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Leather is never his first choice for evening wear … or any wear, really, unless it’s for preventing road rash when he’s on his bike. Otherwise, it’s heavy, sweaty and a pain in the ass to clean. 

 

But, Sin City has a strict dress code and if his lack of commitment to wardrobe is the reason they get turned away, Betty won’t be the one getting punished tonight no matter what colour her lipstick is. 

 

(And when he says ‘punished,’ he means getting the cold shoulder and being forced to sleep on the couch, not the fun kind of punishment that would make missing the event almost worth it.)

 

He says ‘almost’ worth it because Betty’s been looking forward to tonight for weeks and her excitement is contagious. Fever nightclub, three towns over, hosts a kink and fetish night one Friday a month, and this one happens to fall on Betty’s birthday. There’s no way she isn’t going.

 

On Wednesday, she decided she’d wear burgundy lipstick, and now that’s all she’s wearing while she watches Jughead get ready. Her eyes are dark and glassy as they follow him around the room, and he’s doing his best to ignore her but fuck if she isn’t drawing him in like a moth to a burning flame. 

 

“Shoulders okay, love?” he asks, stroking her knee gently. Her legs look even longer than usual, hooked to the bed frame with a spreader bar between her ankles. She nods, looking at him pleadingly and flicking her eyes between his and the vibrator humming quietly away against her clit. He knows it’s not powerful enough to do anything but keep her wet and wanting, but isn’t that half the fun? 

 

“Tapping out already?” He turns the vibe off and moves to free her ankles, and her eyebrows shoot up in alarm as she shakes her head in a panic, mumbling apologies through the pretty silver ball gag in her mouth. 

 

It’s adorable when she begs. 

 

“Good girl. How’s your safety?” She’s sitting up against the headboard, her wrists cuffed to the bedposts, and she has a golf ball clenched in each hand that she can drop if she wants to stop the game. 

 

She nods again, rotating her wrists and lifting each finger, one at a time, and he smiles his approval.

 

 “You were made for this, weren’t you, pet? Look at you, spread out like a fucking five-course meal. Can’t wait to eat you out later.” He pinches her nipple and she moans, arching her back when he twists it between his fingers. “Love your tits like this.” They’re full and probably aching, nipples hard and sensitive, dusky pink against her pale skin. He can’t resist leaning down and taking one in his mouth, relishing the needy whine she lets out when he sucks deeply and drags the flat of his tongue over her soft skin. He kisses her cheek when he stands up, and moves away from the bed, digging in his suitcase for his little bag of tricks.

 

“All tidy?” he asks, turning back around and showing her the rippled glass plug in his hand. She swallows and nods, and her hands clench around the golf balls. There’s no hesitation in her eyes as he prowls towards her, flicking open her cuffs and flipping her over onto her knees. The silenced vibe falls away and he can see the effect it’s had on her, her sex swollen and glistening like a rose after the rain. “So wet, my beautiful girl. I don’t even need lube for this, do I?” He rubs the toy against her clit and she moans into her gag, arching her back in invitation. He knows what she wants, and she’ll get it eventually, but not now. He teases her with the cool glass, coating it in her slick, and then eases it into her until all that shows is the sparkling handle. 

 

It doesn’t do a thing for her physically, he knows, but she loves how it makes her feel. Their dirty little secret. 

 

She looks positively depraved, with her ass in the air and her legs spread around the steel bar, gagged and flushed, with sex dripping down her thighs. Their room is on the 30th floor, but he makes sure not to stand between her and the open window because he knows she loves to be watched, loves to think she could be seen - and what a treat that would be for an unsuspecting neighbour.

 

He enjoys the view for a moment, massaging her ass and smacking it lightly a few times, just enough to leave a pretty glow on her skin, then almost regretfully removes the spreader and helps her to her feet. 

 

It’s getting late, and he wants a minute with his wife before he takes his pet out for the evening. 

 

“Yellow,” he whispers, unbuckling her gag and giving her a handkerchief to wipe her face. “Okay?”

 

“More than okay, Jug,” she answers, her voice throaty and rough. “God, you’re good at this.”

 

“I aim to please, Doc.”

 

She wrinkles her nose at him and shoves his shoulder playfully. “Shut up and kiss me, weirdo.”

 

Her lipstick tastes like blackberries, and it feels strange to be holding her so carefully in the midst of all this torture, but he savours the feel of her soft body melting into his bare chest and her fingers gently carding through his hair. He’s hard inside the tight leather pants and she smiles against his lips, pressing her hips into him teasingly. “Someone’s having fun,” she purrs. “You gonna make it through the night?”

 

“Ready to find out?” His eyebrow flicks up and she grins, stepping away and dropping to her knees submissively. 

 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “Have you decided what to wear?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Can’t wait to see it. Get dressed. We’re leaving at eight, so don’t keep me waiting.”




At eight-fifteen, she slips out of the dressing room in all her burlesque-style glory: champagne-coloured lace panties with a short ruffled train, gartered silk stockings with a long seam up the back of her legs, and yards and yards of pearls draped around her neck and over her bare breasts. She’s still pulling on her opera-length gloves when he reaches her, spinning her around and slapping her hands onto the wall over her head. 

 

“What time is it, pet?”

 

“Watch doesn’t really go with this outfit, Daddy,” she teases. He wonders how long she’s been waiting to pull out that quote. The movie must be twenty years old by now. 

 

“It’s eight-fifteen,” he growls, kicking her feet apart and giving her a sharp slap on her thigh. “You’re late .”

 

“Oh dear,” she says contritely, blinking at him over her shoulder. Feathery false lashes and shimmering makeup don’t hide the mischief in her eyes. “Whatever shall you do with me?”

 

“Pets who don’t behave get punished.” He slips a butterfly vibrator into the front of her panties and turns it onto the lowest setting. “Fifteen minutes late, was it? It should take about that much time to walk to the club, don’t you think?”

 

She squirms. “In these shoes? About that, yeah.”

 

“Perfect.”


They both wear long overcoats in the elevator and for the short walk down the street to the club, skipping the line and heading to the members-only entrance. As a general rule, he doesn’t like clubs but this place is the exception. There’s no judgement, people don’t drink to excess and even Betty has said how safe she feels here. In all the years they’ve been coming to Sin City, they’ve never heard of anyone being touched without consent, and they’ve never seen so much as a shoving match, let alone a fight. He can’t even say that much for his office Christmas party.

 

The music is pulsing through the VIP cloakroom, and Betty’s shaking when he helps her off with her coat. Little beads of sweat dot her brow and her lipstick is almost chewed off. He’d walked her briskly down the street, not quite edging her with the butterfly, but keeping her aroused enough that it wouldn’t take much to send her over.

 

He can almost taste the desperation on her. 

 

Cupping her face in his hands, he invades her mouth with his tongue, stealing her breath and biting her lip roughly before they go inside. He won’t kiss her again until they leave, and she chases him when he pulls away. “Behave, pet,” he warns, gripping her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t make it worse for yourself.” 

 

The vibrator shuts off abruptly, and her knees go slack when he lets her go; he pulls her upright with his hand around her throat. “What do you say?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she pants. “Thank you.”

 

“Good girl.” He reaches up and smudges the remains of her lipstick with his thumb. “You look a little dishevelled, love,” he grins. “Better tidy yourself up a bit before we go in.”

 

She sticks her tongue out at him and slips into the tiny powder room to fix her makeup. He’s tempted to send a jolt through her, but doesn’t want to risk her stabbing herself with that terrifying little mascara wand, so he sits on his hands instead.




Five minutes later she’s as perfect and composed as she was on the day Aphrodite brought her to life. She follows him into the club, head held high and hips swaying seductively. A few friends recognize them and say hello as they walk to the edge of the private lounge, looking out over the general club. It’s a seething mass of bodies, some barely dressed, others in elaborate outfits, all moving to a heavy beat.

 

 A woman in the corner has a man on a leash beside her, feeding him little appetizers and scratching his hair once in a while. There’s another woman leaning against the bar in a vinyl catsuit, the zipper open to her navel and her breasts threatening to spill out at any time. Betty shivers beside him and he knows she’s wondering who’s looking at her - her long legs, her bare back, the tempting curves of her breasts around the pearl necklaces. 

 

The short answer is everyone - even surrounded by exotic people, she stands out like a beacon with her elaborately waved hair shining under the lights and her perfect, pouty lips glistening in purple gloss. 

 

He must be crazy for even letting her out of their suite - he could be fucking her senseless right now, or bending her over the heavy wooden desk and spanking her until her thighs are wet and her ass is rosy and hot. She could be splayed open on the counter in the kitchenette, her wrists tied to the cupboard door handles and his tongue between her legs. 

 

His dick throbs in his pants and he comes back to himself with a start. Betty’s taken advantage of his lapse and lead him onto the dancefloor, finding a spot by one of the static poles where she writhes and twists around, using the pole for balance in her ridiculous, sexy shoes. 

 

Fucking hell. His throat goes dry when she slides the pole between her legs, dropping her ass to the ground and grinding against it. The challenging eye contact she makes doesn’t go with her flirty outfit at all, but it’s working for him anyway. 

 

She stands up again, rotating her hips all the time, and turns her back to the pole, spreading her legs and caressing her thighs with her long fingernails. Her breasts move as she sways, and it’s only a matter of time before one or both escape the curtain of pearls, and she is so getting punished for this display. 

 

Of course, that’s why she’s doing it. 

 

That and the thrill of being watched. 

 

He grabs her hips and hauls her roughly over. “Everyone’s watching you, pet. You like that?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she pants, still dancing in his arms. “Thank you for letting me, Sir.”

 

“It’s going to cost you.”

 

“I hope so,” she shrugs, smiling and trailing her fingers down his bare chest. “A girl can’t always be good.”

 

She goes back to her pole and twirls around it, dancing like she’s getting paid for it and it is so fucking hot  …

 

He’s lost count of how many times she’s almost made him crack during a scene.

 

He knows she’s safe where she is so he goes to the bar and gets two glasses of ice water, downing his own so quickly that some of it drips down his chest. When he gets back to Betty, he’s more in control of himself, and she smiles sweetly at him and takes the drink he offers her. “Thanks. It’s hot in here.”

 

“Well, you’re so over-dressed,” he deadpans. 

 

She splutters into the glass and hands it to him, wiping her mouth while she tries to swallow an over-large mouthful. “You’re such an ass.”

 

The club is a strange, almost liminal space for them. During a scene at home, it’s important to stick to the rules and the script so no one gets hurt. Here though, where the scene is just part of the party, they can relax a bit and be themselves while they build up whatever tension they’re looking for. It’s not like she can beat him senseless in the ladies’ room, so all they can do is flirt and tease. Betty, in particular, finds it incredibly freeing to let out that side of herself without having to stick too closely to a character. 

 

“Yeah, but I’m your ass.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small package. “Happy Birthday, Betts.”

 

Her jaw drops when she opens it, immediately holding out her hands to him so he can snap the wide silver bands onto her wrists. 

 

“Yours,” she whispers. 

 

“Always.”




Even in liminal space, his dark side peeks out. 

 

Watching Betty try to have a coherent conversation with an old friend is infinitely more amusing with the remote control in his pocket. He can see her press her thighs more tightly together, see the grip on her glass get shaky when he turns up the intensity. Then he drops it down to ‘one’ and she flashes him the finger behind her back, her jaw twitching as she tries to smile at her friend. 

 

Her self-control is truly incredible but he still feels like a kid in a candy store. The last time he did this to her, he wasn’t the one in charge and he was well and truly punished for it. 

 

It’s payback time. 

 

As soon as Betty’s friend kisses her cheek and wanders away, she makes a beeline for him, dragging him into a secluded booth and climbing on to his lap.

 

“Having fun, pet?” He turns up the power and drags his hand up her waist to rest on her breast. She moans and curls her hips a bit, biting her lip. 

 

“Yeah,” she breathes, closing her eyes and sinking into it. “Fuck, Jug.” He can barely hear her over the music, but he lets her enjoy it for a minute, rubbing his thumb over her nipple gently. 

 

“Don’t come,” he warns sharply when she moans. “Tell me when you’re too close.”

 

“I will,” she promises. “God, that feels good. Is anyone watching?” This time, he’s not sure if she wants an audience or not, but she hasn’t told him to stop, so he doesn’t.

 

“Not really.”

 

She nods and relaxes, straddling him and pressing her mouth into his neck. “I’m so wet, Sir,” she whispers. “I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

 

He tilts his head so she can sink her teeth into his skin. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

 

“Slow.” She moans again and circles her tongue around his earlobe. “So I have to beg for it.”

 

“Then what?” He grips her ass and pulls her closer, letting her rock against his erection. 

 

“Anything you want,” she whimpers. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”

 

The vibrator is turned off before she gets the whole sentence out and she goes rigid in his arms, moaning pitifully in his ear. “Please, Sir.”

 

“Patience …” He strokes his hands over her skin, slippery with the heat in the club, letting her suck desperately at his neck while she grinds against him. “Is my girl ready to go home?”

 

“Yes, Sir.” She scrambles off his lap and reaches for him eagerly. “Please take me home.”

 

He follows her more slowly as she all but scampers through the club, playing with the remote the whole way back to the cloakroom. It’s empty when they get there and she’s impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other when he closes the door behind himself and locks it. 

 

 He takes off her wrist bands and steps back. “Strip.”

 

She looks at him in confusion because all she’s wearing is panties and jewellery but he stares at her until she obeys. The opera gloves come off slowly, one finger at a time, and her body is still moving with the subtle pulse of the vibrator. He palms himself through his pants when she starts on the pearls, peeling them away slowly, more and more skin exposed until she’s able to cup her bare breasts in her hands, shimmying forward and pushing him onto the plush chair in the corner. “Like this, Sir?” 

 

Her thighs are slick and he can hear the faint buzzing that’s putting that glint in her eyes, but she feigns control while she writhes above him.

 

“Keep going.”

 

She whines at the loss of the butterfly when her panties drop to her ankles, so he slips two fingers deep inside her, just giving her enough to ground her - but he can’t wait any longer now that he’s really touched her, and he grabs her hair, pulling her down and crushing her lips against his. He swallows her surprised cry and wraps his arms around her, hauling her into his lap and grinding her against the front of his trousers, plunging his tongue into her mouth. 

 

“Not here, Jug,” she pants, wrenching herself away. “Take me home. Other people have to use this room.”

 

Goddamnit. She’s too considerate for her own good. 

 

They take a minute to collect themselves before he helps her on with the elegant cream coat. She buttons it over her bare skin, shivering in the cool silk lining. “This feels decadent,” she sighs, flipping her hair out over the collar and shoving the remains of her outfit into a folding grocery bag she fished out of the pocket.

 

Her lace-covered stilettos match the coat perfectly, and her Grace Kelly hairstyle makes her look as elegant as any silver screen starlet. Only he knows she’s naked and dripping underneath the outfit. Only he knows about the blown-glass toy nestled in her ass. It’s a privilege he’s incredibly aware of, shrugging his own coat on and opening the door for her, tipping the VIP attendant generously before they step out into the cool night air. 

 

The walk back to their hotel is just long enough that he and Betty are both off the edge before they get into the private elevator that will take them to the penthouse suites. When the doors close and the lift starts, he stands behind her and brushes her hair to the side. “Still good, pet?” he asks, kissing her neck and sliding his hands around her waist. “Looking forward to your punishment?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers pressing her backside against him. 

 

He slowly unbuttons her coat, sucking softly on the soft skin where her neck meets her jaw, letting the heavy wool fall from her shoulders and puddle at her feet.

 

“What if someone sees, Jug?”

 

“There are no security cameras in this elevator or on our floor,” he promises, stroking his hands over her, teasing her breasts and throat. He’s pretty sure the other penthouse isn’t occupied, so this is a thrill, not a risk. “I want to see you walk down our hall like this.”

 

He carries her coat for her as she forces herself to walk at a normal pace, the deadly shoes doing amazing things for her ass. Her thighs rub together with each step, the silky sheen of arousal just visible on her skin. She’s skittish, glancing over her shoulder as he follows her, but she doesn’t try to hide. 

 

She loves this.

 

He takes his time digging the key card out of his wallet, and then puts it away again, as though the idea has just occurred to him. “Put your hands on the wall and spread your legs, please.”

 

She looks around nervously but does as he says, letting him adjust her stance until she’s bent at the waist with every soaking wet inch of her on display to the empty hallway. 

 

“You don’t get to go inside until you come.”

 

He’s been edging her for hours, and she almost sobs in relief at the first strike, sharp against her sex. She jolts forward and claws at the elaborate wallpaper. He does it again, and again, and she slips down the wall a bit, spreading herself wider and making a strangled noise.

 

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Two fingers slip easily into her, and a third hooks through the handle of the glass plug. “Is this why you were teasing me all night? You wanted me to hurt you?” 

 

“Hurt me ‘til I come,” she gasps, arching her back more. “Please, Sir.”

 

She rocks on the balls of her feet, leaning into him and latching her teeth into her forearm to muffle her moans. Her skin is hot under his hand, red and perfect, prickling with each ruthless strike of his palm. She’s shameless, bent almost in half with her legs spread so wide that he can see her cunt clenching around nothing every time he hits her, aiming short, light taps at her clit between harder, luscious slaps on her thighs and ass. 

 

Please ,” she moans. “I’m so close. Please fuck me.”

 

He spins her around and yanks her leg around his waist. “You want me?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over her clit.

 

“God, yeah,” she wails, clapping her hand over her mouth in alarm and dropping her voice to a pleading whisper. “Please let me come. I want to come on your cock.”

 

There’s no resistance at all - she’s slick and hot and perfect around him and all he wants is to fuck her into the door. She shoves his coat off his shoulders and digs her nails in, leaning her back against the door jam and bucking her hips against him with no rhythm whatsoever. 

 

“I love you,” she gasps, scratching at his chest and damn near bending herself in half as she fucks him, her pussy sucking him in and her clit grinding against his short, coarse hair. “Fuck, I love you.”

 

He’s got both hands on her ass now, the only thing holding her up as she jumps up and wraps her legs around his waist, both of them dripping with sweat as she moves. She’s sucking on his tongue and pulling his hair and he’s fingering the handle of the plug and God, he hopes the other penthouse is empty because the sound of them coming together over and over is fucking filthy and there’s absolutely no room for guessing at what they’re doing. 

 

“Jug,” she whispers frantically, “I’m going to come, fuck, I’m going to come.”

 

He knows - God, he fucking knows. She’s so wet it’s dripping down his legs, and her cunt is squeezing him like it has a mind of its own. He can’t remember her ever feeling this tight, every wild rock of her hips punctuated with a fluttering squeeze around his cock. 

 

“Go ahead, Betts.” She’s already got permission, but what else is he supposed to say? It’s either that or beg her - not to stop, to milk him with that perfect pussy, to ride him into oblivion …

 

Wrong lipstick. 

 

He’s in charge.

 

She’s getting tighter, her nails digging in deeper and he knows it’s about to get loud. “Bite me, baby,” he pants. “Bite my neck.”

 

In the nick of time, just as he slides the toy out of her ass, she buries her face in his shoulder and bites down hard, whimpering into the bruise he can already feel forming. She’s gushing around him, clamping and releasing and going fucking wild as she clings to him, hot tears sprinkling his neck as she sucks, trying to keep from screaming out loud. “ Fuck ,” she whispers, finally, letting him go and pressing frantic kisses against his jaw. “Fuck that was amazing.”

 

And probably louder than was safe. 

 

With Betty still cradled in his arms, he unlocks the door and kicks their coats into the foyer, shuffling carefully into the room and letting the door slam behind them. The tight leather pants are stuck around his thighs making it damn near impossible to walk, so he sets her carefully down on the console table and wriggles out of them.

 

(The bad boy aesthetic is destroyed when he almost falls on his ass.)

 

When he rights himself, blushing slightly, Betty’s still sitting on the table, slumped against the mirror with a dazed smile on her face and a slightly unfocused gaze. Tonight was never about him - the enjoyment he got out of it was completely secondary to what he could give her - but now any lingering arousal is completely gone. If he screws up now, everything leading up to this moment will have been fuel to a very dangerous fire. She’s only dropped once, and it’s not an experience he’s eager to have her repeat.

 

“You okay, love?” he asks, scooping her up bridal style and carrying her to the bed. 

 

She just hums, gazing up at him with such complete trust that it takes his breath away. “Always,” she mumbles, her voice sleepy and her smile a little drunk in spite of her complete sobriety.

 

“You’re so good,” he whispers, laying her down then dashing across the room to crank the thermostat and close the windows. “So good and so beautiful.”

 

Tiny in the California king bed, surrounded by silk sheets and feathery pillows, she’s so much more than beautiful, so much more than good. He crawls over her, blanketing her in his body heat, and strokes her cheek gently. They have rules for this - early experience caught them unprepared and floundering and they learned from it - and he’s always ultra-careful with her. 

 

“I’m going to give you a massage, okay?”

 

Rousing herself with apparent effort, she blinks up at him and grins. “Like you have to ask,” she giggles. 

 

He doesn’t, because she’s going to say ‘yes’ to whatever he suggests, but he still feels like it’s important. She might remember this, she might not, but either way he wants her to feel safe and respected.

 

Setting a massage candle on the side table, he lights it and climbs back into the bed, holding Betty close and feathering soft kisses over her neck and chest, trailing his hands over her arms, threading their fingers together and kissing her wrists, whispering in her ear how much he loves her, how smart and kind and stunning she is. Marvels aloud at the softness of her skin, the beautiful curve of her hip, her long, gorgeous legs. He looks into her eyes, sure he can see right into her soul, promises to take care of her forever, thanks her for loving him. 

 

She blossoms like a rose under his praise, blushing and dewey-eyed, and he’s honestly a little grateful that she’s in no condition to return his compliments because he could go on forever about how wonderful she is, but he rarely gets an uninterrupted opportunity. 

 

The candle smells like bourbon and vanilla, a bit of him and a bit of her, and goosebumps erupt everywhere when he drips it over her skin. The bed seems to swallow her as she relaxes more and more, every firm stroke of his hands drawing a pleased little sigh from the midnight pout of her lips. 

 

“So good, Jug,” she whispers when he kneels at her feet and presses his thumbs into her tired ankles. She shifts her thighs apart and smirks a little when he smooths his hands up her legs, lifting her head up and winking at him. “Please?”

 

He’d thought she was pretty well sated but if she wants more he’s happy to oblige, settling on his stomach and pressing his mouth to her heat, groaning at the exquisite taste of her and falling into a lazy combination of soft tongue and worshipping lips. He’s not trying to stoke her desire, or bring her another orgasm - he just wants her to feel good, loved, spoiled. 

 

But she’s sensitive and responsive, and right now every part of her brain and body is open to being pleased so she does come again, slowly, as though it bubbles up from deep inside and spills, like water over a rock in the middle of a stream. She doesn’t shake or scream, just whispers his name and strokes his hair, her thighs tensing around his shoulders and her back arching just slightly off the bed. It’s beautiful and intimate and, for some reason, it brings tears to his eyes. All these years later, and it’s still him that gets to have these moments with her, these nights, these secrets. 




He doesn’t want her to have to wait for the bath to fill, and standing in the shower isn’t possible, so he carries her out to the balcony and turns on the jacuzzi, climbing in carefully and settling down with her on his lap, holding her protectively so the jets don’t jar her too much. There’s a handy little mini bar on the tiny deck, and he helps her sip overpriced sparkling water and feeds her chocolate buttons and strawberries. It’s not the perfect recovery meal, but he’ll order room service later, when she’s more awake. 

 

They sit together quietly, watching the stars come out, and the streetlights twinkling across the city, until his fingers wrinkle and her head stops swimming. “You back?” he asks when she turns in his lap and wraps her arms around his neck.

 

“I think so.”

 

“Feel okay?”

 

“Better than a spa day,” she laughs, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.” More than he thinks he could ever tell her.

 

He thinks she knows, though. 

 

“Tonight was perfect, Jug. Thank you.”

 

He still thinks he should be thanking her. “My absolute pleasure.”

 

She snorts at that. “I happen to know that’s only half true, but I’ll make it up to you in the morning.”

 

Trust her to make it dirty. “I mean it, Betts. God, the way you look at me, the way you trust me, the way you’re such a brat and you keep me guessing. Beats an orgasm any day.”

 

“Really?” 

 

Obviously she’s sceptical because God only knows how many times he’s begged her to let him come, like he’d die if she stopped sucking him, or riding him, or torturing him, but he does mean it. 

 

“Yeah, really.”

 

She hums contentedly and presses a kiss behind his ear. “You want a burger?”

 

What more proof does she need? He doesn’t deserve her at all. 

 

.

.

.

 

He wakes up in the morning to the ravaged room service tray on the coffee table, ruined leather pants in the foyer, crumpled wool coats in the hall, myriad sex toys littering the bedroom, and Betty, naked as a classical painting, curled around a pillow and sound asleep, with a smile on her bare pink lips.