Chapter 1: Stolen Pleasures in the Dark
Ten minutes later…
Tom pulled up outside Sam’s building with the resigned precision of a man who’d been fighting London traffic for sport. He killed the engine, got out, and went straight to the boot like movement was the only way to stay normal.
He popped it open.
And then froze.
One of your bags—wedged awkwardly between a box of kitchen stuff and a tote of clothes—started vibrating. Not subtly. Not politely. Like it was trying to escape.
Tom stared at it, then glanced at you with slow disbelief.
“Why is this—” he stopped, because the bag buzzed again. “Something is… alive.”
Your soul left your body.
“Oh my god.” Heat flooded your face instantly. “No. No, that’s—hold on.”
You lunged forward, yanked the bag out like you were defusing a bomb, and unzipped it with shaking hands.
Tom turned slightly away—because he had manners—but you still caught the way his mouth twitched like he already knew exactly what it was.
Inside, buried under a cosmetic bag, it was… exactly what it sounded like.
You fumbled, found the culprit, and turned it off so fast you nearly sprained a finger.
Silence.
The kind of silence that roars.
Tom cleared his throat once, and you could practically feel him fighting the urge to laugh.
You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.
“Right,” you said, voice pitched a touch too high. “Moving on.”
Tom did laugh then—soft and brief, the sound of a man trying to be decent and failing.
“So,” he said, still looking very deliberately at the inside of the boot, “you have a collection too.”
You whipped your head toward him, mortified.
“Don’t. I said we are moving on.”
His eyes flicked to you, amused now, and then away again like he was trying not to make it worse.
“I’m not judging,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m just… surprised by the enthusiasm.”
You blinked, affronted through the humiliation.
“Enthusiasm?”
Tom glanced at you—one quick, helpless look—then nodded toward the offending bag like it was Exhibit A.
“You have a whole zip-up bag full of sex toys,” he said, as calmly as if he were commenting on your shoe collection.
You made a noise that was half laugh, half threat.
“It’s a toiletry bag.”
Tom’s mouth twitched.
“It’s not,” he said gently. “It’s a sex-toy bag.”
You slapped the zip closed with unnecessary force.
“Okay,” you said briskly, burning alive. “We’re not doing this conversation here.”
Tom lifted both hands in surrender, still smiling.
“Alright.”
You shoved the bag deeper into the boot like you could bury the memory.
“Just—carry the bags,” you muttered.
Tom’s smile widened a fraction, wicked but restrained.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Inside Sam’s house, it was quieter than you expected—because Sam was at work. No dramatic welcome, no running commentary, no immediate audience for your humiliation. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Tom carried the last bags in and set them down with careful precision, then stood there for a beat like he didn’t know where to put his hands.
You kicked your shoes off, trying to regain dignity.
Tom cleared his throat.
“Sam’s at work,” he said.
“Yeah,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Thank god.”
Tom’s mouth twitched, but he kept his tone annoyingly matter-of-fact.
“I put the bag with your sex toys on your bed.”
You froze mid-breath.
Slowly, you turned your head toward him.
“Oh my god.” You stared. “You had to say it like that?”
Tom blinked, completely sincere, like he’d just informed you the milk was in the fridge.
“Yup.”
You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“You couldn’t just say ‘your bag’?”
He shrugged one shoulder, calm and unhelpful.
“I didn’t want you to think I meant a different bag.”
You pointed at him, accusing—
—and then you started laughing, because something about the absolute Tom-ness of it hit you right in the ribs. It came out sharp at first, disbelieving, and then it turned into real laughter you couldn’t stop.
Tom held his face for a beat like he was trying not to join in.
He failed.
He laughed too—quiet and helpless, eyes crinkling, shoulders loosening like he’d been braced for impact all day and finally realised he didn’t have to be.
For a second, it was just… normal. You and him. No careful distance. No brittle politeness. Just a stupid moment that made you both crack.
Tom dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling as the laughter died down.
“Anyway,” he said, voice gentler now, resetting himself. “I’ve got to pick up Ellie from school in an hour.” He glanced toward the door like the clock had just remembered him. “So I’d better—”
He stopped, shifting his weight, that awkwardness creeping back in at the edges.
“Yeah,” you managed, still smiling a little despite yourself. “Of course. And thank you again.”
Tom nodded once, already stepping backward like he didn’t quite know what to do with the fact you’d just laughed together.
“Any time.”
And there it was again—that controlled tone sliding back into place, like armour.
But it didn’t land quite as heavy this time.
***
Later—back home, after Ellie was in bed and the house had finally gone quiet—Tom found himself thinking about the day in fragments.
Not the moving boxes. Not the traffic. Not even the dinosaur in the seat, which should’ve been the thing that lingered because it was ridiculous and safe and oddly sweet.
It was you.
It was the way you’d looked on his doorstep, half furious, half surprised. The way your voice had softened when you asked about Ellie. The way you’d laughed in Sam’s flat—properly laughed—like you’d forgotten for a second that you were supposed to be careful with him.
And, unhelpfully, it was also the bag.
He’d tried not to think about it while he made Ellie’s dinner. While he checked her inhaler. While he hovered in her doorway after lights out, listening for the sound of her breathing to settle into something steady. He’d been good. He’d been present. He’d been a father.
Then Ellie had finally fallen asleep and Tom had retreated to his room like a man escaping a room that might accuse him.
He showered. He put on a clean t-shirt. He climbed into bed.
And his brain—because his brain loved to do this—picked up the thought like a loose thread and started pulling.
The bag with your sex toys on your bed.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Then he rolled over, grabbed his phone, and told himself it was just curiosity. Just… context. Like reading the plot summary of a film someone had spoiled.
He typed a few words into Google and immediately regretted being literate.
The screen filled with images and product names and an amount of confident marketing language that made him feel faintly ill.
He scrolled too fast, then stopped, then scrolled again, because his fingers were doing that thing they always did—restless, searching for something to occupy themselves.
He refined the search, because of course he did. Because his brain couldn’t leave a question unanswered.
And then it popped up.
The type of vibrator that turned on in your bag.
Ironically, it was called ‘The Womanizer’.
He blinked at the name like it had personally offended him.
“That can’t be real,” he murmured to the empty room.
It was, unfortunately, very real.
He clicked one link. Then another. He read descriptions that were somehow both clinical and deeply suggestive, like someone had taken a manual and made it flirt.
Air pulse technology. Suction effect. Different heads. Waterproof.
Tom swallowed.
He scrolled, frowning—genuinely frowning, as if concentration could make the embarrassment go away. He read a sentence twice, then a third time, because his brain was slow to accept it.
And then the understanding landed, slow and awful:
Oh.
Oh.
His face went hot.
He dropped the phone onto his chest like it had burned him, stared at the ceiling again, and breathed out through his nose.
“Right,” he said quietly, like he could discipline his own thoughts by naming the moment. “That’s where… that goes.”
His mind, of course, took this new information and immediately did the most unhelpful thing possible.
It pictured you.
Not just you standing in Sam’s hallway, laughing. Not just you shifting in the passenger seat, complaining about traffic. But you—alone, in a room, the door shut, your face tilted back with that expression you got when you were trying to pretend you weren’t affected by something.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut.
No.
Absolutely not.
He rolled onto his side, grabbed the phone again like he needed to do something—anything—to break the image.
He tried to exit the browser.
His thumb hovered. His thumb tapped.
Instead of closing it, he found himself reading reviews.
Which was… worse.
Because people were not shy. People were horrifyingly descriptive. People were saying things like life-changing and best purchase and I didn’t know my body could—
Tom stopped reading, jaw tight.
He rubbed a hand over his face, dragged it down, and let it fall to the mattress. His knee bounced once, hard, then he forced it still like it had disobeyed him.
He turned the phone face-down.
He stared into the dark.
And still, his brain persisted.
It replayed you tugging the zipper shut with too much force. The way you’d said you had needs, voice half defensive, half amused. The way you’d been so confident about it, even while mortified.
Tom swallowed again.
He shifted under the duvet, irritated with himself, and tried to redirect—Ellie’s school schedule, tomorrow’s work, the shopping list, anything.
But his body didn’t care about his attempts at logic. His body had clocked the image and decided to respond like a traitor.
He shifted—and immediately regretted it.
Because there it was: the unmistakable strain against his briefs, tight and insistent, like his body had made a decision without consulting him.
Tom went very still.
Heat crawled up his neck. His jaw tightened, and he stared at the ceiling like it had personally done this to him.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, barely audible before he reached for himself.
The first touch was tentative, fingers brushing over the thick outline of his cock through the fabric of his briefs—as if to confirm what he already knew. He was hard. Painfully so. His length strained against the cotton, the head already damp with pre-cum, the tip pressing against his stomach like it was trying to escape.
Tom exhaled sharply, his breath hitching as he traced the length of himself through the fabric, feeling the weight of his erection, the way it pulsed under his fingertips. He could feel the heat of his own body radiating through the thin material, the way his balls already felt tight and heavy, drawing up closer to his body.
The need was sharp, almost painful, and he knew he wouldn’t last long if he didn’t get himself under control. With a low groan, he pulled his briefs down just enough to free himself, the cool air of the room hitting his exposed skin and making him shiver. The duvet was kicked aside in one swift movement, discarded like an inconvenience, and his hand reached for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand—his fingers closing around it with desperate precision.
The moment the slick liquid touched his skin, he hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking involuntarily at the sensation. He coated himself in long, slow strokes, his grip firm but not too tight, his thumb swirling over the sensitive head in a way that made his breath hitch. The lotion was warm from his palm, smooth and slippery, and it made every movement easier, every glide of his hand more intense.
He imagined you, using the vibrator , and the thought alone made his cock twitch in his grip, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the tip. He smeared it with his thumb, spreading it around the head in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the way his body responded to the stimulation. His hips lifted slightly off the bed, his back arching as he worked himself, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He pictured you, your legs spread, the vibrator pressed against your clit, your back arching off the bed as you moaned. He could almost hear the wet, slick sounds of the toy working you over, the way your breath would hitch and break as you chased your orgasm.
His fingers tightened around his cock, stroking faster now, his hips bucking up into his grip. The image of you, flushed and desperate, your thighs trembling as you rode the waves of pleasure, was too much.
Tom groaned, his voice rough and low in the quiet of his bedroom. His free hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white, as he imagined the way your body would tense, the way your back would arch off the bed as you came. He could see it—the way your lips would part, the way your fingers would dig into the mattress, the way your body would shudder as the orgasm ripped through you.
Your clit, swollen, beneath your piercing , the metal glinting in the dim light as the vibrator buzzed against it, relentless. The way your thighs would tremble, the way you would moan, sweat and orgasm.
Tom’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening around his cock, his thumb pressing hard against the sensitive underside of his head. He could feel the pleasure building, coiling tight in his gut. He was close—so close—and the thought of you, of the way you’d look when you came, was enough to push him over the edge.
His hand moved in tight, desperate strokes, his cock throbbing in his grip, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he chased the release that was building inside him like a storm.
The first pulse of pleasure hit him hard, his back arching off the bed as he came with a low, guttural groan, thick spurts of cum landing across his stomach and his fingers, hot and sticky against his skin.
The second wave hit him just as hard, his hips jerking as he milked himself through the orgasm, his cock twitching in his grip, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles clenched and released, the way his skin was slick with sweat.
The third wave was slower, more drawn out, his hand moving in lazy strokes as he rode out the aftershocks, his body trembling with the effort. He could feel the pleasure still humming through him, the way his cock was still sensitive, the way his body was still alive with sensation.
He collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving, his heart pounding in his ears.
The aftershocks of pleasure still rippled through him, but the guilt came fast on their heels—sharp and unrelenting. He exhaled sharply, his fingers still slick with the evidence of his fantasy, and forced himself to sit up.
With quick, efficient movements, he grabbed the tissues from the nightstand and wiped himself clean, the crumpled paper absorbing the mess with practiced ease. The room smelled faintly of lotion and sweat, the air thick with the aftermath of his own recklessness.
*You need to get a grip. You can’t have her again.*
The words were a mantra, a warning, a plea—all at once. He balled up the tissues and tossed them into the bin beside the bed, then dragged a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight like he could physically yank himself back to reality.
The problem wasn’t just that he’d come thinking about you. The problem was how easily he’d slipped into it. How his body had responded like it had every right to imagine you that way. How his mind had filled in the gaps with details that felt too real, too vivid, like he’d been there.