— ᨳଓ .

His head tilts towards the sound of the door being shut and locked behind you; his eyes are glossed over with subtle exhaustion and something much more vulgar. You try not to let it faze you. The sight of him like that, damp with sweat, and that fucking shirt. The midnight-black material hugged his shoulders with precision, tapered at the waist, and cinched where his biceps met forearms. Compression shirts were your kryptonite and he knew it.

"Hey," he hums, hands rubbing up and down his bare thighs. You make a breathy sound, light and airy, as if it weren't even yours. His cheeks heat up; blotches of red and pink dance over his face. 

“Good game,” you mumble, walking carefully to where he sits. “You played well.”

"Thanks." His left hand lifts to brush over your jeans, pressing the fabric into your leg. He’d never bring himself to tell you how much it means to hear those words from you. You can’t take your eyes off him, pupils dilating at the way his chest heaves slowly the closer you get. 

You don’t know how it happens; neither does he. All you can think is how quick it turned from something sweet into obsession. His gaze flickers to your wet lips and back up again to your eyes; a silent question passes through the air. You nod without thinking.

Will’s hand finds your jaw, cupping the curve in bone gently. He leans up, tilting his head to press further into you. It’s soft at first, like everything else is with him. Then it turns into an uncontrollable burst of emotion. His arm circles around your waist and presses into your back, directing you to sit in his lap. 

Your hips mindlessly grind into the swell of his briefs, catching the hardness with each motion. He’s moaning into your mouth, teeth grazing over your tongue as you don’t slow, instead picking up the pace until he has to grapple onto you.

"Shit." His hand comes to mess with his boxers, shaking as he yanks them down far enough to spring his cock out. Your own pants and underwear are pulled down at some point too; he did it as you hovered over him, too busy with mouthing over his neck. He paused at your entrance, breaking the kiss to peer up at you from behind clumped-together eyelashes, waiting until you nodded. You clawed at his shoulders, digits finding purpose in the plush material of the protective pads still strapped to his arms. They made him look bigger and stronger.

The initial change was sluggish and deliberate in the way he pushed into you. A heavy warmth fills you as he reaches the hilt, your bodies connecting in ways that change every brain wave into something blurry. His voice shrinks the more his face presses into your collarbone; soft breaths of hot air brush over your heated skin. You keep your eyes trained on his shoulders, the way the muscles in his back shift and contort with each steady thrust. His pace remains controlled, despite the way he grows more and more needy. A consuming pressure builds in your lower gut, seconds away from that final push.

"Will," you drive your hands into his shoulders, guiding him to rest against the wall, “lie back.”

He does so without question, handing the torch to you as you glide a shivering hand up and down his abdomen. The fabric wrinkles and warps into piling lines over his stomach, like waves in the ocean. His head falls to hit the edge of the stall, neck bulging with each rise of his hips. He keeps his hands on you, squeezing tightly around your upper thighs. 

It turns embarrassingly hopeless at some point. The pace turns from a rhythmic, steady one to a frantic thrust. His hips lifting to meet yours halfway, his hands gripping so tightly over your skin you’d think he’d break flesh. The tension grows suffocating, and then you blink down again and catch a glance of the space where his shirt rides up to reveal a slither of skin on his navel, and then it snaps. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, brushing his hand over his forehead, “that’s the one.” 

It’s a bridal set, virgin white; if you didn’t look so raunchy, it would be the image of innocence. You pulled one of the store employees to the side and asked for it, winking as she shuffled off. Brad didn’t know, hardly suspected a thing as you both wandered through the store, his arms slowly becoming hangers as you continuously piled on more and more camisoles and bras.

When the employee came back around again, the lingerie set folded neatly in her hands, you knew what was about to happen. 

“Goddamn, you look like a dream." His voice deepens, stretching a hand out to brush over the lacey finish. You lean into him, one foot cocked up on the seat he’s on. “Yeah? Your wet dream, you perv," you mock, tufting his salt-and-pepper hair as he wraps his arm around you and pulls. 

You’re on his lap now, the exact place you knew you’d end up, even before walking into the store. He mouths into your skin, wetting the area of your collarbone until it’s sheened with saliva. Brad's fingers dance along your hips before digging into the silky fabric that hugs your ass. You grind into him once, a foolproof attempt at getting what you want, but he only tightens his hands. 

“No, not like this." He lifts you at the waist until you hover over him, and then he moves off the small chair himself and places you there. Thickset arms still coiled around you, he falls down to his knees and guides your legs open with his head. “I want to taste you.”

Your heart flutters, and resolve melts into desperation as he peels the wet underwear down your thighs. His tongue presses into your labia, licking a fat, cruel stripe up it, and you're shaking. He stops at your clit, teeth bumping into the swollen flesh as he kisses your nub. Your back arches, legs constricting around his head as he doesn’t slow down.

“Fuck, Brad,” you whine, writhing as he works his nose into your clit with deliberate, serpentine motions. The angle he has on you is enough to rack shivers up your spine, the tip of his arched nose crushing right into that sweet spot that makes you break. He lifts the backs of your thighs until you rest them over his shoulders; the new position rewards both of you equally, as now he’s somehow able to delve in even further. 

You yank at his hair again, and he bites down without intending to, the blur of pain and pleasure moulding into one as you use the mousy-brown strands as a tool to have him closer. Your vision fades to white as you come, hips shifting over his face as he slows his technique into gentle, airy licks.