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To be honest, you hadn’t mentioned it with any drive. The suggestion fell from your lips offhandedly, scrolling down your phone when a passing post inspired the idea. Mused, you didn’t expect for your best friend to be so excited at the prospect. While your feelings were—still are—blasé about the whole thing, you nonetheless helped her.
A movie night, composed of cinema classics and a gang of friends and close neighbors, has turned out successfully. You aren’t necessarily surprised by it nor inherently annoyed about the outcome, especially considering the effort placed. However, there is one aspect that’s unsettling you.
And that is the seating arrangement.
“I’m just saying, it is not fair,” you grumble to your best friend, arms folded like a petulant child with a scowl to match. Your gaze surveys the buzzing expanse, and your mood further darkens. “I helped organize this. At the very least I should get a couch seat!”
This comfortable set-up has been your domain, and the effort you put into ensuring the den is optimal for hosting is evident. Cleaned specially, miscellaneous furniture has been cleared out for additional space. Although other couches and recliners have been brought in, blankets and pillows are sprawled out for more seating. It all encircles a large flat screen television, sound accentuated by speakers you hooked up.
And everyone’s waiting in anticipation to experience it fully. Technically, everything’s primed and ready to go. Popcorn has been passed out, seats found and the queue is loaded. The only issue, unbeknownst to them, is you. More specifically, the fact that your reserved seat has been taken, and complaining to your best friend makes you feel better.
And, yeah, you aren’t particularly invested in her movie rooster but you would have a better time if you were curled up on one of the couches at the back.
“But fuck me, I guess,” you sulk. “How typical—”
“If it’s typical, why are you guessing?” The deep timbre of your best friend’s father butts in behind you, gratingly dry as his presence digs underneath your skin and his voice rings between your ears like an early clock on a weekend morning.
Despite the inner surge of irritation, you maintain your composure. Whirling around, you face where he’s reclined back comfortably. Somehow, you still present an expression of mock-reverence when looking down at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, but I was talking to my best friend,” you say evenly as possible, tone becoming patronizingly venomous when you caveat, “I understand you’d be confused but please do turn up your hearing aid.”
To your smug delight, he can’t pretend to be indifferent to you. His sharp jaw clenches, and he jerks his head up, piercing you with blazing cerulean blue eyes. “Well, when you’re bitching that loud, you’re talking to everyone,” he sneers and you can’t believe people like him. “Maybe if you weren’t such an entitled brat, someone would give up their seat for you.” The corner of his mouth tilts as he returns your condescension with, “But considering that particular quality is infused with your biology, I suppose I can’t fault you for it.”
Your jaw slackens while that familiar shade of anger burns inside of you. “Oh, fuck you—“ you start in a snarl, jabbing your finger out with a forward step; his legs shut the recliner, and he stands up to rival your height.
“Shut up. Both of you. Now.” Your best friend and his daughter intervene before anything can really be said, her voice holding authority the two of you have to abide by. She turns her head toward you first, hissing, “That is my father you’re talking to!” Satisfied with the shame washing over your features, she redirects her attention to him and invokes a similar response. “And, dad, that is my best friend you’re talking to!”
A part of you is tempted to stick your tongue out. But she’s got a sixth sense, seemingly attuned to the emotional reactions you and her father exchanged, and beats you to the punch. “You’re both supposed to be adults, right? So stop acting like goddamn children, arguing over nothing!”
In all transparency, there’s no foundation beneath your bad blood. All you know is the first time you met, the initially placid introduction went awry in a matter of minutes; the subject, specifics elude you, was insignificant yet it ended up in a screaming match.
Since then, you two go at it anytime it’s possible. From these interactions, you conclude that he’s a stubborn and self-righteous geezer. Everyone might find him endearing, charming and handsome. But those personality traits are unfounded when you’re concerned, and you will be damned before you ever treat him with respect.
There’s simply too much fire between you two for it to change, even for her sake. But what can’t be achieved in the long term, you can try in the short term. So, you swallow your defensive protests— he started it! —and nod stiffly, muttering, “Fine.”
After he mumbles likewise, she beams with crinkled blue eyes and a blind smile. “Good.” She shuffles in your directional opposite, clearing her throat and clasping her hands together. “Dad,” she speaks carefully, tone fluctuating with charm. “Would you consider giving—”
“No.”
Your eye twitches. “As if I’d take it!” You scoff, jutting your chin high. “Besides you know older people’s senses aren’t the best.” Yeah, you had agreed to be cordial but he has a knack for making you act out. “You know, I don’t need a seat. I’m just pointing out the unfairness. I did all this work with no thanks, and I can’t even—”
“If it’ll shut you the fuck up, you can sit on my lap,” he says, seeming as though your complaining has tired him out, and the silence is all he’s after. But you know better, beyond his convincing pitch and the nearly masked glint of roguishness in his eyes.
Eyes bulging, you flinch back like you’ve been burned. “I - I am not—” you reject vehemently, backpedaling a few steps as your heart begins a pulse between your thighs.
You don’t get too far before your best friend has your wrist in a vice and half-heartedly hauls you forward. “Thank you, dad,” the younger woman accepts his offer graciously then whips her head to speak low and dangerous. “Yes, you are.” She narrows her eyes. “Say another goddamn word, and I will strangle you. Now thank him and sit the fuck down!”
Had she been anyone else, you would’ve challenged them. Instead, you bite the bullet and force an ingenuine, “Thank - thank you.”
That appeases her. Without further ado, she releases your grip and sashays off, presumably to dim the lights and play the first movie: leaving you to climb aboard her infuriating—but objectively attractive—father and the foreboding fluttering in your stomach.
At a snail’s pace, you meander your sock-clad footing until you’re in front of him. Your gaze lifts reluctantly; a ghastly mistake, you realize, when it connects with his. That stupid fucking face, and those bright blue eyes stir something violent inside you. Your self control is already wilting away, and being so close to him is only going to speed up that process.
To distract your nerves, you twist around and examine the room. Noticing the jovial surroundings should help shake your conflicting feelings off, but really you’re realising how inadvertently secluded the area is. At the far back, a few feet from the other furniture, the plot is set to the right.
And to make matters worse, the lights cut off. A movie’s title sequence has begun playing as darkness reigns over the den. You glance upward then to the switch where a recognizable silhouette moves through the ground and settles on the floor.
You know what? You decide you’ll accompany her—
Impatience grunts behind you. Before your brain registers it, action punctuates the sound with two strong hands grappling your hips; a rough yank, and you tumble backward. Your shoulder blades collide with the defined panels of his chest, and his grip centers your ass to nestle the cradle of his hips.
The little noises in your throat are subconscious, crossed between a gasp and a squeak, continuing to escape when adjusting to the luxury of his lap. You want to hate it but he’s crooning your senses and overwhelming your better judgement.
At the same time his physical strength is evident, the contours of his abdomen flexing against your back, the clothing padded muscles work like a cushion beneath you. Radiating warmth through his t-shirt and jeans, he soothes the goosebumps risen along your arms and over your exposed legs in a loose skirt. To further quell your sensibilities, citrus and forest rain waft your nostrils in a clean and intoxicating cloud and sink into your brain.
You’ve gotten a whiff of him before, seen his broad six-foot build but now, invading his space, you’re shackled by how impressive and unabashedly masculine he truly is. You completely understand why his cat, Alpine, likes to curl up on his lap. Actually, a part of you is jealous she gets the opportunity so often.
What the hell is wrong with you ? your common sense snaps furiously. This is your best friend’s father—her asshole of a father. The last thing you need is him gloating about how you melted into him like an ice cream in the sun.
You scowl to yourself and immediately start squirming as if you can’t properly adjust to him; revolting like you’d rather be anywhere else than in his embrace. In terms of body language, you’re making it clear that whatever effect he has on you is negative; except for the fact, your movement translates into a grind.
Another sound vibrates behind you; this time, it’s a deep growl that strikes you still. Then you realize you inadvertently obeyed him, and you violently lash back out—until his forearm braces across your waist and effortlessly anchors you in place.
“What the hell—!”
“Will you stop being so goddamn annoying and watch the movie?!” he hisses in your ear, cinching you like a vice because you’re insisting to jerk and twist. And, God, that man is strong, using only the necessary power to immobilize you.
Figuring your point has been communicated, you allow yourself to settle. Your sudden composure loosens his grip but doesn’t relinquish it entirely. You inhale and exhale slowly out of your nose, now acutely attuned to him. “I know what you’re doing,” you say quietly but firmly. You don’t, though. It’s more like a feeling; similarly to when you knock something over then, in a split-second, anticipate the domino effect that’ll follow on everything in the vicinity.
You hear him snort. “I hardly think you’re smart enough to know what anyone’s doing, much less me,” he retorts sotto voce, considerate of the others enjoying the drama film. “So sorry to inform you but I don’t care about you enough to do anything with you.”
“Oh?” you question calmly despite the storm raging inside you. “Then why are you fucking hard?”
The jeans’ abrasive fabric has a subtle but unmistakable bulge pressing into the swell of your ass. When you first started rutting around on him, you thought you were imagining things but now you’re sure of it: that you caused it, and that—fucking Christ—he’s big .
“What the fuck did you expect when you were bouncing your ass on my dick?” he fires back, leadening his grip on your waist when you start to wiggle again, as if any other position will muffle how formidable he feels under you. He reaffirms your placement, puzzling you until his denim snake is probing the split of your cheeks. “Besides you do have a nice ass.”
You gape even though he can’t see you and pretend you don’t find some satisfaction in the admission (because there’s no way your heart is thrumming faster and you’re creaming at the reality that you've turned on someone as insufferable and forbidden as him ). “You’re shameless.”
“ I’m shameless?” he repeats wryly. “You aren’t even wearing panties!”
You open your mouth then grit your teeth as bashfulness warms your cheeks. The last thing you need is another reminder of how thin the barriers are between you. Laundry day and weather in the nineties equated to a short skirt and that only; you hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Nevertheless, you upkeep your sour façade with, “Yeah, well, if I knew I’d have to be near you, I would’ve doubled up.”
He chuckles darkly, fanning the shell of your ear. “Fucking save it. I can feel you dripping through your skirt.”
You’re going to balk at the accusation and deny it but his calloused palm is gliding up your thigh and grazing the slick flesh. A sound catches in your throat, and your body reacts before you, lurching in hopes he’ll attend to the ache dampened there.
An animalistic growl rumbles behind you. “You are so desperate,” he just about snarls underneath his breath, palming your bareness in order to maneuver you somewhere that doesn’t encourage his erection. “I should’ve known you’d pull something like this. You just can’t help yourself—”
“S - shut up!” you gasp and clutch his wrist, hoping to wane the pressure he’s pushing against your mound; prickles of stimulation are ricocheting through your system, and you’re barely withholding your squeaks. His shifting isn’t helping you, or him—it’s coming off like dry thrusts spreading your thinly covered cheeks. “As if - as if you have room to talk when dick is trying to bury itself in my asshole!”
To your libidos displeasure, he does stop. Undoubtedly, the comment made him realize he was feeding the flames rather than cooling them. His hand alters to grasp your thigh, smearing your embarrassing wetness down your skin.
“As if that wasn’t your entire plan!”
You’re trembling. Adrenaline courses through your veins as you reconcile with the previous feeling of his hands on you. You should be appalled—angry, ripping yourself out of his lap—he should shove you out of his lap. What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck is wrong with him?
Mentally, you shake your head. You’re you , smart-witted and resistant to the insufferable likes of James Barnes. “God, you’re arrogant,” you say after a calming breath. “Sorry to inform you but I don’t care about you enough to do anything with you.”
By the end of your mocking retort, movement in your peripheral brings your attention to someone gathering their things to leave. With your last ounce of willpower, you decide to forgo your preferred conditions for their abandoned couch-seat.
“Finally,” you mutter, grasping for purchase on the arm rests. “Thank God—James, what the fuck—?!”
”You are not just gonna give me a boner then leave so someone can see!” he growls against your temple as he wrenches you back and secures your body flush against his.
“I didn’t realize men your age could still get erections,” you simper. This time, you can’t hide the smug pleasure in coaxing a reaction out of him. Sure he’s all sexy and established but you’re supple and sweet. “At the very least, shouldn’t you have mastered self control by now?”
His laugh is humorless, and he presses his fingers coated in your essence along your thigh. “Shouldn’t you?”
Your face colors but he can’t see it in the dark. “Whatever,” you snap and jerk against his concrete hold. “You think - you think I’m gonna just sit here and let you grind your dick against my ass like this?”
“If you had any decency or gratitude, you’d do the ladylike thing and sit on it,” he whispers back just as furious, words bitterly fanning your cheek, with an underlying seriousness that skips your heart. “It’s the very least you can do.”
“As if you’re actually adventurous enough to do that, old man.” You scoff like the vulgarity of his proposal doesn’t course volcanic arousal through your veins. “And as if you could last long enough to make it worth my while, Barnes.”
You can feel the cloud darkening around him when his baritone voice speaks like gravel, “Wanna bet?”
A shiver wracks your spine but you ignore it. You turn your head to reply but the flat screen flashes light on him, and your breathing hitches as you make out the darkness lurking within his now navy blue eyes, dilated nearly black.
Despite the unflinching demeanor, one you feel throbbing between your thighs, your eyes narrow and your lips pose in a challenging line as you still provoke: “You wouldn't dare.”
“I wouldn’t?” he rhetorics with a sharp click of his tongue. “Okay.”
Without further preamble, his fingers grasp your skirt’s hem and wrenches it back. A layer beneath your ass ruffled free, a breeze whips over your bare skin and sends you into instinctive panic. Simultaneously, you scramble to dress the fabric over your lap and snap your thighs shut but the latter motion is thwarted; his ankles coil around yours and spread them wide.
You shouldn’t be surprised but there’s a drum in your rib cage, and your breathing has quickened in disbelieving anticipation. Your gaze flits around, mentally reminding yourself how crowded it is, and you nearly puncture your bottom lip. “J - James—”
“I thought I wouldn’t dare,” he taunts as he runs his touch along your now barrier-free lower half.
“You - you wouldn’t,” you say weakly though your brain has fallen into a dazed mantra of he is, he is, he is , and the contrary fate to your words is gathering wetly where he’s purposely avoiding. “You don’t. . . you don’t have it in you.”
“Uh huh.”
You can’t see him but in lieu of sight, your other senses have heightened. You can feel what he’s doing, hear the telltale sounds echoing between your ears, and you’re thankful he can’t see your expression lest he notice the eagerness painted across your features.
His fingers shuffle, knuckles brushing against your skin with a dull clink and sharp ziiip of his jeans. A beam of body heat suddenly emits, then he’s groping at the side of your thighs and starts maneuvering you. In a matter of seconds, your sensory hypothesis he unleashed himself is confirmed because—
“ S - shit! ” There he is, hot and sticky, his thick length is slotted between the crease of your slit like it’s home, mushroom tip nudging your clit in stabs of stimulation. And he is big, well-endowed by the way your mound is dwarfed in comparison. Although you can’t entirely pinpoint his circumference, you innately know it’s promising. “Oh, God. God !”
His hand slaps across your mouth before your disbelief and subsequent processing can be expressed. His lips tease the shell of your ear, and if you couldn’t feel the smug twist of his lips, you’d know by his mere tone. “You can get up, if you want. I’m not gonna stop you, of course.” Below you, his hips twitch and a slick thrust between your labias draws wetness out of you like honey; you won’t admit it, but you’re thankful for his gag because you can’t withhold a moan vibrating against his fingers. “But with the way you’re drenching my cock, you aren’t, are you?”
You hate it when he’s right, and you’re usually so good at acting like he isn’t; the lies fall from your tongue smoothly, dispelling him seamlessly on the many times he’s called you out accurately. But even if you had the coherency, the truth is in the pudding, in the way you’re throbbing and dripping all over him, whimpering sounds like a goddamn bitch in heat.
No, you aren’t gonna get up. You’ve got a fever, and begrudging as you might have been, he’s the cure. But in that very same manner, you’re the same for him. Like you, he’s pulsing and oozing arousal, precum smearing all over you like a second skin. He needs you every bit as much as you need him.
So you exhale a stuttered breath through your nose and bite down on the wild reactions wanting to claw out of your body. Instead, you focus your retaliation on extracting some out of him. After an inconspicuous glance around, you put your revenge into action.
Your elbows steady on the armrests so you can rock your weight slowly against him. Your soft warmth nuzzles him like a cocoon, silkened with your essence, and your forward-backward is encouraging a release that’s undoubtedly coiled in his lower stomach.
“God-fucking—” he groans behind you, shuddering a wet stroke between your thighs, and you can feel more stickiness seeping out of his tip; you use the additional lubrication to rock your hips quicker. “Fuck, fuck, fuck !”
Another primal sound rumbles through his chest, and you’re almost worried someone has heard it but he muffles it by burying his face in your hair. Which, you figure, means you’re in the clear to go further. And you do, rutting your body along his, provoking him but also teasing your desire as you rasp him over your sensitivity.
James’ arms cross over your front before you can build the feeling in your belly. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he snarls quietly into your scalp but there’s a lax in his hold, enough for you to move should you choose not to heed his warning.
Of course, you don’t. “ No ,” you drawl, mischief leaking into your tone with, “I’m winning.” Then you drag your sex until your slit has caught his tip and roll your hips so he can get a glimpse of how inviting your channel is, tight and warm, if he could just slip in.
His heart is a tattoo between your shoulder blades, breathing ragged. “You little—” He clenches his teeth when another tremor wracks his spine, and he buckles down on his grip; his lips graze your ear. “Not for long.”
Before you can consider what he might mean, his hand has slithered across your lap and sank between your thighs. His rough pads beeline for your clit and pins the engorged button down in rapid circles, forcing an influx of stimulation into your system until you almost bite your tongue off to keep yourself quiet.
A gasp does escape in your shock. “J - James—!” you curse as you frantically clasp your mouth shut and grapple with his flexing wrist. Your nails dig into the veins there but the pain only serves to propel him more intently in his goal; fingers thrumming over you like you’re an instrument he’s been playing for years, and those stifled sounds are music to his ears.
“You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?” he hisses, swirling and swirling. Colors are flashing behind your lids but it has nothing to do with the movie on the flat screen. “Walking around here like you’re a princess because you look like that, but really, you’re just a little brat. A sexy brat, but a fucking brat nonetheless. Mouthing off, throwing a tantrum when you don’t get what you want. . . thinking you run anything but you don’t.”
His legs are still intertwined around yours. While keeping you vulnerable to his touch, he can also feel the tremors slithering up your calves. There’s a bubble in your stomach, pressurized on the verge of exploding; and when it does, you’ll be encased in delirium at the behest of that silver-tongued asshole. You should be livid at his conclusion of you yet the syllables ripple through your viscera favorably.
“I mean, look at you, now. A few twitches of my fingers on your clit, and you can’t even speak, or move.” He chuckles darkly without a break in pace. “Not one word, not one comeback? You thought I couldn’t handle you, and yet, you’re shaking like a leaf and probably praying you can shut the fuck up when you—“
You squeeze your eyes closed. A surge of bliss expands in your center, a metaphorical pop between your ears as your nerves are dosed in pure heat. Your teeth pierce your knuckles, and your entire being lurches. The domino has crashed, and he’s fucking right because your heart’s jungle rhythm is half due to the fact that if anyone were to glance back, they’d see you.
They’d see you on top of your best friend’s father’s lap. They’d see his hand up your skirt, and his knuckles writhing beneath the fabric. They’d see your thighs pried wide by his, and his embrace crowding your back in a subtle but successful manner of controlling the rest of your frenzied body. Worst of all, they’d see the pleasure splashed across your expression, poorly hidden behind your palm.
“Winning?” he continues to taunt, practically crooning as you go limp, your skull tilting back on his shoulder. “Oh, love. You lost the moment you thought you could stand a chance against me.”
Self-satisfied, his onslaught slows, drawing out a few sporadic flinches of sensitivity before granting you mercy. But unlike previously, he doesn’t dry his caress on your skin, and you don’t need sight to know he’s sucking the slick digits clean, a painful shock of arousal when you make out that faint suction sound.
It isn’t over—far from it, actually. It takes you a moment, a restful moment to regain energy and coherency. Your chest’s labored rise and falls eventually even out, your vision blearily on the drama unfolding on the television until it sharpens and your thoughts finally calm and register what’s occured.
Lost ? It’s not a word that could ever be applied to you, and especially not now, not after this. If anything, you’ve already won. How deluded he must be to think that making you cum is a defeat, you nearly scoff aloud. But you suppose that this winning and losing illusion he has is necessary for him because he isn’t ready to admit the truth.
“You want me,” you murmur mischievously, still somewhat dazed, craning your head to the side so he can get a flicker of the condescension in your expression. “Mr. Barnes, you spent all this time trying to deny that but look at you. . . boasting in the wake of making me cum.” Your tongue swipes over your bottom lip and you hide a wince when you roll your aching sex over his hardness, translucent-white staining your skin and covering his jeans. “I might be a brat, but I’m a brat that you wanna fuck so bad it makes you angry. I think I’m attractive but I never thought I was that attractive. I bet - I bet you nearly came from making me cum. Now that, that is power.”
You can hear his teeth grind together and feel the outrage that fills his head. You know you got him, and he knows you got him but the poor repressed man can’t cope like a normal person—which is fine with you because you aren’t exactly normal yourself. Rather than concede to his feelings and your accurate call-out, he lashes out.
“God, you fucking infuriating—“ he snarls a feral growl, vibrating nicely in your core, and snakes his hand home, unforgiving with your recent undoing. Immediately, he starts kneading and manhandling your sensitivity so you’re squirming and gasping at the shocks that ravage your nerves. “What do you have to say now?” You can’t manage to speak, and he laughs humorlessly. “Exactly. I don’t want you. I don’t—“
“W - we both know that isn’t t - true,” you stammer, almost whining. “That’s why - that’s why you haven’t shoved your cock inside me ‘cause—‘cause you’d never last. The second I’m wrapped around you, you - you would blow your load ‘til it’s pouring out of me.”
His face goes to the crook of your neck, his cheeks warm, and his barrage falters. “I - I—“ His hips jerk and slide underneath you, inadvertently sandwiching his weeping length between your slit, bumping your slick button once more. “I wouldn’t. You - you aren’t that good—you aren’t !”
Clearly, he hopes to convince himself but it isn’t the least bit believable.
“Prove it, you arrogant bastard,” you goad, barely keeping your volume controlled and your wits together. “Exactly what I thought. You can’t! Because you do want me, you self-righteous dick. You want me so bad you’re scared to embarrass yourself by cumming prematurely, you geezer—”
The scathing retort is obstructed by his palm. A good thing because there’s no preparation, other than your orgasm, or warning when he twists and careens forth. Ankles bound by his, your entrance is parted enough for him to plunge his tip up, entering you swiftly before using his other arm to sheathe you down completely.
Your smothered squeal is hidden further by a screaming match between the main characters, and his deep moan bites into the soft junction of your shoulder. There’s a mutual moment of pause, shared shock—idiotic, considering you both knew everything was leading here—as you accept the reality of your best friend’s father’s cock locked in your belly, finally.
The shard of pain at being stretched so thoroughly dissipates in an instant and leaves you struck with oscillating need. Deep, his bulbous peak ghosts over a particular spot; thick, your tight channel erratically clenches around him in an order to adjust and accept.
And, yes, it is a thousand times more fulfilling than those sex dreams you had about him (but refused to admit to).
“Christ. . .” he mutters hoarsely, and every muscle in his body is taut like an arrow’s bow, probably to keep himself from losing himself in you like you predicted. “I didn’t think - I didn’t realize you’d be so—“ He makes this guttural sound, and you tremble around him. “Goddamn it!”
Unlike him, you relax yourself. Your limbs free of tension, you sink into his embrace and tilt your nape back onto his shoulder so you can blink up at him, partly because you’re putting your win into play, partly because you want to revel in his reaction.
There’s no hiding it. There’s plenty of light from the television for you to make out his expression, clenched jaw and pinched shut eyes in desperate restraint. His nostrils flare in calming inhales and exhales—a valiant effort, a truly adorable attempt but he’ll need God themselves for what you’ve got in mind.
As if feeling your gaze, his eyes flutter open, long lashes revealing those pretty dark eyes. When connected with yours, at half-mast and glittering in dilated desire, he releases another groan and his cock twitches against your velvet walls.
“God,” you whisper provokingly. “I can’t lie. . . you’re big—bigger than I dreamed about, than I realized. Shit, you feel good. Mr. Barnes—”
“You’re the worst, you’re the fucking worst,” he chokes out, that vein on his length pulsating wildly. “Should’ve shoved my cock between your lips and finally shut you up!”
“You should just admit it. You want me, and right now, you’re in fucking heaven, balls-deep inside me,” you begin your torment. “In fact, I bet you planned this entire thing. Why you suggested I sit on your lap, you wanted to feel my ass against your dick then you talked your way into getting between my thighs. Not that I’m complaining because I have to really be something to you to drive you to—”
His hand slaps over your mouth. “You’re - you’re delusional. I - I’m proving a point. You aren’t that great. . . you think you can provoke me into cumming but the fact is, I have that effect on you and it doesn’t work vice versa.” There’s an edge of smugness however there’s a lack of belief in the former claim, and you plan to challenge both.
You lift your brows: oh, really ? Then you hope he can feel the upturn of your lip before you find your clit with one hand and work it with expertise. The reaction is instantaneous. Your walls seize up, swelling around him as sensations rise within your being.
“What are you—w - wait, wait—!”
You don’t listen. You never listen. Your fingers whirl around your nub, and your insides are keen to milk an orgasm out of him as the same time one rocks through you. The increased vice-like grip is so sudden and impactful, he doesn’t have the resources to thwart your actions; that, or the ache has gotten so unbearable, he’s conceded.
“You fucking brat—” he groans into your neck, and his hips inadvertently rut upwards while the tightening stimulation deluges him. In a matter of seconds, thanks to your already high arousal and familiar touch, you’re wringing your orgasm from him.
Spurt after spurt shoots into your cervix, flooding it in electrifying lava for what feels like forever, scratching you with the imprint of him. It keeps going, him and you, because the thick wads further the stars blurring in front of your vision.
A full-bodied shudder squelches him deeper inside you, and there’s a unified sound between you both. Then as the excess of his cum drips out of you, he lifts his face somewhat and mutters, “Okay. I might have some feelings for you.”