🧡

And at first, you think that you must be dreaming. But the way you ache between your thighs at his words alone, you quickly realize that’s not the case. You don’t let on how he’s effecting you, but he’ll know — he always does. You opt for a chuckling breath. “Oh, Stevie… Do you know how late it is?”

His voice is soaked in pure want, tone quivering, breaths quick. He’s panting, you’re sure of it. There’s a quiet pause and you think he must be crying — or on the verge of actual tears. You sit up, phone cradled against your ear and resting on your shoulder, the chord tickling your exposed collar bone. “Steve.”

“Please, honey? Tried to make myself cum, but it’s not the same. I need you, I gotta have —“

Visuals snatching you up and holding, both your conscious and subconscious mind — your thighs tighten, squirming against one another.

And it’s as if he remembers himself beyond the haze of lust, going quiet. He’s really gone, you marvel. You encourage him, swallowing in preparation of his words.

“S’ okay. Tell me what you need, baby.”

He’s dangling on that precipice, his breaths jagged and weak, puffing out into the mouthpiece of the cordless phone. “Inside you. With my tongue.” He says the last part so quietly, that if you both weren’t crushing your phones into your ears, you wouldn’t have heard.

You whimper, unable to stifle. This causes his cock to kick against the zipper, his large palm giving himself a squeeze. “Oh, yeah? Want it too, don’t you? Fucking your little pussy on my face, using me to get you off. It’s what you’re good at, isn’t that right?”

“Jesus, Steve. Can you —“

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, honey. M’ gonna use my spare key. And when I get there I want you to be naked and playing with yourself for me, can you do that?” It’s an open ended question, a concern for consent.

You agree automatically, outright moaning as he sounds on the verge of tears at your agreement. He disconnects the line seconds later, and you waste no time in stripping down — already drenched through your panties. It’s embarrassing, but you know he’ll revel in it, licking you until there’s not a drop left to waste.

~*~

You can’t describe the ramming of heartbeat against your ribcage, sporadic thumps tap dancing on your sternum, when you hear his car pull into your drive and the door slam shut. You plant the balls of your feet on your mattress and fuck yourself down your own fingers as you head your front door open and close and Steve’s sneakers bounding over hardwood, a stop and a hitched breath beginning at your doorway. When your eyes meet his over the low lamplight that’s stationed at your bedside, you widen your legs — an invite that is RSVP’d. Steve’s disheveled sweatshirt is discarded, his white undershirt next, followed by the Nike’s and his hands greedily tugging his belt apart and getting his fly open to relieve pressure. He finds himself on you in that instance, your arms open to seek him.

You’re tucking your hands beneath his tight denim, dragging it and his underwear down below the swell of his perfect ass, your nails digging in and hands slapping. His heavy cock bobs between you two, before it lays across your soaked cunt, making you bare the tendons in your neck, head thrown back, rocking your hips into his own, mewling as that patch of curls at his base tickles the crease in your thigh. “You’re so fucking hard, Steve.”

You think he must be crying, his voice wet and winded. “Can’t help it, baby. It’s all your fault. Been missing you all night long, ever since I dropped you off.”

He litters you jugular with nipping bites and soothing sucks, ones that go straight to your pussy. You close your legs just as his palm peels his dick away from your glistening folds, soaking him in your sticky essence. He releases himself, his heavy member hanging between thin but muscular hips. His fingers glide along the seam of you, rubbing at your clit, pressing in, before he drags them down and circles the rim of your entrance. “Fingers good?”

You latch onto his wrist, indulging in the flex it makes when he works two digits into your cunt with a humiliating ease. He hums in a marveling appreciate, watching that translucent white spill out from you, and leak around his fingers. “Shit, honey, you’re already creaming on me.”

The thick wiggle of welcomed pressure leaves your walls, and has you the one begging now. Steve just watches you through thin rings of cinnamon, blown midnight pupils, his chest and cheeks already dusted with a rosy flush. He sucks his fingers into his mouth, making a real show of it, and then they’re gone.

His voice is low, deep with command. “Keep your legs open, because I’m fucking starving.”