Interrupted Plans

It had been a long week. Month. Year.

You had moved to a new city halfway across the country a few months ago for work. The raise had been worth it, leaving behind a dying midwestern town had been worth it, and god knows that being able to see the beach every day was worth it. But it hadn't been easy, and you were still getting used to the pace of a bigger city, a more demanding job, and you were tired.

Which brings us to this Friday afternoon, in a rush to get home after another day spent with your head spinning, trying to convince yet another old white man that you are qualified for this job. Because you are qualified, dammit. But you are also done, and you just want to be home, in bed with pajamas on.

Knocking over an entire display of crackers in the packed grocery store didn't help your plan very much. You're not normally a clumsy person, and you stuff your growing annoyance down as you get on your knees to clean up your own mess.

"Some help?" A low voice to your left, and you're still not even sure who the voice belongs to as you continue picking up boxes and methodically putting them back. Label faces front, four to a row. Quickly, so you can get the hell out of here.

"Some help?" He repeats, and you glance briefly at elegant leather shoes and pressed slacks before flicking your eyes up. The stranger is handsome, in an older way. You guess he's maybe seven or eight years older than your own twenty six years. You make a gesture that's somewhere between a nod and a shrug. You normally take care of everything yourself. You don't need his help. And more than anything, you're not sure how much you like being on your knees looking up at him.

He kneels down despite your less than warm greeting, and by the time all the crackers are back where they belong, you groan a little as you stand. It has been a damn long day.

"Jack," he murmurs, his voice still low, as if he's speaking to a scared animal. You can barely hear him over the clamor of the store, but since he did you a favor and there's no reason to be rude, so your dark eyes meet his icy blue stare.

"Evelyn. Evie." You stick a hand out like you've been taught at work, nice and easy. Politeness is its own kind of weapon. Shake his hand, and then get the hell out of the store. You notice that his temples have just a small hint of gray in them, but if anything it makes him more attractive.

For god's sake, stop thinking about how good looking he is and just get out of here.

But you can't stop thinking about it, as his much larger hand dwarfs your own. You've lived in this new, bustling city for almost half a year, and in all that time you haven't bothered to take care of those needs other than a frantic hand down the waistline of your underwear before bed.

He keeps hold of your hand, and you don't try to take it back. He's dressed for work, clearly, but something about the roughness of his grip says that he's used to some kind of labor.

"Evelyn, are you alright?" His eyes search yours, and you're wrenched back into this moment, his hand holding your palm in all the ways that others hadn't. Soft and firm, dry and warm. You swallow convulsively and pull your hand from his grasp. More reluctantly than you care to admit.

"Yes, thank you. I'm sorry, I'm just tired and I really need to get home. It's been a - "

" - Long day," Jack finishes, and you flush a little. "I get it. But, and I know how forward this is going to sound, I've had a hell of a week too. I could use a drink, and you look like you might as well. There's a wine bar around here somewhere."

Yes. Yes. YES. Your mind is yelling at you to go. But you're not impulsive, and you don't know this man.

"I should probably get these groceries home, " you say instead, holding up your basket as if it was a shield.

"Fair enough," he replies, shifting his own basket. "How about 8pm? Tonight. I'll be at Antoinette's. You can join me, or you can stay home and wonder if it might have been fun."

He walks off without a backward glance, and while something in you is fuming at the presumptuousness in his statement, something else is curling low in your belly.

***

Jack Reynolds cleared out of the grocery store at a pace that was alarming even to him. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind. Long dark hair, bottomless eyes, the end of a tattoo peeking from the sleeve of her shirt like a puzzle he needed to solve. Just the memory of her kneeling in front of him was enough to set him on fire.

Would she come and get a drink with him? He wasn't entirely sure, but the way her breath had hitched when he walked away had him thinking she might.

Don't scare her off, asshole. She does look tired, and she probably doesn't need a pervert like you looking down her shirt while she has a glass of wine. She might not even come.

He made his way home, through the traffic and the screeching cars and the chaos of the city. His city. Ever since he had arrived in San Francisco for college, Jack had known he didn't want to leave. He travelled for work all the time, but there was something about that bay view and steep hills that made him glad to come home.

***

You didn't know why you had decided to go to the bar. Antoinette's was close to home, you rationalized, and you did need a drink. It was a little harder to justify the dress you had changed into, but you decided not to worry about it.

A deep breath, and suddenly you were inside, the interior of the restaurant dark and a little too cool for you. Along the right side, a polished wooden bar snaked the length of the restaurant, a cloudy mirror behind it enlarged the space. Intimate red booths and little tables with flickering candles reminded you of France, and for a moment you were somewhere else entirely.

Strong hands gripped your bare shoulders, and for a moment your mind went blank as you whirled, breath coming in short gasps. No, no, no.

"Easy, girl. Easy. It's just me, Evelyn." And it was. It was just him, and no one else.

A long breath through your nose, and you looked at his face through your lashes. He was taller, his shoulders were broader, and there was no sickly sweet cologne smell. Another breath.

"Yes, I see that. Sorry. I don't like being touched from behind." He nodded, that same knowing look on his face that he had in the store earlier.

"I should be the one to apologize, not you. I shouldn't have touched you without your permission. Would you like to sit down?" He leads you over to a booth in the far back corner. Despite plenty of other patrons around, it feels like you're alone.

A waiter comes by, and you ask for a glass of red wine, but Jack overruled you and orders the whole bottle. You're not mad about that at all.

The first bottle of wine goes down easily, too easily. He's talking, and you're talking, and before you even know what's happening, you're spilling all sorts of things he probably doesn't care about. You're tired, you're always tired, the move was exhausting and work is exhausting and there is no one who takes care of anything for you. You stop yourself suddenly, realizing how pathetic you sound.

Spilling your guts to a stranger in the back of a wine bar, Evie? Look at him. He's older, handsome, and probably just here out of pity. He doesn't give a damn about any of this. Please stop whining before you make it any worse.

"Evelyn?" Those icy eyes are pinning you to the back of the seat, demanding you attention. "Where did you go?"

"Oh," you start, "I just realized you might not want to listen to me whine anymore." A half hearted shrug. "I'm very lucky to be where I am, and I just realized how depressing I'm being."

"You're not depressing," he counters, and gestures to the waiter with a little motion that indicates another bottle of wine will be arriving shortly. "I like listening to you talk. It sounds like you've been bottling a few things up."

You snort, an utterly inelegant sound. "I suppose so."

"Can I ask you a very impertinent question?" He says, lowering his voice so that it's almost inaudible.

Who the hell says impertinent? But you nod, waving a hand for him to go on. You've had enough wine that your gaze has dropped to his mouth. His lips curve up at the corners in a half smile.

"It's more of an offer, I suppose. The first choice is that we have this second bottle of wine, I ensure you get home safely, and we exchange numbers. I'll text you in a few days, maybe we'll go out again. I like you, and I'd like to see you again." His mouth widens into a grin that is nothing short of wicked, and you feel it down to your core.

"And option two?" Your voice is weak, and some distant part of you hates how easily he's turned you on just by saying he likes you.

"Option two is that I cancel this second bottle of wine, and I get to find out how far that tattoo goes."

"I'm not in the habit of going home with men I don't know." You try to push more strength than you feel into your voice.

"It sounds a little like you're not in the habit of going home with men at all. Listen," he says, palms wide on the table, "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. And I should warn you now, I can be a little demanding in the bedroom. Very demanding. It can be a little much for some women, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

You aren't breathing anymore. How did he know? How did he know the one thing that turns you on and scares you more than anything else?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You want to say no, but you know you won't. Maybe you can't.

"Evelyn, there's nothing wrong with saying no. Like I said, we can be friends, or go on another few dates, or you can say no to all of it. It's ok." He toyed with the stem of his wineglass, watching your face.

***

Idiot, you complete and utter idiot. Look at her. Do you really think she wants to sleep with you, let alone play your sick games?

Oh, he was definitely looking at her. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes off her since the second he came into the restaurant. The dress she had on was going to be the death of him. Some kind of burgundy velvet, barely more than a sheath tied at her shoulders with bits of black lace. It revealed the rest of the tattoo on her arm that he had seen earlier, and the start of one down her back.

She might have put on a little more make up, he couldn't tell, but she certainly hadn't had on that lipstick when he had met her earlier. It was all he could do not to embarrass himself with a tent in his pants just thinking about her very, very red mouth on him.

Speaking of, you might want to start worrying about that right now. He shifted in his seat, and thought of cold showers, his mother's birthday in a few weeks, anything.

He was going to need more than a cold shower when she spoke again.

"Option two, but I have a few questions."

***

"Just a few?" He smirks at you, that cat-ate-the-canary smile back. You swallow, clear your throat. You're a goddamn adult, and this man will not make you feel small.

"Yes. I need to know exactly what you mean by demanding." There's something small in your voice, and you hate it.

Jack has already waived the waiter off, no more wine for you tonight and you try not to worry about the lack of liquid courage. Besides, this is the moment where clarity matters most.

"Fair enough." He settles back into the seat, arms crossed in front of him as he studies you. "I like control. I like telling you what to do, and how to do it, and I like watching you obey me. I want to touch every single part of you, and I want to do it slowly."

Whatever semblance of a grasp that you had, or thought you had, on your body is gone. The heat in your stomach has turned to butterflies and what is almost certainly a puddle in your underwear. You make a small noise.

"Speak up," he commands.

"I, um -"

"Evelyn, use real words please. Unless I put a gag in that pretty mouth, I expect to be able to understand you." You're shocked by the boldness in his words, but your toes are curling.

What the fuck are you doing?

"I still want option two." It comes out almost as a whisper, but you know that he can hear you.

"Then let's go."

***

He pays the bill with a heavy tip, and then they're out the door and into the cool night air. And thank god for that, because he didn't think he could look at her pale skin in the candlelight any longer without making a complete ass out of himself.

Control, Reynolds. Get some of that goddamn control that you were just telling her you wanted.

He doesn't offer his own place, merely asking for directions to hers. She hasn't spoken since she agreed, for the second time, and leads him down a few bustling streets before unlocking the entrance to an ornate, classic building. It's all he can do to not stare at her ass like a complete lech as she takes him up the stairs, six long flights.

"I'm sorry, the apartment is a little small," she mutters, unlocking the door. It is small, but well kept. She flicks on a lamp and he can see the neatly made bed, clean kitchen, a small sitting area. And the books. So many books, too many for the space, but he likes the way they make the studio feel lived in. He resists inspecting each title. There will be time for that later. Hopefully.

"I don't mind small," he murmurs, bending down so his breath tickles the side of her neck. "It will make it easier to take you on every surface of this apartment. Which I fully plan on doing."

***

You gasp a little, and he slides a warm hand down your back. Once, twice. He's petting you.

And you love it.

He looks around the room, inspecting, and finally sits down on your little couch, patting the spot next to him. As if this is his place. You try to be annoyed at the ownership in the gesture, but you sit anyway.

"Before we get to the fun part," he winks, "There are some ground rules. First, if at any point you feel uncomfortable, please say 'yellow' to slow down and 'red' to stop. I will never be upset with you if you say those words, but we will talk about it. Which leads me to my next point."

His eyes are boring into you, and you recognize how foolish you sound by thinking they look like blue fire. But you nod, and whisper a faint "Ok."

"The second point is that I expect you to be honest with me, and I will be honest with you. If you are upset or scared, I expect you to use those safewords. The last thing is that I want you to think of this night as a trial run. We'll try some things, and I won't push too far. If you don't want to keep going after tonight, that's fine."

You nod again. There's no doubt that you're dripping now, the wetness has probably seeped into the back of your dress. Jack leans over you, one arm behind your seat on the couch so that you can feel his body heat all around you. "Yes or no, Evelyn?"

"Evie," you whisper back. "My friends call me Evie."

"I have no intention of being just a friend, Evelyn."

***

Jack can tell just by the look in her eye that she wants to say something smart back to him, but then she's standing in front of his seat on the couch, and her hands are reaching behind her, unzipping her dress. For a moment, he watches her, noticing how her hands behind her back arches her spine, pushing her chest nearly into his face as he stands.

You are the luckiest asshole alive, Reynolds, and if you fuck this up you will never forgive yourself. Be gentle with her now, so you can be rough later.

He gathers her wrists into his hand, pinning them behind her. And slowly, his eyes on her face the whole time, he lowers his mouth to hers.

***

You woke up this morning annoyed, spent the whole day fixing messes you didn't create, and all you wanted in return was a night to yourself with a bottle of wine and your cat, who is nowhere to be seen now. And instead, there's a stranger in your tiny apartment, holding you with a demanding grip that is ruining your underwear, and you're wondering at what point exactly everything went to hell.

But then he's kissing you, an answer to a question that you weren't asking and didn't want to know. His lips are gentle, and his tongue slides against your lips in a way that has you opening up for him. Your hands are aching to touch his face, his shoulders, but he holds you firm while he delves in. Surely, you have been kissed before. You know what happens. Boy touches girl. Girl touches boy. Transaction complete.

Except this time you don't even know what you've gotten yourself into, and he hasn't done anything but kiss you. He's still kissing you with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. If he doesn't stop soon, you're going to fall down.

Suddenly, his lips are gone and you find yourself leaning forward, hoping to catch another moment. But his hand releases your own and your eyes fly open. He's sitting on the couch again, one ankle hooked over the other knee, an arm splayed across the back of the couch. Smiling. Other men have looked at you this way, that same little grin on their face, and it has made you want to claw their eyes out. But when it's him, your only reaction is to heat up more.

"Strip," he says, and there's no room to argue.

The dress was already unzipped, and you feel a little self conscious as you slide the shoulder straps down your arms. The dress is tight enough that you have to ease it down with your thumbs hooked into the fabric. One last nudge over your hips and you're standing there in nothing but a bra, underwear, and black heels.

"All of it," he growls, those blue eyes so bright in his tanned face.

So you do, of course, because you're so far gone at this point that you might do just about anything he says. Which is the danger. Trust is an expensive commodity, but you're willing to pay the price for him. For this.

The underwear is as ruined as you had suspected, and you're glad that the fabric is black and the light is low so that he can't see how much you've been dripping. You start to take off one of the heels, and he lets you. You've had men tell you to leave them on, but you get the sense that he wants you totally bare before him. And so you are.

"Turn."

He's inspecting you, like he inspected the apartment, like his inspected the wine label at the bar tonight. You're just one more thing he plans on enjoying. And you want him to, you want him to look and touch and taste all of it.

When he's done perusing, he pats his lap, where you notice a rather large bulge is waiting for you. Unsure of what to do, you try and put your bare ass on his knee. You try not to giggle at the image of Santa that pops into your head.

Maybe he can read minds because he whispers, "I won't get you a pony for Christmas if you sit like that. Straddle me, girl."

The use of the word 'girl' has you gushing again, and you hurry to comply. He skims your ribcage, your back, the sides of your thighs with gentle touches. Eyes unfocused, like he's miles away, he keeps petting, touching you everywhere but there.

"What should I call you?" You ask softly, breaking him out of his trance.

"Hm. Tonight, just 'Sir'. If we play again, maybe we'll adjust that."

"Well, Sir, I think I'm going to get your pants damp if I stay like this." You roll your hips for effect. You've been trying to keep the full weight off his nice slacks, but it can't last forever, and you want something to be touching you now.

"Good point." He picks you up, and stands. "Is there a towel in the bathroom?"

"Yes, on the hook behind the door. Sir." He smirks as you catch yourself, retrieves the towel, and spreads it on the seat of the couch.

"Sit." You do, and suddenly he's standing before you, unbuckling his pants.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

And suddenly, there it is, his cock is just at eye level before you and you're reaching towards it. He's big, but it's not frightening. You've seen men bigger, and men smaller, and there's no helping the Goldilocks reference as you think he's just right.