Uppercut {a pedro pascal au}

ten

i present to you (my take on) softdom! pedro

enjoy hehe

×××

Maisy

It's been four days since we gave in to the temptation, and our friendship hasn't changed too much from how it was before. Only now, we make out on the couch every night.

He's the one to initiate each time, after noting my gaze dropping to his lips every ten seconds while we eat dinner and discuss our days. He seems completely unbothered by my wandering eyes, and he doesn't make me feel bad about my curiosity. He welcomes it.

We're eating dinner after a sweaty session in his home gym, where he gave me a lesson on fighting sequences.

I'm trying my hardest not to jump him, or gape at the tendons flex and contract in his forearms every time he makes the slightest movement.

Oh God, I hope I'm not drooling.

I'm really hoping I'm not reading into it, but while he demonstrated and corrected my form, I felt like I was being burned alive, in a good way. Every time he touched me to adjust my elbow or fist, a charge of electricity leaped from him to me. And the way he closed his eyes and inhaled me when he had his arms wrapped around me as he gave instructions, I think he felt it too.

Post-workout, I can't sit still at the table, his intense eyes on me igniting a heat swirling low in my belly.

I tell my mind to disassociate these physiological reactions from Pedro. He has absolutely nothing to do with me being...well, turned on. It's plain old biology. Pheromones and hormones, and not Pedro's aura or handsomeness.

No, definitely not the latter. I refuse to credit Pedro for making me feel fuzzy.

This arrangement we have going on needs to be strictly for educational purposes, no emotions involved.

Following dinner, he loads the dishwasher and does a routine wipe-down of the countertops. I stand from my spot at the table to grab a glass. The shelf at eye level is empty, and all the available cups are up high, almost out of my reach.

Lifting on my tiptoes, I stretch as tall as I can. My fingers only graze the bottom of the shelf so I use my other hand to push myself off the counter when a vein-corded arm reaches over me.

"I've got it," Pedro says, taking the glass and setting it on the countertop.

Dropping back on my toes, my back moulds to his chiselled front. My breath catches, hyperaware of our proximity. "Thanks," I say somehow.

"Mm-hmm," he hums, his chest rumbling against me.

He steps back, taking his warmth. I turn, and without consciously deciding to do so, I grasp the hem of his crisp white t-shirt. I blurt the words before I lose the nerve. "Did you—do you want to make out?"

I go red at my bluntness.

A slow, lopsided smirk lifts on his lips. "As in, you want another session?" he teases.

His tactic—his half-hearted, his unseriousness—melts a portion of my anxiety away.

Our arrangement has no impact on our friendship. It's all pretend and fun. No stakes, just making out.

I nod.

He beckons me over with a jerk of his head, "Then come here and let me kiss you, sweetheart."

I step forward, closing the space between us. He bends, cradles my jaw and connects our lips in a savouring kiss. I wrap my hands around his wrists which are angling my face, lost to the sensation.