I Hope There's Wi-Fi In Hell

“Hey there, pretty girl,” his hands are planted on the desk, firmly either side of your hips. You’re faced away from him, leaving over the table and inspecting an ancient book. He’s pressed close enough to you so that your backside rests against the bulge in his denim, “what’cha doin’ up so late?”

Barely holding back a whimper, you push the book away and twist around, your chest brushing against his own. He doesn’t back away, daring you to do so with a cocky arch of an eyebrow.

Barely holding back a whimper, you push the book away and twist around, your chest brushing against his own. He doesn’t back away, daring you to do so with a cocky arch of an eyebrow.

For a few, agonisingly silent seconds, you stay like that; breathing in each other’s closeness and eyeing each other’s lips. It took a while for you to register his question, even longer for you to force your brain to churn out a response. A simple, “uhm- reading?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He leans back, and air rushes into your once-barren lungs. Gabriel knows just how to push your buttons - to bring you to the cusp of humiliation only to bring the heat down and let you calm, watches you piece your mind back together.

“Telling you?” Again, your voice lifts at the end and Gabriel can’t stop his childish guffaw - one you find yourself giggling along with, resting your head on his shaking shoulder. His hand comes up, circles around your own shoulders and turns to smooth his lips across your forehead.

Things go silent again. He breaths in the scent of your hair, noses over your hairline. You slump back onto the table, hands supporting you to sit upright and staring up at the angel with lovelorn eyes.

“Let’s go to bed, pretty girl,” his fingers grasp your shoulder and then the pair of you are blinked away; wind whooshing in your ears for the short few seconds it takes Gabriel to fly you to your room. Often, you don’t see the point of using his wings for such a short distance but his fleeting touches had left you breathless and likely unable to put one foot in front of the other. You land on the frigid stone of your bedroom floor with a gasp.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” You peer up at him, raise an eyebrow and jut out your bottom lip. It was a gamble, sure. He’d likely tease you for eternity, but it was something you could live with if he rewarded you with a night alone.

He snaps his fingers, another dramatic show of his angelic prowess, and appears under your quilt - looking the picture of both sin and innocence with his bottom lip tucked behind his teeth. He pulls the covers back, and you’re almost startled how natural it feels to have him invite you into your own bed. Obedient, you crawl across the mattress and into his awaiting arms.

“Good girl,” he slips a hand underneath your shirt, up the small of your back and curling round the heated skin of your waist, smirking as he feels the tingles shoot down your spine, “you like that, don’t you? Being my good girl?”

You whined, small but definite and nodded, your cheek brushing against his stubble as you did so. He pulled you closer to him, hooking your thigh over his hip and pressing your clothed cunt to his thigh. Unable to help yourself, you chased the pressure against your clit, hiding your face in the sanctity of Gabriel’s neck.

“C’mon, use your words like a good girl,” he encouraged, gripping your hip to halt your movements until you responded. With a sudden lack of stimulation, you couldn’t help the petulant cry flying past your lips, echoing throughout the room and likely waking the brothers in the adjacent rooms, “whining isn’t good girl behaviour, is it baby?”

“I’m sorry, m’sorry, I’m a good girl- I promise,” you babble, desperate in your attempts to wriggle out of his vice grip and press yourself against him in search of pleasure. He releases his grip, allowing you to roll your body closer to his, searching for the feeling of his once denim but now soft cotton clad thigh against your core.

“There you go, well done!” And it might have been condescending, but you didn’t notice with the way his hot breath dusted over your hypersensitive skin, “take this off, honey. Wanna see your pretty tits,”

Unable to voice even the simplest of words for a response, you raise your arms, let him pull your oversized tee over your head, leaving you in nothing but your stretchy bike shorts and thin lace panties. He helped you along, tensed his thigh with each grind of your hips to give you even more friction. You closed your eyes to fight off the embarrassment filling your body, focusing on the delicious spark of his warmth against you.

“You’re so pretty, my pretty pretty baby,” he brought a hand up, thumbed over your newly exposed nipples, stimulating them into hardened buds in the brisk air of your bedroom, “oh, just look how responsive you are for me, baby,”

He twists on the bud, pulls on it in time to the languid strokes of you against his smooth muscle. You’re sure that your panting must annoy him, stuttered yet harsh breaths hitting the underside of his impressive jawline; but he makes no move to shuffle away from the offense.

“Gabe- I can’t-“ you’re struggling, straining for something more because there’s simultaneously so much yet not enough and there’s a fire burning in the pit of your belly but you need something to stoke the flames, “please, please,”

“You can do it, baby,” he croons, lips brushing the shell of your ear with every word, “c’mon, you’re my best girl. I know you can do it all by yourself,”

He’s wrong and you’re sure of it, but his soft encouragement gives you the will to rut against him with more force, arch into his hands with greater fervor. The fabric of your underwear catches your clit with every desperate drag of your hips, spreading your wetness all over the inside of your thighs. Slick permeates through your layers, scribbling a messy painting of arousal over the grey joggers he adornes.

“Look how pretty you are,” he relinquishes his grip on your hip, slides the palm of his hand up the expanse of your abdomen and over your breasts, landing at your neck where he plants his fingers at the base of your skull. His thumb rests on the junction between your jaw and ear, pulling so you face him properly; your pleasure-gaunt eyes boring into his own, “my good girl, getting off all by herself,”

You parrot the words back to him, mind clouded from the torturous thrumming of your oversensitive button as it grinds against your counterpart. The pressure builds in your stomach, bubbling just under the precipice of release before Gabriel begins to shake his leg. Ever so gently, it heightens the stimulation to the point where you have to grab fistfuls of his shirt in order to silence yourself.

“Go on, princess. Show me all those pretty noises,” he jostles you even further, grinning as your cohesive strokes turn to shaky humps against his smooth muscle, “gimmie a moan an’ I’ll let you cum,”

You comply, loosening your jaw and allowing a wanton moan to flow past your trembling lips. He pulls you in for a kiss; sweet but messy and your saliva practically drenches each other’s faces. Offhandedly, you notice this is the first time he’s kissed you - but you push the thought to the back of your mind because he’s licking at your teeth and squeezing at your tit and tensing his thigh under your cunt and it’s all too much so you cry out into the kiss and let your high wash over you.

You shake in his grasp now, closing your eyes against the overwhelming throes of your orgasm and finding a comforting solace in the way Gabriel’s thumb strokes across the underside of your jaw.

“Good girl,” the words swim across your mind, aware of their presence in the air but not fully absorbing them until he makes eye contact with you, “my good, good girl,”