Work Text:
He’s taking his time. His fingers trace the dark patterns tattooed deep in the skin of your shoulder blades and along your spine. His lips scatter kisses across the back of your neck, bared by his hand, twisting in your chestnut hair. “So beautiful,” he whispers, and his voice is rough from a long night with whiskey and cigarettes. You both stayed up way too late.
He tosses the handful of your hair to the side to keep you exposed to his mouth and fingers. You lay in a semi-conscious state of utter arousal—always so amped up by the mere thought of him, let alone his touch—and the ache between your thighs that seems almost constant because of him starts to throb when his fingers slide over your ass and down between your thighs.
“Wet,” he murmurs, pushing two fingers inside. You moan and spread your legs, arch your back, anything to revel in the way he’s touching you, the way his thick fingers twist and slide and fuck you. Then you feel another finger slide farther down and alongside your clit. You whine and grind into the mattress for more friction, and he chuckles. “Horny little bitch.” He pushes his face into the crook of your neck and kisses you.
You spread your legs wider and arch your back again, almost pushing up onto all fours, because you really want him to fuck you—hard, like he did the night before. You can come this way; you always come with him no matter what he does, but you want to feel the solid thickness of him inside you, stretching and filling you. You want his hands wrapped tight around your hips, pulling you back onto him with bruising force. You want him to call you names and score your skin with his teeth.
His fingers work you where you’re slick and open and his thumb presses between your ass cheeks. “So fucking hot,” he whispers, and his breath puffs the few tendrils of hair that have draped over your eyes. He shifts his warm body along side yours and you can feel how hard and wanting he is next to your thigh, coating your heated skin with moisture. He hums and you feel the vibration everyplace you’re connected.
“I want you,” you hear yourself speak, and you sound as rough as he does. Memories from last night flash through your mind—drinking and smoking and hollering and singing. He was fevered and loose and loud in your blurred vision. He took you up against the wall in the alley five minutes after you were asked to leave the bar because he was throwing food. He called you a dirty girl for letting him hike your skirt up around your hips and slide your panties to the side for his access; and his breath came fast and hot against the back of your neck and cheek in the cool night air, as you bucked back into him.
He pushes up on one elbow, changing the position and angle of his fingers, so he’s spreading that wetness everywhere. “Tell me you want me to fuck you into the mattress and through the floor.” He dips his head to kiss your shoulder then whispers, “Neighbors won’t know what hit them.” Then he laughs lightly and scrapes his teeth over your skin, just like you like.
You roll away from him to your back, feeling his heavy hand and fingers drag wetness from between your legs, across the back of your thigh and up over your hip. You reach down and grasp his fingers in yours and bring them to your mouth. “I love the way you touch me.” You taste yourself on his fingers. “Mmm. And I love touching you.”
You really can’t keep your hands off of him. Maybe that’s because neither of you are into PDA in the strictest sense. You’re both affectionate and quick to hug and kiss, but the things you do to each other behind closed doors (or in dark alleys) stays there. So when you’re there, you make the most of it.
“I want you right here,” you tell him, pulling at him anywhere you can anchor your hands to move his body closer, and you taste him, you—both of you—on his skin. You pull him on top of you and wrap your legs around his hips, grind against him, and sigh. “That’s better.”
He slips inside you. He’s hard, but you know he’ll get harder from the way he’s touching you and you’re touching him. He sets a slow, languid rhythm, and you can feel the solid slide of him; he’s got the leverage he needs to do what you need him to. “Keep doing that.” You clasp one hand over his hip, encouraging his movements and bury the other in his mess of hair, guiding his mouth to yours. Your mouths seal together and your legs twist and slide, as he puts some power behind his strokes.
“You love my cock, don’t you?” he mutters around your twisting lips, rolls his hips. He’s got that edge to his voice—that cocky edge about his cock—because he knows you love it. “Hungry for it.” He smirks and nips your lips. You want to fuck that smirk right off his face.
You tense and squeeze your inner muscles tightly. “And you love my pussy,” you say, trapping his bottom lip between your teeth, feeling him rapidly grow harder inside you. He gasps for air and pumps two tight and quick thrust into you, breathless. His smirk has spread into a full-on grin, but you’re still holding his lip between your teeth. You know how much he likes that little sting—just like you do. You pull away slowly, and his eyes close with the scrape. There’s no blood, but you can taste that tang of almost-blood and it makes you wild.
You flip him to his back and settle over him, guide him back inside you. His fingers curl around the cheeks of your ass and you kiss him, slow and hard with teeth and tongue before sitting up, gripping the headboard and beginning to ride him.
“Fuck, we’re good at this,” you say, finding that groove with him, feeling him slide along and bump into all the right places inside you—between your thighs and in your soul. His hands slide over your ass and hips and up between and around your breasts. His fingers and thumbs circle and tug your nipples, as you move over him.
“Give it to me, baby doll,” he rasps, slowly propping up onto his elbows, watching you fuck him, finally resting his hands on your grinding hips, and his thumbs stroking alongside where you’re joined, sending a jolt of power through your body. “Give it to me.” He watches you with a half-hooded, but hot gaze, panting.
“I’m gonna come so hard right now, but don’t stop,” you gasp. You feel the rumble of your thigh muscles and then the sizzle as fire ignites and crawls up and inside, deep, to a pinpoint of light. Then he whispers, “look at me,” and you do, before you explode black and blue and white.
##
When your breath and sight and awareness have all returned to normal, you’re on your back again, but your head’s at the foot of the bed. He’s still inside you, hard and deep, but he isn’t moving. He’s staring down into your face, a small smile on his lips, and he’s pushing your hair back and out of the way. You’re both sweating and the room is almost light from the rising sun.
He shifts his weight, and you feel him rub that spot and you groan.
You’ve had good sex in your short lifetime. You’ve also had bad sex. You’ve had fun sex and angry sex and anonymous sex and boring, what-was-I-thinking sex. Sex with him is great sex—unparalleled, mind-blowing, holy-fucking-shit-I-didn’t-know-it-could-be-like-that sex. Deep down you know it’s rooted in that one look, the first time you met—that look and the subsequent sensation of pure want when he shook your hand. It felt like you’d known each other a lifetime, forever, perfectly and completely; and you knew you’d never feel that way again with anyone.
No matter how many times you came last night, and that the release of energy from your orgasm this morning surely woke everyone in the building, you let him take you. You always let him take you.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, his smile, spreading wide. “Still want me to keep going?” He gently pushes deeper, and your eyes close with the soft pressure. You nod, breathing deeply, shivering under his fingers as he pulls out of your body and rolls you to your stomach. His hands wander your shoulders and spine and backside again, while he straddles your thighs, pushing them together with his knees. He grips your cheeks in his hands and squeezes. “You know, I’ve always been a breast man, but this ass?” He squeezes harder then smacks, and you jerk and gasp. He knows how much you like being spanked. He knows fucking everything.
He smacks you a few more times—maybe several more times—and you’re right back where you were when you woke up. Your senses are on high alert and you want him hard and deep. But your bones are still a little loose, so you squirm under him and bury your face in the blankets that are bunched at the foot of the bed, taking a less dominant stance than you had before, when you were on top. His fingers work the muscles of your hips and back and shoulders, further solidifying your status as a pile of goo. Before you know it, he’s sliding his cock down your wet slit, one hand braced beside the curve of your waist and the other gripping your shoulder.
When he pushes inside, you can’t remember the last time you felt this full from him, which is saying a lot, because you always feel full with him. You’ve never tried this position and you’re realizing that it is probably your favorite thing ever. You’re totally at his mercy, face down, legs pushed together by the length of his thighs. Then he’s lowering his body over you so his chest is pressing your shoulders into the mattress and his fingers are entwining with yours. “Ready?” he asks quietly, but before you can answer he thrusts hard and deep, and God, it really is the best thing ever.
You moan loudly, and he chuckles in your ear. “That’s right.” He kisses and nibbles at the curve of your neck. “Daddy’s gonna show you what it means to get fucked.” That edge is back in his voice, and he starts to slide in and out in a steady rhythm. He’s hitting that spot again, over and over, and you’re consumed. He’s everywhere around you and inside you, his forehead is pinning your head to the mattress by your temple, his hands are planted on either side of your chest, and his knees are caging your hips. If you can move any part of your body, it’s your feet or your hands, but then they start to tingle—as if they know you’re coming before you do.
He slides one hand under your armpit and shoulder and up to grasp your hand again. You’re touching everywhere, connected everywhere, twisted together, and yet he’s pounding you—just like he said he would earlier this morning. You’re sobbing and groaning with every thrust as he builds you up to the most epic orgasm you’ve had in ever. The neighbors probably hate you both right now.
“Fuck, I can feel you,” he whispers, his breath shaking in your ear. “Come on. Fuckin’ come.” He drops a wet kiss to your shoulder and squeezes your hand. He pulses and grows inside you, and you lose it—wet and hot and loud. You each call out, soak the sheets and mattress beneath you, and barely register the angry pounding from the neighbors below you.
Minutes later, on your backs and panting, covered in sex and sweat, he turns to face you with a broad smile. "French toast?" And you nod, rupturing into giggles, feeling a pleasant ache down to your toes.