Archive of Our Own

“- year-old female. Subdermal laceration beneath the right eye. There appears to be some foreign body, likely a piece of fingernail, lodged inside. Needs to be debrided, flushed, and prepped for suture.” The young doctor by your side explains as more file in. Lucky for you, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is a teaching hospital. That means there are extra, eager hands to treat you during your unexpected trip to the emergency room.

Unlucky for you, that looks like a few too many bodies packed into the small, curtained area where you were located after a torturously long time spent out in the hellish chairs of the waiting room. Even late into the night, there was only one chair left for you to wait in. It also means lots of eyes on your face, where you cut yourself in such a noticeable spot that you can’t stop panicking about whether it will leave a scar or not.

An unexpectedly lucky thing for you? All these student doctors need a teacher. And the more senior doctor that trails behind the one presenting your case is a spot of light in an otherwise bottomless pit of darkness, stress, and anxiety, typical for any visit to the E.D.

Dr. Teacher is fine. Stupidly handsome. TV-doctor-attractive. He’s definitely older, but not too old. Silvery stubble lines his sharp jaw and sparkles in his lush head of curls beneath what should be unflattering fluorescent lights. He’s got an air about him, laidback and unaffected. At ease. In his element. 

“Hi there,” he starts. “I’m Dr.-” He pauses for a split second when he turns to you, almost as if he’s caught off guard. Your cut must be really bad. “Abbot.” He recovers. “’M Dr. Abbot.”

“Hi, Dr. Abbot.” You muster. Even if he’s hot, it doesn’t distract you from the pain of your injury and the anxious panic that it’s going to leave a scar right by your eye.

“How’re we doing today, Miss …?” He asks warmly, like you’re his friend and not some stranger thrust into his care. The man has way too much energy for 3 o’clock in the morning. 

Twisting your fingers in your lap, you grimace. “’Ve been better.”

He chuffs a laugh. “I sure hope so.” A beat, where he crosses his arms and unintentionally flashes you with criminally huge biceps, cut off by the sleeves of his scrubs. “So, what brings you in?” You know he’s joking, but you’re not sure if you’re quite in a joking mood. Look at him, incredulous. He cracks a grin. A dazzling grin. “I mean, besides the obvious.” Maybe you are in a joking mood.

Corners of your mouth twitching upward, you let him distract you with humor. Decide to join him in it. “Oh, you know. Haven’t been to the E.R. in a while and I wanted to come visit.”

Dr. Abbot smiles, flattered. “Well, you picked the best time of night to come in. 3 o’clock’s witching hour. The weirdest and wildest like to stop by.”

You snort, and you swear one of the student doctors rolls their eyes. Before you can respond, the same student butts in. “Dr. Abbot, can I clean and suture?”

The idea of a needle sewing literal stitches through your skin by your eye makes you suck in a nervous breath.

Dr. Abbot shoots the student a look. Turns to you. “We’re gonna take a better look at your cut, ok? Assess how involved it is and figure out the best way to patch you up.”

Swallowing, you nod. Dr. Abbot snaps into action as Dr. Teacher. Small commands and directions. One of the student doctors measures the wound. He hovers behind. As Dr. Abbot rattles off questions to the student doctors, you try to be casual in the way you look him over. Take sparing glances. Capture glimpses of broad shoulders. Delicious looking, freckled forearms. Sure stance. His eyes are assessing, amused. It’s clear he loves his job.

Dr. Abbot turns to you, hands in his pockets. “You’ve got a pretty nasty cut, Miss …” The politeness with which he addresses you shouldn’t make your heart flutter the way it does. You’ll blame it on the singsongy delivery. “And you are going to need stitches,” he reads your panicked expression. “But we’ll numb you up first so you don’t feel it, get that fingernail out of there, and it’ll end up being relatively invisible once it’s healed.”

An exhale of relief escapes you at that news, though you’re not exactly stoked about stitches.

“Can I do the sutures?” One of the student doctors asks eagerly.

Dr. Abbot throws a careful glance your way to read your expression. Your face has always been easy to read. Right now, it reads fear. Anxiety. Nerves. Dread.

“Can you do it?” You ask, panic evident in your voice. “Just because it’s my face.” You explain, looking sympathetically at the student doctors. It’s not like you intentionally want to take away learning opportunities from them... “No offense. If it was anywhere else…”

Dr. Abbot jumps in with a cool wave of his hand. “Oh, please. You can just tell them how you really feel.”

Charming. That’s the word you’ve been looking for to describe him. Dr. Abbot is goddamn charming. “And how do I really feel?” You ask back lightly.

He quizzes the student doctors on what supplies he’ll need, an insinuating request for them to provide same. They poke around cabinets. Pull open drawers. Set up a small table with the supplies. “You want a doctor who’s done enough of these that he could stitch you up with his eyes closed.” 

You laugh softly. “Please, don’t do that.” You try to sound light and breezy and playful, but you’re also not joking.

He drops effortlessly onto the stool beside your seat, pulling on gloves. Rolls over to you. In the best way, he smells like sanitizing soap, mixed with aftershave. The clean scent of deodorant. This close, you can admire his dark blue-gray eyes, brimming with mirth and framed with crow’s feet. How his nostrils fill and release air. The easy curve of his pink mouth. 

It splits into another dazzling grin. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you if I tried.” He jokes.

An honest-to-god giggle escapes you, and it really is such a rollercoaster of nerves and thrills that you’re on. One minute, you’re an anxious wreck, exhausted and in pain. The next, you’re giddy, the exhilarated subject of a charming doctor’s attentive focus and smooth wit. One of the student doctors pushes the stocked small rolling tray over, and Dr. Teacher is back on.

“Alright, Miss …” Dr. Abbot looks you over, eyes kind and daring. “You ready?” 

You shrug, deliriously tired from the nonstop buzzing of anxiety you’ve suffered since you got hurt, then stewed in in the waiting room, and sat with back in the E.D. until the doctors pulled open your curtain. “Patch me up, doc.” You joke.

His mouth is a crooked, easy grin. “So, this…” Dr. Abbot starts, picking up a small bottle and a q-tip. “Is a local anesthetic.” You nod along, comforted while he explains the procedure to you as he goes. “This will numb you up before we do the injection deeper inside the wound, take out the nail, then do the stitches.” You take in a breath as he coats the q-tip with the gel. Realize he’s talking you through it both for the student doctors’ benefit, but also for yours, to make it less scary. It’s working. 

“Close your eyes for me?” He commands softly. You oblige, feeling the warmth of his body so close to yours without him even touching you. “They’re beautiful eyes, by the way.” Dr. Abbot oozes charm. You feel the cold gel over your cheek, the area around your cut. 

When he pulls the q-tip back with a gentle “Perfect,” you know you’re blushing. “Now. That was for the outside.” His gaze glints to the table, then back up. “To numb the inside of your cut, we’re going to need an injection.” You grimace at the thought. He catches it. “And yes, that means a needle. But it’ll only feel like a pinch, like all the flu shots I know you get every year.”

He gets a small smile out of you with that one. “Ok…”

Dr. Abbot turns to the student doctors. Quizzes them on the specific injection medication and best location for inserting the needle, calculating in that the nail fragment will have to be removed before suture. You watch him pick up the needle in his gloved, capable hands. How he narrows his eyes at the tip of it. “Alright, I’m going to ask you to hold still for me…” When he turns to you, you inhale through your nose. Flutter your eyelids shut. “I’m going to come in closer.” He informs you. “And I’ll come in from the side here and you’ll feel a pinch.”

“Flu shot pinch.” You mumble, keeping your face frozen.

“That’s right.” He placates enthusiastically. Raises the needle. “Quick pinch. Maybe a second of burning.” 

And there it is. The needle, like promised, isn’t a new feeling. Neither is the slight burn that follows. Expected and not bad at all, especially if it means you’ll feel nothing that’ll come next. Still, you can’t help but inhale sharply.

“Almost done.” Dr. Abbot ensures. And true enough, a couple seconds later, the needle’s gone. You exhale in relief. “Now, we just have to wait a couple minutes for the anesthetic to kick in.” He turns to the student doctors. Shrugs a shoulder. “This part isn’t too exciting, if you’d rather venture out for some more involved cases.” 

That, plus the understanding that they won’t get to do sutures themselves, sends the few student doctors ducking out of the curtain, one with a “Feel better!”

You huff out a laugh. “I thought this was a teaching hospital…”

Dr. Abbot’s arranging the supplies on the tray. “That’s exactly why I set them free. To go do.” Flits his gaze to you from the corner of his eye. “Not exactly the most enriching educational opportunity to watch an attending do basic laceration debridement and suture.”

You raise your hands, palms out in surrender. “You told me no worries.”

He turns to you fully now, level with you in the stool. “Those guys’ll be fine. You should be just about completely numbed up now, so I’m going to take out that fingernail.” His gray-blue eyes sparkle with mirth. “But first, I’m gonna need to hear the story behind the cut. I can see from your hands that the nail’s not yours.”

Embarrassed, you look away. “It’s stupid.”

Dr. Abbot chuffs a laugh. “It always is.”

Fighting a smile, you turn back to him. “And it’s really not even my fault!”

He lifts a shoulder, easy. “Wouldn’t matter if it was.” A beat, where he looks you over. “Spill.”

“Take the nail out first?” You barter, lashes fluttering. “I’ll trade you, a nail for a story.”

He laughs softly, clearly amused. “Deal.”

You really just want him in your personal space again. The heat and the scent and the weight of his focused gaze. You get what you want. Dr. Teacher, charming Dr. Abbot, raising those impressive guns for biceps and toned forearms to bring a pair of tweezers to your face. He’s so close you can make out every crinkle around his eyes. Every waving line in his forehead. Every stray eyebrow hair. The texture of stubble along his cheek. You hold your breath as he works to take hold of the nail with the tweezers.

Dr. Abbot snags the nail and effortlessly pulls it free. Drops it onto the paper sheet lining the tray next to him. Places the tweezers down. Turns to you, gloved hands folded between his spread-open legs. Leans forward. “I believe that gets me a story.”

With a sigh that’s all for show, you explain what happened. “I went out with some friends tonight. Girl’s night out, or whatever.” He smiles. “I’m the responsible one. Designated driver. And of course, I’m the one who ends up in the E.R.”

Dr. Abbot clucks his tongue. “First mistake was being the responsible one.”

You laugh, spellbound by the perpetual upward curve of his mouth. How a dimple dances depending on when the corner of his lips twitch. Keep going. “I was helping my one friend into the car. And I love her, but she’s a mess, ok? Way too many tequila shots. Wasn’t exactly in the best headspace.” He snorts, and you’re kind of obsessed with his active listening skills. He’s a captive audience. “So I’m helping her get into the car, and she insists she can do it herself. Throws an arm up and swats the air. Except I’m there. In the air. My face. And her stupid ring cuts my face and her already cracked nail from an earlier fall gets stuck in it.” You huff, exasperated. 

Dr. Abbot hisses an inhale, sympathetic. “Sheesh. Maybe you should be stupid and reckless sometime. Let someone else look after you.”

You want to be stupid and reckless with him. But you’re a respectful person. Won’t sexualize your doctor out loud. Instead, you shrug, eyebrows raised. “Just my luck, right?”

The easy laugh that rumbles out of him makes you want to take up stand up comedy. It’s a sound you want to memorize. A sound you want to hear again and again and again. A new favorite song. 

“Yeah,” Dr. Abbot agrees. “Luck.” There’s something about the way he says it. Like it has another meaning. All you can do is watch him, and he looks at you, and there’s a second. Two seconds. Three. Before he seems to realize himself. Tears his eyes away and turns his body completely towards the supply tray. “Let’s get you stitched up and out of here, yeah?”

“Please.” You agree, tired and numbed up and done with the whole night, even if the very end of it ended up taking a turn for the good.

With the sounds of the E.R. as a backtrack, Dr. Abbot cleans out and stitches up your cut. Uses a precision and attention that seems to burn you like a magnifying glass in the sun. He’s swift and effective. Explains the process softly as he goes, like if he has to teach anyone, he’s going to teach you. There’s a comfort, an ease, you feel with him in this space. You’re in good hands. Capable hands. Taken care of.

After, he holds a handheld mirror up for you to see. “You did good, Miss …” He reminds you of next steps for care. While it’s not pretty, the stitches aren’t going to last that long. Will dissolve on their own, so no need for a follow-up visit. Treat with scar cream as needed. 

You try not to be disappointed. “Thanks for taking care of me, Dr. Abbot.” You tell him as one of the nurses comes in with discharge papers.

“Anytime.” He promises, shucking off his gloves. The twinkle in his eye is going to take up a little too much space in your brain. “You know where to find me.” With a wink, he’s gone.

* * * *

“Let’s go get some water, ok? Hydrate a little before the next drink.” Your friend attempts to direct you.

“No way!” You insist, repeating your mantra for the night. “It’s my turn to be stupid and reckless. And that means another round.” You were wary for the longest time after your E.R. trip. Didn’t want to be in the same vicinity of any drunk person until you were healed properly. While the stitches dissolved on their own after a couple weeks, the scar by your eye is still healing, a thin, light line of a thing. You’re not a doctor, but the handiwork looks impeccable. 

Dr. Abbot. You think of him fleetingly now. Appreciate the bright spot of him in that less than stellar night. Maybe his face dances briefly through your mind on occasion. Like when you’re zoning out. Or having a mildly sexual dream. Definitely not when you wake up and act on those sexual dreams. It’s harmless enough, knowing you’ll never see him again and he’s none the wiser of your contained attraction to him. Plus, he’s basically the reason for your current tipsy state. Your turn to be irresponsible for once. Carefree. Stupid and reckless, as he so aptly put it.

With a frustrating acceptance, you negotiate your way into a round of shots with your friends. Use the stinging burn of alcohol down your throat, the intoxicating heat of it that pools in your stomach, to shake those thoughts from your brain. You knew the guy for what? Thirty minutes? An hour? You’ll never see him again, and that’s fine. And if you’re tipsy and horny at this crowded, dark bar, that’s your problem.

You dance. Have another drink. Down a couple glasses of water (old habits are hard to break). Dance some more, head pleasantly fuzzed over and only slightly jumbled, enough so everything takes on a nice haze and everything seems like a good idea.

Swaying your hips to the decent DJ, your eyes scan the bodies that pack the bar. You’ve always loved to dance. Have never been afraid to be in the center of the room and give yourself over to the music. Dance like no one’s watching. Right?

When your gaze shifts over your friend’s shoulder, you have to do a double take. Swear your tipsy, horny brain is playing tricks on you. Because there is no way Dr. Abbot, your charming Dr. Teacher-Abbot, is here. At this bar. On a Saturday night. Doesn’t he work the night shifts?

Beyond making choices that are stupid and reckless tonight, the liquor you’ve consumed has given you an extra boost of confidence. Done away with the usual voice in your head that talks you out of taking risks. Sure, he might not remember you. But you’re 99% sure the fifty-something-year-old smokeshow hugging the wall across the room is the E.R. attending who stitched you up with charming, smooth efficiency.

Smile already toying on your lips, you mumble to your friends that you’ll be right back. Shoulder your way off the dance floor, weaving around bodies to catch glimpses of Dr. Abbot. The way the sparse lighting of the dimly lit bar casts shadows over him. Dances through his hair. Across his pretty face. Paints the set of his shoulders.

As you get closer, you realize he must be here with someone. A woman, maybe. A friend group. You’ll have to act first. Ask for forgiveness, not permission. Go straight up to him, a split second where his eyes widen at the sight of you, and stick a finger to his broad chest with a playful, accusing “I know you!” 

With the easy split of his mouth into a sexy grin, you know that, of course, he recognizes you. “Miss … Look who decided to be stupid and reckless for once.”

Full and proud, you smirk at him. Part of being stupid and reckless means openly flirting with your doctor. “Doctor’s orders.” Pulling a face, you bask in the immediate change in his demeanor. He’s interested. On his toes. His chest is solid from where your finger presses into it, and you reluctantly move it away. “And it’s …” You give him your first name.

Dr. Abbot’s sexy grin morphs into a smirk, and you swear he checks you out. “Ok, …” He repeats your first name like it’s a dirty word. And coming from his mouth, it is.

“What are you doing here, Dr. Abbot?” Just as shamelessly, you look him over. He’s got on a form-fitting t-shirt. Dark jeans. What could be classified as Dad Sneakers. It’s working though. Too well. Because all you see are a broad barrel of a chest, sloping strong shoulders, impressive biceps. Toned forearms and a steady torso and narrow hips.

“Jack.” He tells you. He quips back effortlessly: “Having a drink.” There’s a teasing undertone to his voice. A playful glint in his sparkling eyes.

“It’s nighttime.” You observe teasingly. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

He snorts a laugh, amused. “I do get time off, you know.”

“That’s good.” You agree. “That you get off.” You mean get off work, of course, but the amused slight raise of his brows at the potential double entendre is a bonus.

A half of a minute of silence, where you both just look over each other. Wolfish and wanting. Yup. There’s definitely a vibe. “Can I buy you a drink?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You nod. Let him lead the way to the bar, the crowd parting for his solid shoulders.

Before he steps up to the bar, he turns to you, mouth to your ear. “What do you want?” The scent of him, the heat and the closeness, almost knocks you off guard.

At the sudden proximity, you have to lift a hand to catch yourself on his shoulder. He’s warm and broad beneath your touch. Your heartrate quickens. Breathless, you give him your order. Not caring that your lips touch his ear.

With that perpetual curve to his mouth, he straightens and gives a nod of acknowledgment. You admire the muscles of his back beneath his t-shirt while he orders your drinks. He faces you again as the bartender flits around, getting to work. “What brings you out tonight?”

You like the feel of his gaze tracing over you. How the neon signs of the bar cast glittering color in the silver of his curls. How they dance across his expressive eyes. Along his jaw. “Being stupid and reckless, remember?” He exhales a laugh. “’M here with friends.” You share, gesturing your head vaguely in their direction. “We were dancing, until I spotted you.”

Jack tilts his head. Raises his hands. “Hey, don’t let me interrupt your dancing.”

“I won’t.” You promise. Narrow your eyes at him. “Who are you here with?” While you’d like to read his offer to buy you a drink as a sign of interest, it could just as easily be a gesture of kindness from a doctor to his patient. A mere politeness. You have to be sure.

“It’s a buddy of mine’s birthday.” He explains, tipping his head towards a small group over by where you found him earlier. “More his scene than mine.” He admits. Your drinks are ready, and he slips some bills out of his wallet to hand over to the bartender before handing you your cup. He would pay with cash. It’s a little old-school. A whole lot attractive.

“Yeah, I can tell.” You agree. Lift your glass up, and he tilts his to meet yours with a quiet cheers. You sip the cocktail, letting the sweet-bitter warmth of it settle over you. “Why’re you standing against the wall? Didn’t have you down as a wallflower.”

Jack shrugs, modest. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

You smile, playful. “But I am.”

His eyes light up over your face. “I can be convinced.”

You look over the lines of him. His handsome, endearing face and the sure set of his shoulders. Shimmy your shoulders in an attempt to entice him. Hold out a hand dramatically. “Dance with me, Jack?”

His grin widens. With no hesitation, he answers plainly. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s go.” 

You take his big, warm hand in your own, his palm sturdy, and lead the way to the dancefloor. The contact sends sparks thrilling up your arm. Kickstarting the beat of your heart. Releasing bumping butterflies in your stomach. The music is loud, potentially deafening. Bodies tightly pack the space. You start by dancing around him, goofy, to get him comfortable. Jostle your shoulders, over the top. There’s an easy amusement glistening in his eyes. A just as easy upward curve of his lips.

With a sense of achievement that’s a little too exceptional, you watch him start to move. A barely-there sway of his firm body. A subtle roll of his toned shoulders. You light up, more inclined to keep dancing. He’s reserved with it. Beer in one hand and the other in his pocket, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The confidence you feel from watching him dance, sharing the music with him, finds its way to your hips, which sway with an increasing freedom. You don’t bother fighting your stupid, smug, delighted smile. Jack’s a little stiff, but he’s got good energy. A good sense of humor. His eyes flit around the bar, as if he’s trying not to stare, but it’s just so damn intoxicating to hold eye contact with the man.

Jack’s a magnet. A funny, sexy, kind magnet. There’s an obvious chemistry. An easy in. The theme for your night might be stupid and reckless, but bringing your body toward him, lifting a hand to his shoulder. Sloping it down his arm to pull his hand from his pocket and taking it in yours. Feels anything but stupid. Probably the smartest thing you’ve done all night.

“You’re not a terrible dancer.” You comfort, ignoring the sparks glimmering through your skin where your hands are connected. You feel the heat of his gaze deep in your stomach.

As you both move to the music, he swings your hands. Looks down at them fondly. “Gee, thanks.” 

Laughing, you let him guide you into a twirl. Land facing him with a flourish. “You’re good…”

He tilts his head at you, the lights of the bar sparkling in his cheeky irises. “It’s only because I’m next to you. ’M leveling up by association.”

It feels right to squeeze his hand. “Association, huh?” He nods. You can think of some other things you’d like him to associate with… You keep twisting your hips, shimmying your shoulders, bobbing your head, standing inches from each other. Hold eye contact as you sip your drink. The alcohol that fills your bloodstream only worsens the awareness of your pulse in your veins. The concentration of it around your heart and between your legs.

Offering yourself another silent challenge, you meet it. Let go of his hand to clutch the juncture of his neck. Raise up on your toes so your mouth meets his ear. “Will your friends care that I stole you away?” You want him to hear you over the music. Relish in the stomach-curling heat that blossoms as your lips skim his ear.

Jack’s hand finds your lower back, and that heat quadruples. He makes a huff of laughter. Answers. “If they do care, then they’re not real friends.”

Pulling your face away, you straighten. Exhale a quiet laugh. Keep your hand on his neck, and his stays at your back. Your hips brush occasionally as you move, the space between your chests shrinking with each passing second.

“What about you?” Jack asks, eyes wandering your face and body. His touch moves to your hip, where his hand dwarves your side. “Do you need to get back to your friends?”

Taking a drink, you shake your head. Wrap an arm around the back of his neck, so your chests can touch properly. “That would be way too responsible. Doesn’t match the whole stupid and reckless theme. They’ll figure it out.”

Jack turns his face away so he can finish his beer. Your eyes feast over the lines of his throat. His bobbing Adam’s apple. The glistening pink of his mouth around the lip of the bottle. The cut of his stubbled jaw. You want to sink your teeth into his neck. As he finishes swallowing, he pouts. “There’s stupid and reckless, and there’s just plain stupid. You should tell your friends where you are.” As he speaks, Jack’s hand smoothes up and down your waist. Gives it a wanting squeeze. Still, he’s being responsible. Caring.

A laugh sounds in the back of your throat, and you gaze up at him. Experiment with a dancing roll of your body against his. His fingers flex at your hip. “You can never turn it off, can you?” You ask him, wide-eyed.

His eyebrows furrow, inquisitive. “What?”

“Looking out for people.” You scan the crowd. Find a couple of your friends between moving bodies and flash them a smiling wave and a thumbs up. Wrap your arm around Jack’s neck again, growing more curious for his touch, but also more bold as you get to know him. 

He brings his other hand to your back, effectively wrapping his thick, strong arms around you. You feel electric. Giddy that he’s feeling just as bold as you are. He’s managed to get one knee between yours, slightly bent. You subtly dip down on it. He grunts. “No.” He admits. “Can’t turn it off.”

You’ve never danced with someone like this. Body to body. Pressing heat. Undulating. You finish your drink. Wind both arms around his neck, losing your breath. Every inch of your skin is on fire. Every cell of your matter burns with desire. With wanting. “You can turn it off with me.” You tell him, meaning it.

Jack narrows his eyes at you, playful. “What if you’re all I wanna look at?”

Exhaling a laugh through your nose, you preen. Smirk. “Then look away, doc.” You can’t take it. The torture. The longing. Body on body and so much contact, but it’s not enough. You crave more. Need his touch everywhere.

Hungry for his mouth on yours, his magnetic, dark eyes give you the push to hold onto his chest. Press up to kiss him. But he gives you his cheek. You frown. 

“I’m in my fifties.” Jack’s voice rumbles in your ear. “I’m too old to be making out on a dance floor.” There’s a humor in his tone. 

Only mildly sexually frustrated, you exhale a laugh. Pull back to meet his eyes, brow raised and teasing. “Oh, so you wanna make out?” 

He smiles. “I wanna be stupid and reckless with you.” 

Satisfied, you grin. “Ok. So take me home.” 

Jack puts a hand on your shoulder. Eases it down to squeeze your bicep. “You should say bye to your friends.” 

“That a yes?” You clarify.

He tucks his empty bottle into an elbow and pulls out his phone. “It’s a fuck yes.” Taps around to arrange a ride.

“They know I’m with you.” He lifts an eyebrow. You tip your head in their direction. He follows with his gaze until he registers an over the top, supportive/suggestive wave from one of your friends. 

He turns back to you, mildly amused. “Good friends.” He compliments.

You shrug. Deadpan nonchalantly. “They’re alright.” 

His eyes widen adorably with realization. “Wait, is the face scratcher here?”

Laughing loudly, you turn in the direction of the door. Jack follows, a hand on your back. “I don’t go out with Face Scratcher anymore.” You fill him in. Deposit your empty drink on the way out.

Jack’s body behind yours is all broad warmth. He hums. “’S probably for the best.”

With Jack in tow, you wind your way to the exit. He opens the door for you, and you step out of the bar into the night. “Ride’s eight minutes away.”

You hum in acknowledgment. Tangle your hand in his and pull him away from the exit, along the front wall of the brick building. “Do you live close?”

He lifts a sculpted shoulder. “Ten, fifteen minutes.” You stop walking. Look out onto the street. Jack squeezes your intertwined hands, and you face him. Have a split second to read his giddy smile before you feel his hand on your jaw, and he’s leaning his face to yours to kiss you. 

Pleasantly taken by surprise, your eyes flutter shut and you melt into the kiss. Jack’s mouth is confident, assured against yours. His lips suction yours with an ease that instantly overcomes you. You kiss him back, peachy. Buzzing. Noses bumping.

With smiles on your faces, you pull back for air. He’s so close his eyes are out of focus. You steal another quick kiss, lifting both your hands to his chest. He’s broad and strong and his heartbeat is grounding. Thrilling. All-consuming. “Thought you were too old to kiss in public?” You accuse shakily.

He shakes his head, breath coming over your face weakly. Noses brushing. “I believe I said dance floor.” You kiss again. He lithely uses his tongue to drag along the seam of your lips. Eases your mouth open and sucks your tongue. Laps inside your mouth. He tastes faintly of beer, mixed with a minty undertone. Jack’s kiss is intoxicating. Knee-weakening. Stomach-tightening.

When you both part for breath, he cradles your face. Thumbs over your cheek. Checks it out. “Looks like the scar’s healing nicely.” 

You smile. Bat your eyelashes at him. “I had a good doctor.” 

“Sounds like a great doctor.” Jack says. “Really good looking too, I bet.” 

“Eh.” You shrug, teasing. “He was alright. Took good care of me.” 

“You should see him for a follow-up. Bet he could take really, really good care of you.” His tone is overly suggestive. Cheeky.

You groan, ducking into his chest. “God, that was bad.” You’re laughing.

Through his rumbling chest, he is too. “You know, you are being pretty stupid and reckless.” He chides, playful. “I mean, you barely know me and you’re gonna take me home.”

Pulling your face from his chest, you look up at him. Tease right back. “Well, technically, you’re taking me home.” Still, you soften your voice. Sober up. “And I do know you.” 

“Oh?” He tilts a brow, mouth turned up at one corner. “How can that be when you met me once.” He traces your collarbone over your shirt affectionately.

You wrap your arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of his torso against your body. He’s sure and steady and strong. “Do you have any idea what patients do in an emergency room?” 

Jack exhales an amused laugh. “I think I have an idea.” He responds, all smug smirks. “But why don’t you tell me.” 

“Wait.” You inform him. “The only thing for a patient to do is wait around.” His smile splits open a little deeper. “And, if you’re like me, you look. You notice. You watch.” 

“Night shift does have the best people watching…” He chimes in.

You keep going. “I sat around the emergency room all night and I saw you, Jack.  You’re good in a crisis. Someone people look to. Level-headed. You care about people, so I know you’re a good person.” 

Jack gazes down at you, wonderstruck. Eyes sparkling and mouth coy. “Can’t argue with that logic.” Headlights flash from the curb, signalling the arrival of your ride. You take his hand and lead the way, letting him open the door for you to the backseat and confirm the ride. 

You slide in to the far window. Buckle your seatbelt. Jack unleashes the charm on your driver. Greets him with easy cheer as he climbs in, leaving the seat between you. As the car pulls off the curb, Jack keeps up the polite small talk. Reaches for your hand and tangles your fingers effortlessly.

The jolt of electricity from his touch is everything. You don’t feel much like talking. Let Jack talk and fish out your driver’s life story. Watch Jack in profile. Use your free hand to drag your fingers up and down his wrist. Exploratory. Feel his smooth, warm skin. The lithe muscles beneath it. The rivers of veins. How the shadows of the dim backseat and passing streetlights paint him in various shades of light and dark.

The ride feels simultaneously too long and too short. Like you’d be happy to sit beside Jack with an unlimited stretch of time. Just to look at him and flutter when his eyes cast sidelong to you. Observe the way his mouth moves when he speaks. How expressive his face is.

Pulling up to Jack’s place, your driver bids the two of you a good night, Jack telling him to get his kid to the doctor to check out their chronic cough (of course medicine came up on your ride to have sex with a doctor). Jack leads you up the driveway, his arms outstretched behind him so he can hold your hand in both of his. “What you were saying before,” he says, “about knowing me…”

You watch the muscles of his back through his shirt as he walks. The bob of his head. You reach the steps of his porch. “Yeah?”

Just at the edge of the porch, Jack drops your hand. Turns to face you. “What if I don’t know you that well?”

You smile at the teasing curve of his mouth. “You’re about to get to know me really well…” The true meaning behind it saturates your tone. Heavily implied, since you’re literally at his front door.

Amused, Jack laughs. “What I mean is, if I wanna get to know you more after that…”

You like the sound of it. Make a show of checking him out, stepping forward so he steps backwards and asking, “You asking me out?” 

Under the porchlight, Jack grins full on. He’s so handsome. Witty and smart and you never stood a chance against his swagger. His charm. His aura. “I think I am, yeah.” He responds. Sparkling, dark eyes tracing over you in return.

“Good.” You confirm, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him again. It’s like picking right back up where you left off outside the bar. Eagerness and control. Hungry. Wanting. Your whole body thrums with it. Want swims in your brain and want echoes from your cunt.

The two of you kiss on his porch. Jack lets you press him into his front door and swipe your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like a mix of beer and minty gum. It’s instantly your new favorite flavor. He groans and his hands are on your hips. You hold onto his shoulder, his chest, tangling tongues. His body is firm. Solid against yours. Strong shoulders. Broad chest. Insistent muscle. You roll your hips into his uselessly. Out of breath and uncaring.

You make out for a while on the porch. Let your hands roam and your legs interlock and your hips press. Emit quiet, sexy sighs and soft moans. Take turns breaking for breath, interspersing chaste neck kisses. Fingers carding through hair. Every cell of your being thrums, more alive than maybe you’ve ever been.

Rest your foreheads, both wiped out of breath. “You know, Jack, taking someone home usually involves letting them inside your house.” You joke, heart fluttering. 

Laughing, he eases his nose down yours, a hand on the side of your face. “Maybe if you hadn’t launched yourself at me, I’d have my hands free to get the door open.” There’s no bite. All play.

You scoff, faux offended. Untangle yourself from his warm, strong body. “I launched myself at you? I’m just following your lead from the bar.”

Jack retrieves his keys from his pocket. Turns towards the door and opens it. He gestures for you to go in first, and you do, hopelessly impressed by the chivalry. “Please feel free to follow that lead again, now that you’re inside.”

As much as you want to, your curiosity outweighs. You want to see the inside of his house. It’s an older build. Lived in and spacious. Full of memories and hobbies and moments. Now that you’re inside, you’re a bit more reserved. Not exactly shy, but not as overly eager. 

You wander into the living room, look around. Jack moves past you towards the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”

He’s comfortable, so you are too. You feel safe with him. In good hands. “A little water’s probably a good idea.” You say, following him and leaning against the doorway.

You watch him move around the space to find a pitcher of water and a couple glasses. “Smart girl.” The praising words land right between your legs. He exhales a laugh as he pours. “Stupid and reckless doesn’t apply to hydration.” 

With a steady blush and rapidly beating heart, you take a water glass when he offers you one. Mumble a quiet “Thanks.” You back out of the doorway and into his living room. “I have to admit,” you share conspiratorially, finding a seat on his couch. It’s all beaten leather, smooth as butter, and you sink into the cushions. “I’m proud of myself for coming this far with the whole stupid and reckless thing. I’m usually too in my head over stuff.”

Sitting on the other end of the couch, Jack gives you an amused smile. Teases. “So coming home with me is stupid and reckless?” 

Grinning, you exhale through your nose. Nod once and give half a shrug. “I mean, yeah. Casual sex. I don’t do casual sex.” You appreciate the space he’s given you, the cushion-long distance allowing you to focus on a new favorite activity of yours: talking to Jack Abbot.

He sucks in his bottom lip, and the sight of it is so sexy you want to die. First, curl up in his inviting lap. Then, die. His next words don’t let you fair any better. “Is it going to be casual, though?” 

Jack’s onto something. Because you can picture it, this un-casual thing unspooling between you. Are willing to keep this going. See where it takes you. If it means more of this feeling. More of this sparkle in your gut. More of this inexplicable lightness in your chest. More of that look Jack’s giving you. You feel drunk on his attention. Elevated.

It’s fun, to have this open kind of communication with someone. To tell the truth, no holds barred. You twist your mouth at him. Pull a face self-deprecatingly. Almost sheepish. “I don’t think I can do anything casually.”

Jack has the nerve to smirk. To smirk at you and use his smart, kind mouth as a weapon. Your entire body thrums with his magnetic force. “So you wanna do me.” He jokes. 

You laugh, chest filling with this lightness. This aeration. “Pretty sure I made that obvious.” A beat, as you realize yourself. “And wait, that doesn’t mean I think this-” You gesture between you. “-is stupid. I hope you weren’t, like, offended by that or anything.”

He shrugs, unfazed. “Knew what you meant.” 

You look him over, hunger gnawing irresistibly inside you. “Wanna know something else?” Inch closer to him, turning that blank space into oblivion. 

Jack puts a casual hand on your thigh, like it doesn’t unleash a lightning storm of electricity in your system. Raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

Setting an elbow on the back of the couch, you rest your head on your knuckle. Turn into your hand to hide your grin behind it, steeling your courage. Face him again and admit, “I thought you were so hot that night in the E.R. Was trying my best not to show it.” 

Beside you, Jack laughs, bold and unexpected. Rips out: “You’re a shit actor.” You scoff. Hit his arm. His mouth goes crooked, his eyes filling with mirth. Good-natured. “But so am I.” 

You shrug a shoulder in disagreement. “I couldn’t tell if there was a vibe or if you were just super attentive to all your patients or something.”

He throws his head back in laughter, and you want to bottle the sound. Jar it like fireflies on a summer night. Bask in its glow and keep it close. “I’d like to think I recovered pretty smoothly,” he admits, “but I actually did a double take when I first saw you.” He shrugs a shoulder, as if it’s self-explanatory. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

The compliment makes you giddy. Starry-eyed and brightly-smiled. “Oh yeah?” You tease. “You mean when you practically tripped when you first saw me?” You tilt your head. “Thought it was because of the cut.” 

Jack shakes his head. “Nope. Just an idiot tripping at the sight of a beautiful woman. Cut didn’t faze me.”

To put him out of his embarrassed misery, you offer some reassurance. “You were really smooth for the rest of the visit though. Totally made up for it.” His thumb swipes mindlessly over the inside of your thigh. Your pulse picks up. You feel it straight in your core. 

“Yeah?” He asks, just to add something. His eyes flitting to your mouth. 

You nibble your bottom lip. Agree. “Yeah.” 

It’s sweltering, the heat between you. Slowly, Jack tips his face forward. You do the same, eyes fluttering closed. The curve of his nose meets yours as you slot together. Warm lips meeting warm lips. 

This kiss is all sweet, syrupy molasses. Unhurried. Unbothered. Like finding your footing. Testing the waters, then floating on the surface. Relaxed and at ease.

A string of these saccharine, simple kisses. Soft, serene tongue. Savoring. Pounding in your ears and skin hot all over. Your stomach coils impossibly further. 

Pull back, noses brushing and breath intermingling. You don’t think you could entertain a coherent thought if you tried, mind fuzzy with a pleasurable static. Smooth brain syndrome.

“You still with me?” Jack asks, voice husky, like he’s as far gone as you are. There’s an astonishment in his tone that gives him away. 

Your exhale of a laugh washes over his face, and you bring a hand to his forearm. Feel the ropes of muscles there, the veins, the fine hair, as you move his hand higher up your thigh. “’M still with you.” You respond. Cup his mildly scruffy jaw and he rests a hand on your hip. His fingers on your thigh flex. Pet. 

This kiss is deeper. More involved. Passionate. He hums into it satisfactorily. You suck his bottom lip between yours. Lick across it. Release it. Sigh at the feel of his hand on your leg. You kiss like that, hip to hip, all needy sighs and relieved exhales, before you swing a leg over into his lap. 

Another new favorite activity of yours? Making out with Jack Abbot, apparently. Your hands fist in his t-shirt and his skim up your back. Down your sides. You feel electric. A blissed out sigh leaves your mouth and fills his, and he moans beneath you. The sound of it rings out. Vibrates through your skin. Compounds in your cunt.

You follow that need. Swivel your hips down into the growing, hard tent of his lap and grind. The friction is everything. Makes you scrunch your eyes shut and furrow your eyebrows, a salacious whine ripping out of you. Jack stutters against your lips, his hands squeezing your waist. “Fuck, …” He swears.

Indulgent, you dip your pelvis down over his again. Arch your back at the feel-good sensation. “Yes.” You agree nonsensically.

He takes handfuls of your ass through your jeans. Kneads greedily as he takes your mouth with his own. He pours his desire into the kiss, like gasoline over a wildfire. All desperate, aching heat. You hum decadently as he sucks at your lips. He brings a big hand up from your waist. Skates up your side and ribcage. Squeezes teasingly at your breast, making you arch further into his touch. You moan when he tweaks a nipple through your shirt. He brings that hand to your neck, where his palm completely overtakes the side of it. Cradles your jaw and steers you from below, his fingers calloused and capable.

You use being on top of him to your advantage. Drag your hands up over the lines of his torso over his shirt. Keep a steady grind of your hips, both emitting and receiving whimpers and pants. The press of his erection through his pants rubs along your cunt deliciously. His hand on your ass slips into your back pocket. Corrals you into another rut.

Jack hums at the sensation, lifting his hips up to meet yours. “You feel so good.” His hand slips from your face, falls to your waistband. You pull your mouth from his so you can focus on that juvenile dry hump. Hands on his shoulders for purchase. Cunt throbbing. Eyes feasting over the contortions of his handsome face. The unruly mess of his hair from your hands. Knitted brows and fluttering eyelids. Mouth parted, lips swollen and glistening. Broken moans and gritty whimpers. “S-so beautiful. Fuck.”

Giving yourself over to the feeling of his body against yours, you lull your head to a shoulder. Transfix your gaze on the determined swallow of his Adam’s apple. Put a hand to his throat as he undoes your pants. You feel it building. The bubbling pressure of it all. Of his dark, awestruck gaze. His tender, roaming hands. His persistent hips.

You want to make a home here. Take up a permanent residence in this kind of friction and heat. You’re so close, and all you’ve done is kiss the man. Hump his lap. The room is filled with both of your heaving, broken breaths. Pleading whimpers.

Jack slips his fingers beneath the front of your underwear, meeting the curls of your mound. You choke on the spit in your throat, hips stuttering. “Please…” You impart, half-lidded eyes pleading with the nearly black pools of his.

He nods once. Obediently, he parts your damp folds. Inhales erotically, like he can’t believe the devastating state of your panties. “Shit, you’re wet.” He says it with a tone of wonder, underlaced with astonishment. Potentially pride. 

You exhale a laugh. “No shit, Jack.” Push at his shoulder, desperately nudging your cunt further into his hand. “Touch me. Make me wetter.” You command softly.

Jack finds the pulsing, awaiting nub of your clit. Teases it with a featherlight touch. “So bossy.” He chides.

You love it. His tone and his touch and the eagerness with which he leans forward to latch his lips to your heated neck. Lips succulent and indulgent. Tongue hot and lathing. Using the angle, you thread fingers through the back of his hair to keep him there. Grind into his hand. “Don’t hold out on me.” You tease.

He breathes a laugh through his nose, which you feel against your skin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He promises, adding more pressure to his touch. The airy camaraderie dissipates into suffocating heat. The kind that twists impossibly low in your gut.

You tip your head back in pleasure, just giving him more real estate to leave seductive, salacious kisses and sucks. “Just like that…” You encourage, pulling slightly on his hair. 

The calloused pads of his fingertips snag and circle your engorged clit. Stars dance across your vision. You cant your hips gracelessly. Yearn for his touch. “So pretty like this.” Jack rumbles, flattening his hand so the meat of his palm catches along your clit, his fingers able to slip up the slick seam of your cunt.

All the air in your lungs punches out of you. You’re used to nimble fingers. Usually your own. But the warm, blunt flesh of Jack’s palm between your legs is egregious. Rudimentary and efficient. It’s like you can’t grind down harder into his hand if you tried. “Jack…”

“...” He enchants your name. His eyes sparkle as he looks you over. You catch on the way the muscles of his wrist and forearm move. Where his hand disappears between your legs. His fingertips just barely twitch up to innocently part your damp folds, and you exhale as he swallows. “Yeah?” He asks, repeating the movement. 

You swivel your hips in encouragement. Bite a lip and nod needily. “Yeah.”

Hands on his shoulders, you anchor one to the side of his neck. Maintain eye contact through heavy lids as Jack eases a finger into your slick, tight heat. You whine immediately, body appreciative of the sensation. “Oh, fuck me…” He swears. The digit is long and sturdy. A satisfying girth and curl that brushes your internal walls.

Your pussy spasms around him. “More like, fingerfuck me.” You exhale a laugh cheekily. Roll your hips.

He chuckles, smug. “Goddamn, baby.”

The rut of your hips is ruthless, shimmering flashes of immense pleasure signaling the oncoming onslaught of your orgasm. It’s good, but you need more. Want to be filled to the goddamn brim with Jack’s touch. “’Nother.” You command, jaw tight. Eyes fluttering. Hands fisting his t-shirt.

Nodding wordlessly, Jack gives you a second finger. He beckons your orgasm with every crook of his fingers. Encourages generously. “That’s it. Doing so good.” 

The white-hot licks of pleasure dance up and down your spine. Your body moves on autopilot, holding onto him and canting your hips just right to match up with the decadent curves of his fingers. Catch and grind. “Oh my god.” You bite out, overheated and panting. On fucking fire. Needy and slack-jawed and heavy-lidded.

Below you, Jack’s brows are furrowed in concentration. His dark, sparkling eyes watch you, mystified. He’s so pretty like this. Devoted. Encouraging. “Feel so good around my fingers.”

The muffled, slick sounds of his fingers sliding in, out, and around, stretching and filling your cunt is salacious. Obscene. Sprinkled in with your pathetic, breathy moans and his dumbfounded grunts. “I want…” You start, head tipping back. Stomach full of stars. On the verge of catastrophic.

“What is it, baby?” He asks, attentive. “What do you want?” He’s got a hand on the curve of your hip. Fingers caressing and dancing along the full flesh of it over your jeans. His other wrist is lost behind the open zipper. Leaves only your imagination and the visceral feel of his touch to fill in the mental image of Jack fucking you with his fingers.

“Need- need more.” You plead quietly. Clench insatiably around the two generous fingers he’s given you.

“I- Oh.” Jack nods, dubiously. “Yeah. I can give you more.” Your eyes scan over his handsome face appreciatively, an audible sigh falling from your lips at the emptiness as he pulls his hand out from between your legs. You’re just about to let out a petulant whine when he brings those fingers, plus a third, to his pink lips and sucks. His eyes flutter closed, displaying the pretty fan of his lashes. A groan rumbles out of him, and your cunt flutters at the twitch of his cock under you.

His eyes spring open. Lock onto yours. Oilslick-dark and unabashedly hungry. “Fuck, you taste good.” Jack’s voice is a deep gravel of a thing. Your mouth falls open, bottom of your stomach falling open like a trapdoor. Sends those stars careening through you fully. Head to toe stardust.

“You gonna do something about it?” You challenge, chest heaving and gut twisted tight, so close to losing it.

“’Course.” He promises. Eases his hand back into the front of your underwear, which sticks pathetically to your skin. Seeped through with wetness. Your clit’s so sensitive, practically pulsating, and when his touch meets it, featherlight, you gasp and clutch at his shirt over his shoulders. “Want you to come on my fingers. Yeah?”

His big hand cups your entire heat. Radiates its own warmth and tenderness. Confidence. Assurance. Shamelessly, you grind down onto it. “Yeah.” You agree throatily. Mindlessly throw in a nod. “Y-yeah.”

“Thattagirl.” He commends. You feel the exploratory probing of three fingers nudge your slick, needy hole. You nudge along them, welcoming and desperate.

“Ple-” You’re just about to start begging when Jack gives you what you want. What you crave. What you need. A pleasurable moan rips out of you, eyes scrunching shut and head tipping back as he fills you with his slick, capable fingers. You follow it up with a whimper. Rock your hips back and forth over the satisfying intrusion.

“Oh my god, you’re tight.” Jack implores, gently curving and petting to give you a chance to accommodate this new level of fullness. If it’s anything like how full his cock will feel inside you, you might’ve just found the best you’ve ever had.

“Jack, fuck.” You whine, body moving instinctually. Picking up speed and leaning into the thrill of the freefall. You move against his generous hand. All eager hips and short, sharp breaths. Jack gives and gives. Mumbles encouragement and anchors you as best he can. It’s when he starts twisting his wrist. Curving to slot his fingers in and out of the squelching wet of your cunt. Grip on his solid body tight, that’s when you come.

You’re overtaken by primal satisfaction. Move against him gracelessly as you cry out. Incoherent. Wrecked. Vision blurry and hearing underwater. A scrumptious heat licks through you. Those stars careening around inside you explode. A fucking supernova. Broken, filthy sounds tumble out of you as the pleasure washes you away.

Vaguely, you’re aware of Jack imploring. That’s it. Doing so good. Look so fuckin’ pretty like this. Still register the foundational fill of his fingers inside you, insistent and indulgent, like he’s doing his damnedest to keep you high for as long as he can manage.

Breathless and ruined, you pull on his wrist with both hands, easing him out of you. Put his fingers to your mouth and suck. Holy eye contact. His slackjawed, spellbound mouth. 

“You still with me?” You tease him with his words from earlier, sated and loose. 

“Yeah.” Jack grumbles, squeezing your hip. Steers you to rut over his hard lap. “’M still with you.” Your head spins with the thick press of his clothed bulge. He curls his fingers, back in your mouth. Hooks them gently behind your teeth and pushes just so. Playful, you fight against it. Bite cheekily down on his fingertips, and an ambiguous jumble of your mellowed out, post-orgasm pleasure flirts with the sparking embers of a new wave. “Can I still be with you in my bed?” He asks huskily.

Delirious, you nod. “Yeah.” 

Jack pulls his fingers from your eager mouth. Cups your face, using a thumb to affectionately brush over your cheekbone. He’s got a glint to his eye. Awestruck and appreciative. Like he’s the one who just had an earthshattering orgasm, and not the other way around. “Trouble.” He admonishes softly.

A blush crawls up your cheeks. You busy yourself by shoving your hands up his t-shirt. Greedily feeling his hot, solid stomach. Tug petulantly at the hem of it. “Want this off.” You whine. 

Jack smiles at you, crooked and genuine. Sits up slightly so he can grab the fabric for himself. Careful not to elbow you, he pulls the shirt up and off. Drops it carelessly on the couch beside him.

Practically salivating, your eyes feast on the sight of him shirtless. All freckled skin and pert pecs, just barely dusted with silvery hair. Muscled, bulk of a hulking abdomen. You want to sink your teeth into the irresistible curve of his shoulder. Curl yourself around his impressive bicep.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss him again. A couple wanting, hungry suctions of his lips. Before kissing the corner of his eye. His cheekbone. His jaw. Hands roaming the newly accessible skin. As you suck his neck, he hums. “Thought you were coming to bed with me.”

The invitation isn’t one you can resist. Taking one of his hands, you stand up, though your fawn-like legs are shaky. Body still recovering from the wreckage of pleasure. “You’re very distracting.” You exhale on a laugh. Gracelessly step out of your jeans. He gets up as well. Squeezes your fingers with his own and leads you through the house to his bedroom. You stumble after him. Torn between taking in the framed photos on his walls or the sight of his bare, freckled back.

In the hall, you mumble his name. “Jack.” He glances at you over his shoulder, a brow raised. You tug on his intertwined hand. Put a hand on his trapezius and match your mouth to his. Your kiss mirrors how you feel. Needy and blurred at the edges. Determined to devour. You push him against the wall. 

He smiles into your lips. Grabs the bottom of your shirt to tug you closer. Deepens the kiss. Along for the ride.

“Take it off.” You tell him. Lick along the seam of his mouth.

“Anything you want.” Jack promises. Sucks your tongue suavely. Hums in satisfaction. Pulls away so he can follow your orders. Rids you of your shirt. Before he can get a glance, you press your chest flush into his and kiss him again. Deep and hungry. 

Step back, taking both his hands and slowly maneuvering down the rest of the hallway to the open door of his bedroom. You watch him intently. Flushed and messy and horny. Obediently following you, practically fucking you with his sometimes-blue, sometimes-hazel eyes.

Entering his bedroom, you turn around to look inside, dropping his hands. Make note of its cleanliness and utility. A dresser with a mirror, the surface sparse and organized. A couple framed photos. A wooden watchholder. A nightstand sporting a stack of medical textbooks with a pair of reading glasses on top. A painting of a boat on a body of water on the wall. Part of you wants to inspect every inch of the space. Prod and question its significance and origin so you can learn more about who Jack is.

The other part of you burns so brightly with the need to be touched by him. To be caressed. To be fucked. You give in to this part for now. Sit down on the edge of the bed, hands behind you for support. Cross a leg and tilt your head, waiting for Jack’s next move.

Jack’s next move? Dropping to his knees in front of you. Squeezing your knee and holding your eyes as he presses a kiss to it. Straightens up, big, calloused hands gently parting your legs. Spreading them invitingly for him to slip between. Running his hands up your bare legs and leaning forward to kiss your collarbone.

Your breath hitches. Your fingers in the comforter twitch. Jack’s kisses are gentle and sweet. Cover the length of your collarbone. Over your breastplate. Down your chest. Atop the edges of your bra cups. 

His tongue comes out hot and flat to duck under the top of your bra. You moan, legs involuntarily parting further. “Jack…” You impart softly. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He says against your skin. Kisses your nipple over the fabric bluntly. His hands slide up from your hips. Over your waist. To cup your breast generously and squeeze. 

Your back arches and you sigh. Jack’s pupils are blown and lust-struck. He licks his lips, gaze dancing from your pretty face to your deserving chest. He reaches behind you to fumble along the band of your bra. Leans forward so he can handle the clasp. He presses a couple kisses to your shoulder while he opens it.

His kisses tickle. Exhaling on a laugh, you run your fingers along his shoulders and biceps. Lean, warm skin. You feel your bra snap open along your back. Hum responsively at the relief. 

“What’s so funny?” Jack asks playfully, voice gritty, as he pulls his face from the crook of your shoulder. There’s a quirk of a smile toying on his lips. 

You want to kiss it, so you do. Peck the corner of it, fast and effective. You let him undress you. “Your stubble.” You tell him as he eases the straps down your shoulders. “It tickles.”

Jack’s coy when he straightens up to meet your eye more fully. His eyes flicker from your cheeky face to your now bare chest, and his Adam’s apple visibly bobs. “Does it, now?”

Exhaling a laugh, you nod. 

His eyes flash. “Does it tickle… here?” He puts his lips to the hollow of your throat for a kiss. 

“N-no.” You mumble. It’s the truth. But it also releases an onslaught of arousal soaking your already sticky panties.

Jack tilts his head, cocky. “Ok, then. How about… here?” He teethes along your collarbone, and you melt. Clutch his sturdy shoulder for support. 

You can’t believe this is happening right now. That this big, sexy, kind man is all over you like this. If you’re not careful, you might catch an ego. A crush. Feelings. “Not really.”

“Fine. Let me know how this feels.” He tucks his head to capture one of your nipples in his supple, hot, wet mouth. Uses his supple, hot, wet tongue to circle the bud and lick. 

A shaky moan rips out of you, your fingers finding the back of his head and threading through his thick hair. “Doesn’t tickle.” You tell him. “But it does feel good. Really good.”

Jack’s amused exhale of a laugh surrounds your nipple, and his eyes flick up to yours. He sucks obscenely. You shamelessly arch your back and give him more of your chest. He pulls his lips off. Peppers kisses around and along the underside. 

“Well,” he says, lips blazing a path across your chest to the other side. “Let me know if it tickles again.” His face against your skin, that subtle, delicious stubble, is more of a tantalizing prickle. A devastating whisper of a scratch. You want to memorize it. 

Jack pays due attention to your other breast. Mouths the curve of it while using a hand to toy and tend to the other. This level of pure, unadulterated attraction is a new experience for you. Had no idea this much foreplay could be spent on your chest. 

Vaguely, you wonder if you could come just from this. From Jack’s skilled, wet mouth and his dexterous fingers and the slot of his yummy torso between your legs. You whimper and hum, praise and proclaim, as he kisses you. Licks you. Sucks you. 

One of his hands stays on your hip. Mindlessly curls beneath the scrap of your panties there. His bulky, taut abdomen pressed against your clothed cunt. You bracket his waist with your knees. 

Jack’s hand finds its way between your bodies so he can rub at you. Finds you more wet and waiting than earlier, and a half-surprised, completely-satisfied gargle of a triumphant sound falls from his lips against your skin. 

“Fuck, baby.” He swears, lifting his face from your breasts. “I need you.”

You’re sure he means this as he needs to fuck you. Part your legs impossibly further for him, cunt aching and needy. Instead, Jack presses a blunt kiss to your sternum. Leaves a trail down your stomach. Nibbles the pouch of it affectionately as he slips down your body. 

As he moves out of reach, your hands fall from his hair and shoulder. Lean behind you for support as his fingers snag on your panties at your hips and pull them down. Lift your hips eagerly to assist his undressing of you, letting out a soft, almost inaudible laugh. In disbelief at your reality. In exhilaration at how utterly, devastatingly turned on you are. 

Jack slips your panties down your legs. Graciously feels up the naked expanse of your shins and calves. Gently grabs one of your feet. Lifts your ankle to his lips so he can kiss it. You squeal at the unexpectedness of the gesture.

He kisses up the side of your calf. Sucks at the sensitive skin behind your knee. Noses up the inside of your thigh, inches from where you need him most. Only to take his sweet time suckling a wet, filthy hickey into the full skin there. 

One of your hands is back in his hair. Anticipatory butterflies ricochet low in your gut. You loll your head back and moan softly. His hands roam your naked legs. 

Jack nudges your damp folds with his nose, making you shudder. Laps succulently at your clit. 

You whimper. Hold tighter to his hair. He runs his tongue over your wetness. He groans and you moan. He sucks your clit between his plush, pink lips, and your stomach trembles. 

Falling backward onto your elbows, unable to sit up properly, you watch Jack go to town on you. Entranced. He eats you out like he was made for it. Savoring and attentive. The movements of his tongue are intentional. Greedy. Flattening over your clit and the sensitive area around it. Edging the stiff, slick lips outlining your cunt. Just barely entering your fluttering, pulsing hole.

You can’t tell if he’s teasing. Not sure if it can qualify as teasing when he’s being so generous. So charitable with his indulging suctions and determined kisses. He might as well be frenching your pussy. You’re not sure who’s moaning more, him or you. You fight to keep your head up, chin to your chest to take in the wondrous, erotic sight of Jack Abbot going down on you.

The wetness leaks out of you, uncontrollable. You scratch at his scalp with your nails. Tug his hair like some kind of outlet for the visceral pleasure you’re experiencing. “Oh my-” You’re incoherent. “Fuck, Jack.”

Insatiable and falling faster by the minute, you cant your hips up into his face. Stars explode in your vision when he dives in deeper. His nose nudging your clit deliciously. His tongue winding its way further into your cunt. He laps at your walls. Gladly consumes your continuing arousal.

Tears prick at your eyes. You can’t catch your breath. Every inch of you burns. Your hips start to move on their own accord. Your thighs shake, even as Jack scoops one up and hitches it around his shoulder. You gasp and cry out at the euphoric change in angle. He splays his hand flat over your stomach to keep you still, your hips twisting as you lose control. 

“I can’t- I’m gonna-” You throw your head back, jaw falling open. “Gonna come- Fuck-” With your hands in his hair and Jack’s insistent tongue taking care of you, you come. Come all over his dirty mouth and his handsome face. Vulgar praise. Whimpered pleasure. Shaking limbs. Trembling stomach. Arching back.

A steady stream of yes’s tumbles from your lips. Jack keeps at it. Uses his strong arms to hold you tight and as still as he can. Your hips twitching and bucking. His mouth giving and groaning. From the uncontrollable sensation of your release, you can only imagine that his face is glistening. Soaked. He must look obscene.

Muscles weak and exasperated, you fall completely onto your back. Stare at your ceiling and try to find a coherent state of mind. Level: impossible. The possessive need to see the literal mess you’ve made of the man has you lifting up onto shaky elbows.

Jack’s chin rests on the inside of your thigh. The silver sparkle of his stubble sends a featherlight scratch along your skin. He sucks more self-indulgent hickeys while you come down, fingers carding through his hair. “That tickle?” He jokes, voice thick with arousal and a brow lifting teasingly.

A surprised laugh rips out of you. As you know him, this man is caring and capable. Literally stitched you back up. He also can make you come, make you shatter into goddamn pieces, like no one else can. And he’s funny? You’re starting to be grateful your stupid drunk friend landed you in the E.R.

“Something like that.” You quip back, whole body flushed and overheated. Like it can’t contain the blissed out satisfaction that’s coursing through your bloodstream. You pull him up beside you and kiss again, on your sides. 

You taste yourself on his tongue. Moan shamelessly into his mouth and drag your fingers up his bicep. The muscle is huge. Impressive. The feel of it under your touch sends your sensitive cunt clenching around nothing. “You’re so hot.” You implore, kissing him as hotly and as filthily as you want, knowing he’s game. Trusting him to keep taking care of you like he’s been doing all night. Like he’s been doing since you met him, actually.

You sit up slightly so you can work your way up the bed. Jack follows. Breathless, you push him back against the pillows. Want him to take a break after being on his knees for you for so long. You scramble into his awaiting lap, and he leans against the headboard. His eyes darken with need, hungrily feasting over your bare form. “You’re a fucking knockout.”

As you and Jack passionately kiss, you arch your back, pressing your chest flush against his. Your mouths follow and dance after each other. Lips are bruised with kisses. Tongues lap and caress. You run your hands all over his torso. Along his ribs. Scratch at his pert pecs. 

Jack’s got his hands all over your back and ass. Your hips and thighs. Your breasts. Fingers threading through your hair. He’s so hard under you that your head spins. You rock your hips, sending the both of you into hisses. 

When he moves away for air, you lean over to kiss his neck. Nails over his nipples. Drum fingers over his stomach, his lean abdomen straining. Open up his pants. 

Jack whimpers. Needy, you feel up his cock over his underwear. He groans. He pulses in your touch. Emits heat even through the fabric. “Fuck, you’re so hard.” You tell him, stomach somersaulting. The width of him is apparent. Potentially imposing. But you want it. So, so bad. To feel the press of him anywhere. Fitting past your lips. Pressing impossibly into your cunt.

Aching for it, you push past his underwear and fist him properly. You hang your head to kiss along his collarbones. Over the freckles of his shoulder. Bite into the curve of it, and he laughs softly, but stutters. “F-fuck, …” 

He’s a contradiction. So hard, yet so soft. So big, yet so subtle. There’s a strong base and a knee-weakening curve. You want to trace the curve with your tongue. Your lips. Kiss and taste Jack’s cock. Eat him alive the same way he did for you. “Is your cock pink and freckled like the rest of you?” You tease, nosing along his pretty cheekbone.

Jack emits a husky, empty laugh. Tightens his grip in your hair, wrapping it around his fist gently. Flexes the fingers of his other hand atop your thigh. “I’ll let you find out…” He manages weakly.

Pulling back to meet his sparkling eyes, you share a small smile. He’s blushing. A dimple dances in his cheek. You lean in for a kiss, both of you needy and wanting. Electric. He gasps deliciously into your mouth when you thumb the slit of his cockhead. “Oh, fuck.” He exhales.

You smirk. Trace circles over the dampened, slick, impossibly soft tip of his dick. Push and pull your way through a few more decadent kisses. Move to kneel beside Jack’s propped-up form. Kiss the hair-smattered space between his pecs before wordlessly ducking to latch your drooling mouth to his drooling cock. Turns out, he is as pink and freckled there as everywhere else you’ve seen.

It’s easy to take him past your lips. To suction your cheeks around the yummy, thick press of him. Swirl your tongue hungrily over his velvet skin. The taste of him is intoxicating. Rich. Knee-buckling. Human. 

His blissed out, enthusiastic moans, sighs, and whines cascade over your ears. Drown you in an erotic soundtrack, a filthy symphony of Jack’s pleasure. “Oh my god- You’re so- Fuck, that’s it. So good. Yes. Like that.”

You take a gut-wrenching pleasure in it as well. In the bob of your head up and down his curved, impressive erection. In the scratch at the back of the throat when you push yourself to take as much of him as you can. In the egregious, slippery saliva that spills from the corners of your mouth and coats his dick. Your mouth squelches and his cock twitches.

Reaching for his freckled forearm, you place his hand on the back of your head. Invite him to tangle his fingers in the now-matted tresses of your hair. Still, his touch is gentle. More so using the connection as an anchor as opposed to directing your movements. Like he wants you in control. Wants to live through the thrill of whatever you’ll do next.

You feel at home here, in the fortress of his thighs. Kissing Jack’s swollen, pretty dick and hollowing your cheeks and tasting it. He fists the sheets. Groans. Whimpers. Pleads. Chokes out strangled, hushed sounds. His fingers in your hair flex and cradle. 

After doing whatever you want with him, within reason, until his cock gives a warning twitch and a flustered, high-pitched sound rips out of him, you pop off him. Eyes wet and mouth panting. Your lungs burn, but it’s so good. Matches the indescribable, yearning heat that commands your cunt. Dominates your attention.

Jack tugs you up by your elbows. Cradles your face and kisses you, hard and deep. The two of you kiss some more. Make out. Swapping spit has never felt so good. If you didn’t need oxygen to live, surely you could kiss him like this. Erotic and unashamed and filthy. Happily, for the rest of your days. 

In between pleasurable sighs and appreciative moans, you move to ease his pants off over his hips. “Wait.” Jack says into this kiss.

“Hmm?” You hum distractedly, too swept up in your mission to get him naked as soon as possible.

His thumb on your jaw moves to your chin to ease your mouths apart. “You should know.” He says lowly. Noses brushing for a beat. He pulls away properly. “My leg.” He clarifies. “I lost part of my leg. Use a prosthetic.”

The words take a second to reach your garbled, sex-hazed brain. Another second for your ground-up gears to comprehend them. You blink at him slowly. “Oh. Um. Are you ok? When-?” You’ve still got a hand on his waistband, the other curled into his chest.

Jack laughs huskily, his hand skimming to rest in the crook of your shoulder. “Yeah. ’M fine. It’s been a long time.” His eyes trace over your face, almost unreadable. “It’s just part of who I am now.”

“Sure.” You agree, lifting a shoulder. “Thanks. For telling me.”

He snorts. Averts his focused gaze. Shrugs. “Just don’t want you to be surprised, is all. Turned off by it.” 

Mouth falling open on a scoff, you knock your knuckles into his chest. “I wouldn’t be. But I appreciate you telling me.” You don’t like the tension in his neck. The minute retreat of his hands from your body. You dip your head to meet his eyes. “I’m still very much turned on, for the record.” Your attempt at levity works. His pretty lips twitch up, and he squeezes you affectionately. 

“Screw the record.” Jack jokes, hand finding your neck to bring your face to his as he leans forward. “Want you wet for me.”

You’re both smiling when you kiss again. Wind into each other’s bodies. He’s warm and strong and broad. Everything about him makes you want to burrow in deep and never let go. 

A question bubbles to the top of your mind, sending you pulling away just enough to ask against his lips. “Wait, do you keep it on during sex? The prosthetic?” 

Your noses brush, and his exhale of a chuckle washes over you. Under your touch, Jack shrugs. “It depends. Whatever’s more comfortable in the moment.”

“Tell me, then.” You insist, taking his waistband in your hands and attempting again to remove his pants and boxers from his body. “What to do. What not to do.” 

Jack lets you this time. “You keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart. You’re perfect.” He promises. 

His words make your heart flutter. The two of you work together to rid him of his pants and underwear, including kicking off his sneakers. The sight of his bare legs makes you swoon. Like the rest of him, his legs are muscled and strong. Thick thighs decorated with downy hair. Freckled knees and shin. His prosthetic is sleek and mechanical.

You want to ask him more about it. Mind full of curious, good-natured questions. But they can wait. The chemistry is unreal, and you feel safe with him here, in his bed. Putting a hand on his knee, you give him another kiss. He turns it into a string of kisses. Caresses your skin like you’re something precious. Sacred. Treasured.

Jack pushes your hair off your shoulder. Cups your neck and devastates you with his expressive mouth. Your brain fogs over again. Pleasantly blank except for this night with him. Right now. Loose-limbed and heart racing, you give him everything right back. Tangle your tongue with his. Match his sighs of relief. Let mindless moans escape.

You ease your hand up his thigh. Just barely graze his hip when he takes your wrist, tutting. “I’m not going to last if you touch me there again.” He chides against your lips.

Snorting, you peck his upper lip. Pull away to look into his longing, pretty eyes. Blink at him naively. Bat your lashes. “What should we do about that?” 

“’Ve got an idea.” Jack quips, brushing a thumb up and down your wrist. “It involves a condom.”

Narrowing your eyes at him playfully, you nod. Meet him where he is with his joking manner. “Stupid and reckless doesn’t mean dumb and irresponsible.” With your free hand, you pat his pec.

He smiles at you, bright and true. Turns away momentarily to reach into the top drawer of his nightstand. Emerges with a strip of condoms. In the dim light of his bedroom, he squints at them. “These are still good, right?” He asks you. Follows up sheepishly. “Don’t have my reading glasses.”

With a laugh, you pluck them from his hands from over his shoulder. “Your glasses are right there on top of those books.” You mumble, spotting the expiration date. Confirm. “We’re good.”

Jack turns back to you, retrieving the condoms as you move up towards the pillows. He follows suit. “Not sure how sexy you’d think I was if I put on my reading glasses right before sex.”

A full-on giddy laugh springs out of you. Your heart still races, though not just because of your physical need for the man. There’s an affection there. A thrilling ease. The start of this whole un-casual thing between you two. “I think you’d look really handsome with them.” You admit, climbing into his lap. He’s propped against the headboard. “You should put them on later.” You suggest, hands coming to his strong shoulders. “Let me confirm my theory.”

“Maybe… for you.” Jack rips a square from the strip. Drops the extras on top of said incriminating reading glasses. His other hand grabs shamelessly at your ass. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

You drag your hand down over his pec. Feel across his stomach as he lifts the condom square to his mouth. Uses his teeth to get the foil open. “You know what I want right now, Jack.” Watching his capable mouth sends a new wave of arousal coursing through you. “So give it to me.”

He smirks at your dirty talk, like he’s proud to be the one to bring it out of you. You fist his sturdy cock, giving it one pump, then holding it steady so he can roll the condom over the length of it. “The fucking mouth on you.” He teases affectionately.

You’re already rising up onto your knees. Slotting his tip between your legs so it can gather the generous slick from your cunt. An empty shell of a laugh comes out of you. “See?” You remark. “You’re getting to know me so much already.”

Jack laughs agreeably, hands falling away to let you do what you need to do. Gripping him, you ease down. Easily take his tip. An inch past. Another and another and more and more until his laughter dies and you whimper loudly and uncontrollably. Your entire body shakes with the defined pleasure of it. 

His cock inside you splits you open perfectly. Satisfyingly and perversely. It’s an intense, wonderful fullness. One your cunt is eager for. Insatiable for. “Oh, jesus. Baby.” Jack swears, hands finding your hips and eyes fluttering. 

You steady yourself on his strong shoulders. Your walls spasm around the length of him. Your thighs twitch. Just barely pressing your nails into his flesh, you rock your hips. Moan and squeeze him tight. “Jack. Fuck…”

He’s all encouraging praise and endless support. Showers you with compliments and the occasional neck kiss as you ride him, low and slow. Lazy grinds and well-meaning thrusts. Flicks of your hips and bows of your back. “You feel so good, …” He enchants. Smooths a hand up your naked back, fingers finding the tips of your hair.

“I- Um.” You’re already out of breath. Twisted up inside and tell-tale overheated. You know the impossible coil of your gut signals your orgasm closely approaching. “’M gonna fucking- Gonna come.” His girth and length lend to a heavenly stretch. His curve ensuring each slide of your bodies against each other means delicious, mind-blowing friction. The pressure builds, filthy and obscene, along with the debauched squelching of your sopping pussy around Jack’s penetrating dick.

“Yes. Need it. Please.” Jack offers uncoordinated punches of his hips, which steal your breath and send any coherent thoughts of yours scattering.

A high-pitched shock of a sound worms its way out of you. “Oh my god. That’s it. Don’t stop.” Your body moves faster and faster. Careless and focused. Careless of self-consciousness. Focused on the mind-blowing finish line that grows closer and closer with each slot of Jack’s perfect cock seesawing in and out of your ridiculously wet, wanting heat.

“Please, baby.” He begs, distraught. “Give it to me.”

Clinging to him, your orgasm pounds down on you like a torrential rainstorm. Staticky and swarming. Infinite and wordly. Relentless. You curse his name and praise him even more, body still rocking feverishly with his as the pleasure refracts and spirals. Kaleidoscopes and multiplies. 

Body shaking and determined cunt still wringing it out, you find yourself on the tail end of your orgasm. Past the pinnacle. Down to the landslide. You still burn for more. Oversensitive and perfectly overstimulated. Insatiable. “I want-” You start to say. 

“Huh?” He inquires throatily.

You give it another go. Mind spinning and swimming in pleasure. “Can we try…” 

Jack slows. “Yes. Whatever it is, yes.” 

You ease up off of him, sighing at the rush of emptiness that follows when his cock slips out of you. You sit up, and he settles to lay more on his back for a needed, well-earned breath. You let out a weak giggle. Exhilarated. Giddy. “Want you behind me.” You explain, hungry eyes watching over him. Thick and sweaty and flushed and freckled.

His eyes trace over your naked body. “How do you want it.” It’s really not much of a question. 

You get up and onto your hands and knees. “Like this.” 

From over your shoulder, you hang on his every move. Watch as he kneels behind you, lining up where his hips level with your protruding ass. Puts a hand on the headboard, like he’s testing it out, and another on your hip. “Like this?” He asks. 

“Y-yeah.” You answer, nodding profusely. Excited. Thrilled. Anticipatory. 

With a long exhale, Jack slides his cock into your slippery, needy hole. He sighs and you whimper, clenching down around him. Despite his gentleness, the fill punches the air from your lungs. You tip your ass back against him, obsessed with the thick push of him inside. 

He eases out, then in again. A seesaw of his hips. You whine, irreverent. 

“You like it?” He rasps in question. 

“Mmm. Yeah.” You respond, delirious. “You can go harder though. If you want.”

Jack grinds his pelvis against your ass, the wet squelch of your full pussy letting you both know it’s what you want. He laughs weakly. “Yeah. I want.” 

He fucks you good and hard. Hips snapping. Staccato thrusts. Egregious sounds of your bodies meeting and his cock slipping in and out of your wetness. You moan and he grunts and you both move together passionately. 

Flipping your hair, you look at Jack over your shoulder. He’s so fucking hot. Furrow-browed and sweaty and pert chest flushed and stomach muscles contorting. His eyes, trained on your bouncing ass, find yours, and he lets out a slackjawed moan. 

You come. It’s devastating. Ruining. Life-altering. Your arms almost give out, and your thighs tremble uncontrollably. Your core flares, bright and eternal. Your pussy grips him impossible tight.

“That’s it, baby.” He coos, holding your eyes and giving you what you want. “Let it go.” Fast and hard and relentless. “Doing so good on your knees for me.” 

He’s gritting his teeth and stuttering his hips. Pulls out, the loss of his touch merely momentary because he’s quick to bend over behind you and latch his mouth to your leaking cunt. Eyes rolling back, it heightens, intensifies your pleasure and you shake against his face, coming in rolling waves. 

His hot tongue and doting lips. He hums and sucks. Eats you until you’re moving your hips away at the overwhelming, glorious, oversensitivity. Flipping forcefully onto your back so you can catch a moment. Legs jelly. Brain foggy. 

Jack sits against the headboard beside you, entire body flushed. His condom-covered erection glistens in the lamplight. Tall and proud. He runs a hand through his hair, laughs in disbelief. 

You turn your face up, eyes flitting to his. “Oh my god…”

He smiles, this crooked, beautiful, blissed out thing. “I know.” He agrees. 

Sitting up, you crawl over to him on your hands and knees. Climb over his one leg so you can kiss him again. He tucks your hair behind your ear sweetly, as he kisses you filthily. Appreciatively. 

You maneuver into his lap and take his pulsing, impressive, capable cock in your hand. Slip it over your clit and perpetual wetness. Line him up and sink down on him and ride him. His impressive length fills you catastrophically. Splits you tenderly and curves perfectly to caress every sensitive, yearning inch of your pulsing, hungry cunt.

Riding Jack Abbot is hot as fuck. You feel like the pleasure is bursting out of you, shining through the cracks, reflective like a goddamn disco ball. An ABBA-worthy affair. Fleetingly, you have half a mind to make an age joke. Instead, you’re consumed by the thrill of grinding down and humping and ratcheting your hips up, down, and around. Taking his cock as far deep inside as you can get him. You’re so full of him you swear he’s gotta be rearranging your organs. Know for a fact that it’s not biologically possible, even though he’s the M.D. here, and you’re not.

You grab at the headboard for purchase. Clutch one of his shoulders. Do your thing, but he gladly helps you. Thrusts up. He’s so fucking deep and you’re losing control. Eyes rolling back and hips are getting messy. 

Your focus narrows to the most rudimentary senses. Your heartbeat in your chest and the demanding pulse of it throughout your body. The good, good, good friction of him deep in your cunt and the electricity of it so intense you feel it in your toes. The electric drag of his pelvis as it catches the blunt, sensitive nub of your clit. The perfect blankness of your mind and its sole ability to perceive your body and Jack’s and the pleasure he’s giving you. 

“You’re so- Jack. Yes. Ohmygod. Please. Come. I’m gonna come-” Back arching exaggeratedly, you throw your head back and come violently. All shaking muscles and contorted abdomen and screwed-shut eyes. Your hearing muffles, ears ringing. Your body stutters, cunt squeezing and squeezing so tight that now you’re snapping. 

“Holy fuck. Look at you. Please. Yes. Yes. … I-” Jack manages the few short sentences he can, an incantation of your name, his hips jaggedly pressing up to meet your downward dips. He punches moan after erotic moan from your lungs. Goes sloppy as his own orgasm finally catches up to him. 

And it ruins the man. He holds so tightly to you that you’re sure he’s leaving bruises. The muscles in his jaw tighten and the veins of his neck bulge. His cheeks are a lively shade of pink. His sweat-covered brows furrow and his eyelids flutter shut, then open again. Like he’s torn between blindly fumbling his way through the pleasure or locking onto you, devoting his orgasm to you as its origin. 

You cling to each other, skin heated and sweat-sheened. The room smells of sex, and his touch still burns electric. Wrapped up in limbs. A disjointed chorus of pants. Furiously beating hearts, harmonizing through your pressed-together chests. 

Tipping slightly, you lean your back against the pillows. Far enough away that you can get a better look at post-orgasm Jack Abbot. But close enough that his incrementally softening cock is still somewhat lodged inside you. 

Sated and breathless and exhausted. Moony-eyed and optimistic. 

“So, what’d you think?” Jack asks, voice deep and rasping. “Stupid and reckless enough for you?” 

You’re both smiling. Hearts full. Teasing and overexaggerated, you nod. “Absolutely idiotic.” You counter. A beat for comedic effect. “Can we do it again?”

Jack exhales a laugh, pulling you back into his strong arms and welcoming body. “Yeah, we can. As many times as you want.” He deadpans. His cuddles are surprisingly gentle. “Now, how about that date…”