ShawnyHats

It didn't matter. You weren't feeling particularly chatty. Frankly, you needed to decompress. You curled your feet up under you, and zoned out, the wine thrumming in your veins. It was a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling pressured to fill it with small talk.

When you woke up, it was completely dark out. Craig and Deran were still in the backyard, smoking. You didn't even realize you had fallen asleep, let alone know how long you were out, but it couldn't have been long. The movie wasn't over yet.

More alarming was how you found yourself. You and Pope had somehow drifted together. You were curled against him, head on his shoulder, while he leaned against you. And more surprising, he was asleep, too.

You didn't know what to do. Knowing that Pope didn't get much sleep, the last thing you wanted to do was wake him up. Besides, you were...pretty comfortable. Pope was solid and warm, and made for a good pillow. You watched his chest rise and fall, the rhythm of deep sleep holding onto him. This was the closest the two of you had ever been physically, and you let yourself sit in it for a moment longer.

Craig let out a loud, boisterous laugh that reached the living room and jolted Pope awake. You froze and shut your eyes, not wanting him to know that you were awake and watching him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, obviously noticing the sleeping arrangement.

Pope moved his arm slowly, trying to gauge just how asleep you were. You pretended you were completely out. "Come on, pretty girl," Pope whispered, easing you down to lay on the couch, no longer on top of him.

You heard his heavy footsteps fade towards the sliding door, matching the way your heart thudded in your chest. Pretty girl? Did he- Pope thought you were pretty?

The man hardly ever spoke to you. You weren't even sure he liked that Deran kept bringing you around. There was no way that he was remotely interested in you. Right?

"Your girl's passed out on the couch," you heard Pope mutter out the Deran. Conveniently leaving out the fact that you passed out on him.

"Oh shit, really? She told me she had too much to drink."

Soon, Deran was crouched in front of you, his hand on your shoulder. "Hey buddy," he said gently. You pretended to come to, and looked around the living room, narrow eyes, disoriented, really selling the sleepiness.

"Fuck, I fell asleep," you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

"Yeah, no shit," Deran chuckled. "You need a ride? You want to crash here? It's no problem."

"No, no," you shook your head, standing up. "I'm good. Thanks, Deran."

Deran walked you out to your car. But not before you looked back and saw Pope in the kitchen, watching you leave. When you made eye contact, he looked away. You heart was still pounding.

Then, there was the dream a few days later. The dream where Pope picked you up by the waist and set you on the bar. He didn't say much, only to whisper in your ear that you were a "good girl" and "so pretty" and "so wet, just for me."

His voice was low and gravelly, and thick with need. His hands were everywhere, and ended between your legs.

"Andrew, I need you," you whimpered. Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer.

You woke up in a cold sweat, your thighs slick. After that, you could barely look at him, let alone listen to him talk without hearing him say "good girl" in the back of your mind.

It was brutal. You didn't want to distrupt the routine you had built for yourself, or start pulling away from your friendship with Deran, lest he ask you about your standoffishness. And he would ask. What the hell would you say?

You first met Deran after stopping at the bar for a drink after work. Or three drinks. He noticed you were having a rough day, and kept coming back to check in in you. And when you kept coming back, after work or just because, he kept checking in on you.

Conversations became longer, about whatever you wanted to talk about, and soon you became good friends. He listened to you, and actually cared about what you thought. And you found yourself caring about what he thought, too. You knew he would always tell you the truth.

His brothers would often swing by. Just one, or all at once. Whenever it was all of them at once, the conversations were hushed and hurried. You weren't a part of it, and didn't ask.

And sometimes when you came in, Pope would already be there, fixing something that Deran was too cheap to replace. He would look at you, stare at you, like he was trying to figure you out. The stare wasn't unnerving, it was not knowing what he was thinking that got you.

"You and Deran sleeping together or what?" Craig slid onto the stool next to you only the second time meeting him.

"Are you capable of having girl friends you don't want to fuck?" You rolled your eyes.

"No." Craig smiled, "Sounds like she's available to me." Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Pope at the other end of the bar still suddenly.

"Fuck off, Craig, she doesn't want any of what you've got to offer," Deran set a drink in front of Craig.

Once the brothers decided they liked you, and Craig was finally put off from hitting on you (for now, at least), Deran started inviting you around the house for parties, and sometimes just to hang out.

Which is why you're sitting out on the patio in your swim suit, trying to get some sun in peace.

"You enjoying yourself over there?" Deran calls from the other side of the pool.

"Very much," you call back without looking at him.

"Are you gonna come inside at all? Or are you just gonna stay out here?"

"Sweet Deran," you finally look at him over your sunglasses, "I'm literally only friends with you for access to your pool."

"And here I thought it was my loyalty and shoulder to cry on," he counters. He makes his way around the pool and stops at your lounge chair. "I'm going to head out and see if I can get some surf time in," Deran scratches behind his neck. "You going to be okay here?"

"Are you saying I have to leave?" you ask.

"No," Deran shakes his head. "I don't care what you do. Stay as long as you want."

"Then I will stay until I'm tired, or I fry, whichever comes first," you lean back on the lounge chair. "Have fun," you smile.

"Thank you, I will. Good luck with," he gestures vaguely to your bikini-clad body, "that."

You shake your head as he walks off, back into the house. Thirty minutes later, a shadow comes over you. You don't even have to open your eyes to know who would just walk up to you that quietly.

"Hi, Pope," you open your eyes to see him standing over you, blocking your sun. You try to act calm, like the first thing you're thinking of isn't sleeping on his chest.

"Hey," he mutters. "You seen Deran?"

"He's at the beach," you shrug. And it's right about now that you wish you had left when he did. Because now, you're alone with Pope and his gruff voice and his hazel eyes. Idiot.

"Right." Pope replies. You watch from behind your sunglasses as his eyes quickly rake over your body, then snap up to your face. It's a two-piece, so most of your body is out. Every stretch mark, the fold of your tummy, and the tops of your breasts are exposed. You weren't conscious of it until now. How else are you supposed to get an even tan?

Pope's hands flex at his sides, and you have to clear your throat to get your heart to stop racing. Pope looks down at you.

"Uh- you wanna sit down or something?" you gesture to the lounge chair next to you. Cool, collected, not weird at all.

"No, I'm good," he shakes his head quickly. Right. Why would he want to hang out with you? But he doesn't walk away. And fuck, you wish he would.

The only reason you haven't gone completely mad at this point is because you're hardly ever alone with Pope. When it's you and Deran, or a house full of drunk people, it's easy to focus on something else. Anything else.

But Pope doesn't leave. You look at him out of the corner of your eye, and see that he's just looking out at the pool. At least his hands are in his pockets, so you don't have to see them, and then think about where on your body you'd like them and-

"Gotta get someone out to clean the pool," Pope mutters passively. Like he's not talking to you, but he kind of wants you to hear it.

It makes you smirk. "Probably a good idea," you reply.

Pope turns to you. "You want water or something?"

"Uh-" With his eyes on you again, your brain forgets how to form sentences. "Yeah, sure, that would be great."

He returns moments later with a cold water bottle in hand. "You gotta stay hydrated," he says, handing it to you. "You'll get heat exhaustion."

You bite back a smile as you take the water bottle and crack it open immediately. "Thank you," you say, earnestly.

Pope shoves his hands back in his pockets, "If you see Deran, let him know I'm looking for him. Idiot's not picking up his phone."

"I will," you nod. He turns to talk away without another word.

Before you can think better of it, you call his name. He tilts his head back to you.

"Can you, uhm, can you get my back?"

"Your back?" He repeats, slowly. You almost regret asking. No, you absolutely regret it. But now you have, and you're not going to backtrack now.

"The sunscreen," you wave the bottle at him. "I was going to flip over, but I wasn't able to reach, so..."

"Yeah, right," Pope walks back to you. He kneels on the ground next to your lounge chair. "Wouldn't want you to burn," he mutters.

You hand him the sunscreen, dying inside at using the oldest trick in the book just to get a few moments more with him. A part of you just wants to know if his hands are as strong and capable as they were in your dream. If this is awkward and stupid, at least it can replace the imaginary version of him. Ladyboner gone.

Your plan backfires with he actually starts applying it to your back. His hands are firm, and his thumbs work into your neck and pressure points as he rubs the sunscreen in. You have to but your lip to hold a moan back. Thank fuck he can't see your face right now.

"This okay?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you breathe.

His hands slip under the straps of your bikini top and around the folds of your belly, making sure not to miss a single spot.

"There," he whispers. "All done. Protected."

You blink several times, trying everything in your power to come back to yourself and ignore the wet spot that has surely formed between your legs.

"Thank you, Pope," you tilt your head back to him.

"'Course," he mutters.

And then he's gone. Couldn't get out of there fast enough. You scrunch your nose and chastise yourself internally. What the fuck is wrong with you? He doesn't really like talking to you, and you ask him to apply sun screen? Are you that desperate? Besides, what would Deran say if you started pining after his brother? Then he would actually start to think you're just using him.

You make a silent vow to stop embarrassing yourself. No more being with him alone, no more saying stupid shit, not until this-whatever this is simmering inside you- has passed. This desire in you has to be temporary.

Deran invites you over for a party a few days later. Perfect, you think, the house will be full of people. You can hang out with Deran, drain your social battery, and be on your way.

It's a bigger party than normal, if that's even possible. There are people literally everywhere, the music seems louder, and the alcohol is flowing very freely. You find yourself in the kitchen, emboldened by the two beers you've downed in the last twenty minutes. You've got the munchies.

When you turn towards the living room, you see him. Pope is sitting on the couch, nursing a drink of his own. He's quiet, like usual, just surveying the crowd, counting heads, making sure no one goes where they aren't supposed to be.

The alcohol is making your mind fuzzy. You lean back on the counter, zoning out, focused on his hands wrapped around the beer bottle.

His hands that applied the sunscreen so carefully. How his hands would grip your thighs, prying them apart. How your hands would tangle in his curls, tugging on them gently. How his mouth would feel, hovering over your covered cunt. The sounds he would make as you writhe under him. How he would coo and call you "pretty girl" again. You're so in your own head that you don't realize he's...standing right next to you now.

"You okay?" he drops his head next you your ear.

It makes you jump out of your skin. "Fuck, Pope," you hold onto your chest.

"Sorry," he holds a hand out. "Didn't mean to scare ya."

"You didn't," you shake your head and grab his wrist, clearly forgetting yourself. "I was just- thinking."

Pope's eyes drop down to where you're holding onto him, and snap back up at you. You drop him immediately, sobering up.

"What were you thinking about?" he asks.

Instead of responding, you look around the room, "I honestly didn't think you'd be here tonight."

"Me neither," Pope deadpans.

"It's good to see you," you turn to look him in the eyes, and find him already staring at you. The two of you hold eye contact for a moment, and a lump forms in your throat. This is pathetic.

"You too," he drops his mouth down to your ear again, to make sure you hear him.

It’s the closeness that’s make you ache. That he insists on dropping his mouth to the shell of your ear, making sure that you can hear the words meant for only you.

You bring your hand up to his cheek and quickly press a light kiss to the opposite side. It could be the dim lighting playing a trick on you, but is he...blushing? No, probably not. You were just being totally inappropriate with your good friend's brother and you need to leave the conversation. You smile gently and wander off, looking for Deran. Or literally anything else to occupy your mind.

You end up crashing on Deran's bed that night, after quickly downing three more beers to try to forget how much of an idiot you made out of yourself. You sleep on top of the covers, there's no telling when the last time he washed the sheets.

When you wake up, it's not so early that the sun is barely up, but early enough that the house is still quiet. Quiet and disgusting.

You yawn and pad out to the living room, confronted with the aftermath. There is shit everywhere, and it makes you shudder. You're not exactly a neat freak, but unnecessary clutter makes your skin itchy. It's probably clinical, you don't think too much about it.

After going to the bathroom to wipe off the excess mascara under your eyes and splash water in your face, you go to the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen and fish around for a trash bag. You're collecting beer bottles and empty chip bags when you here the front door open and close softly.

"Deran, that you?" You call behind you, thinking he's coming back from an early surf. "Dude, I think you need a new mattress."

"I'll let him know," Pope responds, standing awkardly in the hall.

Of course it's Pope. Because as much as you say you don't want to be alone with him, your subconscious loves putting you in situations where you are, in fact, alone with him.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were Deran. For some reason," you shake your head. Wishful thinking, probably. You bend down to pick up some crushed beer cans.

"You stay here last night?" Pope asks, making his way to the kitchen. He visibly recoils at the mess.

"Yeah," you shrug. "I'll be out of your hair soon, don't worry."

"I'm not." Pope replies. You two don't say anything for a moment. You tie up the trash bag, and he makes peace with whatever God left him a sink of disgusting dishes.

"Hey," he nods at you, "once I get this cleaned up, I can make you something to eat. If you want."

"You wanna make me breakfast?" you ask. You pass through to the kitchen. Standing just a few feet away now.

"I assume you eat," he says. "Unless you're not hungry."

It takes everything in you to shake your head. You can’t let yourself linger with him. "I'm good, Pope. Thank you, though," you say with a soft smile.

He opens his mouth to say something, clearly thinks better of it, then closes it again. You look around at the empty house. "Something on your mind?" You edge forward.

"Deran's lucky to have someone like you around," he says. "I don't know what you see in him but. You're good. For him."

Heat blooms in your chest. "I'm actually just using him for your pool," you scrunch your nose, echoing the joke you made to Deran just a few days prior.

"Right, that makes sense," Pope nods. After a beat, he adds, “You can call me Andrew, by the way.”

It catches you off guard. “I thought- I thought you hated being called Andrew.”

"My brothers just.. don't." He crosses his arms and leans against the counter, just looking at you.

This permission, this closeness, weirdly changes things for you. A lot. You start to replay every interaction in your mind over the last two weeks. Hell, the last few months of knowing Pope. Did you get him wrong? Was he being weirdly standoffish not because he didn’t like you around, but-

Pope drops his hands to his side and inches closer to you. “You alright?” He asks, his voice low. You’re lost in your thoughts, mind reeling.

Your gaze drops down to his mouth, and back up to his eyes. His beautiful eyes. That are looking right at you.

You're standing too close to him now, you know it. But you can't step back, and apparently neither can Pope. He drops his head down, his mouth hovering over yours. Your noses graze gently, but he’s holding back. He's waiting for you. Waiting for you to give him permission.

This is something you can’t run from anymore. You have to get in front of this, whatever it is. Deep down, you know you can’t go on like this, just wondering and panicking every time he so much as looks at you. You need to know. Confront the elephant in the room.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” you say without looking at him. Your voice is barely a whisper, the words fighting their way out. “Tell me to stop.” You don’t dare breathe too deeply. There’s a tightness in your chest.

Pope brings one hand to your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing across your flushed skin. “I would never lie to you.”

In an instant, Pope's mouth is on yours. You drop the trash bag and bring your hands up to his shirt, clutching the fabric. His hands are strong, his grip firm, but his kiss is soft. Like he has to hold onto you tightly, or you'll fade away.

You kiss him back, urgently, feverishly, like he holds the air you need to breathe. Kissing him feels good, it feels almost freeing.

Your tongue traces his bottom lip, and it's enough to make him push you against the kitchen counter. Your hands find the nape of his neck, as his drop down to your hips, gripping you so firmly, you feel like it'll bruise. You don't care. You want the mark. It makes you whimper softly, a sound swallowed immediately by Pope.

A door opens somewhere in the distance, and closes. You and Pope spring apart, the sound acting like a proverbial splash of cold water and reminding you that you were not, in fact, alone, and people would be waking up now. You're panting, and you look at Pope, whose gaze is burning into yours.

"I'll, uhm," you start, wiping your mouth. "I'm gonna go. I need to get cleaned up."

"Yeah, of course," Pope nods. He looks around at the state of the house, "I should take care of this."

You pick up the trash bag and look around desperately for your belongings, which you had stashed in one of the kitchen cabinets.

"Smart," Pope nods, twisting his mouth to fight a smile.

You press a kiss to his cheek, like you did last night, only this one lingers. You need Pope to know that you're not running away from him, just this fucking crowded house. It's like a hostel. Any minute some hungover girl will stumble out of Craig's room, or worse- Deran will walk in on you two. And you are not ready for that conversation.

"I'll text Deran," you nod. "Let him know I made it home."

"Okay," is all Pope says before you leave. To be fair, your brain is also short circuiting.

You have no idea how you make it home. There were probably traffic lights involved, maybe a rolling stop, and suddenly you were outside your apartment. All you could think about the entire drive was Pope. How his hands actually felt. On you. And how he put them there himself. How he wanted you. You.

You have to take an extremely cold shower just to get your head on right. After stuffing last night's outfit in the hamper to be dealt with later- they smell like chlorine and Pope's cologne- you pull on sleep shorts and a tshirt, ready to crash for a few hours and sleep off your confused emotions.

But there's a heavy knock at your door. Thinking that it may be a mistake, you almost don't open it, but when you look out the window of your bedroom, you see Pope standing there.

You nearly wipe out on the hard wood, skittering faster than your feet can take you. After taking a moment to regain your composure, and even out your breathing, you open the front door.

"Andrew," you say, mildly shocked. He almost looks surprised, too. You can't tell if he's shocked you actually live here, or shocked you answered the door. Or by the fact that you just called him Andrew for the first time.

"Hi," he says, taking a deep breath. After a beat, he shakes his head, coming back to himself. "You forgot your sweater," he holds out a grey zip up hoodie that you have never seen before in your life.

"I don't think that's mine," you smirk, unable to hide how unfortunately charming you're finding this. You lean against the door frame, and his eyes follow you.

"Oh, right," he looks down at it, like it personally offended him. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't have just shown up-"

You pull him in by his face and kiss him deeply. He walks you back into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. The sweater falls away from his grasp, forgotten already.

"I'm glad you're here," you say in between kisses.

"Yeah?" he asks, dropping his mouth to your jaw. You shudder.

Pope pushes you against the nearby wall and holds his arms out on either side of you. His mouth nips at the crook of your neck, and you let out a low moan.

"Andrew," your voice is low.

"Again," he mutters against your skin.

"Hm?"

Pope comes up for air, his chest rising in falling in deep breaths. He presses his forehead to yours. "Say my name again."

"Andrew," you say, biting your lip. "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew," his name comes out low and sweet, in between gentle kisses from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, and his ear. "Andrew."

Pope shudders. "Fuck, what are you doing to me," he mutters.

You take his hand and lace his fingers with yours, pressing light kisses along the back. Something has snapped inside you. After weeks of holding back, repressing your emotions, trying to cover up how you're feeling, you're tired. You don't want to pretend anymore. Not when Pope is standing in your apartment, practically begging for you.

"I want you," he breathes. "I know I don't deserve you but I-"

"Stop it," you cup his face with your free hand. "You have me. You've had me for longer than you think."

He tilts his head inquisitively, narrowing his eyes slightly. You lean your head back against the wall and sigh, unable to avoid your embarrassment anymore. "You didn't think anything about me literally asking you to rub sunscreen on my back? Or the way that I somehow always find myself alone with you? Subconsciously moving closer?"

"If you're trying to tell me I'm an idiot, I already know that," Pope bites his bottom lip. "But you are an evil woman. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in that fucking swimsuit."

"I know, that was mean," you scrunch your nose.

His hand presses against your waist, pulling you close to him, your bodies pressed together. It moves slowly down the curve of your ass, right above your thigh. "Evil, evil woman," he mutters, leaning in again. "Evil woman with the most beautiful smile, perfect body, perfect laugh."

"Andrew," you whimper as his hand grips the fat of your thigh, fingers digging in. You take his hand and move it between your legs, right where you feel the most heat. "Please touch me. I need you to touch me."

Pope lets out a low groan and shoves his hand down the front of your sleep shorts, finding no panties, just your wet heat. "Fuck, all this for me?"

"Mhmm," you whine. When a teasing finger makes its way over your clit, you open your mouth in a silent gasp. The way you squirm is enough for Pope to press fully inside you, one finger, then two. You grip his shoulders as he moves slowly, drawing out hushed whines and lustful whimpers.

"Fuck this," Pope pulls his hands out suddenly. With his hands firmly around your ass, he lifts you with ease, wrapping your legs around his waist. You lean down and kiss him, tongues sliding together.

When you lead him back to your bedroom, he sits on the edge of the mattress. Your knees settle on either side of him, straddling his hips and holding you over the growing bulge in his jeans. You move against him, chasing any kind of relief from the pressure building in your belly.

Pope's hands hold your waist, slipping under the hem of your shirt to make contact with your bare skin. You slip the fabric over your head, discarding it on the floor. You pull at the fabric of Pope's shirt and slide his off, too.

You run your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, marveling at his sun-kissed, freckled skin. You want to gnaw on his biceps. Your eyes fall down to a fading bruise on his side, right at the top of his ribcage. Curious, and admittedly a little heartbroken, your fingers gently graze his skin there.

"Hey," he whispers, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth, gently kissing the pads of your fingers. "Old news, don't worry about it."

"I'm always worried about you," you sigh.

"Not right now." Pope buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking at the skin hard enough to leave a mark. "This is about you."

His mouth travels down to your collarbone and below, leaving small nips and kisses in his wake. You want to press, to ask what's really going on, and what he doesn't want to talk about, but your brain clouds over. Later, defintely later.

"You're perfect," he mutters, mouth pressed against the lace over your nipple.

You rock against his hand, the one slipping under your shorts and teasing your clit. The feeling sends shocks up your spine. You whimper, looking for release.

"Tell me what you want," Pope holds your low back with a firm grip, holding you close.

"Inside," you whine, "I need you inside me. Please."

The second that please slips out, Pope presses his fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit. He watches your face, eyes closed in bliss, as you rock your hips against his hand.

"So pretty while you ride my fingers," he kisses your collarbone.

"'s good," your head falls back, giving him more room. His fingers curl inside you, hitting the exact right spot. You inhale sharply, "There, right there. Andrew please."

It's obscene and desperate, the way your body bucks against him. His fingers move faster and deeper, hitting the same sensitive nerves over and over again. Pope nudges the straps of your bra down, lowering them just enough to free your tits for him to devour.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling gently to bring his face back to you. His pupils are blown, eyes wild with desire. It’s making you borderline feral.

Thighs quivering, sweat beading on your brow, he brings you right over the edge, jaw slack as you come on his fingers.

Pope removes his fingers slowly, and you can hear how wet you are. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you, savoring you.

"Shit," you look down at the wet spot on the front of his jeans, right on top of how growing bulge. “I made kind of a mess on you..."

"S'fine," Pope says, “should probably take them off now anyway.” He helps you remove your bra completely before lowering you onto the bed.

You slip your shorts off, trying to will your heart to stop beating so fast. Watching from the bed, your hands resting on your low belly, as Pope undresses fully for you.

His eyes don’t leave yours as his jeans and boxers come off all at once. Your breath catches in your throat. His dick is hard and thick, veins throbbing. Of course, figures.

"You are so beautiful," he marvels at your body, hands caressing your curves as he settles on top of you.

“Andrew,” you purr, running you hands over his toned back, letting your nails just barely graze him. It lights you up inside, how sensitive he is to your touch.

“Fuck,” he groans. He rubs his dick over your soaking pussy.

"You like this?" you ask, dragging your hands down his shoulders.

"Yes. Very much, yes," he moans. "I'm going to fuck you so good, I promise."

You pull his face to look at you, "I know."

Pope backs away from you just long enough to line himself up and sink this thick cock inside of you. The moan that slips out of you is borderline lewd. Your jaw goes slack, vision spotty.

“You okay pretty girl?” Pope huffs above you, clearly taking this just as well as you are. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You nod wordlessly, your legs moving to wrap around his waist, bringing him closer.

“Talk to me,” he says, firm but desperate.

“It’s-,” you whine, “so good. Feels so good.”

Pope bends down to kiss you, his tongue messy and desperate in your mouth. When he moves, he starts slow, but it’s like he can’t help himself. He holds back until he physically can't any more, his thrusts become fast and deep. Hitting a place inside of you that you didn’t know could feel so right.

“God, you’re squeezing me so good,” Pope huffs.

“I think- ah- I think you’re just stretching me out,” you smile.

If you weren’t smiling like a dope, Pope would have thought he was hurting you. But your little moans and whimpers just egg him on further.

Pope takes your hands and pins them above your head, trapping you below him. His entire body is pressed against you, his hips grinding against you as he hits that pressure point again and again. You're at his mercy, and it makes your body light up.

“So perfect,” he mutters. “You look so perfect under me like this.”

“Andrew please,” you moan, “you’re right against my clit. Fuck, I’m going to come again.”

“Go ahead, baby,” he says right into your ear, nipping at your earlobe. “Let me feel you come on my dick. You can do it.”

With both of your wrists trapped under one of his strong hands, he uses the other to reach down and knead your tit, twisting the nipple.

“Ohmygod,” your words are jumbled, pleasure clouding your mind.

Your orgasm is stronger than the first, lasts longer, and Pope fucks you through it. Your pussy pulses around him and his breathing grows ragged.

"That's it, pretty girl. You feel so good around me. Shit, I’m going to come,” Pope huffs.

“My mouth,” you whimper, your overly sensitive clit making you writhe. “Let me take you in my mouth."

He doesn't hesitate, just pulls out of you quickly, his dick wet with evidence of your orgasm. You move to your knees in front of Pope as he sits back at the head of the bed. You squeeze his cock gently, swirling the tip around with your tongue to collect the precum gathered there.

“Good girl,” Pope’s head drops back. “So good to me. Fuck.”

You drag your tongue up the length of him before taking him all the way to the back of your throat. Pope gathers your hair in his hand, pulling it out of your face. You bob up and down relentlessly, chasing the release he gave you.

“This good?” You look up at him through your eyelashes. Sliding your tongue up the side of his dick again.

“I’m so close baby.” His grip in your hair tightens, and it encourages you.

Suddenly, he lets out a low groan, and you feel him release in the back of your throat. You hold yourself at his base until his dick stops pulsing. When you let off with a pop, you don’t lose a single drop.

“Holy shit,” Pope’s breath still hasn’t come back to him.

Your mouth curves into a soft smile and you press your body against his, kissing him deeply.

Pope after sex is shockingly concerned for your well being. It’s not that you thought he’d roll over and go to sleep. There’s no way Pope would do that. But you didn’t think he’d make you go to the bathroom and get water. The domesticity of Pope after sex is almost as hot as the fervor before.

Pope quietly gets up to reach for his boxers, but you grab his hand and yank him back to the bed. He is a brick wall, and could easily overpower you. Instead, Pope lets you drag him back down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you mutter.

“Uhm, nowhere now.” Pope settles next to you. You’re face to face, close under the covers.

"This was better than my dream," you say offhandedly, not thinking about the words until you've already said them. And you can't take them back. You have got to start watching your mouth.

"Dream?" he props his head up with his hand to get a better look at you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Forget I said anything."

"No no," he teases, a rare, toothy smile lighting up his face. His hand rests on your bare hip, thumb moving back and forth, trapping you in the conversation. "What kind of dream are we talking here?"

"Please don't look at me right now, I think I'm going to die of embarrassment." You blush deeply, moving to cover your face with your hands.

"Hey," he takes one of your hands away, lacing your fingers with his. "It's okay, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." And then, after a long pause, he keeps going. "So you had a wet dream about me, there's nothing to be ashamed of."

His voice is flat and sincere, but you know he's still teasing you. You should be more irritated, and you would be, but this is the most relaxed you have ever seen him. And you want to memorize the way he's looking at you right now.

"Alright," you concede. "I did. I had a wet dream about you a couple of weeks ago."

"You gonna tell me what happened? Was I good, at least?"

You bite your lip and slide over his hips, pushing him to his back and straddling him. "I couldn't look at you without thinking about your hands on me. You were very good. Almost as good as the real thing." You lean down and give him a single, lingering kiss.

"Almost," he repeats the word with emphasis. "I think I know about when that was," he says. "I thought you were mad at me. You wouldn't talk to me at all."

"Because I was afraid that if I started talking to you, I would only hear you moaning profanities in my ear," you push your hair over your shoulder. “I couldn’t even look at you without getting wet.”

Pope gets quiet, contemplative. Eyes dropping, his hands rest on your thighs.

“Hey,” you nudge him gently, “what’s going on? Where’d you go?”

“I hate that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me,” he says quietly.

“Uh-uh,” you lean down, nudging your nose with his. “None of that.”

“I’m not good at- the guys are usually-“

“Am I naked on top of Craig right now?” You shoot out.

“Over my dead body,” Pope snorts.

“Exactly,” you grin and kiss him.

You’re painfully that the damn has burst, and none of these feelings can be bottled back up. You’re going to have to tell Deran eventually. But none of that matters right now. All you can focus on is Pope’s hands on your thighs, and all the places he’ll put them.

Later, when you're dressed again and Pope is making you lunch, you bend down and pick up the discarded sweater.

"Andrew, who's is this, anyway?" You bring it over to the kitchen.