Paul Dano as 𝐉𝐨𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 in For Ellen (2012) Imagine

In your small town where nobody ever stops, he got off a truck. Or was kicked out. He looked like he's been running instead of riding when he walked into the pub.

"Where you headed?" You asked, just making conversation with a patron.

"Chicago," he sniffed. "I guess."

"Thought so," you smiled. Not all patrons got this service. "You look like a big city boy."

"Do I?" He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of your staring. "You serve a lot of city boys?" His tired eyes were now awake.

"Just the bad ones."

He leaned in, resting both elbows on the counter. "I'm the worst." He looked a broken man with the voice of a bad boy.

"We're closing in 10," you poured him the final round.

He drank it like liquid courage. "Any place I could crash tonight?" He paid you with a smirk.

"Mine."

He was having a smoke outside, waiting for you to close.

"My car's right over-"

He backed you up against the door you just closed and shoved his knee between your thighs. He wanted you to ride him, not your car. Your first kiss was fire as he blew out smoke in your mouth agape.

You inhaled it all, but it wasn't like you had a choice. He had you by your jaw, so you opened up for him. He blew the last of his smoke into you before he even kissed you. He tasted like trouble and drinks on the house.

"Is this how they do it in the big city?"

"They usually do it backstage," he chuckles into your ear, caressing it with kiss. Then a bite. Then a bite and a lick around the shell, sending shivers.

"Backstage?" You moan more than ask.

"After they throw bras on stage with their numbers."

"You in a band?"

You weren't drunk enough to believe you were grinding your groin against a rock star's thigh. But he did play you like one of his guitars, chipped nails digging into your sides and his moan humming against your throat, tongue licking along the length of it.

"I'm am the band," he suckled at the sensitive skin behind your ear. It made you rake your nails over his leather jacket. "I'm Joby fucking Taylor." Then he sunk his teeth into the spot.

"Joby," you gasped. "We need to-"

"I know what you need, baby," he hissed. "A good lay."

"Fuck," you moaned.

"A good fuck from a bad, bad man." Joby's hand slipped down your jaw and around your throat. He made room for his mouth to move along the line of it. "The worst man."

"Not here," you pushed at him, but he only pulled you closer, hand squeezing your neck.

"Where do you want me to take you, baby?" He spoke against your lips, sticking his tongue out to lick the seams. "The tour bus?"

"My car," you breathed. "My place."

"You want me in your bed? A bad man like me?"

"I want you to break it."

When Joby freed you, it was like having the wind kicked out of your lungs. He took a step back. Then he fixed his hair, but it fell into his face again.

"You're making a big mistake," he shook his head. He sobered up. "I know."

You began walking to your car. "You coming?"