Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“What happened?” I shout, a little baffled, as the cloud of flour settles around us. 

Simon is standing there, in my formerly pristine kitchen, holding what is now a mostly empty and slightly torn bag of flour. 

“I—I don’t know! I was just trying to open it when it… it just exploded! ”

I’m staring at him, but the look of dismay on his face sends me into a fit of laughter. I can’t control it, the whole situation is so unbelievable. 

“ Sei un incubo assoluto ,” I collapse into his shoulder, unable to hold back the tears from laughing so hard. “Absolute. Nightmare.”

“Yeah, well. Arrête tes conneries . Help me clean this up! I really want to finish making these scones!”

After the flour fiasco, we both take showers. (Separately, so one of us is able to keep an eye on the scones in the oven. Simon might actually cry if we burn them.)

While I’m in the shower, I can’t stop thinking about how smitten I am with Simon Snow. My boyfriend . He’s taught me so much about myself already, and we’ve only been together for a little over a month. 

I’ve been wanting to show him everything he’s taught me. He’s worked with me on my dancing a few times now. And I’ve been practising at home, working on a dance routine for him. I think I’m ready. And after our talk this morning about our relationship, I want to give him what he’s given me. (Mostly, fantasies that I think we may be ready to make a reality.)

Thoughts of Simon—his deliciously carved body, broad shoulders, gorgeous fucking forearms—invade my mind. I close my eyes, letting my hand drift down my body. Imagining what it would be like if that hand was Simon’s instead. I wrap my hand around my shaft, working up a steady rhythm. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about him while masturbating, but it’s the first time since it felt like this was a real possibility. Knowing that he’s chosen to be my boyfriend despite the ass I can be. 

It doesn’t take long before I’m spent—my knees weak and my breathing shaky. I finish the rest of my shower quickly, anticipating my dance for him. 

I’m in his lap on the couch, mouthing at every mole I can reach without laying him flat and stripping him down. The thought is incredibly appealing, but I also really want to dance for him. I’ve worked myself up to it, even dressed in the jeans he’s obsessed with and a tight-fitting v-neck. 

“Simon,” I say, moving from his collarbone up to a mole at the base of his neck. 

“Hmm?” The sound of his response vibrates on my lips. 

“I was thinking...” I lick a trail up his neck from the mole I was working at to just below his ear. He rasps a breath, and I smile at the fact that Simon is already coming undone. “I’d really like to dance for you. See if you think my technique has improved under your expert tutelage.” 

His eyes light up brighter than the sun. “ Tabarnak! Baz, that would be... Yeah, yes. I’ve thought about you dancing for me since. Well. A long time.”

I take his face in my hands and kiss him, my lips brushing his. Kissing Simon is always good. It feels like it means something. 

I pull away from him, queueing up the song I’ve been practising with on my phone. ( Freeek! by George Michael). 

“Sit back, mon chéri . For once, let yourself relax and enjoy the show.”

I step a few paces back, giving myself enough room to begin the dance like he showed me. I can’t just start in his lap, I need to work him up to it, help create the fantasy for him. 

Dancing in front of the mirror while practising always felt so awkward, but dancing for Simon feels right. All of my hesitation has evaporated, leaving only the desire to show him exactly what I would like to be doing to him. 

When I strip my shirt off, I make sure to swing it over my head before snaking it around the back of his neck, allowing myself to draw myself to him. I climb into his lap, tossing the shirt aside while grinding down on him. 

His hands are grazing up my torso and gently scratching down my back until they land on my ass. He gives a small squeeze, but I’m already moving out of his lap to turn around and give him a good showing of my backside. I know he enjoys the view at any time and right now I’m working up a fantasy for him. 

By the time the song is ending, I’m back in his lap, but I’m not really dancing for him any longer. My fingers are buried in his thick curls, his hands roaming over my thighs. So close to where I’d really like them to be.

Even though I’m the one on top of him, Simon somehow has still managed to take control of the situation. I could die kissing Simon Snow, exploring every bit of his mouth. He wraps his lips around my tongue, gently sucking. I gasp, overwhelmed by thoughts of Simon sucking on me—thoughts of all the ways I would like to return the favour.

I have to pull away, completely breathless after the workout from dancing and being worked up by the menace beneath me.

As we catch our breath together, I shift further into his lap. I can feel his erection, and I’m sure he can feel mine. I undulate my hips like I did when I was dancing for him, and we both groan.

“God, Baz. That’s so fucking hot. I don’t even. Baptême .” His inability to speak full sentences is encouraging, so I grind into him again. 

“ Tabarnak ,” I say, “Simon...”

“So hot,” he growls and places two hands on my ass, grinding us together even more firmly.

“Simon, can I?” I ask, moving a hand down his chest and to the front of his sweatpants. He nods at me frantically. Breathlessly.

“Yeah. Please. Anything, Baz. ”

I stroke him once through his pants, which he clearly likes, judging from the completely pornographic noise he makes. I haven’t touched him there before this. I’m starkly aware of the newness of this for us. But we’re boyfriends now and I’ve wanted him like this for months.

As I slide off his lap and onto my knees on the floor, he opens his eyes and lets loose a sound of complaint at the loss of contact. But then his eyes find mine between his legs. His pupils dilate and he groans again before letting loose an absolutely filthy string of multi-lingual curses. 

“Shut up, you heathen,” I say into his inner thigh, but I can’t keep the smile from my voice. “You act as if you’ve never had someone on their knees for you.” I slide my hands from his knees, up his legs to the waistband of his pants. 

“Doesn’t matter, Baz,” he says, bringing a hand up to comb through my hair. I lean into his palm and my lips find his pulse. “None of them were you .” I’m so pleased by this that I hum and smile at him.

I hook my thumbs under his waistband and stroke across his hips. I can’t help but notice that there isn’t anything beneath his sweatpants. I look up at Simon and raise one eyebrow.

“What?” 

“Do you frequently go without underpants, Simon?” I slide my hands further into his pants and begin to push them down over his ass. I take my time with it. This is my first time touching him here skin-to-skin. I want to savour the feeling of it. I have to appropriately appreciate every part of him.

He huffs a laugh and strokes one hand through my hair again. It feels unfairly good. 

“I was...” He pauses and bites his lip, blushing. I’m quite glad I had the forethought to get off in the shower. If I hadn’t, I’d be dangerously hard already and I have yet to undress him. Even so, my jeans are growing snugger by the minute. “I was kind of hoping we would get to this tonight. But I do occasionally free-ball at home.”

“You’re disgusting, Simon,” I say fondly, as I press a kiss to the inside of his knee and finish pulling off his pants so I can finally see him.

I lick my lips at the sight. He’s resting thick and heavy against his hip, flushed with desire. 

I’ve thought about this, what he might look like. I’ve been tormented with the teasing shapes of him in his briefs so many times. Finally having him exposed and fully erect in front of me is far better than anything I could dream up. I can’t resist taking him into my hand immediately—he’s so warm —and I give my lips another wet lick in preparation.

I’ve given blow jobs before. To rave reviews, actually. But rarely were the reviews and the blow job concurrent; Simon cannot stop complimenting me. I don’t expect to love it as much as I do.

I take his head into my mouth to his whimper of “Crisse, how are your lips so perfect, Baz?”

I work myself down his shaft, sucking and laving, to a chorus of “yes,” and “good,” and “so hot, Baz.”

I wrap a steadying hand around his base and flick my tongue to his cry of “ Baptême, your mouth is sinful, mon chou. ”

When I lift a hand to caress his balls and stroke the pad of my finger behind them: “ Oh yes! There, Baz. That’s so good. ”

All the while, he combs his fingers through my hair, not forcing my head forward, but instead gently scratching at my scalp. It feels so good, I can’t help but moan around him, which only provokes a moan in return.

His clear pleasure is intoxicating. I meet his gaze through my lashes and see his eyes glazed and pupils dilated. “Oh Baz,” he runs a thumb over my temple and down my cheek, “your eyes are so beautiful. I’ve always loved them.” I can’t respond with him in my mouth, but I moan again and suck further along his shaft, feeling him hit the back of my throat just as it vibrates with the sound of my response. 

His eyes roll back. “ Fuck, Baz! I’m so close. Keep going.” His anglophone swearing is a sign of his incoherence, I think, and he loses all ability to form sentences. Instead, he encourages me with moans and a gentle tug of my hair.

I find a rhythm of sucking and licking and increase the pressure of my fingers on his taint. 

His growls and moans are positively melodic. His head is thrown back and his chest is rising and falling quickly with his breath. I want to see him like this every day.

Before he comes, he tugs carefully on my hair and attempts to say my name. In response, I double down, relaxing my throat to finally swallow his tip, moaning around it. 

His abs clench and tremble when his orgasm hits, and he folds at the waist. The sound of his groan is loud and garbled and unhinged and perfect. I catch every drop of his come. 

When he finally stops twitching in my mouth, he sits back on the couch again and looks down at me through half-lidded eyes. I pull off of him slowly, licking up him as he shivers with sensitivity. 

“So fucking hot, mon chou ,” he whispers. 

I climb into his lap and lean forward to kiss him, a little hesitant. Not everyone is wild about the flavour of their own come. I rest my forehead on his and meet his lips with a light brush of my own. His response is hazy and slow at first, but he presses forward into me and makes a noise of complaint when I pull back. Without opening his eyes, he pulls me back toward him, back into the kiss, and slips his tongue lazily between my lips. He keeps making these lovely soft sounds, and I can’t resist melting into him and returning his kiss with equal depth.

When I pull back to look at his face, his smile is dopey and his lips are pink and wet. Crisse, I’d like those lips on me . 

“Baz, mon chou ...” He trails off, frowning and sniffing the air. “ Mon chou, my scones!”

He dumps me (still hard and now a little frustrated) off his lap and onto the couch, then races naked to the kitchen.

“Don’t burn your dick off,” I shout after him. There’s only the clanging of metal sheet pans in response. I try not to pout about my abandonment. I wish we hadn’t included baking in tonight’s date plans. 

Simon peeks his head back around the corner far faster than I expect. I thought I’d lost him to scones for the night, but he walks back in looking a bit guilty. Maybe I haven’t hidden my pout as well as I had planned.

“I’m sorry, Baz. I didn’t mean to abandon you right after. But I cannot abide burned scones.” He extends a hand to me. “Don’t worry, though, I thought we could shower again while we wait for them to cool.” I haven’t taken his hand yet, but he’s staring at me with the sweetest puppy eyes, and it’s nearly painful to resist. “Join me, mon chou ? I think there’re a few things I can do for you .”

I give into him. Of course I do. 

I’m already shirtless, but as soon as he pulls me up off the couch, he dives a hand straight to my fly.

I press up into his hand and he laughs in satisfaction.

“You are too fucking cute for your own good, Simon.”

“And you,” he teases while he pulls down my zipper, “are far too hard for your own good.”

I grumble and help him push down my painfully tight jeans. “Whose fault is that?”

“I know, cherie , I’m sorry.” The way he says it, as he covers my neck and shoulder in kisses, makes me think he’s not sorry at all. It’s difficult to care though, given his hands and mouth are now finally on me. Though not where I need .

Simon leans down, trailing kisses over my chest, stomach… He squats before me and nibbles just above the waistband of my briefs as his rough hands drag my jeans down to my ankles. Feeling his skin against my bare thighs is already enough to make me groan. A whole tumble of curses falls out of me when Simon drags his mouth over the bulge in my briefs. I can feel his hot breath through the fabric—it’s driving me mad.

Before I can press my hands into his curls to urge him on, Simon yanks down my underwear with little finesse.

“Brute,” I huff.

Simon gives my cock a long once-over, licking his lips. I hold my breath in anticipation.

And then he’s standing back up and slipping away from me, grinning cheekily. “Come on, shower!”

He’s going to be the death of me—but not until I end him, first.

In my previous relationships, showering with someone else has always proven to be sexier in my fantasies than in practice. It’s different with Simon. Perhaps because this is our first time naked together. Or because I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the sight of Simon with his skin glistening with moisture from all his sinful, sweaty dancing.

Simon makes good on his word to pleasure me as we shower, though he certainly doesn’t let up on the teasing aspect. He rubs me all over, exploring my body under the disguise of helping me clean. Piece by piece, he kisses each spot dutifully after the soap suds are rinsed away.

 I complain about the torture because I’m an interminable ass to him, and yet Simon— Crisse —he takes it all with grins and laughter and nips at my skin, and he returns it all with proclamations of how gorgeous he finds me. He’s nearly abandoned touching me between the legs, and yet I’m left trembling, leaning against the cold tiles for support.

“Snow, Simon, tabarnak , please, I can’t—”

He kisses me deeply against the wall. I sink my fingers into his wet curls, holding on as he finally takes my cock in his hand. I moan into his mouth, and he strokes me, tight. He does this wonderful thing with his wrist where he swivels his grip on the upstroke, and it’s doing unspeakable things to me.

Simon sucks on my tongue, drawing a wild noise out of me. I’m reminded of how much I want him sucking on my cock. Oh, but his hands are unfairly good. Mon dieu . He sneaks his other hand between my thighs to palm my balls, and my knees nearly give out.

To my embarrassment, I whine in protest when Simon breaks the kiss with a chuckle. “Are you going to collapse from a handjob?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and thunk my head back against the wall. I hope he can’t tell how hard I’m blushing. “It’s been a while,” I defend. “And… it’s different, with you. Everything is so different.”

“Oh, Baz .” Simon kisses me again, hard and breathless, sliding the hand on my balls up my body and into my hair. “I want to suck you,” he says into my mouth. “That okay?”

“What a stupid question,” I groan. But then I give my head a shake and press his shoulders. “Not here, though. Kneeling in a shower is the worst.”

Simon laughs. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

Once we’re haphazardly towelled off, Simon lies between my spread legs on my bed and renders me absolutely mindless with a sloppy-yet-charming blowjob. I’m suddenly extremely grateful for his voracious appetite and poor table manners; they’ve proven remarkably beneficial. 

“So, the dance wasn’t terrible?” I ask, curling into Simon’s side, burying my face into his neck. Breathing him in. He wraps an arm around me lazily, tracing shapes onto my skin with a gentle touch. 

I may not approach his level of professional in the dance realm, but I’m observant enough to be able to recognise my own improvement since we first started going out together.  

“You’re exceptional, Baz. You could make some serious money if you wanted to put those skills to work.” I raise my eyebrow at him. I’m not that good. “I’m serious. You could, if you wanted to. We have patrons at my club that would lose their minds with you.”

“ Ta geule .”

He kisses my nose. “I’m serious. But you know what’s even more serious?” 

“What?”

“Scones. We made scones, and I haven’t had any yet.”

“You really are a nightmare,” I tell him, but I slide my hands around his waist and march him out the bedroom door toward the kitchen.

“Ahh, but it seems you are rather fond of nightmares.”

“ Solo te . Only one.”

I meet him at Fairmount Bagel on a dreary Saturday morning. So often, our dates are about heat and movement and dancing. Sometimes it’s good to break it up with mundanity.

Despite the fact that Simon decided on a monstrosity of a breakfast sandwich on an all-dressed bagel to my simple pumpernickel with cream cheese, he finishes his fare before I’m even halfway through, so he’s talking at me a mile a minute as we walk along the street toward his apartment. I like that he’s comfortable enough to talk with me like this now. Words aren’t usually his strong suit. 

I think he’s going on about his recent trip to America with Bunce, but I’m hardly following him at the moment. I’ve been distracted by how cute he looks when he’s excited.

“...So anyway,” he continues, “we mostly stayed in DC where professor Bunce was doing her lectures, but then Penny really wanted to see some of the pieces in the Walter’s Museum in Baltimore and it was only an hour away.

“So I was like, ‘Fine. As long as we go to a museum I like, too.’ And then she was like, ‘sure where do you want to go, Simon.’ And I was so excited because there’s a really good cryptological museum in Baltimore—”

I interrupt him here. “Wait. Snow. Cryptological. Like mythical animals? You’re such a Mulder. I should have known.”

He flushes beautifully. “ Ta geule , Baz! It was a cool museum. Way cooler than the art one Penny picked! Actually, I think Penny liked it, too. She is dating Shep, after all. That’s basically his whole thing. Cryptozoology. And storm chasing, I guess, weird blizzard-man that he is.

“Anyway, though, on the way back, I was Penny’s navigator. And I had to look at Maryland .” He makes a weird ugh sound after the word Maryland. “It’s shaped so weird! Who the fuck would make a state like that? It’s got this weird skinny leg that’s only the width of a highway with Virginia interrupting it like it got shit out by a bird.” He splats one hand against the other to demonstrate. “What’s that about? Why do Americans get off on making their states so wonky looking?”

I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. Soon enough, he’s laughing along with me. We just stand, holding each other for support, laughing and blocking the sidewalk. I can’t imagine anything better.

“You have to order in Italian,” Simon whispers to me, as if it’s a great secret that he’s trusting me with. 

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I really don’t.”

“C’mon Baz. Please? We’re at an Italian restaurant—in Little Italy. ” He’s staring at me with a look of anticipation. As if I’ll suddenly realize that he’s right and Italian is the only way to order our dinner here. 

“You are aware that the menu is in French ? You could order for yourself in English or French just as easily as I could order in Italian.”

“ Or, ” he says very slowly, elongating a two-letter word much longer than it deserves to be, “you could order in Italian. Impress your boyfriend because you know how he feels when you show off. And see what that earns you after we get back to your place.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Simon Snow is going to be the death of me. 

After we’ve ordered (pizza margherita, in Italian, because who am I to deny Simon such a request?), we fall into easy conversation. 

“Do you have any siblings?” he asks. There is still so much we have to learn about each other. So far we’ve mostly discussed what makes us happy, our aspirations, the things that make us tick. But we’ve never discussed the big stuff—our lives growing up or family life. I know that he grew up in the care system and that he doesn’t like to discuss it. I’ve never pushed. 

“I do.” I can feel a fond smile tugging at the corners of my lips. I’ve always been fond of my younger siblings, even though I’ve not been home enough to know them as well as I’d like. “Three sisters and a brother. All younger than me, by quite a bit.”

“Do you all look alike?” He has a slight smile on his face, but his eyes look almost sad. I wonder if thinking about having a large family is painful, when he grew up alone. 

“They all look very similar—dark brown hair, round cheeks, big innocent eyes. They look more like my step-mother. I take after my mother.”

“Oh,” he trails off. “I didn’t know your parents weren’t together.”

“Yes, well. I don’t often talk about my family too much.” I take a breath, looking down at my hands. “My mother died when I was five. Father remarried a few years later. Daphne has always treated me as her own, even when I didn’t want her love. Especially when I didn’t want her love.” I glance up at Simon, the look of silent understanding written across his face. 

“I’m really sorry, Baz.” He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. “I know it’s not the same, I never knew my parents so I never had people to miss. But I can at least understand how it feels to be missing a part of your identity.” 

“I’m sorry you never had a chance to know your family. I have hard days sometimes, where I miss her so much it hurts. But I’m still very fortunate. My parents do their best.”

He watches me for another moment before shaking his head, looking like he’s trying to banish some thought from his mind. 

“Well, aren’t we a sad pair?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Tell me more about your siblings.”

I tell him about manipulative mastermind Mordelia, who is eleven now and starting her first year at boarding school in the fall. The twins, who are seven, and think it's hilarious to pretend to be each other. (Their teachers were not impressed when Olivia took both of their math tests through careful manoeuvring.) And my only brother, the baby of our family, who lives and breathes hockey. 

Simon’s eyes are bright, hanging on every story I tell him about the troublemakers I call family. 

“Do you think we can babysit sometime? I never get to play with little kids anymore now that I’m out of the homes,” he slurs his statement around a slice of pizza. The way he eats is a tragedy, yet I can’t look away. “I hated kids my age, home kids are rough. Always fighting and stealing whatever they could get their hands on without getting caught. I preferred spending time with the littler ones, making sure they knew they weren’t alone.”

“I think Daphne would be thrilled if I asked her and father to take a night off. Of course, I think we should probably plan to introduce you to my family first.”

His face falls, like this nightmare hadn’t actually considered the necessity to meet my parents before babysitting my siblings. 

“Oh. Right. I uhh—” He dissolves into a mess of incoherent noises and incomplete sentences.

“It’s alright, Simon.” I take his unoccupied hand in mine, rubbing it soothingly with my thumb. “When we’re ready, I’d like you to meet them. And then we can discuss babysitting with Daphne.”

“Yeah, alright.” He looks both relieved and a little sad. Someday soon I’ll make a point of bringing him home to meet the Grimms. 

We’ve been watching The Great Canadian Baking Show together for most of the night. But Simon has been distracted, biting his lip and trying to sneak furtive glances at me. I know something is on his mind. I wish he would just say whatever it is, but I know it takes him time to work out the words he wants to say.

“Simon.” I take his hand in mine. “You’ve been quiet all night. Well, as quiet as you can usually manage,” I add with a smirk. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but something has him holding back. It makes me feel uneasy. “Would you like to tell me what you’re thinking?”

He caresses the back of my knuckles with his thumb. “Well, I have a gig scheduled this weekend. A big one.”

“Okay.” I’m not sure why a gig would make him hesitant like this. “You have at least one gig every weekend. That’s nothing new.”

“Right. Well… this gig they asked for a stripper duo. But we’re pretty overbooked this weekend.” He shifts his body, his knee bouncing. I haven’t seen him fidget this much around me since the night of the bachelor party. “Summers are busy, with so many weddings and grad parties for private gigs. Plus the club is busy with the tourist season.”

“Okay, so what is your concern? You’re obviously worried about something.”

He looks up at me, blinking a few times. “Well, we’re overbooked. So I was asked if I knew anybody who would be willing to work with me off the books.” He looks down into his lap, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Compensation would be generous.” 

I look at him curiously. I’m fairly sure he’s trying (and failing) to ask me. “Have you found somebody to dance with you yet?”

“Dunno, haven’t actually asked him yet.” Something in his eyes makes my chest feel tight. I never actually considered dancing for anyone other than Simon. 

I take his hands in mine and climb into his lap. “You should ask him.”

“Baz.” He squeezes my hand, a smile ghosting his lips. “Can you give me Dev’s coordinates? I need to ask him if he has plans Saturday night.”

“You jerk! Are you kidding me right now??” I throw my hands up in the air in complete disbelief. 

“I’m kidding!” He laughs, pulling me close to kiss the tip of my nose. “Baz, would you be willing to work with me as a dancer at a bachelor party?”

“I don’t know now!”

“Oh, don’t pout,” he says, placing a chaste kiss to my lips. “You know I wouldn’t ask Dev.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Do over. Ask me again.”

“Baz, mon chou , as you know, I need to find a partner to dance at a gig with me. Would you be willing to work with me at the party?”

I give him a sarcastic half-smile. “Yes, Simon. I will. But only because you asked so nicely.”

“Can I ask you something?” I’m leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, watching him read a webcomic on his phone. I love it when he spends the night—looking so comfortable and at ease in my bed.

He looks up with a soft smile when he sees me. “Anything.”

“Why were you so nervous to ask me about the gig?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, putting his phone down. “I guess I just. Didn’t want you to be disgusted with the idea? With me for wanting to ask.”

“Simon.” I cross the room and sit on the bed next to him. “You know I don’t have a problem with you dancing. I’ve never been disgusted with that part of your life.”

“I know.” He picks at the edges of the comforter. I hate that he’s started fidgeting again, I want him to know that he’s safe here with me. “I just... I worry, you know? That one day you’ll change your mind. That you won’t want to deal with this anymore. I thought maybe asking you would be crossing a line.”

I reach out to take his hands in mine. “Simon Snow, I choose you. Every part of you. I won’t change my mind.”

He reaches up, grabbing hold of the collar of my nightshirt, and pulls me down to him. He does it all so quick and smooth, I hardly have time to register what’s happening before I find myself on my back, pinned down by this menace. 

He leans down, his mouth pressed to mine. “Just so you know, I am looking forward to working with you.” His teeth lightly graze my jaw. “Seeing those eyes hungry for you as you dance, knowing only I get to have you at the end of the night.” A nibble on my ear makes my breath catch. “You’ve learned so much during our lessons. I was serious when I told you that you could make good money dancing.” 

He suddenly sits back, looking down at me. I make a pathetic whine at how far away he suddenly is. “If you need to back out, tell me. You don’t need to explain. I don’t want you to do anything if you’re not ready.”

“Alright. But I don’t think I will change my mind. I want to do this—with you. Now if you don’t mind, you were in the middle of something that I’d very much like to get back to.” I buck my hips up, connecting with his thigh. 

We pull up to the hotel in my Jag. I look Simon up and down one more time before we walk through the revolving doors, heading up to the penthouse suite. The whole situation feels very surreal—it wasn’t very long ago that I had come to this very same hotel with Dev and Niall to host their bachelor party. Only a few months since Niall paid Simon to give me the lapdance that would seal our fates. I’ll never admit it to Niall, but I’ve never been so grateful for his interference in my personal affairs. 

Simon is dressed in his trademark purple; I’m in a deep shimmering green. (It's so dark, it’s nearly black.) The tearaways the agency came up with for me didn’t fit perfectly, but with the bit of alteration I did last night, I’m confident the party guests will be pleased.

“Are you absolutely sure about this? You can still back out,” Simon asks as we’re waiting for the elevator to be called down. His eyebrows are pulled together in a look of concern. 

I quirk a smile at him, trying to ease his anxiety. “Are you worried I’ll steal your spotlight?”

“Only worried I’ll have to pull out all of my best moves to keep up with you.” He leans over to give me a quick kiss. “But if you get uncomfortable, you don’t need to finish out the night.”

“That wouldn’t be very professional, Snow.” I roll my eyes at him, “I couldn’t have you getting in trouble at work for recommending a novice.”

“I don’t care. I’ll handle it. They didn’t have the staffing—that’s on them.”

“I’ll be fine.” I lean into him, our mouths inches apart, “I know what I’m getting into. Believe it or not, I’ve hosted a party that had a stripper before. I just hope I do a better job than the stripper I had hired for that party.”

He laughs, the heat of his breath ghosting across my lips. “I bet he didn’t get any complaints.” 

“He was a little too forward, quite unprofessional,” I murmur. “Asked me to call him if I wanted to go out sometime.”

“Probably worked out in his favour,” he smirks at me. 

“Probably.” I close the distance between us, my lips brushing his gently. A chaste kiss, knowing I don’t want to get myself worked up right before going into a party where I’ll be stripping out of my clothes. 

A thought comes to me, and I really hope Simon will be up for it. “I have an idea. Would you care to make a wager about how tonight is going to go?”

He pulls back and looks at me suspiciously. “What are you plotting?”

“I’m not plotting . I’m simply suggesting a game of sorts.”

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I bet that I can collect more tips than you do tonight.” I watch him, waiting for his reaction. 

He shakes his head at me in disbelief. “Not gonna happen, Pitch.” The elevator doors slide open, and we both step in. Simon has a devilish grin on his face. “But you’re on. What are we wagering?”

“If I win,” I say with cool confidence, “you’ll let me take you to the new Montréal à l'italienne exhibit at Pointe-à-Callière.”

“Fine.” He crosses his arms like he’s about to pout, but I can see him holding back a smile. “But if I win you’ll be subjected to spending a full day with me baking and watching T he Great Canadian Baking Show without complaint.”

I nod at him in agreement. “It’s settled then. I hope you’re ready to work for it.” 

Simon glances at me from across the ornate hotel room. He lifts his eyebrows as he blows me a kiss. He’s an absolute idiot—one that I am completely besotted with. 

The night has gone off without a hitch, Simon and I working on opposite ends of the large room. Despite our bet, I start out slightly hesitant, unsure how to dance for a group of strangers. But knowing that Simon was right across the room—seeing him perform in the seductive way that clearly had the party’s guests seeking his attention—allowed me to ease into my own performance. Having hands on my nearly naked body, strangers tucking bills into the waistband of my trunks, is exactly the motivator I needed to give this my all. Thinking about my bet with Simon also helps. 

Occasionally I’ll look over to feast my eyes on Simon as he leans into his performance, feeding off the crowd around him. I wish I could sit back and just watch him. 

When I take my ten minute break, I do just that, watching him with a cheeky grin between sips of water. He’s absolutely magnificent when he dances. 

I’m anxious for the night to be over, not because I’m not enjoying the gig, but because I’m anticipating a long night alone with him once we get back to my place.  

After the last song has finished and we’ve collected our gear, we head back down to the Jag. 

We’re driving for a few minutes before either of us speaks. 

“You did so well tonight, mon chou ,” Simon says, reaching over to rub my leg. “I knew you’d do great.”

“Of course I did,” I say with an air of confidence I certainly didn’t feel when the night had begun. “I’m a Pitch.”

If his hand moves much higher, I’ve already determined I will have no choice but to pull the car over and kiss him stupid. 

“Would you do it with me again?”

I reach one hand down to take his rather than letting him continue to grope my leg the way he is. We’re only a few kilometers from my apartment. I’m determined to make it home before I do something in this car that I’ll regret. 

“I could probably fit another gig in my schedule.” I lift his hand to my mouth to kiss his knuckles. 

“Okay, Pitch. Count up your tips,” Simon says as soon as I cut the engine in front of my building.

“You want to do this now—before we’ve even gotten upstairs?” 

“I have a list in my head of things I want to do the moment we open your door. Counting money is not one of them.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. I can only hope his list includes some of the same indecent things that my list does. 

After a minute of counting under the dome light of the car, Simon turns to me. 

“261 bucks,” he says. 

“Not bad.”

“Of course it’s not bad for a couple hours of work. What’s yours?”

“253 dollars” I’m not shocked that he collected more tips than I did—he is a professional after all. But I am surprised that I came as close as I did to matching him on my first night.

“Not too shabby,” he tells me. “But I think you can do better next time. With a little more practice.”

“Do you think I need another lesson tonight?” 

“Might not hurt,” he says with a fire in his eyes. “Now let’s get upstairs. I want to show you all the things I would have liked to have done with you after I danced for you that first time.”

I lead him up to my apartment, eager to live out the fantasies that those party guests could only dream of.