certified slut

You yelp as you regain your footing. “Nice one.”

He holds onto you for a moment longer than could be considered friendly. You brush your knuckles against his as he pats your hip. Then, with reluctance, you drop your hands back to your sides, allowing him to do the same.

You stand there, almost skin to skin, the closeness of him making your head spin.

Hollis coughs. “Thanks, been practicing.” When you open your mouth to inquire further, he presses a finger to his lips. 

Stubborn as usual.

You survey the unusually bare space, noticing a significant amount of furniture missing. “What happened to all the bar stools?”

“Sold ‘em. I’m getting new ones, those were too plain. But if you need a place to sit - ” he crosses his legs on the floor - “I have one for you.” Hollis gestures to his lap.

You groan, your heart going a million miles an hour. “I’m good.” 

See? You weren’t stupid. Yeah, you had a stupidly bad crush on him, but you could keep it together. Just some light banter.

“You said maybe next time,” he teases, flicking your arm. You wince, recalling the last game night when he’d said the same thing. Your no was both profuse and insincere, and when he caught the look of indecision in your eyes, he’d gently put a hand on your waist.

And you fell on top of him. 

(More like, you climbed into his lap. But only for a second!)

And then that second got far too comfortable, and you figured you’d stay there for a bit longer. He stroked your hair while humming a song by Prince that he knew by heart. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World. You rested your head on his shoulder while his wrapped his arms around you, warm breath tickling your neck.

And then you found yourself not just sitting on his lap, but bouncing on it, face buried into the same shoulder while he moved you up and down his cock. 

Once all was said and done, you stared at each other. Immoving. He laughed to himself softly, and then you laughed because it was the most beautiful sound in the world, and he’s rolling on top of you, arms caging your head. This time, looking vulnerable, rather than needy. 

“Are you sure this is okay, as your friend?” You emphasize that last word, as painful as it is.

You swing by the local shows with your friends. You get coffee with them, laugh at the jokes that would be mishmoshed sentences to passerby. You do stupid shit with them. 

Like sleeping with them.

Multiple times.

Shouldn’t kill the friendship if you think he’s attractive, right? Chemistry doesn’t equate to compatibility. You can parrot off all the reasons that it’s fine to fuck your friend, yet the cognitive dissonance eats at you. 

The length of his body tremors. Strong and warm and beautiful, but strangely frail when he lays beside you, linking his arm with yours. “Who said we had to be friends?” His hand brushes yours, ever-so-slightly, as he reaches over, taking a swig from his drink. The proximity makes you tense up, but then he shifts back onto the ground. 

Your breath hitches, trying and failing to register his words. “What do you mean?”

“I, uh-” he stutters. “I said what I said.” You sigh as he nurses his drink, eyes never leaving yours. 

____

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking back on what happened last time.

Nervous, or perhaps emboldened by your silence, he takes your hands into his, tracing the backs of them with his thumbs. “What should we play?”

Maybe it’s the wine talking or you’re drunk from his presence, but you sit up in excitement. “I have an idea.”

He laces your fingers with his, uncrossing his legs so his calves brush against yours. “What’s that?”

The air is thick when you lean in and speak a pitch above a whisper. “Truth or dare.”

“I’m so down. You first, I wanna see what you’ve got.”

His hands slip down to your knees, stroking up the smooth expanse of skin and pausing right below your thighs. You shift closer, pretending to get in a more comfortable position, so the tips of his fingers skirt higher up your legs. 

Carefully, his thumb brushes the hem of your shorts, so faintly that you could’ve missed it. He sighs raggedly. As if the movement pains him, he pulls back - crossing his legs, cradling them with his arms. 

Hollis bounces his leg absently. “Are you gonna go?”

“You have to ask first!”

He groans. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth, obviously.”

Hollis snorts. “Pussy.” You jab him in the side with your elbow, and he jokingly keels over, clutching his ribs. 

“Okay, that was mean,” he complains, while you swat away his attempts at getting back at you. Curiosity, or maybe something sinister, gets the better of him. 

“Do you have a crush on me?” 

You still, immediately retracting your hands from his grasp. “No, of course not. Well, I mean, you’re attractive and all, and I can appreciate that, but - ” and you realize halfway through that you’re rambling while he peers at you, a soft smile ghosting his lips.

You sigh, drumming your fingers on the ground. “Yeah. Maybe. Just a little bit- and not in a weird way, I swear.”

He nods at a sloth’s pace. In the dim lighting, it’s hard to make out if his smile is one of pity or fondness, and you internally panic for a second before deciding to clear the air.

“Well, uh, truth or dare - ”

“Dare,” he answers before you can finish your sentence. “You’re cute when you get all shy.” 

You wring your hands together, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact while he hums lowly. Fuck, are you sweating? He keeps his place ice-cold, has a sweater on-demand for whenever you come over, but at this moment, you feel like Icarus in the sun. Too infatuated with the man in front of you that you’re burning up, unable to think clearly.

“I dare you…to kiss me.” Tame, considering what the two of you had been up to last game night.

He motions to his lap, and you clamber on, straddling his hips. “You don’t have to dare me to do that, baby. I want to anyway.”

“Really?” You ask shyly.

“Really. I love kissing you. Love being this close with you.”

“Okay,” you say softly.

“Okay?” he jokes. “So it’s just me that feels this way? Ouch.”

“No, I like you. I mean, I like kissing you. Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, I-”

Hollis cradles your face with his palms. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I know how you feel. Know how it felt to watch you and know you weren’t mine. Hurt so bad, you know?”

You practically throw yourself into his lap. “I just - I never thought - fuck, let me make it up to you, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He smiles, and you swell with so much affection that it sucks the air out of you, makes you want to crawl under his skin, meld your ribs together like clay. 

“Baby, we have the rest of our lives to do that.”

You kiss him like kissing is consecrated. You could’ve married him then and there. Tipsy, skin molten with heat, the frizz of his hair gleaming in the low lamplight. Him and heady and lovely.

“Hollis…” you whine, pawing at his hands while grinding into him. He groans, returning the action with a slow roll of his hips.

For a moment, the two of you interlace hands, you pushing him away while he pulls you in, palms and stomachs interlaced. Your tummy does a flip when you feel the outline of him through your underwear, unsure if he’s leaking precum or if you need him that bad.

He runs his hands down the column of your back, slowly kneading. “You’re so stiff,” he muses, pressing firm circles into your pressure points on your back. “Need some help with relaxing?” You don’t miss the insinuation in his tone or the way he kisses your shoulder. For a moment, you breathe him in, the weight of him, his arms arpeggiating down your back like a tune he knew from memory.

You sigh as he gently pushes you onto your stomach, straddling you from above. His hands make steady work down your back, rolling his knuckles along either side of your spine. He’s midway through a knot when he speaks again.

“I wish I’d taken you with me,” he says.

“Hmm?” You crane your neck up to look at him, softening at the look he gives you - careful, but genuine.

“I wish I’d taken you with me to my last show. Didn’t feel right leaving you in the hotel while I left for rehearsal.”

He kisses you like he’s starving, making a quiet, broken noise as his hands tangle in your hair. Doesn’t pull away even when you’re gasping for air and practically smothered into the mattress.

You laugh, thumb stroking his cheek as he catches his breath, staring at you in a way that makes your stomach turn knots. “Why not bring me to the show?”

Before he can offer an excuse, your lips are on his again. He sighs into it, thigh inching up between your legs and hands greedily gripping the back of your neck. As if moving them would make you change your mind about him.

“Need you,” he says. “Want you.”

You lean back, attempting to regain your composure. “Are you sure?”

His eyes soften, a glimpse of guilt and something indecipherable behind them. “God, yes. You’re…you’re really something special.” Before he can continue, his lips are on yours again.

Hollis shifts in your lap and your eyes practically roll back into your head. “Don’t - don’t do that,” you groan. “Please, please - I need you. Please.”

“Don’t do what?” He asks teasingly, supplementing his words with a teasing grind of his hips. “This?” 

You respond with a whine so loud that you have to burrow your face into his neck. He’s not in much of a better state, rutting against you - crying out for a relief that never comes.

“Fuck, baby. Baby,” he coos. “Eyes on me.” He cradles your face with his hands. “Wanna see you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “Wanna see you, baby.”

In retaliation, he leaves sloppy kisses down your neck to the top of your shirt, right above your collarbone. “Mmm, need you now, baby. I’m sorry. Let me eat you out after, okay?”

Your breathless yes, his sharp inhale, his hands lifting up your shirt - it all happens in a flash. You fumble with the waistband of his jeans; he yanks them to his knees, pushes your top up so your tits are squished under the tight hemline. You’ve barely kicked your shorts off when he slides his fingers along your underwear. The column of his neck strains as he hovers over you - careful to be gentle, to not crush you with his weight - and he shudders, warm, firm hands gliding up your stomach, massaging your tits, your shoulders, squeezing your arms. His lips make a slow descent down your body, pausing as he reaches your center again. 

Hollis nuzzles his face into your pussy and whines, hands gripping your thighs so hard it almost hurts. He mouths at your clothed clit and groans louder than you, yet he’s pulling down your panties and shoving them in your mouth, putting a finger to his lips. Quiet.

“Want you,” you whine, garbled through the fabric. “Please, baby. Please? Please touch me.”

You feel like you’ve been put aflame with each burning lathe he gives to your pussy. He tries to level his gaze with yours, make it sexy, but his eyes roll back into his head as he makes out with your clit. “You have me,” he says between kisses to your most sensitive areas before diving back in. “I just wanna make you feel good first.”

His muscles ripple as you claw at his back, traveling up to his hair and tugging. He wants to complain about extensions, the cost of them, his tour, but he finds himself keening his head up, silently begging you to pull harder. Go further. 

It’s not long before you feel that familiar knot tugging at your stomach, building and building as your tremble at his movements. Hollis replaces his mouth with his fingers, curling them hard but slow until you writhe and pull his head back down, imploring him to do more - fuck you harder with his tongue - and who is he but to comply? As he sucks on your clit, he scissors you open. You realize at that moment that he’s been humping the bed, a trail of precum staining the sheets.

“Fuck,” you moan, “gonna cum, Hollis, gonna cum.”

“Mmm, want you to cum for me, baby,” he groans into your cunt, and the vibrations are enough to make you fall over the edge. “Just like that. Let me take care of you.”

He strokes your hair as you come down from your high. “You okay, angel?” 

You nod.

“Wanna hear you say it.”

“I’m okay, baby.” Despite how fucked out you were, you felt yourself salivating at his aching dick, the tip flushed and pretty from fucking the bedsheets. “Please fuck me now. Please?”

He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. Crawling onto his hands and knees, he lifted one of your legs over his shoulders, sliding his dick over your aching cunt. “Anything for you, baby. Anything. Just wanna make you feel good, okay?” A thousand images of you pass through his mind. You, bent over backstage, getting eaten out by him from the back while the crowd thinks he’s just taking a break. You bouncing on his cock while the tour van wheels to a stop, covering your mouth while his friends are in the other room. It’s all you, but the image that stands out the most is your smile.

You beam up at him, fully fucked out. His heart jumps more than his dick. 

“Let me know if you want me to slow down, okay?” he says, as he slowly pushes in.

You squirm underneath him, grasping at his arms that are taut and struggling to hold him up. “Mmm, Hollis. So good. Fuck-” you gasp, as he bottoms out. “Fuck, you’re so big, fuck–”

He slams his hips into yours, yanking your underwear out of your mouth. Fuck it. “Wanna hear you,” he groans. “Don’t give a fuck about the neighbors, just wanna hear how much you like getting fucked by this fat fucking dick.”

You whine as he continues. “Yeah? You like that?”

“So much,” you sob as he ruts into you. “Don’t stop.” The slick sounds of sex are so filthy that you bury your face into his shoulder, muffling the mix of pleasure and shame that courses through you. Tears bead at your eyes from the pace he’s setting, and your back aches at how hard you’re thrusting back into him, silently begging for more, more.

He thumbs your jaw, tenderly but firmly before squishing your cheeks together. “So fuckin’ cute. This is the only dick you’re gonna take from now on, you hear me?”

Yes, yes, you hear yourself chant, lost in the sensations of him fucking in and out of you. “Only yours.”

“Say you’re my girl.”

“I’m your girl, Hollis,” you cry out as he thumbs your clit, angling his hips to hit the spot that makes you squeal. “Only yours.” His hips stutter as he looks down at you - fucked out, smiling pliantly, bucking your hips against his. His girl. Sucking him in so damn tightly he didn’t know how he’d lived all these days fucking his hand.

The familiar heat bubbles within you, your stomach tightening as he frantically circles your clit and mouths your tits, mumbling about how pretty you were and how long he’d been wanting to do this. Your cries crescendo. His voice breaks. 

“Cum for me, beautiful. I-” and he gasps raggedly, losing his rhythm as he thrusts into you. “I’m already loving you. Wanna be close to you forever.”

As he loses himself in you, gasping and brokenly sobbing into your shoulder - so good, baby, you did so good - he wraps his arms around your waist, pressing a million sloppy kisses to your face, making sure to cover every inch. “So beautiful,” he whines. “My pretty girl.”

You blink up at him, fucked out and dazed. He rolls over, catching his breath for a moment before crawling off the bed and padding off. When he returns, he has water in his hands and a towel.

You notice a gleam in his eyes as he wipes down your thighs. 

“Yeah?”

He bites his lip. “Can I eat the cum out of you? Wanna taste us.”

You laugh, tussling his hair. “You’re such a slut, baby. Anything for you.” 

It’s weirdly vulnerable when he kisses your waist, smoothing the skin with his hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, anything.”

In the faint streetlights filtering in, you swear he flushes. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

You hurtle up into his arms, smothering his face with kisses. “Yes.”

———

“This is so impolite,” you hiss into his ear. All eyes are on you, and you’re acutely aware of the heavy fabric weighing down your shoulders and cinching your waist. 

“I don’t care,” he breathes, paying no mind to the officiant. “I have to ask you - truth or dare?”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously? Right now? Dare.”

He calls you while you’re dancing around the kitchen and dreaming up some vocals. He convinces you to get Ableton and smooth talks you through the price tag. He knows how to talk the talk, but he walks the walk.

Layer, splice, blend. You drop the EP, quit your job. It’s all surreal. He calls you at inopportune times to talk music and derives inspiration from the most fascinating things.

“I wish I could pick apart your brain,” you find yourself saying, as he’s tapping on a colander for a track he’s working on.

“Consider your wish granted,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

The next day, you find Hollis in your apartment. He teases you for your kitchen dancing while bouncing around between every track edit.

“How’s this?” he asks, as you’re supposed to be working. Not a single monitor is still awake. “Do you think people will like it?” Hollis makes a V with his fingers and sticks his tongue through the crevice.

You groan. He wiggles his tongue for good measure. And her, you can’t tear your eyes away, and he knows.

Hollis has a shit-eating grin that makes you want to kiss it off him and punch him simultaneously. “How about this?” He flicks his tongue in a new motion—tight circles, rather than long lathes through the air. It makes your tummy do flips in ways you don’t want to think about.

“It’s…” and your heart whines when he pushes his hair back behind his ears. He draws his tongue along his teeth, eyes never leaving yours, before sticking it out cartoonishly.

“Yeah, that’ll really get the crowd going,” you deadpan. He laughs.

“I don’t care about the crowd. I care about you,” he says, equally as serious. You’re fiddling with a glass but he’s dead still and you can’t tell which or neither of you mean what you say.

“What do you mean?”

Tentatively, Hollis clasps his hands together. “I care about what you think,” he says simply, leaning back on the couch.

You still. He’s a breath away from you, the soft humming of the overheating laptop the sole thing grounding you. His cologne settles over you, heady and irresistible and so characteristically him.

“I care about you too,” you say, after far too long of a pause.

The next few months pass in a blur. Write, produce, meet Hollis, perform your first shows, nearly double down laughing when you see him headbanging in the front row.

One quiet night, he rises to his feet and paces around the room. The distance does little to quiet your nerves. You start the track again and his soft laugh blends into the ambience, the plucky arps tinkling from the screen.

Pause. “That was nice.”

Hollis looks over at you. “Yeah, that intro sounds great.”

“No, I…I like how your laugh sounds with the track. It’s soft. A nice contrast to the punchier sound we have going on.”

“Add it.”

You blink. “Well, I can’t force you to laugh again, that’d be fake.”

Hollis has a shit-eating grin. Oh, no. Never a good sign. He strides over to the couch in quick steps and stands in front of you.

“Yes?”

Before you can react, his hands are attacking your sides, tickling you until you wheeze and kick against his hold. “Stop, dude!” You’ve fallen over into your back, squirming violently while he cages you with his arms.

He pulls his hands back. Turns the mic on. “Sorry. Your turn.”

You reach up and return the favor twice as hard. He flails around unceremoniously while you get at the backs of his knees, sides, anywhere you can get at. He seizes and falls back against the couch, before sneaking a hand up to poke you as hard as he can in the stomach—giving him the opening to flip you back beneath him. By the end, you have a solid sample, and his arms and knees are bridging either side of you.

“Hi.” It’s barely a whisper, but your lungs are in a twist.

“Hi,” you reply simply. And look away, forcing a fake cough.

Hollis pries himself off you, settling down besides you once more. “Let’s add that in.”

You concentrate intently on the music for the rest of the time. Neither of you mentions what happened again.

A few weeks later, and your first official album is released. You wait with baited breath, pacing around your apartment, watching as the feedback comes in. Take a walk outside and meander aimlessly for an hour. Run all your errands half-heartedly, half-frenzied, and take your bike out instead of driving. It’s good, it’s my art, it doesn’t matter what they think. I’m proud of it. Hollis is, too. Fuck, not Hollis again. You need to stop thinking about him. God, you wonder what he’s up to.

You take a deep breath as you open the front door, cracking open your laptop.

There’s a million notifs staring back at you, and all of them are about Hollis. The fans are going crazy.

IS THAT 2HOLLIS’S LAUGH, someone comments. With a lot of traction. People are dissecting your lyrics, pointing out how they hint at a secret romance, while others say that you might just be friends. It’s not any different that him and Rommulas making shit together, one person says.

Most of the feedback is praise. Much of it is also asking about you and Hollis. You open Twitter, against your better judgment, to see what the people there have to say.

Trending in the sidebar: 2hollis girlfriend.

Well, shit.

Within a few days, your number of listeners has skyrocketed, as does Hollis’s. Rumors sell, you suppose.

Hollis calls you that night, giggling. “Did you see what they’re saying online?”

“Yeah. They think we’re dating.”

He goes silent for a moment. “You know, it wouldn’t be bad for publicity. Not saying I’m using you, or don’t care about you, but like. People like to talk.”

Your heart skips a beat. You force the feeling down. “Sure,” you say hesitantly.

“You sure?” His voice is cautious, a lilt of reassurance embedded within. “We don’t have to. Just thought it’d be fun. Keep ‘em guessing without confirming anything.”

You agree more confidently this time. Hollis giggles. The two of you awkwardly lay ground rules and agree to keep your relationship publicly undefined, so it doesn’t get too weird.

“See you around…girlfriend.”

“See you around, boyfriend.” And you hang up.

The stuffy, summer heat clings to your skin as you wait backstage at Lollapalooza. You take a shot out of Hollis’s flask, waiting for your queue.

The lights dim. The chatter in the audience quiets slightly. “This next song was one of my favorites to produce, and I am so happy to have made it with this person. They’re very special to me, and I’m so glad we met.”

Hollis flicks his eyes over to you. “Give it up for them!” You run on stage. He sweeps you into a hug, twirling you in the air before setting you down. The crowd goes wild.

The lights immediately rain down on you as the instrumental starts. His laugh thunders in the speakers, and you recall the moment when it was recorded. The way he looked at you. The way it felt.

Hollis nods at you, and you begin your verse. The mosh pit already tightens up.

The lyrics flow through the crowd in waves, but all you can focus on is his smile. He dances across the stage with you, never not looking at you. Cameras loom in your face from afar, but in that moment, you could care less. It was just your music and him.

“Hey!” he shouts, as the song comes to a close. As the synth dies out, his eyes flutter, half-lidded and searching yours for a sign of confirmation. Screaming floods your ears, but when he inches in, it all goes silent.

The kiss is messy and inelegant and slightly drunken, but when he pulls back, you can feel the longing in his gaze.

“Hollis,” you say, hardly more than a whisper. “I really, really like you.” Before you can reach, his lips crash into yours again, his hands wrapping around your waist.

You’re both breathing heavily when you pull away. He yanks the mic off.

“Good job, girlfriend,” he teases.

Your heart sinks, remembering your agreement. “Yeah, you too. Good luck with the rest of your set.” You walk off, facing away from the crowd as you blink back tears.

As expected, the kiss goes viral. Like, mega-viral. You see clips of it from every angle, in slo-mo, and all the comments talking about the way you guys looked at each other, how love is real and how cute you guys are. You get stopped in the street and asked about it, and per course, you just smile and say nothing about the status of your relationship.

Thoughts of him swimming in your head, you start writing a new song. It’s much more explicit than your other tracks. You start singing your shameful secret out loud, about how you wondered what would’ve happened if no one was there, if his hands had dropped just a little bit lower. If he’d kept kissing you. All the things you wanted him to do to you. All the things you wanted to do with him, the stupid dates, waking up together, being together.

Hollis comes to your apartment to work on his next song, said he needed help with mixing. After deliberating for a bit, you agree.

He sits next to you, stiff as a board. You don’t talk very much, and you especially don’t discuss what happened at the show.

“Hollis?” you say, voice slightly cracking. He peers over at you.

“Yeah?”

You inch ever-so-slightly closer to him, every shift of your body tinged with guilt and longing and fascination. More, you needed more.

He leans in, just a fraction, and you quickly turn your head back to the screen.

“I, uh, wanted your feedback on this song I’ve been working on.” Before you can stop yourself, you open up the track, stashed away in a secret folder.

“Very protected,” he muses. “What are you hiding?”

The track comes to life. You sit there, drowning in dread as all of your secrets come out. He nods along to the beat, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

The laptop goes quiet.

“So yeah. That’s the, uh, that’s what I’ve been working on.”

You steal a glimpse at him and notice him staring.

“Fuck it,” he groans. “I want you.” And longing glances become stolen air, desperate kisses, the two of you falling onto each other. “I want you,” you tell him between kisses, and he only moans in response. Low and gritty and barely veiling desperation, like he was sinking his teeth into Pandora’s box.

“This is such a bad idea,” he groans between kisses. “But I don’t give a damn.” And how could he with the way that your bodies melded together, his kisses showering you like stars. His thumb strokes your cheek, and you swear you understand why astronomers thought the sun was the center of the universe. He’s beautiful. Blinding. His smile is bathed in light, and even with takeout stains on his shirt, nothing could make you as enchanted as him in that moment.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he confesses. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You are.” You poke his nose.

“No, you.” He grins, closing the distance once more. “Be my girlfriend, for real?”

“Of course.”

Hollis smiles into the kiss, gently planting your hands above your head. His hands travel down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt before coming back up to cup your face.

“Best girlfriend ever,” he says, pinching your cheeks.

“Best boyfriend ever.”

His lips travel to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses into the skin, before lightly sucking. You whine.

“Mm, you like that?”

He shifts his hips, grinning when you elicit the same response.

“You’re so cute.”

He sucks hard on your skin, and you cry out.

“Wanna hear that pretty sound again.”

He nips at your neck harder this time, causing you to fully arch into him. Your hands trace the line of his abs up his shirt, and he swats your hands away.

“Patience. I want to take my time with you.”

His eyes flit up at you, silently asking for permission as his hands slide up your shirt. You nod.

He kisses up your stomach to your chest, leaving a trail of fire. You rut your hips against his as his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, swirling his tongue around.

“Pretty fuckin’ tits for a pretty girl,” he says, crashing your lips into yours once more. You claw at his back, silently begging him to take his shirt off, and he complies.

“Please, Hollis,” you beg. “Need you.”

“Fuck, I love the way you sound right now.” You’re yanking off each others’ clothes in a mess, hands fumbling with belts and zippers and buttons.

Hollis lines himself up with your entrance, his tip flushed and leaking. You’re so wet that he pushes in with ease, both of you sighing as he bottoms out.

“You feel so good,” he moans, slowly easing in and out. “So fucking good. My pretty girl.” You arch your back into him, whining so loudly he has to clamp a hand over your mouth.

“Shh, don’t want the neighbors to complain,” he says. “Although I wouldn’t mind if they knew how good I was fucking my girl.” He thrusts into you hard, and tears well up in your eyes.

“Please, please,” you beg, muffled by his hand. He groans into your ear, angling his hips in a way that has you seeing stars.

“So pretty,” he gasps, “so, so pretty.” His other hand presses down on your stomach, and you swear you can feel him moving in and out of you. He swears loudly when you clench around him, throwing your legs over his shoulders. The new angle makes you tremble, his pace unrelenting. The stench of sex and sweat and cologne fill your senses, and the sounds you’re making are almost embarrassing.

His hand travels from your stomach to your clit, drawing slow circles with the pad of his thumb. “Feels good, yeah?” You let out a garbled sound that barely sounds human. “You’re doing so good for me, my good girl. My girl.” He punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust.

“Yours,” you gasp, mesmerized by the way his brows scrunch up, sweat-slicked hair falling in your face. “All yours, Hollis.” He looks down, breath catching at the ring of white pearling at the base of his dick.

“Look at you,” he says, still mesmerized by the sight. “Look at what a mess you’re making on me.” His thumb moves faster on your clit, experimenting with the pressure until he finds just the one you like. Your tummy clenches, that familiar wave of pleasure amping up in you.

“Can’t help it, can’t, you feel so good, don’t stop.” You’re a rambling, incoherent mess, mascara smudged on your cheeks, hair askew, tits bouncing up and down as he fucks into you.

“You gonna cum?” You nod rapidly, pushing your hips up into his fingers. He retracts his touch, slowly sliding out of you as you squirm and complain.

Hollis shushes you. Smooths your hair. “Not yet, baby. Like I said, I want to take my time with you.”

Slowly, he slides a finger into you, curling it as he lathes his tongue lazily on your clit. You fall back in a sea of breathless whimpers. The ache in your tummy blossoms once more, which does not go unnoticed by him. He retracts his fingers once more, and you sob.

“Please, please, please, Hollis, let me cum, need it so bad. Please.” His face softens as he slowly lowers his lips back to your stomach, kissing his way back down. He wastes no time sucking your clit and swirling his tongue in your hole, groaning louder and louder as your whines intensify. You prop yourself up on your arms, wanting to see him, touch him, feel him, and instantly collapse when you see him rutting into the couch, leaving a wet stain on the fabric.

“Go on, pretty girl. Cum for me.” Your eyes roll back as you fall over the edge, whining his name in incoherent pauses, Hol-lis, oh, Hollis. He kisses your center sweetly before crawling back up.

His face is covered in cum, lashes glistening with wetness. “I need you,” he groans. “I need you so bad.”

He positions himself back at your entrance, and you squirm, the sensitivity from your last orgasm lingering. Hollis kisses your nose, sincerity in his eyes. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?” You agree.

Hollis sets an unrelenting pace. You squirm and cry under him, the pain morphing into raw, unadulterated pleasure. His breathing becomes unsteady, kissing you sloppily as he nearly keels.

“Fuck, baby, feel so good. I’m gonna cum, let me-” but before he can continue, you wrap your legs around him.

“Cum inside me,” you breathe, crazed and delirious. “Need it so bad, please.”

With a moan so loud it could be considered a scream, Hollis cums, continuing to fuck you until you’re both sobbing and twitching from overstimulation.

He collapses with a grunt. “Heavy,” you complain, and he shakily leaves, returning with a towel and water.

He strokes your face tenderly. “How do you feel?” You give him a weak thumbs up, which he laughs at.

“Me too.”

Soon enough, Hollis releases a surprise track about you. It’s catchy and very his style, but the lyrics exude sweetness.