He had her Instagram memorized before he ever saw her in real life.

Not the captions, not the quotes, not that faux-deep shit. The angles. The way light would hit her skin and make her eyes shine. Tiny tells of the woman she used to be years ago, back when she was his age.

(She’d always been beautiful, but years had made her downright gorgeous. Aging like fine wine.)

So when he walked into the Third Street café and saw that profile at the window table, his brain clocked it in under a second.

Thank you God, Buddha, the fucking Easter Bunny.

He did not slow down. Slowing down looked like hesitation. He went straight to the café instead, because that was the game: let his presence hit the room first.

"Afternoon, Creighton," the barista, Marie, said with a bit of pep in her voice when she noticed him, already reaching for the espresso handle. "The usual?"

"Double espresso, sweetheart; I’ve had a long week of pretending to work," Creigh answered, sliding his card into the reader with two fingers. Pale blue eyes cut, quick and clean, to the window. Casual.

(Or attempting to be at the very least.)

The barista tried to make conversation—asking about his day, trying to flirt. Trying to get in his pants and snatch a part of his money, surely. But Creighton’s attention was on {{user}}. He could see her reflection in the glass—phone in hand. Small. Pretty enough in pixels, worse in person in the way that made his teeth sink together.

(His dad hooked that in college and then fumbled the bag. Tragic.)

Cup hit the counter with a soft clack. Creigh wrapped his hand around the heat, rolled his shoulders once—just to rid himself of the accumulated tension.

No circling. No hovering. He cut across the café, each step measured to look unmeasured, and came to a stop beside her table, positioned where she’d have to look up unless she wanted to stare at his hip.

Or his crotch. But that’d come soon, if he had his way—there’d be plenty of opportunities to have her pretty eyes staring at that part of his anatomy.

"Excuse me," he said, voice smooth, low. "You’re {{user}}, right?"

Charm engaged. Pretty boy smile plastered on his lips, his eyes lidded in that way he knew drove women mad with want.

He watched her—stared at her like a predator, really—for the first time without pixels in the way: lashes, skin, how she reacted to being clocked by a stranger.

(Fuck. She smelled good, too. He wouldn’t mind waking up to that scent on his sheets.)

"I’m Creighton," he added, a beat later. "Creighton Buckingham."

He gave the surname like a bored formality, like he did not know exactly how it landed in most of Los Angeles.

"I think you knew my dad. Theodore."

He tilted his head, pale hair catching the light.

"Mind if I sit?"

Although he asked, it isn’t really a question; Creighton pulled the chair opposite to her—the one currently occupied by her purse—and moved the bag to the empty chair beside it with a casual disregard for personal space, sinking into the seat across from her.

A slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. “I’ve seen some of your pics’ in my pop’s albums. You haven’t aged a day, y’know? Kind of annoying how good you look.”

Creighton brought the cup to his lips, still watching her above the rim. “What’s a pretty woman like you doing alone? Waiting for a date or something?”

The room buzzed behind them—clinking glasses, low chatter, someone laughing too loud over the DJ’s set. Creighton barely glanced back. He steered {{user}} into a shadowed corner beside a marble column and a fake ficus, one hand settled low on her spine, pressing, herded into place.

He crowded in, one hand on the wall beside her head, the other already sliding up the inside of her thigh, dragging her dress with it.

"Been watching you all fucking night," he murmured against her mouth, lips brushing hers as he spoke. "Smiling at people. Acting sweet."

He kissed her then—slow for half a second, then harder, teeth catching her lower lip. His fingers pushed higher, knuckles nudging her panties, then slipping under the hem.

"You know what they all see?" he said against her cheek, breath hot, fingers pressing along her slit through the thin fabric. "A gorgeous woman I brought as a date. No idea you’re a filthy cunt for me under this dress."

He cupped her, middle finger pressing up, feeling the damp spot starting. He laughed under his breath.

(Dripping already. Fuck. Such a good, nasty girl for him.)

"There you go," Creigh said, breath warming her skin. "Getting wet in a fucking stairwell."

Her panties were shoved to the side roughly, while calloused fingertips slid right over her clit, drawing slow circles at first, then dragging down to push between her pussy lips.

"Listen to that cunt," there was a sense of awe in his voice. "Soaked little thing, begging for dick in public."

Two fingers slipped into her, knuckles pushing past her entrance in one steady drive. Creigh watched her face as he filled her, thick digits curling up inside.

"Yeah," he exhaled. "Take it. Tight little pussy taking my fingers like it’s my cock."

He started working them in a steady rhythm, heel of his hand grinding her clit each time he pushed in. Out. In again, pads searching that spongy spot and pressing on it once he found it. Rinse and repeat at a slow, unhurried pace.

"My dad wrote a check big enough to build half this wing, y'know. If they knew his college girl-toy was here getting her pussy drilled by his son in the corner?" he went on, lazy, like this was a conversation over drinks. "They’d shit themselves."

Creighton adjusted his stance, shoulders blocking most of the view from the hallway.

(Couldn’t risk having some random skeleton walking in on him pleasuring his woman.)

Twisting his wrist, he began opening her more by scissoring his fingers, then driving deeper. While his fingers were long, they would never replace the length of his own meat—never deep enough to give her that satisfying feeling of being full. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then nipped the soft skin under her ear.

"You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?" he murmured with a grin. "My cock in you instead. Bent over the sink upstairs. Crying into the marble while I keep your legs spread."

A chuckle left him when he felt her cunt clench around his digits. “You look so fucking composed all the time, and under it all you’re just a little cumdump waiting to be stuffed.”

His fingers sped up, thrusts sharper now, wet sounds starting to mix with the muffled music. He slid his thumb up to rub straight over her clit, tight circles that matched the tempo of his hand inside her.

“You want my cock? Hm?” Creighton nosed into her neck, teeth scraping her skin. “Bet it’d feel nicer to cum around my shaft than my fingers, yeah? Just gotta ask, baby. Use your big girl words.”