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“...Yeah, sunshine, I get that’s the practical thing to do but the only way you’re going to get this pendant off me is by prying it off my cold, dead body.”
Shane pauses, the mermaid pendant clutched in his fist. His cheek twitches, but while he controls the smile, he can’t hide the way his gaze glitters just a little bit.
He smoothes his hand down his chest, and standing a little straighter, he uses the three inches in height he has over you to the best effect, making it a challenge:
“I’m not taking it off for shit.”
As if you’d make him do anything of the sort. It looks good on him — that little ‘property of the farmer’ that glints blue and opalescent. You’ve woken up with it an inch from your cheek for three weeks, and maybe this is still the honeymoon phase, but you think he stands a little taller when he hangs it on the outside of his shirt like a declaration:
He’s yours and you’re his.
“Not for anything?” you tease.
He wags his head, gaze dipping to your mouth and back.
“Nope. Although I maybe I have a suggestion for demonstrating just how irritating it actually is.”
“Maybe you’re just sensitive,” you hedge, shrugging one shoulder in a mockery of innocence.
He flashes teeth. It’s your only warning.
“We’ll see.”
The part of you that sometimes wishes you knew your husband in his gridball days doesn’t need to wonder at it for too long.
Your shriek as he lunges for you rings around the first floor of the farmhouse, the world upending as Shane goes low and you go… upside down and over his shoulder, laughing as he charges you top the stairs and into the bedroom.
You swat at the seat of his jeans to no avail, because he braces the backs of your thighs to his chest and all the blood is rushing to your head and you know he’s wearing that diabolical grin he sometimes gets when you’ve made extra Pepper Poppers fresh for him and he’s thinking about eating them all in one sitting.
“Still got it,” he says, flipping you onto the bed.
You land with a whump of feathers and dust, shocked at the show of strength, but not for long because he asks, a little out of breath and a little flushed as he shucks off his hoodie. “Want a demonstration?”
The shirt comes off next, and between the tee-shirt tan and the patch of purple fluff that covers his chest and stomach, you notice that he never fumbles when the belt buckle comes undone.
When he gets like this, he’s hard to contain: the strength in that trunk under a layer of love of your cooking and too many days and nights at the the bottom of a pint, but he’s not shy and Shane doesn’t hide, not when your body on offer makes him that hard.
You love every inch of him — every dip and roll and scar. All of it. No exceptions.
So you stare at each other in amazement for a second, because it’s good being this stupid over each other. It’s fucking perfect even when it isn’t.
“Yoba, yes,” you manage, but the callouses on his hands rasp along your cheek, tilting you upwards to catch a flash of warmth in his grin; that golden glimmer of a man on a winning streak.
“Good answer.”
Shane doesn’t think he’s good at a lot of things, but one thing he’s an expert in is unfastening the snaps on your overalls. In two seconds, you’re half-undressed already, and his kiss slows the world on its axis.
Wet and warm, Shane’s affection is sweet and slow as maple syrup, his tongue thick and lazy when he tastes your mouth, and every breath that puffs against your cheek is as decadent as the heat of his hands on your body —
Skin to skin beneath your shirt to pull top and bra off in a heartbeat, your trousers tugged down your legs, the gusset of your panties tested with the press and rub of two fingers tugging them to the side as he leans over you on the bed.
“You ready?”
One finger slides through your folds.
“You’re going to ruin another pair of my panties.”
“Good.” He nips at your jaw, closing his mouth around a softest patch of flesh below your ear and giving you an experimental suck that makes you moan out loud. The shiver that follows pebbles your nipples when Shane growls, “I want this pussy accessible at all times when you’re wearing coveralls.”
He pushes in with two fingers, spreading them a little bit to test your resistance, and you practically climb up his shoulders as he pulls you onto the bed beside him.
The pendant is warm from his body, sliding off to the side in a way that must be uncomfortable, but Shane gives exactly no fucks the way he’s left you half-undone in the effort to make you come first — to make you come hard.
He curls his fingers, and sinking your fingers into his hair as if you think you’ve got control over the situation, he chuckles into your throat. “You’re already squirming.”
“Whose fault is that?” you groan as he taps into the spot that wakes up so easily to his touch. It’s not going to take long.
His grin is infectious. “I love that I’m the one that gets you this worked up.”
“Don’t let it get to your — to your — oh fuck.”
Shane’s laughter is the best thing when you come — better even than the flex of tendons and the slight protrusions of veins in his arms when you try to grip at him as he keeps pumping into you with his fingers; better even than his thigh between yours pinning you to the bed; better even than the sloppy, dishevelled grin he wears after you’ve given him head —
Granted, while you like seeing him fucked stupid, sometimes you have to make exceptions.
Now, though, his hard-on is poking you in the hip, and you know that this is just the warm up to him proving a point about the fancy bit of jewelry he’s holding between his teeth as you ride out the ebb and flush of pleasure. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, and you know he’s enjoying the aftershocks in your body, spasming around his fingers.
He’s got that small, smug grin again.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” you breathe.
He spits out the pendant, crawling over you and in-between your legs, trapped by your boots and denims, and the weight of his torso pinning you to the comforter — his hands do the rest, finding your wrists and tacking them to the mattress.
“Wasn’t done yet,” he murmurs.
Shane nudges your chin, capturing your bottom lip, all innocence, but the pendant swings free to bump into your chest. As if you didn’t know where this was going.
“Got a problem, farmer — I’ve got you dripping on my cock right now, but I’m a little concerned that if I let go of your wrists, you’re gonna get unruly,” he says.
“Sounds like a problem. What are you going to do about it?”
He grunts, his stubble rasping over your cheek as he kisses you again, rocking your hips against his length like you can soak him before he even arrives at a decision. The movement is limited, but he flexes in a way that gets him groaning into your throat a moment later.
“How ‘bout you be good for one second.”
You grind your hips, and he swears.
“There’s truffle oil in the bedside table, Shane.”
“Fuck me.” He laughs, the sound reverberating through your chest. You pull your boots up the back of his legs, clinging to his lower back, your overalls trailing.
“Trying to but you keep teasing.”
Shane growls. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were winding me up.”
His cock drags slow through your juices, and back again slicking himself with your spend, letting you get a good feel for how hard he is, and how thick.
“Or suggesting that I put it in your —”
“What’s mine is yours, love.”
He freezes, breathing hard.
You kiss his jaw, arching your back to press your breasts into his chest, the tiny movements of your hips excruciating because he won’t bully his cock into the spot you want without begging for it.
He presses his lips together, breathing heavily, getting just irritated enough to make it a thing, but —
The tip of his cockhead notches into right place — just on the edge of easing past the point of entry. You clench. It’s involuntary. You need him. You want it. You’re not above begging, and he knows it.
“Shane.”
He looks like he’s barely holding it together.
Nothing’s more rewarding than that flustered, fighty look slanted in your direction.
In the sweetest, most adoring voice that doesn’t falter when he gives your wrists a squeeze, you ask him from between your teeth, “Will you fuck me raw, please?”
“I love it when you whine like that for —” the rest is lost under his groan as he buries himself inside you, pushing past the brief resistance of tension because you’re still just a little too tight for his girth, and when he bottoms out, you choke out a cry that makes him shudder.
“S’fucking —” he slurs into your neck. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
His balls clench upward, the flex against your ass delicate and warm, but the burn is brief and he flexes once, twice and pulls out in a sure stroke that earns a groan before pushing back in to the hilt.
You catch your breath, blinking back the sting.
This good kind of discomfort reduces you to monosyllables. He’s fighting giving into it, just a little longer.
“— Hurt?” He asks.
You shake your head, the air caught in your throat. It comes out an airy sob: “More.”
“Yoba.” Shane crumbles, and then he frees your wrists to rise to a pushup where that pendant falls free of the spot it had been pressed between your hearts to slap you in the chin. It tickles, and you shrink away as it dances over your skin.
“Fucking annoying, isn’t it?” Shane breathes, but he’s grinning.
“You’re annoying and I still like you,” you manage. You grip the cord, pulling him into you as he chuckles, surprised, and kisses you back.
“I see how it is,” he murmurs, but he gives in, gathering you into him.
It takes three strokes of his thick cock before your arching off the bed, your heels digging into his hips to bring him closer, your hands groping up his shoulders as the only sounds are the squeaking bed and the slap of his hips against your ass. It’s bright and fiery for a second, the stretch too decadent to feel anything but the ripple of friction, and then the strike of pressure against the exact spot that makes you gasp.
He grins against your mouth, knowing he’s in the right vicinity. “I can feel you clenching.”
Your vision spots.
“You’re gonna come for me,” he says.
You grip the cord a little tighter, and he keeps going, “And you’re gonna thank me afterward.”
A half-garbled curse slips out as your fingers loosen, your death grip loosening as you start losing focus. The feeling crests into that liminal edge that teeters on darkness — a shadow behind the vision — and all the world narrows to your point of connection and the slick sounds of Shane’s cock gliding in and out of your body the wetter you get. It’s just friction. It’s just pressure. It’s just the feeling of fitting together in an assembly of discordant pieces that seem to make sense, and doesn’t that make you the lucky one in this arrangement?
You’re dripping, and he’s indulgent, his murmur in your ear making you whimper, “I’ll take being mushy over a bit of jewelry if it means I get to feel you coming on me like this for the rest of my life.”
Release breaks with a sob, your body going rigid in Shane’s arms as the mermaid pendant rocks into you again, its smooth edges knocking into your chin.
He shudders, his hips lurching as his resistance breaks, and with a warm gush, Shane comes.
Sagging, his arms shudder as he sinks his weight onto you, but you wrap your arms around his sweaty shoulders as he mutters, “Like I said. This thing is going exactly nowhere.”
Laughing, you kiss his shoulder, his neck, his cheek.
He glowers, struggling not to smile about it.
“You made your point,” you tell him, giving the string one last tug. “It has its uses.”