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~A/N: Hey lovelies!! As most of you know, this is a lemon, meaning only those who are old enough will be able to read the second part!! ~

~Also, this is a *CONTINUATION* of my original piece, so don't read on unless you wanna be confused. Link down below!!~

~Enjoy~

Life wasn't meant to be this perfect. It was meant be longingly watched on the silver screen until you were given a dose of the bland, mediocre reality. And yet your world has been set ablaze with a fire that burns to your core and leaves you breathless. All because of the man who now shares with you everything he is—his life, his heart, his dreams and fears, and his name.

(F/n) Rabbit. What level of absurd luck were you blessed with to become wife of the epitome of a woman’s desires? That strawberry hair; that crooked, pearl smile; that sultry yet husky voice; those penetrating powder blue eyes. They’re all yours, all bending to whatever your will bids of them without a moment’s delay.

Except when that involves breaking away from your arms or lips seconds before he has to be on stage for a performance.

You giggle against his full lips that claim yours every time you attempt to lean away and speak. “Jessie,” you whisper amidst a laugh, his mouth moving to nibble on your ear. “We can’t do this right now! You’re on in thirty seconds.”

He sighs over dramatically into the hand that suddenly clasps his mouth. “Darling, you know I have no self-control when it comes to you,” he mutters.

“I noticed,” you laugh again, settling down at his eyes that deepen in adoration. Giving in as you always do to his passion, you remove your hand to kiss him softly, fervently, pulling a longing sigh from him when you part. He smiles the same one you’ve come to realize he’s shown you from the start, the one that silently says “I love you.” Jessie flinches when you playfully slap him on the cheek. “Show time, big boy. Knock em dead.”

You scamper off stage a matter of seconds before the curtain opens. Even then, Jessie is chuckling to himself over the now inside joke to the audience. As soon as he raises the mic to sing his rendition of “L.O.V.E.”, you take your usual leave to his dressing room to await his return.

A portly man in his mid forties waddles out his office up ahead. “(L/n)!” He waves a heavily-ringed hand to gain your attention.

It’s getting harder to respond to my old last name, you laugh internally. “Yes, Mr. Browne?” you say to your boss.

“Jessie on stage already?” he asks. A cacophony of flustered squeals erupts. He chortles sloppily. “Take that as a ‘yes.’ You can tell the kid when he finishes agitating women’s sex drives. Just got off the phone with the mayor. You now that ritzy shindig she’s throwing for her kind Friday? Turns out she wants to have an after-party of sorts here. Jessie’s set manager is already cooking up something for him to wow the crowd with, so I need you to work your usual magic and keep him focused. Oh, and I shouldn’t have to tell ya that a pretty little bonus is waiting for ya’s if this goes well.”

A bonus?! That means we’ll be able to afford that condo.

“Understood! Thank you, Mr. Browne,” you say, quickly dismissing yourself to the right wing at the sound of applause. The violet-hued lights glint off Jessie and his sequins while he backs up, waving to the cheering audience with that same, infallible charm. You dart to his side the instant the curtains close and catch a glimpse of his elusive second eye when he whips his head towards you out of surprise.

“Sweetie, what’re you doing back here?” He smiles instinctually at having you clasped to his arm but glances about to ensure no one plays witness to this appreciated yet scandalous display of affection. You pull him impatiently to his dressing room in such an uncharacteristic manner that he can’t help chuckling. “Wait, what’s the rush, darling?”

The door is closed behind him before he’s even really in the room and already your lips meet his fervent enough to elicit a sharp inhale through his nose. Jessie’s brows burrow and he groans low into the kiss, leaning in contrast to you breaking away.

You palm his still oil-slicked chest.

“Jessie, Mr. Browne is going to give us a bonus for a performance Friday for the mayor and her colleagues!” you grin widely, and yet his fades. “What’s wrong? We’ll finally be able to move in together into that condo uptown! Isn’t that great?”

He frowns and takes a deep breath. “Yea, darlin’, it is,” he mutters with a weak smile.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” You cup his heated face and tilt it towards you.

“There’s no way Mr. Browne is gonna let me back out of this, is there?” he says as he moves past you, brushing his hair aside.

You pause. He’s never postponed or turned down a job once in the three years you’ve known him, not even if he was sick. Something isn’t right. Locking the door, you shift closer to his visibly tense figure. “Why would you back out? Are you okay? Is something wrong?” you ask.

Jessie turns to you with a calming smile. “No, of course not. I’m more than okay. I’m married to the woman of my absolute dreams,” he says, palming your cheek. His blue eyes flicker between yours as though there’s a river of words stirring on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he sighs. “But that’s just it. We’ve been married for over three months now and we still haven’t had any resemblance of a honeymoon, or at least private time that wasn't filled with talk of work… I was hoping to back out because I was planning on surprising you with a weekend trip to Emerald Isle so we could get away from the city and finally do what newlyweds do.”

The disappointment is so apparent in his eyes that any ounce of relief you felt now sinks into guilt, though you know you had no way of suspecting his plans. Jessie’s performances and your future with him had kept you busy to the point that you hadn’t realized that no, you had yet to celebrate your marriage in any way. Not even a cake that says, “Congrats on the marriage.” Sure, there are days and some nights spent together, but he often has a strict (sleeping) schedule to keep that makes it impossible for any intimacy. You’ve fallen into the pattern of things, yet he’s been stressing about it all this time, despite the fact that he’s the busier of the two.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’m so sorry…I hadn’t even thought about it,” you mumble into his shoulder. You feel his head rest on yours so his lips press into your crown. “Maybe it’s not too late to ask if you can take the night off?”

Jessie suddenly ruffles your (h/c) hair and steps back till you can see his face. “Don’t worry about it. If this means we’ll be able to take another step towards our life together, I can’t complain,” he says. “Being with you is worth all the obstacles in the world, and your happiness is even more so. Consider Friday night a success. I’ll even cook for us afterwards.”

You’re tempted to argue the point, but the thought of him—black tank and fitted jeans, apron, with his bangs clipped back—is plenty to keep your mouth shut. “Guess I can’t complain either,” you say sarcastically, to which he chuckles.

“I figured you wouldn’t,” he hums. He leans in to kiss you once, then twice, and again, each time the contact lingering and growing firmer till you begin losing yourself in the taste of him, and it's apparent he is too with you. His fingers dig into your clothes as he unconsciously moves you backwards into the mirror, the sudden pressure of his hard body against yours stealing a breath from you both. Somehow you can feel every crevice of his chest and toned stomach flexing into you with each ragged inhale, and still he draws your hands above your head slowly, as demanding as his mouth that maneuvers yours open. You gasp into him and arch, and the reaction pulses his body in time with his knee slipping between yours. The carnal instinct to take, to be taken, drops your hips just those few inches.

Jessie’s eyes snap open and he stares into you from beneath lust-heavy lids. The look in them, the scorching need on the brink of submission, passes a single question from him to you.

The answer barely has time to fly from your lips in a gasping mewl when his entirety undulates into you and his knee grinds upward. You’re rapidly melting into blind arousal that pitches at the sound of him one-handedly undoing his pants. He shifts as if to straddle your legs around his waist, but a brusque knock on the door halts you both.

Jessie isn’t an angry man or someone who’s bothered easily. And yet his fist colliding against the wall next to your head causes you to jolt. He raises his head with a growling sigh, his pupils narrowed at the invisible intruder.

“Hey, Rabbit!” Mr. Browne’s voice calls.

Forcefully resigning his irritation a margin, he backs off of you before running a clasping hand through his bangs. “What is it?” he exhales, zipping up his pants as a sharp accent to his foul mood.

“Got a lady that wants to meet ya. Get out here.”

You frown—not because the first heated intimacy with your husband was interrupted, but because he’s blatantly torn—and watch carefully while he gathers himself. He rubs his face like he’s just awoken from a nap. “Jessie.” You catch his sleeve at the sign of him leaving.

He looks at your shamelessly concerned expression and smiles, kissing your forehead along a deep inhale. “I’m okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, then sounds a dry, strained chuckle. “A little blue-balled, but it’s nothing these past three years hasn’t taught me to bounce back from. I’ll meet you at your place.”

With a wink, he leaves and the enthralled squeals of another woman drains your energy. You collect your coat and bag and slip out his dressing room once the noises have migrated away. You know how these meet and greets go, how they can last for hours as long as the patron pays to keep Jessie to herself. He’ll show up at your apartment around 1 a.m., shuffle into your room, and collapse onto the bed because sleeping (beside you) is all he wants. How selfish would it be to ask to fool around? To, maybe, even finish what was disrupted? But you then remember the acidic glare in his eyes and know it’s not an option. The opportunities’ passed, postponed for another three months.

Unless, you sit up in bed and glance at your sleeping husband and his messily top-knotted hair. Jesus, I didn’t realize how badly I wanted him till today. Is this the kind of hell he was going through? Being so close but not able to have them? I can’t wait three years, not even three months. Maybe I can, I don’t know, entice him? He’ll be so focused on preparing for Friday’s performance that he won’t even think about touching me. If I can dress sexy or something, I might get what I want.

The devious plan nearly robs you of sleep, and in the morning Jessie is already suspicious of your eager behavior. He stares at you from over the brim of his coffee mug. The confused, accusing question is so apparent: since when do you wear an apron, tank top, and underwear when making breakfast? Even while you flit about the small kitchen, you never feel Jessie’s heated gaze leave your scarcely clad figure. A muffled growl sounds when you bend over—not too conspicuously, though—to store away pans.

Wanting to take him off guard, you snap up and give him an innocent smile. You all but squirm as he narrowly manages to shift his attention from your ass to your face. “Don’t be late to rehearsals, hun. You know how that irritates Stan,” you say.

It takes Jessie half a minute to process what you’ve said. “Oh, yea, of course,” he says, the thought of his set manager’s wrath quickening his movements. He swings his leather jacket on and adorns a beanie before kissing you on the cheek and trotting out the door.

Seeds have been planted. Time to massage them until they pop.

* * *

“Let’s not use that orange light from last night’s set again, yea?” Jessie mutters an hour into rehearsal. “Stan, are you listening?”

He glances out as his manager and technicians only to see them all staring off, mouths ajar. The clack of heels furrows his brow, especially since only the bar girls wear them and the club is four hours from opening. He follows their line of sight, and instantly his jaw slackens in mirroring reply.

Smirking, you saunter towards the group of stunned men in your laced black heels, pencil skirt, and tight, cleavage-hinting blouse. You’ve never really dressed up for work, so what better way to entice a man by showing off your figure? You’ve even done your make-up a bit, highlighting your (e/c) eyes with eyeliner and shadow.

“Afternoon, guys,” you say nonchalantly. “Jessie.”

The muscles in his neck are visibly taut—he’s swallowing every damn urge to leap off this stage and claim you as his wife to stop everyone’s hungry ogling—yet he manages to nod at you. You walk backstage with extra care to pop your hips without making it seem overdone.

One of the technicians whistles in a descending tone. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have her as my PA,” he chuckles among the other men.

You hear Jessie bark “Hey!” in an alpha voice that startles the whole lot of you, and the awkward apologies of the technicians triggers your hushed giggling. This is already going better than expected. If Jessie was protective over you prior to the engagement, just imagine how he's feeling now having a pack of men disrobing his wife with their eyes right in front of him. A male must do what he must to claim what’s his; he’ll have no choice but to hurriedly take you.

What more, he’ll have no time to address it, so the need, the yearning will be forced to stew in the pit of his stomach. You shouldn’t be torturing your own husband like this, you know, but what an experiment to see how he handles being the one seduced for once? For the remainder of his rehearsal, you keep yourself productive, and therefore distracted, with his usual low-level paperwork until the door swings open. You’d be lying if you said you aren’t marginally disappointed to see Jessie flanked by his make-up girls and hair stylists to prepare him for opening. Regardless, it does prohibit him from releasing any measure of…feelings, the very ones that render his jaw flexed and stature rigid as though on the brink of shattering.

You smile innocently once again from your position on the loveseat. “Make him look good girls,” you sing.

“We always do,” one of the women sings in response. They share a laugh—a coded celebration of getting to work with Jessie Rabbit—during which Jessie glares with controlled hunger at your reflection in the mirror. You retain your smile as you cross your legs so the garter of your stocking is visible on your thigh. His eyes flicker down to that band of black lace and you can practically hear him hiss.

If it’s not apparent what I want, I’m more than glad to amp it up, you pretend to say to him internally. This visual foreplay persists over the remainder of the week. Each day you wear tighter, lower shirts, more alluring heels, all the while “somehow” managing to be found by Jessie in compromising positions—bending over to pick up a runaway pen, leaning forward to point out something, spilling water down the front of your blouse.

Naturally he comes across these scenes during his busiest hour, just about tripping over himself or others in uncharacteristic inelegance. His control over his reactions diminishes so drastically that his distress becomes audible in strained groans and sighs, even the occasional curse under his breath.

It all seems to be going so, very well.

“(L/n).”

You glimpse over your shoulder at your boss, who’s noticeably displeased. “Something wrong?”

“Jessie’s damn performances are what’s wrong,” he barks. “The kid’s spark has dried out, he’s going through all the damn motions. I don’t know what happened to him or what pent-up stress is killing his zing, but I need you to fix it now, or tomorrow night’s a bust. You get it?”

His booming voice thuds in your numb skull. “Y-yes, sir,” you say. It doesn't take a genius to deduce what's going on. This is all your fault. Your game of seduction has completely overshadowed your care for Jessie’s performance. Because of you, he’s worn out from sexual frustration.

This could’ve waited, (y/n)! you scorn yourself as you spend the rest of the night avoiding your husband all together. You don’t care how suspicious you'll suddenly appear wearing normal clothes the next day; you’re just hoping it’s not too late. And yet the moment Jessie trudges into the dressing room Friday night, it’s apparent it is.

There’s a long pause. “What’re you doing...?” he asks slowly, and you realize he’s referring to your jeans, v-neck, and blazer—your normal outfit.

An anxious embarrassment swells in your stomach. You fumble the pen and paperwork to fill the rapidly tense air. “What do you mean?” You force an awkward laugh.

Before you spot him, Jessie spins your chair to him so his narrowed eyes bear down into you from inches away. His voice comes coolly, darkly. “(Y/n).”

You shirk like a child caught red-handed. “Yes…?” you mumble.

He smirks, but it’s far from playful. “You don’t think I know what you’ve been up to these past few days,” he hums. Your heaving chest catches his attention and his smirk grows. “My darling wife didn’t think her change in attire would go unnoticed, did she? That her immensely pleasing teases weren’t going to get her into more trouble than she’s prepared for?”

The office chair creaks from your weight sinking further and further beneath Jessie’s nearing figure. How, why is he so intimidating, stirring an rousing fear of a power you never knew he had till now? He chuckles roughly and lowers himself into your lips.

“Or did you think covering all that you’ve proudly displayed would throw me off the scent?” He asks, then burying his nose in your neck. “Or rather, your scent.”

“Jessie—!” Both words and breath are stolen by his finger hooking with infallible precision beneath the frontal clasp of your bra and hauling you to your feet and into him. The paperwork crashes to the floor yet neither of you seem to notice. Your nose lines with his, and with nervous, mouse-like eyes you stare up at his coy ones.

He chuckles again as you’re pushed towards the love-seat. “What happened to my confident temptress that was strutting around yesterday? You clearly were trying to get something from me, sweetheart,” he hums. You gasp when you collapse into the cushions and he quickly but sensually straddles your lap before gripping your chin.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Rabbit—you’ve driven me to the edge of my self-control, and my desire. You’re about to get exactly what you want and much, much more...”

;) (Wink) — Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

~A/N: Hey lovelies!! As most of you know, this is a lemon, meaning only those who are old enough will be able to read the second part!! ~

~Also, this is a *CONTINUATION* of my original piece, so don't read on unless you wanna be confused. Link down below!!~

~Enjoy~

Life wasn't meant to be this perfect. It was meant be longingly watched on the silver screen until you were given a dose of the bland, mediocre reality. And yet your world has been set ablaze with a fire that burns to your core and leaves you breathless. All because of the man who now shares with you everything he is—his life, his heart, his dreams and fears, and his name.

(F/n) Rabbit. What level of absurd luck were you blessed with to become wife of the epitome of a woman’s desires? That strawberry hair; that crooked, pearl smile; that sultry yet husky voice; those penetrating powder blue eyes. They’re all yours, all bending to whatever your will bids of them without a moment’s delay.

Except when that involves breaking away from your arms or lips seconds before he has to be on stage for a performance.

You giggle against his full lips that claim yours every time you attempt to lean away and speak. “Jessie,” you whisper amidst a laugh, his mouth moving to nibble on your ear. “We can’t do this right now! You’re on in thirty seconds.”

He sighs over dramatically into the hand that suddenly clasps his mouth. “Darling, you know I have no self-control when it comes to you,” he mutters.

“I noticed,” you laugh again, settling down at his eyes that deepen in adoration. Giving in as you always do to his passion, you remove your hand to kiss him softly, fervently, pulling a longing sigh from him when you part. He smiles the same one you’ve come to realize he’s shown you from the start, the one that silently says “I love you.” Jessie flinches when you playfully slap him on the cheek. “Show time, big boy. Knock em dead.”

You scamper off stage a matter of seconds before the curtain opens. Even then, Jessie is chuckling to himself over the now inside joke to the audience. As soon as he raises the mic to sing his rendition of “L.O.V.E.”, you take your usual leave to his dressing room to await his return.

A portly man in his mid forties waddles out his office up ahead. “(L/n)!” He waves a heavily-ringed hand to gain your attention.

It’s getting harder to respond to my old last name, you laugh internally. “Yes, Mr. Browne?” you say to your boss.

“Jessie on stage already?” he asks. A cacophony of flustered squeals erupts. He chortles sloppily. “Take that as a ‘yes.’ You can tell the kid when he finishes agitating women’s sex drives. Just got off the phone with the mayor. You now that ritzy shindig she’s throwing for her kind Friday? Turns out she wants to have an after-party of sorts here. Jessie’s set manager is already cooking up something for him to wow the crowd with, so I need you to work your usual magic and keep him focused. Oh, and I shouldn’t have to tell ya that a pretty little bonus is waiting for ya’s if this goes well.”

A bonus?! That means we’ll be able to afford that condo.

“Understood! Thank you, Mr. Browne,” you say, quickly dismissing yourself to the right wing at the sound of applause. The violet-hued lights glint off Jessie and his sequins while he backs up, waving to the cheering audience with that same, infallible charm. You dart to his side the instant the curtains close and catch a glimpse of his elusive second eye when he whips his head towards you out of surprise.

“Sweetie, what’re you doing back here?” He smiles instinctually at having you clasped to his arm but glances about to ensure no one plays witness to this appreciated yet scandalous display of affection. You pull him impatiently to his dressing room in such an uncharacteristic manner that he can’t help chuckling. “Wait, what’s the rush, darling?”

The door is closed behind him before he’s even really in the room and already your lips meet his fervent enough to elicit a sharp inhale through his nose. Jessie’s brows burrow and he groans low into the kiss, leaning in contrast to you breaking away.

You palm his still oil-slicked chest.

“Jessie, Mr. Browne is going to give us a bonus for a performance Friday for the mayor and her colleagues!” you grin widely, and yet his fades. “What’s wrong? We’ll finally be able to move in together into that condo uptown! Isn’t that great?”

He frowns and takes a deep breath. “Yea, darlin’, it is,” he mutters with a weak smile.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” You cup his heated face and tilt it towards you.

“There’s no way Mr. Browne is gonna let me back out of this, is there?” he says as he moves past you, brushing his hair aside.

You pause. He’s never postponed or turned down a job once in the three years you’ve known him, not even if he was sick. Something isn’t right. Locking the door, you shift closer to his visibly tense figure. “Why would you back out? Are you okay? Is something wrong?” you ask.

Jessie turns to you with a calming smile. “No, of course not. I’m more than okay. I’m married to the woman of my absolute dreams,” he says, palming your cheek. His blue eyes flicker between yours as though there’s a river of words stirring on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he sighs. “But that’s just it. We’ve been married for over three months now and we still haven’t had any resemblance of a honeymoon, or at least private time that wasn't filled with talk of work… I was hoping to back out because I was planning on surprising you with a weekend trip to Emerald Isle so we could get away from the city and finally do what newlyweds do.”

The disappointment is so apparent in his eyes that any ounce of relief you felt now sinks into guilt, though you know you had no way of suspecting his plans. Jessie’s performances and your future with him had kept you busy to the point that you hadn’t realized that no, you had yet to celebrate your marriage in any way. Not even a cake that says, “Congrats on the marriage.” Sure, there are days and some nights spent together, but he often has a strict (sleeping) schedule to keep that makes it impossible for any intimacy. You’ve fallen into the pattern of things, yet he’s been stressing about it all this time, despite the fact that he’s the busier of the two.

Sighing, you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’m so sorry…I hadn’t even thought about it,” you mumble into his shoulder. You feel his head rest on yours so his lips press into your crown. “Maybe it’s not too late to ask if you can take the night off?”

Jessie suddenly ruffles your (h/c) hair and steps back till you can see his face. “Don’t worry about it. If this means we’ll be able to take another step towards our life together, I can’t complain,” he says. “Being with you is worth all the obstacles in the world, and your happiness is even more so. Consider Friday night a success. I’ll even cook for us afterwards.”

You’re tempted to argue the point, but the thought of him—black tank and fitted jeans, apron, with his bangs clipped back—is plenty to keep your mouth shut. “Guess I can’t complain either,” you say sarcastically, to which he chuckles.

“I figured you wouldn’t,” he hums. He leans in to kiss you once, then twice, and again, each time the contact lingering and growing firmer till you begin losing yourself in the taste of him, and it's apparent he is too with you. His fingers dig into your clothes as he unconsciously moves you backwards into the mirror, the sudden pressure of his hard body against yours stealing a breath from you both. Somehow you can feel every crevice of his chest and toned stomach flexing into you with each ragged inhale, and still he draws your hands above your head slowly, as demanding as his mouth that maneuvers yours open. You gasp into him and arch, and the reaction pulses his body in time with his knee slipping between yours. The carnal instinct to take, to be taken, drops your hips just those few inches.

Jessie’s eyes snap open and he stares into you from beneath lust-heavy lids. The look in them, the scorching need on the brink of submission, passes a single question from him to you.

The answer barely has time to fly from your lips in a gasping mewl when his entirety undulates into you and his knee grinds upward. You’re rapidly melting into blind arousal that pitches at the sound of him one-handedly undoing his pants. He shifts as if to straddle your legs around his waist, but a brusque knock on the door halts you both.

Jessie isn’t an angry man or someone who’s bothered easily. And yet his fist colliding against the wall next to your head causes you to jolt. He raises his head with a growling sigh, his pupils narrowed at the invisible intruder.

“Hey, Rabbit!” Mr. Browne’s voice calls.

Forcefully resigning his irritation a margin, he backs off of you before running a clasping hand through his bangs. “What is it?” he exhales, zipping up his pants as a sharp accent to his foul mood.

“Got a lady that wants to meet ya. Get out here.”

You frown—not because the first heated intimacy with your husband was interrupted, but because he’s blatantly torn—and watch carefully while he gathers himself. He rubs his face like he’s just awoken from a nap. “Jessie.” You catch his sleeve at the sign of him leaving.

He looks at your shamelessly concerned expression and smiles, kissing your forehead along a deep inhale. “I’m okay, sweetheart,” he whispers, then sounds a dry, strained chuckle. “A little blue-balled, but it’s nothing these past three years hasn’t taught me to bounce back from. I’ll meet you at your place.”

With a wink, he leaves and the enthralled squeals of another woman drains your energy. You collect your coat and bag and slip out his dressing room once the noises have migrated away. You know how these meet and greets go, how they can last for hours as long as the patron pays to keep Jessie to herself. He’ll show up at your apartment around 1 a.m., shuffle into your room, and collapse onto the bed because sleeping (beside you) is all he wants. How selfish would it be to ask to fool around? To, maybe, even finish what was disrupted? But you then remember the acidic glare in his eyes and know it’s not an option. The opportunities’ passed, postponed for another three months.

Unless, you sit up in bed and glance at your sleeping husband and his messily top-knotted hair. Jesus, I didn’t realize how badly I wanted him till today. Is this the kind of hell he was going through? Being so close but not able to have them? I can’t wait three years, not even three months. Maybe I can, I don’t know, entice him? He’ll be so focused on preparing for Friday’s performance that he won’t even think about touching me. If I can dress sexy or something, I might get what I want.

The devious plan nearly robs you of sleep, and in the morning Jessie is already suspicious of your eager behavior. He stares at you from over the brim of his coffee mug. The confused, accusing question is so apparent: since when do you wear an apron, tank top, and underwear when making breakfast? Even while you flit about the small kitchen, you never feel Jessie’s heated gaze leave your scarcely clad figure. A muffled growl sounds when you bend over—not too conspicuously, though—to store away pans.

Wanting to take him off guard, you snap up and give him an innocent smile. You all but squirm as he narrowly manages to shift his attention from your ass to your face. “Don’t be late to rehearsals, hun. You know how that irritates Stan,” you say.

It takes Jessie half a minute to process what you’ve said. “Oh, yea, of course,” he says, the thought of his set manager’s wrath quickening his movements. He swings his leather jacket on and adorns a beanie before kissing you on the cheek and trotting out the door.

Seeds have been planted. Time to massage them until they pop.

* * *

“Let’s not use that orange light from last night’s set again, yea?” Jessie mutters an hour into rehearsal. “Stan, are you listening?”

He glances out as his manager and technicians only to see them all staring off, mouths ajar. The clack of heels furrows his brow, especially since only the bar girls wear them and the club is four hours from opening. He follows their line of sight, and instantly his jaw slackens in mirroring reply.

Smirking, you saunter towards the group of stunned men in your laced black heels, pencil skirt, and tight, cleavage-hinting blouse. You’ve never really dressed up for work, so what better way to entice a man by showing off your figure? You’ve even done your make-up a bit, highlighting your (e/c) eyes with eyeliner and shadow.

“Afternoon, guys,” you say nonchalantly. “Jessie.”

The muscles in his neck are visibly taut—he’s swallowing every damn urge to leap off this stage and claim you as his wife to stop everyone’s hungry ogling—yet he manages to nod at you. You walk backstage with extra care to pop your hips without making it seem overdone.

One of the technicians whistles in a descending tone. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have her as my PA,” he chuckles among the other men.

You hear Jessie bark “Hey!” in an alpha voice that startles the whole lot of you, and the awkward apologies of the technicians triggers your hushed giggling. This is already going better than expected. If Jessie was protective over you prior to the engagement, just imagine how he's feeling now having a pack of men disrobing his wife with their eyes right in front of him. A male must do what he must to claim what’s his; he’ll have no choice but to hurriedly take you.

What more, he’ll have no time to address it, so the need, the yearning will be forced to stew in the pit of his stomach. You shouldn’t be torturing your own husband like this, you know, but what an experiment to see how he handles being the one seduced for once? For the remainder of his rehearsal, you keep yourself productive, and therefore distracted, with his usual low-level paperwork until the door swings open. You’d be lying if you said you aren’t marginally disappointed to see Jessie flanked by his make-up girls and hair stylists to prepare him for opening. Regardless, it does prohibit him from releasing any measure of…feelings, the very ones that render his jaw flexed and stature rigid as though on the brink of shattering.

You smile innocently once again from your position on the loveseat. “Make him look good girls,” you sing.

“We always do,” one of the women sings in response. They share a laugh—a coded celebration of getting to work with Jessie Rabbit—during which Jessie glares with controlled hunger at your reflection in the mirror. You retain your smile as you cross your legs so the garter of your stocking is visible on your thigh. His eyes flicker down to that band of black lace and you can practically hear him hiss.

If it’s not apparent what I want, I’m more than glad to amp it up, you pretend to say to him internally. This visual foreplay persists over the remainder of the week. Each day you wear tighter, lower shirts, more alluring heels, all the while “somehow” managing to be found by Jessie in compromising positions—bending over to pick up a runaway pen, leaning forward to point out something, spilling water down the front of your blouse.

Naturally he comes across these scenes during his busiest hour, just about tripping over himself or others in uncharacteristic inelegance. His control over his reactions diminishes so drastically that his distress becomes audible in strained groans and sighs, even the occasional curse under his breath.

It all seems to be going so, very well.

“(L/n).”

You glimpse over your shoulder at your boss, who’s noticeably displeased. “Something wrong?”

“Jessie’s damn performances are what’s wrong,” he barks. “The kid’s spark has dried out, he’s going through all the damn motions. I don’t know what happened to him or what pent-up stress is killing his zing, but I need you to fix it now, or tomorrow night’s a bust. You get it?”

His booming voice thuds in your numb skull. “Y-yes, sir,” you say. It doesn't take a genius to deduce what's going on. This is all your fault. Your game of seduction has completely overshadowed your care for Jessie’s performance. Because of you, he’s worn out from sexual frustration.

This could’ve waited, (y/n)! you scorn yourself as you spend the rest of the night avoiding your husband all together. You don’t care how suspicious you'll suddenly appear wearing normal clothes the next day; you’re just hoping it’s not too late. And yet the moment Jessie trudges into the dressing room Friday night, it’s apparent it is.

There’s a long pause. “What’re you doing...?” he asks slowly, and you realize he’s referring to your jeans, v-neck, and blazer—your normal outfit.

An anxious embarrassment swells in your stomach. You fumble the pen and paperwork to fill the rapidly tense air. “What do you mean?” You force an awkward laugh.

Before you spot him, Jessie spins your chair to him so his narrowed eyes bear down into you from inches away. His voice comes coolly, darkly. “(Y/n).”

You shirk like a child caught red-handed. “Yes…?” you mumble.

He smirks, but it’s far from playful. “You don’t think I know what you’ve been up to these past few days,” he hums. Your heaving chest catches his attention and his smirk grows. “My darling wife didn’t think her change in attire would go unnoticed, did she? That her immensely pleasing teases weren’t going to get her into more trouble than she’s prepared for?”

The office chair creaks from your weight sinking further and further beneath Jessie’s nearing figure. How, why is he so intimidating, stirring an rousing fear of a power you never knew he had till now? He chuckles roughly and lowers himself into your lips.

“Or did you think covering all that you’ve proudly displayed would throw me off the scent?” He asks, then burying his nose in your neck. “Or rather, your scent.”

“Jessie—!” Both words and breath are stolen by his finger hooking with infallible precision beneath the frontal clasp of your bra and hauling you to your feet and into him. The paperwork crashes to the floor yet neither of you seem to notice. Your nose lines with his, and with nervous, mouse-like eyes you stare up at his coy ones.

He chuckles again as you’re pushed towards the love-seat. “What happened to my confident temptress that was strutting around yesterday? You clearly were trying to get something from me, sweetheart,” he hums. You gasp when you collapse into the cushions and he quickly but sensually straddles your lap before gripping your chin.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Rabbit—you’ve driven me to the edge of my self-control, and my desire. You’re about to get exactly what you want and much, much more...”