so high her head hits the roof of the car.
His large, hot palms immediately cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair to soothe the sharp bump against the car ceiling. He pulls her down firmly against his chest, tucking her face into the crook of his neck while his thumb gently, repeatedly strokes the exact spot where she'd knocked her head.
"I've got you," he whispers, his breath hot and uneven against her damp hairline. "I've got you, angel. Shh, you're alright."
Her cunt spasms violently, clamping down on his fingers like a vice, she loses all control of her muscles, her hips jerking helplessly against his hand as a flood of hot, slick release pours over his knuckles, soaking through his trousers.
She’s sobbing, laughing, and panting all at once, totally spent, melting down into his chest like wax until she’s just a warm, heavy, panting puddle in his arms.
"Rupert, I hit the roof. Literally." she giggles slurrily, the sound muffled by his skin as she hooks her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a barnacle.
"I know, you completely mad girl," he groans, a breathless, rich chuckle vibrating in his chest beneath her cheek. He doesn't stop the soothing pressure of his hand on her head, his fingers smoothing down her tangled hair. "You nearly took the top of the car off. Quiet down now, let me look at it."
He tilts her face up, his dark green eyes scanning her flushed face while his other hand is still soaked and buried deep within her, he leans in to press a soft, lingering kiss directly to her forehead, right beneath the spot he’s rubbing, as if he could simply charm the pain away.
"Do you know," she starts, her voice looping and dizzy as she traces the sharp line of his collarbone with a clumsy finger, "Mummy's play... it was all about this potion. A magic juice that makes you forget the one you love. Or makes you love the wrong person. It's all a big, messy muddle."
"Mmm. I'm sadly familiar with A Midsummer Night's Dream," Rupert murmurs, a wry, soft smile tugging at his lips. His fingers give a tiny, lazy twitch inside her, just enough to make her gasp and tighten around him all over again. "Though I usually don't discuss Shakespeare while wrist-deep in a girl."
"Ha. I didn't know it," she continues, entirely unbothered by his smile, her eyes wide and owlish with honesty. "I thought it was so sad. Watching people's hearts get rearranged while they're sleeping."
Rupert’s thumb stops its lazy stroking against her clit. "Is that why you went out tonight? You wanted a magic potion?"
Taggie lets out a tiny, hiccuping sigh, her head dropping back against his shoulder as she looks up at the dark car ceiling. Her orgasm (well, her very first one, though Rupert doesn't know that yet) has left her tender and raw, more vulnerable than ever. "Mm. Turns out tequila isn't a very good potion. In fact, I still have one thing on my list."
"One thing?" Rupert asks, pressing his wet fingers on the fleshy meat of her hips. She nods, closing her eyes when his hands slide down to her bum, squeezing tight in his palms.
"Just one, I swear."
Her fingers fumble with the top button of his trousers and his breathing just turns incredibly shallow, his fingers digging into her ass as he watches her dragging the zipper down. The metallic slide is instantly cut off by the guttural groan that punches out of his chest when his heavy, burning length springs free into her waiting hands.
Taggie gasps, her small palm wrapping around his thick shaft. He is scorching hot, pulsing frantically under her grip, and so much larger than anything she’s ever experienced.
"Oh," she breathes, her thumb naturally tracing the wet, smooth crown of his head.
"Fuck," he curses, tight-lipped.
"I like it," she confesses shamelessly, a little giggle catching in her throat as she slides her hand down to the base of his shaft and then all the way back up, smoothing the slick pre-cum over his hot skin. She loves the absolute power she has over him right now—this giant, untouchable man completely undone by her clumsy grip. "Do you like it?"
"You little witch," he groans, his hips twitching upward into her hand instinctively. Taggie gives him another slow, squeezing stroke, her thumb rubbing over the ridge of his crown just to watch his jaw lock up and he releases her hips, his hands flying up to cup her face, his thumbs catching her jawline to force her mouth up to his.
Taggie whimpers into the kiss, completely drunk on the taste of him, on the way her mouth isn't her mouth anymore, it's his and only his, like every other part of her.
Breaking the kiss with a wet gasp, she shifts her weight as the tip of his thick cock brushes right against her soaking, over-sensitized lips, and the sheer heat of the contact makes her hips twitch frantically. He's going to split her in two.
"Rupert," she pants, her voice thick and demanding as she guides him blindly with her hand, trying to press her weight down to swallow him. She presses down clumsily, but he is simply too big, the blunt, heavy crown stretching her entrance so suddenly that she lets out a sharp, breathless cry, her body locking up.
"Fucking hell, Taggie—" Rupert groans, his hands instantly dropping from her face to hold tightly around her hips, halting her movement before she can hurt herself. His knuckles are white, his chest heaving as he holds her still, just barely catching his breath. "Slow, angel. Slow."
"No," she whines, her hands clutching his broad shoulders, her hips making a desperate, sloppy little shove against his will. "It's too big. Help me."
"I am, I am," he strains out, his voice dropping into a rough, incredibly tender sigh that completely undoes her. He adjusts his grip on her fleshy hips, his hands guide her pelvis with agonizingly slow precision as he tilts her back just a fraction, changing the angle to make it easier for her tight, unaccustomed body.
He pushes up slightly, just letting the broad head of his shaft part her wet lips, notching himself at her opening.
"You're so good, Tag," he murmurs against her mouth, his lips brushing hers as he speaks, trying to soothe the tension in her muscles. "Just drop your weight. Slowly. Let me open you up."
The stretch is immense, a burning fullness that completely recalibrates her senses, filling her up until she feels like she might burst from the sheer scale of him.
Rupert catches his breath between his teeth, his jaw locked hard as her slick walls reluctantly widen, swallowing him inch by inch. He keeps his hands locked like vices on her waist, controlling the descent, forcing her into the agonizingly slow pace she begged to skip.
Does he fuck Cameron the same way? Does he touch her like he touches me? Does he call her angel? Is this all for me? Is it just mine? Please, God, let it be just mine.
"That's it, angel, you can do it." he pants, sliding all the way in to the hilt. Taggie gasps loudly, her head tossing back as her eyes roll back in her head. The sensation of being completely filled by him is so overwhelming that she instinctively stretches her legs wider, wrapping her thighs tighter around his waist to accommodate the massive weight inside her.
Taggie pants heavily, her breath coming in shallow puffs against the fogged-up glass of the car window. I'm gonna die. Her hands slide down from his shoulders to clutch frantically at his biceps.
She loves his arms—loves how thick and solid they are, how completely safe she feels locked within them, even as her entire lower half feels like it's burning up from the inside out. Rupert sits perfectly still for a long moment, letting her body adjust to his size, his forehead heaving against her bare breasts.
"That's what you needed, isn't it?" Rupert croons, "A cock inside you?"
Taggie hooks her arms tighter around his neck, burying her face into his throat as she rolls her hips in a tiny, desperate circle against him, completely drunk on the feel of him stretching her open.
"Your cock," she pants out shamelessly, her lips brushing the hot skin of his jaw. "Just yours."
"You're so sweet," he murmurs, his voice cracking with a raw tenderness she’s never heard from him before. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, his large hands trembling slightly where they grip her waist. "My darling Taggie. My sweet, beautiful girl."
"Yours?" she whispers.
"Always," he groans, "Always, angel."
"What did you wish for, then?" she asks slurrily, her voice dropping into a sleepy, curious murmur against his skin, her hips giving a small, instinctive upward hitch that slides her a centimeter up his thick shaft. "The other day."
"I can't tell you."
"You have to," she insists with a stubborn, drunken little whine. Taggie crawls closer, burying herself entirely in his warmth, deliberately sinking her weight back down until she is fully bottomed out on him again. She trails her lips upward, peppering soft, wet, desperate kisses along the sharp line of his jaw, over the rough stubble of his cheek, and finally pressing her mouth to his lips in a clumsy, sweet demand.
"I wished..." he starts, his voice cracking, sounding lower and rougher than she’s ever heard it as he slowly lifts her hips a fraction, unable to stop the agonizingly slow friction between them.
"Yeah?" she pants, her heart hammering against his ribs, her thumb tracing the wet line of his lower lip while she tightly clasps her burning thighs around his waist.
"I wished that you could be the mother of my children," he confesses, hands coming up to cup her cheeks once again. Taggie freezes, her breath completely catching. A sudden, hot prickle stings the back of her eyes, and before she can stop it, a quiet sob catches in her throat. The tears spill over immediately, hot and fast, tracking down her flushed, ruined cheeks.
"Rupert," she wails softly, the crying turning instantly into a desperate need to consume him entirely, to give him everything she is. She doesn't care anymore that she’s never done this properly, or that he’s massive enough to split her in half.
Clutching his neck with a white-knuckled grip, Taggie throws her weight forward and starts riding him fully. She lifts her hips and drops back down with total, wanton abandon, her tight walls clamping and sliding ruthlessly against his thick, burning length.
Through the hot blur of her tears, she looks down at him, and the sight of his adoring face almost brings a second sob to her throat. The mother of his children. A baby in her belly, their baby. Taggie presses her palm against her sweaty tummy, frowning when she touches the flat of it, aching for him to fill her anywhere he can.
"Fill me, then," she whimpers, her voice breaking as she presses her hand even harder against her flat stomach, trying to push against the phantom weight of a future she wants so badly it hurts. She rocks her pelvis forward, grinding her soaked, swollen heat ruthlessly against the thick base of his shaft. "Please, please."
The last shred of his control snaps like a dry twig, his powerful thighs shifting beneath her as he hoists her body up and drives himself into her with a punishing, relentless pace. He is completely ruthless now, his heavy cock bottoming out inside her with every frantic thrust, stretching her so wide she feels like she’s melting around him.
"My pretty baby giving me a baby," he groans against her skin, his mouth moving frantically over her face. He peppers rough, wet kisses across her flushed cheek, down the sharp line of her jaw, and back up to her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears.
"Yes," she cries out, the word splintering into a breathless sob as his lips crush against hers.
Rupert slides one large hand down between their soaking bodies, because you deserve to come, darling, don't you? and his fingers find the slippery, sensitive bundle of nerves at her apex, rubbing her abused clit til she cries out against his cheek, hands knotting into the hair at the nape of his neck as he murmurs sweet nothings into her ear, turning her insides into mush as he holds her tight and tells her you're everything, i'm such a fool, forgive me, forgive me.
She breaks first, the sheer pleasure of it fracturing her entirely, tight walls convulsing down on his buried cock as her orgasm rolls through her. She thrashes back against his shoulder, completely paralyzed by the sweet, blinding heat of her own climax, her heart hammering wildly against his chest.
Rupert follows suit, pinning her hips down against his lap, holding her as close as humanly possible, his body shuddering with a head-to-toe tremor as he unloads his seed deep inside her, kissing her in the fogged-up dark of the car until all they can hear is the tangled sound of their own satisfied sighs.
Rupert rests his forehead against her collarbone, his chest rising and falling in deep drafts and his hands, now spanning the expanse of her back, soften their grip—no longer pinning her down but simply holding her to him, as if ensuring she won't vanish into the dark.
"Stay right there," he murmurs.
Taggie lets out a soft, exhausted laugh, her fingers weakly tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. "I don't think I could move even if I wanted to."
I'd stay here forever.
Rupert shifts them just enough so she can lean back against his chest, pulling his sweater over her shoulders to shield her from the slight chill of the night. She smiles into his skin, eyes burning up at the tenderness of his gesture.
"If I fall asleep right here, are you going to carry me?" she murmurs against his neck.
"Mmm. How does a piggyback sound?"
Taggie smiles into the crook of his neck, her eyelids heavy but her heart completely full. "Lovely."
Rupert hums quietly in response, his mouth brushing once against her hairline, his hand still moving lazily up and down her back beneath her dress, big warm palm smoothing over her skin in absent strokes that almost put her to sleep.
She loves the way his body automatically makes room for hers, the way he, for all his chaos and his scandals and irresistible beauty, somehow feels more like home than anything else in her life. He feels more grounding than her own parents, more familiar than her siblings, and entirely more essential than anyone she has ever met in her twenty years on this earth.
Taggie thinks maybe that’s why she can’t stop coming back to him, no matter how angry she gets, no matter how much the world tries to pull them apart. Because Rupert makes her feel chosen, a deep, terrifying kind of devotion that she has wanted her whole life without even realizing it until he laid it at her feet.
"I wish there was a potion like the one in the play," she murmurs, her voice small and drowsy against his throat. "So I could wake up and forget about you completely."
Rupert stiffens just a fraction beneath her, his chest expanding with a sharp, quiet breath. His arms tighten around her waist, holding her closer as if the mere thought of her forgetting him is a physical blow to his chest.
She tries to say it lightly, like a private joke nobody else can understand, but the truth slips through anyway somewhere in the middle of the sentence. Because loving Rupert feels wonderful right up until it doesn’t. Right up until Cameron. Right up until he disappears for weeks. Right up until she remembers he belongs to the world and not to her.
"I would never want to forget you," he says, gentle as a feather.
Taggie lets out a soft, melancholic sigh, her fingers idly tracing the nape of his neck. "Mm. Well, life isn't a play."
Rupert is quiet for a moment, his chin settling against her forehead as he stares out into the fogged-up glass of the car. "I don't remember how it ends," he admits softly. "Does it have a happy ending?"
She closes her eyes, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. "Didn't seem too happy to me. I don't understand these things."
"Me neither," Rupert confesses, a trace of rough self-deprecation in his tone.
“Good,” she murmurs sleepily against his chest. “We can be phi-lis-tines together.”
“Oh, Christ,” he mutters, his shoulders shaking slightly as the tension fully drains out of him. “Your father’s insults have really endured, haven’t they?”
“That one was quite good.” she mumbles, pressing her ear further into his chest. Listening to the steady thud of his heart beneath her cheek, she feels a profound wave of peace wash over her.
She doesn’t think anyone has ever made her feel this safe before and it's not because Rupert is good exactly — he isn’t, not really, not in the clean, simple way good people are supposed to be. Rupert lies and cheats and breaks things and leaves disasters behind him everywhere he goes. Everybody knows that. But when it comes to her, there’s this – this necessity in him, as if somewhere along the way Rupert Campbell-Black accidentally placed her at the center of himself, his world, his heart and now doesn’t know how to move her.
Doesn't want to.
Which suits Taggie perfectly.