Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was the last time Cecil would humor any other government official's insistence that he attend any of these tasteless gatherings. A disgustingly luxurious, hedonistic mess that was nothing but a waste of money and resources that could be used for something far more critical, his teleporting, for example. Instead, the money was spent on a fancy venue, food, and questionable company. He was aware that he wasn't liked anywhere, and he was okay with that; he wouldn't be returning next year or at any future event.

Perched over the balustrade of the balcony in a far too uncomfortable position for his age, Cecil stood, tilted forward, leaning on his elbows, nursing a drink he could not bring himself to finish. He found himself feeling like an angsty teen attempting to escape a family gathering. The practiced slurry giggles of the "entertainment" accompanied by the embarrassingly boisterous laughter of the guests made his head throb; he couldn't even find it in himself to fake smiles or pretend he was, at the very least, mildly enjoying his drink. A part of him wishes he could indulge, treat himself, and enjoy a drink rather than let the bottle drive him to bed on those lonely nights when guilt eats away at him. He wonders if he could, perhaps, allow himself some company for a night, a warm body on his bed to dull his torment, drown out dark thoughts with carnal pleasure. It would never happen.
He tosses back the rest of the drink, straightens his posture, and hears the popping in his back. He waits a second for the pain to dissipate.

"Not your type of party, I take it." Your voice caught his attention, enough to slow down his departure; you kept a safe distance from him, noting the disinterest and irritation he had made no effort to hide since he arrived.
You had kept an eye on him, as well as on multiple guests, trying to find a client for the night. You should have gone for an easier catch, but still, you gave it a shot.

"No party is my type of party," he clarifies, cold and sharp. He should have left there, but he didn't, as if giving you a chance.

"I figured," you nodded to yourself, and cocked your head to the side, gesturing towards the glass balcony door. "Out of all the guys in there, you don't seem to be interested in making a fool of yourself to impress the hired entertainment,"  you add, and move closer before leaning on the railing.

"So why aren't you in there being impressed by old fools?" His eyebrows arch, his hand fidgets with the empty glass, looking into the residual ember droplets clinging onto it, and how they slide with the gentle rotation of his wrist. 

"I guess I aim for a challenge," you shrug, and he glances at you; he doesn't seem any more irritated than he was before, so you take this as a good sign. "Just trying to get a client, can't blame me for that, can you?"

He shook his head, and you could hear the semblance of a dry chuckle muffled by the night breeze.

"I am no expert, but I don't think I'm supposed to know that." His eyes return to the glass, and you scoot closer.

"Why would I treat you like you are stupid?" You ask, a smile on your face, confident, but he sees right through it. 

"Is that not what you are doing?" His brow furrows, and you wonder if the light-hearted chuckle from a second ago was just your imagination.
 Your mouth falls half open trying to think of an answer, and he gives you a half smirk. 

"It was a good try."
He sets the glass down on the railing, and his hands go to his pockets. You cut your losses; it's time to move on.

"What's your name?" His question stops you from leaving.

"Miracle," you purr, your answer as you had practiced, trying to make yourself more appealing. You are what men like him want, the salvation he craves. 
But he snorts and shakes his head in disapproval.
 "I meant your real name." He doesn't seem irritated this time, instead he moves closer.
Now that you two are within reach, you can smell the liquor in his breath, a faint hint of sandalwood, and something more chemical, like alcohol from disinfectant. You see the bags under his eyes more clearly, the wrinkles in his face, and the jagged lines of his scar, so close you feel tempted to run your hands down his cheek, but you don't.

"Not very gentlemanly to question my name," you smirk, but you give him your name.

"Pretty," He notes, lost in thought for a second. "Are you...?" He stops halfway through his sentence.

"I am available for the night, but anything out of the venue is extra," you clarify, and for a moment, consider touching his arm. Still, he almost recoils ever so slightly, a twitch of his arm, the proximity makes him uneasy, but it doesn't scare him off.

His scared cheek twitches into a smirk, and for once, you can discern what his expression says: he is interested. 
"They cheapened out on the 'entertainment,' huh?"

"Excuse me?" You quirked an eyebrow, and the darkness of the night was not enough to hide the light blush in his cheeks, the sense of embarrassment catching him by surprise. 

"I didn't mean-" He tried to explain himself, but the smug smirk on your face gave it away; you were messing with him, and he returned the smile.
"Not very gentlemanly of me," He quipped, parodying your previous comment.

The drunken laughter and clinking of glass continues across the door, while you two sit quietly for a moment, one second long enough to make it awkward. Cecil considers, again, an escape; how much harm could that do? If, for once in his life, he gave himself a night to enjoy being human. If he could still call himself that.

"Are you going to give me your name?" you cut through the odd silence. The soft breeze accompanied your voice, making you shiver and ruffling the thin hair at the back of his head, but he seemed otherwise unbothered by the coolness of the night. Lucky him who got to wear a jacket, while you were stuck with glittering spaghetti straps and a silk dress.
 "Don't they give you that information?" He asks in return.

"We are not given that information," you began to explain, leaning on the railing to look at the barely illuminated grass and tile walkway below. 
 "Technically, I am not supposed to know who is here, what you talk about, who you know." When you glance back at him, you notice the way his eyes trace the line of your back down to the curve of your ass, his eyes meet yours, and he looks away; he's just a man after all.
 

 "Then what are you supposed to know?" He asks after clearing his throat, in a way, trying to divert your attention from his oogling. However, with the thoughts he's formed from the moment he laid eyes on you, looking is hardly the most inappropriate thing he could be doing. 

"I am supposed to know how to smile, be pretty, agree with you on everything, and boost your ego, because you are the dreamiest man in the whole world." You let out a sigh and bat your eyelashes to really sell the point. He rewards you with a pleased hum.

 "Is that right?" He sighs; he has indulged himself far too much by simply chatting with you, as superficial as it might have been. For a man like him, who values all that is efficient and essential, this was an unhealthy treat.

 
His eyes lock onto yours, catching the moonlight, as if life sparked back within him, and his mouth fell open ever so slightly, but his expression flickers and fades into a furrowed brow. His eyes focus low to the ground as if trying to concentrate on something else.
 "Perhaps another time."  A flash of light makes you flinch, giving a step back, and when you open your eyes, he is gone.

 Cecil appears right into the control room, locked onto the large monitor, where a kaiju is approaching a city, millions of lives at risk; this was his life, every day of it.
"Sorry for the interruption, sir," Donald chimed. He had known Cecil long enough to figure out if he had stayed that long at the party because something or someone had caught his attention.

"No worries, the drinks sucked."

Guilt doesn't keep him awake that night; the thought of you does. It is never enough to distract him from work, but whatever respite he gets, he's met with the memory of your eyes, your sweet voice, the promise of your company he had illusioned himself with enjoying and imagining how you would have spoiled him with your touch and how he would have sampled heaven if he had you. His salvation, his miracle.

Besides, he never properly introduced himself.

Chapter Text

Cecil would not call this stalking because he had access to anyone's information if he wanted to. He did not need to follow you in the middle of the night; he had your name, and that was all he needed. He rejected the thought for about a day, but then he started digging. He was paranoid enough to convince himself that you must have been some undercover assassin, anything to justify his snooping. 
 "I think she might just be a regular civilian, sir," Donald suggested, having been informed of Cecil's encounter with you once the denial began.
"There was something in her eyes I did not like."  What he did not like was the way you had made him feel, or how you could make him feel: Vulnerable and wanted. 

"I don't mean to overstep, but perhaps you do... like her?" Donald stated, leaving the end as a question, even doubting if it was worth mentioning, as if Cecil would ever admit to something so childish as liking someone.

"What, you run a loveline now? I'll dust off the landline if I ever need dating advice. The reports?" He scoffed, shaking his head at the ridiculous idea of liking an escort. He tossed your file across the desk and extended his hand for Donald to hand him the files, only glancing at yours, making a mental note to look at it later.

The more he looked, the less he found. When he sorted through medical records, family history, odd spending habits, and extensive internet history, you were simply a woman down on her luck, and he was a creep and a paranoid. However, when he powered through his 4th headache of the day, squinting at the text on his screen while trying to ignore the boner the memory of you had cursed him with, yet again, you are a temptress sent to infiltrate the GDA via getting in his pants. 

Naturally, he is back on the hunt. Finding your schedule and travel routes was easy enough. 

You sank yourself in work, whatever that night entail for that particular day, the pain is less, and you can stretch out your meds for a couple more days before you have to fight with your insurance for an approval again, they take longer each refill, as if this hadn't been the same medication you had taken for nearly a year. Skipping doses, though, is like not taking anything at all.
There is no time to complain, though. 

 6 am: You work at a cafe in the morning, a mom-and-pop hole in the wall where your other job would never find you. Unfortunately, money struggled to find you as well. 
 2 pm: You return to your apartment, giving the door a few shakes before the key finally turns. Ever since you moved into this place, the door has been a struggle. The windows were rusty and too tight to open during summer when the AC would go out, and during winter, there was low water pressure every morning. Still, you would fight tooth and nail to keep this crumbling set of walls and chipped paint. Despite its tiny size, it feels empty most of the time. You drag yourself to the bedroom, ignoring the mess of dirty dishes in the kitchen and the pile of laundry yet to be folded. You know you won't sleep until you clean it, but you try anyway.
 5 pm: Your phone wakes you up after a short nap, not long enough to even feel like you've been asleep, but your neck is still sore as if you had been folded over yourself for over 8 hours. You have another event tonight, which is good. You are just tired. Ever since the event where you met that man you started to feel like something was off, a constant tingle at the back of your neck as if someone is watching you from a distance, the insidious notion of being followed; It must be stress, you kept telling yourself, avoiding the association of meeting powerful men and the crawling in your skin, you never really thought about any man you met at those events, or anything they said, or the stuff they bragged about. You tuned it out, every single one of them; that's how you stayed sane.

It didn't mean you would not recognize these men out in the open; it just meant you would pretend you didn't, which is precisely what you did as you filled up the coffee cup for the man at the table, that morning at your day job, the man you had met at that event a week ago. 

The sight of him at the quaint diner was not out of the ordinary; he was dead center in the age demographic of the place that he would visit, especially during your early shifts. To you, however, it was rather unnerving to see a would-be client at her day job.

 "Anything else I can get you?" you ask, as you do with any customer. He shakes his head lightly and sips on the coffee, pleasantly surprised by the flavor. 

"No, not right now." He replied, seemingly uninterested. He picked up the newspaper he had with him and did not try to make a move. He did not speak to you; he paid for the coffee and left you a decent tip.

You kept your guard up for the rest of the shift, hoping nobody would notice you constantly looking over your shoulder, trying to catch him still there somewhere in the room, maybe watching you through the window, on your way back home, why had you been stupid enough to give him your name? were you really that comfortable with him? You were t. You wanted his money, and something about his demeanor made it seem as if he was way too tied up in his world to care about seeking you out. In the moment, it made sense. Now, your thoughts were a mess.
  You entered your apartment, a bit more rushed than usual, shaking the doorknob with a tad more urgency and force, to feel your heart leap to your throat right when your paranoia and anxiety began to ease away.

You had been booked for the night.

With the strange day you had the idea of being requested for directly, only put your nerves on edge, like hot oil splashing you could feel your skin prickle at the nape of your neck, your feet felt heavy as you stepped onto the hotel room's elevator, and the familiarity with this process did nothing to soothe the tension off your shoulders, on top of that, knowing your client was expecting for the company to be far more relaxed and sensual rather than a bundle of nerves. Still, some clients found the ladder to be more alluring. You had discovered this over time, not the most pleasant knowledge, but you had become accustomed to uncomfortable thoughts at this point. 

The walk to the room was long, and the stillness of the hallways at a high-end hotel once made your stomach twist; right now, it calmed your nerves, so you took your time, but you made it to the door, and despite your hesitation you took a deep breath, feeling a cold chill through your entire body as you did. 
 You slid the keycard into the reader slot and watched as the light turned green with a soft mechanical hum, before the click of the lock sliding off. Placing your hand on the door handle and taking another deep breath, you give yourself some words of encouragement, looking up at the ceiling of the corridor one last time.

"Hello?" you walked in, keeping a hold on the door handle with one hand and your phone in the other to check the instructions, "Enter room with key, no need to knock." The idea of leaving bouncing in and out of your head as your eyes scanned the room, noting the black leather couch and armchair, surrounding the crystal coffee table, the sound of running water coming from a fountain by the wall was a touch that your rattled nerves appreciated. The small hallway that led to the bedroom of the suite was rather plain, with brown wooden walls and some generic abstract artwork hanging on them. You figured the bedroom could wait.

The clicking of the lock broke you out of your trance after you let go of the handle, swallowing your doubts again, you began to remove your coat, but the chill of your paranoia and the temperature of the room quickly made you change your mind, bundling up instead. Not exactly the look most clients expect, but they expect you to be comfortable.

You find a spot on the couch closest to the door, and you cannot bring yourself to sit back, to sit like a normal person would. You are back to feeling like a novice at this, on edge, all because your nightlife found you during the day, but perhaps it's your imagination, your lack of sleep. Your shoulders loosen up, and you begin to recall how he seemed too preoccupied with his reading to look at you properly. You scoot back and slowly start to lean.

"You are keeping your coat on?" The familiar voice almost forced your body upwards, your head snapped in his direction, your eyes wide and mouth agape from a gasp.

"Didn't mean to startle you." Right behind you, by the entrance door, he stood with a hand in his pocket; you didn't even hear the door open. He slowly began to make his way to the bar in the room, contemplating the bottle of champagne left as a courtesy, holding it in his hand by the neck as he read the label.

"You didn't," you forced out, almost out of breath, but you could still make out your own words, the way your heart beat blocked your hearing, blood rushing to your face, to the point the rest of your body ran cold.

"I could have sworn I saw your skeleton nearly jump out your skin" "I am not exactly a pleasant sight, no need to play games with me, remember?" he placed the bottle back down on the ice bucket and redirected his eyes to you, firm and cold, like he was scolding you for forgetting your conversation back in that first meeting.

You swallowed down, your mouth going dry as you mustered out a strained agreeing sound and nodded your head.

"Do you need a minute to calm down?" His hands went to his pockets, his expression unchanged, but the inflection in his voice carried a hint of concern.

"You were at my... My job earlier today," you croaked, slowly gaining the confidence to confront him. He claimed to want your honesty, so you gave it to him.

 "I might go more often, the coffee is good." Unfazed by the note of panic in your voice.
 "You said you didn't know anyone, you just know how to smile, be pretty, agree with me on everything, and boost my ego, because-"

 "You are the dreamiest man in the whole world-" you cut him off, your fear slowly being overtaken by your frustration, he was either oblivious to your concerns or out right ignoring them, with any other client you would have known better, but him, who from the beginning he seemed to admire your willingness to tret him as a decent person and not another degenerate, the little grace he was offering you was hypocritical.
  "What do you want?" You crossed your arms over your chest, making sure the coat covered as much of your body as possible, your eyes, both anger and suspicion rising in your head as you attempted to figure out his intentions. His gaze softened, and for a second, you expected an apology, but no such luck.

"I just want to talk," he raised a hand at chest level, a sign of peace, but you were skeptical, and as he stepped closer, you leaned back on the plush couch, looking up at him through furrowed brows.

"I'm still charging you for my time," you spat out with a scowl.

 "And I'm still paying you for it." He stopped right in front of you. He had already paid for your time, so this was no issue to him.

"You haven't given me your name," you shot back, still trying to find a way to get back at him, but instead, he extended his hand.

"Cecil Stedman, nice meeting you."

Cecil didn't ask anything too invasive, mainly about your day job. You didn't need to know that he already knew your address, had already watched you walk home, had already been picked up for an event, and already knew what your rare days off looked like. 

He offered you a drink, and you got water, mentioning how you didn't like to drink while working. You eventually shed your coat and shared the couch with him. He took his time sipping on his drink, something strong, which seemed to be his go-to.

"You are a creep," you mumbled during his questioning, checking your nails to avoid eye contact. You heard the sound of a mild chuckle, and he moved on from it, not bothering to address it.

"Why did you approach me?" he asked, before taking a sip. You perk up at the question, turning to look at him. 

There were things you could have said to any other client, truly sell the fantasy, but not to him, and that was probably the best part about Cecil being a client.
 "You seemed lonely," you put it simply, and he caught on. Licking the bitterness of his drink off his lips and offering you a smirk, finding your assumption humorous in retrospect.

"Thought I would be an easy catch?" The glint in his eyes and the smirk playing on his lips, dedicated to you, in the warm light of the hotel room, made you giddy, your head automatically turning away to hide your blushing cheeks and growing smile. He might be old and practically bald, but not any less good-looking. You had to admit he rocked the look.

"I underestimated you." Your head tipped back, flicking your hair away from your face. "I won't be making that mistake again." Your leg swings over the other, crossing them and adjusting your position on the couch, all to hide the fact that you are attempting to scoot closer, just enough to bump his leg playfully. To your surprise, he only gained a strained sigh and the shifting weight off the couch as he got up.

"Flattering. But I still got work to do." He fixed his jacket and straightened up his tie, smoothing out the shirt underneath as he turned to face you, entranced by the look in your eyes.

"Are you going to disappear on me again?" The soft whine you added at the end of your question did little to hide your annoyance at this game of chicken he had pulled you into, backing away right as you began to get invested. You waited with a challenging look on your face, hoping the brattiness would be just what he needed to persuade him into staying.

 The transactional aspect of this encounter made it easier to consider the idea; it made it much easier to move closer to you and caress the bottom of your chin with his index finger, and run his thumb against your bottom lip.
  Making no effort to pull away when you opened your mouth to catch the tip of his digit between your teeth, barely grazing his skin, he left it there for a moment, contemplating, imagining how he would bend you over his knee and redden your soft flesh until no trace of brattiness was left. You would be such a sweet girl for him. The way you kissed the pad of his thumb as he pulled away confirmed it, you would make the days easier, give him something to cling onto, humanity he could feed on.
 As much as he wished to give himself into the pleasures of your company, he could not bring himself to give in, not yet. 

"Is it that unfortunate? You get about an hour to yourself?" He smirked before once again disappearing in a flash of light.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts, and the realization that for a moment you were more willing to sleep with him than to have more sleep time.

Chapter Text

You couldn't enjoy your time at the hotel. It was unusual to be paid for doing nothing. Back when you were younger, you would have hopped on the opportunity without hesitation. Now, filled to the brim with responsibilities, the stress of life alone puts you on edge. You would have taken a nap or head downstairs to the buffet for a fancy dinner included with the room, but instead, you stayed seated on the couch, scrolling through your phone until the time for the session was up. Your hip stiffened, and your knee bent against your will, forcing you back onto the cushions, where you sank into their softness, giving you little leverage to adjust your body into a more dignified position. The sharp pain running through your leg pinned you down, preventing you from even drawing in a full breath. Now, you were glad he was gone. 
The pain dissipated, just enough for you to sit up, catch your breath, and stand up. You had a slight limp to your step, looked a bit worse for wear after having your face buried in the couch cushion, nothing new for a night like this, you suppose.
 
After another week, you tried not to keep track of the days, but your disappointment was blaringly obvious when you finished a shift with no sign of him. The call for the night was an event; no matter how hard you tried to deny yourself, you wanted to see him again. 
 
He was a strange one. Soon, he plagued your thoughts as much as you unknowingly plagued his. Your mind was wandering off during the event of the day to the point that it was visible to the people around you.
 
"Hello?" A pair of manicured fingers snapped in front of you, waking you from your trance. "You've been distracted lately," one of the girls you worked with sat next to you on one of the pool chairs. The event was as riveting as usual. Sit around, look pretty, act interested when approached.
 
"Have you had any weird clients?" you asked deadpan, your eyes scanning the pool area, watching how the other girls mingled with the crowd and chatted up the guests, all smiles and giggles, while you looked a tad more serious than it was allowed.
 
"All these guys are weirdoes; you need to be more specific?" She accentuated the word 'weirdo,' making her vocal fry almost feel forced, as she tied her large, wavy, red hair into a ponytail. At that moment, another one of the girls came by and sat on the empty chair next to you, listening to your conversation.
"Has a guy ever paid you to do nothing? Like just talk?" you explain, trying not to let in the fact that he interrogated you; it had been awkward and weird to think about how paranoid the man must be. The girl did not seem alarmed. The other one chimed in.
 
"It's a fetish for some guys, I think, I've had guys pay to watch me do stuff," she explains, but it was not that way; at least it didn't feel like that was his goal. It made you think, maybe that's why he keeps leaving you, perhaps the idea of leaving you hanging does it for him, but coupled with his evident paranoia, perhaps he was just nervous.
 
"We also get a lot of lonely guys, they want to pretend you are something special to them, but like I said they are all weirdoes in the end" Red esplained, with a slight air of disgust, all the girls here had encountered their fair share of creeps, lonely or otherwise, they learned to live with it, not dwell on it. Still, Cecil seemed different, as stupid as it made you feel, deep down, you wanted to believe that.
 
Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a man approaching your little group. Faces quickly smoothed out, and smiles shone bright, accompanied by high-pitched enthusiastic greetings, and then, back to work.
 
You could only think of him that night; if that was what he wanted, he got it. When you closed your eyes, your mind would drift off somewhere else entirely. While the client of the night got his fill, your thoughts found him. It irritated you to no end how he invaded your mind palace at a moment like this, especially when, to be quite frank, the guy on top of you was not doing it for you in the slightest, not that many of your clients were concerned about that. You put up your best performance, impressing even yourself; the man walked out of there thinking he had really shown you a new kind of pleasure. The irony was, Cecil would have probably told you to stop faking, even if it was the version of him you began to imagine.
 
 
Early in the morning, a bit too early, when the doors of the diner had barely opened and the first coffee pot was just about to finish brewing. He sat at a booth, scanning the place just enough not to give off the fact that he had also been wanting to see you, but neither of you would ever admit to it. After all, the coffee here is good, which is why he is there. 
 
"Good morning," you greeted. Cecil seemed tired, more than ever before, as if he hadn't slept in days, eyes sunken, dark, and dull. What kind of life must he live that it drains him to the core?

 
There were many things about Cecil that he himself was not proud of; the fact that he had so many was one of them, and his sleep schedule was another. He had taken sparse lunch breaks in the days after your meeting and slept for no more than 3 hours at a time.
 
He could blame you; he wanted to. After that last meeting, he was back to business as usual. He thought maybe you had been a momentary fixation, and once he had you by his side, with a cooler head, he was able to overcome the temptation. How naive he was.
 
Just the previous night when he managed to make it home and attempt to sleep for even a few minutes, instead he found himself huffing and groaning on his couch, it had been a while since he had given himself this kind of treatment, of care; constantly preocupied with the most recent shit show, near nuclear disaster, concerned with the heroes inability to follow simple instructions, day in and out he rarely ever gave thought to the fact that he was not just still human but a man with the exact needs as the rest; men like the kind you lay with while he is out there saving the world, and he is oh so bitter about that fact. 
 Lying back on the couch, his tie and jacket gone, most of the buttons in his shirt undone, pants off his lap as he stroked his length in his fist, not his most attractive moment, or his proudest, but he was alone.
He hissed your name, over and over, as he flicked his wrist with each pump. He clung to the memory of your teeth on his thumb, your lips, that kiss. "Such a good girl for me," he whispered to himself, conjuring a vision of you in his head. Your body following the rythim of his hand in all sorts of positions, the livingroom of the hotel room, on the couch, even his office desk, envisioning your gasps and whimpers, but you werent the weak type, you would probably talk, challenge him, enciting him to shove his fingers in your mouth; his free hand tightening around the arm of his couch, gritting his teeth and his hand continued to smear his pre-cum and spit along the shalft, tip drooling and messy. It had been a while. 
 "Fuck..!" He started thinking about your mouth again, how sweet you would look on your knees, glistening lips, how you would obediently part them for him, keep those round, beautiful eyes on his, even when the gagging makes you tear up. A sharp gasp escaped him, and he glanced down at the mess he had made of his clothes, glossy streaks adorning his white shirt. He finished unbuttoning it, using it to wipe his hand, and tossed it to the floor, letting out an exasperated sigh that turned into a groan as he dragged it out. He rubbed his face with his clean hand. He wanted to see you again.
 
That's what led him there.
 
"Morning, just a coffee, please." He sighed, looking up at you with his weary eyes, revealing a weakness deep within them, something he would never let anyone see, not willingly. The notion of which warmed something in your heart, he was not in the trenches like you, the strain of your lives was nothing alike, but at the end of the day, it appealed to your human side, and even a man of his standing could need a smile. If only you knew the ways he had twisted your body in his imagination just the nights prior. Just one more reason why he doesn't deserve kindness.
 
"Right away," You smiled gently, leaving only for a couple of minutes while you got him a coffee and a muffin. 
 
"I didn't-" he tried to speak, lifting his hand, as you placed down the pastry.

"I know, it's on the house," you winked. You were a monster, thinking you could toy with him like this out in public, where he couldn't bend you over the table- he stopped his train of thought and nodded his head. 
 
"No need to fish for a tip, I like your service just as it is," he took a sip of the coffee, focusing on the flavor and the rich aroma. 
 
If he came back, it would be for the coffee, he told himself. And he repeated this promise every time he returned.
 It was not often that his visits were sporadic, but his order was always the same.

"How's the wife doing?" you asked once. It was not uncommon for your clients to be married, after all, and he hadn't requested you since the night at the hotel; your working theory was that he was regretting his decisions. 
 
"Non-existent," he replies, sticking out his hand with the mug for you to refill it. "How's your...partner?" He asked, unsure of the terminology youths would use.
 
"Just as lively as your wife," you quip. At this point, you had built rapport, not as your personal client, but as you would with any regular at the diner; he was, after all, an old single man. A smile and a giggle, and you secured yourself a fine tip. 
You would have never let yourself get too cozy with a client, seeing how exhausted he looked half the time was oddly reassuring. You did not have to worry about him blackmailing you; he had bigger fish to fry, and your double life was the least of his concerns.
 
At his age, you thought Cecil would be no different from other men, but, as you've been repeating to yourself, he was a strange one; Cecil was the kind who would request you, after weeks of small talk, and far too many coffee refills to be healthy, but he would rather work during the two hours he had paid for you to be with him.
 
"What do you do for work?" you asked him, a bit daring, you assumed from the look he gave you. He peered over his laptop, his eyebrow quirked, before returning to his work. 
The room was smaller, still had a kitchen separate from the bedroom, but you didn't pay it much mind. The view of the city was lovely, a twinkling skyline of nightlife. The king-size bed was in the middle of the room, covered in a sage green silky duvet and matching white and green pillows, a large flat screen mounted to the wall, which you had chosen not to turn on as your night's companion seemed to need the silence; silence which you decided had gone on for too long. You rolled over from your spot on the bed to inch closer to the edge, and closer to him.
 
Cecil sat on a desk, set away from the window, and you deduced that he had staff move it around so he could easily look at you, but it was harder for you to peek at his screen.
"Why do you want to know?" He only looked at you for a second; whatever it was he was working on was far more important than the woman he had hired to be there.
 
"I'm just curious why you work all the damn time," you reply, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
 
"Let's just say I keep nosey girls like you safe, no more questions." He finally pulled away from the keyboard, leaning back to look at you with an exhausted look, and you chuckled in response.
 
"Seems like they give you a hard time there," you stood up from the bed, giving a couple of steps close, noting how tired he looked, even now, the last thing he needed was some brat asking questions she had no business asking.
 
"Sit there and watch TV or your phone, or go take a bath or something, I am not doing anything you should be concerned with over here." He chided, gesturing with his hand towards you.
 
"Are you into watching girls lazing around?" 
 
"I said no more questions,"  he said firmly, refusing to look at you.
 
"Are you really going to be secretive about that, too?" You stopped just in front of the desk, hands on your hips, giving him a challenging look.
 
"You are not going to listen today, are you?" his hand flew to the top of the laptop screen, resting his fingers on the edge, his eyes fixing on you with furrowed eyebrows.
 
"Are you going to punish me?" You gave your voice a babyish tone, smirking at his eyeroll, but something at that moment sparked, which made you bite your lip.
He closed his laptop and swung his chair to the side as you walked around.
 
"You would like that, wouldn't you?" his hand came gently to the curve of your hip, barely gracing it yet threatening to squeeze. "One more question out of your mouth and I just might." The smoothness of his voice washed over you. He'd been waiting for a reason to discipline you. His free hand pushed the computer to the side, freeing some space on the desk. Even when the bed was more than ideal, he had been imagining this for a while. He stood up, now looking down at you, daring you to give him a reason.
 
"What if-" The beeping of an alarm went off; his time with you was up, and immediately, he began packing up. His hungry eyes were gone, and that heated touch left a lingering coldness in their stead.
 
"You have the room until morning, but if you would rather leave, I don't mind." Cecil slid his laptop into a suitcase alongside the other paperwork he had with him.
 
"Why do you do this? Pay for me, not even touch me?" you asked with an urgency you wish hadn't been there. Why did you care so much? This was work.
 
"You want me to?" he pauses. Your disgust was only partially intentional; you would never consider spending time with a client to be something remotely enjoyable. However, your curiosity (what you chose to call the attraction you felt) alone made the idea of him particularly far more appealing than your face let on. He took your reaction as an answer, shrugging his shoulders and making his way to the door.
He stops right at the doorway, looking back at you.
"Who brews the coffee at your day job?" 
You sat down in the desk chair he had previously used, tilting your head slightly at the unexpected question. 
 
"uh.. I do, usually. Why?" but he did not reply, he made his way out the door.
 
"Of course you do," he mumbled once you were out of earshot. He'll have to keep seeing you. For the coffee, of course.

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