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kelyon · 10 months ago

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Courtship 3: First Date--His Place

After dinner, Gold takes Lacey back to his house.

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Mr. Gold’s house was a salmon-pink mansion in the good part of Old Town. This was a popular neighborhood for flower deliveries, so Lacey had at least been in the door of most of these places. But she had never been inside Mr. Gold’s house before. She didn’t know anyone who had.

He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Lacey tried not to gape at the size of the place, the obvious quality and care. The front hallway was paneled in wood--not fake wood paneling, but wood--polished and clean. No chipped paint or decades’ worth of smudged fingerprints anywhere.

Most of the house was dark. Lacey couldn’t see up the stairs or down the hallway. The only light was a mini-chandelier, with ropes of crystals that sparkled like the sequins on her dress. The darkness outside was so complete she could see her reflection in the panes of glass on each of the double doors.

“This is lovely,” she smiled at Mr. Gold.

“Thank you.”

He locked the front door behind them, then shrugged off his coat and hung it onto one of a row of empty hooks on the wall. When that was done, he went over to a door on the other side of the entryway. It was a closed door, made of shiny wood so dark it was almost black. He stood in front of it, with his cane in front of him, like he was guarding whatever was in the room behind him.

“Miss French,” he began, “you don’t have to be here.”

Lacey raised her eyebrows. “Well that’s a great start to a hookup.”

“I’m quite serious,” Mr. Gold went on. “I want you to understand that I am not compelling you to do anything. We’ve already discussed that what goes on between us will have no bearing on your father’s situation with the rent. If you leave now, or if you want to stop at any point in future, it will not affect my opinion of you. If you’re ever in need of my assistance, you’ll be able to come to me and I will treat you like anyone else.”

Lacey pressed her lips together. She didn’t want him to treat her like anyone else.

“At any point,” he was still talking, “you can ask to go home and I will drive you back. It is of utmost importance that you understand this: You are acting of your own volition, without coercion or threat.”

She looked at him, hands on her hips. She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth while she thought.

“You sound like you’re gonna try things I shouldn’t let you get away with.”

He came towards her. “I have tastes,” he said simply. “I have desires. I have things I want from a lover that many people--quite reasonably--balk at.” He was close enough now to whisper in her ear. “And I have an inkling about you, Miss French. I think it’s possible that you have desires of your own, desires you wouldn’t dare ask another person to indulge in.”

Her face went hot. She didn’t say anything.

Now he spoke more evenly, but still low and seductive. “At the restaurant, you asked me why I chose you. Let me tell you now: I chose you because it’s possible our desires might align. You might want to receive what I so dearly wish to give.”

He stepped away. He hadn’t touched her but he had been so close that having him gone threw her off balance, at least mentally. He stood in front of the door again.

“I’d like to be right about you, Miss French, but I need you to tell me if I’m wrong. Before you get hurt.”

Lacey blinked. She took a breath, got her bearings. “Are you planning on hurting me?”

“I’m planning to give you every pleasure you can think of and a few more I’m sure you can’t. If you follow the rules.”

Oh. So this was another game. Straightening up, Lacey looked him in the eye. “What are the rules this time?”

There was that glint in his dark brown eyes. That gleam she had come to realize meant he was happy with her, or proud of her. She had done something right.

“This is my study.” Mr Gold tapped his knuckle against the wooden door behind him. “For tonight, this room is our field of play. When you come into this room, you will obey me. Without hesitation, and without question. Do you understand?”

The hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stood up. The house was warm, but a chill went through her.

“What will you tell me to do?”

“Nothing you won’t like,” he promised. “Any time you don’t want to obey, you just have to walk out this door. The game will be over.”

Lacey crossed her arms over her chest and tried to ignore how good the scratchy fabric felt against her bare breasts.

“So are you gonna make me call you ‘Master’ or something?”

“No,” he chuckled at the suggestion. “No, I’m Mr. Gold. That’s quite enough for one lifetime.”

So at least she wouldn’t have to fawn over him like he was God. She just had to do what he said. Everything he said.

“Is this another game I can win?”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“I meant, would there be another prize?” Technically, the very fact of her being here was her reward for winning the game at the restaurant.

“I’ll find ways to make it worth your while, Miss French. To my way of thinking, the greatest prize for winning will be the chance to play again.”

He wanted her. Somehow, the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now. It had been so obvious. Of course Mr. Gold wanted to screw Lacey French. She was young and hot and he was old and lonely. But there were a lot of girls in Storybrooke who were young and hot and Mr. Gold chose her. Mr. Gold wanted her. He saw something in her that he didn’t see in other girls. He wanted things--unmentionable but specific things--and he thought he could only get them from Miss French.

He wanted this to work. He wanted her to want him. He wanted her to want to play his games. The fact that she did only made the revelation that much sweeter.

“Okay,” Lacey moved toward the study. “Let’s play.”

He held up his hand to stop her. “You should take a moment to collect your thoughts. Make sure this is really what you want, Miss French. Then, before you come into the study, take off your stockings and your underthings. Leave them out here. Put your shoes back on, and come join me. Or tell me that you want to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

She spoke softly, but it was the boldest declaration she had ever made in her life.

Mr. Gold gave her a small smile--an actual smile, the first she’d seen from him. Then he made a nod that was almost a bow. He went into the study and left the door open behind him.

****

Alone in the entryway, Lacey let out a long breath. Mr. Gold had told her to collect her thoughts but all she could think about was how horny she was, how alive she felt. All she could think about was what Mr. Gold had planned for her. Exactly how unconventional were his tastes? Would she walk into the study and discover him putting on clown makeup and wielding a meat cleaver? What did he want? What did he want from her?

She wasn’t going to find out in the hallway.

Lacey backed away from the glass-fronted doors into the dark interior of the house. Then she pulled up her skirt and rolled down her panties and her stockings all in one go. Good thing she had shaved her legs after all. She stepped back into her sensible black pumps and crossed the threshold into Mr. Gold’s study.

He was lighting a fire in the antique fireplace when she walked in. He was fully dressed and not in clown makeup, which was a good sign. When he saw her, he tossed the long match into the catching flames.

“That was quick,” he remarked.

“I know what I want.”

He came toward her, until they were standing close enough to kiss. With the hand that wasn’t holding his cane, Mr. Gold cupped her cheek. It was the first time they had touched anything more than their hands.

“And what is that?”

The word you lay on the tip of her tongue. I want to know you. I want to know what you want and I want to give it to you.

Of course she couldn’t say that out loud. Sentiment was a little treacly for Mr. Gold’s taste. He liked bitter, not sweet.

“I want adventure,” Lacey said instead. It was mostly true. “I want something I can’t get from any other man in this town--something I can’t imagine most of them would even be able to understand.” She pushed herself toward him, pressing her body against his. She put her hand on his chest. “I want more, Mr. Gold. I want much more than this… life.”

He took a step back, then another. With his body gone, her hand hung in the air. He gave her one of his long, appraising looks.

“The first rule,” he said softly, “is that you don’t touch me. I will touch you, and I may give you explicit instructions on where I want your hands or your body, but I will not have you pawing at me like a pickpocket.”

Lacey’s cheeks burned. From embarrassment this time, not anything fun. “Oh.” She lowered her hand. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to--”

“That’s why I’m telling you. I don’t want you making that mistake again.”

She swallowed down her guilt and nodded her understanding. She kept her eyes downcast. She really was sorry to have made him uncomfortable.

“I spoke to you, Miss French.” He came close again.

She looked up at him. “Yes, you did. And…?”

“And when I speak to someone, I expect the courtesy of an answer.”

“Oh,” Lacey said again.

He shook his head. “That won’t do at all, dearie. Say, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.’”

A flash of anger went up her spine. Who the hell was he to nitpick her behavior? Sure, they were playing his game, but that didn’t give him the right to patronize her!

Boldly, she matched his stare. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” The sentence was hot in her mouth as she spat it out. But the words were right. She was following the rules. “I apologize Mr. Gold. Forgive me, Mr. Gold.”

Now he grinned. “Three times is a nice touch, but remember to say please when you want something from me.”

Lacey managed to conceal her eye roll with a long blink. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He put his hand on her waist and pressed his body against hers. She couldn’t tell if it was a reward or a tease, the closeness she was allowed to have, but only on his terms. The warmth of him steadied her. It dampened down the sparks of her aggravation.

She felt his breath on her ear as he whispered, “Good girl.”

He slid away from her and once again Lacey was left feeling dizzy and off-balance, like she had just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl.

“Do you know how to pour whisky, Miss French?”

Lacey blinked a few times to clear her head. She looked around. He was in the far corner of the study now. A section of the bookshelf folded out to reveal a little compartment with bottles inside.

“Uh, is it different from pouring any other liquid?”

Mr. Gold nodded his head toward the bar. “Come here,” he ordered casually.

Lacey hurried to obey. She darted around a large couch with her arms out slightly in front of her, like she was being pulled by something on her wrists.

That was weird. Why had she done that? Lacey shook her head to clear it. When she got to Mr. Gold, she put her arms down by her sides.

��Pay attention,” Mr. Gold ordered. “I want you to be good at this.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He positioned her in front of the bar, standing behind her. Reaching over her, he placed a finger on the lid of one of the bottles.

“Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” he explained. “Blended Scotch whisky, two hundred dollars a bottle. It’s good enough for everyday use.”

Two hundred dollars for a bottle of booze? A bottle of good enough booze?

Before she could marvel any further at how the other half lived, Mr. Gold took Lacey’s hand and placed it on the sky-blue bottle. With him guiding her, she took the bottle by the neck and pulled it out of the row.

“You may unscrew the lid.” He murmured it into her hair like it was a sweet nothing.

Lacey watched to make sure her hands weren’t shaking as she did what he said. Mr. Gold helped her pick up a short glass and set it on the bar. Her hand covered the glass and his hand covered hers.

“Pour until it’s the height of two fingers.” He had his other hand over hers on the bottle. “Or three, in your case.”

She stopped before he could tell her to, when the brown liquid reached the top of her middle finger. She pushed away from him, just a little. Just enough that she could pick up the glass and spin around to face him.

“Like this, Mr. Gold?”

The lines in his mouth deepened. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Count to ten--slowly, out loud--then come and serve me.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

She watched him walk over to a stuffed leather armchair by the fireplace. Before he sat down, he took a pillow from the couch and set it on the floor next to his chair. As she counted, Lacey looked at him, at the power he radiated. The chair he sat in wasn’t a throne. Mr. Gold wasn’t a king. He was something bigger than that. Something dark and eternal. Just what, she wasn’t sure. It was a mystery to be uncovered.

When she was done counting to ten, Lacey went over to Mr. Gold with the glass in her hand. Some instinct made her bend at the waist when she offered him the drink. It paid off when Mr. Gold’s eyes swept down the line of her spine and lingered on her ass. Was he thinking about his order to take off her underwear?

“Well done,” he said as he took the glass.

Lacey made a pointed look at the pillow by Mr. Gold’s feet. “What next?”

“Next,” Mr. Gold sat back in his chair. He swirled his whiskey in the glass and took a drink. “Next you will go to the top drawer of my desk, on the right-hand side. Open it, and bring the contents to me.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Obediently, Lacey crossed the room.

The desk was a thing of beauty, rich dark wood and a leather writing top. It was large enough and sturdy enough that it could function as a bomb shelter if Storybrooke was ever under aerial attack. Lacey French had become valedictorian while doing homework at her kitchen table. If she’d had a desk like this, she would be a Rhodes scholar by now.

In the top drawer on the right-hand side, Lacey found a strip of foil-wrapped condoms, a box of rubber gloves like at a doctor’s office, and white tube with the label facing up to read: ANAL LUBRICANT.

She blinked.

For a long minute, she just stared at the objects in front of her. The things Mr. Gold wanted to have close at hand. Then Lacey took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. In one motion, she scooped the supplies into her arms and walked back to Mr. Gold.

The condoms and the gloves went on the table beside him, next to his drink. The lube he placed in an inside pocket on his suit jacket, close to his heart.

He gestured to the pillow on the ground. “Would you like to kneel at my feet, Miss French?”

At that moment, Lacey didn’t know what she’d like. She had some ideas, or thought she did. Her formative years had been shaped by age-inappropriate romance novels. But it was one thing to fantasize about things--to imagine them and even want them. It was something else entirely to drag a secret desire out into the cold light of reality.

Mr. Gold was leaning forward, staring at her. He was waiting for her to answer, to obey, to keep playing their game. The game that had suddenly become too real for her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He tilted his head. “You may.”

Lacey breathed. There was no other way to say it than to say it.

“Anal?”

Mr. Gold smirked. He sat back, comfortable again with how things were going. “You’ve never done it before?”

“No,” Lacey almost laughed. “It’s supposed to be gross, right? Or complicated, or dangerous?”

“What good thing in life doesn’t have an element of complexity or danger?”

“But don’t I need to, like, do an enema or something first?”

“That’s what these are for,” he gestured to the condoms and gloves. “It’s my understanding that being overzealous with cleaning actually increases the risk.”

“Really?” Lacey had never done research on the subject, and the few romance novels that featured anal were annoyingly vague on the details. Apparently Mr. Gold did this enough to develop a preference for it, so he was now the leading authority.

“If you want to be clinical, Miss French, an enema will dry out the anal passage and leave you vulnerable to microtears, which can lead to infection.”

“I’m sorry, I stopped listening after I heard the word tear.”

“Micro,” Mr. Gold emphasized. “As in microscopic.” He patted his jacket where he’d just put the bottle of lube. “That’s what this is for, to make everything… smoother.”

Lacey dug her nails into her palms. The sharp, stinging pain eased her nerves.

“Why did you put it in your jacket?”

“To make it warm for you.” He took a drink, then set down his glass. “Anything else?”

“You’ve done this before.” It wasn’t a question. “A lot?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“A gentleman never tells,” he smirked. “Suffice it to say it was long ago and far away. You’re in no danger of running into any jealous exes.”

Lacey let out a breath of a chuckle. Learning more about what was going to happen had helped. Talking to Mr. Gold, listening to his unshakable self-assurance, had helped.

She smoothed her skirt.

“Do you still want me to kneel, Mr. Gold?”

He picked up his drink. “Very much.”

Nodding, she went to the place beside him and got down on her knees. She sat up straight in a perfect L, the way people did in Catholic church.

“You can relax,” Mr. Gold said softly. “You’re going to be down there for a while, Miss French.”

His arm draped over the chair to hold her by the back of the neck. Gently, but with firm pressure, he pushed her down. She was still kneeling, but sitting on her legs. Now Lacey felt like she was in a karate class.

“There,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”

There was only one answer Miss French could give: “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

****

For at least fifteen minutes, Mr. Gold sat, and sipped his whiskey, and touched her. He tried to play with her hair, but quickly realized it was an unmanageable rat’s nest full of bobby pins. After that, he kept to her neck, her ears, her cheeks. He played with her idly, as if she was a pet, or some kind of ornament with an interesting texture. Just a thing for him to fidget with while he was thinking.

His fingers were soft. Mostly they grazed over her, practically teasing. Sometimes they pressed in. Sometimes he rubbed her with several fingers at once. He made his way down her back like that, massaging the spaces her dress left bare. Whenever she reacted with a sigh or a muffled moan, he touched her more.

It was a quiet time, with nothing but murmurs between them. They watched the fire, listened to the crackles and pops of the burning logs. Lacey felt her pulse slow. Her thoughts wound down into almost nothing. Mr. Gold’s touch, his presence, could thrill her, yes, but right now it calmed her. It helped her be ready for what she knew was coming.

“Have your legs gone numb?” he asked her after a while.

When was the last time Lacey had felt her toes? “I think they are, yes.”

“Good.”

Pushing himself up with his cane, Mr. Gold got out of his chair. Then he bent down over Lacey, wrapped one arm around her chest, and with surprising strength, lifted her to her feet. She couldn’t stand under her own power, but he walked her to the couch and let her fall over the arm. Lacey braced against the cushion, holding herself up on her elbows.

“Stay there,” he rasped.

It sounded like he was out of breath. Had hefting her around worn him out? Or did it excite him to see her like this? If there was ever a position for a girl to get fucked in the ass, Lacey was in it.

She breathed. It was going to happen. She looked down at her hands. They looked so pale and small against the wide expanse of tufted burgundy leather. Before the date started, she had managed to wash away all the potting soil from work, but she should have painted her nails as well. Maybe tomorrow she’d stop by the drug store and splurge on burgundy nail polish.

While she was thinking inane nonsense, Mr. Gold was running his hands up and down her thighs.

“So soft,” he murmured. “So lovely.”

“That’s the miracle of exfoliating,” Lacey quipped.

As soon as she spoke, his hands stopped. “No, it’s the miracle of youth, Miss French. Enjoy it while it lasts. Can you stand now?”

Experimentally, she pushed herself up off the couch and put her weight on her feet. “Looks like it,” she said.

“Good.”

As she stood, he pressed against her again, his front to her back. His breath was hot and delicious against her neck. Carefully, slowly, he put one hand on the front of her thigh, just below the very short hemline of her dress.

“You know what I want,” he whispered. “The fact that you’re still here means you’re willing to give it to me. Is that correct, Miss French?”

“Yes,” Lacey breathed. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

Still with the same deliberate slowness, he dragged his hand over her thigh and under her skirt. He rested a minute on her hip bone, right over what would be her pantyline, if she was wearing panties.

For a moment, they breathed together. Lacey had the thought that this moment for him was what entering the study had been for her: Crossing a threshold.

He slid his hand down, over her pubic hair, and into her pussy.

She hadn’t realized how wet she was until she felt his fingers dip into liquid heat.

“Fuck,” Mr. Gold hissed.

Lacey’s teeth chattered, but she grinned. “You sound surprised.”

“Pleasantly,” he assured her. His fingers began to move. “Delighted, actually.” He rubbed his face against her neck. His stubble prickled her skin.

She moaned.

“Are you always so easily aroused, Miss French? Do other men slide into you so effortlessly?”

He had found her clit shockingly fast, but he didn’t press against it too hard or for too long. He seemed to know without being told how she liked to be touched, how she touched herself. He pressed two fingers into her core for just a moment, dipping down and pulling up more wetness to slather over her lips and folds. His hand was quick and constant and everywhere.

“I asked you a question, Miss French.”

“No,” she answered breathlessly. “There’s only been one and he didn’t care much about me. I had to--oh!--take care of myself most of the time.”

“Well, there will be no more of that,” he muttered, still working furiously. “A woman’s pleasure is a prize, Miss French. It should be worked for, and savored.”

It was hard to think of an answer right now. It was hard to think of anything besides the swell of feeling he was pulling up out of her. No, Hunter had never touched her like this. She had barely ever touched herself like this, or found herself as wet as Mr. Gold made her.

She felt something building, felt herself rising and arcing, ready to reach the peak. She was going to--she was--

Abruptly, Mr. Gold’s fingers stopped. He kept his hand on her mound, holding it, but not doing anything.

“What?” Lacey turned around as best she could to look at him. “Why did you stop? I was almost there!”

A slow smile spread across his face. “I know,” he said. “You’re not subtle with your orgasms, Miss French.”

“I--should I be? Is that a thing you want?”

“Not particularly.” He squeezed her cunt and Lacey shuddered. “No, it’s to my advantage that you’re so… demonstrative.”

Groaning, Lacey fell forward over the arm of the couch. “You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“No, Miss French, I’m fucking you. I have every intention of letting you come.” With his other hand, he pulled her back up, pressed her against his body. He growled into her ear. “You’re going to ruin my jacket sleeve with your sopping wet cunt.” He let her go. “But only when I allow it. Do you understand?”

Breath shaking, Lacey tried to pull herself together. It was harder than it had been before. Blood pounded in her ears, the pulse of pleasure denied, the throbbing need she knew Mr. Gold could feel against his hand. She managed one breath, and then another.

“This is called edging, isn’t it?”

“It’s called obedience, Miss French. It’s called doing only what I want you to and only when I tell you to do it. It’s called being a good girl.”

Lacey clenched, she shuddered. She was going to come whether he wanted her to or not. She didn’t have a choice. Her body was just doing this.

“Fight it,” he snarled. “It’s a skill like any other. You can just stop.”

It was like falling. Like thinking there was one more stair and then you stepped up onto nothing and landed hard. Like waiting for a sneeze and not having one. Like trying to force yourself not to have hiccups. It was a weird holding sensation, as Lacey staved off her natural reaction.

Somehow, she managed it. The feeling passed through her. She was able to calm down, control herself. Just like he wanted.

“Perfect,” Mr. Gold whispered. “I knew you could do it.’

Her teeth chattered. Lacey felt strangely wrung-out. Overwhelmed. Her mind and her body had somehow disconnected, and there was only the slightest tether between them.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

****

Two more times he brought her to the edge and made her pull herself back. Each time it was harder and when he finally allowed her to come she was barely aware it was happening. Her body took over entirely, thrashing and screaming, grinding against him. Her mouth begged for more--Lacey heard herself say the words--but it was removed from her mental reality. It might as well be happening to a character in a book.

Mr. Gold permitted her as many orgasms as she could take, then gave her one more when she thought she was done. By the end of it, she was slumped over the arm of the couch. Utterly boneless, utterly spent. Her mind was quiet. Her body was exhausted. In that moment, nothing mattered. In that moment, she floated on a cloud of perfect safety and peace.

When he decided she was done, Mr. Gold gave her a satisfied pat on her hip. At some point, her skirt had gotten rucked up to her waist. Her naked ass was up in the air, the perfect position for him to do whatever he wanted.

Through bleary eyes, Lacey watched Mr. Gold walk back over to his chair, to the little end table where he had set the condoms and rubber gloves. He put on only one of the gloves, and flexed his fingers with a satisfied smirk. Then he tore one of the condoms off the strip and walked back over to Lacey. He slipped the foil square between two of her limp fingers.

Putting his weight on his cane, Mr. Gold crouched down so he was on her level. Lightly, he brushed her hair away from her face. “You’re going to hold onto that for me until I need it. Do you understand?”

Blinking slowly, Lacey nodded.

He tilted her chin up, so she looked him in the eye. “That’s not what you say, is it Miss French? Is that how you communicate with me?”

He was gentle, almost teasing, but she knew he was serious about what he wanted.

“No, Mr. Gold,” Lacey murmured. Complete satisfaction had brought her to a place of complete compliance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.”

“That’s the way.” He stroked her hair as a reward, with the hand wearing the glove. She could smell her pussy through the rubber. “Do you understand what I want from you?”

She squeezed the condom between her knuckles. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He gave her a fond grin. “Good girl.”

****

He stood behind her and opened her legs. He played with her pussy for a moment. The sudden pleasure jolted her out of her stupor. He spread her wetness back towards her ass.

“Barely even need lubricant,” he muttered. “With a cunt so wet, so sloppy.”

He punctuated the word by jabbing his fingers hard into her cunt. Lacey let out a keening moan--it wasn’t painful, just intense--and he soothed her with gentle rubs.

“But that’s the way I want you, Miss French. You’re a mess of desire, absolutely filthy. You don’t mind getting dirty, do you dearie? No. No, I think you like it.”

His thumb was circling her asshole now, while his other fingers played with her cunt. He paused, briefly, and Lacey heard the snap of the lid opening on the tube of anal lube. A spurting sound, then a new substance on her body.

The lube wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t as hot as her own juices. Lacey shivered at the feeling--at all the feelings--all the sensations and reactions Mr. Gold had drawn out of her.

“I do,” she whimpered as he rubbed the lube around her asshole, as his thumb made short, exploratory ventures within. “I do like it, Mr. Gold. God, I fucking love this.”

Behind her, he chuckled. His free hand rested over her ass, spreading her apart ever so slightly.

“You’re taking it well,” he murmured.

Slowly, he eased the whole of his thumb inside her. Lacey closed her eyes and focused on the feeling, the invasion, the unusual fullness. Mr. Gold didn’t move his hand. He seemed to be listening, seemed to be as attuned to her reaction as she was.

“Well?” he breathed.

Lacey tried to think, but he had already fucked all the words out of her. “It’s… weird…”

“Unpleasant?”

“No. I mean--no, Mr. Gold.”

He squeezed the soft flesh of her ass and she knew that was her reward for speaking to him correctly. Then he began to move his thumb. At first he only rotated his wrist, so his whole hand moved in a slow circle. Then he began to spread outward, making the circle wider. Making her asshole wider. He slid out partially, then eased his way back in. All the while, Lacey lay draped over the couch, vaguely aware of the distant pleasure, but mostly overwhelmed. Mr. Gold hadn’t even gotten his cock out and she had already been well and truly fucked.

He added more lube, then started with his fingers. One at a time, he used the same patient experimentation as with his thumb. He explored her, filled her, fucked her.

“I’m going to start with two now,” he told her. “I’m going to open you up, and then I’m going to need that condom.”

Through her blissed-out haze, Lacey nodded. Then she corrected herself. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

Again, he squeezed her. “Good girl.”

Two fingers was odd, especially once he started moving them. Odd was the only way she could think of it. It didn’t hurt, and it didn’t really drive her wild, at least not as much as his fingers in her cunt had. Lacey got the impression that this act wasn’t for her. Mr. Gold was just preparing her so she’d be alright with him doing what he wanted.

That was fine. God knew he had already given her plenty. Mr. Gold might as well take something for himself. And in Lacey’s current state, she wouldn’t have been able to do much for him anyway. Better for him to do the work, better for her to just take it.

He plucked the condom from her fingers. She heard the sound of a zipper, of foil being ripped open. She heard a slight hitch in his breath. Then his hands were on her again. He spread her open and glided into her ass.

Mr. Gold gasped. His clean hand gripped onto Lacey’s hip so hard it was sure to leave bruises.

“Fuck.” He choked back the word through gritted teeth.

With one arm, he roughly pulled her up and turned her neck to look at him. His cock was still inside her, but there was no pain or even discomfort. He felt amazing.

“You’re sure you’ve never done this before?”

Lacey tried to hold herself up on the couch. “Not that I remember.”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, you’re just a natural slut then, aren’t you? You just walk around in your day to day life with an arse that’s begging for my cock?”

He thrust his hips into her for emphasis. Lacey moved with him, realizing for the first time how tightly their bodies were joined. Become one was a romance novel phrase for fucking, but she felt the truth of it now. In that moment, Mr. Gold was a part of her, and she was a part of him. They were one thing, one animal, united in a singular drive.

It felt so right. It felt so good to be with him. So natural, so perfect. She was his and he was hers. They should never be separated again.

He must have felt the same thing. With his clean hand, Mr. Gold turned Lacey’s head to look at him. He stared at her for a moment. His eyes washed over her face, searching for some answer. He must have found it, because he pulled her even closer, and kissed her.

She kissed him back, wet and sloppy like her cunt. It was an awkward angle with him inside her, but neither of them stopped. His hand moved over her body, over her dress. He squeezed her breast through the fabric and she trembled.

Their mouths broke apart, but they were still one being below the waist. For a moment, Mr. Gold stared at her again. His mouth was loose and slack from the kiss. He looked softer than she had ever seen him before, softer than she could ever imagine him being. He looked open and tender. He looked like he could love her.

He was beautiful.

One second later, his features sharpened again. His mouth hardened into a smirk. He bent her down over the couch. His cock pulled out about halfway and then rammed into her.

“Rest assured, dearie: You’re going to remember this.”

****

He took her hard, banging her into the couch with such force that the furniture shuddered forward with his thrusts. Lacey cradled her head in her crossed arms and let herself go loose. He made noises, animal grunts and muttered swear words. Her moaning was so constant it was almost a drone, a single music note that rang out over and over.

How could something so brutal feel so good? Mr. Gold fucked her like a beast, unyielding, unending, and she knew she had been made for him. To be thing he fucked, that was the only purpose she had. Through her haze of bliss, she understood it with perfect clarity. She accepted the fact. She loved it. This was where she belonged. This was all she wanted to do, to be, for the rest of her life. Lacey French was gone, even Miss French had faded away. She was something else entirely now. She was sex itself. She would take anything he doled out to her. She would take it gladly and beg for more. She really was a perfect slut.

His perfect slut.

His thrusts became faster and stronger. A snarling stream of exclamations poured out from his mouth and over her body. Abruptly, he grabbed her. His arm pulled her up to stand while his cock kept pushing her down into the couch.

“Ohh,” she sighed. It was all she could do.

His mouth was on her. On her cheek, on her neck. He kissed her with possessive bites, marking her. Claiming her body as his.

He worked on one spot, just at the nape of her neck. He sucked and gnawed at her flesh until the pain he was giving her outpaced the pleasure. Her moans became high-pitched and pleading, but she didn’t want him to stop. She never wanted him to stop.

Her pain was enough to send him over the edge. His thrusts became erratic, jerking and sliding, deeper and deeper, until he gave one final push.

When it was over, he let out a heavy sigh against her shoulder. For the first time, she noticed he was trembling, just like she was. Panting, he leaned against her. He rested his head on her neck, pressing his lips to the place he had marked. He wrapped both arms around her waist.

He held her.

Lacey kept shaking, shook more than she had while he was fucking her. Those movements had been all his, there had been no need for her to add to them. Now that he was still, Lacey’s body shuddered. Her hips thrust forward against the couch, her ass ground against him, even while his cock was softening inside her.

Mr. Gold chuckled in her ear. “Again?” he murmured. “Don’t you have an off switch?”

“I wish I did,” Lacey said as she clenched and convulsed.

Finally, the wave crested through her again. She came with a grunt, her hands clawing at the leather cushion. Then she slumped forward, exhausted. Her body still twitched and throbbed, but those were aftershocks. She was done.

Mr. Gold rubbed one hand over her back and down to her ass. He patted her like she was a friendly dog, like she had done hard work and done it well. Like she was a good girl.

“I’m going to pull out now, Miss French.”

She made a vaguely affirmative noise and he didn’t chide her for not being correct. The heat of his body left her and she felt the familiar sensation of something vacating her asshole.

“Oh shit!” She lifted her upper half off the couch. “Did I--”

“No,” Mr. Gold answered before she could finish the question. “It just feels like it because you’ve never had anything else come out of there. At least, I assume. You took my cock with such ease, one might accuse you of feigning your innocence.”

Lacey groaned and crawled forward on the couch so her legs were on the cushion with the rest of her. She lay on her stomach, her bare ass slowly getting cold.

“I never said I was innocent, Mr. Gold.” She rubbed her face. “Fuck, I’m sure not innocent after tonight.”

He was over by a trash can. The hand wearing a glove held the full condom. He hooked the thumb of his other hand under the edge of the rubber so when he pulled the glove off, it went inside out. The condom went with it, so now everything dirty was in a neat little latex package for him to throw away.

He tucked in his shirt and zipped up his pants, but he had never even taken off his jacket. Five minutes after coming in a girl’s ass, Mr. Gold looked like he had spent the evening quietly reviewing the details of contract law. He knew it too. There was a swagger in his step as he came back to her. He was every inch the cocky bastard.

“Innocence is overrated, though there can be some pleasure in destroying it. Can you stand, Miss French?”

She could, but it was a multi-step process. She hauled her legs down to the ground--God, she was still wearing her shoes--and forced herself to sit up on the couch. Groaning, she got to her feet. Her legs were a little wobbly, but she was able to stand up straight.

“Very good.”

Mr. Gold put his hand on her waist, just above her ass. He walked her out of the study to a bathroom in the hall.

“Clean yourself up,” he instructed gently. “Feel free to use the washcloths. Come out here when you’re done.”

She obeyed him groggily, moving like she was underwater. The lube felt so slick and unnatural as she tried to wipe it away with toilet paper. Anal sex wasn’t that gross, but the aftermath sure was. She washed her hands and soaked one of the washcloths in hot water to put on her face. It was soft and new and good-smelling. Lacey breathed in the steam, the scent of lavender. Lavender was one of the few flowers she could actually stand the smell of.

She sighed.

She looked in the mirror. Her face was flushed from the heat, her cheeks and forehead splotchy. If she pulled the collar of her dress over to one side, she could see the hickey Mr. Gold had left on her. The shape of his lips seared darkness onto her skin. She hoped it would last a while. It was her only memento of a very momentous night.

Her hair looked about the same as when she’d left home. There was some advantage to being so messy. Wild hair easily hid the wild things Lacey got up to.

When she got out of the bathroom, Mr. Gold was waiting for her. He offered her a glass bottle of sparkling water. She took it, and drank.

“Thanks--uh, I mean, thank you, Mr. Gold.”

They had left the study, but were they still playing? Would he want her to keep up the formality? He didn’t correct her. His pleased expression only deepened.

He put his hand on her bare back and gestured with his cane to a wad of cloth on the floor.

“I believe those are yours, Miss French.”

“Oh!” She crouched down to pick up her pantyhose and underwear. “Sorry about that, Mr. Gold.”

He shook his head. “Not at all, Miss French.”

It would be too intimate to put on her underwear in front of him, and she didn’t want to excuse herself back into the bathroom. Lacey’s only option was to roll her stockings around her panties and hold the bundle in the hand farthest away from Mr. Gold.

“I’ve got the car running out front,” he said. “I’d say it’s high time you got to your bed.”

“What time is it?”

“Just before midnight. I’ll see you home before your glass slippers vanish into fairy dust.”

Lacey snorted at the joke, then sobered when she looked down at her shoes. She’d gotten these sensible black pumps to wear at her mother’s funeral. Maybe it would be better if they did disappear. Then she wouldn’t have to think about tragedy every time she looked at them.

Or maybe it would be okay. After all, now she could remember that these were the shoes she was wearing the first time Mr. Gold fucked her.

****

He drove her home. The Cadillac was as smooth and as silent as a shark cutting through water. It was a far cry from the only vehicle she ever drove. The store’s delivery van coughed and rumbled like a workhorse that needed to be put out to pasture. Her Uncle Manny was over at least once a month to repair it. He used all his skill as a mechanic to keep that clunker running for just a little while longer. Just until things got better.

Lacey stretched out in the roomy warmth of the passenger seat. She luxuriated in this comfort for as long as it would last. She’d have to go back to reality all too soon.

“I can’t believe after all this I’m gonna have to take a cold shower.”

Mr. Gold looked at her. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but there was a tinge of amusement in his voice. “Is your libido that insatiable, Miss French?”

“Huh? Oh.” Lacey chuckled. “No, I mean literally. Our hot water tank is pretty much useless.”

He pulled over and parked in front of Game of Thorns. There was no amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “No one informed me of any problems with your hot water.”

Lacey blinked. “Why would we?”

“Because I’m your landlord, Miss French. Technically, that’s my hot water tank.” He shook his head. “I never should have taken your father’s word that everything was fine.”

“Um. I mean, it’s not a big deal. My dad’s gonna get it fixed eventually.”

Like everything else in their lives would eventually improve.

Mr. Gold didn’t say anything. He unlocked the door and Lacey took that as her cue to get out.

“I--uh--I had fun tonight.” She stood in the street with the passenger door open. “Thank you for a… really great evening.”

In the flickering street lamps, Lacey could make out the shape of Mr. Gold’s head, but not his expression. He was looking at her, but she had no clue what he was thinking.

“You’re welcome, Miss French.”

She shut the door, and picked her way through parked cars and piles of snow. He waited until she opened the unlocked side door of the building, and then he drove off.

#courtship #rumbelle #golden lace #rumbelle fic #rumbelle smut #golden lace smut #golden lace fic

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eirian-houpe · 2 years ago

Text

Deck the Halls

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV), Stargate Universe

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle (Once Upon a Time)/Nicholas Rush

Characters: Belle, Nicholas Rush, Red Riding Hood | Ruby

Additional Tags: University, Holidays, decorations, Fluff, Smut, Gift Giving, Rumbelle Secret Santa (Once Upon a Time), Rushbelle

Summary: Belle, Doctor Rush's graduate assistant, gets caught trying to decorate his office, earning her a rather unexpected invitation. Nicholas Rush finds a note from the past that inspires him to extend that invitation, and things get somewhat out of hand when the pair find themselves acting on their repressed feelings.

Written for @serenalyon with <3

Read on AO3

Deck the Halls

“What the actual fuck are you doing?”

Carrying a stack of books and papers in one arm so that he could open the door to his office, NIcholas Rush almost knocked his graduate teaching assistant off the chair on which she was standing. She had a string of lights in her hands.

He hadn’t asked for a teaching assistant, graduate or otherwise, but the department head had insisted in a way he couldn’t really refuse, also insisting that the young woman was probably the most promising student to come through their department in decades, and that they couldn’t really afford to lose her. While he couldn’t argue the latter point, and probably shouldn’t have argued the former, given his recent disciplinary hearing for being drunk on campus, he argued anyway. It only sealed his fate and she had been assigned to him the very next day. So far, as much as he could remember anyway, he had spent the better part of half a semester attempting to make her request to be assigned to a different professor, but it seemed as if Newton’s Third Law applied to the physics of ridding oneself of an unwanted assistant. The harder he pushed, the meaner, and more bad tempered he became, the more determined, nicer, and patient she became with him in return.

“Doctor Rush,” she stammered, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She turned her hand to check the time on her watch and half of the string of lights she’d had draped over her arm slipped off and ended up wrapped around him like some kind of surreal Mardi-Gars beads. “Oh,” she exclaimed, hopping down from the chair and starting to remove the accidental festooning from around his shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I guess I must have lost track of time.”

Rush growled wordlessly at her until she stopped fussing, turned and put down the stack of materials that were now half tangled in Christmas lights, and then tugged those lights from around himself, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor between them.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” he snapped, pointing at the doorway, where the other half of the lights were already hung around the door.

“Would have thought that was obvious,” she answered petulantly, bending down to pick up the tangled string. “It’s almost Winter Break and your office is as barren as Ebeneezer’s parlor.”

“Bah, fucking humbug,” he said dryly. He couldn’t resist.

“No,” she said patiently, “Seriously. Yours is the only office in the entire department without any kind of decorations. You should see Professor Topper’s room - and his seminar space - they’re both so… festive.”

“Bit like the man himself then,” Rush derided, earning himself a stern glare from the young woman standing in front of him, glowing warmly from the lights she had draped around herself as she untangled them. He glared back, but something about that glow surrounding her disarmed most of his ire, and began to awaken another kind of warmth inside of him.

“It’s Christmas,” she insisted.

“It’s December fifth,” he argued, adding as emphatically as he could, “No!”

“Just the lights,” she bargained.

“There’s a stack of papers to grade,” he answered, pointing at the items he’d deposited on the table after she assaulted him with fairy lights.

“And then I can finish putting up the lights?” she offered him an enticing smile and he threw up his hands.

“Fine!” He sighed and started to reach out for the door. “I’ll be in the lecture hall if you need me.”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer in any way before he snatched open the door, went through, and slammed it behind him.

“Bah, humbug,” Belle chuckled as she listened to his footsteps retreating down the hallway. The man was all bluster, and the way he grumped and snapped and snarled, like some kind of abandoned dog, only endeared him to her all the more. She would crack that shell. She just knew there was a kind and gentle man within.

He was just hurt that was all. She knew, of course, who didn’t after all? Everyone in the department spoke in hushed tones about how the man had become even more driven after he lost his wife to cancer, and holidays were always the hardest times of year that way. She knew that too - from personal experience - always missing her mother all the more at Christmas time.

She took a breath, and shook it off. No sense in getting maudlin. She had a stack of papers to grade, and several strings of lights to hang, not to mention the small tree to decorate that was still boxed in the corner, half obscured by the book case, and all before Doctor Rush got back from setting up for the afternoon lecture.

Smiling, she pulled a pen from the cup on Doctor Rush’s desk, and pulled up the chair from beside the door, settling down to read, and grade the undergraduates’ work.

His mind was wandering, and the figures on the whiteboard swam around in front of his eyes. He was distracted and he knew it. With a sigh he capped the pen currently held between his teeth, and retreated to the front row of the desk to concentrate on what was written in the small notebook.

Why should it bother him so much that Miss French wanted to decorate his office? It wasn’t as if he would notice it much anyway; he was rarely there, preferring the space of the lecture hall instead.

He pulled an older notebook from the small stack in his pocket to flick back through years old calculations. He knew the answer he needed was in one of them, somewhere, and he’d be damned if he’d let inappropriate thoughts about his graduate assistant distract him from finding it.

The door was locked, garlanded with lights that softly faded in and out behind him, throwing multiple, color-tinted shadows across the creamy curves revealed by the open cotton of her blouse.

“Fuck!” he hissed, shaking his head to banish the imaginary scene; to refocus on the figures on the pages he turned one after the another, skimming them quickly and taking in mathematical formula after mathematical, theoretical proofs.

“Put up the tree, Nick!”

Written in flowing cursive, in the soft magenta color that Gloria had always used when leaving him notes, the message leaped up at him like the Ghost of Christmas Past. He blinked and ran his fingers over the letters on the page. The message made him chuckle in irony, thought he actually stopped to consider the message - thinking about it for quite some time before he flipped the old notebook closed, put it back into his pocket and scribbled something down on a page in his current one. Then he stood up and left the lecture hall with a determined stride, and almost… almost a spring in his step.

Belle rubbed a hand across her forehead, frowning as she tried to decipher the handwriting on one of the papers. There were only a few students who still submitted by hand, most typed up their assignments and she very much wished they all did. It took three times as long to grade the hand written - and for that you could usually read ‘scrawled’ - papers. Mind you, given that she spent half of her days trying to decipher Doctor Rush’s hand written lecture notes, she couldn’t understand why it was so hard to do the same for student papers.

For a moment she considered dropping this one to the bottom of the stack and getting through more of the typed papers, but she was determined not to be defeated. She was half way through the paper when the office door almost burst open, making her almost jump out of her skin. The only thing that kept her in her seat was Doctor Rush, who suddenly leaned over her, one hand on the back of the chair, the other on the desk beside the paper.

She closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. He didn’t do this often, but when he did it sent her senses reeling in a most inappropriate direction. The deep breath did nothing but fill her with the biting proximal spice, and only exacerbated those feelings that she mostly managed to keep in check.

“Doctor Ru—”

“Leave that one,” he instructed, picking it up by the corner as if it were some kind of insult, and moved it to one side. “I’ll pass it back and tell the little weasel to get it typed.”

“Bu—” she began, turning her head to look at him, and almost had to pull back to prevent brushing the underside of his chin with her lips. She swallowed and pulled her lower lip between her teeth.

“Seven,” he said, his voice all gravel and accent. “I need y’help.”

She began to frown, confused, but then notice that either by some kind of otherworldly physics, or at the very least, slight of hand, he had set a piece of paper from his notebook on top of the stack of as yet ungraded assignments, and as she looked more closely, she saw an address - presumably his - scribbled on the notebook page.

“I’ll… be there,” she told him, and he nodded, beginning to straighten up.

“Dinner’s on me,” he told her, and turned to head for the door, adding, “and ye might wannae finish hanging up these lights, before someone trips and gets hurt.”

“Of course, Doctor Rush.” She couldn’t help but smile, as color crept onto her cheeks.

“One more thing,” he stopped by the door and half turned her way, his hand on the handle. “I think it’s about time - when there’s no one else about mind - that you call me Nick.”

She didn’t have time to answer, other than to blink owlishly, before he was through the door and it swung closed behind him.

Rush three - tree two.

It had taken a while, but finally he sat back on the couch, victorious, the tree upright, level, and ready to be decorated, in pride of place in the corner of the seldom used lounge room. Boxes of lights and decorations stood nearby, and in the kitchen, the Chinese take-out, was keeping warm in the oven.

He shook his head as he felt the flutter of nervousness tickle his insides. He was too old for that kind of shit, he told himself. He was a grown man. He could handle himself. Right?

He looked around, checking that the room looked acceptable for company, not that he was proud, nor did he think he’d fool Miss French - Belle, he reminded himself - in the slightest. She’d seen his office at the university after all, but he wanted this to be different - special - and he purposely ignored the danger in that desire.

He got up then, and moved to light the gas fireplace to take the chill off the room. He just about had time for a shower to freshen up before Belle arrived, and he found himself wondering just what she would be thinking.

He wasn’t one for singing in the shower, as the old cliché went, but for some reason, he found himself humming a little known Scottish Christmas carol, or - he corrected himself quickly - a Winter one at least. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where he’d learned it, nor where he last heard it, but it suddenly came to him with the warmth of the water cascading over his naked form in direct contrast to the cold in his bathroom, and that reminded him that he needed to get the heater there fixed.

So much was wrong with the old house that he wondered at himself; at what on earth had attracted him to the building in the first place. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was more to do with wanting to get out of the old place so quickly that had colored his decision. Over the years though he had come to love the place, even though he barely used anything but the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the downstairs office. There were several other rooms, and the real estate agent assured him it would make a good family home. He snorted at that thought.

“God forbid,” he murmured aloud, and ended up with a mouthful of soapy water for his troubles. He’d usually swear at such a thing, but then, for no reason he could explain, it just made him chuckle.

For good measure, after he finished rinsing his hair, he ran soapy hands over his body once more, his wiry arms, skinny chest, his strong thighs and calves - just about the only ‘workout’ he ever got was racing from one lecture space to another to keep up with his schedule - the firm globes of his ass, similarly toned, before bringing his hands around to the front, to cup, and properly attend to his manhood. For a guy his age, he thought, he wasn’t in too bad of a shape.

He twitched beneath the touch of his hand, and all but dropped himself when he realized he had been wondering what Belle thought of his physique, and that he certainly thought of her as more than ‘handsome,’ as his family would have said, no, Belle was beautiful.

“Behave,” he told himself firmly, also aloud, and decided it was probably a good time to get out, get dry and dressed, and… “Shit!”

He also realized then that he had forgotten the gift he had for Belle; that it sat - still unwrapped - on his kitchen table. He’d meant to wrap it before getting the decorations down from the attic, but had gotten himself sidetracked, and there it remained, in the middle of the table for all to see.

No stranger to drying and dressing himself in ten seconds flat from the days where he was leaning far too much on the booze for sleep, he snapped off the water, stepped out of the shower and vigorously toweled himself dry, before padding naked to the bedroom where he had already laid out the smart, but casual enough clothes - a clean pair of jeans and an almost festive shirt in dark green, like holly.

He didn’t bother with socks or shoes, the rest of the house was warm enough after all, and he usually padded around his home barefoot anyway. That settled, he started down the stairs, and to the kitchen, where the little solar powered reading lamp stood waiting atop the book it was meant to illuminate - an old science fiction novel about man’s first space travel that he’d found in a second hand book store, and thought would make an excellent gift for the inquisitive young woman that was his graduate assistant.

The lamp was packaged in a dome shaped piece of Perspex to better display the innovative science that had made it possible. Charged by either direct or indirect sunlight the battery gathered and stored the power it gleaned from the day, and the small but powerful LED lights, amplified by the mirrored cone around them provided - so the back of the packaging said - ample powerful light that could be angled to suit the needs of the reader. He’d overheard Belle complaining to her friend, Miss Lucas, that her apartment was terribly dreary and it made reading at night before bed very difficult. This, he hoped, would work, and of course he’d tease her and say that he bought it for her so that she could keep up with the grading he expected from her.

A small smile crossed his face as he wrangled with the wrapping paper to try and get the dome adequately and neatly enough covered, and he was doing just fine… fine until the doorbell sounded that was. He rushed the last of the wrapping so he wouldn’t keep Belle waiting, because it could only be Belle, and quickly dropped off the gift in the lounge before heading for the door.

Of course ruby had teased her mercilessly as she tried on outfit after outfit, before she finally decided on a festive - and somewhat short - plaid skirt in red and green, with a softer green sweater.

“Going for seduction, are you?” Ruby teased again, and Belle blushed.

“Is it too much?” She asked, tucking her lower lip between her teeth in worry.

Ruby laughed. “Not enough if you ask me,” she said.

“I did ask you,” Belle gave her a pointed look, “and for the record, I’m not planning on seducing my professor.”

“Sure,” Ruby agreed, dragging out the word in a two tone kind of way. “Belle, I’ve seen the way you get all day-dreamy, and it sure as shit isn’t over Gaston.”

Belle made a sour face at the mention of the jock that had been harassing her since the beginning of the semester.

“Nick said he needs my help, that’s all.”

“Nick?” Ruby teased, with a raised eyebrow.

Belle blushed again fiercely. “Doctor Rush,” she said firmly.

“Belle, give it up!” Ruby laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first to get the hots for a professor, and you sure won’t be the last. Besides, you’re an adult, and a grad student, not even his student, just assigned to him as his assistant. What’s the harm?!”

Ruby began to push Belle toward the door when the sound of a car horn came from outside of their shared, ground floor apartment, draping her coat around her shoulders, and handing her her purse, and the bag containing the wrapped gift she meant to give to Nick, and the bottle of wine, so she wouldn’t turn up empty handed.

“Go… enjoy the man!”

“Ruby!”

“Go.”

As she settled into the back of the cab, Belle considered Ruby’s words. As much as she protested her innocence, her attraction to the irascible Doctor Rush had been growing stronger the more she worked with him. It was getting harder to ignore, or to hide. Perhaps Ruby was right, perhaps she should just throw caution to the four winds and…

“Miss…?”

The cab driver startled her out of her contemplations, and as she looked around, she realized they had already arrived. She quickly drew out the fare, and paid the driver, adding a generous tip, before she got out of the cab, and headed for the door of the modest suburban home in which, it seemed, Rush lived.

She tried not to bounce on her toes as she rang the doorbell and waited. What if he’d changed his mind? What if it had been all some kind of cruel joke on his part and it wasn’t even his house at all? What if…?

The door before her opened to reveal Nick Rush, casually but smartly dressed in a pair of jeans, and and a dark green shirt that was untucked, and open at the top two or three buttons. She drew in a deep breath, and gave him a smile.

Before she could speak, however, he reached forward and drew her inside, saying softly, “Come in. You must be freezing out there.” He closed the door behind her, and she felt herself enveloped in the warmth of the house, and then the soft embrace of his arms as he gave her a brief and somewhat awkward hug of welcome. “I’m glad ye came,” he said as he pulled back.

“Thank you,” she said softly, feeling her face flushing brightly.

“Let me take y’r coat,” he said, and took it from her, taking it to a small closet where he hung it up before returning to her. “Why don’t you come through and warm y’self.” She watched as he gestured to a nearby open doorway. “Can I get ye something to drink?”

She smiled then and broke from becoming lost in the softness of his demeanor, his accent more pronounced in private than at the university. She liked this version of the man all the more, and her belly flipped, sending gentle but insistent tingles up, and down through her body.

“Ah,” she said, remembering the wine. She reached into the bag, and pulled out the bottle. “I didn’t know what we’d be eating, so I brought a rosé. I hope that’s okay?”

He returned her smile, with a twinkle in his eye as he said, “You didn’t need t’do that, but thank you.” Then he added, “Chinese, I hope that’s all right?”

“Perfect,” she assured him.

“I’ll put this in the fridge to chill,” he told her. “Go on through, and make yourself at home.”

He ushered her toward the doorway with a gentle push of his hand in the small of her back, before heading in a different direction, to the kitchen she presumed.

The lounge was warm, neat and tidy - which surprised her, from what she knew of Rush. She could only guess that he didn’t much use this space, and found herself wondering why now? The thought sent another burst of butterflies swirling around in her stomach. Then she spotted the tall Frazier fir in the corner of the the room, and the boxes that stood nearby and chuckled as she understood. He wanted her to help him decorate for Christmas.

The chuckle gave way to a deep feeling of fondness that actually brought gathering moisture to her eyes. She felt honored and accepted that he would ask her to do that.

Rush leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, gathering himself after slipping the bottle of wine into the fridge. He hadn’t expected quite such a visceral reaction as he’d felt when he saw Belle for the first time that evening, her short skirt giving a wonderful view of her lithe legs, and he firmly resolved that he would be the one mounting the short ladder to reach the top of the tree, otherwise the temptation would just be too great.

Then again, he’d felt her shiver as his hand pressed into the small of her back. Could that mean that the feelings were shared? Mutual? He shook his head. He couldn’t let him think that way.

As a distraction, he took the eggnog from the refrigerator, and the delicate frosted glasses that had been specifically bought for the purpose, so many years ago now. He’d washed them earlier. He decided that there was little more festive than decking the halls with a glass of eggnog in your hand, holiday music playing - and he already had that prepared - and… He tried to stop himself, but the thought came anyway.

Someone special to share it with.

He took a breath, poured a splash of dark rum and cognac into the bottom of each glass, and filled each the rest of the way with eggnog, stirring them gently to incorporate the liquids, before picking them up, and heading back to the lounge.

He stopped dead, and swallowed hard. Belle was bent over one of the boxes of decorations, the back of her thighs visible far more than was appropriate. Gentleman that he was - or rather, could be, - Rush backed up a few steps, and before he started forward to reenter the room, said cheerfully, “I thought we could have some eggnog to start the evening.”

Thankfully, the tactic worked, and Belle had straightened up and turned to face him as he entered the room a second time. Even so, the memory tightened his jeans just that little bit. He smiled as he handed her the glass.

“Tell me if it’s too strong,” he said, watching as she took a careful sip.

“No,” she said with a smile, “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

He waved away her thanks and then gestured toward the boxes. “I figure y’ve guessed what I need you to help me with.” Then he gestured to the tree. “I’m hopeless with stuff like that. It was always Gloria’s job.”

He blinked then, getting the deepest sense, as he spoke her name then, and without a stab of grief or guilt at having another woman in his home to help with the task, that this whole evening, that making him face his feelings for the young woman before him, was somehow Gloria’s doing. It had been her note, after all, that had led him to ask Belle to come and help. Ordinarily he would dismiss such a ridiculous notion, but something stopped him, and for once, he decided not to fight it.

“I’m delighted,” Belle said, and reached out to squeeze his arm. He felt the heat of her touch keenly. “I love this kind of thing.”

“Aye, I guessed when I caught you decorating my office.” His words were spoken with a light chuckle in them to let her know he wasn’t serious.

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she quipped, and he laughed, and raised his glass to her in a silent toast of agreement. “You’ve enough lights, I take it,” she said, moving to the second box and beginning to open it. “That’s a pretty big tree.”

She set her glass down on the nearby sideboard before rummaging in the box full of boxes of decorations and other Christmas fixtures. Rush forced himself to move beside her, and focus on also searching in the boxes for the many strings of lights he knew he had. Soon enough, he and Belle had them lined up, and ready to decide which sets to use. He had white, and gold, and a soft rose color, enough of each to fill the tree with light.

“Which do you think?” Belle asked, turning to face him.

“Um…” he hedged, truly at a loss, but also lost in wanting her to make the choice, wanting her to be the one to bring the grace of the holiday to his home. “Why don’t you choose. I’d like that,” he said honestly.

Belle let her eyes meet his for a moment, taking in the truth in the words, and not daring to hope she truly saw the feeling behind the words. Then she nodded, and took a brief look around to room to decide which would best compliment the décor.

“The rose and the gold, I think,” she mused, and then nodded to herself. “Yes. Rose and Gold.”

Rush nodded, and began to move the white lights aside to make space around the tree so that they could hang the lights, spiraling round the tree, weaving around each other until there was a net of beautiful lights illuminating the dark green of the fir.

Belle took a step back to admire their handiwork and collided with Rush, who had done exactly the same thing. Rather step away though, he draped his arms around her shoulders, just in companionship, she knew, but still, the contact stirred her growing need to be closer to him.

“Looks good,” she managed.

“Aye, it does,” he agreed, and she heard the slight roughness in his voice. A moment later he swallowed, and then did move away, and she watched for a moment as he began to pull out packages of baubles from the two boxes, before turning from his crouch to ask her, “Angel or Star?” and nodding toward the top of the tree.

“Star,” she said, without hesitation.

From the box, he lifted out a beautiful, delicate star, woven into a snowflake, that she could see would plug in to the lights at the top of the tree. It was perfect. It felt as though it were meant. She moved to take it from him and without giving a moment’s thought to her attire, climbed up the four step ladder, and began to secure the star to the top of the tree, having to stand on tiptoes, even atop the ladder, to reach and fix the thing in place.

Before she could truly overbalance, she felt the warm strength of Rush’s hands, one on her belly, the other holding her hip, as he stood beside her to steady her. The touch, though practical, was the most intimate yet, and she felt a pulse between her legs. She drew her lip between her teeth once more to stifle the soft moan that was gathering in her throat. How she wanted more.

“Should have let me do that,” he said softly, though with no reprimand, only concern. The breath of his words tickled her thigh, doing little to curb the feelings of need within her. She started down the ladder once the star was lit and yelped, just a little, as he suddenly lifted her down the short distance to the floor. She grasped his shoulders, and knew he wouldn’t let go until she caught her balance. It would have been so easy to give in, to tug him closer and devour his mouth in a deep kiss.

Instead, she took a breath, swallowed, and thanked him softly before turning to examine the treasures laid before her to hang upon the tree. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. God knows she did, but the feelings, though compelling, were also delicious in their denial.

Rush caught the moan that left his chests in the tightness of his throat as Belle moved away, then moved to take a sip of his eggnog, which he had set down on the coffee table, and discreetly adjust himself within his jeans, as uncomfortable as his growing desire had made him.

When he turned back to Belle, she was she was sorting the ornaments into piles, before setting one stack back into one of the now empty boxes, and on the ground, laid out by color and length, were strings of garland for them to tuck into the branches of the tree.

“Are you always this organized, Miss French,” he teased.

“Only when my project partner is so disorganized, Doctor Rush.” She gave as good as she got, and that made him chuckle. He got a string of silvery white garland thrown, snowball like, in his face for his trouble.

He laughed, genuinely then, and taking the hint, he moved to the tree and began to festoon it with garland, taking guidance from Belle, warmed by the companionship they shared, and the occasional, accidental brushes of hands. Lit and garlanded, Rush had to admit, the tree, and the room around it, were beginning to look, and feel warmer and more festive.

“Now for the fun part,” Belle said, almost bouncing in place with the excitement he’d felt gathering in her the more the tree became decorated.

“What, and this wasn’t fun so far,” he raised an eyebrow, drawing a soft giggle from her.

“Here,” she answered, thrusting a box of baubles into his hands, “See if you can use those mathematical formulas of yours to space them out around the tree.”

She was teasing, he knew, but his answer was serious. “Oh no. No math tonight. I’m leaving work at work.” The words held such a double meaning that he had to take a deep breath against his body responding to his own admonition.

She gave him a warm, gentle smile and answered, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Each box of baubles placed brought them closer, as if their connectedness, was tied in to the completion of the tree, and with the final decoration hung, they stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, feeling more than a little breathless at the near perfection of the tree.

“It is,” she agreed. “Thank you for letting me—”

“You’re beautiful,” he interrupted, while he still had the courage to speak the words.

“Nick…?” she answered, half exclamation, half question, and he gave the only answer he could.

Turning to her, he cupped her face in gentle hands, and leaned down to capture the sweetness of her lips with his, deepening the kiss when he felt her relaxing against him, as he felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, and her fingers find their way into his hair. He tugged her closer, releasing her face to wind his arms around her and draw her body against his, uncaring that she would feel him, hard against her belly. He wanted her to know how much he wanted her; how much he wanted to give her. She moaned into the kiss, and his spirit soared as he understood that she shared his desires.

She moved, almost catlike, loving the feel of his hardness pressing against her. The thought made her moan into the kiss once more, and as if the sound of her pleasure spoke her permission, he tugged her closer still, his hand slipping down to cup the firm globe of her behind as he shifted her to feel him still more.

Breathless, she broke the kiss and turned her head just enough to give a needful, whispered plea into his ear.

“Nick, please!”

His arms around her tightened, and he lifted her fully against him. As he moved the two of them, she found his neck with her mouth, and began kissing, nipping, teasing at the exposed flesh until he moaned, and almost dropped her. Instead she felt herself set down; released, but before she could reach for him again, he spun her around, pinning her hands beneath his atop the mantle, the heat of him behind her outweighed the heat of the simulated flames in the fire. His knee slipped between her thighs as he tugged her back against him; before his hand dipped lower to the hem of her short skirt, and climbed again beneath.

Belle let out a sound half way between a moan and a whimper, the heat of his hand eclipsed by the hot, moist need between her thighs, yet somehow she felt his near touch like a fire that could soothe the ache that pulsed within her folds.

“Yes,” she gasped against his mouth as she turned her head to meet his lips that were questing over her cheek, her jaw… the side of her neck.

“…touch you…?” She barely heard the words, but repeated her breathy affirmations of desire, then let out a soft cry as his fingertips slipped beneath the lace of her panties, parted her folds, and teased at her swollen clit.

“Fuck…” he moaned against her neck, his fingers still gliding circles in her wetness, and where he pressed hard against her back, she felt the pulse of need that she strengthened in him as his cock twitched within the confines of his clothes.

“Can’t reach you,” she gasped, her legs beginning to feel like Jello beneath her.

“I know,” he growled against her shoulder, before nipping at her through the wool of her sweater, his fingers tightening around hers where he held them against the mantelpiece.

“Nick,” she pleaded, “I want…”

She bit her lip to try and slow the rising tide of her arousal, but his fingers were too clever, too knowing…

She lost all sense of thought and became pure emotion, pure feeling as he turned his hand and pushed a long finger deep inside of her, his thumb still working her clit, and she shattered, her muscles dancing around the touch inside of her.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, nipping at the back of her neck like a tomcat, but finally released her hands from atop the mantle. She covered his fingers, slick and soaked with her juices, with her own, and eased his still teasing hand away from her so that she could turn to face him, draw him down to meet her hot and still hungry kiss, while her shaking hands fumbled with the belt, and the button of his jeans.

She frowned as he chuckled, but he just shook his head, and wrapped her in his arms again. He eased her down with him onto the soft rug in front of the fireplace.

As romantic as it was, the moment gave way to passion and became a flurry of hands and touches, and clothing falling around them as they surrendered to their shared needs. She pushed at his shoulder until he took the hint and rolled so that she was over him. She straddled him, murmuring deeply at the feel of his masculine strength trapped against her wet folds as she teased him with her body, until he moaned, whispering her name.

As much as she wanted to tease him even more, make him wait until he begged for her to take him inside of her, she wanted to feel that glorious, risen length filling her; wanted to ride him until he was spent beneath her.

Her own thoughts made her needful sigh bubble up through her; tremble with the need of acting on her desires, and she rose again over him, clasped his scalding cock in her hand for but a moment to guide the wide head between her folds, against her, before sinking down slowly to take the whole of him deep and true.

Their shared soft cry resonated between then, within them both and she began to move, rocking over him, her fingers teasing his risen nipples, his hands guiding her hips, supporting her as she then leaned against his shoulders, her movements increasing, a soft gasp escaping her with each thrust he gave to meet her movement.

“Belle,” he groaned, and she could feel the tightness of his balls against her as she descended again to take him fully inside of her. “I can’t…”

“Let go,” she whispered, shaking with the gathering of her own release, and she leaned down to capture his mouth, to taste him as he met the kiss hungrily, their tongues mirroring the movements of their bodies below, until with a growl he broke the kiss, and she felt the heat of him flood within her in the moment before she broke apart, milking him dry, only to fall against him as spent as he was beneath her.

She felt him brush her hair back from her face, and then wind his arms around her securely, holding her close as she tipped her head to look up at him. Then melted as he kissed her softly, before she gave in to the afterglow of their passion, languid and pillowed against him.

The couch cushions leaned against the heavy wooden coffee table made a wonderful support for the two of them as they rested in front of the fireplace. Sated and replete, at least for the moment. Rush held Belle against him, wrapped only in his shirt - which, he noted, suited her better than it did him - and a soft blanket.

The empty plates and wine glasses, still half full, stood on the stone hearth, as they both stared deeply into the flames, and Rush wondered, not for the first time, if he should have someone remove the gas fireplace and truly open up the chimney. He turned his head to look at Belle as she sighed softly.

“Penny for them,” he said softly.

“I have something for you,” she told him, and scrambled, not quite on all fours, but affording him a delicious glimpse of her creamy behind, to where she had left her bag, returning with a beautifully wrapped gift, which she held out in his direction.

“That’s a coincidence,” he teased, moving with a little more decorum, as little as he wore, to where he had left the gift he had for her, returning to hold it out to her. “I have something for you too.”

She smiled, and then her smile became a giggle, and then a laugh.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Oh, Nick,” she said between peels of laughter. “Someone really needs to teach you to Christmas.”

“What’s wrong with the way I ‘Christmas’?” he mock protested, and grinned as she gestured to the gift he held her way, knowing what she was about to say even before she said it, and fighting to stifle his own laughter.

“That's,” she pointed at the present, “the worst wrapping ever.”

#rushbelle #university #holidays #decorations #fluff #smut #gift giving #Rumbelle Secret Santa #serenalyon

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