Bernthirst Events

"Fuck, Brax!"

Braxton's heavy balls are slapping against your thighs, jolting you forward with each stroke. The idea of him being so fucking full, so needy for his release in your cunt, is bringing out your feral side. Hooking your ankles behind his ass, you drag him closer, as much as you can be closer to someone fucking out your brains anyway.

He gives you a cocky grin, his slick-shiny tongue sticking out between his teeth. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

Rolling your eyes at him, you start digging your nails into his shoulders experimentally. Not everyone's into it. You didn't even know you were or you wouldn't have gone with the stiletto manicure.

The effect is instant, and beyond anything you could have imagined.

The groan ripped from his throat travels through his chest into your skin, setting all your nerve endings on fire. Bucking up into your nails, he tries his best to keep the rhythm of his hips going, but he's failing spectacularly. He's trembling against you like a live wire, a dragon chomping at the bit, wanting to take flight. All you need to do is give him a tiny nudge in the right direction.

Part of you wonders if this is the right choice, but your lizard brain is winning this one. Love me till it hurts.

You bear down onto his shoulder blades, your nails leaving tiny marks behind. Braxton muffles the scream tearing apart his throat against your shoulder, hot, humid puffs burning your skin.

Your can't bring yourself to scratch down his back, but you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking with authoritative sharpness.

"You gonna fuck me now, Brax? You gonna be good, huh?"

The whimper against your chest breaks your heart. Fuck, you shouldn't have said that. Brax needs reassurance, not criticism, and-

He's off like a rocket, his hips snapping forward over and over. Folded in half against his chest, you can feel each stroke of his thick cock right against your swollen clit.

"Good boy," you whisper as you yank him right up to your face. "You're my good boy, Brax."

His dark eyes are unreadable in the twilight of the early morning hours, but something complicated passes through them, the kind of emotion that has too many layers to explain easily. Exploding into action seems easier for him. It's for you, too. Don't need to talk everything to death, right?

You kiss the sadness from his lips, tasting his sweat and your cream until your eyes roll back into your skull. Brax rocks impossibly deeper into the cradle of your hips, like he's trying to slip inside of you, shape you both into a symbiosis of pleasure.

With the next snap of his hips, he slides deeper into you than he's ever been, than you'd thought was possible for anyone to be.

You can't be sure, but you swear you can see the faint outline of his dick under your belly, and that- you just don't know what to do with such a mindblowingly hot image other than to scream his name, over and over, until your voice gives out.

When you finally come, you rally and scream into the darkness, not caring who hears. Brax bites down on his fist.

The worst part about your morning routine, other than wakefulness itself, is doing your makeup. It feels like slipping on a mask, something to hide behind, something to cover up your beastly nature.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see Brax snuggled up in the comforter, his face softened by the light coming through the bathroom door. When he's awake, he's a whirlwind of motion, hands flurrying, feet stepping.

Never stand still, never stop all that manic energy bursting through every single pore on your body, Brax.

You turn back to the mirror, finishing your winged eyeliner with a slightly larger flourish than is advisable for an office job. It makes you look like a fucking warrior queen, the kind whose merciless gaze makes her enemies quiver in fear. If you need to play by their rules, if you need to be tame and sweet and domesticated, at least you can get away with this.

Having finished the mask, you strap yourself in the straight jacket of your Spanx, your sheath dress. Tasteful jewelry, heels, and you're ready for another day at the office, another day you're chained to a desk when you'd rather be chained to Brax.

Leaning down impulsively, you kiss his cheek, feeling his stubble drag through your lipstick - something real through layers of civilization.

Braxton wakes at around 11, his stomach feeling like a black hole, the kind that sucks in everything and feels satisfied with nothing.

Turning onto his back, he stretches out his legs blissfully. Feels good to have enough space after an endless series of flights. It's perfect with the exception of the grooves in his back, dug by sharp little nails the night before. That was... something else. You're never boring in bed, but you were like a woman possessed, like you were trying to scratch his pleasure out of him, take it by force if he wasn't going to offer it up willingly.

Fuck. He loves a good ride like that. Speaking of which, maybe that's what you're going to do tonight. You could ride him - take what you want and maybe give him some matching marks on his chest.

Humming under his breath, he wanders into the kitchen (butt naked, of course), and grabs the first thing he sees - a box of Cheez-Its. Perfect. Dad never let him have that kinda shit food growing up, but he sure as fuck is going to have it now that he gets to make the choice. He's kind of a shit cook, but he's gonna throw something together for dinner later, surprise you.

You have another two days before he needs to be at his next job, and he's gonna make them count.

He chokes on the first fistful of crackers, hacking like a cat throwing up a hair ball. Shit, he's getting sloppy, killing himself with a cracker. Christian would be appalled if he knew about this.

But then he can't stop coughing, no matter how much water he guzzles, and he's thinking, maybe this is something else entirely.

It’s raining outside. You hear it puttering against the window in steady beats as you tug at the covers to pull them closer. A warm spell caused a late December rain storm, washing away the inches of snow that fell on the city just last week. Not very festive for Christmas, but you didn’t mind.

There’s a weight against your back, enveloping you in warmth as you blink a few times to orient yourself. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s Frank. A genuine Christmas miracle— he’s home. You figured he’d be spending today like he spent the last few weeks— out hunting down whatever gang he was looking for, getting a few hours of sleep when he could in one of his shitty hideouts. You weren’t even expecting to hear from him all day let alone wake up to him holding you.

You reach for your phone on the night stand, scrambling to turn the brightness down so it won’t wake him.

7:22 AM

The fancy security camera app Micro installed showed Frank getting in at 4:45. He’s barely been asleep 2 hours.

He needs the rest. He always does. He’ll only take it if you made him though.

Entwining your fingers in the ones he rests across your abdomen, you close your eyes and drift once more.

It’s 9:48 the next time you wake. Using your phone once again, you open the camera and hold it above you, checking to make sure that Frank is still asleep.

His nose is smushed into your back and his breathing is steady and even.

Perfect.

It takes a bit of effort to unwrap yourself from his iron-clad hold without disturbing him, but you manage.

The coffee maker whirrs to life and the stovetop warms quickly as you place the griddle on it.

It’s ritualistic at this point: dig through his duffle and get his clothes in the wash (this time while ignoring the packages inside, all wrapped in plain brown paper), guns on the coffee table for him to clean later, and breakfast on the stove, warm for whenever he wakes up.

The latest smutty romance novel your upstairs neighbor recommended isn’t exactly a page turner, so when you hear the familiar sounds of Frank getting out of bed and making his way to the bathroom, it’s not too hard to put the novel down.

He’s all kinds of sleepy and cozy looking as he appears in the door frame, blessing you with the sight of him only in a pair of black sweat pants.

“Mornin’” he grumbles in that sleepy baritone that sends shivers down your spine as you step toward him.

“Hey big guy.” you reply, pressing your face into his chest and wrapping your arms around his strong frame. The feeling of your cold hands against his bare back has him flinching for a moment, before he wraps you in his embrace and plants a drowsy kiss to your crown.

“How are you?” you ask, leaving room for him to reply with as much or as little as he wants to share.

“Tired.”

“You should sleep more.”

He pulls his head away, cupping your jaw lightly and looking into your eyes.

“Pfft. Ain’t gonna waste a day with my girl. ‘Specially not today.”

With the way he operates, you weren’t even sure he would know exactly what day it is, but clearly he does.

You bite your lip as you look him up and down, never sure what state he’ll return to you in.

“What’s the damage, lieutenant?”

“’M fine.”

The bruise on his jaw and under his ribs tell a different story.

“Liar.”

“What, you hoping for worse?”

Part of you does, because maybe anything worse would keep him home with you a little while longer or even give him the incentive to hang it all up. You both know that only a spot in the ground would actually do that.

“You want coffee?” you offer.

The way he’s eyeing you indicates that coffee is the last thing on his mind.

“Nah, I’m in the mood for somethin’ sweeter.”

As tempting as the offer is, you don’t want the special breakfast you made to get cold and go to waste.

“I made pancakes. Put the cute Christmas tree sprinkles in ‘em and everything.”

He hesitates, weighing his options. You’re almost offended at the insinuation that he likes the idea of pancakes more than your pussy.

“I like pancakes,” he replies finally.

“Yeah, I know you dork.”

He shakes off the idea.

“I can have pancakes later. Wanna show my woman how much I missed her.”

He leans down, attaching his lips to the junction where your neck meets your collar bone.

“No, I refuse to fuck you until you have coffee in your system,” you reply, causing a grumpy grunt to fall from lips, which are still attached to your neck.

“I won’t cum if you’re cranky,” you continue “and besides I’m pretty sure half the reason you’ve never gotten me pregnant is your semen is mostly made of coffee so why risk our best birth control method?”

He scoffs with a shake of his head

“Christ. Fine. Breakfast first.”

He chews loudly, a habit that typically drives you up a wall. You’re just so happy that he’s here today, it doesn’t even register.

“I got you something, by the way. Since it’s Christmas and all.”

You try to keep your tone nonchalant, poking your pancakes with your fork and not meeting his gaze when you say it. You’ve done this before— spooked him with too much normalcy and happiness. Emotions which typically have him spiraling into a grouchy self-imposed day of sulking because you’re “too good for him.” You’re still learning on how to coax his boundaries on that further and you’d rather not push him too far today.

“Didn’t have to, sweetheart—”

“Okay but I did,” you cut him off, flinching at your eagerness as the words leave your mouth.

“Good thing I got you somethin’ too then.”

He nods toward his duffle and you feign surprise like you didn’t see the gifts in his bag when you took out his laundry.

“None of my presents have some guys blood on them, do they?”

“No promises.”

He chuckles, flashing your that warm, toothy smile you only catch glimpses of in moments like this.

You return with a scoff of amusement, holding yourself back from jumping up and finding his gifts that are wrapped and tucked neatly under the tree.

“I missed you,” you confess quietly.

“I missed you too, baby. Like you would not believe.”

He pats his thigh and it’s all the invitation you need to crawl into his lap, nuzzling into his neck and breathing him in. No matter how long he’s gone he always returns smelling the same— like Irish Spring soap and gun powder.

“You get into any trouble while I was gone?”

“Oh you know me, Frank. Always in some kind of predicament,” you reply sarcastically, both of you knowing the most interesting thing you got up to while he was away was pushing through tourists trying to get a glimpse of the tree in midtown on your way to work.

“That’s an awful big word, sweetheart.” he returns the jest “’Member I was a Marine. We don’t do so good with big words.”

“Good thing you got such a pretty face then.”

He scoffs at that.

“This ugly mug? Really? Didn’t think you were with me for my good looks either.”

“Oh, I’m with you cause you’re good at something, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah? Want me to take you to bed then? Remind you why you keep me around?”

You don’t even get a full nod out before he’s on his feet, carrying you bridal style down the hall and to the bedroom.

He keeps you there most of the day, not that you’re complaining. He eventually lets you exchange your gifts over a dinner of Chinese takeout. You end the day cuddled on the couch, both falling asleep to some boring made for tv movie.

And for the both of you, it’s the best Christmas you can remember in a while.