Chapter 1: Display Piece: The Tease of Forbidden Eyes
The lamp’s single bulb carved deep shadows across Cliff’s face as he leaned back in the worn leather armchair. Its warm light barely reached Jenny, naked and kneeling at his feet on the plush rug. The scent of the old leather chair, rich and slightly sweet, mingled with the faint, clean smell of their shower gel still clinging to her skin. The distant, rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the mantelpiece was the only sound beyond the low murmur of Cliff’s voice and the heavy thud of her own heartbeat in her ears.
"…so the thermal expansion coefficient was completely off-spec," Cliff was saying, his fingers idly winding a strand of her long, blonde hair around his knuckle. He gave a gentle, almost absentminded tug. A shiver, warm and liquid, ran down Jenny’s spine. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed on the intricate pattern of the rug fibers, but every nerve ending was hyper-aware of the two men above her. "The client’s specs called for Invar-36, but the supplier shipped standard stainless. Wouldn’t have caught it if you hadn’t cross-referenced the mill certs."
Mac Riley shifted in the matching armchair opposite, the leather sighing softly under his solid frame. He took a deliberate sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking sharply in the quiet room. "Basic due diligence, Cliff. Saved their asses a costly field failure." His voice was steady, professional, but Jenny felt the weight of his gaze flicker over her, a brief, hot touch grazing the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her small breast, before swiftly darting away. The air between them crackled, thick with an unspoken tension that had nothing to do with metallurgy.
Look at me. The silent plea thrummed beneath Jenny’s skin, a delicious, agonizing throb centered low in her belly. She pressed her thighs together tighter, the bare skin slick with the evidence of her arousal, a stark counterpoint to the cool air on her back. The deliberate normalcy of Cliff’s conversation, the mundane details of engineering procurement, was its own exquisite torture. He was masterfully stretching the moment, denying her the simple acknowledgment she craved – Mac’s eyes on her exposed body, confirming her vulnerability, amplifying the thrill.
Cliff’s thumb brushed the shell of her ear, a feather-light caress that sent another jolt through her. His attention remained seemingly fixed on Mac. "Still," Cliff continued, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the hand still tangled in her hair, "it highlights the gap in their QA process. Someone wasn’t paying attention. Complacency." He paused, letting the word hang in the scented air. "Always dangerous."
Jenny felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Was he talking about the client? Or was it a warning, directed at her? At Mac? Her nipples tightened into hard, aching points, responding to the cool air, the tension, the sheer awareness of being seen, even fleetingly. She willed her breathing to remain even, in through the nose, out through slightly parted lips. A bead of sweat traced a path down between her shoulder blades.
Mac cleared his throat, setting his glass down on the small table beside him with a soft thud. "Agreed. Can’t afford slip-ups." His gaze, when it landed on Cliff this time, held a flicker of something – understanding, perhaps, or a touch of exasperation at the game being played. He avoided looking directly at Jenny again, but his peripheral vision was a tangible pressure on her kneeling form. She could almost feel it tracing the line of her spine, the dip of her waist, the rounded curve of her ass. The knowledge that he was trying not to look, and failing periodically, sent fresh waves of heat pooling between her legs.
Cliff’s fingers tightened fractionally in her hair, not painfully, but possessively. A silent command: Stay. Be still. Endure. He shifted his focus back to Mac, asking about his kids, the little league game last weekend. Jenny focused on the texture of the rug beneath her knees, the subtle scent of Mac’s cologne cutting through the leather and whiskey aromas, the slow, deliberate circles Cliff’s thumb was now tracing on her scalp. Each mundane word Cliff spoke felt like a grain of sand dropping in an hourglass, measuring her exposed stillness.
"Sarah pitched a shutout," Mac was saying, a hint of genuine pride warming his tone despite the awkward context. "Kid’s got an arm." He lifted his glass again, draining the last of the amber liquid. The ice rattled. As he lowered the glass, his eyes, almost reflexively, dropped one last time.
Not to her face. Not to her eyes.
But lower.
His gaze snagged, just for a fractured second, on the tight, darkened peaks of Jenny’s nipples. It was fleeting, less than a heartbeat, but Jenny felt it like a physical brand. A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped her lips. Her inner muscles clenched hard, a sharp, sweet pulse of sensation that made her sway slightly on her knees. She squeezed her thighs together with desperate force, the slickness undeniable now. Triumph warred with humiliation, a heady, intoxicating cocktail.
Cliff felt the tremor run through her. He saw Mac’s infinitesimal flinch, the rapid way his eyes snapped guiltily back to his empty glass. A slow, satisfied smile touched the corner of Cliff’s mouth. He didn’t look down at Jenny, but his hand in her hair gentled, his thumb stroking her temple in silent praise. Good girl.
The conversation faltered. The silence stretched, dense and electric. Mac shifted, the leather protesting again. "Well," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "Should probably head out. Early start tomorrow." He stood, avoiding looking at the space where Jenny knelt.
Cliff finally looked down at her. His dark eyes, intense and unreadable in the low light, held hers for a long moment. His gaze traveled slowly, possessively, over the lines of her body – the vulnerable curve of her neck, the taut peaks of her breasts, the clenched muscles of her thighs. A silent inventory. A reaffirmation of ownership. Then, without breaking eye contact with her, he addressed Mac. "Appreciate you stopping by, Mac. Drive safe."
Mac nodded stiffly, already moving towards the hallway. "Yeah. See you at the site." He didn’t say goodnight to Jenny. The front door clicked shut a moment later, the sound echoing slightly in the suddenly charged stillness of the living room.
The moment the lock engaged, the atmosphere shifted. The professional pretense evaporated, leaving only the raw, humming energy between them. Cliff’s hand slid from her hair to cup her jaw, tilting her face up fully to meet his gaze. The command in his eyes was absolute now, the playful delay replaced by focused intensity. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silent instruction was clear: Up.
Jenny moved instantly, the sudden command breaking the agonizing stillness. Her legs protested slightly as she rose, muscles stiff from kneeling. Cliff stood as well, towering over her, his presence filling the shadowed room. He took her hand, his grip firm and grounding. Without a word, he led her towards the front door.
He grabbed his keys from the hall table and opened the door. The cool night air rushed in, a shock against Jenny’s flushed, naked skin. Cliff stepped out onto the porch, pulling her gently behind him. He paused at the top of the steps, scanning the dimly lit driveway and the street beyond. His posture was alert, protective, the persona of the controlling Dom momentarily overlaid by something sharper, watchful.
Then he saw it. Down by the curb, partially obscured by the bulk of Mac’s parked truck, a figure leaned against a nondescript sedan. The man wasn't looking at the house. He was staring intently, unnervingly, directly at Jenny as she stood naked and exposed on the brightly lit porch. His posture was casual, but his focus was predatory, a hunter observing prey caught unexpectedly in the open. The streetlight glinted off something metallic in his hand – a phone, maybe, angled towards them. Cliff’s hand tightened like a vice around Jenny’s. Every muscle in his body coiled. The game, it seemed, had taken a dangerous, unplanned turn. The cool night air suddenly felt very cold indeed.
The cool night air suddenly felt very cold indeed. Jenny shivered violently, not just from the temperature, but from the sheer violation radiating from the shadowed figure leaning against the sedan. His gaze wasn't curious; it was hungry, intrusive, stripping her bare in a way Cliff’s command never did. It felt filthy.
"Inside. Now," Cliff growled, his voice low and razor-sharp. He didn't look away from the watcher, but his body shifted instantly, becoming a solid, immovable wall between Jenny and the driveway. His hand on her arm wasn't gentle; it was urgent, propelling her backwards through the still-open door.
Jenny stumbled back over the threshold, the warmth of the house hitting her chilled skin like a slap. The familiar scent of leather and whiskey now felt cloying, tainted. She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, the vulnerability she’d reveled in moments ago twisting into raw, naked fear. She pressed herself against the wall just inside the doorframe, peering out, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Cliff remained planted on the porch, radiating menace. His posture was pure predator now, shoulders squared, head lowered slightly, every line of him coiled tight. He stared down the stranger, a silent challenge hanging heavy in the night air.
Down by the curb, Mac had just opened the driver’s door of his truck. He paused, one foot on the running board, his head turning slowly towards the sedan. He’d seen it too. Seen the man. Seen the phone angled towards Cliff’s porch, towards where Jenny had stood exposed seconds before.
Mac didn't react visibly. He simply climbed into his truck, started the engine with a low rumble, and pulled smoothly away from the curb. The headlights swept across the sedan as he drove past, illuminating the watcher’s face for a fraction of a second – pale, ordinary, utterly focused on the house. Then Mac was gone, turning the corner at the end of the street, his taillights vanishing.
The silence stretched, thick with tension. The stranger lowered his phone slightly, perhaps thinking the immediate threat had passed. He shifted his weight, preparing to slide back into his car.
Then, with startling suddenness, Mac’s truck roared back around the corner. He didn't slow down. He accelerated straight towards the sedan, tires crunching loudly on the gravel shoulder. He jerked the wheel hard at the last possible second, slamming the truck diagonally across the sedan’s front end, blocking it completely against the curb with a jarring crunch of metal.
The watcher froze for a split second, stunned. Then panic seized him. He fumbled frantically with his car door handle, shoving it open. He scrambled out, stumbling onto the pavement, his eyes wide with terror. He didn't look towards the house; his sole focus was escape. He bolted towards the dark gap between two houses across the street.
Mac was faster. He exploded out of his truck door before the engine had even fully settled. He moved with surprising speed for a man his size, covering the ground in powerful strides. He intercepted the fleeing man just as he reached the sidewalk edge.
"Hey! Fuckhead!" Mac bellowed, his voice raw with fury. He lunged, grabbing a fistful of the man’s jacket collar and yanking him backwards with brutal force. The man yelped, flailing wildly, trying to twist free. Mac pivoted, using his momentum to slam the smaller man face-first against the cold metal flank of his own truck. The impact echoed dully.
"Get the fuck off me!" the stranger shrieked, spittle flying. He bucked violently.
Mac simply planted a massive forearm across the man’s shoulders, pinning him hard against the truck. "Shut the fuck up!" he snarled, pressing his weight down. "Drop the goddamn phone!"
Cliff was already moving. He’d seen Mac block the car and launched himself off the porch, sprinting down the driveway barefoot, his own fury palpable. He reached the chaotic scene just as Mac wrestled the phone from the stranger’s clutching fingers. The man whimpered, pinned and helpless.
Cliff skidded to a halt beside them, breathing hard, his dark eyes blazing. He ignored the struggling stranger for a moment, his gaze locking onto Mac. "You got him?"
"Yeah," Mac grunted, holding the phone aloft like a trophy. It glowed faintly in the dim streetlight. "Got him. And this."
The stranger went limp against the truck, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. The predatory confidence was gone, replaced by pure, abject fear. Cliff finally looked down at him, his expression terrifyingly calm. "Who the fuck are you?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "And what," he added, his gaze shifting to the glowing phone in Mac’s hand, "did you just film?"
The man pinned against Mac’s truck whimpered, a high-pitched, wet sound. His breath hitched against the cold metal. "N-Nothing! Just... just filming the street! Nice houses!"
Cliff’s gaze never left the phone in Mac’s hand. The glow seemed obscene, a digital violation echoing the physical one. "Bullshit." The word was a low snarl, vibrating with barely contained fury. He took a single step closer, looming over the trembling figure. The cool night air did nothing to dampen the heat radiating off him. "You pointed it at her. At my porch. At my submissive."
Mac tightened his forearm, grinding the man harder against the truck. "Filthy little creep. Enjoy the show?" His voice was pure disgust.
Jenny watched from the doorway, shivering violently despite the heat flooding her cheeks. The fear was a cold knife in her gut, but beneath it, a terrifying thrill pulsed – Cliff’s rage was a tangible force, a shield forged in fire. She was his. And this pathetic creature had trespassed.
"Please," the man gasped, tears mixing with sweat on his pale face. "I didn’t mean... I’ll delete it! Right now! Just let me go!"
"Delete it?" Cliff’s laugh was short, harsh, utterly devoid of humor. He finally looked down at the voyeur, his dark eyes chips of obsidian reflecting the streetlight. They held no pity, only a terrifying promise. "You think I trust you to delete it? You think you get to walk away with that? After what you saw? After what you filmed?"
He held out his hand, palm up, towards Mac. His gaze didn't waver from the trapped man. "Give it to me."
Mac hesitated for only a fraction of a second, a flicker of concern crossing his face – concern for Cliff, for the line being crossed. But he saw the implacable set of Cliff's jaw, the raw protectiveness warping into something darker. He slapped the still-glowing phone into Cliff's waiting hand.
The voyeur sucked in a sharp, terrified breath. "No! Don't! It's expensive! I—"
Cliff barely registered the plea. He closed his powerful fingers around the device. His knuckles turned white with the strain. He brought it up, staring at the screen for a brutal second – long enough to see the frozen image: Jenny, naked, vulnerable, illuminated harshly by the porch light, caught unaware. His Jenny.
A guttural sound ripped from his throat, half-roar, half-snarl. Pure, unfiltered rage.
He didn't smash it against the truck. He didn't throw it. He simply crushed it.
His fingers drove inward with terrifying, focused force. The plastic casing splintered with a sharp crack. The screen spiderwebbed instantly, a kaleidoscope of broken glass reflecting the distorted light. Tiny shards sprayed out, glinting like malevolent stars. He kept squeezing, grinding the components together, the crunching, tearing sounds sharp and final. The glow died abruptly, snuffed out like a candle. He twisted his hand savagely, the internal guts of the phone yielding with sickening pops and snaps.
Then, with a final, contemptuous flick of his wrist, he sent the ruined lump of plastic, glass, and circuitry skittering across the asphalt into the darkened gutter. It landed with a dull, insignificant clatter.
Silence descended, thick and heavy after the violence of the destruction. The voyeur stared at the wreckage in the gutter, trembling uncontrollably, a wet stain spreading darkly on the front of his pants. The smell of urine cut through the cool air.
Cliff looked down at his own hand. Tiny slivers of glass glittered in his palm, embedded in the skin. A few beads of blood welled up. He flexed his fingers, ignoring the sting, his gaze returning to the man pinned beneath Mac’s arm.
"Now," Cliff said, his voice dangerously calm again, rough-edged but controlled. "You're going to get the fuck out of my neighborhood. You're never going to come back. You're never going to look at her again. You’re going to forget her face, forget this street, forget everything you saw tonight. Because if I ever see you again, if I ever hear a whisper of this..." He leaned in close, his breath hot on the man's ear, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "...I will break you slower than I broke that phone. Do you understand?"
The man nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, unable to form words.
"Mac," Cliff said, straightening up. "Let him go."
Mac released his hold, stepping back with visible reluctance. The voyeur stumbled, almost falling, before scrambling desperately for his car door. He fumbled with the handle, yanked it open, and practically fell inside. The engine sputtered to life, and he peeled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, leaving the scent of burnt rubber and fear hanging in the air.
Mac watched the taillights vanish. He ran a hand over his face. "Jesus, Cliff."
Cliff didn't answer immediately. He was looking past Mac, towards the porch. Jenny still stood there, naked, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes wide and fixed on him. The raw fear was fading, replaced by something else – a deep, visceral awe, and a heat that radiated outwards despite her shivering.
He walked back towards the house, each step deliberate. He ignored the glass in his palm, the smear of blood. Mac fell into step beside him, but Cliff’s focus was entirely on Jenny. As he reached the porch steps, he stopped at the bottom, looking up at her.
The vulnerability he saw in her wide eyes, the exposed trembling of her body, ignited a different fire within him. The protective rage simmered down, transforming into a fierce, possessive need. The danger was past. Now, she was his. Utterly. Completely.
He held out his uninjured hand. Not a request. A command.
"Inside," he said, his voice rough velvet. A shiver, entirely different from before, traced its way down Jenny's spine.
She took his hand without hesitation, her fingers cold against his warmth. He pulled her gently but firmly into the house. The lock clicked, sealing them in.
Mac stood alone on the porch for a moment, breathing in the cool, disturbed night air. He glanced towards the gutter where the shattered phone lay. He shook his head, a grim set to his mouth. "Fucking hell," he muttered to himself, before turning and heading down the driveway towards his truck.
Inside, the lamplight felt different. Warmer. More intimate. The scent of leather and whiskey was back, but overlaying it now was the sharp tang of adrenaline and Cliff’s raw, possessive intent. He hadn't let go of Jenny's hand. He led her away from the door, deeper into the living room, stopping near the worn leather armchair.
He turned her to face him. His gaze raked over her nakedness – the small breasts with their tight, dark nipples, the soft curve of her belly, the blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. His eyes held hers, dark and intense, stripping her bare in a way the stranger never could.
"That fucker," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "He saw what's mine." His free hand came up, not gently, and cupped her breast, his thumb scraping roughly over the hard peak. Jenny gasped, her back arching instinctively into the touch. "He doesn't get to see this." His fingers tightened possessively. "He doesn't get to have this."
The roughness sent sharp jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through her. Her pussy clenched, suddenly slick and aching.
"Cliff..." His name was a breathless plea.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice cracking like a whip. His injured hand, palm still bleeding slightly, came up to grasp her jaw, forcing her to meet his burning gaze. The sting of the glass against her skin was a sharp counterpoint to the heat flooding her core. "You belong here. On your knees. Where everyone can fucking see how much you crave my control. But that?" He jerked his head slightly towards the door. "That wasn't attention. That was theft. Filth."
He released her jaw, letting his bloody palm trail down her throat, leaving faint, smeared crimson streaks against her dusky gold skin. The sight of his blood on her sent a shocking bolt of arousal straight to her cunt. She whimpered.
"Get down," he ordered, his voice thick with need. "On your knees. Now, Jenny."
She sank instantly, the plush rug soft beneath her bare knees. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the throbbing ache between her legs. She kept her gaze lowered, fixed on the worn leather of his boots. The scent of him – sweat, rage, and something uniquely, powerfully Cliff – filled her senses.
He unbuttoned his jeans with deliberate, unhurried movements. The rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He freed his cock, already thick and heavy, jutting out hard and demanding. The tip glistened with pre-cum. He fisted it roughly, a low groan escaping him.
"Open," he commanded, his voice gritty.
Jenny lifted her head, her eyes wide and hungry. She parted her lips, tongue touching her bottom lip. The sight of him, hard and leaking, sent a fresh flood of wetness soaking her inner thighs.
He didn't tease. He didn't make her wait. He stepped forward, guiding the swollen head of his cock to her mouth. "Suck it, little slut," he growled. "Suck me like you need it. Like you fucking beg for it."
Jenny needed no further urging. She leaned forward, taking him deep into her mouth, her lips stretching wide around his girth. She moaned around him, the vibration making him hiss. She swirled her tongue around the head, tasting salt and musk, then hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, drawing him deeper. Her hands came up instinctively to grasp his hips, steadying herself, her fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans.
"Fuck yeah," Cliff rasped, his hand tangling in her blonde hair. He held her head firmly, not forcing, but controlling the pace. "That's it. Take it deep. Show me how fucking greedy that pretty mouth is."
She obeyed, sliding her lips down his shaft as far as she could, gagging slightly before pulling back, only to plunge down again. Saliva glistened on her chin and his cock. The sounds filled the room – wet sucking, Cliff’s harsh breaths, the soft whimpers Jenny couldn't suppress.
He looked down at her, kneeling naked and eager, his cock plunging between her reddened lips. The sight – her submission, her hunger, her obedience after the violation – was the final spark.
"Enough," he grunted suddenly, pulling his cock from her mouth with a slick pop. Jenny gasped, looking up at him, her lips slick and swollen, eyes dazed with need. "Up. Bend over the chair."
She scrambled to her feet, her legs shaky. He guided her roughly towards the wide arm of the leather chair. "Bend. Ass up. Show me that greedy little cunt."
Jenny bent forward, bracing her hands on the seat of the chair, presenting herself to him. Her heart pounded. She felt utterly exposed, utterly vulnerable, utterly desired. She heard the rip of a foil packet – he must have had one in his pocket. The brief rustle, then the slick sound of him rolling the condom down his straining length.
Then his hands were on her hips, rough and possessive. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her soaked entrance. She was so wet, so ready, she could feel herself opening for him, craving the stretch, the burn.
No preamble. No gentle entry.
Cliff drove into her hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless thrust.
"FUCK!" Jenny screamed, the sound tearing from her throat as he filled her completely, stretching her walls in one searing stroke. The sheer force stole her breath. It was invasion, possession, reclamation. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in, setting a brutal, driving rhythm.
"Yes! Oh God, Cliff! YES!" she cried out, pushing back against him, meeting each punishing thrust. The chair creaked under their combined weight and force. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips hard enough to bruise. The slapping sound of flesh on flesh, wet and obscene, filled the air, punctuated by Cliff's guttural grunts and Jenny's high, keening cries.
He leaned over her back, his chest pressing against her, his breath hot on her neck. One hand snaked around her front, fingers finding her clit, already swollen and throbbing. He rubbed it hard, roughly, in time with his deep, piston-like thrusts.
"Come for me, you filthy little thing," he growled against her ear, his voice thick with lust. "Come on my cock. Show me who owns this tight fucking cunt."
The dual assault was too much. The deep, relentless pounding inside her, the harsh friction on her clit – it ignited a firestorm. Her inner walls clenched violently around his driving cock, a wave of pure, blinding pleasure crashing over her. She screamed, a raw, wordless sound, her body shuddering uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through her, leaving her weak and trembling.
Cliff felt her convulse around him, the tight, pulsing grip pushing him over the edge. With a final, savage roar, he buried himself to the root, his hips jerking erratically as his own climax tore through him. He held her hips locked against him, grinding deep as he emptied himself inside the condom, his body rigid with the force of his release.
He collapsed forward slightly, panting heavily against her sweat-slicked back, his cock still pulsing inside her. His hand, slick from her wetness, slid possessively over her trembling belly. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent tick-tock of the clock. The danger outside, the shattered phone, the voyeur – all momentarily obliterated by the raw, claiming power of his possession. Jenny trembled, utterly spent, utterly claimed. Cliff’s breath, hot and ragged, feathered against her neck. He nuzzled the damp hair at her nape, his grip on her hip softening from iron to something resembling tenderness. The rage had burned out, leaving behind the smoldering embers of fierce protectiveness and… something else she couldn’t quite name. Relief, maybe. Or a terrifying kind of peace.
He stayed buried inside her for a long moment, his weight heavy and grounding. The slick sound of their bodies separating as he slowly withdrew was obscenely loud. He stepped back, his movements heavy with exhaustion and spent fury. Jenny slumped forward onto the armchair, her cheek pressed against the cool leather, her legs trembling violently. She felt hollowed out and overflowing all at once. Used. Cherished. Utterly his.
She heard the faint snap of the condom being removed, the soft tread of his bare feet moving away, then returning. A damp washcloth, warm and surprisingly gentle, touched the inside of her thigh, cleaning away the evidence of their coupling. His touch was methodical, almost clinical now, yet the intimacy of it made her shiver anew. He wiped the streaks of his blood from her throat with the same quiet efficiency.
"Up," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. He helped her stand, steadying her when her legs threatened to buckle. He guided her towards the hallway, away from the living room and the lingering scent of sex and violence. Towards the bedroom, towards sanctuary. His arm around her shoulders wasn't restraining now; it was supporting. Anchoring.
As they passed the front door, Jenny's gaze flickered towards it. Out there, in the gutter, lay the shattered remains of the phone. A symbol of violation, crushed to nothing. And here, leaning into Cliff’s solid strength, she felt the echo of that same destructive power turned into something sheltering. Something absolute. He hadn't just smashed a phone. He'd shattered the threat. He'd marked his territory in blood and come. And Jenny, despite the lingering tremors of fear, felt a dark, undeniable thrill coil deep in her core. He was her shield. Her Dom. Her monster.
And she craved his darkness more than ever.