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pedropascallme · 2 months ago

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Meet The Rileys

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader

Summary: "The most troubling fact was that you wouldn’t be concealed backup—a position you had become accustomed to holding on operations like this. Instead, you would be front and center, playing the housewife to Simon’s working man."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) reader is American (no other descriptors), canon typical violence but just barely, maskless Ghost, fake relationship, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, kinda soft!Dom Simon, some hair pulling, dirty talk, mild degradation, lots of praise, creampie, I still don't know how the military works or how undercover missions work, if I missed anything please let me know!

AN: To be so honest guys I'm not thrilled with this, but I did what I could. Is the plot nonsense? Perhaps. We're rolling with it.

Bonnie Riley.

The name was right there in bold typeface, printed on the fake ID Price had handed you.

Bonnie Riley, from Connecticut, who looked just like you.

But she wasn’t you. Not in a literal sense, anyway.

She was preppy and proper—presentable, in her tennis whites, her hair loose around her face.

Covert operations were awkward. At their worst, they served as a chilling reminder that so many people had no regard for life outside their own; at best, they were mind-numbing, and a bit uncanny, as you were forced into an entirely new role.

When Price had approached the Task Force with the assignment—an undercover op somewhere in Nowheresville, USA—you had been eager, made excited by the notion of returning to the states.

You missed sweet tea; you missed the rounded, drawled accents of America.

But it was only after you had agreed to the mission that it came to light what you would have to do.

One cartel was working with another, but the details of the brief got hazy from there. The country was suspicious about ulterior motives, worried by the links the domestic group had to other countries. Your job was to find out whether those suspicions were warranted.

As far as stealth missions were concerned, this one was comparatively bland.

The most troubling fact was that you wouldn’t be concealed backup—a position you had become accustomed to holding on operations like this. Instead, you would be front and center, playing the housewife to Simon’s working man.

You still weren’t entirely sure how you’d ended up in this position, or whether it was even necessary. But your hand had been forced, as had his.

Ghost’s title as Lieutenant meant a heightened level of responsibility, which was obvious, and more than fair; his consistent silence made him fit for a job that required a hefty dose of observation.

You, in turn, were given the task of having his back; paying attention to his whereabouts just as closely as you did the targets.

Plus, you were the only woman on the Task Force, and an American, to boot.

Playing house ensured that you wouldn’t garner any skepticism moving into the cul-de-sac, granting easy access to the targets.

You leaned against the window of the rented moving van, turning the ID in your hand.

Dragging your finger along the laminated edges, you found yourself thinking of the fake ID you had bought in high school. You smiled at one memory of awkwardly ordering drinks at the local bar, before your father had walked in and seen you and your friends sipping unhappily on warm beer.

You were grounded for a week, but your parents had let you keep the shoddy piece of plastic.

That fake had been adorned with your real name; it was only as fake as it needed to be.

Now, you were Bonnie Riley—faker than fake.

The name Bonnie had been your idea. It was a favorite of Soap’s when addressing you, and you figured a nickname would be easier to remember than something original and unfamiliar. Simon hadn’t been on board with the concept of an alias, stubbornly refusing to pick a name; Price had stepped in and deemed him ‘Jim.’ (“Strong British name, eh?” “S’not me.” “That’s the point, Lieutenant.”)

But when it came to choosing last names, you’d all struggled. Something like ‘Smith’ would be too ambiguous, but anything more unique might be a struggle to remember or explain, were you to get caught up in your web of lies.

When it was time to create the faulty identification, Price had grown frustrated.

“Might as well keep Riley, for all I care—” He had pinched the bridge of his nose as he addressed Simon, “If that’s something you can agree on. God's sake, you’re married.”

“Who says I’d take his last name?” You scowled, already far from pleased by what the mission entailed, but now growing frustrated that your voice wasn’t being heard.

“Aliases aren’t legally binding, Sergeant.” Price quirked a brow at you, daring you to continue your argument.

You had hesitated.

“Should we really go with one of our legal names?”

You posed the question rhetorically, not expecting a response from either of the men.

Realistically, you knew it was a fine idea—it was unassuming, common enough to go unquestioned but not common enough to seem deliberately chosen to blend in. It was easy to remember, and it’s not like people outside the barracks knew Ghost by his real name, anyway.

“Fine," you sighed, resigned. "I’ll be a Riley.”

“Welcome addition.” Simon had nodded in agreement, voice gravelly.

You winced at the memory, watching the landscape pass by as Price drove the van down the highway.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Simon—he was a fantastic Lieutenant, someone you considered a friend before you considered him a coworker. But therein lay the problem; you did like him, maybe a bit too much.

There was a heightened level of anxiety now as you realized that the time and effort you’d spent trying to ignore your feelings for him would be nullified by your need to act domestic with him.

Not to mention his phrasing when the name had been decided upon—a welcome addition. It produced a pang in your stomach not unlike butterflies, which made you more embarrassed, than anything.

You looked down at the ID again. Your picture next to the Riley name made you feel something warm in your chest.

It was an alias, sure—a sham—but the sight was gratifying, either way.

You yawned, growing wary of the silence in the van.

“I still don’t understand why this is something we have to do.” You spoke up, dropping the ID in your lap and staring at Price in the rearview mirror.

“Got somewhere t’be?” He replied with an amused huff.

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the window.

“Just doesn’t seem like our jurisdiction,” you frowned, “Cartel in Middle America? More of an FBI racket, no?”

“Usually.” Price adjusted the mirror.

“But…?” You prompted him when he didn’t continue.

“But, this cartel may be on the ins with a British operation in Wales. And the Welsh fellas are working with a group somewhere on the European continent,” Price drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, “FBI thinks collusion could lead to something bigger than just moving drugs. Already gotten word of terroristic threats.”

“So now you have Ghost and I playing Mulder and Scully?” You scoffed, still staring out the window.

“You’ll have your kit back on in no time, Sergeant.” Price chuckled.

“Good,” you smiled, finally meeting his gaze in the mirror again, “This sweater is itchy.”

“Consider yerself lucky, lass,” Soap piped up from the passenger seat, turning his body to look back at you. “Least ye got a regular sweater. Poor Ghost looks a pure fandan.”

“Nobody knows what ‘at means, MacTavish.” Simon shifted in his seat, typically stoic but clad in a sweater vest and looking just as abysmally preppy as you did.

He looked handsome, but the clothes were so uncharacteristic of him that the thought made you feel somewhat guilty.

“Sorry, LT,” Soap craned his neck to look at Ghost, “A brief translation: ye look like a dick.”

Gaz huffed a laugh under his breath next to you, and Simon clenched his jaw.

~~~

The neighborhood was so polished that it looked unnatural. Identical houses lined up in rows; yards with high, pruned bushes; shiny cars, parked carefully in front of white garages.

This was wealthy territory, and it made you uncomfortable to stare the upper class in the face after spending so much time in the barracks.

There wasn’t much to unpack, despite the number of boxes that had been loaded into the van. Most of them were empty, or filled with small items that would come in handy during the stakeout that would be occurring during the foreseeable future.

But the weightlessness was certainly beneficial, and as Gaz, Soap, and Price acted as movers, you stifled a laugh at their attempts to make it seem as though the boxes were full and heavy.

“This’s the last of it.” Gaz dropped the final box in the middle of the floor.

The cardboard made a clinking sound when it hit the hardwood, and you saw Kyle’s expression turn to one of vague panic as he opened the box to reveal a set of extension cords and small mics.

“Good,” Price didn’t seem bothered about Gaz’s carelessness over the equipment. “S’get ourselves set up here.”

You folded the empty boxes as they were unpacked, stacking them up beside you.

“Why do we all need to be here.” You quickly grew bored of unpacking in silence, mind still buzzing with nagging questions.

“Reinforcements.” Price said simply.

“For a sting operation that we haven’t even started?” You countered.

“Rather do all the work yourself?” Gaz looked up at you, smirking, and you tossed a sheet of bubble wrap at him.

It flew sideways, swaying as it floated to the ground.

“What do we do if people see you?” You voiced a larger concern, “Think they’ll buy it if we tell them the movers just...decided to stick around?”

“Tell ‘em we’re yer kids.” Soap had settled onto the floor, fiddling with an extension cord.

You looked at the Sergeants and Price; none of the three could pass as younger than you, and none of them looked like you or Simon in any capacity.

“You’re stupid.” You laughed quietly, shaking your head at the obvious faults in Soap’s idea.

“Oi—s’no way to talk to your son.” Kyle laughed.

“Big house,” Price butted in, “Nobody’ll see us. And there should be no reason anybody should come in.”

“There room for us all?” Gaz perked up, “Or is someone sleeping on the couch?”

“Not me.” Johnny perked up, ready to argue.

“There’s space,” the Captain chewed his cheek, hesitating before he looked at you, “You two are sharing, though.” He gestured to Ghost.

“Why us?” Your gaze shifted to Simon, who didn’t seem to care, or maybe he just hadn’t heard; he was busy setting up one of the monitors.

“Married.”

“Aliases aren’t legally binding.” You threw his words from weeks ago back at him. “Why can’t any other combination of us share a room?”

“Assume it’s cause the rest of us take up too much space,” Gaz smirked, “’Nd Soap snores.”

“Dinnae!”

“Just—” Price sighed. He’d clearly been anticipating your pushback. “Unless you’d rather take the couch…”

You swallowed, weighing your options.

Sleeping on the couch would be the more admirable thing to do. Simon was putting a lot of effort into this mission—and he outranked you. It felt only fair that he got the opportunity to sleep in a real bed.

Plus, you could feel your ears heating up at the mere thought of sharing a bed with him, and you didn’t want to know what would happen if it actually came to fruition.

“I can take the couch,” Simon spoke up before you had the chance to respond to Price. “Don’t plan on doin’ much sleeping, anyway.”

“Typical honeymooner.” Johnny chuckled.

“Rather keep watch ‘an stay kushy.” Ghost scoffed.

“Don’t care what you do in here. Just remember that outside this house, you’re married.” Price nodded, picking up the pile of empty cardboard boxes at your feet and tossing them by the front door.

“Right,” you sighed. “Yeah.”

~~~

You walked down the stairs slowly; it was dark, and you didn’t want to run the risk of missing a step and tripping over yourself.

Being in a new place always made you uneasy. You had become so accustomed to life on a military base—small rooms and small beds, curfews and floodlights—that anything else felt unnerving.

This house had shadows in new places, the bed was against a different wall. It all felt so liminal, and you despised it.

You remedied your discomfort by wandering the halls, trying to acclimate to your surroundings.

There was quiet chatter coming from the living room, and you turned the corner to see Simon awake on the couch, flipping through TV channels.

“What you doin’ up?” He didn’t bother turning to look at you.

“Big house,” you mumbled, not at all surprised by his knowledge of your presence; he was intuitive to a frightening degree. “Trying to...gather my bearings.”

Simon grunted a response, still not looking at you. You rounded the corner of the couch, keeping your distance.

“Why are you still up?” You chanced the question.

“Been a long time since I ‘ad cable.” He almost smiled, and you liked the way it looked; the light from the TV illuminated his face, and he seemed so docile.

“So, you’re just doing a, uh…” You looked at the TV, “A Brady Bunch rerun marathon?”

He looked up at you, not replying, but he smiled for real now, and that was just as good a response as any.

“Still in your day clothes.” You pointed out.

“My stuff’s in the room you’re sleeping in,” Simon shifted on the couch, and you tried not to focus on the way he let one hand fall over the curve of his thigh. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Wouldn’t bother me,” you shook your head, “Change, LT. You’re allowed to get comfortable.”

“Who said anything ‘bout being uncomfortable?” He challenged.

“Ghost, you’re wearing pleated slacks,” you scoffed at him, “I’m uncomfortable just looking at you.”

“Miss my casual attire, love?” He smirked, and you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah. Already sick of having to look at you without the mask.”

It was a deflection, really, to hide the fact that you were thoroughly enjoying being able to see him without the hinderance of the balaclava.

“You wound me, Sergeant.” He heaved a sigh, the smirk on his lips still obvious.

“You gonna change, or not?”

He stared up at you for a moment, short strands of blond hair falling over his face as he analyzed you.

“A’right,” he conceded, standing up and walking over to you. “Go on.”

You smiled, nodding in approval at his cession as you made your way up the stairs.

The bedroom was big—too big for just one person. The high ceiling and lack of any furniture, save for the bed, only served to make it seem even more spacious, which in turn made it feel even emptier.

Having Simon in it with you made it much cozier, and you couldn’t tell if it was just because he physically took up so much space, or if it was just his presence alone that soothed you.

Wordlessly, Simon grabbed the duffel he’d tossed beneath the bed. You watched on intently as he hoisted it by the strap over his shoulder.

He really did look so handsome like this. In another life, maybe this is how he’d be living; white picket fence, a nine-to-five. Maybe even a dog—you could picture him so clearly with a German Shephard by his side.

But you couldn’t imagine Simon living the domestic life in suburbia, not really. You couldn’t picture him without the scars and the grit.

It’s what made him Simon, and you didn’t necessarily think that was a bad thing.

“What’s your story?” You sat on the edge of the bed.

“Y’know enough.” He grunted, turning to you.

“No, your—” You sighed, rolling your eyes. “Your backstory. For…” You gestured between yourself and him.

He nodded in acknowledgement.

“Married two years, together f’eight—”

“You work slow, Jim.”

“I’m careful, sweetheart,” he quirked a brow at you, and you smiled, allowing him to continue. “Moved ‘ere from England cause you missed being home.”

“What do you do for a living?” You prompted.

“IT.” He gritted out.

“Nobody will believe that.”

“’Nd they’ll believe you’re a ‘ousewife?” He shot back.

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Fair.”

He shifted his jaw, and the conversation was over. He turned to leave, but you had one more thing on your mind.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch for the whole op,” you called after him quietly. “I can…we can trade off, every night. If you’d like.”

He turned to look at you again, standing in the doorway.

He shook his head. “Deserve your beauty sleep, Mrs. Riley.”

He turned to leave, closing the door behind him, and you could hear his footsteps as he walked back downstairs. You were left alone in the stupidly large bedroom, the sound of your pulse rattling around your skull.

~~~

To any outward observer, it looked like a chance encounter; people meeting, exchanging pleasantries as neighbors do, finding a sort of simpatico.

But it was a well thought out plan—as well thought out as it could be.

Price had given you the instructions over coffee that morning. You were bleary eyed and felt ill-prepared, but you had to admit, the man worked fast.

“Make sure they stop.” Price stood with folded arms as he watched you and Simon leave the house.

“Can’t really force it.” You paused in the foyer to point out the flaw in his logic, uncertain whether this would pan out the way you all hoped.

“Trap ‘em with small talk.” Price countered.

“Yeah—cause Ghost is known for his chit-chat.”

“S’why you’re helpin’ him.” Price cracked a small smile upon hearing your swipe at Simon.

“What do we do if this works?” You felt a little anxious about being in the spotlight through all of this, “You want us to walk right back inside? Cause that seems—I feel like that wouldn’t…look right.”

“Drive around,” Price shrugged, “Go wherever your heart desires.”

“Pick up some groceries!” Gaz shouted from another room, eavesdropping.

“Aye—yer kids are sick o’cereal and cheese sandwiches.” Soap added his two cents from the couch.

You rolled your eyes as you made your way out of the house in yet another uncomfortably starched outfit.

Simon was already outside, leaning against the front wall of the house. He seemed to have positioned himself fairly purposefully behind the hedges that lined the lawn; he held himself awkwardly without his kit, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

You realized he was likely trying to find comfort in a more sniper-like position so that he wouldn’t have to face the world more than he already had to in this situation.

“C’mon,” Simon nodded at you when you closed the door. “Y’a’right?”

You nodded, sighing. “We’re getting groceries after this.”

He made a face, but he didn’t say anything as he pushed himself off the wall and followed you down to the driveway.

A few feet from the garage, Simon grabbed your arm.

“Look.”

His voice was low, a gravelly whisper as he nodded to something down the street.

You followed his gaze and saw a couple approaching—they fit the description, matched the pictures; target acquired.

Simon opened the garage door, an action that made him look busy and ensured they would take notice of the two of you.

It worked; they looked up with startled smiles.

“Oh—new neighbors!” The woman called out before she had even reached your driveway.

Her accent rang out as clearly East coast. These were city folk who had run West to avoid the prying eyes and greedy pockets of whichever police department they were under the jurisdiction of; they were finding solace in small-town ambience while they made bank off of moving goods.

“Hi, there!” You waved, smiling wide as you encouraged them closer, attempting to rope them into conversation. “Just moved in.”

“That’s so great! That house has been empty so long...”

The woman finally stood before you, and you could see now that she was older than you, probably by at least ten years or so—though she was clearly putting effort into hiding it.

“About time someone made a home out of it—I was just saying so. Rob,” she turned to her husband, who trailed behind her, “Wasn’t I just saying so?”

“You were,” he nodded, sliding an arm around her waist and reaching his free hand out to Simon. “Robert Ferguson—this is my wife, Deborah.”

“Call me Deb!” She exclaimed, feigning bashfulness.

“Jim Riley,” Simon shook Robert’s hand, nodding sideways at you. “My wife, Bonnie.”

“You’re British!” Deb looked absolutely astounded by this revelation.

“Yes.” Simon nodded, and you couldn’t help but notice how the muscle in his jaw ticked; all of his focus seemed to be on making his features behave to hide his feelings now that the balaclava was off.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?” Robert asked, quirking a brow, and you wondered if he was already onto you.

“Missed home,” you finally found the opportunity to speak up, inching yourself closer to Simon to keep up the guise of married life. “We’ve been living overseas for so long; I just couldn’t go another day of rain and beans.”

Simon glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a begrudging, but amused, smirk. He wrapped an arm around your waist and tugged you against him.

“S’right.”

You swallowed the sound that wanted to come out of your mouth when his hand made contact with your body.

It was for show, and you knew that, but it felt nice; he was warm, and you could feel the soft rhythm of his heartbeat when you leaned into him.

You willed your blood back down when it began to rush to your cheeks.

“Overseas…You military?” Robert prodded.

“No—I’m in IT.” Simon quickly shut down any discussion of military service, which you knew was not done with any satisfaction.

“Scars are from a wonky laptop, then?” Robert laughed, but you could tell he was prying, trying to get a feel for you.

Simon cleared his throat, putting his free hand in his pocket to avoid reaching up and tracing the scars on his cheek.

He hadn’t really considered that the scars that marred him would be visible; he’d practically forgotten what his own face looked like at this point.

He didn’t think anybody would care to notice the details.

“Mining accident,” you rushed to cover for him. “We lived in Wales for a few years—when we met.”

You looked up at Simon, who looked confused, but grateful.

“Turns out, he’s not as good with a pickaxe as he is with a computer.” You forced a laugh, and Deb followed suit, wheezing out a giggle.

Robert nodded, buying the lie, and you chanced a smile at him.

“Well, if you need anything…” Robert turned from you to look at Simon, who had regained his composure—though you weren’t sure if anyone but you had noticed he’d lost it. “We’re right down the street, love to—”

“You should come for dinner sometime!” Deb butted in.

“We’d love to have you.” Robert nodded.

And just like that, you were in.

You said your goodbyes and watched on as they turned to walk back down your driveway.

Robert paused for a moment.

“You golf, Jim?”

“Once or twice.” Simon lied—he’d never so much as picked up a golf club.

“Should come down to the club sometime—meet some of the other guys in the neighborhood.” Robert smiled, rejoining his wife and walking off.

You and Simon stayed silent as you loaded yourselves into the car.

You drummed on your thigh, staring out the windshield and watching the house get smaller as Simon backed out of the driveway.

The car was nice. It matched the setting; sleek and shiny, though the vehicle didn’t feature any of the off-putting atmosphere that the neighborhood seemed to buzz with.

Simon had taken the moving van back to the lot it had come from the previous day. When he returned in the new car, you hadn’t asked anybody where it had come from, or why you needed something so flashy.

“Wales?” He finally spoke when he turned onto the main road.

“The other group Price mentioned—they operate out of Wales,” you explained, “First thing that came to mind.”

“Right,” Simon nodded, “And I worked in a mine?”

“I just associate Wales with the miner riots…” You felt flustered, maybe a bit embarrassed by the link you’d come up with.

“Where’d you learn about ‘at?” Simon smirked, shooting a glance at you before refocusing on the road.

“They teach us a little more in history class than just Paul Revere and his midnight ride.” You found yourself grinning at him.

“‘Nd you think I’m ‘at old?” He shook his head, “Old enough t’be a miner in nineteen-eighty?”

“In that outfit?” You pointed out his sweater vest, “Yeah.”

“Cheeky thing.” He dropped a hand to your thigh, patting your leg twice before removing it.

For a second time in an hour, you caught the sound that would have otherwise passed your lips. You straightened your skirt in an effort to chase the warmth his palm had pressed into your skin.

“Just thank me, LT,” you sighed, “Saved your ass.”

“Won’t be the last time, sweetheart.”

~~~

It was dark by the time you returned to the house; the streetlamps that lined the road had turned on, and the houses were unlit—save for a few bedroom lamps that glowed through curtained windows.

Simon put the bags of groceries on the kitchen island, tossing the car keys down next to them. He ran a hand over his face, pressing his palms onto the counter.

Soap wandered from his chosen bedroom when he’d heard the front door, sidling up next to Simon and sorting through the food that was still stacked in the bags.

“Johnny?” Simon sighed.

“Aye?” Soap pulled out an apple.

“C’you teach me ‘ow to golf by tomorrow?”

“Think just cause I’m Scottish I play golf?” Soap scoffed, peeling the sticker from the apple.

“Do you?” Simon quirked a brow.

Soap rolled his eyes, hesitating.

“Aye…”

“He agreed to play a round with the target.” You cut in on their conversation, pouring yourself a glass of water and kicking off your shoes.

“Didn’t agree,” Simon scowled, “Didn’t even respond.”

“Told him you’d golfed before, though,” You finished your water, putting the cup in the sink and shooing Johnny away from the grocery bags so you could unpack them. “Seems to me like you haven’t…”

“Already lyin’ about everything else.” Simon folded his arms, glaring.

“Yeah?” You quirked a brow. “You sure you weren’t just trying to fit in? To seem cool?”

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap laughed, “Ye fight like a married couple.”

“S’the point, yeah?” Simon huffed.

“And ye still won’t share a bed,” Johnny rolled his eyes, “Shame—most couples a’least start in the same room.”

You shook your head with a laugh, trying not to let the topic of conversation get under your skin.

You were bickering like a married couple. It was one thing to keep up the act when you were in public, around people who might recount what they’ve seen to the targets, but it was increasingly obvious that the make-believe was seeping into your real life.

Ghost was on your mind far more often than you’d care to admit. But now, rather than fantasies of lust and satin bedsheets, you were imagining him as the husband he was pretending to be.

Soap put a hand on your forearm when you reached into the bag of groceries again, silently reprimanding you for doing the unpacking, and taking on the job himself.

You thanked him and made your way to the staircase.

Simon followed you, and you turned to shoot him a curious look.

“Don’t need attitude ‘bout my sleep clothes again.” He passed you on the stairs, and you sped up to meet him as he pushed the bedroom door open.

“Didn’t realize you put your stuff back up here.” You watched him wrangle his duffel from beneath the bed.

“Didn’t realize I needed to tell you.” Simon shot back, and you rolled your eyes.

“Does this mean you’re going to stay up here tonight?” You pondered aloud.

“No,” he answered simply, “Fine on th’couch.”

You nodded, slightly stung, but you could understand the awkwardness of the position you’d both been put in.

The room fell silent for a beat.

“Do you miss the mask?”

You thought back on his actions earlier in the day, when you’d watched his face morph in response to the conversation with Robert and Deb.

“I mean…you seem kinda naked without it.”

“Think about me naked a lot?” Simon stood back up, smirking; a pair of sweatpants slung over his shoulder.

“Just—” you rolled your eyes. The answer was yes, often, but he didn’t need to know that. “It’s weird seeing you without it for so long.”

“Not comfortable to ‘ave it off, ‘f’at’s what you’re asking.” He sighed, and you nodded.

“Did you pack it?”

“No.” He almost scoffed, but he seemed to catch himself when he realized that your question was genuine.

“Are you sure you want to take the couch again?” You broached the topic once more, “You can sleep up here—I’m fine with sleeping downstairs, instead of—”

“Stop,” his voice toed the line of superior rather than friend for a moment, “S’a’right.”

“Ok…” You mumbled in lieu of an apology.

“Quick thinking today,” his voiced turned softer—by his standards, at least. “Impressive.”

“Does this make me a trophy wife?” You smiled, trying not to grow flustered by his praise. “My skillful lies?”

He seemed to waver for a moment, brow creasing slightly as he thought.

“No…” He shook his head, turning to walk out of the room. “‘At’s not what does it.”

~~~

Simon struggled to feign interest in the discussion happening around him; the topic of conversation was just as showy as the country club itself.

Getting closer to the targets felt like a loss, despite the overall net gain.

The men who surrounded him—all with the same bland accents and unflattering polo shirts—pushed him into the reality that he was an outsider, no matter who they thought he was or who he was pretending to be.

It wasn’t often that he felt small, but there was a creeping isolation that came with undercover work. Though he tried not to let it get to him, Simon felt completely alien.

With golf clubs in hand, they spoke about absolutely nothing despite talking so incessantly, occasionally pausing to sip their beers.

Soap’s introductory explanation on how to properly hold a golf club had done little to assist in Simon’s actual gameplay, and he knew he must’ve looked downright miserable despite making an effort to remain upbeat.

That was never his forte, though.

He watched Robert swing his club against the green, and the loud thwack made Simon feel more comfortable; it didn’t echo in the way a gunshot would’ve, but it was a nice disruption from the tedium.

A young woman drove a cart over to the hole they were on, offering an array of concessions. When she left, slowly carting herself away, Robert let out a whistle.

“If I were ten years younger…” He sipped his beer through a smarmy expression.

“What happened to age is just a number?” One of the other men chuckled, and Simon felt himself cringe. “I like them young, they should like me old.”

The other men laughed, clinking their bottles together. They looked at Simon expectantly, and he felt cornered in a way he had never felt before.

“Mm?” He offered, running a thumb over his golf club.

“Ah, c’mon, Jim—wives ain’t here. That girl a prize, or what?” One of them nudged Simon’s arm, and he tensed.

He convinced himself that it was pressure from his obligation; that his disgust at the notion of looking at another woman lay in the act he was attempting to put up, convincing those around him that he was a diligent husband.

But he knew the truth.

“Bonnie’s all I need.” He forced a smile, trying to maintain a level of geniality.

“Give it ten years.” Robert smirked, and the others laughed.

The group of men moved on to the next hole, and Simon trailed behind them.

He already knew he hated these people. The things they did for profit, their willingness to allow everybody else’s lives to go to shit for a few extra dollars in their accounts; it was enraging.

But this anger stemmed from something else, an unfamiliar frustration that blossomed in his chest.

You were enough for him. You always had been, you always would be, and how dare they think you weren’t as perfect as he thought you were.

Not that you even needed to be—flaws and all, he’d take you over anybody; he’d choose you in a heartbeat every time.

For the mission, he reminded himself. For the mission.

~~~

Simon was active in gaining intel for several days in a row—infiltrating the inner circle, seeing what there was to see, hearing what there was to hear.

They trusted him enough to mutter when he was still nearby, and that was good enough, for now.

Simon had been so busy that you barely saw him, rarely encountered him when he wasn’t on his way into or out of the house.

And the separation, for whatever reason, made you feel anxious. You worried that he was mad, despite the fact that there was no real interaction between the two of you in recent memory that would’ve caused any conflict.

Maybe you had crossed a boundary that you hadn’t realized was there; you had really been gunning for him to sleep in the bedroom—and with or without you there, he clearly had no interest in doing so.

But you kept pushing. You wanted to keep pushing.

You recognized that the anxiety probably stemmed from elsewhere, but you didn’t want to acknowledge your feelings more than you’d already had to lately.

Now, though, you felt alright. Better than alright, even; you felt pretty, and, what’s more, you felt eager.

It was just dinner, a meal with the targets; something that would hopefully see the culmination of Simon putting so much effort into gaining Robert’s trust. But the thought that went into your outfit, your daintily applied makeup, the inner turmoil of what you should do with your hair—it almost felt like a date. One you were excited about; one you’d call your mom to dish about at the end of the night.

You felt girlish; you felt thrilled; you told yourself it was for the mission.

The mission was what was making your heart bounce around in your ribs and your stomach flip with every step.

“Look at ye,” Soap whistled as you walked down the stairs in a dress that was only a bit less tweedy than the outfits you’d been wearing. “Hot date planned, lass?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Something like that.”

“Who’s th’lucky guy?”

“My husband.” You quirked a brow, a shy smile grazing your lips.

“Where’s the man o’the hour, then?” Soap chuckled.

“Probably fixin’ up his hair,” Gaz cut in, smirking, “Now that we can all see it.”

“Perfection takes time, Sergeant.” Simon inserted himself into the conversation, emerging from down the hall and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt.

It was almost unnerving how good he looked.

You’d become so used to seeing him in fatigues, in a full kit and a balaclava, that seeing him in anything else felt foreign. The past few days had remedied that, if only slightly, and though the outfit he wore now was similar to those he’d been wearing for the past few days, something felt different.

Maybe it was the tautness of the sleeves around his biceps, or the fact that there was no sweater vest in sight, or that he’d gelled his hair back enough to make it seem like he put effort into it without really doing anything at all.

Whatever it was, you swallowed thickly, and tried not to stare.

“Christ…” Soap huffed, a borderline sympathetic look on his face as he gave Simon the once over.

“Never seen a man this handsome, Johnny?” Simon smirked.

“Never seen a man this outta his depth.” Soap countered, laughing.

Simon didn’t bother with a reply, grunting resentfully at Soap before turning to you and effectively shutting Johnny and Kyle out.

“Wired?”

His voice was hushed, as if he intended on keeping the conversation a secret despite the fact that Soap and Gaz had already been more than clued in on what was happening.

You nodded, unable to ignore the sticky, tight feeling of the tape on your skin where you’d planted the wire.

You were worried you might sweat it off, but the dress had a tight bodice; you hoped that if the tape did come unstuck, the fabric would keep it in place.

“Good.” Was his only reply, and then he had his hand on your waist, ushering you out the door.

You tried to think of anything other than the way his palm fit so naturally with the curve of your body.

Simon didn’t mind the perfect fit.

~~~

Dinner was nice, for lack of a better word. That was the only way you knew how to describe it; carb heavy and seasoned. It was better than anything you might get in the mess hall, and you didn’t complain when Deb offered seconds.

The conversation, though, was dreary, and you had to pinch yourself to stay awake. There was something so uninteresting about the lives these people led, despite their involvement in such high-stakes business.

After what felt like ages of trying to seem intrigued by their vacation stories and fine china, Deb piped up with a new topic of discussion.

“Rob just got the car—oh, what do you call it, baby?” She posed the question eagerly, anticipating a reason to brag.

“Wrapped.” Robert shot her a smug look, equally as interested in showing off.

“He got the car wrapped—it’s gorgeous!” Deb fawned over the thought of the newly done-up car.

“Cost a fortune.” Robert rolled his neck, looking at Simon and searching for jealousy in his eyes.

“But so worth it.” Deb swirled her glass of wine before taking a long sip.

“I bet.” Simon nodded slowly, not bothering with eye contact or compliments.

“Why don’t you show Jim, baby?” Deb swallowed the wine in her mouth before turning to Robert, “You boys go out to the garage, leave us to our girl talk.”

“Yes,” you tried not to seem too keen on her suggestion, exchanging a knowing glance with Simon. “That’s a great idea.”

Simon smiled softly, a look that was meant only for you—fashioned so as to express understanding and gratitude.

And maybe something else.

He got up with Robert, following him to the garage.

~~~

“You a big car guy?” Robert closed the door that connected the main house to the garage once Simon had made it over the threshold.

“Not particularly.” Simon shrugged; he’d never even had a car of his own.

“Should get into it—ladies love it.”

“Do they?” Simon smirked.

“You’d be surprised by how much a woman appreciates a nice set of wheels.” Robert laughed.

Simon bit his tongue; it was clear that this man knew nothing about women—then again, neither did Simon, so he just nodded through his doubts.

Robert smacked a hand down on the hood of the car. It was bright red, almost glittery, and Simon didn’t understand why it was anything to brag about.

“S’nice.” He offered, letting his eyes trail over the entire vehicle before looking back up at Robert.

“Hope so. Cost a pretty fuckin’ penny.”

“You mentioned.” Simon grunted, though he tried his best to make it seem lighthearted.

There was a pause then, and Simon waited to see if the conversation wouldn’t move; he wanted to make sure he had Robert exactly where he wanted him.

He might not know women, but Simon knew a rat when he encountered one.

“How’d you do it?” Simon’s tone bordered aloof; he let his gaze fall over the car once more, attempting to seem almost disconnected by his interest in the flashy color.

“What?” Robert leaned against the car.

“Afford it.”

“Saved up,” Robert sighed and picked his nails, “Worked for it.”

Simon nodded. “What was it you said you do f’work?”

“IT.” Robert scoffed, eyes darting over Simon’s form.

He seemed impatient, somewhat antsy; either Robert was onto this sting, or he was about to spill.

“Y’know…I been thinking, Jim,” Robert spoke slowly, straightening up from his spot on the car to look Simon in the eyes. “Don’t seem to be out of the house much unless you’re with me and the other fellas.”

“Solitary job,” Simon tilted his head, “Nice house.”

“Uh-huh,” Robert sucked his teeth for a moment before continuing. “Your wife’s a real peach—real prize.”

“She is,” Simon felt the words slip from his mouth without thinking about it, “She’s my everything.”

He barely heard himself, but he knew he’d said it, and he knew it was true, sham marriage or not.

“Never seem to wanna plant one on her.”

If only you knew, you bastard. Simon kept the thought to himself, rolling his eyes at himself; now wasn’t the time.

“Shy.” Simon offered.

“You or her?”

Simon shrugged; he didn’t care if his cover was blown now. He knew what was happening—he’d been here before, plenty of times, and he’d be here again.

He was far from scared, despite the clear attempts of intimidation on Robert’s part.

Robert seemed comforted by Simon’s casual air; the lack of any obvious fear made him settle.

He returned to a more reserved, trusting state, and Simon could only infer that the grilling was a matter of initiation—a poor method to weed out those who weren’t able to handle the truth.

“I—I like you, Jim,” Robert nodded, gaze glued to the floor and chin grazing his chest as he spoke. “I do.”

“I’m glad,” Simon grit his teeth. “Happy to have a friend in the area. Good start.”

Lure flies with honey, that was the saying. Simon was doing just that, however frustratingly slow-going it was.

“If I show you something—tell you something…” Robert seemed to ponder aloud, not quite looking at Simon as he spoke, his gaze now settled vaguely into the distance. “You be able to keep a secret?” His voice was low, his tone almost sour.

“Yeah,” Simon nodded, waiting. “Sure.”

“Sure,” Robert scoffed, “Need a yes or a no.”

“Yes,” Simon couldn’t help the smirk that crept over his face now. “Yes, I can keep a secret.”

“Good.”

Robert walked to the far wall of the garage. Simon watched on as he popped the lid off of one of the various paint cans that littered a shelf, digging around in it only to pull out a slip of paper.

Easy access: anybody could’ve reached in and found it. Further proof to Simon that these people had no clue what they were doing.

Robert handed the paper to Simon. It was obviously some sort of blueprint; an outline, incredibly amateur. But it was evidence of deeper plans.

A bomb of some kind, but messy and unfinished.

“What’s’is?” Simon feigned ignorance—the more Robert talked, the more a takedown was warranted.

“You never seen a bomb before?” Robert furrowed his brow.

“What’s it for?” Simon pressed on.

“What’s with the questions?” Robert shot back.

“’Umor me.”

Robert exhaled slowly, huffing into the air as he walked around Simon, practically stalking him.

“You wanna know how I could afford a car like that?” Robert laughed, gesturing to the garish car, “How I can afford a wife like mine?” He paused, grabbing the paper from Simon’s hand. “It’s all money, Jim—just without the trail.”

“What are you saying?” Simon was playing a little fast and loose now, but he was eager to get this over with.

“I’m saying,” Robert put the blueprint back into the paint can and sealed it shut again, “If you say anything about this, I’ll gut you.”

Robert walked back over to Simon, putting his hands in his pockets.

“What?” Simon quirked a brow, trying desperately to keep his features under control as his lips threatened to curl upwards into a smile.

Suddenly, Robert lunged, and Simon’s back was against the wall; a small knife pressed to his throat.

He almost allowed himself the joy of kicking Robert’s ass, finishing this once and for all, but he knew better.

Instead, he just stared; this was far from a dire situation. He’d had guns to his head and landmines underfoot—a dull Swiss army knife was hardly comparable.

Still, he feigned shock, putting his hands up and freezing.

“You tell me right now if this is something you don’t think you can handle,” Robert was growling, “You tell me right now if you’re gonna cry like a bitch about this to your wife—you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Simon swallowed, and the blade dug against his Adam’s apple.

“This is bigger than you. This is something that’ll give people like us a leg up,” Robert rambled, “Give us everything.”

People like us. Simon missed his gun.

“So you’re building a bomb.” Simon kept his voice above a whisper to ensure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it.” Robert nodded.

“Why?”

“Stop with the fucking questions!” Robert was growing more agitated by the second, “You wearin’ a wire?”

“Why would I be wearing a wire?” Simon deadpanned.

“Fuck!”

Rob dropped the knife from Simon’s throat for a brief moment to reset his grip as his palms grew sweaty, quickly replacing it with a bit more pressure.

“Alright—alright. Listen…we got connections. Ok? Down in Germany, in Britain—that’s your neck of the woods, right?”

Robert smiled, as if adding humor to the situation would lessen the impact of holding a knife to Simon’s throat.

“Gonna target the airports.” Robert’s eyes were dark, but deeply uncertain.

“The airports?” Simon had a feeling that was coming—same old tired story, same old awkward plan.

“Major hubs in every country. Get to New York, London—guys in Germany can get this to Frankfurt,” Robert wiped his forehead with the back of his free hand, “No movement through the big city hubs, harder to smuggle shit in—no competition.”

Christ. This was hardly worth the FBI’s time, let alone the Task Force’s; these people had no idea what they were doing. This was the most hastily tacked together plan Simon had ever heard—not to mention completely batshit insane, and not at all logical.

“In a year, we’ll be rich. Get access to our own planes—drones, we’ll be the biggest cartel in the country.”

“Right.” Simon couldn’t stop his voice from taking on an amused lilt.

“So…you in?”

~~~

“Blond, British—and he’s so tall!" Deb shook her head with a giggle. "You are one lucky girl.”

Once Simon had followed Robert out, you found that Deb was serious about the aforementioned girl talk.

Eagerly, she poked and prodded into your personal life. It wasn’t as if you cared, but it was hard to keep your lies straight when you were faced with question after question.

At least she was tipsy—that made it easier for you to get away with things on the off-chance that you slipped up.

“Can’t complain.” Your face burned in response to the heaps of praise Deb lauded Ghost’s husband alter ego with.

“How’d you meet him?” Deb’s eyes went wide, and for a moment she looked so young, so excited. “Was it love at first sight—oh! I love that.”

She seemed to be filling in the blanks herself, and you played along.

“Something like that, yeah.” You sighed.

Deb topped off your glass of wine, and you smiled.

In another life—maybe the one where Simon had a German Shephard—you thought you might be friends with Deb for real; you were in a book club together, you drank together on Saturdays and gossiped about the other families in town.

“That’s so sweet—I love it. Love it!” She topped her own glass off. “Have you thought about kids? Got that nice big house now.”

“I…we haven’t really talked about it…”

You yourself had never considered children an option—not at the moment, anyway.

Maybe someday. Maybe when you retired; maybe if you found someone who understood all the nightmares and the adrenaline; maybe when the time was right, and the stars aligned, and you could trust yourself to properly hold an infant.

You dared, momentarily, to imagine Simon as a father—a father to your children. Chubby babies with his piercing gaze; fat little hands that grabbed at his nose, traced his scars.

Maybe you did want kids.

“Honey, it’s just us,” Deb leaned forward over the table, “Is he…you know…?”

You stared blankly at her.

She sighed, almost giggling. “He shooting blanks? Cause Rob—”

You almost spat out your wine.

“No! No—no, it’s not—” You exhaled through a surprised smile, “…We really just...haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re young,” Deb shrugged, “There’s time.”

There was a pause as you both sipped your wine.

“So,” she glanced up at you with a smirk, “He’s good in bed, then?”

You looked at her like a deer in headlights. You tried to think of a lie, wondering if you could stall for time by chugging the wine in your glass.

“I mean—he certainly looks it. You don’t have to worry about me, but some of the women in this town—God, they’ll be all over him if they get the chance.” Deb continued, her animated gestures threatening to spill the wine over the rim of her glass.

You felt a flare of unwarranted jealousy at the thought of Simon being interested in other women; of other women being interested in him.

“I’m not worried.” You lied, unsure of why it was a lie.

Deb leaned in even further, and you could see every eyelash where they connected to her eyelid.

“He go down on you?”

Now, you did chug what was in your glass.

Before you had time to answer, Simon and Robert walked back into the dining room.

Something was wrong. Robert looked tense, but Simon seemed overly casual.

Simon was never casual.

“Grab y’coat, love,” Simon tilted his head forward a bit, which struck you as odd, but you knew better than to question it. “S’get on our way.”

“Oh,” you pouted, trying to make it seem as though you were disappointed to part from the other couple. “Alright.”

“Thank you for having us,” Simon shook Robert’s hand, and maybe his grip was a little stronger than necessary. “Was lovely. Really.”

“Come back soon!” Deb stood, swaying a bit as she placed both her hands on Simon’s outstretched one, “This was so fun.”

Robert said nothing, grunting a farewell as Simon shuffled you to the front door and out of the house.

You didn’t like how silent he was being as he walked you to the car. It wasn’t out of character—he was always quiet. But this silence seemed more anxious than anything.

You found your voice when you had gotten a good few yards from the house.

“Jim…?”

“Sh.” Simon turned his face towards you, and it was then that you realized he was bleeding from a cut on his neck.

“Jim.” You pressed on, uncertain about what to call him when you were in this strange limbo.

“Shut up.” He hissed, opening the passenger door and all but pushing you in.

When he took his seat behind the wheel, you glared at him.

“Lieutenant, you’re bleeding.”

“Not a word till we get home.” Simon was whispering.

Home. It almost felt real for a moment.

When you didn’t respond, he grabbed your face to hammer his point in.

“Got it?”

You huffed at him, and he dropped his hand. For a split second, you were tempted to ask him to replace it; to continue to hold you, even in the slightly callous way, just because.

Instead, you turned to stare out the window as he put the car in drive.

~~~

The house was calm; the lights were off, and the only sound was the faint hum of the monitors scattered about. Everybody else had already gone to bed, that much was clear.

The stillness left you and Simon to yourselves, and you weren’t sure whether or not that was a good thing.

Simon closed the door behind himself, stretching his shoulders back and undoing the top two buttons on his shirt.

“Got what we need.” He said simply, rolling his neck.

“Why’d you get all paranoid back there?” You turned to him, your discontent with his demand for silence in the car overpowering your interest in what he’d uncovered.

“’Ad to be certain.”

“About…?”

“We’re bugging ‘em—s’not crazy to think they might be doin’ the same to us.” Simon tilted his gaze down at you, and you sighed.

He had a point.

“You…” You eyed the nick on his throat with uncertainty. “You got what we need?”

Simon nodded as he untucked his shirt and peeled the tape off the wire, “Gotta make sure the mic picked it up.”

“You’re bleeding.” You mentioned once more.

“S’fine.”

“LT.”

“Enough.”

You stared at each other, tense.

“Let me clean it, at least.”

“S’not necessary.”

“…Simon…”

“What?”

You hesitated, looking down at the floor before you could find the confidence to make eye contact.

You didn’t want to come off as desperate.

“Let’s…let’s go upstairs,” you sighed, “Let’s listen to the tape, let me just…wipe it off.” You tilted your head at him, hoping he could see that this was important to you.

Not that you knew why it was so important.

He surrendered with a sigh, dropping his head and gesturing forward with his hands. You led him up the stairs.

~~~

You put the tape into the slot, hitting play before turning your attention to Simon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread; he’d undone a third button on his shirt, and you tried not to ogle his chest.

You’d managed to locate a first aid kit, but upon closer inspection of Simon’s scrape, all you really needed was Neosporin and a band aid.

You moved to stand between his knees, fingers drifting to his chin and encouraging him to tilt his head back as you began gently cleaning the scratch and applying the Neosporin.

“Shallow.” You muttered, now clearly able to see that this was a nothing—something you’d talked up to yourself, thinking it would be more serious than it was.

He had been right—it wasn’t a big deal. But you still felt a weird obligation to patch him up, and there was a large chance that what compelled you to do so was the promise of being able to touch him.

“Mm.” Simon grunted, and you could feel the vibrations move through his throat.

You fell silent, listening to the tape.

Your hands went shaky as you heard how Robert interrogated Simon—not that it was really grounds for any anxiety; Simon could hold his own just fine, and Robert clearly wasn’t well versed in grilling someone.

“Your wife’s a real peach—real prize.”

“She is. She’s my everything.”

You chanced a glance up at Simon upon hearing his words played back on the recording.

He was already looking back at you, and even without the mask, his face was unreadable.

He waved off your attempt to put a small bandage on his scratch, and even so, you found yourself reluctant to leave your place between his legs. So you stayed, and you listened back to the whole tape like that; him sitting on the bed, you standing awkwardly in front of him.

When the tape looped, you sighed, walking over to remove it from the slot. You found a safe space for it in your luggage.

“Told you.” He seemed smug, but you knew it was in jest.

You looked at him, rolling your eyes.

“Yes, well—thank you, LT.”

“Don’t ‘ave to be my wife anymore.” His words were sudden, and you felt a bit hurt by his apparent eagerness to be rid of this partnership.

Simon wasn’t entirely sure why he said it. He spoke mostly out of disappointment; he liked having you as his wife, even if it was pretend.

He liked to have something tangible, something that proved he could do it, someday. He liked having you. And maybe, in his own, socially awkward way, he was trying to gauge your interest; look for indicators in your reaction to see if his affection for you was one-sided.

“It’s a shame,” you laughed nervously, “I was just getting used to it.”

He smirked, still looking at you.

“Glad you got what we needed,” you were suddenly very set on changing the subject. “Deb wouldn’t talk about anything important.”

“Girl talk.” Simon echoed Deb’s earlier sentiment with a barely-there smile.

“She only cared about the kind of sex you and I have.” You winced as soon as you said it—so much for veering the conversation into less awkward territory.

“What’d you tell ‘er?” Simon seemed genuinely curious now, and you couldn’t help but imagine what you would’ve said to Deb had this been a real marriage.

“Told her it’s just pathetic missionary,” you smirked, “And I always fake it.”

Simon chuckled lowly, shaking his head.

“Let’s ‘ear it.”

“What?” Your brow furrowed.

“Tape,” he nodded to the tape player. “Showed you mine, yeah?”

“Ghost—”

“None o’that,” he huffed, smirking. “C’mon.”

You hesitated, but did as he instructed.

There was a sick part of you that was somewhat eager to see what he would do when faced with the questions you’d been barraged with.

You managed to reach into the neckline of your dress, peeling the wire from your skin. You put the tape into the machine and hit play.

This time, you stayed next to the tape player, leaning against the wall and watching Simon.

You snuck glances at him while the tape played, alternating between keeping your gaze on the floor and letting your eyes dart up at him. It was so unimportant—such awkward lies told by your recorded voice.

But you wondered if he could see through it all.

When you heard Deb on the tape player asking whether Simon went down on you or not, followed by Simon and Robert re-entering the room, you popped the tape from the slot.

“See?” You huffed as you tossed the tape into your luggage alongside the other one. “Nothing important.”

“Y’never answered ‘er.” Simon’s voice was low, almost hesitant.

“Hm?” You looked up at him, confused.

“Never answered ‘er question,” he tilted his head back, eying you up in your entirety. “Do I?”

“You…” You felt warm.

“C’mon,” he smirked, “Part o'the backstory, yeah?”

“I don’t…” You breathed, “I didn’t think that far.”

“D’you want me to?”

“To think up a backstory about our sex life?” You scoffed.

“To go down on you.” His voice was suddenly serious, and the low tone he had taken morphed from nervous to downright possessive.

You felt your heart flip, or maybe it was your stomach; your body felt too tingly to tell what was what anymore.

“I…” You took a breath, nodding slowly. “Yes.”

Simon exhaled audibly, maybe a sigh of pride. He clapped a hand down on his thigh, encouraging you to take a seat on his lap.

You practically tiptoed to him, perching yourself on his thigh and letting him wrap an arm around your waist. His other hand fiddled with the hem of your dress where it rested, just above your knee, and the subtle gesture made your pulse pick up.

He leaned in, not to kiss you, but to appreciate your proximity. You could feel his breath against your neck, your jaw; he paused just below your ear, pulling back to look down at you.

“Look pretty,” he muttered, “Don’t think I told you ‘at yet tonight.”

“Thank you…” You found the confidence to bring a hand up to his collar, fiddling with the unbuttoned part of his shirt. You still couldn’t look at him, not trusting yourself to remain collected beneath his gaze.

He smiled softly, bringing his fingers to your chin and tilting your face up to him.

“You gettin’ shy on me, Mrs. Riley?”

You swallowed, unable to stop the way your eyelids fluttered in response to his touch.

“No,” you sucked in a breath. “Just—don’t usually hear things like that from you.”

“Y’like it?” He quirked a brow, still smiling.

“Yeah,” you nodded as best you could with his hand beneath your chin. “I do.”

“Good,” he nodded back at you. “S’good…Do it more often, then.”

There was a moment of incredibly charged silence between the two of you before he finally leaned in to kiss you.

It was slow, but eager; you wrapped your arms around his neck, and he slipped his tongue past your parted lips once you’d matched the pace of his movements.

You allowed yourself the same kind exploration, pushing your tongue against his, licking into his mouth just as he did to you. You let your spit mingle, breath turning heavy when Simon brought both of his hands to your waist.

You trailed your palms from behind his neck to his chest, running your hands over the bit of exposed flesh his semi-unbuttoned shirt allowed, tugging gently on the fabric. Simon let out a quiet groan, and it spurred you on; you dipped your fingers beneath his collar, grazing your nails over his skin.

His hands wandered over your back, finding the zipper on your dress and toying with it. You made a sound of approval, soft and breathy against his lips, as a go-ahead for him to strip you of the layer. He tugged the zipper down, and you let the top of the dress fall over your shoulders, exposing your front to him.

He didn’t even look at your bare chest, too focused on pressing his mouth to yours. You, in turn, pushed your body against his—a subtle gesture, one to encourage him to lie down, and it worked well enough; he leaned back on his forearms, breaking the kiss to admire you as you looked down at him.

“Take it off, sweetheart.” He reached a hand up to fiddle with one of the straps of your dress where it hung loose over your arm.

Somewhat reluctant to rise from his lap, so content with the closeness, you obliged nonetheless.

You let the fabric of the dress pool around your feet, leaving you completely bare, save for the basic panties you had on.

Simon looked unbelievably pleased as he drank you in.

“Got a damn good-looking wife.” He teased, sitting up and reaching out to run his hand over your side.

“Yeah?” You looked down at him, responding in a similarly playful tone. “Your everything?”

“Yeah…” Simon glanced up at you, cold stare reduced to something more tender, though still serious, “Yeah, ‘at’s right.”

You smiled softly, unsure of how to respond.

Simon busied himself, playing with the waistband of your underwear.

He hooked his fingers beneath the elastic and slid your panties down your legs, exposing your core to the temperate air of the bedroom. You stepped out of them, along with your dress, and waited with bated breath for his next move.

He gripped your thighs, enjoying the warmth of your body and the sight before him; you could feel his breath fan against your stomach, his eyes glued to your form.

“Sit,” Simon commanded as he rose from his seat on the edge of the bed. “Here. C’mon.”

You took the spot where he had previously been sitting, pressing your thighs together and staring up at him with uncertainty.

With little hesitation, Simon moved to kneel before you, placing a hand on one of your knees.

“Open.”

He seemed focused, determined, and the imbalance of his title and the fact that he remained fully clothed wasn’t lost on you; it made your heart beat a little faster, head swimming with desire despite the as yet gentle, chaste touches he’d laid upon you.

You spread your legs for him, and he made a sound akin to a soft growl. He pressed a kiss to your knee before moving up your leg, nipping at the plush skin of your thigh and pulling breathy gasps from you as you watched him move further up your body.

By the time you could feel his breath fanning your bare cunt, you had grown impatient, fingers lacing in his hair and tugging gently as you combed through the strands. Simon huffed a shaky breath, glancing up at you with a look that verged a sneer.

“Fuckin’ needy,” he whispered, and you could feel the displaced air around your body as he spoke, “Use y’fuckin’ words if you want it so bad, love.”

“Simon…” You let your eyes flutter closed, letting the outline of him between your thighs fall in and out of focus, “Please…like you said you would.”

“Say it.” He was demanding, desperate to hear the words fall from your lips.

“Go—go down on me. Taste me. Just like you promised.” You felt pathetic begging for it, but you didn’t really mind, given the circumstances.

You tried to keep your voice even, but the anticipation was killing you. He smirked, a subtle expression, as he leaned his face forward into your cunt.

“Man o’my word.” He quirked a brow before all but diving into you with his tongue.

You inhaled a gasp, a choked sound that hit the back of your throat sharply. Still pulling gently on his hair, you spread your legs even wider, hungry for the feeling of his tongue on your cunt.

“Fuck—” You couldn’t find the words, content to offer brief curses of gratitude while he flicked his tongue over your clit.

He teased the bud, flattening his tongue over you before pulling back to delicately trace it with the muscle.

He wrapped his lips around you, sucking and applying pressure to varying degrees while occasionally letting his teeth threaten to close around you. It offered a sort of sinful thrill; the suspense of whether or not he’d really bite down made your back arch as you watched him.

When he pulled his mouth off of your clit, he licked a stripe up your slit before using his tongue to tease your entrance, slowly tracing your hole before pushing into you.

Simon looked drunk off you; eyes closed and groaning softly as he licked into the warmth of your cunt. He collected your slick, swallowing it as if it were a sort of heavenly ambrosia.

“Christ,” Simon pulled back for a moment, bringing a hand down to your core and spreading the messy combination of spit and slick around, admiring how you glistened. “Fuckin’ soaked, sweetheart, look’t you.”

You bucked your hips with a whimper when he swiped over your clit, and he growled at the reaction.

“You need more?” He looked so smug, “Give you a finger, see ‘ow much you can take?”

“Yes.” You breathed the one-word response, looking down at him with half-lidded eyes.

He growled at your enthusiasm, removing his hand to lick one more stripe up your cunt before pressing his middle finger to your hole and slowly pushing in.

“Fuck,” he muttered, entranced by the way you wrapped around the digit, “So fucking tight.”

He thrust his finger down to his knuckle, curling the digit upwards and letting it dance over your most tender spot.

You whined, reaching for his wrist and lazily tugging at it.

“'At's’it,” he finally tore his gaze from your cunt, “You enjoying y’self, sweetheart? You feel nice?”

“Simon I—I’m gonna cum.” You gasped as he leaned forward again to press his tongue to your clit.

“Nah, no you’re not,” Simon shook his head with a smirk, “Gonna give y’another—not fair ‘f my girl only gets to cum on one finger, yeah?”

You just mewled, letting your body fall back onto the mattress and raising your hips in submission.

Simon pressed kisses to your inner thigh as he pulled his hand back, giving himself the space to push another finger into you. He followed the same pattern, curling them up against your g-spot, sucking eagerly on your clit and watching you squirm from the stimulation.

“Still wanna cum f’me, sweet girl?” The thrust of his fingers slowed, focusing all of his energy on your sweet spot, twisting his wrist to amplify the squelch of your cunt. “Wanna show me 'ow this pretty cunt can squeeze me nice ‘n’tight?”

“Ye—es,” you sighed, “Simon, just like—like that.”

“Right ‘ere, yeah?” Simon’s gaze darted between your face and your core, as if he couldn’t decide which view was prettier. “C’mon, love—right on my 'and like this, lemme taste it.”

He brought his mouth down to you again, sucking down hard and speeding up the pace of his fingers again. He made a point to nudge your delicate spot every time, in sync with the pressure he put on your clit.

Your back arched, writhing in pleasure under him and letting your orgasm consume you all at once; it was white-hot, a culmination of your longing for him, coupled with the speed at which he’d let his walls down and allowed you the pleasure of having him.

Your legs trembled, muscles tensing rhythmically as you gasped through your high and the shivered aftershocks.

“Look’t ‘at,” Simon groaned, still nestled between your legs, “Fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.”

You reached down to comb your hand through his hair. When he continued lapping at your slick, nose nudging your clit and refusing to let up until the experience bordered overstimulation, you yanked lightly at the strands between your fingers.

“Right,” he sighed, allowing you to pull him away from your core and placing kisses on your inner thigh instead. “Can’t get enough, love.”

“Hardly an issue…” You mumbled, staring down at him with your lust-blown eyes, cheeks flushed.

He continued to nip at the skin of your legs, alternating between each of your thighs and occasionally pulling away to admire the subtle marks his teeth left on you.

It gave you enough time to recover from your release. But just as soon as the heat in your core began to quell, you were hit with a fresh ache between your legs, amplified by his breath fanning your skin and the position he remained in, so close to where you still wanted him.

“Simon…” You sighed, propping yourself up on your elbows to gaze down at him properly.

He managed to tear himself away from you, replacing his mouth with his hands and pressing his palms soothingly against the tops of your thighs as he analyzed your expression.

He didn’t respond, staring up at you expectantly and waiting for you to continue.

“Give me more.” Your voice didn’t falter now, well aware of what you wanted and what you hoped to receive.

“You givin’ orders now, sweetheart?” He chuckled lowly, letting his fingers press a bit harder into the plush flesh of your thighs.

“Not as your subordinate,” you smiled shyly, “As your wife.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, trying to read his expression; his eyes seemed to darken just as much as his smirk widened.

“…Please?” You added in an effort to get him to respond, whether it be verbally or physically.

“S’right,” he nodded, “Knew my wife ‘ad better manners 'an my Sergeant.”

You laughed softly at his words, appreciating the uncharacteristically lighthearted approach he seemed to be taking.

But he cut your giggles off, forcing you to replace them with a gasp as he grabbed you by the ankles and stood.

“Y’want it like this?” He practically cooed, though his voice was sweet to a mocking degree, “Lemme fuck you out while you lay ‘ere?”

He rested your legs on his chest, positioning himself in a more than suggestive manner as he pressed his hips to the back of your thighs.

“S’at what you want, love? Or did you want me to bend y’over?” He let your legs fall, leaning over you so that he was close enough to let his nose press against your cheek. “Treat my sweet wife like a fuckin’ whore…”

Your mouth felt dry, breath hitching in your throat at the apparent promise he was making to treat you as gently or as roughly as you deemed fit.

“You…” You felt lost for words, turning your face and letting your nose bump his. “Bend me over.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he breathed his words softly. “Can’t leave my girl wanting.”

He left feather-light kisses over your jawline, maneuvering his hands under you to haul you up and flip you onto your stomach. You let out a soft grunt, content to allow him to manipulate your form and position to his liking.

“Christ, ‘at’s a sight…” Simon ran a hand over the curve of your ass after he’d helped you settle, his calloused fingers rubbing roughly against your softer flesh.

You laughed softly—at the gesture, at his words. There was comfort in knowing him this way; in seeing the man with the mask fall out of his stoic demeanor and into something so much more gracious and inviting.

You pushed back against his hand, chasing the heat and weight of his palm and whining slightly as you became impatient at his lack of action.

Simon tsked softly, now using both hands to knead your ass.

“Gave y’what you wanted, love,” he gave your ass a light smack, and your whine caught in your throat. “Lend me some patience, yeah? Wanna admire what’s mine.”

The sheer avidity in his voice, the quiet tone in which his possessive words spilled out, made you exhale a dreamy sigh as you surrendered to his touch.

You stretched your arms out in front of you on the mattress, resting your head on your bicep and letting your eyes drift closed.

Simon’s breath was hot against your skin, and there was a moment where you wondered if he was going to ignore your pleas and instead use this time to go down on you again—not that you would complain, but it was amusing to think that a man so tough in stature could be so easily pussy whipped.

Instead, though, after what felt like ages of him simply sweeping his hands over your body, kneading your flesh and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the back of your thighs, he seemed to vanish from behind you.

You emitted a quiet whimper in confusion, craning your neck in an attempt to look back at him from where you lay spread out on the mattress.

Simon shushed you softly, pressing his hand to the small of your back.

“Not leavin’ you,” he spoke gleefully through a growl, thrilled by your need for him. “But I can’t fuck you with my trousers done up, sweetheart.”

You nodded lazily, listening to him unfasten his pants and pull his cock from its confines.

The waiting was the worst part; you had already done so much waiting for him in the time that you’d known him.

Still, the building suspense was oddly delicious, forcing your body to acknowledge that you would finally, finally, be getting what you’d been craving.

You whined when Simon finally offered more contact, placing his cock between your ass cheeks and rocking his hips.

He was heavy against you, and the warm, smooth skin of his length urged a new flood of arousal throughout your body.

You could feel the fabric of his pants rub against the back of your thighs, and you subconsciously pushed yourself back towards him to chase the implication of his power.

“Gonna go nice ‘nd slow f’you, love.” Simon moved, fisting his cock and aligning himself with your entrance.

You sucked in a breath. “Don’t have to…”

“Can’t go breakin’ my wife in 'alf.” He answered frankly, and you wanted to point out his ego in the moment, but as his cockhead nudged your hole, you forgot all about chastising him.

“Simon—”

“Easy, sweetheart…” Simon sunk into you slowly, as he’d promised; his hands guiding your hips backwards onto him. “Jus’ take what I give you.”

You let out a shaky breath when he bottomed out, mewling softly into the bedspread as you grew accustomed to the intrusion of his cock inside you.

“’Ere you go,” he groaned, looking down to get a proper eyeful of your cunt wrapped snugly around him. “Feel nice, sweetheart?”

“Y—eah,” you kept your face buried in the comforter, the pleasure of the stretch absolutely overwhelming. “S’so good…”

“I know.” Even with your back to him, you knew he was smirking.

He pulled out quickly, eager to get it over with so that he could bury his cock back inside of you. He thrust back into you just as fast, swallowing a moan as he was hit with the pleasure that was being hugged by the warmth of your cunt.

“Fuck,” he swallowed a moan, tossing his head back, “Such a fucking—you got the most perfect cunt, sweetheart. Made f’me.”

“For you,” you moved your head, tilting your face up in a poor attempt to look at him behind you. “For you, Simon.”

“’At’s right.” His grip seemed to tighten on your hips, possessive to the point of leaving his fingerprints on your skin.

Maybe it was the way you said his name with such fierce desire, undercut only by your quiet whimpers; maybe it was your murmured promise: for him, and only him. Something about this—about you—had him completely at your beck and call, no matter what the reason.

He moved one of his hands to press against the top of your back, pushing you down and forcing your back to arch.

“What a pretty fuckin’ picture,” his thrusts were growing sloppy in the midst of his enjoyment, and he reeled himself in slightly as he spoke. “So easy to fuck you out, sweetheart—little slut of a ‘ousewife, you are.”

The position allowed him to fuck into you deeper, his cock pounding your cervix with every thrust of his hips.

You gripped the bedspread, desperate to ground yourself in the haze of such intense bliss.

“Simon—,” you felt your eyes roll back as you tried to maintain a level of composure so that you could get your words out. “So fucking—y-you’re so deep, Simon.”

“Yeah, you say my fucking name,” he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “You let everyone ‘ear who’s nice ‘n’deep in your pretty cunt.”

“S—imon!” You heeded his request, though you needed no instruction.

He straightened up, and his speed steadily increased.

You felt a heady sort of pleasure that traveled throughout your body and all but turned off your brain. Babbling, you reached back for him as best you could.

“What d’you need, sweet girl?” Simon took your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over your palm. “’M right ‘ere.”

“…See you…” you tried to verbalize your want. “Wanna—see you.”

Simon’s hips slowed, stilling inside of you as he took in your request.

“You wanna see?” He wasn’t asking as if he’d misheard; he was teasing, drawing the scenario out before he inevitably gave into you. “Wanna watch yourself get fucked, love? Act like a whore while I treat you like one?”

You moaned in lieu of any real response, nodding against the mattress.

“Prefer to see my face, or my cock?” He queried, once again leaning forward to press kisses to your shoulder.

For some reason, although the latter option was absolutely something you’d like to see—a front row seat, watching him fuck you senseless—you felt yourself much more eager to watch him; to view the pleasure on his face as a mirror of your own enjoyment.

You wanted a domestic level of intimacy, something filthy but so pure, in its own right.

“Let me see your face, Simon,” you whined, “Please.”

He let out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh but in the same realm.

“Hoping you’d say ‘at.” Simon slid his hands down your body to grab your waist, using his grip as leverage to slowly pull himself out of you.

You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, and he stroked his palm over your back in an apparent effort to soothe you.

“C’mon. S’get you up.” He squeezed your sides, encouraging you to flip over onto the mattress.

Just as you settled onto your back, Simon moved away, dropping himself onto the bed and patting his thigh.

You turned to face him as best you could, still hazy with lust, and shot him a curious look.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he smirked down at you, “Wanna see how you look bouncin’ on my cock.”

You smiled, “You just want me to do all the work.”

“Promise no wife o’mine’s gonna be left wanting,” Simon quirked a brow at you, leaning forward to coax you over to him. “’Less y’keep talking back like ‘at.”

You fell into his arms, allowing him to pull you onto his lap. You rolled your hips against his cock, the zipper and fabric of his pants biting gently at the flesh of your ass as you made yourself comfortable.

“All the work,” Simon huffed, reaching between your bodies to align himself with you again; you lifted your hips to provide the necessary space. “Kinda shit husband d’you think I am?”

“You—fuck—” Any retort you’d had planned was immediately subdued when he pushed you down onto his length, one hand on your hip while the other splayed out over your ribcage to keep you balanced on top of him.

“Can you manage, sweetheart?” He was teasing again, taunting you as you tried to compose yourself by pressing your hands onto his chest.

“It…” you breathed, refamiliarizing yourself with the stretch of his cock nestled deep inside of you. “Simon…”

You rocked your hips slowly, grinding down on him and letting him open you up; enjoying the tingling pressure of having him buried in your cunt.

“What’s’at?” He reached up, pressing his thumb to your bottom lip.

“I—” you kissed the pad of his thumb, gaze drifting down to his face. “I love it.”

Simon grit his teeth, pushing his thumb between your lips and letting his jaw fall open when you began to suck eagerly on the digit.

“Yeah…” His eyes drifted from your face to your figure, his free hand rubbing up and down your side as he began to pull you back and forth over him.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth, trailing the wet digit over your nipples and watching them pebble before he placed the hand on your thigh, his other hand still rubbing over your side.

Your head fell back, breath coming out in short puffs. His control was easy, comfortable to be under, and the occasional twitch of his fingers when he felt you clench around his cock was something you could get used to.

When you’d become accustomed to the position, you used your hands on his chest as resistance to push yourself up and down on his length.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart—look’t ‘at…” Simon’s voice was raspy, chest heaving as he watched you bounce your hips over his cock. “Pretty cunt’s making a fuckin’ mess on me.”

You chanced a glance down, craning your neck to get a proper look at his cock as it disappeared into you.

He was right—it was messy; slick and wet, you coated him with your arousal. You could feel the stickiness between your thighs and under your ass when you ground yourself down against him.

Simon tsked, reaching up to wrap a hand loosely around your throat, refocusing your attention on his face.

“Said you wanted t’see my face, love,” he smirked up at you, forcing the smug look as best he could through the daze of having you ride him. “You fuckin’ look at me, then.”

You moaned, eyes fluttering closed at the way his fingers felt around your neck before you quickly opened them to stare down at him.

He dropped the hand from your throat, but it stayed on your skin, roaming your body and exploring every dimple and curve of you.

“Perfect,” he was muttering to himself now, admiring you in a way that felt so unfamiliar but so natural to the both of you. “You’re fucking perfect. My sweet girl—fuckin’ incredible.”

You whined, feeling as though you could cry.

His actions were one thing; his touch, the way he raised his hips to meet you, chasing the warmth of your cunt and burying his fingers into your flesh. But the words he spoke, the tenderness you were receiving from such a typically cold man—one you’d yearned for, one you’d assumed would never reciprocate your hunger for a decent touch, a kiss—made you feel a sweeping sense of pride; a sort of validation that made your ears warm and your heart stutter happily.

It was almost too much, and you could feel the spring in your abdomen tense in the same way the muscles in your thighs did as the exertion of riding him became more than a little tiring for you.

But Simon knew—intuitive to a frightening degree—and as your hips stuttered above him, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing a hand to your back and coaxing you to curl against his chest.

“So good, sweetheart,” he mumbled into your hair, arms still wrapped around you as he bucked his hips. “Perfect little wife, did your best, yeah? Ridin’ me so nice, let me put in the work now, right?”

You whimpered into the crook of his neck, relishing in the way he used your cunt like a toy for himself; hands moving to your hips to keep you steady, he fucked into you at a much faster pace, but the comfort you found lying on his chest was unparalleled.

When he pushed you down a bit rougher, letting the head of his cock punch into your cervix and making you let out a mewl of pained contentment, your jaw went slack. You felt drool pooling beneath your cheek and over the shoulder of his shirt.

Simon all but laughed when he felt the damp spot on his shirt, craning his neck to smile at you as he slowed the pace of his thrusts enough to reach up and tug you back gently by the hair. He forced your gaze on his, letting his voice take on a sweet, taunting lilt.

“What would the ladies in the neighborhood say if they saw you dirtying my clothes like this?” He cooed, pushing his cock into you so slowly that you could feel your walls moving, contorting to take the intrusion inch by inch. “Soaking my pants ‘nd droolin’ on my shirt? What would they think, sweetheart?”

“Probably be—be jealous…” you sighed, the angle and his slow movements creating the perfect storm to properly stimulate the spot on your front wall while your clit dragged over the base of him. “Probably want you just as bad as I do.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Simon growled, voice coming out almost hoarse as he spoke, his grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. “Only want you.”

Suddenly he was burying his face into your chest, mouthing at your breasts and offering deep, fast thrusts up into you.

You cried out, clawing at his shoulders as you found the strength to wrap your arms around him and press yourself against him.

“Pretty thing,” Simon moved to look back at you. “Only want my wife. Only need you, sweet girl.”

“Simon—” You could feel the lust reach a fever pitch, the spring in your abdomen threatening to unfurl completely.

“I know, sweetheart,” he was panting, putting all of his effort that wasn’t focused on fucking you into responding to your moans. “C’mon ‘nd give it to me. I got you, lemme ‘ave it.”

It was almost pleading, the way his words came out, and it only served to push you over the edge.

You felt a deep seated tingle, muscles spasming and stomach tightening as a soft, needy gasp of his name escaped your lips.

You felt electric, charged and satisfied, slumping into Simon and letting yourself free-fall into the warmth that bloomed from your core around his cock.

“Fuck, ‘at’s it,” Simon moaned beneath you, wrapping his arms around you tightly as his hips stuttered feverishly, chasing your release in an effort to find his own. “Talk to me, sweetheart, gotta—”

“Inside,” you breathed, already anticipating the question and dead set on your answer. “Inside me, Simon. Please.”

He groaned, head falling back and eyes squeezing closed; wanting to draw out the pleasure of being inside of you, if only for a moment longer.

“I’ll give it t’you, love, I—fuck, lemme see you. Show me ‘at pretty face. Wanna see my wife when I fill ‘er sweet fuckin’ cunt up.”

You pushed yourself up, immediately obliging.

Pressing your forehead to his, noses brushing, he captured you in a brief but bruising kiss before pulling back to admire you above him.

“Fuck—‘ere you go, my pretty fuckin’ girl,” his eyes were heavily lidded, his gaze plastered to you, hungry and triumphant but so soft. “Jus’—Christ—”

Simon met his high with a grunt, thrusting lazily into you and coating your walls with his spend.

You whimpered, melting into him once more; listening to the way your breath fell in sync with his; appreciating the warmth of his release inside of you.

Simon sighed, splaying a hand over your back and tracing shapes on your skin.

After a moment of tranquil silence, he reached for your hips and carefully eased you off of him, both of you making quiet sounds of discontent.

Just as soon as you were off of him, though, you curled into his side, slinging a leg over him and pressing your face to his chest. He wrapped an arm around you, tugging you against him in a manner that made you feel like you were made to be there, flush against him.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Simon,” you spoke softly, but there was already a level of playfulness returning to your tone. “Do you wanna sleep up here tonight?”

You felt him huff a breath, laughing at your question.

“Does the bed come with the woman?” He tilted his face to look down at you.

“Up to you…” You held your breath, though you were unsure why; at this point, it seemed clear that he wanted you around, that he was just as eager to share space with you as you were with him.

“I’ll stay, sweetheart,” his other hand came up to toy with your hair. “Be a damn shame to make you sleep alone, Mrs. Riley.”

“What a doting husband.” You rolled your eyes, but you released the breath you’d been holding.

“Don’t you forget it.” He tugged playfully on a strand of your hair, and you squeaked, swatting at him just as impishly.

~~~

By habit, you woke up early.

The room was quiet, bathed in a blanket of hazy sunlight that poked in through the curtains.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, so intent on staying up and appreciating Simon’s presence next to you in this brand new, exceedingly pleasant way.

But now that you were awake, you could enjoy it again.

His arms were still wrapped around you, soft breath fanning the top of your head as you lay tucked into his chest.

Sometime during the night he’d stripped down to match your level of nudity, and you trailed a finger over his bare shoulders, admiring him. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his skin, warming your lips with the heat that radiated from him.

He stirred slightly, grunting as he tugged you further against him. He placed a kiss to the top of your head before falling back asleep, and you closed your eyes, happy to join him.

Covert operations were awkward. Not this one, though.

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snowseasonmademe · 3 months ago

Text

Further, Faster, Harder.

word count: 7,747

warning ‼️: a LOT of smut (multiple positions), biiiigggggg age gap (20 years)

paring: boyfriend lewis x black female reader

summary: Lewis wanted to make you feel extra special on your (shared) special day.

note: this is a long one yall, but lewis and i are the same zodiac so i wrote a little 🎶birthday sex🎶 fic. he just so happens to be almost exactly 20 years older than me and apparently i like old men so i couldn’t pass this up! i hope you all enjoy, and ofc tell me what you think ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The low, throaty purr of an all-black Ferrari SF90 Stradale echoed through the crisp January evening as you glanced out the passenger window. The car felt alive beneath you, its engine a symphony of power that hummed through the leather seats. The London skyline shimmered ahead, a sea of lights that seemed to stretch endlessly, while the glow of the dashboard bathed the sleek interior in an ambient red hue. Despite the chill in the air outside, warmth bubbled in your chest. It was your birthday—your mutual birthday—a twist of fate that had felt oddly serendipitous from the moment you and Lewis first discovered it.

He shifted gears with practiced ease, his hand briefly brushing the edge of your thigh. “So” he began, his voice smooth and teasing, “did you really think I’d let us spend our day any other way?”

You snorted, pulling the caramel-hued coat tighter around you, not for warmth but because his presence always seemed to steal the air. “Oh, absolutely not. I fully expected flashy cars, a private dinner, and you trying—very unsuccessfully, might I add—to outshine my birthday with yours.”

Lewis let out a low, rich laugh that filled the car, his dimple appearing in the dim light as he stole a quick glance at you. “Please. Let’s not pretend it’s a competition. Everyone knows the better Capricorn here its obvious.”

You raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “Obvious? That’s a bold claim for someone who just hit 40. You’re practically ancient now.”

He shot you a mock-offended look, his British accent sharpening with playfulness. “Ancient? Forty’s the peak of my prime. Haven’t you heard? I’m like fine wine.”

“Yeah, fine wine that’s been aged a bit too long” you teased, your laughter dancing through the space between you.

“Chill” he warned, a wicked smile tugging at his lips as he smoothly turned a corner, the Ferrari responding like a predator stalking the night. “This ancient man just might leave you walking home.”

“Walking home? In this coat?” You gestured dramatically at your outfit. “You’d be doing London a favor. People need to see me.”

“True” he admitted, his grin widening. “You do look stunning. But I think we both know you’d rather freeze than miss this ride.”

You leaned back in the plush seat, letting your fingers trail over the soft leather armrest. “I don’t know. Your little Ferrari phase might’ve won me over. For now.”

He let out a sharp laugh. “Little Ferrari phase? Tell that to the team—they’d love that description.”

The playful banter carried you through the streets until the car finally pulled to a stop in front of a riverside restaurant that practically screamed elegance.

Inside, the restaurant felt like stepping into another world. The glow of candlelight flickered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting shadows that danced on the polished hardwood floors. The Thames flowed serenely outside, its reflection catching the city’s twinkling lights.

The maître d’ greeted you both with warmth, though his polite smile lingered on Lewis just a little too long for your liking. You shot him a knowing glance, which Lewis met with a raised brow and an amused smirk, as if to say, You’re jealous.

“Only the best for the birthday queen” Lewis declared as he pulled out your chair, his voice dipped in that velvety British lilt that always made your stomach flutter.

You tilted your head at him, feigning disappointment. “And here I was thinking you’d forgotten the tiara.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Not forgotten. Just saving the best for later.”

The dinner unfolded like a dream. Each dish was a masterpiece, from the perfectly seared scallops to the rich, velvety dessert that melted on your tongue. The wine was as smooth as the conversation, which flowed effortlessly between the two of you, laced with wit and the kind of intimacy that could only come from two people who knew each other down to the smallest detail.

“Seriously, though” you said, swirling the last of your wine in the glass. “How does it feel being forty? Do you get senior discounts now?”

Lewis set down his fork, leaning back in his chair with an amused glint in his eye. “I’ll have you know I’m still younger at heart than you. But if senior discounts include free wine, I might consider it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Free wine or not, you’re officially in ‘bee keeper’ territory now.”

“And yet here you are” he shot back, his tone sly as he rested his chin on his hand, “celebrating your big 2-0 with me. What does that say about your taste, love?”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. “That I have a thing for men with ridiculous levels of confidence.”

“Ridiculous confidence is just another way of saying I’ve got good reason.”

Somewhere between dessert and the end of the second bottle of wine, Lewis leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I’ve never spent a birthday like this before.”

You raised a brow. “What, you mean being roasted by someone half your age?”

“No” he said with a soft laugh, his gaze locking with yours. “I mean, spending it with someone who makes it unforgettable.”

Heat crept up your neck as the words settled over you. For once, you were grateful for the low lighting, knowing he’d catch the blush on your face if the room were any brighter. “You’ve got good lines, Hamilton. I’ll give you that.”

He smirked, his dimple reappearing. “And here you thought I was ancient.”

The drive back to his place was quieter now, the low hum of the Ferrari’s engine filling the silence as the city lights smeared into a kaleidoscope of golds and whites against the window. You watched the world rush by, your cheek pressed lightly against the cool glass, your mind swirling with the events of the evening. Lewis’s hand rested on the gear shift, his thumb occasionally brushing against your knee, a small but grounding gesture that sent tiny sparks up your spine.

Lewis had a way of making silence feel intimate, like you were sharing a secret only the two of you could understand. He’d crack the occasional joke, his British accent wrapping around his words in that smooth, teasing way of his, but he also seemed content to just be with you, letting the moment stretch without feeling the need to fill it.

“I’m just saying” you broke the silence, a playful lilt in your voice, “you’ve got way too much energy for someone turning 40. Should I be worried you’re one of those guys who lies about his age?”

He glanced at you, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Love, if I were lying, don’t you think I’d say I’m younger? What kind of idiot would round up to 40?”

You bit back a laugh. “Fair point. Still, you’ve got that youthful glow. Should I be looking for a fountain of youth around here?”

“Funny. I was going to say the same about you,” he quipped, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before returning to the road. “Though I think the real secret is being around me. I have that effect, you know.”

“Ah, yes” you teased, your voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Sir Lewis Hamilton, F1 driver, philanthropist, anti-aging elixir. Truly a man of many talents.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and effortless. “Don’t forget humble. That’s the most important one.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at your lips. The kind of banter you shared felt as natural as breathing, a testament to how far you’d come in the past year. Last year, you’d been strangers, exchanging polite birthday messages in a group chat. Now, almost a year into your relationship, celebrating this day together felt nothing short of surreal.

When the car finally pulled into his building’s private garage, you followed him up to his penthouse. As soon as you stepped inside, the soft scent of amber and cedarwood and cinnamon greeted you, enveloping you like a warm hug. The space was immaculate but still inviting, every detail reflecting Lewis’s refined yet cozy taste. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering London skyline, but your attention was drawn to the setup near the fireplace: a nest of plush blankets and pillows, their edges catching the soft glow of the flames, and a small black box wrapped neatly with a satin ribbon sitting in the center.

“Planning to smother me with luxury tonight?” you teased, slipping off your coat and draping it over a nearby chair.

He shot you a sidelong glance, his lips curling into that signature dimpled smile. “Only if you let me.”

Crossing the room, he picked up the box and handed it to you with both hands, his tone softening. “Happy birthday.”

You sank down onto the blankets, crossing your legs as you carefully untied the ribbon. The room seemed to hold its breath as you lifted the lid, revealing a delicate gold necklace nestled inside. The pendant was sleek and minimalist, the numbers 2040 shimmering in the firelight—your ages this year, intertwined in a way that felt both simple and profound.

You ran your fingers over the numbers, the cool metal warming under your touch. “Lewis…” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you looked up at him, emotions you couldn’t quite name rising in your chest.

He knelt in front of you, his hands steady as he unclasped the necklace. “I wanted you to have something to remember this year by” he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Our first birthday together. The first of many, hopefully.”

The necklace was cool against your skin as he fastened it around your neck, his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck in a way that sent a shiver through you.

“Cheesy” you managed to say, though your voice wavered slightly. “Really cheesy.”

He leaned back, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face. “You love it.”

“Maybe” you admitted, your lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re still ridiculous, though. You know that, right?”

He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only for you, love. Only for you.”

And in that moment, as the firelight danced across his features and the weight of the necklace settled warmly against your chest, you knew this was a birthday you’d never forget.

The crackle of the fire filled the space as silence stretched between you, comfortable and unspoken. He reached out, his fingers brushing along your cheek with a tenderness that made your breath catch. The air between you felt charged, thick with something unnameable yet impossible to ignore. He didn’t speak, but his gaze said everything. It was the kind of look that promised a night you’d carry with you long after the embers of the fire died out.

Wordlessly, he offered you his hand, pulling you to your feet. Your bodies moved in sync, a slow dance as he guided you away from the cozy setup near the fireplace. The city lights spilled across the polished floors of the penthouse, casting soft, flickering reflections. The world outside felt miles away, as if time had bent itself around the two of you, creating a space that existed only for this moment.

When you reached the edge of the couch, he paused, his hand slipping from yours to settle lightly on your waist. The tension between you buzzed like a live wire, your breaths shallow and synchronized as you stood inches apart. He reached up, his thumb brushing against the gold pendant resting at your collarbone.

“This suits you” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, deep and velvety.

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re biased” you teased softly, though the words came out shakier than you’d intended.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Damn right I am” he said, his fingers trailing from the necklace to the nape of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

And then, finally, he kissed you

The first kiss was thoughtful, like he was savoring every second of you. His lips were warm, soft, yet firm in their intent, coaxing a response that set your nerves alight. The faint taste of wine lingered on his tongue as he deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck while the other settled firmly on your waist.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, your lips tingled from the contact. The smirk that spread across your face was full of mischief, your eyes glittering in the dim light. “You know” you began, your voice sultry but teasing, “I’ve never had birthday sex with an old man before.”

Lewis stilled for half a second, then let out a deep, throaty chuckle, his dimple flashing in a way that made your pulse skip. “Old man?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mock indignation. “You’re really leaning into this, aren’t you?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “I mean, forty’s practically dinosaur age. Should I grab your reading glasses before we get started?”

The laugh that followed was low and dangerous, his grip on your waist tightening as he tugged you flush against him. “Keep that up y/n” he murmured, his tone dropping to a husky rasp that sent a shiver down your spine, “this so-called old man is about to ruin you.”

Your grin widened, your fingers trailing along the line of his jaw. “Bold words for someone who’s practically collecting a pension.”

He responded without hesitation, his lips brushing against your ear as his voice dipped even lower. “You’re about to love this ‘old man dick’ sweetheart.”

You laughed a bit then your breath hitched in your throat, your teasing façade faltering for a split second. Before you could come up with a retort, he claimed your mouth again, the kiss harder this time, more insistent. His hands explored your body with a practiced precision that made your skin hum in anticipation.

When he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. “Pretty strong for a grandpa” you teased breathlessly, but your voice cracked with laughter as he spun you around, his mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your neck.

“You talk a big game” he shot back, his words muffled against your skin, “but let’s see if you can handle me”

By the time he carried you into the bedroom, the world beyond those walls didn’t exist. The room was bathed in soft streaks of silver light from the city below, the faint hum of life outside muffled by the thick glass of the windows. But the only thing you were aware of was him—the heat radiating from his body, the controlled strength in his movements, the way his touch left trails of fire wherever his hands and lips explored.

The bed was impossibly soft beneath you, though you barely noticed as he leaned over you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His hands moved with a tantalizing slowness, fingers skimming along the hem of your dress before sliding it up, inch by inch, until you felt the cool air against your skin.

“You look stunning” he murmured, his voice reverent but laced with heat as his eyes roamed over you. “Better than I deserve, really.”

You arched a brow, your lips curving into a smirk. “Glad you’re finally admitting it.”

He let out another low chuckle, the sound vibrating through you as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Smart mouth” he murmured, his voice dark and teasing. “Let’s see how long you can keep that up.”

And just like that, words became irrelevant. The moments following were a blur of heat and sensation, a symphony of whispered confessions and breathless laughter that gave way to moans and the sound of tangled sheets. You both lay on the bed bare and craving each other beyond measure. His fingers traced a feather-light path down your collarbone, causing you to shiver despite the lingering warmth between you. He followed that trail with his lips, kissing each spot softly before moving lower. You arched into him, your nails raking gently across his back as his mouth found the sensitive curve of your breast.

His touch was both commanding and tender, guiding you with a confidence that left no doubt he knew exactly how to unravel you. His tongue swirled around your nipple, the teasing flick a jolt of electricity straight to your core. A gasp escaped you, your fingers tangling in his braided hair as he lavished the tender bud with attention. His hand mirrored the action on your other breast, kneading with just the right amount of pressure.

As he continued his sensual care on your breasts, his other hand wandered lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers parted your folds, stroking through your slick heat with agonizing slowness. You moan in relief as you finally felt the touch in the place you’ve been wanting all night.

"Shit y/n you’re so wet for me already” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His fingers continued their teasing rhythm, circling your clit but never quite touching it directly. The taunting motion had your hips lifting helplessly, searching for more contact. “Gotta give my best for my birthday boy” you say with a teasing smile on your face

"Mmm, seems like someone's eager tonight" he teased breathlessly, your fingers tightening their grip in his hair. Arching again, you pressed harder against his teasing fingertips, desperate for relief. "Well stop teasing and fuck me already" you demanded, your voice thick with desire.

A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest as he broke away from your breasts, his eyes meeting yours with an intense, knowing gaze. "How dare you talk to the birthday boy like that?” he chuckled mocking you, finally pressing directly against your clit, making you gasp. "I have plans for you though. I can’t let you get away with making fun of all night baby.”

"And what plans would those be?" you managed to ask between panting breaths, your body winding tighter with each skilled movement of his fingers. He didn't answer with words, instead capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as his fingers continued their expert dance.

His tongue slid against yours in a mimicking what his fingers were doing below, making you moan into his mouth. Then, suddenly, he slid two of his thick, tattooed fingers deep inside you, his thumb still circling your clit.

The dual sensations had your back arching off the bed, breaking the kiss as you let out a loud moan. The feeling making you almost salivate "Oh god” you gasped, your body clenching around his fingers, desperate for more. "More…” you whimpered, your nails digging into his shoulders. "I need more..."

He complied with a wicked grin, pumping his fingers faster and harder, the wet sounds of your pussy filling the air as he drove you closer to the edge. "Like this baby?" he growled, his forehead pressed against yours.

"Yes” you exhaled, your body trembling as he hit that perfect spot inside you. The wet sounds of your arousal turing you on more, —if that was even possible — your body craved even more of him. "Uuh but It's not enough” you wailed, writhing beneath him. "I need you, not your fingers” you say grabbing his shoulder. He chuckled darkly, slowly pulling his fingers out.

He didn’t make you wait another second, his movements efficient as he stripped away the last barriers between your bodies. Each piece of clothing fell to the floor in a whisper, leaving him bare before you—a vision of strength and heat. His hands returned to your thighs, firm but tender as he guided them around his waist, his touch igniting sparks across your skin.

The anticipation was almost unbearable, the space between you charged with unspoken hunger. His body hovered over yours, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that left you breathless. He softly brushed his hands along your thighs, lined himself up with you, his thick length brushing against your dripping entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come.

When he finally thrusts forward, the world seemed to shift. One powerful motion had him burying himself inside you, stretching you in a way that stole your breath. Your back arched instinctively, your body surrendering to the sensation of being completely filled. The exquisite pressure was both overwhelming and perfect, a mix of fullness and connection that sent shockwaves rippling through you.

“This better?” he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly, the sound vibrating through your chest. His hands gripped your hips, grounding you as he pulled back just enough to make you ache for more, only to stroke back in with a slow pace that left you trembling.

A choked moan escaped your lips, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as you tried to steady yourself against the onslaught of sensation. “Oh yes” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, but the desperate edge in it said everything.

Lewis tilted his head, a smug grin curling at the corners of his lips as he watched your reaction. “You feel so good baby” he murmured, his hips setting a steady rhythm. Each thrust was felt like a piece of heaven, his movements slow enough to let you feel every inch of him, but powerful enough to leave you breathless.

The way he fucked you was relentless, the friction and heat building with every thrust. His body was pressed tightly to yours, his heavy, hot body brushing against your chest with each motion, his breath hot against your neck. The room seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, wrapped in a haze of heat, desire, and the raw, primal connection that tethered you together.

As he drove deeper, his grip on your hips tightened, his thumbs pressing into your soft skin as if anchoring himself in the moment. “Look at me” he demanded, his voice low and commanding. “I want you to look at me while I fuck you”

Your gaze locked with his, the intensity in his dark eyes making your pulse quicken. Every thrust sent ripples of pleasure through you, the rhythm building as he took you higher, each movement precise, unrelenting, and filled with purpose.

“Does that feel good?” he asked again, his voice rough and laced with amusement as he pushed deeper still, watching the way your body arched to meet his.

“Perfect” you managed to gasp, your nails raking down his back as he buried himself fully inside you once more.

Your voice broke into a raw, unrestrained scream, your nails carving crescents into the taut muscles of his back. Each thrust sent a wave of sensation through your body, igniting every nerve like a live wire. Lewis gripped you with unrelenting force, his fingers digging into your flesh as though he never wanted to let go. His pace was punishing and purposeful, each stroke a calculated attempt to claim every inch of you.

The slickness of your arousal coated his dick, allowing him to move in and out with sinful ease, his deep, guttural groans echoing your breathless cries. His chest brushed against yours, the heat of his skin matching the fire coursing through your veins. “Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, guiding your hand to you lower abdomen. “You feel where I am inside you y/n?” You could feel him beating at your insides underneath your hands, leaving you dizzy.

You gasped, your body tightening around him at his words. But then, a bold thought slipped from your lips before you could stop it. “I wanna ride you.”

His movements stilled for a heartbeat, and then a wicked smile curved his lips. “I love it when you take control” he murmured, his voice filled with equal parts admiration and desire. Without hesitation, he grabbed your waist and flipped you onto him with fluid ease, his strength sending a thrill down your spine.

Before you could catch your breath, you were astride him, your thighs pressed against his hips as his dick filled you completely. The angle was new, deeper, more intense, and it stole the air from your lungs. His hands found your breasts, warm palms cupping the sensitive curves. His thumbs teased your nipples, the gentle pinch sending shocks of pleasure down your spine.

“Go on” he said, his eyes dark with need. “Show me what you’ve got.”

His words spurred you on, your hands bracing against his chest as you began to move. The muscles beneath your fingers flexed with each thrust as he met your rhythm, his body rising to match every roll of yours. The friction sent waves of heat cascading through you, and the soft, slick sounds of your bodies moving together only added to the intoxicating haze of the moment. You couldn’t believe how wet you are, soaking both of the lower extremities with each thrust out.

His hands slid from your breasts to your waist, guiding your movements but leaving you firmly in control. “There you baby” he groaned, his voice ragged. “Take your dick. It’s all yours.”

Your head tipped back as you found your pace, the pleasure building higher with each roll of your hips. Your long hair cascaded down your back, brushing against his hands as they roamed over your curves. His eyes roamed your body, drinking in the sight of you like a man starved.

“Damn” he muttered, his grip tightening on your waist. “You’re so fucking sexy like this.”

You smirked, leaning forward just enough for your lips to hover near his ear. “I know” you teased and winked, your voice breathy but still laced with confidence.

Lewis chuckled, his hands sliding lower to grip your hips again, the movement sending sparks racing through you. “Cocky tonight, huh?” he challenged, him grinding sharply to meet you, making you cry out, shutting you up.

You threw your head back once more, your long hair tumbling in waves down your back, glinting in the dim light as it swayed with your every movement. You rolled your body with an urgency born of desire, rising and falling as you took him deeper than ever before. Each motion sent a jolt of pleasure coursing through you, a delicious mixture of control and submission as you rode him with abandon.

Lewis’s hands were strong on your waist, his grip possessive as he guided your movements. He met your grinding with powerful thrusts of his own, his body rising from the bed to drive deeper into you, each stroke aimed with precision that left you trembling. The thickness of his dick stretched you in all the right ways, hitting that sweet, devastating spot inside you that made your vision blur.

A whimper escaped your lips, followed by a breathless moan, your sounds blending with the wet, rhythmic noises of your bodies colliding. The heady scent of sweat and sex filled the air, mingling with the sound of his raspy breaths and your own needy cries.

“Faster” you panted, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Faster?” he repeated, his tone laced with mischief as one large hand left your waist and came down on your ass with a sharp smack. The sting rippled through you, blending seamlessly with the pleasure pulsing in your core, making your lower body jerk forward involuntarily. “Yeah baby” he teased breathlessly, his other hand sliding up your spine, grounding you. “Show me how bad you want it.”

Your body responded instinctively, moving with even greater speed. Your breasts bounced wildly with every rise and fall, catching his dark, hungry eyes as he watched you lose yourself above him.

“Ahh yes” he groaned, his dick throbbing inside you, pulsing in perfect time with the frantic rhythm of your bodies. His forehead glistened with sweat, his curls damp and clinging to his temples as he strained to meet every furious motion of your hips. The connection between you was electric, every nerve alight with pleasure and the sheer power of his presence beneath you.

Another sharp slap landed on your ass, making you gasp and cry out. “Fuck, you feel so good like this” he muttered, his hand immediately sliding to your lower back, pressing you forward as his other tangled in your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled you down to meet his lips in a bruising kiss.

The moment your mouths collided, the intensity between you flared brighter. His tongue slid against yours, his kiss just as commanding and relentless as the way he filled you. You could taste the taste of your lips on his lips, feel the tension in his jaw as his teeth grazed against your bottom lip, nipping just enough to make you gasp.

The heat of his chest against yours, the strength of his hands controlling your movements, and the way his body seemed to melt perfectly with yours—all of it was too much and not enough at the same time. The world narrowed to the two of you, the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as you pushed each other further, faster, harder.

“Uh- Fuck- Ah-“ he groaned against your lips, his voice raw and raspy.

“Look at you, riding your dick” he rasped, his voice low and raw as he pressed his forehead to yours, his lips brushing against yours with every labored breath. “Shit” curse fell from his lips like a confession, a whisper, the heat in his gaze burning into you.

He continued to fuck you, mirroring your movements to create the ultimate pleasure, thrust for thrust, the relentless rhythm sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. His fingers dug into your hips with such force you could feel the delicious pressure biting into your insides, a possessive mark you knew would linger long after this moment. “Harder” he growled, his voice thick with need and dominance.

The command sent a spark through you, your body responding instinctively. Letting out a desperate whimper, you adjusted your angle, planting your knees more firmly against the mattress for leverage. You began to slam down on him with every ounce of strength you could muster, taking him deeper with each thrust, the sensation of his dick filling you, driving you wild.

The room filled with the sharp, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin, a symphony of raw passion that echoed in the air around you. Your cries mixed with his groans, creating a harmony of pleasure that left no space for anything else. His thick length hit all the right spots inside you, the perfect angle making stars burst behind your tightly closed eyelids.

“Yeeaahh there you go” he groaned, his voice a mixture of awe and desperation as his hands tightened their grip on your ass, guiding your movements. “That’s it baby, just like that.

But then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he shifted. With a sudden, fluid movement, he flipped you onto your stomach, his strength effortlessly handling your body like it was meant to be molded beneath his touch. The cool sheets met your flushed skin, contrasting with the fiery heat coursing through your veins.

Pulling your hips up, he positioned you on your knees, presenting your ass to him. A dark, appreciative growl rumbled in his chest as he took in the sight before him. “Such a perfect view” he murmured, his hands roaming over the curve of your ass, spreading you wide as he admired the way your glistening entrance twitched with anticipation.

The moment of teasing felt like an eternity. His dick, still slick and throbbing, brushed against your folds, the tip barely pressing into you before pulling back. Each pass sent a shiver down your spine, the anticipation coiling tightly in your core.

“Lewis” you breathed sound a plea that you couldn’t hold back. Your voice trembling with need, and murmured as your face a pressed into the mattress.

He chuckled darkly, his hands gripping your back firmly as he finally aligned himself with you. “I know baby. I’ve got you.”

“You feel so fucking good” he groaned, his voice thick with need as he pulled back slowly, only to slam back into you with even more force.

His strong hands grounding you as he pulled you closer, guiding the rhythm of your bodies. The new angle shifted something deep inside you, igniting a fire that spread through every nerve. Each powerful thrust sent waves of pleasure radiating through your body, leaving you breathless and trembling.

The mattress beneath you dipped with every movement, your breasts brushing against the soft fabric as if it, too, responded to the intensity between you. Your fingers fisted the sheets in desperation, the cool texture a stark contrast to the heat building between your entwined bodies. The air was thick with the sounds of your connection. You reached your hand behind you to touch him, and feel even more connected as he filled you completely, over and over again.

Your cries of pleasure filled the room, bouncing off the walls and blending with the raw rhythm of your bodies. Each powerful thrust sent a jolt of electricity through you, the intensity building with every movement. The warmth of his body against yours, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the unrelenting pace all combined to set your senses alight.

“Yes, just like that” you gasped, your voice trembling with urgency as your body tightened around him, instinctively pulling him deeper. The delicious pressure and friction threatened to make you cum then and there, a tantalizing ache pooling in your core as you teetered on the edge of release. The sheer intimacy of the moment wrapped around you, pushing you closer to the brink with every heartbeat.

His hand slid around to find your most sensitive clit, his fingers skillfully matching the rhythm of his relentless movements. The instant he touched you, a surge of pleasure shot through your body, your breath catching as the tension within you coiled tighter. The precise pressure and timing were too much to bear, every nerve alive and burning with sensation.

The world seemed to fall away as you tipped over the edge, a wave of pure ecstasy crashing over you. Your body shaking uncontrollably, your inner walls clenching and pulsing around him in perfect harmony with the pleasure consuming you. He didn’t falter, fucking you fiercely, extending your orgasm, his movements guiding you through every second of the overwhelming climax.

His release finally hit, a deep groan tearing from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt, flooding your insides with his warmth. The sensation of him pulsing inside you sent a shiver down your spine, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your own climax. Slowly, he collapsed on top of you, his weight settling over you like a comforting blanket, grounding you in the moment.

His breaths were hot and heavy against your neck, his lips brushing your skin with every exhale. He nuzzled closer, his arms curling around you protectively as though he couldn’t bear to let go. “That’s my favorite position you know” he murmured, his voice low and husky, tinged with the remnants of his pleasure.

You chuckled softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair. “I figured. You get a pretty nice view from back there.”

He grinned against your skin, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. But then he paused, his hands beginning to roam over your curves with a possessive, thoughtful touch. His fingers traced the dip of your waist, and the swell of your hips.

“I think” he started, his voice trailing off as he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. His gaze was soft but smoldering, a wicked gleam dancing in his dark eyes. “I think we need to try something new.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Oh? You’ve already got me questioning my ability to walk tomorrow, and now you want to add something else to the mix?”

His laugh was low and rich as he sat up, pulling you along with him. The ease with which he maneuvered your body made your heart race, and before you knew it, you were straddling his lap, your arms looping instinctively around his neck. His large hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him so that your bare skin pressed together.

“Have you ever done reverse cowgirl?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though the intensity in his gaze gave away his excitement.

You hesitated, the memory of past attempts flickering in your mind. “Yes” you admitted, your voice softer now, “but I didn’t like it before.” You avoided his eyes momentarily, not wanting to disappoint him.

His thumb brushed soothing circles over your side, his touch gentle as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “But you haven’t tried it with me” he said, his voice warm and confident, laced with a promise you couldn’t ignore. “Trust me, it’ll feel good. After I’m inside you, lean forward and grab my ankles, okay?”

His reassuring tone made you relax, the corners of your mouth lifting in a small, trusting smile. “That sounds kind of funny,” you teased lightly, “but I trust you, so I guess we can try it.”

He grinned, leaning in to kiss you deeply, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt. As his lips moved against yours, his hands slid down to grip your body, the promise of something exciting lingering in the air between you.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he shifted your body effortlessly, turning you until you were straddling him in reverse cowgirl. Your knees sank into the soft mattress as you leaned forward, just as he instructed, your fingers brushing his ankles for balance. The new position stretched your muscles in an unfamiliar but exhilarating way, your body arching beautifully as you adjusted.

“Good baby” he purred, his voice molten as his hands slid up your thighs, his fingers sprawled out. His grip was firm yet gentle, guiding your movements with unspoken confidence. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as you began to move, rocking your hips experimentally. The sensation of his dick filling you from this angle was different—intense, consuming, and deeply satisfying. You could feel every vein, ridge and curve. Slowly at first, you rose and sank onto him, each downward thrust drawing a low, guttural sound from his throat.

From behind, he had the perfect view, and he was mesmerized. His eyes rolled over the curve of your spine, the way your hair spilled down your back like a silken waterfall, and the hypnotic motion of your pussy taking him in, again and again. “Goddamn” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and lust, “just look at you.”

He couldn’t help himself, his hands roaming over your waist and back before sliding back to cup the roundness of your ass. He spread your cheeks apart slightly, his thumbs grazing your skin as he watched himself disappear inside you, the sight driving him wild. “Fuck” he groaned, his grip tightening. “Your ass looks incredible like this.”

The raw appreciation in his tone made you move more, confidence growing with every word of praise. You rolled your hips, adjusting the angle to take him even deeper, and the effect was immediate. His sharp inhale and the low curse he muttered sent a thrill through you, spurring you on.

“You feel so damn good” he rasped, his voice rough with desire. His warm hands traveled up to your waist, wrapping around you firmly as he began to meet your movements with upward thrusts, burying himself even harder and deeper. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room, accompanied by his low groans and your breathy moans.

“Fuck fuck fuck “ he growled, his voice breaking with raw need. “I can’t get enough of this pussy.” His hands returned to your ass, spreading you wider to take him fully, the sight of your stretched entrance swallowing his girthy length repeatedly making his restraint fray. “This feels so fucking good oh my go-“ you moan out, gripping his ankles.

The angle, the intensity, the way his hands guided you—it all combined into a dizzying blend of pleasure that left you utterly undone, completely lost in the rhythm you shared. His words were a heady mix of filth and reverence, fueling the fire building deep within you.

He moved with an intensity, his pace quickening as he drove into you hard, each powerful thrust echoing through your body. The rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting filled the room once again, a heady mix of his labored breathing, deep groans of pleasure, and the unmistakable slickness of your shared desire. His grip on your hips tightened possessively, his fingers digging into your skin as if anchoring himself to the moment.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum so deep inside you” he growled, his voice rough and low, thick with need. The promise sent a shiver through you, igniting something primal as you moved together, his hips rising to meet each of your movements in perfect synchronization. “Keep going like that, yes” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

Your body obeyed instinctively, the rhythm growing more urgent as the tension between you built. The impact of your bodies meeting sent so much pleasure through you, your chest heaving as your breasts moved with every motion. The heat between you burned hotter, his body taut beneath yours as his control began to stray. You could feel him getting closer with every deep, purposeful thrust, his need pushing you both toward the inevitable.

“Take it all baby. Fuck, I wish you could see how good you look right now” he growled, his voice rough with a mix of desire and command. His eyes locked into you as he watched your body move against him, the sight of you bouncing on his dick driving him to the brink of madness. The way your tight walls clenched around him was almost too much, pulling him deeper into a haze of pure, unrelenting need.

He felt your release building, the way your body trembled and tightened betraying just how close you were. “Not yet” he murmured, his voice strained, though it was as much for himself as it was for you. He was holding on by a thread, the fire in his core threatening to erupt. Truthfully, he’d been on the edge since he got you into this position, but he refused to give in just yet. He wanted to savor every second, knowing there were still so many rounds to come.

He leaned forward slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he rasped, “Keep going Y/n. Don’t stop. I know you can”

The raw command in his tone sent a shiver through you, spurring you on.

His hands moved over your body eagerly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides as if anchoring you to him. He explored every inch of you with reverence and hunger—tracing the curve of your thighs, squeezing your waist, sliding his hands up to press against your stomach as if trying to pull you closer, impossibly close, onto his throbbing dick. His breathing turned ragged, his words dissolving into guttural grunts as he fought to hold back, desperate to let this moment stretch out just a little longer.

Finally, with a raw, loud, groan of pleasure, he gave in to his climax, his body shuddering as his release overtook him. His dick pulsed deep inside you, each wave of ecstasy pouring into your trembling pussy. His arms locked around you with a possessive intensity, holding you firmly in place as he emptied himself into your eagerly waiting depths, refusing to let even an inch of space separate you.

For a moment, time stilled. His chest heaved against your back, his ragged breaths hot against your skin as he stayed buried inside you, savoring the aftershocks of pleasure that rippled through both of you. His grip on your waist softened slightly, shifting into something more tender, his hands brushing over your skin as though grounding himself in the intimacy of the moment.

He pressed his face into your hair, the scent of you pulling a low, satisfied hum from deep in his chest. “Damn” he murmured softly, his lips grazing the back of your neck as he nuzzled closer. “I fucking love you, Y/N,” he confessed, his voice laced with both affection and raw desire.

His arms remained wrapped around you, holding you close as the heat between you lingered, neither of you willing to break the connection just yet.

Time washed away, each moment blending into the next until you collapsed against his chest, your skin slick with the lingering heat of passion. His arm wrapped around you, his fingers lazily tracing soft circles along your back as you rested your head against him. His heart beat steadily beneath your cheek, a soothing rhythm that grounded you in the aftermath of the whirlwind you’d just shared.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and gentle. “Best birthday yet?” you asked, your voice low and slightly drowsy but still tinged with that familiar mischievous edge.

He let out a satisfied hum, nuzzling against him. “Definitely. Though I’ve decided—next year, I’m getting my gift first.”

Your soft laugh rumbled through his chest, and you felt the vibration as much as you heard it. “We’ll see about that, love. You might have to pop a few viagra next year.”

You couldn’t help but grin, your eyelids growing heavy as the warmth of his body and the sound of his voice lulled you to the edge of sleep. “Viagra or not , now you’re stuck with this old man.”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you murmured, your voice a soft promise as he held you close, the city lights casting a gentle glow over the two of you.

#deonn writes ✍🏾#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton fic

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