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proverbsss · 5 months

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delicacies (john tyler x reader) -suggestive/nsfw

John Tyler, Tell Me Your Secrets

prompt(s) + synopsis : "be naked when i get home” and “you’re not allowed to come until i say so” [from this post] // reader is John's private chef while he's living under an alias

anon: I hope you enjoy this :D I do apologize for the cliffhanger.........but I don't know when this will be continued.

notifs: john tyler's a bad man (we know), john disrupts reader's communication (phone), after time skip reader is restrained ; this is purely hamish thirst and headcanoned as cnc, please consume safely!

3:30PM •

“Mr. Wolfe, you’re too complimentary of me,” you’re saying, twisting John Wolfe’s landline phone cord around your finger and watching minced onions cook down in your saucepan.

“Well, anyone who can cook something that close to my Mom’s cheesy squash casserole…” he teases, “deserves a medal and a competitive pay raise.”

“You pay me fine,” you push back playfully, thinking of the thousand dollars he dropped for just three days of your cooking. Not for the first time, you dismiss the nagging sense that he had the money cold like that, and in cash. But you don’t have the luxury of being choosy about some long list of clientele. You threw–or even blew–all your money at two years of cooking school, and as nice as Mr. Fish of Finz’ Seafood is, he’s being a bit of a sluggish bastard about arranging for you to stage. “Before I forget, did you want a chocolate dessert, or a fruit tonight?”

“Oh, you have to give me all the hard choices–” he mock-complains.

“You are the boss.” You tease back. Yes, you wouldn’t mind an evening with him. Sucking down strawberries, playing coy when he flirts with you, melting into a soft, saccharine kiss–

“Fruit, please.” he pulls you out of your reverie with a jubilant decision.

“And it’ll just be you?” You kick yourself in the ankle.

“Just me and the finest private chef in this state.” He’s chuckling, you’re getting ready to say goodbye and add the dry white wine to your sauce francese, when his tone shifts a bit and he chuckles, “Just one more thing, Y/N?”

He can practically see your bright eyes get wide and ready to answer him.

“Be naked when I get home.”

Your breath stalls in your chest, the feeling of dropping from a height belts you in the stomach and you stutter, “What was that?”

“You heard me. I’ll see you tonight.”

He hangs up the phone. You stand stock-still in his kitchen, suddenly sure you’re being watched, being cornered. You grip the counter for balance and breath. Not ‘naked,’ surely? Be ‘ready’ when I get home. That doesn’t sound plausibly similar. ‘Make it when I get home,’

you’re prepping now, and he knows that because you told him. With that bottomless feeling in your stomach is a small quaking in your legs. Your boss of three days and counting. Asks you to sleep with him after you make him dinner. Are you safe here? Do you leave?

Mindlessly, you get the bottle of wine and splash your onions. They hiss happily in the pan. On second thought, you swig the Riesling back yourself to taste what the onions are so enthusiastic about.

‘Naked when I get home’ sounds better in John’s voice than it has any right to, playing over and over in your mind. Between finals and bills and moving out of your ex-friend’s shabby apartment with its glorious little kitchen, you haven’t had much time or energy for getting up to naughtiness with any partner to speak of. John’s nice. He’d probably fuck you nice.

He might also be weird and ask to drink this Riesling out of your well-padded collarbones or some other rich guy shit, but there are far worse fates. Through your initial apprehension, the warmth and seduction of a thought like bedding down the tall, dark, and charming man who employs you starts to seep into your imagination, and you sigh gently at the thought of his hands giving your body a much-needed going over.

Finish the sauce. Then figure out whether to finish him.

__________

• 4:30 PM •

Well, this looks silly. You take yourself in, in the mirror of his guest bathroom, trying to catch every angle, every unflattering position to avoid. Not naked, no. You don’t have quite the gumption for that. Which is ironic, considering you’re still entertaining the thought of being very, very naked with John later.

But you must acknowledge to yourself that you have prepared a godlike chicken francese with garlic mashed potatoes, left perfectly hot on the stove while you stripped down to your skivvies in order to serve them upon his arrival. And this wasn’t the plan at all getting dressed this morning, so a rust-colored bra with some cotton floral boyshorts is going to have to be the offering. And the apron. Lest we forget the tiny gingham apron.

You run a hand up your leg, peek at a particular curve of your ass. You must compliment your features where credit is due. Can a man possibly find this alluring? You envision yourself proceeding into his carpeted dining room with the baking dish of chicken francese in its lovely lemony sauce, and your legs and feet bare, your shoulders covered only by straps, the checkered apron folded and tied around your waist revealing a little bit of your midriff.

‘Be naked when I get home’ and you’ve dressed for a slightly risque slumber party. Has he done this before? Is that why he hired you so quickly when you catered the Whole Foods executives’ luncheon? This is stupid, you’re stupid, this isn’t safe, when have you ever been so impulsive?

But when have you? How often have you craved more excitement, someone saying dirty words to you in dulcet tones, someone who will use more than five hasty minutes to make you feel good?

And if he’s bad in bed? That just serves you right.

You panic and fight the urge to gather up your chef coat, tank top, and slacks when you hear the front door open. “Y/N, I’m home!” John calls, joyfully. Still not the demeanor of someone giving you sexy orders over his home phone, or someone dangerous for that matter. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe…

John knocks on the bathroom door. “Y/N? You okay?”

“Hh-Hi, yes, yes, I’m fine.” Think, dammit. And make up your mind. “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Starving.” You can just see his smile in your mind’s eye.

“The table’s set if you want to go sit. I’ll serve.”

“You spoil me,” he says. And is there the littlest bit of an edge to his voice, or do you imagine it? His footsteps fall away from the door, and presumably he takes his seat in the dining room. Your routine for the last two days.

What are you hoping for here? Because if he does take you up on this–avoiding the mirror, gah–offer, you’re going to have to be okay with his hands, maybe his tongue, maybe his dick a lot of places pretty quickly. This is real life. This is not a fantasy.

Fuck it. Mustering courage, you inhale and exhale, and crack the bathroom door open just to make sure he’s not in the hall. He isn’t. You tiptoe, looking down at your feet, wringing your hands, barely aware as you step into the kitchen where he’s–waiting for you. He’s in front of the door to the outside.

“You do spoil me,” John says, a foreign huskiness in his voice as he looks you over, shameless. “Look at you.”

You color nine shades of scarlet and can’t speak.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t sure what I’d find when you came through that door. You almost followed directions,” He smirks to himself, “almost. Where’d you leave them?”

Your heart is hammering too loudly for you to process the question.

“Clothes, sweetie. Where’d you leave them?”

“Bathroom,” you get out, confused. Is he going to subject you to the embarrassment of putting them back on?

“They’ll stay there,” he promises, taking a step toward you. The shadow he casts is long, long. It’s getting later in the evening. Your chicken is eating temperature now, it could veer dangerously into cold territory soon. When prior to this have you so abandoned one of your food-babies? “Everything you wore today stays here and I’ll keep them.”

“My…coat…” you say, a little bit genuinely miffed. Dirty words are one thing, but that thing was several hundred dollars. To say nothing of its sentimental value. A crisp heavy cotton sign that even amid sacrifices, you’d made it. You’d begun.

“Maybe that. Maybe that and nothing else. When I let you go. If.”

“John?” This is somewhere between seduction and plain creepiness. You’re thinking about the door and how he’s between it and you. Reflexively you pat your lightly clad body for your cell phone, and John holds it out to you in one palm, battery in the other.

“You left it, silly.”The two of you make eye contact, almost like other times, his Cheshire cat smile painfully disarming. But this time his pretty mouth tightens at the corners, and a seriousness overtakes his features that you don’t necessarily like. And of course he’s holding your phone, until he isn’t. He drops the battery on the floor and stomps it till it breaks under his shoe. Now you’re ready to run.

“Um-what the fuck?”

“Language, please. Couldn’t bear thinking I’d made a mistake with you.”

It crosses your mind to yell for help, and as you open your mouth to do so John surrounds you. For a tall man, he’s terrifyingly fast on his feet and his hand over your mouth is like a vice. You can’t see, won’t realize till later but on a flat surface nearby or in his pocket is a chloroformed napkin–one of the dinner napkins you didn’t set–and the lure of chemical shuteye is pulling you into darkness, soft, sweet darkness…

______

• Nightfall •

A sheet, some satiny give underneath your drowsy body. Bed. You’re in bed.

“That’s why you’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties/

You will always find me in the kitchen at parties–

Bum, buh–”

Not your bed.

You’re on your stomach. It tickles where a rumple in the bedsheet meets your ankle. You drag your ankle back and forth over it in a soothing repetition. Someone or something has a hold of it so it doesn’t go very far, somehow reminiscent of the sensation in dreams of opening your mouth to talk or scream only to have nothing come out. The movement you think you’re making might be so small in real life that it’s imperceptible.

Your awareness wobbles and flickers as you take in the haze of new stimulus. Someone is singing.

“Me and my girlfriend we argued/

And she ran away from home/

She must’ve found somebody new/

And now I’m all alone.

Dun-buh-buh-

Living on my own…”

The bed creaks somewhere near to you and you feel new weight alongside one of your arms, which is extended, and a little sore. And doesn’t give when you try to tug it.

John perceives you moving around and immediately acts to get a better vantage point on you.

“Hey, good girl. Good girl. Nice to see you.”

#hamish linklater #john tyler #my blabber #tmys #hamfam smut #john tyler x reader

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cocogrrrl · 1 year

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rendezvous

Chapter 3: Rough Starts

the story kicks off as kyle and yn get a drink while the black stones also brews a fun idea in the process

wc: 2328 cws: drinking (very light), mentions of rehab and drugs (brief) check the series master list here! previous chapter

All eyes were on Kyle that very moment—including YN’s. Kenny was right; she did seem like she was about to head out. He needed to act fast.

All the attention garnered on Kyle made him rather uneasy, though. ‘Your name is Brad Plum. Kind of like Brad Pitt, but, like, the pits of plums.’ Kyle mentally told himself, reminding himself what he was here for.

He’ll be playing as Brad Plum, an overconfident, almost annoying man who’s a coward. He is a hiring manager for some food company, an awful one at that. He’s too caught up in his own business to be listening to others. He has no girlfriend, no pets, nothing. He invests his time in something stupid, like phrenology. He acts tough when really he’s a coward inside. In short, he’s kind of a fucking disappointment. Yeah, that’s who Brad Plum will be.

Is there anything good about Brad Plum? Yeah! He’s not hateful of others for something they can’t control, but that’s the bare minimum for humans. I guess you could call him shrewd to some extent. He definitely has confidence, to say the least. He’s a proud but a full of shit man. That’s kind of funny.

That was just to let the reader know who he’ll play, though. Kyle wasted absolutely no time standing and thinking. He made his way to YN with a confident stride. Luckily, the door slam had caught her attention as well, so her eyes were fixated on him. The longer time went on, the less people started to care about Kyle's existence. Thank god as well.

He took a deep breath in before he met eyes with her, a smug grin on his face. “You think I can buy you a drink, pretty?”

YN seemed taken aback, to say the least, but she seemed to be intrigued by Brad’s outwardness. Score. “Huh, well, why not?” She chuckled, getting back in her seat.

The two girls accompanying her, Red and Bebe, seemed entertained by Brad as well. She quickly turned to them, most likely asking if it was okay if she were to spend time here. They seemed to nod in reply, Bebe and Red quickly moving a few seats away from YN, giving Brad space to sit beside YN—which he took gladly.

“So, what’s your name?” He asked.

“I’m YN,” she said, leaning her upper body weight on the counter with her arms tucked under her chest, her head leaning to the side as she looked at Brad. “What’s your name?”

“Brad Plum.” He started to rethink the identity he took upon. It sounded like shit.

“You don’t look like a Brad or a Plum.” She replied, a small giggle following after.

“I know. I get that a lot. It’s what my parents picked, though.”

“Really? Where’d they get the name from?”

“My mom loves Brad Pitt.” Mom being Kyle. Well, he didn’t love Brad Pitt, he just loved him in Fight Club, Inglorious Bastards, and even Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Did you know Brad Pitt was Metro Man from Megamind? Kyle knew. He kinda liked Brad Pitt.

“Mhm.” She hummed.

The air felt stale. Brad's dry and seemingly disinterested replies, even if he was the one who asked YN for a drink, seemed to be failing. Maybe the overly self-assured and cold personality he’s putting up won’t get him so far. He should be a lot nicer.

“Sorry. This is getting awkward.” He shook his head, laughing at himself to relieve some awkwardness that had risen. ”What do you want?” He said, head nodding to the assortment of drinks presented before them.

“Hmm, I think I’ll just get a Riesling.”

“Really?” He raised a brow.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s very light.” In Kyle’s honest opinion, he thought that she’d go for something a little more strong—like a marsala or some vodka.

“I’ve had some to drink already, and I gotta do something later. Can’t waste your offer on something completely boring.”

“Yeah?” He asked, not quite getting where she was heading at.

“Like, I can’t just go for some water, you know?. Although I’d be fine with it, I don’t think it’s worth the confidence you mustered up earlier. Everyone was looking at you, and I’d hate it if the person I asked out just wanted water after all the effort I gave.”

A surprised look was on Kyle’s face. Huh. He didn’t think that the city-infamous YN would be so considerate. Was this the right guy? I mean, she sure sounded like her, but the YN he’s taking down is the underbelly of the crime scene here. “How thoughtful of you.”

“Of course.” She said, giving him a polite smile.

The drinks would come later, though, since it seemed like Brad and YN were quickly caught in a string of conversations back-to-back. She seemed already very interested in him, to his luck. Perhaps she was just being nice to him as well, feeling some pity for a guy who got stoned by the harsh eyes of many people when he set foot in the bar.

Whatever the reason may be, it seemed like things were going well for him. From Drew Barrymore to airline food to the best dog breed, it seemed like their first 15 minutes together never had too many awkward silences.

“Personally, I’m more of a miniature dog lover, but we can always agree to disagree.” YN sighed defeatedly, raising her hands up.

Brad had just made an argument as to why golden retrievers were far better than Shih Tzus, even if Kyle didn’t really have much of a strong love for goldies. He was much more of a Borzoi type of guy. I mean, their long noses really sell it for him.

“Yeah? Shih Tzus are always just two things: a show dog or an Asian family’s common household pet.” Brad spat back.

“Well, golden retrievers are the white-picket fence of dogs! At least I’m not that boring.” You pouted, crossing your arms.

Out of nowhere, Bebe walked up to YN and gave her a tap on the back. Her attention was quickly diverted to hers. They exchanged a few words—none that Kyle could make out, unfortunately–—but YN turned back soon after.

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a bit, okay? You go order our drinks while I’m at it.” She said, already getting up from her seat.

Brad aptly nodded. “Oh, sure.” Well, it’s not like he had much of a choice anyway.

You headed to the restroom with Bebe and Red, much to Kyle’s confusion. Why were you going there as a pack? Maybe it’s just a girl thing, he thought.

⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

Snickers and giggles filled the empty restroom as you went inside with the girls.

“Okay, so what do we think of the guy?” Red started.

“Hmm, I think he’s cute.” You hummed, looking in the mirror as pulled out your lip gloss to touch it up.

In all honesty, you didn’t think that much of Brad yet. You thought he was kind of dorky, which you found adorable. He was also a bit too self-assured for your liking as well, but he was cute nonetheless.

“I’m pretty sure he’s a fucking narc, though,” Bebe said with a visible pout you caught by the corner of your eye, resting her back on the surface of the sinks.

“Huh? How do you know?” You asked, looking at the blonde through the mirror as you raised a brow.

“Remember Stan? The guy I met at rehab a few months ago and sold molly to?”

“Yeah?”

“I got close to him at one point, and he said that his best friend was the one who pushed him to go there. He told me he was a cop, then he showed me a pic of the guy. He looks exactly like that Brad guy you’re talking to.”

“Shit.” You said, clicking your tongue.

“Dude. I think he’s undercover. You know, he’s probably trying to get some dirt on us.” Bebe noted.

You sighed, shaking your head in disappointment. You thought you were gonna have some fun tonight. “Yeah.”

“Well, he definitely did his research well since he went for you, YN,” Red said.

“What do you mean?” You hummed

“You’re the only one in our group who’s single.”

“I guess you do make a point.” You chuckled, putting your lipstick back in your purse. Bebe was with Clyde, and Red was with Heidi, but most likely Brad was taking a lucky guess going for you. It’s best to strike at the head, right?

“Are you gonna ghost him, YN?” Bebe asked, raising a brow as you.

“No,” you answered as an idea started to form in your head. “Bebe, try to get in contact with Stan if you can. Red, Heidi grew up here, right?” They both nodded, sharing a slightly confused look. “I want you guys to look further into this ‘Brad’ guy we’re dealing with. I want to have some leverage as well.

“I think we should play around with him, see how far he’s willing to go get that dirt. You know, just for shits and giggles.” If you were going to end up getting arrested in the end, you might as well have fun while you’re at it.

Yet this seemed like a weird position to put him in. I mean, a few girls dragging a guy somewhere? If you played your cards right, you might be able to convince Brad to come. At the same time, though, what if the guy you got was wrong? You hoped what Bebe said was right.

If your guesses were correct, you were going to have to go the long route with Brad. Make him think that he's gonna have you by the end of tonight, when really you're gonna fake a "hard-to-get" thing that you know he'll never get.

Red already got on her phone texting her girlfriend whilst Bebe shared a devious grin with you. “We should bring him with us tonight,” She said with a giggle.

“You think he’ll come?” Red asked, cautiousness lacing her face.

“If he’s desperate enough, maybe. ” You smiled.

⋆｡˚ ✧ ˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

After a while, Kyle finally catches YN exiting the restroom with the two girls, who made their way back to where they were earlier.

“Hey, Brad,” she greeted, taking her seat. Kyle noted the more cleaned-up look on her face. She must’ve retouched her makeup while in the bathroom. He wondered why. Maybe because she must’ve taken a liking to him already? Well, he’d hope so. “Sorry for taking so long. Girl things.” She said with a laugh.

“Don’t sweat it.” He gave her a reassuring smile, passing her the riesling she ordered.

“Thank you,” she nodded, taking the drink in hand. “Cheers?” She asked, raising the glass.

“Cheers,” Brad reaffirmed, clinking his glass of whiskey on the rocks with her glass of wine.

“So, uh, Brad,” he answered you with a hum. “What do you do for a living?”

“Huh?” He was taken aback by the randomness of the question.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to break the ice.” She laughed, placing a hand on top of his as her thumb rubbed on the back of his hand.

He was not drunk enough for this. “It’s totally fine. I’m a hiring manager.”

“Really? For what company?”

“Oh, Whole Foods Market.” He said, Whole Foods was the first company that came to his mind. It’s probably not like she was going to fact-check him anyway. ”What do you do?”

“I’m a storage facility worker or was. Recently got blown off.”

“That sucks.” He said, giving her a sympathetic frown. “Where’d you get money since then?”

“Comission side gigs.”

“Huh?”

“I’m an artist.” Not quite the answer he was expecting.

He expected that she was going to say that she was on the streets dealing whatever substances she had, but maybe she was going to hide it from him for now. I mean, that’s why undercover missions take a while so that you can wait to slowly break the target.

“Yeah? Could you show me some of your art?”

“My phone’s almost dead, so I can’t show it.” What a convenient excuse. “Maybe some other time? I’d love to showcase it.”

“I’d love to see it as well.” He gave her a grin, placing his hand on top of hers.

“Thanks.” You caught a faint smile tugging at the end of her lips. “Say, Brad,”

“Mhm?”

“The girls and I have some business to tend to—if you know what I mean.” She said, dragging a finger on his forearm, a smug look on her face. “Do you wanna come with us?”

Had he already hit a gold mine? No, a diamond mine? As a first-time undercover cop, he felt incredibly lucky. Many of his higher-ups had told him how difficult it was to have their guys break and let them in. This had to be a joke. There was no way she was already inviting him to go commit some atrocities and shit with him.

Be it a joke or not, it was best to take up the offer than not. If he gets in some deep shit already, then good for him. If not, at least he’s already building rapport with the three.

But what would this mean in a context if he weren't undercover? Shit, was he going to be brought to some weird orgy?

“Are you sure? I mean, I really hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He said worriedly, hoping it wasn't actually the latter.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled, the finger on his arm finding itself to now be her hand cupping his cheek. He held back everything to not blush. He couldn’t let physical affection break him like this. “We’d love to have you with us.”

“Sure, then.”

“Really?”

“Just so I could spend more time with a pretty face like you.” He smiled, hooking his finger under her chin.

next chapter.

#cocogrrrl's writing #south park fanfiction #south park x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #kyle broflovski x y/n #kyle broflovski x you #kyle x reader #cocogrrrl's rendezvous series

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celestialsister0918 · 8 months

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Someone's Dirty Bathwater, Chapter 3

Chapter Rated EXPLICIT, 18+

Jackson Lamb x OC

Catchup if needed here. Prefer to read on AO3? Link to latest chapter.

This chapter is LONG, folks. As in 10k+ words. So buckle up! It's also quite explicit. And, as indicated in tags, it's a love story. So prepare for a dose of (Jackson Lamb-style) fluff with your smut. Making this man crass and romantic at the same time is an absolute blast.

The Gristle is a very atmospheric, almost seedy looking pub with a great selection of beers. The staff are all surly; the regulars are all miserable. It's Lamb's kinda place— a place he feels comfortable. As he walks in, he catches a glimpse of himself in a dirty wall mirror. He hasn't washed himself at all and smells as grim as ever. But he doesn't care. He knows he's got this girl in the bag.

Adelaide walks in wearing a delicate white dress with tiny floral accents. It’s very thin and almost gauzy. Sandals adorn her feet since it’s nearly summer. She wears youthful makeup— lilac on her eyes and pink glossy lips. Her soft curls are pinned back rather messily and loosely on top of her head. She smells like her perfume— a mix of cranberry lemon tea, spring flowers, and patchouli. She’s about the most breathtaking thing to ever walk into that dive bar.

If this was meant to make Lamb feel insecure, it works. As she walks past him, he can't help but stare at her with a mixture of shock and awe as she turns every head in the place. She's even better looking now than these past two days at Slough House.

And just like that, she passes him and is ordering a glass of wine at the bar.

“Riesling, please.”

The barman nods and pours her a glass. Lamb takes a seat at a very nearby table, eyes glued to her as she leans forward to talk to the barman. The scent of her perfume hits his nose, and he can almost taste her like a cocktail.

Adelaide acts like she didn’t see him, but she did. The truth is, she’s pretty stung that he did nothing to clean himself up for her. It feels disrespectful, like he doesn’t think she’s worth it. She should have just turned around and left, but instead she decides to enjoy a glass of wine and see if he even has a prayer of redeeming himself.

Jackson stares at her as he watches her drink her wine, taking in the sight of those shapely legs and those bare toes in her sandals. She's certainly dressed differently from the other girls in the pub, who are more casual in jeans or short skirts. But this Adelaide Spencer– she's special. Classy. She's like a rose in an alley, her fragrance lingering on his senses as he watches her. He notices a few lads staring at her too. He feels like beating them senseless for such an offense. Lamb wants her all to himself. He’s watching her very closely— very intensely— as only an old spy could. He clocks the way she moves, the curve of her back, the length of her legs...

Adelaide stares into her glass, not looking around. Some stupid part of her wants to cry for thinking this bastard could actually romance her. He’d been pulling her leg all along. And not in the good way he’d promised.

It's only when Adelaide glances back over at Lamb that he realizes he’s been staring a little too long. He's never been one to play it close to his chest if he's attracted to a girl, and he's definitely staring at her way too intensely for it to seem innocent. It takes a moment for her glance to register on his radar, and he tries to play his own down. But it's too late. She's definitely spotted his close examination.

“What do you want, Lamb?” she finally sighs, just a few feet of dusty pub floor separating them.

"Nothing," Lamb says, shrugging off his embarrassment. "Just watching what it is you do when you’re not trying to flirt with me. You're fascinating. Even when you're doing nothing."

“How kind of you to say.” Her voice is dry and annoyed. She really wishes he’d put in some more effort to make himself decent. She loves his long hair, loves his pudge. She thinks his very uneven shave is sexy. But she won’t abide grease nor unnecessary, dirt-caked, foul-smelling sweat. Again, it’s just a matter of basic respect. She’s even delivered him everything he needed to clean up, right to Slough House. He just didn’t care enough to do it

"Don’t think of it as dirty," Lamb says defensively, reading her thoughts with rolled eyes. “I just want to give you the chance to see me in my natural state. I mean, you're probably already thinking way too highly of me, so I'm doing you a favor by being myself."

She finally brings her glass of wine to join him at the table, mostly to avoid the stares of other patrons as they overhear. But she still looks angry.

“Why is that even your natural state?” she demands. “It can’t be comfortable! No one enjoys feeling dirty. Do you do it for attention? Have you just decided that negative attention is better than none at all?”

"Don’t you bother your pretty little head with the ‘why’ of it all," he replies. "And you're not going to try and tell me you don't like the way I smell. It's a kind of musk that radiates off me, isn't it? Something primal, something you find appealing. I can read you like a book, girl. I know what you'll be thinking when that wine is done. Or even before it's done."

She gapes at him, open mouthed. “How are you even that cocky? Really?” She just stares at him in disbelief. She also notices he’s not drinking. That makes her jump a little with surprise.

"Just playing the odds, girl. In my experience, women respond to that kind of cocky attitude— even women like you. There's a little devil in there waiting to be released; I can see it in your eyes. You want me to come sit right beside you and whisper all the naughty things I'd like to do to you. Or am I still not reading you right?"

She swallows and lowers her gaze to her wine again.

He studies the way she swallows; he can see her tongue gliding over her lips as she drinks. The sight distracts him, and his thoughts almost start to slip.

"It's time for the next part," he says, leaning forward. "Now I get closer and smell your perfume, and I say all those things we've been thinking but are too polite to speak. It's the most enjoyable part: where you say nothing, and I do all the talking, and you just let it happen."

She keeps her eyes to the glass, doing and saying nothing– as if daring him to follow through.

He’s reading her mind again. “You don’t think I’ll follow through, do you? Well, let me tell you – I've got a whole script for the rest of this evening." He gets up from the table and moves around to sit beside her. "Let me show you what's about to happen here..."

Adelaide immediately slides down the booth in response, but she soon finds the wall has stopped any chance of escape.

"No point trying to resist, sweetheart," Lamb chuckles. "I can already taste your perfume, but I want to get closer. I'm going to lean in and brush my nose against your neck and breathe you in."

He does just what he promised. He leans in and brushes his nose against her neck and takes the deepest breath he's ever taken. Then…

Jackson bites her neck. Gently at first… then harder. It’s a playful way to draw her in, and he hears her gasp. “Just a taste," he whispers. "I want you all over me, but I'm going to be nice and slow about it.”

Her veins betray her by trembling and sending a shudder through her, but her shiver is what spurs him on. It's exactly how he wants her to react. He wants something primal in her to wake up and take over her rational reservations. Her mouth is shaking, and he's tempted just to grab it with his, to put her in her place. The girl obviously wants to be taken, not coddled.

He moves his mouth closer to her neck again, his breath hot and wet. He’s not going to waste time. He bites again. Not quite deep enough to leave a mark but firm enough to show some genuine passion. She grips the leather of the booth with the hand farthest from him.

She doesn’t shove him away. Instead, she allows him closer and begins to flirtatiously pull at his necktie. She's eager to touch him, to have him touch her. She wants to feel his radiating heat on her face, on her neck, on her pussy... she's craving him in some depraved kind of way.

Jackson doesn't waste that opportunity. He slides one hand down the neckline of her dress and pulls it lower. And she lets him do it. She wants it. That fact only deepens the desire he feels for her, until he's almost to the point of being overwhelmed by it. The whole thing makes his heart and his cock feel like it's going to burst.

“Mr. Lamb, this is a very crowded pub,” she reminds him quietly. “I think you may need to let go of my breast.”

For a moment, it takes him back a step. He looks around and sees a few other pub guests watching with a mix of awe and discomfort. Lamb’s no fool— he knows what they’re thinking: a washed up old hobo like him and a hot ticket like her… and he got to second base?

"Let’s fucking go somewhere more private then," he declares, smacking the table with both palms.

Adelaide has taken a few seconds to recover now and shakes her head. “Only one place— Slough House. With only one purpose— to get the bottles I brought you today and put you in the goddamn tub in that washroom. Which has probably never been used. I only asked for one simple thing, and you couldn’t respect me enough to do it. If you want to touch that tit again, you’re going to do what I ask.”

"You know I don't like being ordered around," Lamb hisses back at her. “No pair of tits is worth that.” As soon as he says it, he knows it’s a mammoth lie. He’s just felt her pair, and they are certainly worth her asking price. Her little game of playing hard-to-get is cute, but he knows she wants him to take the reins. She wants to be taken. So he's going to do exactly that. Even if he has to play it her way a little.

“And you know I don’t like being disrespected,” she fires back.

Lamb pauses, considering his options. He doesn't like being ordered around, but he also hates the thought of denying himself what he wants most in this world. Usually it’s just whisky or cigs or bowls of sodium-laden carbs. But right now it happens to be Adelaide goddamned Spencer. He finally lowers his head, almost in surrender, and whispers, “Fuck it. What do you want me to do?"

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Let me give you a bath.”

The words send a shiver through him. "You really think if you bathe me, I'll suddenly start behaving more... appropriately?"

“I didn’t say I wanted you to behave more appropriately. You can keep your behavior quite the same— just with the removal of some grime and the addition of some blood orange spice.”

The scent of blood orange spice is indeed rather pleasant, he admits to himself, but then he wants to punch himself in the face for the thought. She’s scrambled his entire mind. He considers the idea for a moment, then finally nods his head with the most defeated sigh he’s ever uttered. His cock has completely locked his personality in the closet, tied it up with a rope, and thrown away the fucking key. "Fine. Let's get this over with. Just don't take too long."

Adelaide stands and follows him to his car. Her eyes widen when her sandals immediately become buried in cigarette boxes, fast food wrappers, and beer bottles— which litter his passenger floor board.

"I've been meaning to tidy that," he notes. "I meant to do it yesterday, in fact. But then some girl just insisted on coming to visit me at my place of employment. Completely disrupted my routine.”

This brings a smile back to her face. A small one. She really does love his jokes.

Lamb looks over at the passenger seat before starting the car. She has a pretty smile, and the sight of it does something to more than just his cock.

Adelaide still feels the spot on her neck where he nibbled her. It’s damp with saliva, and there is blood rushing to it. Almost as if her body’s immune system knows it’s about to put up a fight to protect from whatever microbes the decades have inflicted upon him. Oh well— at least he agreed to a bath.

Part of her feels a strong urge to wash her neck, to get that sensation of his teeth and breath off her skin. But she pushes it away. This is the man she wants. She wants to feel that hot breath on her neck, those teeth nibbling her skin more deeply. She’ll even accept her immune system being triggered by his microbiome to the point of total surrender.

Lamb reaches Slough House in no time, and they climb to the top floor together. He’s only a bit winded when they arrive, showing that he’s surprisingly fit in spite of the beer belly. Adelaide proceeds straight to the washroom adjacent to his office and fills the old, neglected tub. She’s not convinced such an ancient piece of ceramic will do much for his hygiene, but she supposes it’s better than nothing.

Jackson is already stripping his clothes off with little ceremony. She can't help but notice his body as he strips himself, and she feels herself becoming aroused quickly… strangely. His trousers slink to the floor right after his shirt and tank. He immediately slips his thumb beneath the waistband of his white nylon y-fronts.

“Stop!” she cries and covers her eyes. “Don’t you want some kind of modesty?”

"I'm the only one in the bath. I think I'd have noticed if someone else walked in." He pauses a second, then smirks and whispers: "Or are you worried one of these old boxes of rubbish will suddenly spring to life and start snapping pictures?”

“What about me?” she hisses. “You don’t care about me seeing all your goods just right off the bat?”

He chuckles. "What's it going to do to you if you do? I don't think it’s anything you haven't seen before. You’re a young one, but not that young.”

And with that, the y-fronts find their way onto the floor with the rest of his clothes. She only catches a glimpse of said “goods” before he plods his way over to the tub and lifts one leg over the side. He winces and hisses as his body hits the hot water.

Despite the scald, Jackson manages to lift his other leg over the side and slump into the tub. He's in a position of extraordinary vulnerability right now, like a giant turtle tipped over on its back. This is precisely what Adelaide enjoys. She likes that she has this power over him. She approaches him now, holding the bottle of soap, and she leans down over the tub to apply some on the sponge. Her eyes don't leave his chest nor the glimpse of his thighs peeking above the deep water.

“Go ahead and dampen your hair… please,” she instructs awkwardly.

"Why so eager to get me wet, darling?" Lamb asks. But he leans his head over toward the wall of the tub, allowing the water to soak into his tangled hair.

She decides not to make any comment on her own state of wetness, though the thought is tempting. She simply rubs the sponge over his scalp, scrubbing in circles.

The way she scrubs — softly, so gently— almost makes him moan. There's something about being cared for so intimately by someone like her. She makes him feel oddly… safe. And the way she keeps her eyes on him the whole time... it makes his heart skip a beat. Even when she's cleaning his scalp, it's tender and erotic… sensual.

“You actually like it,” she muses with a twisted smile, popping his nose playfully with the corner of the sponge before scrubbing elsewhere on his face.

"I guess I do," Lamb is forced to admit. His breath catches in his throat as she drifts over his nipples with the sponge, and in a way he both loves and hates it. He loves it because she's so close to him, and he can feel her steamy breath. He hates it because he has no control over any part of this situation, and his body seems quite ready to let it all go.

Adelaide works diligently, moving to his neck and chest again. He of course is “dad-bod” to the extreme, even if he’s not actually a father. Is he? She doesn’t even know. But she does know she finds him irresistible, and she chucks the sponge temporarily in favor of running her hands over his skin instead.

Her fingers electrify him. They feel so small and nimble, and she's caressing him everywhere— the inside of his elbows, the sides of his torso, the backs of his knees. She's not being as tender as she was with his face. No, now she's really getting into it... and that's when he loses it. He feels the rush of blood and warmth throughout his body; the feeling of her hands running up and down his skin is almost intolerable.

She has her work cut out for her in places like his scalp, feet, and fingernails. She marvels in wonder and sadness on why a man would neglect himself so much. Still, she notices he’s not drinking tonight. Given what she knows about alcoholics, it's quite odd that he can simply switch it on and off at will. Almost as if the bottle and maybe even the lack of bathing is an act. He is certainly a curious kind of man.

After nearly a half hour, trimmed fingernails, a thoroughly splashed dress, and a couple additions of hot water, she’s made quite a bit of progress. Jackson is now a lot of moans and very little quip, though he’s allowed a few to drop here and there.

“All right, I am NOT washing your arse for you,” Adelaide declares. “The manhood’s up for discussion, however.”

"Fine,” Lamb huffs. “I can wash my own arse. Don't worry about it." He lifts himself from the water, turning his backside to face the back of the tub. "It's nothing to write home about, anyway. It's just a normal arse.”

“What exactly is a ‘not normal’ arse?” she asks as she gazes at his pale backside. “Don’t we all have a normal arse?”

Lamb rolls his eyes. “All right. For example, yours is normal. But if I were to show you a picture— a collage, if you will— of an enormous, bulbous, pendulous arse… one that perhaps even covers a good portion of the back of this tub, you might consider that a ‘not normal’ arse. I’ve seen a lot of bodies in my line of work, sweetheart.”

She grins and shakes her head. “Ah, point taken. But you and I are quite normal in the arse department?”

"I think we both fall firmly in the 'normal’ category, yes.”

She likes this pointless conversation between them. It feels relaxed and fun. Jackson settles back in the tub, rinsing the sponge. The question of who will be washing his cock still looms.

"Alright, Lamb. Now your manhood needs attention. The word ‘smegma’ comes to mind, though that’s merely a hypothesis.”

"A hypothesis,” he repeats, scrunching up his face. She clearly thinks she’s so clever.

Adelaide bites her lip and giggles.

"Okay," he admits. "It's a little more than a hypothesis, perhaps. What's your hypothesis on how you're going to handle my cock?"

Her heart skips annoyingly. This conversation should be the furthest thing from arousing, yet here she is. She grabs a new, clean rag from the nearby vanity and gets it warm, then she soaps it up with the spiced blood orange wash.

“Like this, I suppose,” she replies, taking a breath to prepare.

Jackson tries to contain his laughter at the expression on her face— half nervous, half excited, but all the better for it. She leans down over him, and the sensation of her breath on his torso is almost unbearable.

“Let me find it in here,” she jokes, knowing he’s going to crucify her for that one.

"What did you mean by that?" he asks, his laugh dissolving into a growl as he grabs her by the wrists and pins her hands against the wall of the tub. He leans down close to her, his breath hot against her neck. His eyes narrow, and his voice softens. His whisper sends shivers through her: "What... do... you mean by that?" he repeats.

His voice takes her arousal to extremes.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “Innocent statement. I have to find it before I wash it, is all.”

"Oh, yes." He eases the pressure on her wrists, and his voice falls back to its previous level. "By all means, search extensively."

She snickers. With resolve, she reaches beneath the water, fully aware at this point that it’s a tub of stink and grime. Maybe a shower would have been more sanitary. It doesn’t take long at all to find what she’s looking for. It’s presenting itself to her fairly obviously by now.

"There it is," he whispers, the low sound of his voice sending more shivers through her. "You better wash it well. Even then it’s not exactly going to win a beauty contest."

She tries to put herself in the mindset of a nurse washing a patient, but that doesn’t really work. She’s certainly far more involved. Her fingers tentatively circle the shaft while she washes the rest. He’s girthy for sure, if average in length. She is nervous about the condition beneath his foreskin but is surprised to see it’s not nearly as bad as expected. Again, he must turn on and off his hygiene habits like he does his drinking. She’s feeling quite confident when she moves lower to his bollocks. Her eyes widen at the size she finds there. No wonder he’s such an arse. He’s certainly entitled.

"Don't give them too much attention," he says, trying to maintain his composure, but he feels the warm flush rising in his face, and his heart begins to pound faster. "Not that much to look at. And covered in hair."

She swallows. “I can see that.”

"Well," he grumbles, "Not a lot I can do about that. I can't exactly shave down there. Belly a bit in the way. So... just get it clean."

“I didn’t complain,” she reminds him quickly. “Just discussing facts.”

"You don't have to discuss it,” Lamb reprimands sharply. “You could just leave it and do your job."

She drops the wash rag into the murky bathwater. “My job? I didn’t realize I was getting paid for this. This is supposed to be a date. Some kind of twisted, pathetic date… since you couldn’t be bothered to do this yourself.”

"Oh, right. Date." There's an awkward silence for a moment between them. She's right, of course. If he were on a date with her, they wouldn't be having a conversation like this. They'd be having...

“Yes, well. I think we had better move this along— get this bath done and done with,” agrees Lamb. “No need to make the date any more awkward than it is. It is a date after all, is it not? And I don't imagine you'd want things to get more, shall we say, 'intimate'?" Jackson raises an eyebrow, his face almost innocent as it searches for her current intentions.

She sighs. On the surface, she ought to run. But he stirs something not just between her damn legs but within her heart. She feels sorry for him and has the strangest urge to satisfy and care for his needs. “I think we have a while to go to ‘intimate,’” she replies honestly. “Perhaps a drink to set the mood?”

"Perhaps..." he agrees, trailing a finger along her cheek. She stands and tries to shake her dress out a bit. He has soaked it quite thoroughly with his thrashing in the tub. She notices immediately that the white fabric does her no favors. Luckily she’s wearing a bra. She hands him a towel.

Lamb struggles with an internal debate as he takes the towel from her. A debate that is quickly won by his imagination as he eyes the way the white gauzy fabric clings to her nude-colored bra.

As he dries off, Adelaide notices that the tub is overflowing with a considerable amount of suds and grime. His clean skin almost sparkles as a contrast. His eyes are tracking her every movement— a certain gleam in them as they look her up and down.

"I have to say," Jackson finally says, securing the towel around his waist and taking a step toward her. "I'm finding this whole fast-paced, cockamamie scenario between us very…”

She looks at him curiously. “Very what?”

"Very... interesting,” he finally says, closing the distance between them and leaning down toward her. "And that's what’s intriguing. You’re a bloody stranger to me, really, and yet…” He trails off, eyes flitting almost nervously.

“Jackson Lamb? Speechless?” she muses.

"A rare thing to see, agreed,” he admits. “Let me tell you why I find you so... enthralling." He leans down further, so that he's only an inch or two from her face. Their breath now plays tag with each other, and with each exchange, the temperature rises measurably.

“Please, do tell.” She smiles and settles back against the bathroom counter, where his proximity effectively has her pinned.

"Right,” he nods with an almost nervous sigh. “Your eyes. It’s just something about your eyes..." He brings his hands to her cheeks to turn her face toward him. He then leans in even closer, so that his breath is hot against her ear. "They’re just so damn addictive. I find myself gazing so deep into them I feel like I might fucking fall right in..."

So he could be romantic. In his own way. This was… something.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “You have nice eyes also. Very clear blue.”

"Really?" He smiles, almost boyishly. "I have nice eyes?" They're so very close now, their noses just a breath away from touching. "You're not just saying that?"

She shakes her head. He’s so close that his wet belly brushes her dress.

"Tell me something," he breathes into her ear. "Are you nervous, darling? Is your heart approaching cardiac arrest?" She can almost hear the sly wink in his voice even though her eyes are fixated on the floor.

She moves to look at the towel around his waist. She can see the outline of his erection through it, clearly indicating where he wants this to go.

“I’m assuming you know the answer because you can hear my heart very clearly beating,” she returns, finding that her jaw even shakes as she speaks.

"Yeah?" He pulls back just a little, until the tips of their noses are touching but nothing more. "What do you think would happen if I were to just..."

She looks him in the eye. “Just what, Jackson Lamb?”

Their eyes lock on each other, and their lips are so close she can feel magnetism in the air between them. Everything seems to slow down. It's like the entire world outside has stopped, waiting for them to close the distance that little bit further. All over her insane, ludicrous attraction to Jackson fucking Lamb.

“What are you waiting for? A signed contract?” she mutters. And she knows it sounds exactly like a line he would say.

"Maybe a little affirmative response might be nice,” he shoots back with a throaty chuckle. He leans forward, their mouths almost touching, and he whispers, "Maybe tell me you want it?"

His breath is surprisingly not bad, she has decided. Smoky and liquor-tinged, of course, but no halitosis. Nor are his teeth that bad. Maybe all the alcohol keeps his mouth disinfected. She thinks she might enjoy kissing him.

“I— I want it,” she says shakily.

And that's all the permission he needs. He pulls her to him, their lips crashing together, and their mouths immediately find their stride. She melts into his kiss, letting him take the lead. It feels so good to him— like his insides are crying at lost chances and cast-aside dreams– youthful… forgotten. Jackson’s so lost in the symbolism of that first kiss that Adelaide is the one who eventually pulls away.

She struggles to catch her breath. That kiss was fire. She felt every ounce of his desire in it. His body is still wet, just wrapped in the towel and not yet dried off.

“We should dry you,” she reminds him gently.

"Is that really what you want to do?" he asks with slight disappointment. "You don't want to... continue?"

She smiles. “You’re getting me all wet.”

"A little soap and water never hurt anybody," he replies slyly.

“You should remember that one.”

"I might just do that." His eyes are still on hers as he backs away and starts drying himself off. "You're a lot of fun, you know that, kid? Just when I think I've got you all sussed out, you do something to turn it all on its head. I wonder what you have in store for me now..."

Adelaide watches as the towel drops to reveal his entire form, no longer hidden by cloudy bath water. His muscles are soft all over except for his legs, which are strong. Clearly he still moves a lot in the field. Everything else has quite a bit extra to pinch, to love. And he is indeed quite blessed, as she’d noted earlier, in the girth department.

"Are you checking me out, woman?” Lamb demands. “I suppose you can’t help it— I wasn’t exactly subtle, you know, with the kiss and everything. I bet you’re on fire.”

“No, not subtle at all,” she agrees. “Nor is your body subtle right now. It’s quite obvious what you’ve got on your mind.”

He looks down rather approvingly at his own cock, which she has roused to finally peek beyond the reach of his belly. "Well, yes. Why in the hell would it be subtle? That bath you gave me was straight up pornography. I'm just picking up the vibes that you're putting down. Am I mistaken?"

He’s adorably flustered, and dare she say, worried that he may have misconstrued the whole bit. She watches him finish drying and set the towel on the vanity. He stands there fully naked, drumming his fingers and waiting for her response. Her mind is racing with pictures of the two of them together and exactly how she wants to ride him into the sunrise.

“No, you’re not mistaken,” she answers truthfully. They never even got to that second drink she swore she would need to set the mood. Turns out she didn’t need anything but him.

Lamb seems surprised. His eyebrows raise as she says it then narrow briefly, as if a thought has entered his mind. But if it has, it doesn't stay long as he breaks into a wide grin. "Well, in that case..." He reaches for her hands and brings her to him. "What do you say we get to the fucking portion of this evening’s entertainment?”

Her clit dances with the thrill of his vulgarity, and she finds herself trembling as she eases away from her perch. “You might want to take my dress off first,” Adelaide reminds him. “Our state of undress is a bit unfair at the moment.”

"Well, it's your dress,” he points out. “I wanted to be a gentleman and let you take the initiative." He leans forward and kisses her cheek. "Now, my dear, would you like me to help you with that?"

She nods and turns around to grant access to the zipper in the back. She’s very conscious of the wet spot he’s left behind on her cheek. Every point of contact between them seems like an irrevocable tattoo.

As he unzips her in one fluid movement, Lamb realizes how long it has been since he touched a woman this way. He is very aware of his breathing and that his heart is beating rapidly. Her skin is still glowing warm from the humidity of the room as he lets his hands joyously roam her exposed body.

His hands are rough… calloused and enormously pleasant.

"You're very warm," Jackson says, his breath erratic. "Is that from this damp room or from me?” He presses kisses down her arm, and she’s too distracted to answer. “My nerves feel bloody electrical shocks where your body touches it,” he continues. “What about that? Is that me, or you?"

“Us,” she replies simply. Her dress finally slinks to the floor.

Jackson steps back and gazes at her. She’s even more stunning naked than he’d dreamed. But he’s glad to see she’s not perfect. His eagle eye can spot a few flaws in isolation. Taken together, however, she’s a fucking goddess. He runs both hands down her body slowly, starting from her shoulders and working his way down over those impressive breasts; she really does have fucking fantastic tits. He traces the curve of her waist and then over her hips until his fingers find the small of her back. Then he draws a line up her spine and down again until it ends at the beautiful bubble of her bum, which he squeezes roughly and unapologetically. That brings a moan from her parted lips.

Jackson’s touches are half man-handle, half caress. Adelaide can feel a tingling each time his fingers run across her, and she is very aware of how that tingling sensation is building up inside her as if her entire body is becoming one single erogenous zone. She allows her eyes to close and falls back against him for support as he continues.

His fingers travel across her breasts and stomach, up and down in a slow and rhythmic pattern. She can feel his breath against her skin, and his clean scent is intoxicating. Her back arches slightly as he continues his foreplay, putting his cock dangerously close to violating her from behind. Every time she ruts against him like that, his fingers press against her a little harder, a little lower. But still he hasn’t reached the spot that’s now weeping for his touch.

When he hears her moan and feels her arch against him with more enthusiasm now, he pauses. "Am I hurting you? Are you alright?” Jackson knew damn well she was fine. But torture designed as chivalry was a fun game.

“Of course I’m alright!” Adelaide snaps breathlessly. “Haven’t you ever heard a woman moan like this before?”

"Not that I can recall, no." He smiles, gently spinning her around to face him. "I'm actually quite out of practice at this, so you need to tell me if I'm doing it right."

She scrutinizes his face and finds him very sincere. Once again she’s sad for him, and for all the things she suspects he’s missed, at least for the past few years. “You’re certainly getting there,” she whispers with a wink.

"So I can continue, then?" He nibbles her fingers as his eyes widen hopefully.

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods.

"Should I suck your tender little earlobe, darling, or bite the back of your neck?" He moves down and kisses the nape of her neck, then he kisses the side, then kisses the back again...

Her body immediately emits more wetness along with more shivers. The one spot on her neck is like a button with very long wires, transmitting sensation rapidly downward.

"That's a good reaction, right? A good sign I'm on the right track?" Jackson asks, hopeful once again.

How did he know? “What’s a good reaction?” she clarifies.

"That. The shivers. I like your shivers."

“Oh… those. Yes. Good reaction.”

"How much can I do before it becomes too much?" he asks with narrowed eyes.

“Just keep going,” she replies hurriedly. “I’ll say the safe word if I need you to stop. It’s ’Cartwright.’ I figured that would make you shrivel up like it’s a sub-zero day in Siberia.”

He grunted. "And what does one do after that? If you say the word, I have to stop what I'm doing, right? We have to stop everything and I have to wait while you get dressed. I have to get you a coat. Then you run off into the night and send some other sassy tart to deal with me on Monday.”

He’s overthinking this. She considers asking whether he wants a new sassy little tart, but decides against it.

“Just get back to business, Lamb. I doubt I’ll be stopping you.” She moves her buttocks against his arousal again, hoping this time his hands will land where she wants them.

"Are you quite sure?" he insists.

“Yes, Lamb! Goddamn it!”

He grins. “Finally a language I fucking understand! In that case..." He kisses her neck again, this time with a feral hunger. He moves a step back and spins her forward to caress her cheek before kissing her beautiful lips. His tongue ravages hers, and their panting increases heavily between kisses, their bodies becoming increasingly tangled with each other.

"You know, you really are rather good at this..." he comments slyly.

“Thanks for the compliment. You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hands roam down to her behind, and he pulls her in toward him, pressing his groin against her stomach. His mouth returns to her neck in an almost vampiric fixation. He is enjoying this immensely.

“What do you say we move this from the washroom to the sofa?” she suggests quickly. “I think that’s the only option we have here at Slough House.”

“Is it comfortable enough?” Lamb wonders aloud. “It's been used as a dumping ground for as many years as you’ve probably been alive. I think it was constructed into the building itself.” He pauses as he ponders. “I think you might be right, though. It’s the best we’ve got.”

“I did clean it yesterday,” she reminded him. “Not that it helped much. But we have to do this somewhere, right?”

"Sofa it is, then,” he relents. “I'm sure it won't take long to be distracted from the foul stench.”

She takes the lead toward the old piece of furniture, pursing her lips to control her laughter. The irony of Jackson Lamb complaining about a foul stench! She indicates for him to lie down.

Jackson finds he’s more than happy to let her take control, when it comes to this. He obeys, and she places one knee on either side of his body. She lowers herself until she’s pressed tightly against him. Gravity is his friend. Gravity has her two very luscious breasts like soft pillows of heavenly perfection against his old, lonely chest. He closes his eyes and groans.

She kisses him fiercely, her hunger no longer masked. The fingers of one hand drift into his now-clean hair, finding it soft and silver and quite beautiful. She feels his hand kneading her behind almost painfully, but it’s glorious.

"I was right," Lamb moans quietly. "Forgot all about this minger of a sofa already.”

Adelaide lowers her hips so she fully covers him now, and she begins to undulate against his pelvis to get the friction she craves. She finds she appreciates the soft cushioning he has there, as it makes this particular act far more pleasant.

The sight and sensation of her moving over him is the most erotic thing he's ever experienced, and he begins to move against her in turn. He's no longer teasing or being playful; he's just as eager as she is to move this the hell along.

Adelaide is dying to ride him but also doesn’t want this to end too soon. She wonders… maybe if they have a quickie now, he’d be up for more encounters in the future. Encounters where perhaps they could explore all the little foreplay delights they’d missed. Her body truly needs to skip to the main event after all this flirting and tension, and she suspects his does as well.

It's clear that her instincts are right. The sight of her moving over him is sending his body into overdrive; her soft skin rubbing against his and her sweet tongue on his neck is aphrodisiac times fifty. But part of him wants this to be as long and fulfilling as possible, because it's likely to be the only time. Not because he isn't attracted to her or that he doesn't want future sessions like this— that would be lunacy, given the pleasure he is currently receiving with every undulation she makes— but because he's already expecting a rejection of some sort. What else should he expect?

“I’m going to… to do it now… is that okay?” she whisper-warns in his ear.

Jackson lets out a low chuckle. "You don't need to ask me. It's not like you're going someplace I don't want you to."

Adelaide slides her hips down and locks herself over his cock with little effort on her part, given how swollen and on fire she is for him. But her eyes soon widen at the stretch. She was right about his girth.

“Fuck,” she mutters, and she takes meditative breaths to adjust.

"Do you want me to stop?" He's a little concerned by her reaction.

She shakes her head quickly and grins. “You couldn’t really stop anyway, unless you threw me off onto the floor.”

"You're probably right on that account, love. You want to keep going?"

She lets her hips respond, finally beginning some blessed movement. Jackson bites down slightly on her breast, his breathing now very erratic as she begins to move. He's already finding it difficult to hold back.

His bite sends her senses reeling. His cock feels incredible inside her. Stiff and veiny with the circumference to hit every magnificent spot. She could get used to this.

He hears her make soft little whining noises in pleasure, each one like a little dagger to the old spy’s heart. He wants to dedicate every resource he has left to eliciting these sounds from her every night of their lives. They make him want to move faster, but he resists— he wants their lovemaking to be long enough that she remembers it forever, even if she tries to tell herself she hated it.

“Feels so good,” she whispers, the words giving his ego a stroke it desperately needs.

"It does, doesn't it, darling?” he replies against the skin of her neck.

She grasps his hand and places it just below his belly, right where she will hit when she moves forward. Jackson knows what she wants and he places his finger accordingly.

The sensation her clit receives feels as though she's been hit by lightning. Her hips begin a sort of erratic spiral at this, causing a squeeze like nothing Jackson Lamb has ever felt. He's beginning to have trouble breathing… seeing… existing. How he’s survived so long a dry spell is now beyond his comprehension.

“You okay there, agent?” she whispers.

"I'll be fine." He's panting. "I just need a little moment..."

Adelaide shakes her head with a grin. “I think you need more of this…” and she pivots in circles again.

Her pace is perfect, her rhythm intoxicating. Her pussy’s like a fucking vise gift-wrapped in silk.

"I don't know if I can hold off much longer," he admits, his breath shallow and rapid.

“It’s okay,” she assures him with a sweet kiss.

"It's definitely not okay," he chuckles. "You're doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You're making this more difficult because you see that I'm enjoying it so much." His hips move slightly to match hers, wanting to show her he still has what it takes.

“Would you prefer not to enjoy it?” she teases, allowing him to take the lead with the upward thrusts he’s able to manage.

The way she seems to unhinge her hips to meet him is causing all kinds of new sensations in his body that his mind can't seem to grasp. He's so close to the edge; no man should be expected to hold on through something like this.

Adelaide can see Jackson is truly close and won’t be able to make it. So she lowers herself down and embraces him tightly, increasing the pressure against his hand and pelvis with the sole purpose of chasing her own pleasure, since she knows his is already certain.

And that's all she needs to do. He is lost to her. Fucking lost. His entire body tenses, all at once— a moment of sheer panic that could only mean either orgasm or death.

The sound of his groan is so satisfying to her, like he’s finally surrendering in their neverending battles. That plus his warm flood is enough to rouse her to her peak quickly, and she rides it out even after he’s finished, giving him aftershocks that shake his entire body.

"Oh god..." he groans, his words becoming slurred. "That... was... incredible. Fucking, fucking incredible.”

She allows herself to collapse on his chest, her nose buried in his clean, soft hair. Their bodies are stuck together with sweat.

“Yes… it really was,” she sighs.

"If we had to get stuck together like this for the rest of our lives, it wouldn't be so bad..." He closes his eyes and squeezes her tightly. "I guess there was a damn good reason that the service has kept me on this long after all. So this high holy day would arrive when I could fuck you."

She laughs. “So you could trash this place and I could come in and clean it up? Then clean you up… and then…”

He grins almost gleefully.

She raises up, cupping her hand into a fist on his chest and propping her chin on it. “Yes. And how would you describe this moment… this culmination?”

"I'd call it... euphoric,” he concludes. “And I'd call you... divine."

She presses a sweet kiss to his neck. Just then, they hear a creak of a door. Jackson pulls her tightly against him, shielding her in a way that she finds very attractive. He simultaneously listens intently for any further sounds.

"Someone is definitely here,” Adelaide confirms. “Your team working late tonight?”

"Work?” he huffs. “What’s that?” All the same, he kisses her shoulder in an effort to conceal any noises with their own. But his keen old ears still listen closely.

“We need to get dressed!” she whispers insistently. “What if we get caught?”

He tilts his head slightly and kisses her again. "Then we get caught. What if I were to do this?" He leans into her neck, nibbling once again.

“You want to get caught?” she asks with surprise.

"I don't think they've heard anything. Not yet,” he scoffs. “You've seen how inept they are. We have plenty of time for one final, passionate moment. Don’t you suppose?” His amused smile is adorable.

She laughs again and begins bucking her hips. He’s only halfway stiff at this point, but his hand is still in place. She is fairly sure she can chase another climax from that alone.

Jackson returns to devouring her neck, because he’s addicted. Then he raises himself to a sitting position so he can better kiss her as she chases her next high. The kiss immediately deepens as his fingers begin working her very messy folds in a purposeful rhythm. She is practically shaking by now; each movement he makes sends tingling sensations and causes her to grip his shoulders for support.

"Come on, sweeting..." His voice is low and rough as he speaks the archaic term of endearment. Once again she’s distracted from pure carnality by the fact that Jackson Lamb touches her damn heart. She can hear familiar noises downstairs, and now she knows it’s one of the Horses, not an intruder.

She is panting, knowing Jackson is going to make her come quickly. His fingers slosh in their combined mess, twisting and curling against her front wall in the most delicious torture.

"That's it. Keep moving,” he encourages her. “Just keep enjoying it, love.” He catches her gaping, desperate mouth and kisses her deeply, filling her senses with smoke and whisky and his trademark taste. His grip on her hips is tight and possessive and borders on painful, but hell if she cares. The old spy’s fingers are magic, and they’re her singular thought. Soon her eyes are rolling, this impending orgasm even more pleasurable than her first, if that’s possible.

She hears his filth in her ear, “Come all over my fingers— sweet, wet cunt.” It’s enough to make her shriek and shake as everything explodes and surrenders to him.

"Well, wasn’t that impressive?” comments Lamb. “And loud… for a woman who doesn’t think we’re alone.” He wipes his wet hand on a nearby jacket, adding ‘pussy’ to the garment’s collection of smells.

They definitely aren’t alone. In fact, after her final shriek, the noises downstairs slow down. She’s pretty sure whoever it was is in shock.

Jackson grins triumphantly and pats her bum, encouraging her to dismount. "They must be mortified. Let’s go and greet them.” He trudges to the washroom to recover their clothes.

The man was delirious from sex. He was barely making sense as he threw his shirt back on.

"We could be fucking perfect, you know,” he continues. He's becoming a little frantic in his attempt to describe his feelings, and even though they’ve only just separated, he grabs both of her hands. "Everything exactly how it should be. You and me. Together. Setting up some pretty little life. Not letting a soul get in our way. Especially not the bloody service. Find some remote village somewhere, so picturesque it makes you sick. Live there as a family. Our son will have your gorgeous looks, and you’ll teach him how to be polite. Perhaps he could get my hair? Some of my sarcasm would be nice too… for when the polite doesn’t work. It just sucks royal bollocks that I didn’t find you sooner. I—”

Lamb pauses, realizing how ridiculous his words sound. If he hadn’t forced himself to forget how to blush years ago, he’d be as red as a garden beet. He clears a sorely unattractive wad of phlegm from his throat as he stuffs his shirt into his trousers. "Sorry. I got carried away there. Can you believe I'm the same man who told you to shut the hell up when I first met you? Fucking lunatic, I am.”

Adelaide places a hand on either side of his face, cradling him for a brief second before absentmindedly replacing her dress. She stares at him in awe. He’s positively animated, his skin glowing, eyes twinkling— his smile sheepish and sincere. His words sound ridiculous, yes, but she finds herself touched by them nonetheless. And of course she hears in them the regret for the life Jackson Lamb never got to lead. She’s made him remember all that, and the gravity of it isn’t lost on her.

“Don’t apologize. Please,” she says softly. “All that sounds beautiful. And I’m touched that the man who told me to shut the hell up would think of having those things with me. All because of one night of hot sex,” she adds with a grin, knowing he won’t want it too sentimental. “I really must be a damn good pussy.”

"In the most vulgar sense of the word," he confirms. "But it wasn't just that. It was you. It was every single thing about you. You may be an obnoxious little twat, but you're a bright, funny, beautiful one. And that's what makes this perfect."

Adelaide’s heart is racing again, not with desire but with emotion. Her brain can’t find any rational reason to deny them being together, and that’s terrifying.

“Yes. We do complement each other rather well,” she says carefully.

His hands stroke her cheeks, and one of his fingers finds her lip. "Tell me you’re mine,” he commands her. She knows he’s going for dominant, but she clearly hears the uncertainty underneath.

“So… you want me to be your girlfriend?” she asks, also unsure of what’s a game and what’s real.

His face spreads into a smirk that seems to shave a few years off of him with its youthful brightness. "Girlfriend doesn't even come close to it. But... yeah. I want you to be my girlfriend. And more. I want you to be my wife. I want you to be my whole bloody world. What do you have to say to that?”

The veins in her head were pulsing so hard she was convinced she’d die of an aneurysm right here on the Slough House floor. “You— you want to marry me? The same girl you told to fuck off?”

"Yeah. That one. An old bloke like me doesn’t have the luxury of time." His words are barely a whisper, though his eyes couldn't be more intense, like he wants to inhale her. His thumb is back on her lips, subtly prying them apart. Her tongue snakes along his thumb, for comfort if nothing else. He seems to know that particular touch will ground her. And it does, almost instantly, her breath catching in her throat as it does so. He kisses her again, his hand returning to the back of her head.

“I’ll need a ring,” she says defiantly, once she recovers. “Nothing fancy, but I want it official.”

"It'll be the biggest, sparkliest damn ring you've ever seen," he promises. "And you'll wear it on the finger I put it on, until I die and set you free, or you die and someone has to hack it off.”

Part of her thinks he’s toying with her. She swears she hears mockery in his tone. There’s no fucking way Jackson Lamb could be that sentimental to want all that, could he? Maybe he’s just never gotten the chance before…

As if reading her thoughts, he cups her face. He looks so sincere; maybe she should take him at his word? Because in some small part, she wants to. She wants to believe he wasn't teasing her, that he really is serious. She wants to believe this is her bloody insane happy-ever-after. She wants to be loved by this man.

“You mean it, don’t you?” she asks quietly. “And if you don’t… just know this is very very cruel.”

"I mean it,” he confirms with a sigh. "I've never meant anything more. I was never much for any of this shit... it never seemed practical. But just thinking of you as my wife... well, fuck it. It makes me happy, damn it. Happier than I've been in a long time, and not just because we've done bits. Well... mostly not."

Adelaide grins. This kind of conversation she can handle. “I fully plan on doing bits again regardless of nuptials,” she informs him.

He smiles. "In that case, I'm game too. But I do want more than that. It's not just the sex that's got me hooked. It's everything: the way you look at me, the way you push my buttons, the way you make me smile; the way you talk me into doing shit I don’t want to do..."

She runs her hand up the worn fabric of his dress shirt. She doubts he’s purchased a new one in decades, but the result is his whole body feeling comfortable, like a favorite old tee.

“Let’s do it,” she laughs, shaking her head.

He stares at her then slowly nods. "Let’s make it happen, Spencer.” A thought strikes him. "But before you wear the ring, there's one more thing I need to ask you."

Her eyes jump to him quickly. “Yes?”

"Will you promise to let me call you a cunt, once a week?"

She softens. “Among other things, I’m sure.”

"There we go!” Lamb proclaims. “Nothing like a healthy relationship." He buckles his belt with a wink.

“And I can call you a smelly fucking dick?” adds Adelaide.

"I'd be offended if you didn't." He kisses her.

She nods and picks up her purse. “I think I’ll like marriage.”

"And I think I'll love being your husband. Let's get out of here before anyone distracts us with their bullshit..."

That proves to be impossible. The moment Adelaide’s foot hits the bottom stair, she encounters Louisa. “Umm… hi, Guy. What are you doing here so late?”

Louisa freezes. She isn't a fool; she knows something is up the moment she sees an out-of-breath Adelaide way past midnight in Slough House. Jackson begins a clunky descent down the stairs.

“Lamb?” Louisa asks in disbelief.

“Guy?” he returns. “Don’t you have a one-night stand you should be tending to?”

“Seems you beat me to it… somehow,” she remarks, stone-faced. She looks at Adelaide, surveying her, then suspiciously at Lamb. “Are you alright, Miss Spencer?”

"I..." Adelaide’s at a loss for words. She knows exactly how this looks, but she can't think of a convincing explanation.

The awkward silence is broken by Lamb, who finally reaches the bottom of the stairs. "Guy? Quitting time was seven hours ago. Go home."

Louisa clearly doesn’t want to let this go until she believes this was fully consensual. And that’s very, very difficult to believe.

“Adelaide, you sure you’re alright? I want to hear you say it.”

“Oh, get on with it!” snaps Lamb. “She’s fine!”

"I'm fine," Adelaide affirms, trying to sound as natural as possible, but failing. There's nothing natural about what just happened. In fact, even though they're trying to play it off, this whole situation is bizarre, and the world will continue to let them know, unequivocally.

“I’m getting married,” Jackson announces jovially, and he pours a shot of brandy from the decanter on the hall shelf. He raises it toward Louisa in a toast motion with a smirk.

"You're wh... what?" Louisa stares at him. “To the new agent?”

“I’m— special projects, not an agent,” Adelaide manages to remind her.

Louisa surveys her dubiously. "Oh, yes. And clearly such an obvious match. Why, you're almost exactly the same age, right?"

Adelaide is pretty sure Jackson’s about 25 years her senior, if she had to take a guess. She supposes that is a bit icky to outsiders looking in. “He has a few years on me.”

Louisa just shakes her head and leaves Slough House without another word. It was clearly too awkward for her. Adelaide turns to Jackson with a shrug.

Jackson smiles at her as he downs the rest of the drink. All of the Horses would know by morning what had happened, but he’d deal with that bullshit Monday. He also wants to know what brought Louisa Guy back to work just before midnight. But for now, he wants to drink the rest of the bottle and pass out naked with his future bride. In the morning, he’ll wake her up with his kisses… kiss her until every other goddamn thing in the world fades away. And when she wakes up and looks at him, she’ll know it’ll be like this every morning after.

“You want to see my place?” Adelaide asks Jackson as they make their way to the door. “I gather it’s a hair cleaner than yours.”

Jackson chuckles. "Well, I am a grubby man, no doubt. I'd like to see your flat. Though I hope it doesn't smell like mine does. I bet it smells like... I dunno. Cake and sweets? All the good stuff."

She watches as he locks Slough House’s door behind them and grins.

“I don’t know… do I remind you of cake and sweets?” she laughs. “Maybe you should lick those fingers of yours and find out.”

He raises an eyebrow; there’s that sharp and sassy side that he finds so attractive. "I'll be doing a lot more than just licking my fingers,” he assures her.

She follows him back to his trash heap of a car. “Oh yeah? Sampling the wares first hand?”

His voice is silky. "I intend to get up close and personal..." He holds the car door open for her.

“I see,” laughs Adelaide. “I’m beginning to think I can envision my wake up call tomorrow. That is, if you’re sober enough to wake up first.”

"I'm an old spy, sweetheart. I could stay awake all night and still be up with the sun. Believe me." He winks and pulls into the empty late night streets.

#gary oldman #fanfiction #jackson lamb #slow horses #smut #love stories #ao3 #ao3 link #older man younger woman #original female character

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