hana

The day starts ordinary enough.

Spencer’s in his usual weekend rhythm—hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves pushed up, moving around the kitchen like it’s second nature. You watch from the couch as he empties the dishwasher, humming softly under his breath. He pauses to line the mugs neatly in the cabinet, then wipes his hands on a dish towel before reaching for the coffee pot.

It’s nothing flashy. Just him being… him. Thoughtful, careful, methodical.

And yet, every small thing he does sends a slow, molten warmth through your veins.

He glances over his shoulder to ask if you want sugar and you can’t even form a coherent answer. You nod, a little too quickly.

Later, he’s in the living room, glasses sliding down his nose as he fixes the leg on the wobbly bookshelf you’ve been complaining about. His hair keeps falling into his face, and he keeps huffing it away with a puff of air, muttering to himself like an old man. You should be helping. You’re not.

You’re watching the veins in his forearm flex every time he tightens a screw.

Then it’s the laundry—him methodically folding towels, matching socks like it’s a puzzle. Then it’s him remembering to water the plant on the windowsill.

And then, Christ, it’s the way he looks at you—his eyes soft and sweet and his voice so, so gentle when he tells you to go get ready.

“For what?” you ask.

He smiles. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question. He’s not asking permission.

And something about that makes your knees a little weak.

You take a quick shower, throw on a pretty sundress, do your makeup and hair, and when you’re about to step into your heels, he kneels down in front of you.

His fingers brush your ankle as he buckles the strap. Then he does the other foot.

It’s so simple. But it turns you on more than you can explain.

He stands and looks at you, brushes your hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You can tell by the look on his face—gentle, knowing, a little amused—that he knows exactly where your mind has gone. But you just smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He says, “Okay,” and the two of you walk out to his car.

Your hands are wrapped around his elbow like it’s 1942 and he’s taking you to the dance. He opens the door for you, and you freeze.

For a second, you're glad he can't hear your thoughts. The dirty ones. The ones where he bends you over the hood of his car and fucks you in broad daylight. But he’s just standing there, waiting for you to get in the car.

Then he raises a brow at you—a bold smirk on his lips and you wonder… maybe he can hear your thoughts.

“Let’s go back inside,” he says. And you nearly melt into the ground.

You’ve been living together for a couple of months now. And he’s finding out—little by little—how unbelievably, downright, unhinged horny you are. He leads you back upstairs. And as soon as the door falls closed behind you, you’re pinned against it, his soft lips on yours.

You can taste the toothpaste on his tongue.

You’re still in your heels and sundress, and he’s fully clothed, and he’s kissing you so hard you can’t catch your breath. His hands are in your hair, tugging, pulling, and your fingers are fumbling for his belt. You think how easy it would be to undo it, unbutton his pants, let them fall. You want them to pool around his ankles; you want him to kick them away and take you right here, up against the door.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers. And even though his tone is loving and tender, he’s also a little rough. A little commanding.

You have to tell him. He won’t move until you do.

“I want you,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “No. Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper. “I want you to bend me over the couch. I want you to pull my hair and make me come on your cock. I want it to hurt just a little bit.”

He nods. “Good girl.”

Then he spins you around, bends you over the arm of the couch, flips your dress up, and yanks your panties down to your knees.

And for a second it's embarrassing—the idea of him seeing you like that. It’s easier when it’s dark, when you can pretend he can’t really see you.

But it’s broad daylight and you know he can see everything. The way your thighs are shaking, the wet spot on your panties, the way your body is so, so ready for him.

“Spencer,” you whisper, trying to look over your shoulder at him. But he presses a hand to your back—keeps your face and chest pinned to the cushions.

“Don't move,” he tells you. “I’m going to take care of you.”

You feel his lips brush the back of your thigh.

He kisses a path from your knee to your ass. And when he reaches the soft flesh there, he sinks his teeth in.

“Ow,” you whine, even though it doesn’t really hurt.

He soothes the skin with his tongue, and you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you wider for him. Then his tongue is on your pussy—licking a slow stripe up your center, and you nearly whimper.

“Shh,” he tells you.

And you don’t know why you have to be quiet. The two of you are alone in the apartment. But something about the command, about him shushing you, makes you bite your lip to stay quiet. You press your cheek into the couch cushions, muffling a moan.

“Good girl,” he praises. “You look so pretty like this.”

You can feel his tongue on your clit, lapping at your slick folds, dipping into your hole. He fucks you with it, pressing it inside you as he grips your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He hums against your pussy, and the vibrations make you shiver.

“God, you’re so wet. You’re making such a pretty mess, baby.”

His words send a shockwave through you. And you wonder if this is turning him on as much as it is turning you on. If it’s possible for him to be just as gone, just as crazy for you.

You hear the sound of his belt being undone, then his zipper coming down.

And then he’s pushing inside you, so slow, so careful—like you’re fragile.

You feel every inch of him stretching you, and you let out a gasp. He’s so hard. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches inside you. In the way he hisses when he bottoms out, and his fingers dig into your ass.

He pauses for a moment, lets you adjust, and then he’s pulling out, and thrusting back in—so hard you let out a cry.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

You shake your head, and he thrusts again.

It hurts just a little, but it feels good, too. Feels like you’re full. Like your body is being rearranged to fit him.

And you can’t help the way your walls clench around him.

He groans.

Even though he’s being dominant—even though he’s telling you what to do, fucking you from behind—he’s still so, so loving. He mutters soft compliments, tells you how good you feel, tells you he doesn’t deserve you.

And every time he’s all the way inside you, he sits there for a second—lets you clench around him, lets you feel every inch.

“You’re taking me so well,” he purrs, fingers tangling in your hair. He yanks, and you move with him, sitting up on your elbows. “Good girl.”

He reaches around to yank your dress down, freeing your tits. And his fingers are kneading, massaging, before he’s pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers.

You let out a whimper.

“Tell me you want it,” he hisses. “Beg me to keep fucking you.”

“Please,” you cry, pressing back against him. “Please don’t stop.”

He keeps that deep, torturous pace—keeps toying with your nipples, pulling and rolling them between his fingers.

“What got you so horny for me, baby?”

And you have to tell him. You have to say the words out loud, even though they sound so dirty, so depraved.

“It was you helping me. Fixing the bookshelf. When you emptied the dishwasher. God, I wanted to drop to my knees and blow you right then.”

He moans and fucks into you—hard and fast.

You swear you feel him hit your fucking cervix. You let out a loud moan.

Then he pulls out, and you’re empty and cold and you whimper at the loss.

"Stand up."

You do, shaky legs and trembling thighs.

He sits down, looks up at you.

“Come here, ride me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

You straddle him. Your knees sink into the soft cushions, and your hands find his shoulders. You raise up on your knees and position him at your center. And slowly—oh, so slowly—you sink down on him.

You can see his face now. The way he watches you like you’re a work of art. Like you’re something to be worshipped.

And it makes you feel powerful and sexy.

You raise up again, and slam back down. He lets out a hiss and bites his lip. So you do it again.

His hands are on your hips, helping you, guiding you. And it’s not long before the two of you find a rhythm. He thrusts up to meet you, and you fuck yourself on him—slow and deep. It’s so good. He’s so good.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes haven’t left your face. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast.

Then his lips find yours again.

And it’s sweet and gentle, the way he kisses you. The way his hands hold your face, his tongue licks at yours. He sucks on your bottom lip before he bites it. And it takes your breath away. It feels like a dream—the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.

Like nothing else matters.

“I love you,” he breathes. “God, I love you so much.”

His voice is so soft, so sincere, you feel a lump form in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And he smiles—this little boyish grin that makes him look so young. Makes him look like the world isn’t weighing him down. And you press your forehead to his, feeling his breath on your lips, and then you’re riding him again.

“Touch yourself,” he tells you.

His voice is husky, and his eyes are on you—watching the way you bounce on his cock. You reach down between your legs, playing with your clit in slow circles as you fuck yourself on him. 

He grips your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can look at you.

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he tells you softly. “Anything you ask for.”

“I love you,” you moan again.

“I love you, too.”

You’re still touching yourself like he asked you to. Like you promised. And he notices.

“Good girl,” he moans, and starts fucking up into you—harder. Faster. “My girl.”

“Spencer,” you're breathless as you say his name. “I’m gonna come.”

He’s thrusting up, hitting that spot inside you that feels so fucking good. “You feel so good, baby. So warm and tight.” He bites your neck softly, sucks the skin into his mouth.

“Please,” you whine. “Spencer, I can’t.” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your nails are biting into his skin, and you can feel your orgasm building. “Please let me come.”

He kisses your lips—soft and gentle.

“Of course you can come, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Come on my cock. I want to feel it.”

You let out a moan and do exactly that. You clench around him and see white. You’re gasping for air and shaking and whimpering.

He keeps fucking you through it—slow and gentle, and it feels so good you think you might come again.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You did so good, sweetheart. You made yourself come on my cock.”

And you nod, biting your lip, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucks you. He’s going harder now. You know he’s close. He whispers how good you feel. How beautiful you are. And then he’s coming—groaning softly as he fills you. You can feel him pulsing inside you and you clench around him. It makes him moan and bury his face in your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. And the two of you sit there for a moment—him still inside you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, smoothing your hair down. He pulls back to look at you and you smile. He kisses you again—so lovingly, so tenderly you melt into him.

And then you’re lying on the couch together. He’s holding you in his lap, your head on his chest. You’re tracing the lines of his chest as he strokes your hair. It’s quiet—save for the sound of your breathing.

You could fall asleep like this. With your head on his chest and his fingers in your hair.