LRPD - part 17

*sexual content.

Simon Riley has officially ruined you.

That’s the only way to explain what’s happening.

Your husband has burrowed beneath your skin and settled there, moved in and took over like it was so easy, like you didn’t put up a fight.

It’s infuriating.

*sexual content.

*sexual content.

Simon Riley has officially ruined you.

That’s the only way to explain what’s happening.

Your husband has burrowed beneath your skin and settled there, moved in and took over like it was so easy, like you didn’t put up a fight.

It’s infuriating.

The cracks in your control became canyons, too wide to be stitched back together, too big to be crossed, and he’s holding each side in one hand, pulling them farther and farther apart.

He’s ripping you open.

And you’ve been okay with it.

“Tess.”

“I’m serious.” She slides the pen across the well worn kitchen table, and you both watch as it rolls to a stop. “You have to.”

“This is bad juju. You’re like… speaking this into existence or something.” You can’t even look at the document, papers with little colorful tabs indicating where you should sign on each page.

“Nothing is going to happen, but…”

“But nothing.” You slump in the chair. Your thighs are dead, muscles wrung dry. The two of you rode for seven hours today before she dropped this bomb, detonated your peace. It was supposed to be a nice day. Now it’s anxiety inducing.

“Daisy. We want to get everything settled, just in case.” Liams boots thud through the entry way, Riley asleep in his arms. He nods at you seriously, eyes dark and heavy. The stress from Riley’s birth, the nicu, it’s settled permanently on his face, etched into lines that will never be taken away.

The selfishness of your position hits you squarely in the chest.

Liam’s mom and dad are not good people. They’re awful. They’re cold and cruel and have the morals of a trash can.

You never understood how parents could treat their children the way they treated Liam, and you know why this is so important, why it has to be done.

You grab the pen, loop your signature and initials across each and every line, dating as you go, and Tess sighs when you’re finished, slipping the stack back into a manilla envelope.

“Okay.” She claps, and then smiles brightly. “Tacos for dinner?”

“So what’s the problem?” Ava holds her hands up, tips her head back with dramatic, hushed wail. “This hot rich doctor wants to take care of me, oh my god it’s awful.”

“Ava, shut up.” Liv gives you a sympathetic smile. “I get it. It’s a lot out of nowhere.”

“No, Liv. What’s a lot out of nowhere is you getting Eiffel-towered in the middle of the-”

“Ava!” You hiss, and she cackles.

“You guys are so boring. You’ve got a man who, judging by the sound of it, is willing to do anything and everything for you, and Liv’s getting DP. I don’t get it. You should be thrilled.” Olivia is shaking, half from laughter and half from what you assume is fury. “Meanwhile, I’m not getting anything but a stern lecture and a pat on the head.” You smirk.

“Not working out the way you hoped? I thought you always said-”

“Redcoats.” Shit.

You don’t have to look to know he’s there. You can feel him. In a room, in a hallway, across the parking garage, the hospital.

Your ghost.

Your husband.

Still, you turn around. Smile politely. Wave to him, John and Doctor Garrick, who gives you a nod, eyes sweeping over Olivia, touching each point of her body like an inspection.

Simon smiles back. It’s barely there, but you recognize them now, the very small lilt of the left corner, mouth subtly tipping upward. These smiles are different from the others, the ones where his eyes crinkle, his mouth fully curves.

You like them both. They're treasures.

John smiles at you and Olivia, and then pins Ava with a look. It’s full of ice, and censure, and her swallow is so loud they can probably hear it clear across the cafeteria.

“Anyway,” she croaks after looking down, gnawing on the corner of her fingernail. "Count your blessings.”

Molly follows dutifully behind Riley as she chatters over her shoulder to you. It’s stream of consciousness, and you get a few words in here and there, but she dominates the conversation. You don’t mind at all.

“- and will Simon come?” Huh?

“To what ladybug?” Blue snorts. Shaming you for not paying attention, most likely.

“To the rodeo!” Your mouth dries into dust.

“Oh uh. Well, he’s really busy.” Just explain it away.

“Yeah but he’s our friend now.”

“He is, but he’s a doctor, remember? So he’s got a lot going on.” Blue bumps her head into your back and you stumble over your feet. Rude.

“But he said he would.” You freeze.

“What?” The wind picks up, spinning dry grass into circles before carrying it away, and you crouch down on folded knees, ass to heels in front of her.

“When I asked him he said he would.” She kicks at a rock, suddenly unsure. Shy.

“When did he say that?” Stay calm.

“Last week I think.” Simon has been to the house four times in the last two weeks, four dinners exactly, and you’ve seen him every day you've been at work.

And not a single time did he mention this.

Not a single time.

Anger heats in the base of your spine.

“I’m not inserting myself into your life, Daisy, I’m already in your life.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That the rodeo is comin’ up and we go every year.” You feel sick. Hot and cold, you flush with heat before it all turns to ice.

“Riley… okay, so Simon is our friend but he’s not going to go to things like the rodeo or other stuff with us, okay? It’s just you and me, right?” You’re suddenly very desperate. Desperate to squash this growing affection she has for him, desperate to cling to her, to close ranks.

“I just thought he’d wanna come.” She says sullenly, and you breathe through your nose slowly, trying to settle your frantic emotions. There’s sadness in her eyes, and that’s all it takes for you to change course, your tactic.

“I’ll double check and see if he’s busy.” You won’t do anything of the sort, but it’s easier than telling her he can’t come because you won’t allow it.

It’s too confusing for her.

For you.

She gives you a smile, satisfied at your answer, and wraps her enthusiastic little arms around your neck, Molly’s lead still in her hand. “Okay!”

You don’t knock.

You should, it’s rude not to, but you’re on the warpath, volatile cocktail of emotions mixing together to make a molotov, and nothing is going to stop you.

He looks up immediately when the door swings open and you step through, irritation immediately shifting to concern. “Daisy?" Taking the corner around his desk, he's across the room in three strides, coming to you. Straight to you. There’s no pause before he’s holding your face in his hands, big palms cradling your cheeks, and the worry you find in his eyes is sharp and almost scared at the same time. Your stomach swoops. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You try to force the words free, the ones you rehearsed, but they get stuck. “Hey, whatever it is, it’ll be okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s okay Daisy, tell me what happened.” You remember his hands, his fingers, carefully probing where Blue’s halter clipped you, palpating, inspecting. “Any problems with your vision? Headache? Dizziness? Did you lose consciousness?” He wanted so badly to fix it, you see that now, and it only twists you into knots.

The contact is too much. It’s like a bit in your mouth, reins in his hands. You should avoid it, need to avoid it, him, all of this, and he knows it. He knows what it does to you, he knows every time he touches you, you turn to petals, soft fragile things that can be crushed underfoot. He knows he only needs to touch you, hold you in that way that's both gentle yet firm, and you'll crack for him. You'll fall apart.

You pull out of his grasp, the gentle slide of his thumb rubbing back and forth. “Why didn’t you tell me you talked to Riley about the rodeo?” The honest concern shifts as his eyes narrow and he presses his lips together.

“It didn’t come up.” Your fingers involuntarily clench into fists. You know this game, and he’s too good at it, too good at catching you unaware, too good at forcing you to put your gloves up instead of being able to swing first.

It makes you crazy.

He makes you crazy.

“That’s-” you pinch your brow. You don’t even know where to start, and he wouldn’t answer anyway. All he ever does is leave you with more questions than answers. Why. Why Why. Why didn’t you tell me? Why does it feel like you know me so well, but I don’t know you? Why are you in my head, tearing me apart, tripping me up? Why is this happening? What is really going on? “No. It doesn’t matter, you’re not going.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Told her I would.” So assumed and nonchalant, like there was never an option. No choices. No control.

You’re spinning out, and he’s watching. Your anger bubbles into something hotter, darker. “And I’ll tell her you’re busy. Something came up, and you’re sorry you can’t make it.” He leans back on his desk, assumes the position, thighs outlined in his scrub pants, hint of something heavy against his left leg.

“She asked me y’know. To come.”

“I know, she told me.” You snap, but he stays placid. Cool and calm. You hate it. “She shouldn’t have.”

“Said she wanted me to go because it makes you sad and she saw you crying last year.” Your heart jumps into your throat. Failed. You're supposed to be strong for Riley, but you’re not. You lost control. “She thought it would make you happy.”

“And you agreed to go without even talking to me?” Your voice is an octave higher than its usual pitch, throat half closed off. It’s an alarm, ringing in the back of your mind. You’re slipping. You’re losing it.

You want to scream at him, and it’s all boiling over, spinning out of control.

“You can’t just do that. That’s not what this is. This isn’t real and you can’t tell her things, make her promises-”

“I didn’t promise her.” He interrupts but you steamroll, hitch in your breath. There’s so much pressure in your lungs, it’s like you’re being suffocated.

“She has enough going on, we have enough going on, I don’t want her confused-”

“She’s not confused. Daisy, listen to me-” His eyes are searching yours now, laser focused, and you step backwards. Looking for air. Space. Anything to help you get out of this black hole that’s about to explode, the one he seems to be picking apart and cataloguing, like he's got your entire life, the universe, on a slide under a microscope.

“And disappointed. She’s going to be so disappointed now! She thinks you’re great and she doesn’t know this isn’t real, and now I have to be the bad guy and- and-” He lunges. For someone so big he’s faster than you’d expect, and you squeak when he takes you by your arms, instinctively twisting, trying to get free. It’s not aggressive, or threatening, or too forceful. He’s holding you just right, and you’re the one who’s turning violent. “Let go.”

“This isn’t real?” His voice is low, serious. “What did I say? What have I been saying?” Your brain breaks. You have to get away from him, from this. You cannot do this.

“Get. Off. Me.”

“No.” He walks you backward until your ass hits his desk and you gasp. “I know you’re confused, baby.” You shove at his chest, but it might as well be shoving against a boulder for all that he moves, and you wriggle in his grasp. “And I know you want to scream at me right now. You want to explode.”

“Stop.” The double edged sword slices you deep. Rage and tears mix together, trying to take over, while you scramble for some sort of stopgap, some shred of control.

“I said I’m gonna take care of you. That being married is not just for appearances, that you’re not gonna be alone anymore.”

“Shut up.” It’s half hearted, and he smiles.

“Do you want to know more? Do you want to know how much I care about you, how much I think about you? Do you want to know what it means when I say it's real?” Your heart skips and you you stare at him, stunned. Pieces of puzzles unfolding and fitting together so seamlessly, but they still don’t make sense, there's a key missing. It's terrifying, and unfinished. “You’re not ready, I know. But I think, maybe,” his lips graze the shell of your ear and you tense, sucking in a breath at a new wave, something other than rage, or tears. Something more like wanting. Something this man has been able to reawaken unlike all others, sucking poison from a wound. “All this fight, all this fire, needs an outlet. One that doesn’t involve you tryin’ to tear me to pieces.” He kisses the hinge of your jaw, your cheek, your lips, and sense rapidly slips out through your fingers. The wanting has turned to magma, freshly erupted from the volcano in your chest, and it’s filling you up, taking over. You press your thighs together, looking for something to quell it.

Mistake.

He zeroes in. “When was the last time someone touched you Daisy? Made you come?” His voice is different. Husky. Your stomach clenches. “Is that what you need? Instead of fighting, do you want to come?”

“N-no.” Yes. He kisses you again, this time with tongue, and you moan shamelessly when fingernails drag across your belly under your scrub top. You briefly, barely remember that it’s the end of the day. You got off an hour early, at least.

“I think you do,” he murmurs against your mouth, “but I don’t think you want it sweet. Not yet.” He’s drawing patterns across your skin, dipping just into the waist of your pants, up under your breasts, and you whine. It’s unbecoming. Shameful. But you’ve long lost your mind. “Did you lock the door when you came in, Daisy? Or is someone about to walk in here and see me eating your pussy?” Holy fuck. He spins you, it happens so fast you gasp, your hands placed on his desk, bent over at the waist. “Keep your hands on the desk.” He has your scrub pants untied and down before you can blink, hands on your cheeks, pushing them up and open, nose skimming along the inside of your thigh. “You’re wet baby. Christ, you’re a fuckin’ dream. My dream.” You have nothing to say, no words to put together, and you make a strangled sound when his thumb finds your clit. “How long has it been?”

“I- I- years.” You squeak, and he chuckles.

“Should we see if this thing still works?” He licks, nips, and your teeth find your forearm, trying to stave off your noises as you clench, empty and still wanting. Waiting. “Yeah, think it does.” He grunts as a finger just barely pushes inside you, and dangerous emotion swells at the breach. “Poor thing, no one to take care of it for so long. That’s okay. I’m here now. I’m gonna give you everything,” his finger moves deeper, and it already feels like too much. The pleasure is lifting the weight of your pain to the surface, all of it coming to a head, rage melting away, tears left in the wake. “Gonna take care of everything, you an’ this sweet little pussy.”

“Simon…” Your forehead thunks onto the desk, and then his mouth is on you.

“I know baby, I know. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you. It’s so much more than this. It’s the parachute, the waiting arms, open and ready to catch if you could only take the fall. You rise and rise, tears wetting your cheeks, a small sob rolling out of you like a wave. You lose yourself in it, in him, and he eats you like a last meal, one he’d never be able to finish because it’s over far too soon.

You come almost immediately. Not even thirty seconds in. You explode into stardust and it’s a violent thing, has your hips bucking, your muscles burning as you ride it out, wringing it dry. You don’t stop, can’t, and he talks you through it, encouraging, sweet. Good girl, my brave girl, did so well, so proud of you, I’ve got you, I’m here-

You turn to jello immediately. He kisses the crux of your thigh, the curve of your ass, the small of your back, and you register it all in a haze, fog rolling in across your mind, sight blurry at the edges. And worst, or best, of all, your anger, your tears, the fight-

It’s gone.

He loops an arm around your waist, holding you steady while he drags your underwear and pants back up your legs, turning you back around to face him with the strings in his fingers.

“I can do that.” You don’t sound like yourself. You sound like crushed petals.

“I know.” Still, he doesn’t let go. He ties them into a bow, ensuring they’re tight enough. You let him lead you like an unsteady newborn fawn over to one of the chairs, trying to speak, to say anything, but it comes out as a feeble croak, and your fingers tighten in the neck of his scrub top. His mouth brushes your temple. “It’s okay. Sit.” You don’t have a choice, you can’t stand anyway, and your boneless, nearly lifeless form sinks down into the overly plush cushions, head lolling onto the backrest's pillow. You’re drained.

He kisses your forehead. Kind. Sweet. Patient. “Close your eyes, rest.” You should say no, tell him you have to go home, get to Riley, but he reads your mind. “It’s early still, got another hour ’til seven. I’ll take you home after I review these charts.”  Again, you should refuse, but your eyes are so heavy they’re hard to keep open, and you’ve been dreaming of sleep like this, slipping away like this, warm, comfortable, sated. Just for a few minutes.

The last thing you see is a pair of blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, full of something that looks a lot like-

love.