He's such a sick little fuck I hate him. Broad hands pawing at your thighs, squeezing at the seam where your thigh meets your hip to move around to cup just under your ass while you’re squealing, “God, these pants are tight. You gonna need help getting these off?” Full crowds and he’s got his head tucked to the crook of your shoulder, hands soothing the lower bit of your tummy peeking out from your tight fitted shirt, sneaking his fingers under the hem so far he’s practically cupping the underside of your tits. Guy gets off on having a size advantage of you, tugging you back by the loops of your jeans to seat you on his lap, thighs spread out underneath yours so you can feel the full press of his hard on against the seam of your cunt, pulling you up by your inner thigh to have your feet dangle off the ground. He’s got the nerve to act beside himself when you start tugging on his collar to pull him in for a kiss, acting as if he’s so invested in the conversation at hand while your smacking kisses against his cheek, hands keeping you steady on his lap while you’re leaning back trying to get him closer, a firm palm pressed to your belly to maintain a bit of distance, “Calm down, not going anywhere,” he laughs, wicked glint in his eye while he soothes a hand on your thigh, “Getting all excited, baby. You need something from me?”
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