Espressheauxs - Say You Can’t Sleep

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 2] l Harry Castillo

Summary: you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst, friends to lovers (maybe?), some wine, almost kiss, mentioning ex-boyfriend, Reader feels insecure

A/N: I'm giving you this chapter. Be gentle with me, please. I don't have much to say, except that I'd like to thank every single person who left a sign under the first chapter. I was afraid to write this, but with you it's somehow easier. Thank you,

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

"Harry asked about you." Susan leaned out from behind the monitor and looked at you over her glasses. "You're fifteen minutes late."

"I know!" you groaned, throwing your bag on the desk. "The whole street was jammed. I was texting him."

"I know, he told me. But he asked anyway." she smiled, reaching for the cup of coffee you brought her. "Thank you, honey. You know, that guy would die without you. Me too."

“He'll be fine. He's Harry Castillo, he'll always be fine.” You replied, trying to calm your breathing and smoothing your skirt with your hand. “How do I look?”

“Like you ran three blocks to get here.”

“I did!” you laughed, glancing toward the glass doors leading to Harry’s office. “Okay, wish us luck.”

You entered Mr. Castillo's large office and immediately noticed him talking on the phone, leaning against one of the windows. He nodded to you in greeting without interrupting the conversation, then pointed to the folder lying on his desk. You quickly put it in your bag.

“I could send a car for you,” he said, pocketing his phone, frowning. “Did you run here?”

“A lot of people run in the morning. Are we ready? Mr. McCullen should be in his office in an hour.”

Harry took his jacket off the chair and put it on. You quickly walked over to him and straightened his tie. "I'm ready now."

The offer had landed on Castillo's desk out of the blue, but it was so good it piqued his interest. Mr. McCullen's company was about to be sold, and Harry was considering buying it. You didn't have much time to prepare, since your sources told you there were a lot of companies interested.

However, everything was going to go your way that day. You had arrived at the company building early, so you quickly mumbled, "I have to go to the bathroom," and disappeared down one of the hallways leading from the conference room.

You were already washing your hands when you heard a quiet sob in one of the toilets. You anxiously wiped your hands on a paper towel and cleared your throat. "Excuse me? Is everything okay?"

The sobbing came from the last stall, where you noticed a pair of shapely legs in red heels. "Ummm... Do you need anything? A tampon or a tissue?"

The stall door opened and a young girl with swollen eyes stepped out. She sniffled and blew her nose into the toilet paper she was holding. “You can’t help me…” she said in a hoarse voice. “Until you find me a new job.”

"Oh! You know... You shouldn't worry so much about work, it's just..." you started, but the girl rolled her eyes. You clearly didn't understand her at all.

“I should care, because I’m about to lose my job!” she groaned. “I’m only working for this company until the boss closes this stupid deal, and then he’s moving to Los Angeles. That idiot got himself into so much debt…” she shook her head. A cold chill ran down your arms.

"What are you talking about?" you asked. "Not Mr. McCullen, right?"

She leaned against the counter and wiped her red nose, then crossed her arms over her chest. “His company is a bottomless pit. He’s desperate to sell it, and the guy buying it is a fucking idiot. He doesn’t even know what he’s signing up for.”

It was your second run of the day, your footsteps echoing through the empty hallway as you made your way to the conference room, but then your heart stopped. Harry was already sitting inside with two other men.

Everyone was chatting happily, or so it seemed to you, because the men were sitting with their backs to you, and all you could see was your boss's face.

"You can't go in there now." the female voice rang out as you grabbed the door handle.

“I’m Mr. Castillo’s assistant,” you said firmly, but the woman sitting behind the desk just tilted her head, unimpressed, looking you up and down appraisingly.

"I don't care. I said you can't go in there."

You huffed angrily and reached into your bag. You clenched your hand around your phone and a moment later you were dialing Harry's number. He must have felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket because he looked up and saw you behind the glass wall. He shook his head slightly.

“Shit!” you hissed. You had to think of something. You pulled out your folder and grabbed the first sheet of paper, then pulled out a pen.

Harry's brown eyes widened when he saw the piece of paper in your hands that said "BULLSHIT! DEBTS!"

one year earlier

You glanced around the hallway and took a deep breath, clutching your briefcase like it was a lifeline. The pretty brunette sitting across from you smiled, but you were so nervous you could barely lift the corners of your mouth.

How were you supposed to compete with them? Each of the five women waiting with you outside the glass doors to Mr. Castillo's office was simply beautiful and certainly had excellent references. And you? Your inner critic certainly had her hands full.

An hour passed, a very long hour. You were alone now, and the woman sitting behind the monitor glanced at you from time to time.

"He won't eat you alive, sweetie." she finally said.

"Huh?" you looked up, looking at her with fear. "You think so?"

"I've been working for him for a few years now. Just be yourself, girl."

You looked down at your nervously twisted fingers. It wasn't good advice.

Finally the girl came out of the office and you were invited in. The office was spacious and brightly lit by the rays of the setting sun. Behind the solid desk you saw a man, he was already over forty years old, broad shoulders, a prominent nose and a charming smile. He looked up from the paper and you saw beautiful brown eyes.

Your name flowed from his lips. "Please take a seat, it won't take long."

You sat on the edge of the chair feeling like your soul had already left your body. Mr. Castillo was looking at what must have been your job application.

"You don't have much experience." he said, there was no disapproval in it, more curiosity. "Why did you decide to apply?"

You barely recognized your voice when you spoke. "Can I be honest?"

Mr. Castillo made a gesture with his hand as if he was encouraging you to do so.

"I need a job. I know I don't have much experience as an assistant, not as much as previous candidates, I'm sure, but it's either that or going back to customer service."

"Mhm." he mumbled, rubbing his chin with his finger.

“Mr. Castillo.” Brown eyes focused on you again. “You’re looking for an assistant. I spent over an hour outside your office and saw other candidates. They’re beautiful women with references, and I understand that I can’t compete with them, but… I’m hardworking, loyal, and a quick learner. If you give me a chance, I assure you that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re not disappointed.”

“I like your energy,” Castillo murmured, leaning back in his leather chair.

“Yeah? It’s more like desperation.”

He chuckled, and you finally smiled back. You stared at each other for a few seconds until Castillo finally closed the folder in front of him and reached for his phone, signaling that the conversation was over.

"Thank you for giving me your time." he said politely. "We'll call you back."

You nodded, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you and goodbye,” before quickly leaving the office, your legs feeling like jelly. The walk to the elevator wasn’t memorable, nor was the entire ride down.

You knew you had fucked up this interview. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you wanted to wait until you were outside the building to cry. As you stood on the sidewalk, you took a deep breath and a sob tore itself from your throat. You felt pathetic, small, and weak. What were you even thinking, coming here, standing in front of this office? Fuck. You idiot.

The phone in your pocket vibrated and you rolled your eyes reaching for it, you couldn't even cry in peace anymore.

"Yes?" you said, not caring how you sounded.

“Hello, this is Harry Castillo. We spoke a few minutes ago.” A pleasant male voice spoke on the other end, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Would you be interested in starting work on Monday?”

“Mrs. Diane Kruger-Waltz will be here next week. She would like to meet with you.”

Harry handed you a glass of wine and sat down on the couch next to you with a quiet sigh. “Okay, let me know when she’s available. We’ll work it out.”

You took a sip and set the glass down on the small coffee table, then quickly typed something on your computer. It was a pleasant, albeit rainy evening. After returning from Mr. McCullen's, Harry met with his accountants, who confirmed the information you had received in the ladies' room.

You both breathed a sigh of relief, this deal would cost the company millions and you didn't even want to think about what the consequences would be.

To celebrate this small success, if you could call it that, Castillo made a call to one of the best restaurants and ordered a takeaway. They didn't do that, but they made an exception for their regular customer. And then both of you, avoiding the slowly intensifying rain, hid on the couch in his spacious living room.

"Done." You announced, closing your laptop and putting it aside. "You should get your suit from the cleaners tomorrow morning. The sponsors' party starts at six in the afternoon, so you should be able to make it."

"I'll pick you up twenty minutes early, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be ready."

You sighed quietly and rubbed your forehead with your hand. It had been a long and hectic day. No wonder Harry had changed into sweatpants in search of comfort in his own apartment. Your clothes suddenly seemed extremely uncomfortable to you.

"What's going on?" he asked, feeling and seeing you shift nervously.

"Nothing. It's just... I'm tired, you know, every seam in my clothes irritates me." You mumbled.

"I already told you to keep something more comfortable at my place." you rolled your eyes and Harry chuckled "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not keeping my clothes in the boss's apartment." you replied, taking a sip of cold wine "That's unprofessional."

"Now this," he pointed at himself and you sitting on his couch, "that's professional, right?"

"Oh, never mind." you snorted but couldn't hide your smile and after a moment Harry also chuckled.

He liked spending time with you. There was something about it that made him feel free, like he could take off his tie and just be himself. Yes, he was a mature man, he knew his worth, but with you, a lot of things just seemed easier. Like he didn't have to pretend to follow rules and regulations. He didn't have that with other employees, only with you.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You already did." you replied, and seeing his face you lightly nudged him in the shoulder "Sure, ask."

"What was between you and Daniel? Of course, if you don't want to, you don't have to answer, but I was wondering... You seemed really upset after you met him."

You were silent for a moment and Harry thought that he might have crossed some line. Maybe the question was too intimate, too personal. But finally he heard your voice.

"We met through mutual friends. He started as a lawyer, quickly climbing the career ladder. I did my own thing, you know, but I wasn't as flashy as he was. We were together for two years, I think..." you closed your eyes, wrinkling your nose slightly as if you wanted to remember something, Harry was silent, watching you

"I was really in love. I supported him in everything he did, I practiced what he was supposed to say with him, ironed his shirts and stuff like that. I totally gave myself to him... At one of the parties he met Beth. I wasn't there because I had to be at work, the boss wouldn't let me off. Beth is different from me, better than me, you saw it yourself."

You smiled, looking at Harry, but the corners of his mouth barely twitched. He was staring at you attentively, listening carefully to every word. You lowered your gaze.

"Daniel started dating her. He didn't even tell Beth he was in a relationship... I found out by accident. It was like a slap in the face. We started arguing and he blamed everything on me... I believed him. I believed every word he said. I was in a bad place at the time."

You fell silent again for a moment, those memories must still be hurting you. A little hesitantly, but Harry reached out and squeezed your forearm in a supportive gesture. You smiled slightly.

"Huh! We broke up, of course. Daniel got together with Beth, officially. She was and still is a beautiful woman by his side, now carrying their child. It took me longer to get myself together and now I'm here. I'm drinking wine with my boss and telling him the pathetic story of my relationship."

You wanted to laugh, but just like that time at the wedding, the laughter died in your throat. Harry leaned slightly towards you, his voice calm and soothing.

"Daniel told you that you were a lot to handle?"

You nodded and quickly put your hand to your cheek, trying to wipe away a tear unnoticed.

"I'm sorry." Harry said quickly, placing a hand on your shoulder and caressing you "I didn't mean to..."

"No, it's okay!" you replied quickly, although your voice trembled "I'm telling it for the first time in so long, huh, I thought I was over it. But it hurt a little when I saw him, with her, so happy."

"Yeah, I understand that."

You finally looked at him, smiling even though your eyes were slightly red from the tears that had gathered in them. Your hand found his, squeezing it lightly.

"It's okay, really. Don't worry. I'm even glad you asked. I haven't talked about it with anyone. It's good to get it off my chest."

"I still feel guilty." Harry mumbled.

"Unnecessarily, really." You drank the wine to the end and put the glass on the table. "It's a bit embarrassing, sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for anything. To be fair, Daniel should apologize to you. He shouldn't have done that, he should have been honest with you from the beginning."

You waved your hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter anymore, Harry. I'm in a different place now. I have a cool job, my boss is okay too. I manage somehow."

You both laughed quietly until silence reigned again. And then Harry decided to say what had been on his mind for some time. Maybe it wasn't the right time, but when would there ever be one? He was still holding your hand, you were sitting so close, and he felt like he had to get it out.

"You're not a lot to handle." You looked up at him, surprised. "To tell you the truth, I think it was my lucky day when you showed up in my office for the first time. Remember?"

"This is embarrassing too, Harry. Let's not go back to this." You said, the corners of your mouth twitching even though your eyes were still scared. You waited to hear what he was getting at and you felt fear welling up inside you.

"It wasn't your fault. And you're not a lot to handle. Don't even believe it. You're worth so much more..."

You stared at him as if enchanted. Harry had such wonderful eyes, you noticed it from the first day, and since then you reminded yourself of it every now and then. And in that moment you saw almost everything in them - care, sincerity, sympathy.

"Don't say that, or I'll fall in love with you." You joked, but he didn't laugh.

"Would that be so bad?"

Something tightened your throat when you saw him leaning closer to you. He was too close, your lips inches apart, his scent filling your nostrils. "I have to go." You blurted out quickly and jumped up, freeing your hand from his.

"I..." Harry began uncertainly, but you had already grabbed your laptop and quickly shoved it into your bag "Listen, I didn't want to..."

"It's totally okay!" you said a little too quickly and too nervously, throwing your bag over your shoulder and slipping your shoes on "I really have to go now."

Harry wanted to say something else, but his head was completely empty. So he just watched as you gathered your things, threw a quick "See you!" and headed for the exit, closing the door quietly behind you.

Harry fell onto the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands, letting out a quiet groan.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

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espressheauxs

3 weeks ago

SHES LADY D AS IN LADY DANGER!!!!!!!! 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

She Wants To Move

summary : You weren’t supposed to be at the bar. He wasn’t supposed to notice. But then the bass hit, your dress stuck, and Jack Abbot—forty-something, dog-tagged, black zip-up and ruin in his eyes—started watching you like you were the emergency. One look turns into a dance, a kiss, a cab ride, and a night tangled in heat and restraint. You make him work for it. He’s used to control. But tonight, you’ve got the upper hand—and Jack? Jack’s not sure if he wants to fight it or beg for more.

word count : 5,413

content/warnings : explicit language, intense sexual tension, one extremely hot dance floor encounter, graphic descriptions of oral sex and penetrative sex (couch setting), dominance/submission power play (light), delayed gratification, consent emphasized, Jack Abbot being deeply feral, mutual teasing, grinding, age gap (reader late 20s/Jack late 40s), dirty dancing, emotionally charged eye contact, and one (1) couch that will never recover.

a/n : You need to listen to “She Wants to Move” by N.E.R.D first. I’m serious. It’s hot, throbbing, unapologetic tension—the kind that takes its time before it lets you break. And, it will let the fic come to life.

It starts with bass. Thick, hot, slithering through the air like smoke.

The kind of bass that doesn’t ask permission. It grabs you by the hips and pulls you under. The kind of beat that doesn’t just live in your ears—it makes a home in your bloodstream.

The bar’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Dim lighting spills gold and crimson across bare collarbones, button-downs, and sweat-slicked hair. There’s condensation sliding down every glass, heat rising off every inch of the dancefloor, and the scent in the air is some dangerous cocktail of perfume, cologne, and late-night decisions waiting to happen.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not because you’re too good for it—though that’s what you said earlier, in the Uber, arms crossed, jaw set, swearing you were gonna stay thirty minutes max. But because this isn’t your usual Friday. You’ve had the week from hell—coworkers breathing down your neck, your manager “circling back” on every email like a threat, and your ex having the audacity to like your story with the outfit he once said made you look “too much.” Your friends said you needed to blow off some steam.

But you didn’t come here to be watched.

You came to move.

You’re in a backless dress that makes no promises and keeps none. Black, tight, cinched just right. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs when you walk, and clings higher when you dance. Lashes curled to hell, nails done in a color you picked just because it made you feel expensive. You’re not trying to impress anyone—but God, you look like sin.

You’re three drinks in. Gin and lime, no tonic. Lips slick, eyes glossed with a buzz that feels better than clarity. Your best friend is already halfway to hooking up with a guy she said looked like a 'knock-off Timothée Chalamet,’ and you’ve been fending off some finance bro with gelled hair and a chin sharper than his personality.

You keep brushing him off. But he won’t take the hint. He’s standing behind you now, one hand hovering just close enough to make your skin crawl. Not touching. But too close. Like he thinks he owns the space you’re in.

And that’s when he sees you.

Across the bar, tucked near the exit like he’s been trying to leave for twenty minutes but hasn’t moved an inch, there’s a man watching you.

Not watching you like the others are.

Watching like he knows something.

He’s older—late forties, maybe, early fifties if the light hits his jaw right—but it doesn’t age him. It makes him dangerous. A little wrecked, a little unshaven, in a way that says he’s not here for games. Broad shoulders beneath a black zip-up, dog tags under his collar that flash when he turns. His hair’s short, face a little sharp, there’s a tiredness around his eyes that doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look lived in. Like he’s been through it and came out the other side still standing.

There’s a drink in his hand he hasn’t touched in ten minutes.

And he’s looking at you like you’ve been looking for a way out.

Not out of the bar.

Out of him—the guy still trying to press his chest to your back. The one talking too close. The one whose hand you moved for the third time.

And Jack?

Jack sees everything.

He sees the flash in your eyes that says you’re about to lose your patience. The way your spine straightens. The quick flick of your wrist when you knock the straw against the side of your glass. He sees the way you dance for yourself—not anyone else—and he sees how your mouth curls when the beat drops, like it’s the only thing tonight that actually touched you right.

He doesn’t smile.

He doesn’t wave.

But he straightens. Watches the way your gaze lifts—like you can feel his attention even from across the bar. And when your eyes finally meet his?

You feel it in your chest like a drop. Like gravity shifting.

You tilt your head. Curious.

He raises one brow. Just barely. An invitation.

And that’s when it hits you:

You want to be seen.

The man behind you leans in again, murmuring something in your ear, too loud and too close. You don’t even listen. You’re already turning, sliding past him with a practiced smile that means nothing.

You walk toward the bar. Your heels bite into the floor with every step, but you don’t flinch. You don’t swerve. Don’t smile too soon. Don’t hurry. You walk like you know what you’re doing. Like you’ve already decided how this ends.

Jack watches you the whole way, one hand still curled around his empty glass, the other flat on the bar like he needs to anchor himself to keep from leaning into you too fast. Because there’s something about the way you move—undeniably hot, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s unbothered. It’s deliberate. It’s yours.

There’s a gap at the bar between him and the next guy down, and you step into it like it’s been there waiting for you.

You don’t look at him right away. You flag the bartender first, ask for another gin and lime with your voice a little hoarse from the music, and only when she nods and turns away do you glance sideways.

He’s still watching.

You raise a brow. “You gonna keep staring or say something?”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wasn’t expecting you to throw the first punch.

“I was trying to decide if you wanted to be interrupted.”

“You decided yes?”

“I decided the guy behind you wasn’t getting the job done.”

You huff a laugh—sharp and surprised. “What gave it away?”

“The way your shoulder tensed when he leaned in. That, and you haven’t smiled much in his direction all night.”

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s heat behind his eyes. “Not all night. Just since you started dancing like the beat owed you something.”

Your drink arrives. You wrap your fingers around the glass, wet with condensation, and raise it to your lips.

“You always this smooth?” you ask, chin tipped toward him now, that spark in your eyes daring him to keep going.

Jack leans in—just slightly, just enough to let the scent of him hit: clean soap, bourbon, faint antiseptic. Something warm and late-night and not meant to be shared.

“Only when it matters,” he says.

You arch a brow, smile tugging at your mouth like a secret. “And this matters?”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Yeah. Think it does.”

You look at him closer now. The stubble at his jaw. The faint scar above his eyebrow. His body language says he’s not on the clock. Not unless it’s for you.

“Rough day at work?” you ask, voice lower now.

Jack nods. “Twelve hours. Four codes. One too young to call it.”

You blink. Not because you’re startled—but because it tells you something.

“You work in a hospital?”

“Emergency department.”

“You a nurse?”

He quirks a brow. “Would that be a problem?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not even a little.”

He leans in just enough to make your pulse skip. “I’m an attending.”

You raise your glass, lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

He lets the silence stretch. You both sip. The bass is still throbbing, the beat is dirty, sweaty. You let your body move to it, just slightly, hips shifting, lips parted, half-aware of the way his gaze lingers.

“Do you dance?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

You don’t answer with words. You slide one hand lightly across the bar—your knuckles brushing his—and lean in close enough that he can hear you over.

“I’m asking.”

He studies you like a problem he’s already half-solved. Then finishes what’s left in his glass, sets it down with a clink, and says—

“You gonna let me touch you, or are we just flirting for sport?”

Your smile sharpens.

“Try me.”

You don’t ask if he’s coming.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking like you’ve got the devil on a leash and a drink to finish.

You’re halfway to the floor when it happens.

The music dies. A weird second of static. People looking up, confused. And then—

Shake it up Shake it up, girl Shake it—

The opening hits like a slap.

And you smile.

God, this song. You haven’t heard it in years, but it drops into your bloodstream like it belongs there. It’s not a cute track. It’s filthy. Brazen. Throbbing in all the right places. The kind of beat that doesn’t ask you to dance—it drags you into the center and makes you beg for more. Everything thumps. The floor vibrates like a live wire. The crowd shifts to make space for you—not because they’re being polite, but because they feel it. That something’s happening.

You’re not the drunkest girl here.

You’re not the loudest, or the flashiest.

But you’re moving like you know the beat personally. Like it owes you money. Like it’s trying to make you forget someone and failing spectacularly.

She makes me think of lightning in skies (Her name) she’s sexy! How else is God supposed to write

The beat licks your skin like oil on asphalt.

You don’t dance for anyone. Not usually.

But tonight?

Tonight you dance like the floor owes you rent. Hips slow and sharp. Legs steady, knowing full well the hem of your dress is flirting with godlessness. Your arms move lazy, loose, intentional—one above your head, the other trailing a line across your own stomach, like you want to touch you too.

You know he’s behind you before he touches you.

He stands behind you. Close. Just shy of touching. And then, slowly—carefully—his hand finds your hip. It’s not sleazy. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional. He holds you like he’s getting a read on your pulse. Like he wants to know where to put the pressure.

You tip your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Jack,” he says, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “Before you ask.”

You smile. A sharp curve of lip and teeth. “You always this polite when you’re groping strangers?”

He huffs a laugh against your cheek. “If I was groping you, you’d know.”

“Oh? And what’s this, then?” You grind against him once, slow, letting your dress ride up a little.

“Me,” he says, dry as hell, “restraining myself.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and his grip tightens slightly, like the sound caught him off guard. You feel the front of him line up with the back of you. Not gross. Not aggressive. Just deliberate.

“You always dance like this?” he asks.

“Only when I like the song.”

Move, she wants to move But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her She wants to move

His hands twitch. Your ass brushes the front of his jeans, and it’s not subtle. He leans in behind you, mouth near your cheek, voice a low rasp against your skin. “You gonna tell me your name, or am I supposed to keep calling you trouble?”

You don’t answer right away. Just keep moving, slow and taunting, grinding back against him until you feel his breath catch.

Then—calm, smooth—you turn your head over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you say it:

“Astrid.”

Jack stills.

Then, voice low and certain: “No, it’s not.”

You glance back at him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looks amused. “No offense, but that’s a girl who studied abroad, wears linen, says ‘divine’ unironically.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what am I?”

Jack smirks, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows the punchline. “You’re the girl who walked onto the dance floor like she was dragging hell behind her. I don’t know your name yet, but it’s not Astrid.”

You laugh—low, dangerous, curling in your throat.

Then, slow and deliberate, you turn to face him. Your body brushes against his as you do—chest to chest now, sweat-slick skin catching under the low lights. Your fingers trail up the front of his shirt, just enough to remind him who’s been leading.

And you tell him.

Your real name.

No smirk. No shield. Just heat and honesty, dropped between you like a match.

Jack says nothing. Not at first. He just stares at you like you’ve cracked something open in him—and now he can’t look away.

Then:

“There she is.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. “Was she hiding?”

“No,” he says. “Just waiting for the music to be right.”

Mister! Look at your girl, she loves it I can see it in her eyes She hopes this lasts forever

You feel something break. Something good. Something electric.

“Atta girl,” Jack says under his breath.

And you burn. The way he looks at you? Like you’re a fucking sermon in stilettos? It’s worse.

It’s better.

The kiss lands like a blackout.

It doesn’t ask. Doesn’t flirt. It takes.

You feel it in the backs of your knees. In your fingertips. In the hard thump of your heart against his chest. Jack kisses like a man who doesn’t beg for shit—but knows how to ask with his mouth. And when you break—flushed, panting, lip-gloss ruined—you don’t step back.

You grip his zip-up.

Because you want to see what he does next.

He’s breathing heavy. Not winded, just—changed. Like something in him just got rewritten and he’s trying to pretend it didn’t shake him.

Your lips are still hovering near his. You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

He stares.

Eyes sharp. Searching.

Then—voice low, steady—he says:

“Now I’m really fucked.”

You laugh.

Jack grins like he hates that he said it—but not enough to take it back.

(Move, she wants to move) But you’re hogging her, you’re guarding her

“I should go,” you murmur, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You don’t move. “I don’t do this,” you add, quieter.

Jack hums. “What’s this?”

“This—floor. Bar. Random men.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m not random.”

You blink. “Aren’t you?”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

You look at him for a long beat. The song’s still pounding around you, hips still brushing, heat still everywhere. But there’s something sharp in his eyes now. Something that wasn’t there before.

“I don’t make sense, do I?” you ask, not sure why you’re even saying it.

Jack studies you like he’s unwrapping something he shouldn’t touch but can’t stop himself from pulling apart. “No,” he says. “But I’m not here for sense.”

You let that sit. Then, tilting your chin up, you say:

“So what are you here for?”

Jack doesn’t blink. He steps in closer. So close his mouth grazes your cheek when he says it:

“You.”

Somebody get us some water in here ’Cause it’s hot!

Your breath stutters.

He presses his hand flat against your lower back. Doesn’t pull you in. Just holds you there. Anchors you.

His jaw flexes. He looks like he’s trying very, very hard to behave.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Doing what?”

Jack leans in—nose to yours, mouth ghosting your cheek.

“Letting you get in my head.”

You laugh again. But this time it’s softer. More dangerous. He mutters something that sounds like a curse and presses his forehead to yours. You close your eyes.

For a second, it feels like the music vanishes. Like the floor disappears. Like you’re somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere worse.

You open your eyes and he’s already looking at you. Like he never stopped. You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Holding the same pulse.

And then—you move first. You grab his hand.

You don’t look back.

And Jack?

He follows.

Again.

You don’t say a word the entire ride to his apartment.

You sit in the back of the cab like you own it, legs crossed, one arm draped over the seat like you’re posing for a noir film. Your hair’s a mess. Your lipstick’s ruined. And you look like you planned it that way.

Jack doesn’t ask questions. He just stares out the opposite window like he’s trying to breathe through a four-alarm fire.

But his knee’s bouncing.

His jaw’s tight.

And when your heel nudges the inside of his ankle, just light enough to be casual, just sharp enough to be intentional—his entire thigh jerks like he’s been shocked.

You don’t look at him when you say it:

“You gonna survive the ride?”

He exhales through his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smile. “Too late.”

The cab stops. You slide out first without waiting, and he throws a couple bills at the driver before catching up, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s trying to hide just how badly they’re shaking.

You wait by the front door of the building like you live there.

“Top floor,” he mutters, unlocking it.

“Of course it is.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “You seem like the type who’d want to be above it all. Elevators. Silence. No neighbors to hear you beg.”

His mouth twitches. “You think I beg?”

You lean in, brushing past him just enough to graze his chest as you step into the elevator. “I think you’ve never had to.”

He follows like gravity. Like hunger.

The elevator ride is silent, but not still.

You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or kneel. You feel it in the breath he lets out when the doors open, and the way his palm flattens against your lower back as he guides you down the hallway—not possessive, not protective—anchored.

He unlocks the door and steps aside, letting you enter first.

You walk in slow.

Deliberate.

Like you’re casing the joint.

“You bring a lot of women back here?” you ask, voice light, almost careless—like the question doesn’t already carry weight.

Jack drops his keys into the bowl by the door with a clatter, the sound sharp against the hush of the apartment. “No.”

You tilt your head, one brow arching. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes then—direct, unreadable, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. “Most don’t make it past the bar.”

You laugh, low and smoky, lips curled around it like the edge of a cigarette. “So I’m special.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. "You’re dangerous."

“I get that a lot,” you murmur, half to yourself, like it’s a warning and a dare all in one.

You drift deeper into the living room, slow and unhurried, fingers trailing along the scarred edge of the coffee table like you’re reading it in braille. There’s no hesitation in your steps—just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from already having imagined this place in some half-formed dream. And now you’re here, seeing if the real thing matches the version you built in your head.

It does, mostly.

The couch is worn but clean, cushions slouched like they’ve weathered more than one exhausted shift. There’s a stack of JAMA journals on the end table, dog-eared and coffee-stained, buried halfway under a trauma manual and what looks like a folded VA benefits packet. An old Army rucksack slouches near the door. One of the kitchen chairs holds a crumpled black scrub top, sleeves still rolled. On the mantle: a coin from a combat medic unit, polished with habit. No pictures, no sentimental clutter—just usefulness, memory, and muscle memory dressed as routine.

It smells like soap and black coffee. Like someone who’s trying. Like someone who didn’t expect company but hasn’t minded the silence until now.

Jack doesn’t follow. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the way you move—like every motion might be a trick wire.

You lower yourself onto the arm of the couch, smooth and casual, one leg crossing over the other with practiced grace. Your heel dangles in the air, catching light as you tilt your head, waiting.

Testing.

“Take your shirt off.”

He blinks, like the words short-circuited something in him. “Excuse me?”

You lean back, spine arching just slightly, mouth curved like sin. “What, shy all of a sudden?”

Jack breathes through his nose—controlled, clipped. “No.”

But he stays exactly where he is. Doesn’t lift a finger.

So you stand. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of your heels against the floor barely audible over the tension winding between you.

You cross the space with the grace of a fuse burning down. Stop just in front of him. Your fingers reach for the hem of his shirt—brush against the warm skin beneath.

Then pause.

You glance up, smile ghosting your lips.

“You want me to say please?”

His voice is low. Rough. All gravel and gasoline.

“Wouldn’t kill you."

You smile. “No. But it might ruin the fun.”

You trail your fingers just under the fabric, brushing the bare skin of his stomach. His abs tighten.

Then you back away.

And he follows.

God, he follows.

You circle the couch, slow and predatory, every step measured. Jack shadows you without hesitation, his gait looser, rougher—controlled chaos barely held in check. You feel it behind you, the tension, the heat, the way the air stretches thin and electric between your bodies. Like a wire dipped in oil, ready to catch flame.

Then—his hand closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just decisive. A touch that says enough without raising its voice.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing,” you murmur, voice slick with heat and intent. “I’m building tension.”

Jack pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body undeniable. His breath ghosts your jaw before his lips do, and when he speaks, it’s a growl under his breath.

“You planning to snap it?”

You smirk, tilting your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Eventually.”

He kisses you—hard, sudden, like he’s trying to reclaim ground he never owned. It’s messy. Hungry. All teeth and tongue and something older than want. His hands slide up your sides, slow at first, then firmer, more sure—fingertips skimming under the edge of your bra just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

But then you push him off.

Just a few inches. Just enough to break the kiss.

To remind him—you’re still calling the shots.

“Not yet.”

He blinks. Dazed. Breathless.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You reach up, slow and certain, fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands at his hairline. You brush it back from his forehead like it’s nothing—like it’s everything—and watch the way his breath hitches, how his eyes stay locked on yours even when they flicker like a flame in wind.

“You’re used to being the one who calls the shots, huh?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at you—like he’s not sure whether to pull you under or fall at your feet. Like he wants to ruin you and worship you in the same breath.

“I’m used to getting what I want,” he says finally, voice low and raw.

You don’t blink.

You lean in. “And what do you want right now?”

He swallows hard. “You.”

You hum. “Say please.”

Jack closes his eyes. Jaw clenched.

You wait.

And wait.

Then—

“Please.”

You grin.

“There he is.”

You push him onto the couch and straddle him, grinding down slow. He groans, head tipping back, hands clutching the fabric of the cushion like he’s going to tear it in half.

“Can I touch you?” he pants.

“Not yet.”

He curses under his breath.

You lean down and whisper, “But soon.”

You kiss him again—messy now, deep and open-mouthed, your teeth catching on his lower lip. He groans into it, hands flexing at his sides like it’s taking everything he has not to touch you.

You slide down his body slow, lips dragging over his neck, collarbone, chest. You unbutton his shirt halfway just to make room, push the fabric aside. He’s warm under your mouth. Tense.

When you sink to your knees, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, already wrecked.

You glance up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Breathe, Jack.”

But he can’t—not really. Not when you’re undoing his belt, not when your fingers slip inside the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips without being asked, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy and untrustworthy all at once.

And when you free him—thick, flushed, already leaking—his jaw drops open, like the sound he makes gets lost somewhere in his chest.

You drag your tongue up the underside of him once. Light. Teasing.

He shudders.

You hum like you’re tasting something expensive. “Is this something that you want?”

He nods, but it’s not enough.

You look up. “Use your words.”

His voice is hoarse. “Yes. Please.”

So you give it to him.

You take him in slow, the kind of slow that ruins men. Hollow cheeks, wet lips, just enough pressure to make him twitch.

You don’t break eye contact when you take him in your mouth.

Not once.

Jack’s head tips back with a groan, low and guttural, like he’s trying to stop himself from unraveling. One hand curls into the couch cushion behind him, the other hovers mid-air, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know where to put it.

He’s trying so hard not to touch you.

Trying to be good.

And you love that.

“Jesus,” he rasps, the word punched out of him. “Fuck, you—”

You pull off suddenly, lips wet, breath steady, and just smile.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” you ask sweetly.

“Worse,” he mutters. “You’re fucking lethal.”

You run your thumb along his slick length. His whole body tenses like you’ve rewired his nervous system. Your lips are swollen, chin slick, breath steady only because you’ve trained it to be. Jack’s a fucking mess—his head tipped back, chest rising like he’s trying not to lose control of every muscle group at once. His shirt’s halfway open, clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Good.

You lick your lips and sit back on your heels, slow. Measured. In control. Until your voice cuts through the air like a match to gasoline:

“All right, Doc.”

He looks down at you—lips parted, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Dazed. Wrecked. Like he can barely focus through the aftershocks.

You tilt your head. Smile like a loaded gun.

“You earned it.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares. Breath shallow. Jaw clenched. And then it hits him—what you mean. Something flickers behind his eyes. That clean, military stillness, the ER control—it burns off like vapor. What’s left is heat. Dark. Focused. Dangerous.

He moves like a lit fuse—controlled, lethal, immediate.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, rasped, already rising like the question doesn’t matter.

You nod once, slow. Deliberate.

“Don’t go easy.”

He doesn’t.

Jack grabs you with both hands—one under your thighs, the other cradling the back of your neck—and lifts you off the ground like it’s nothing. He drops you onto the couch with a roughness that makes your breath catch, not cruel, but deliberate. Like he’s finally been unshackled.

“You tease me like that,” he says, peeling your jeans down with sharp, practiced motions, “and think I’m gonna be gentle?”

You’re already gasping when he drags your underwear down and parts your legs. His thumb presses against your inner thigh like a hold order. His eyes—fuck—they’re so locked in it’s like he’s triaging you.

“Jesus,” he mutters when he gets a full look at you. “Dripping.”

You tilt your hips forward, inviting. “Guess you made an impression.”

Jack growls.

Actually growls.

He drops to his knees between your thighs, grabbing your ass and pulling you forward like he’s anchoring you. You barely manage to exhale before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, tongue working you open like he’s angry about it.

You gasp, loud, your hand shooting out to grip the armrest. “Jack—fuck—Jack—”

He doesn’t stop.

He devours. Moans into it like you taste better than anything he’s had in years, and every flick of his tongue feels designed. Precision-trained. Weaponized. You grind against his face, and he lets you, lets you lose the last of your power because he wants it.

When he pulls away, your thighs are shaking. His mouth is wet. And his voice is wrecked:

“Still feel like running the show?”

You stare down at him, breathless—lips parted, chest rising fast. “No.”

Jack moves without a word, the shift in him absolute. He pulls the condom from his back pocket, movements sharp, assured. The foil tears with a sound that feels like a warning.

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs your waist and flips you, quick and certain—like instinct. The cushions press against your chest as your knees sink into the couch, legs spread, back arched. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—just the give of the cushions beneath you and the way he holds you there, open. Offered. Ready.

His hands grip your hips, anchoring.

He leans in, breath hot against your shoulder.

“This okay?”

“Yes,” you gasp, already shaking.

He squeezes, hard enough to ground you. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, Jack, please—”

He slides in with a brutal, delicious thrust that knocks the breath clean out of you.

“Holy—fuck—”

Jack doesn’t ease in. He’s slow for maybe one, maybe two strokes, just long enough to feel you clench around him—and then he lets go.

He grabs your hips and he slams into you again and again, groaning low in his throat like he’s been holding this in for years.

“You feel what you did to me?” he pants, one hand sliding up your back, gripping your shoulder as he fucks you like he’s chasing something.

You moan into the cushions. “Yes—yes—fuck, Jack—”

“Losing it in my own damn apartment, couldn’t even breathe—and you just smiled. You think I wasn’t gonna make you pay for that?”

He hits deeper. Harder.

Your back arches, your nails digging into the upholstery, every nerve ending lit up like a switchboard.

He leans over you, one hand sliding under to toy with your clit, the other braced at your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Come for me,” he growls into your ear. “Let me have it.”

You fall apart with a gasp so loud it rips straight through you. You convulse around him, hips bucking, whole body shaking as the orgasm slams into you with no warning, no mercy.

Jack fucks you through it—grunting, holding you tight—and then he’s gone too, groaning into your shoulder, hips stuttering as he spills into the condom, voice low and ragged like gravel dragged across pavement.

When he finally stills, he stays there—pressed against you, catching his breath, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other braced on the back of the couch.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

And then, low, lazy:

“You always give control up that easy?” he mutters, voice rough—still wrecked from it.

You laugh, breath catching on the inhale.

“That wasn’t easy.”

Jack kisses your shoulder, mouth warm, open. “No?”

You shift back against him, ass brushing his thigh, grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“That was me returning the favor.”

He laughs—low, broken, completely unrepentant.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice all gravel and smoke.

“I’m screwed now, huh?” you breathe.

Jack drags you into his lap like gravity’s got a grudge. Like the space between you was never meant to exist. The couch creaks under the shift, one cushion dipping low beneath his weight, the other barely holding you up—like even the furniture knows how close this is to collapse.

His hand slides around your waist, anchoring you there, and he leans in—breath warm at your temple, mouth brushing skin like it’s a promise.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and wrecked. “You have no idea.”

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espressheauxs

3 weeks ago

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espressheauxs

1 month ago

Have a silly little art as a treat

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espressheauxs

4 weeks ago

JAW once said in an interview that “Carmy does not fuck” which is 1. hilarious and 2. in character and 3. intriguing, and I would love to hear your headcanons regarding this🙏🙏💕

of COURSE carmy doesn’t fuck. not because he couldn’t, but because he’s so emotionally repressed, chronically stressed, and buried under ten layers of guilt and self-loathing that sex would just be another thing he overthinks into oblivion. the man is hanging on by a thread and that thread is beef. so yeah. he doesn’t fuck—but if he ever did? it would be awkward and intense and kind of sweet in a “he’s trying so hard please someone give him a hug” way. and i have so, so many thoughts about that. okay—diving in.

Carmy’s not inexperienced, per se. He knows what sex is. He’s watched enough porn, read the occasional questionable Reddit thread, jerked off in rushed, guilt-tinged moments between 14-hour shifts and deep spirals of culinary self-loathing. But sex—actual sex, with a person who looks at him like you do? That’s a different kind of pressure. It’s a kind of heat he doesn’t know how to hold.

He prepped for this. Not like—intentionally, but… kind of. He showered longer than usual. Used the good soap. Trimmed everything down there as best he could and definitely nicked himself once or twice in the process—stood over the sink like it was a high-stakes mise en place, squinting into the mirror, muttering, “Okay, slow, slow, don’t fuck this up, chef…” The result is neat, if a little uneven. He smells like clean cotton and whatever expensive shampoo Sugar left in the apartment.

When it finally happens—when you tug him by the hand to the bed and he stammers something like, “We don’t have to, if you’re not—if this is too soon or whatever, I can wait, I’m chill,”—you kiss him quiet. He melts. Shoulders slumping. Lips soft and hungry. He kisses like he means it, like every second is precious, like he’s scared it’s going to be the last. And when your hand dips between his legs?

He gasps. Full-bodied, shaky. “Fucking Christ,” he chokes out, hips twitching. His cock’s already hard, hot against your palm. Not huge, not small—just right, pretty even. Cut, flushed pink at the tip, thick enough to make you feel it stretch you, but not enough to overwhelm. There’s a vein down the side that pulses when you stroke him, and he watches you like he’s watching God.

“Oh my god—yeah, okay, that’s—fuck, shit, sorry,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “That—feels better than, like—anything. Ever. I don’t—am I supposed to do something with my hands or—?”

You laugh, and he blushes so hard his ears turn red. “You’re good, Carm. You’re doing fine. Let our bodies do the talking.”

He groans like that line alone nearly finishes him off. “Ohhh—fuck, no, don’t say shit like that—”

You guide him inside you, and for a second, everything stops. His breath catches. Eyes wide. Muscles tense like he’s bracing for something catastrophic, like maybe he’s about to cry or come or die. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Are you sure—are you okay—do I need to slow down?”

You just nod, and he lets out this broken little sound. Kind of a moan, kind of a whimper, and so sincere it nearly undoes you.

At first, he’s awkward. Bumping the wrong angle. Hips moving in tiny, unsure thrusts like he’s terrified to go too deep. Keeps checking your face like he’s looking for notes. “That—no, sorry—was that weird? I can stop. I’ll stop. Shit. I—uh—yeah.” You kiss him again, thread your fingers through his hair, and roll your hips until he’s buried deep and shaking.

When you get on top, his brain shorts out. Full-on blue screen. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but his mouth is stuck on a loop. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. You’re so—holy shit, you’re—beautiful, baby, fuck, shit—” His voice goes high when you clench around him, like a whine caught in his throat. His hips twitch like they want to buck up but he’s scared to move, too scared to end it too soon.

And he does come too fast. Not in a tragic way—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that makes you want to kiss every inch of him. His hands tremble on your thighs, face slack with pleasure, mouth open as he gasps out, “I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—fuck, fuck, f—ohhh—shit—” and then he’s done, shaking under you, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

“Sorry,” he whispers after. “I—I swear I can go again. Like. Soon. Just—holy shit.”

And he does go again. He’s hard again in less than ten minutes, and the second time’s better. He starts to find rhythm, his hands more confident, his mouth bolder. He talks more, too—low, raspy praise between panting breaths. “You’re so fucking soft, baby, you’re perfect, so wet, so good for me—” He latches onto your tits like he’s been dreaming about them for years. He sucks and mouths at them like a man starved, eyes glazed and reverent.

“I’ve got a thing,” he confesses, voice rough. “With—y’know. Tits. Just—fuck. They’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

You ride him through it. Take control. And he loves it. Because it lets him feel without the pressure to perform. He’s sensitive, vocal—little gasps and sighs spilling out with every grind of your hips. When you tell him not to talk, just to feel, he moans so sharply it echoes. His whole body tightens, stomach clenching, hands white-knuckling the sheets.

“Ohhh, fuck—don’t say that—fuck, I’m gonna—” he whines, high and airy, and then he’s coming again, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle it, cock pulsing deep inside you. His thighs twitch. You feel his whole body flutter under you, coming undone again.

After, he holds you. Silent. Breath slowing, chest rising against your back. Face nestled into your hair. And for once, there’s no chaos. No kitchen yelling. No fire alarms. Just the sound of your heartbeat under his cheek and the soft hum of the city outside his window.

You trace his jaw, and he mumbles, “I was so bad at that, huh.”

“You were perfect, Carm.”

He sighs, a sleepy little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. Good. ‘Cause I—uh. Wanna do that again. With you. Like, a lot.”

And he means it. Every stammered word.

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