fanciest pizza alive

HOLLAND NEEDS TO TAKE CARE OF HIS GEAR.

Holland stared down the tangled mess of his shoulder holster, and he scratched the back of his head. He honestly had no idea how it even got like that, but then again, he pulled it out of his laundry basket when he finally managed to do it, so he might have an inkling of how it managed to get all twisted up.

Holland sighed and scrubbed a hand over his mouth as he stood in the middle of his bedroom, debating whether or not he had the time to try and untangle the mess of leather in front of him or risk getting his ass blown off by sticking his gun in the waistband of his slacks.

He barely registered the knocks at his front door and Holly opening it. He heard her say your name and greet you at the door before inviting you in. The two of you started to converse in low voices. He sighed in relief and left his bedroom.

"Oh, come on, March—" You looked over to where he was in the hallway, right where you stood in his entryway, having heard his footsteps. "Hurry up and finish getting dressed, we're gonna be late." You didn't even say good morning to him as you gestured to your watch.

Holland huffed, but had a lazy smirk on his face. "Well, good morning to you, too, sweetheart."

You sent him a small scowl, which he always liked when you aimed it at him (he couldn't explain to you why, though). "I don't want Healy mad at 9 in the morning."

Holland raised his hands in surrender. "Neither do I, but um— I need your help with something."

"What is it?" You cocked a suspicious brow at him.

"The problem is on my bed." He gestured to his bedroom down the hall.

"I swear to god if this is one of your ploys to get me—"

"It's not! " He reassured, cutting you off. But you could see the corner of Holland's lip twitch a little. "My holster is all tangled up."

Your eyebrows scrunched together in a way Holland always thought was cute. "Tangled? How in the hell do you manage that?" You started walking down the hall towards his bedroom.

"I may have thrown it in the wash?" Holland said, unsure, as he followed after you.

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you did." You sighed and entered his room, immediately spotting the said holster in question. You took a cursory glance at his room, and it was cleaner than you expected it to be, but it was still a mess. You could see some of his laundry still strewn about the floor, and an ashtray filled with dead cigs and ashes sat on his nightstand.

Holland noticed your inquisitive gaze and cursed himself out in his head, wishing he had cleaned up a little before you had come into his room. "Can you help or not?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute." You grabbed the holster off the bed and started to undo some of the straps, and fiddled with it while Holland finished getting ready.

Luckily for both of you, he was mostly dressed, save for his tie, holster, and suit jacket. He had moved to the mirror on his dresser and began doing up his tie slowly (he definitely wasn't distracted by the sight of your intense, focused stare at the task in front of you). You were quick to untangle the mess that was his holster and gestured for him to stick his arms out so you could sling the holster onto him.

It was almost seamless how the two of you moved, and you adjusted the straps on his back to fit him snugly. Holland couldn't help but notice how oddly domestic this felt as he put on his yellow tie, how wordlessly the two of you fell into each other, even though it had been a long time since he felt this way.

Holland had to resist the shiver that threatened to zip down his spine at the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his back—he swore he could feel your touch through the layers he was wearing—god, he needed a cigarette.

You eventually moved to his front after he had quickly (and a little sloppily) done up his tie (he's blaming it on not having had his morning cig yet). You made sure the straps weren't loose or frayed in the wash, since you had gotten him this holster as a birthday gift that had just passed.

Being in this close proximity to you made Holland's heart beat faster and his hands sweaty; he felt like a teenage boy with a crush all over again. He swallowed thickly as he tried not to stare at you (he failed) while you were adjusting everything for him; his eyes flickered from your deft hands to your face. They are just my partner, my business partner, who is very smart, and attractive, good with my daughter, puts up with my shit, and who I'd like to—his mental mantra got interrupted by his wandering thoughts. He almost physically shook his head to get rid of them.

Holland was so in his head that he didn't notice how you were smirking at him, clearly noticing how much you were affecting him. You pulled a particular strap by his armpit tight. You pulled with a lot more force than he expected, and he stumbled a little, which pulled him out of his head, and his blue eyes met your mirth-filled ones, your hands lingering on his arms as you braced him as he almost pitched over into you before you pulled away.

"Tight enough?" You asked with a faux innocent tone in your voice,

"What?" Holland's voice cracked and went a pitch higher than it normally was, clearly affected by you and your words (and just with your entire being in general).

"Is everything tight enough?" You repeated as you gestured to his holster, holding back a smile, but you were thoroughly amused at Holland's reaction.

Holland cleared his throat and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Very nice and tight and secure. This bad boy isn't moving." He waved his arms around to show how much mobility he had.

"Good." You nodded as well, but you didn't step away from him yet. You adjusted his crooked tie for him and patted him on the chest. He stared down at you dumbly. You sent him a sly smile before slinking out of the room.

Holland stood there for a moment, trying to savor the warmth leaking through the fabric of his shirt where your hands rested, his brain trying to catch up with his body. It wasn't like the two of you hadn't been in close proximity before, but this time felt different to him, like the air had been charged with something (he was hoping it was with sexual chemistry).

He could faintly feel something stir in his lower abdomen just from the slightest bit of contact. Oh, come on, March, get it together! They barely touched you!

"Hurry up, March, we're going to be late!" Your voice broke through his stunned stupor, and he was quick to grab his jacket and hustle out of his house.

Which leads to the present moment; he's on his knees at the foot of the bed, tugging your flared pants down slowly as some record of yours plays softly in the background. He'd turned it down so you couldn't pretend to ignore him.

He likes these pants on you; they're orange, hints of sunshine yellow woven through the cheerful circular patterns. 

He likes them better on the bedroom floor, though. 

Kissing his way along your inner thighs, he looks up at you, watches the way you look at him, shake your head in vague amusement. 

"Holl, you can't just make it all better with your mou-" 

You're cut off by him pressing a soft, open mouthed kiss to your core, before he pulls away slightly. 

"Do you want me to stop? I just wanna make you feel good, baby." 

His blue eyes are wide, pleading. You've always loved his eyes, and the way he begs you. 

"Please, baby, let me make it up to you? Need to taste you-" 

You really can't resist when he's like this. Begging to make it up to you. So desperate, not chasing his own pleasure, but to give you what you need. 

"Don't stop," you breathe, and that's all the permission he needs before he's burying his face back between your thighs with a needy little moan.

You could never say he doesn't know what he's doing; he licks along your core, slowly, up and down, letting your slick pool on his tongue. 

One arm wraps loosely around you, just resting on your abdomen as he draws little circles and figure eights around your clit with the tip of his tongue. 

Just when you think he might actually just keep doing this all day, might torment you forever, he slowly stops, only to start sucking on the little bud of nerves instead. 

"Ohhh, fuck~" you whimper as he drags a single fingertip through your folds, coating it in your slick before he adds a second, pressing them knuckle deep inside you slowly. 

You moan so prettily for him, he can't help but groan back, the sound obscene as he starts to fuck you with his fingers. 

Within barely any time at all, the bedroom is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the wet sound of his fingers inside you and his mouth on you, his low moans as you drool slick all over him. 

He's not in any rush, but he doesn't get lazy either; he alternates between sucking on your clit, flicking his tongue against it, lapping at your folds, gently sucking on those, too, as he curls his fingers inside you. 

The muscles in his forearm and bicep flex as he works his fingers deeper, finds your g-spot and massages it slowly, building up to it. 

Holland knows he's doing a damn good job by the way your moans change pitch, become more breathy, higher as you knit one hand into his hair, tugging at the roots. 

That alone gets a lovely reaction out of him; a drawn out moan audible even over the filthy sound of his fingers inside your wet cunt. 

"Mmmffff~" 

He moans into you as you writhe beneath him, tugging sharply on his hair. 

There's not much he can say with utmost confidence that he's good at, not really. He's pretty sure he makes more mistakes than not, but not where this is concerned. 

He devours your cunt like you're the most delicious thing he's ever tasted as you start to roll your hips against his knuckles, your breaths coming in shallow whines as you get closer and closer. 

The sound of his tongue lapping at you, the obscene slurping as he drinks down your slick, fucks you with his fingers, his appreciative moans, it's all too much. 

Feeling you tightening around his fingers, he pulls them out of you, slowly. 

"Nooo, nonono~" you whimper, the hand that isn't in his hair shifting, trying to reach his wrist and keep his fingers inside you. 

He's faster, catches your hand and holds it steady against your thigh as he makes out with your clit, fucks you with his tongue, every single tiny motion full of intent. 

For once, intent and impact align, and the arm that's wrapped around you holds you in place as you moan and mewl for him, hips jerking entirely of their own accord as your climax ripples through your entire body. 

He eats you through it, groans appreciatively as your slick and a little trickle of your cum drip onto his tongue. His facial hair is sticky with you, but he couldn't give less of a fuck. 

Only when you're through it, down the other side, your thighs no longer shaking on his shoulders, does he let up, pressing one last kiss to your sensitive folds before he hums, rests his cheek on your inner thigh. 

You can't help but giggle, breathless. 

"Oh my god," you shake your head in disbelief, "oh my god, it is so unfair how good at that you are." 

Laughing softly, he plants a little kiss on your warm, soft skin. 

"Yeah? 's that mean you forgive me?" 

Honestly, you don't even remember what you were mad about. Something about him staying out too late... Worrying you... Or something. 

"Only if you get up here and hold me," you reply, try not to giggle again when you hear him scramble to his feet, feel the mattress dip before you're pulled into his arms. 

Holland knows he fucked up, knows he's a work in progress. But that doesn't mean he won't keep trying. 

'Hmm, it's ok,' he mumbles into your neck, 'like this...'

His fingers wrap around your wrist so tenderly, you shiver. The size of his length in your hand goes a long way to causing the reaction in your body too.

'Ah!- see... just like that- ohhh...'

As he guides your hand on his length, you're almost too consumed by lust to memorise the way his hips roll slightly to meet your touch, the way he slides your fist slowly from base to tip and back again, encouraging you to squeeze a little in the right places, the way he groans when you're feeling confident enough to continue touching him on your own.

'Oh, Jesus, baby... you'd better stop there- stop or I'll... mmh-'

Gently, he pulls your hand away, panting and gazing at you through those sparkling blue eyes, filled with a mixture of playful mischief and complete awe.

You take a slow, deep breath of anticipation and he kisses you softly, fingers briefly intertwining with yours beneath the sheets.

'It's alright, do you trust me?'

You nod, bracing yourself.

‘I’ll start slow,’ he promises, voice low and gentle. ‘Just touching first, ok?’

You nod again and he lets go of your hand, caressing your chest for a moment before his fingertips drag delicately downwards, sending heat spreading through your body to pool at your core. Which is exactly where his surprisingly elegant hand is gliding right now.

‘You’re going to cum on my fingers first, ok?’

‘Yes,’ you whine.

‘Good… that’s it, you’re doing so well…’

As you tremble through your climax, he watches carefully, allowing you time to recover before settling himself between your thighs.

‘Are you ready for me?’

‘Please…’ you beg, and he chuckles at how eager you are again already.

‘God you’re perfect,’ he gushes, ‘you deserve so much… listen, if it hurts, or it doesn’t feel right, tell me and I’ll stop, alright? I want you to feel good. If it doesn’t feel good we’ll find another way.’

“Will you stay still?” You huff, annoyance fraying the edges of your words. 

Holland, who’s still drunk as all hell, looks up at you with a dopey smile. He’s perched on the lid of the toilet like a bird would on its favorite telephone wire. Cozy but unaware of dangers. Like being electrocuted. Or in Holland’s case, leaning too far to the left and cracking his head open on the tub. 

The two of you had been in here for the last ten minutes. Most of that time consisted of you trying to get him to sit up straight, hands moving every which way to make sure he didn’t fall over, and constantly checking over your shoulder while you fished the first aid kit out from under the sink. It made you feel like you were back to your babysitting job. The only difference now was instead of a toddler, you had an even worse grown man. 

“M’trying.” He slurs his words, barely sounding like actual English. 

“Try harder.” You deadpan back.

A quiet giggle comes from him. Of course he’d find it funny—the frustration unfurling through your veins. The guy was gone. He probably didn’t even have any recollection of how he got into the bathroom. 

How did he get in the bathroom?

Well, that was a long story. The short story being this: March ran after a ‘suspect’ while drunk and ended up rolling down a hill. Flailing limbs and all. Healy had helped you get him back up the hill, into the backseat of the car, and carried in here. All that for the ‘suspect’ to have been a mannequin. 

Typical. 

“Look up at me.” There’s a vacant kind of tone to your voice, like you’d said these exact words a hundred times over. And you had. Holland was an injury magnet. 

Holland tries his best, chin jutting up to look at you. His big glassy eyes train themselves on your gaze. If you weren’t so preoccupied with tending to his wounds, you would have made a mental note of how pretty he looked. 

A trickle of dried blood drips down his cheek. He’d gotten a small gash near his temple. When you’d found him at the bottom of the hill, your assessment proved he hadn’t needed stitches. Miraculously. The guy had fallen and tumbled like a roley poley. 

“Hey.” He grins a lopsided smile as you get close to his face, bringing a wash cloth to the blood. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you. 

Jesus Christ. 

You dab at the frayed skin around his wound, touch featherlight. Just to collect the coagulated blood. He inhales sharply, eyes pinching shut. Holland’s hands messily jut out, grasping onto your waist. 

“Shit, sorry.” You murmur, removing the wash cloth from his skin like you’d been burned. A frown captures your glossed lips. Hurting him was not the intention. “I know, sorry.”

You gently blow at the cut, hoping to provide some sort of relief. The washcloth had been dabbed in a water and peroxide mixture. It was the best way to clean out a wound—usually it hurt the most, too. But there were no bubbles. It wasn’t infected nor filled with any bacteria. 

“Mhm.” Holland slowly softens his expression.

His hands are warm against your waist. Big and strong despite his altered state. The heat of his hands radiates through your skin, warming you from the inside out. His grasp doesn’t falter. It makes your heart beat faster—for reasons you still refused to confront. 

“Alright.” You pull back, dropping the washcloth on the side of the sink. 

Most of the blood had been cleared off, anyway. All that was left was to bandage him and check if he had a concussion. It was unlikely, but you’d be damned if you ended up having to drag his drunk ass to the free emergency room across the city. 

“Y’know..” he slurs, head tilting slightly as he watches you. There’s a moment where he just watches you take out a band aid from Holly’s package. He was too drunk to comment on the fact it was Hello Kitty. “You’re pretty. Ver—so—pretty.” 

He hiccups halfway through his rambling. 

That wasn’t entirely too off par for your relationship. Holland would get drunk and loosen his lips around you, slipping off comments about how kind or pretty you looked. It was something you’d grown accustomed to rolling your eyes at him about. 

“Okay, casanova.” You don’t pay much mind to his words, walking back to press the band aid against his skin. 

Leaning down, your tongue wets your bottom lip. For some reason it helps you concentrate. Or, that’s what you like to think. Your fingers work it onto his swaying head. 

He still wasn’t staying still.

“Holland, please.” You implore, sighing. “Stay still. It’ll be crooked if you don’t.”

“Not moving.” He protests, body gently swaying like he’s on a boat. He looks up at you, blue irises sparkling under the bathroom light above. 

There was no helping him. 

“Okay.” 

Battles were meant to be picked. 

It takes another few minutes before you start working him up. There were a few things you remember from your first aid class. Really, just the essentials—concussion testing and drowning things. Thank god you still did. They proved to be very useful around holland.

He didn’t appear to have any sensitivity to light. And he wasn’t more confused than he normally was—and you were using the drunk variable indefinitely. He seemed perfectly fine.

“You’re all good.” You grin, mouth twisting upward into something comforting. “Nothing to worry about.” 

You’re still standing between his outstretched legs, closer than you normally would be. Especially since his wounds had been tended to and you ruled out any possible issues. Though, your mind couldn’t quite get your legs to move away from him.

Even if he smelled like stale beer and whiskey. 

Holland does something then; something you’d never expect. His arms wrap around your waist. Your muscles lock frozen as he clings onto you like a child would. The side of his face smushes into your chest as he hums. 

“Thanks.” He whispers, voice wavering like he was about to cry.

Your arms slowly rest on his shoulders, palms flattening on his back. Confusion overtakes you. Then, there’s a warm fluttering feeling starting in your chest. It makes your pulse skip and breath stutter. 

“Uh, anytime.” Perplexity lilts your tone, words coming out slow.

“M’love you.” He mumbles, arms tightening around you.

Warmth creeps up your neck.

“Time for you to go to bed.” The words tumble out quickly, flustered and barely leaving any space for breath. 

“No.” He protests, squeezing you against him. “Stay here.”

He’s worse than a child.

And too close. And too warm. And your partner. 

It’s getting harder to breathe. His arms are starting to feel more like vines rather than structures holding you up. The territory was all wrong. Somewhere you’d never been with Holland—even if he was only saying the things he was because he’s drunk as a skunk. It was overwhelming. 

Words crawl up your throat but die on your tongue. There were so many things passing through your mind it blended into a hum, silencing the world around you. It felt like your brain was short circuiting. 

Holland—he’s Holland. The guy who trips over his own feet. Who makes his daughter drive for him after getting his arm broken. Screeches like a banshee when there’s a bug in his room. And… who holds onto you like you’re his saving grace. 

A lump forms in your throat. 

“You don’t mean that...” Your voice sounds foreign in your own throat, words paper-thin.

He nods against you. “S’do. My girl. Best girl.”

You’re not breathing anymore.

“Holland.”

“Have I told you that?” He slurs, moving his head to look up at you. His chin rests in the valley above your chest, glassy eyes twinkling. “S’good to me. And Holly—Healy too. Dealin’ with.. My drunk ass. Never got around ta’ tellin’ ya..”

"You're drunk." You whisper.

Holland blinks. "Kiss me."

The ground beneath your feet opens and swallows you whole. Those are the words you'd never have thought to hear from him. A lot of things about tonight were things you wouldn't expect.

Was it a full moon?

"C'mon." He whines, looking up at you with those big eyes. "Jus' one. Go to bed after... promise."

Were you really gonna do this? You couldn't, right? He was drunk. Impaired. Surely, that meant he couldn't be making decisions for himself. If you asked he probably wouldn't be able to tell you what day it is. You'd be taking advantage of him if you kissed him.

You shouldn't do it. Couldn't do it.

"Okay." You breathe.

Damn it! Bad girl! This was not what you talked with yourself about!

Holland's face brightens as a five-watt smile captures his expressions. His eyes crinkle and sparkle. They look like twinkling stars in the night sky. Endlessly beautiful.

You find yourself bending down, head tilting as you press your lips against his. His mustache tickles your skin. The kiss lasts for maybe a second—maybe less. But it feels like an eternity. Fireworks pop behind your eyes and it steals away whatever breath you had left.

Holland's hands tangle in your hair, holding you close to him as he milks the kiss. Even in his inebriated state he still kissed you gently.

You pull away first, one hand coming up to catch his wrist. His skin feels warmer than it had a few minutes ago.

Heat travels through your veins. The familiar ache settles somewhere deep in your abdomen. But you force yourself to shake it off. Kissing him was way out of line—the thoughts creeping into your mind were borderline blasphemous.

"Now it's time for bed."

Holland rolls his eyes like a sassy toddler.

"Not good enough for you?" He mumbles, sarcasm lilting his slurred words.

Your mouth opens to spit out a quip. But nothing comes out. Your tongue turns to stone in your throat, the words in your mind dissipate, and suddenly your neck feels warm. He just said that. There was hesitancy in his words. They came from his mouth like an early spring breeze.

Somehow, they felt like a challenge.

Any of your inhibition flew out the window.

Self-preservation? Who's she?

Your movements are charged with electricity, shock waves licking up your spine. Your hand grabs at his collar in jest. Fingertips dip into the soft cotton, using it as leverage. Holland lets out a surprised gasp as you yank him towards you.

This time, there's nothing gentle about the kiss.

It's messy. Clashing tongue and teeth, lips bruising as they move against each other. He tastes like Jack and coke. The flavor tingles on your tongue, dripping down your throat like honey. He smiles against you, all cocky and all too happy.

He wanted that.

And you gave it to him.

You break apart from him, panting. A string of saliva connects the two of you. Sarcasm and mockery glues itself to your tone. "Good enough for you?"

Holland looks up at you with glasses over eyes, stupid grin blanketing his starry expression. "Yes—Absolutely."

It annoys you how a smile threatens to curve your mouth.

"Now it's time for you to go to bed."

"Happily. You comin' with?" He wiggles his eyebrows once more, this time with more sync. The alcohol was slowly depleting in his system.

"Don't press your luck." You murmur.

Getting him to bed consisted of hauling his arm over your shoulder and dragging him down the hall. Every few steps he whined about not being tired. The complaints were mainly centered around you not coming to bed with him. You had to cover his mouth a few times when his comments became vulgar, which only made him talk louder and laugh like a hyena.

You silently thank the gods his daughter wasn't around to hear his mouth.

And that Healy had left.

Which did mean it was only the two of you.

Holland's hand rests on your waist, fingertips trailing beneath your shirt. Every graze of his skin against yours leaves fire in its wake. You were seriously beginning to have more pros than cons about sleeping with him.

When he drops onto his bed, his fingers haphazardly dip into the loops of your jeans. He yanks you down in the same way you grabbed at him a few minutes earlier.

A gasp leaves your throat, hands going out to catch you. One palm flattens against the bed beside his head. The other plants firmly on his chest—the rest of you falling on top of him. Your thigh slots between his legs while the other straddles his thigh.

He lets out a soft grunt. His head thumps against the mattress, a chortle leaving his throat. That wasn't the plan but he's more than happy with the outcome.

You try to scramble away from him, but you feel a hard pressure against your thigh. And it's not something in his pocket. Every muscle in your body freezes. Shock settles in your system, squirming between your ribs and making a home there. He's bigger than you'd ever let yourself think about.

You're too flustered to let out any sound.

Holland's hands find your hips, touch feather light. He squeezes at the covered flesh. The contact makes your pulse skip a beat. A trickle of desire drips from your abdomen to your thighs, radiating between them.

He stares at you.

You stare at him.

"Stay?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper.

"Holland—you're not sober."

He huffs, shaking his head. "I am." His tone makes it sound more like a plea than a reassurance. "I want this—you. Shit, baby, can you feel me? Need you so bad."

Your head feels like it's swimming. There was a line you refused to cross with anyone, and Holland was straddling it. But he was coherent enough to string his words together. They weren't being slurred anymore. His eyes weren't drooping to make him look sleepy.

"You sure?" Your words are wrapped with barely contained need.

"Fuck." He grumbles, eyes closing for a moment. "Straining against my pants here. Yes, m'sure."

That wasn't a lie.

You could feel him twitching against your thigh, even beneath his clothing.

"Alright." Your words are far away sounding, like you were lost in a daze. "Okay we can—I'll—fuck, just take your pants off."

He chuckles, watching with a goofy grin as you flop onto the bed beside him. There's no hesitance in the way his hands fly to his pants. His thumbs hook into his waistband, using all his strength to rip the article off. A huff leaves his throat when he kicks off the bunched fabric and lets it fall into a ball on the floor.

The boxers he's wearing do nothing to hide the rock hard bulge. There's a dark spot bleeding through the fabric, pressing against the line of his tip. You can see the thick length of him now.

Holland rolls over on his tummy, large hands grabbing at you. He's quick to guide himself between your legs. Shaking fingers pull down the zipper of your bell bottoms. It's like he can't get them off fast enough—like they've personally offended him and he's holding back his frustrations.

They get tossed across the room by him, mumbling something that sounds like 'finally.' An audible whine rips from his throat when he's faced with your satin panties. It's the final layer between him and the rawest part of you—a part he intended on worshiping for as long as he could.

"Oh God." His voice is soft, almost like he's surprised he's nestled between your legs.

His thumb runs up your clothed slit, pressure just enough to buck your hips into his hand. Just a simple touch sent electric currents licking up your spine. You felt like a live wire, just teetering on the edge of becoming explosive.

Your fingers grip at his sheets, awaiting his next delicious assault on your cunt. The bedsheets smell like him. Whiskey, cigarettes, and soap. They blend together to create something that makes you lightheaded; dizzy in the best way.

There's a part of you that wanted him to just get on with it. The need racing through your veins made you as sensitive as a bomb. Though, the other part of you wanted to see his chin glistening with your juices and the way he looked up at you from between your thighs.

Holland's tongue flattens against your covered cunt, licking a stripe up your panties. The arousal that had soaked through the fabric lands on his tongue. He groans low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His nose bumps against your clit as he licks at you.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, head angled down to watch him. His arms have snaked around your thighs, hands holding you open for him. Every few moments you notice him rutting into the mattress. The sight alone is better than a sunrise—it makes a moan bubble up in your throat.

Holland opens his eyes, huge pupils dwarfing his blue eyes. There's barely even a ring of blue around them. All that's left is desire and lust. He tugs your panties to the side, forcing them from his way.

When his eyes drop down, he fucking whines. Like just seeing how wet you were for him was better than being touched. Or it had the same affect. There's not even a second for you to breathe—he dives right in like a starved man.

His lips immediately attach around your clit, sucking it into his mouth. His tongue rolls over the sensitive nub until you cry out. A content hum makes his lips vibrate around you. The assault on your body doesn't end there. He pulls off your clit with a 'pop', flattening his tongue to drag through your folds.

He eats you like you're the juiciest fruit freshly picked from a tree. Slurping, sucking, and licking at you. His facial hair gets wet within a minute. Probably less. The entire bottom half of his face is glistening, dripping with your essence.

Every drag of his tongue feels like heaven brought to you. His hands hold down your bucking hips, humming every time you moan out his name. It's so messy and dirty but that just turns you on even more. He alternates between sucking your clit and licking into you, collecting the sweetness dribbling out of you.

It's easy to see that he does this for his own pleasure as much as yours. There's a certain hunger in his eyes you've never seen from any man. It's in the way he pays special attention to what makes you whiter against his mouth.

When your hands thread through the soft locks on his head, his eyes fly open. The stare he gives you makes or heart drop. Each little tug on his hair makes him suction against you harder. The coil in your tummy is tightening every second, gaining momentum to spring back.

You can't push him away when it becomes too much. He doesn't look it, but Holland is strong. His arm settles over your hips, using his free hand to hold you open for him. There's not even an ounce of recollection when you push him away. He just ignores it.

Fingertips dance at your entrance, easing in nice and slow. The stretch around them feels overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, feeling like a punch to the chest. Your thighs try to close around his head but he doesn't allow them to.

The stimulation from his fingers and mouth creates a crescendo, pushing you off the edge. White explodes across your vision. The coil in your tummy snaps, walls spasming around his digits. Holland moans into you, noise muffled by your cunt.

He's rutting into the mattress, moaning as he licks up whatever juices he can. His fingers pull out and slick drips down his wrist. He laps at your entrance, grinning as you shudder. His hand gently whacks at yours when you try to push him off.

"Holland!" Your voice is frayed, orgasm still making you light headed.

"Taste s'good." He's getting onto his knees in an instant. "Can't wait to feel—oh, shit—let me feel it, baby. Feel you wrapping 'round my dick."

His words make you whimper, head nodding fast enough to give you whiplash.

Holland's palms wrap around your thighs, yanking you closer to him."This pussy's fuckin' heaven. She ready f'me?"

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