you whine, though it's muffled from his digit. he spanks you again, and again, and again.

"i thought it was so fun when you went out with your friends while i was on a job," another hit, "i thought it was fun when you put on a short dress and let other guys look at you," another hit.

this one's different, though, because his voice cracks on that last sentence, his chest giving a heavy shake.

"popey, i'm sorry," you whine, but he's merciless. he smacks you again and again and again, relentless in his pursuits.

"'m sorry, angel, hurts me more than it hurts you, y'know that?" he croaks, and tears stream down your own face. "hurts me that my girl doesn't listen."

"i'm so sorry, popey, i won't do it again," you whine, and he kisses your poor, bruised ass.

"good girl, that's what i like to hear," he continues to kiss, to smooth his hands over your flaming skin. "need you safe. dunno what i'd do if something happened to you while i was away. don't think i would make it."

you squeeze your eyes shut, heart clutching as you take in his words.

"'m gonna go get your lotion," he starts, lips moving along the skin of your ass. "lay on your stomach for me when i get back, hm?" you nod, and he continues. "gonna rub your lotion into this sweet little ass, then i'm gonna eat you pussy, 'kay?" he asks.

A harsh ray of sunlight wakes you from your stupor. You squeeze your eyes tight, blindly flailing your hand around for your phone. You knock over approximately three things on your night stand in your pursuit, but come up successful, the blue light burning into your tired gaze.

You sift through your morning notifications, your heart sinking the further you go. You see a horde from Trinity, Dennis, and Victoria- recaps and photos of the night prior, spent at the bar, indulging in less than wise choices.

They make you smile, despite your pounding hangover, and the sinking of your heart the further you go. As much as you love to hear from your friends, you still haven't heard from the one person you want to talk to the most.

You want to whine and pout about your hangover and have him make you tea. You want to tell him about the man that wouldn't leave you and Trinity alone, want to hear him growl and feel him tighten his arm around your waist.

But, Robby left. He left you.

You remind yourself of this awful fate, managing to swing your legs down the side of your bed. You throw your arms over your face, letting out a long groan, desperate to muster the strength to sit all the way up.

Your stomach lurches when you do, and you have to will yourself to hold down the contents of last night. Gripping your middle, you squeeze your eyes shut for a second time, swallowing thickly.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eye, you pad into the bathroom. You're groggy as you move through your morning routine, though the cold water cleansing your face is more than welcome.

You're patting your face dry when your phone buzzes. Your heart drops, hesitant to look. You can't conceptualize it not being Robby, but then again, you can't wrap your brain around it actually being him. Though he's all you can think about, you have no idea what you'd even say.

Your fingers shake as you reach for the device, mouth dry as the screen lights up.

Robby: Are you okay?

Your head jerks back, not sure what you'd expected from this message. It wasn't this, that's all you know.

Your brain whirs, spotty memories of the night before filling in the puzzle pieces of this message.

You go back to the Uber, the sinking of your heart as the night dwindled to a close. To stumbling through the door last night, to crying with yet another bottle of tequila.

Your eyes go wide when you remember what came after that. You're a fool, if only for a brief moment, and hope you're just misremembering. Thumb shaking, you pull up your call log, and your fears are confirmed.

Robby (19 outgoing calls)

Your heart sinks. 19 times. You drunk dialed him 19 times. Embarrassment is a spider creeping up your spine, sinking its legs in deep, poisoning your veins.

Shaky fingers try desperately to type up…something. Your mind goes blank as you stare at the blinking cursor. Instead, your thumb hovers over his contact, pulling up his location.

The cabin, of course. You roll your eyes as you lock your screen, placing it back down on the counter.

You leave it there, padding out into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. An old t-shirt of Robby's hangs loose off your shoulders, a baggy pair of sleep shorts hugging your hips.

A familiar impulse brews deep in your belly, one that's screaming at you to make it right. It wars with your raging anger, the part of you that knows you have nothing to fix, that this is all on him.

Still, your teeth nibble away at your thumbnail, the urge to hop in your car and drive the 45 minutes to his secluded mid-life-crisis cabin a dull ache in your tummy.

If you strip away your hurt, your pride, you just want to see him. As embarrassing as it feels, not seeing his face first thing this morning hurt more than you care to admit.

So, you swipe your keys off the table by the door, and go.

- The drive out of the city was chaotic at best, Pittsburgh drivers encouraging an endless spew of expletives from your lips. The insanity of the urban road still does not deter you from a drive-thru coffee.

Your hungover self justifies a big, greasy bagel sandwich, too. It's like something from a shitty rom-com, the way you one-handedly steer, sunglasses resting on your nose, hair up in a messy bun.

Once you're out of the city, on the open road, you begin to practice. It feels a bit corny- you, a fully grown adult, rehearsing an improvised script in order to talk to your situationship. It feels like high school all over again.

Except in high school, you were at least begging for common decency from idiot teenage boys. Not a middle aged man with double the relationship experience.

Various scenarios play out in your mind as you maneuver the winding roads. Many of them involve you getting the last word, ending with him in tears and on his knees, begging you to forgive him.

The reality-based part of your brain, though, is a bit more goal oriented. You rack over all the possible choices you have based on how he's made you feel- talk, scream, cry, throw. Only one of those feels rational, and you force the mature answer upon yourself.

"Communication is the cornerstone of a relationship," you whisper to yourself.

It's a quote from your therapist, who'd dropped this nugget of wisdom as you'd been sprawled out on her couch, unstoppable tears streaming as you'd recounted all you knew about Robby. The pain, grief, and trauma, but also the love, joy, and whimsy.

You'd struggled to reconcile both men, and just as you'd gotten used to it, he'd ripped it out from underneath you like you were nothing more than cheap silverware.

Nevertheless, you're going to talk to him, because whether you like it or not, you're pretty sure you've fallen in love with him. Or maybe you have been the whole time.

Applauding yourself on the growth, you list different points in the empty car. You rattle off how hurt you are, how he needs to talk to you instead of running away. How he needs to bridge the old Michael into this new one, how he needs to let you dance with him in the darkness.

It's only when you pull up to his long, winding driveway, that it dawns on you. What if he doesn't want to see you? Embarrassment burns in your stomach at the idea, bubbling like hot oil. You feel selfish, foolish, imposing.

Though you tease him, you know how important this place is to him. It's a safe haven for him, the quaint little cottage on the water. What if he wants some distance from you, and that's why he's here? He did, essentially, break up with you, of course.

What if you're taking up space that he didn't offer?

Just as you're about to shift the gear into reverse, his front door opens. Slamming on the brakes, the car jerks forward, your head cartoonish as it bobs with it.

You catch a small smile spread on his lips, and you take a moment to soak in the sight of him.

It's still technically morning, around 11, so it's not unfeasible for him to still be in his sleepwear.

Thank God he is, you think, as you trail down the worn-in, ratty band t-shirt you love to steal, the boxers hanging loose on his hips. Teeth sinking into your lower lip, your hand finds the door handle, swinging it open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The walk from your car to his porch steps was quiet, a bit awkward, save for the clack of your shoes against the cobblestone.

"What did I say about driving with those things on?" He asks, and you're thankful for the icebreaker. It takes you out of your previous panic. It's just Robby, you remind yourself. Dr. Robby. Your Robby.

"That the amount of flip flop related car crashes you see each year can't and shouldn't outweigh the convenience of not having to tie shoe laces," you deadpan, staring right at him, finally at eye level.

"Wow, so you do listen to me," he quips back.

You roll your eyes, despite the butterflies threatening your stomach.

"Only sometimes," you whisper, sneaking past him into the house.

He shuts the door behind you, and you kick your shoes off, sending them flying across the hardwood. You practically feel his eye roll, and you turn back to him with your hand propped on your hip.

Neither of you know what to say quite yet, your teeth once again seeking your lip. The longer the silence lets on, the thicker the tension gets. It's dense, practically swimmable. But you refuse to crack first. Not when he was the one who left.

"How was your night?" He starts.

All you can do is shrug, heart beating at a rapid pace. The resounding headache you thought you'd fought off with caffeine reappears, throbbing against your skull.

Pressing your fingertips into your temples, you massage the skin there until your eyes drift closed, an exasperated sigh falling from your lips.

"That good, huh?" He teases, and something in you snaps.

"Don't joke around with me like nothing's happened," you retort.

His reaction to your words is physical, a recoil that sends him even further away from you.

"I'm sorry," he replies. And then it's silent again.

"For what?" You ask. The question hangs heavy between you two.

He throws out a hand, as if to say, 'what do you think?'

Arms crossed over your chest, you quirk a brow, prompting him further.

"I'm sorry I ran, okay?" He barks, and you flinch. "Is that what you want to hear?"

Your bottom lip trembles, the familiar sting of tears burning. Shaking your head, a sardonic scoff escapes your lips.

"Not like that, asshole," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "God," you groan out in frustration. "I'm so sick of crying over you, Michael."

It comes out as a whisper, the shameful words toppling from your mouth.

He shifts at this, his brows furrowing.

"You've been crying?" He asks, and you want to slap him.

"Well!" You start, throwing your hands up in frustration. "You left me. You left before we were even dating. Hell, you're not even my boyfriend"

"You wanted me to be your boyfriend?" He asks, and his use of past tense is a pang that pushes past your irritation.

"What do you think, Michael, really?" Your voice is controlled as you breathe through your nose, exhaling out your mouth.

He says nothing, and the tears finally push over, streaking down your cheeks.

"Robby," you sigh, thumb and forefinger finding the bridge of your nose. He flinches at the use of his nickname, and you don't have it in you to feel bad. "I had this entire speech planned, too. Practiced in the car and everything."

He emits a sad laugh at this, and the sound is enough to make you crumble.

"But now that I'm here, that I'm looking at you…" you trail off, really taking him in. You're not sure when you'll see him like this next. If.

"It's all out the window," you croak. "I just-" you drop your purse on the ground, the tinfoil from your breakfast sandwich rolling across the ground.

"I don't know what to do, Michael. You're the only person I want to talk to," you lament, tears flowing at a steady pace, now. "Like yesterday, Trin said something so funny, and all I wanted to do was run and tell you."

He softens at this confession, his brows creasing, brown eyes shining. Your mouth keeps running.

"I cried into a goddamn bottle of tequila when I got home!" You throw your hands up at the ridiculousness of it all. "Like, what's wrong with me!"

"I love you," he whispers.

The world stops on its axis as you take in his words, his Adam's apple bobbing with a thick swallow. Mirroring his actions, your mouth is dry and there's a faint ringing in your ears.

Your heart sits at the bottom of your stomach, vision going spotty.

"What?" You breathe out, brows knitting together.

"I love you," he repeats, more sure of himself this time. "I know saying this makes me a dick, but-"

He doesn't make it much further, as you're striding across the room, no game plan in sight. You stop shortly before him, looking up at his large, looming frame. Both your chests heave, your lips pursed in annoyance.

A hand comes up, swatting his pec. He just smiles, silent permission for you to let it all out. A few more hits fly from your hands, slapping against his shoulders, his chest, his collarbone.

He's sturdy, taking what you give him. Deep down, you know he's thankful you're giving him anything at all.

This reminder allows you to relent, tears still spilling as your arms slow. His fingers circle your wrists, pulling you close to him as you cry into his chest.

"Why did you do that to me, Michael?" You ask. "Why did you run away?"

He sighs, your body caving with his. He buries his nose into your temple, a deep breath inflating his belly.

"I was scared," he starts, and you try desperately to stave off disappointment. "It's a shit excuse, I know. It's actually not an excuse, at all."

You feel his own chest shake, and you tighten your grip around him.

"I can't remember the last time I felt this way about someone. I was scared you'd get hurt in the long run, so I decided to rip the band-aid off," he explains.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears falling onto his shirt.

"That's so fucking stupid, Michael," you whine into the fabric of his shirt. " I know you. D'you know that? I've been there on your worst days- on the Fourth, when Adamson died," he tenses at your words, but you keep going.

"I'm a big girl, I can make my own choices" you mutter, the pet name prompting him to rake his fingers up and down your back. You shiver, and keep going. "I know who you are, and I still want you, do you hear me?"

Delicate fingers cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to meet yours. Sad shadows dance in his irises, your heart churning.

He nods, glassy brown irises steely.

"You really want me?" He asks, and the uncertainty in his voice makes you shiver.

"Of course. Do you want me? Because. last I checked, you totally dumped me," there's a sad lilt to your voice, and you feel him exhale against you.

"Of course I do," he mutters, pressing your face back into his chest, punctuating it with a kiss to the top of your head. "I love you, honey."

"You didn't really do a great job at showing it," you mumble, a sniffle itching your nose.

He melts at this, squeezing you tighter, whispering and shushing and cooing.

"I'm sorry, my sweet girl," he breathes, and you shake with a sweet cry. "Ohhh, you poor thing."

He presses another kiss to your head, then another, and another, and you can't help but revel in his touch.

"Michael, in order for this to work, you can't do that again. Do you understand?" You pull your head off his chest, looking deep into his eyes.

They're sad, scared, but honest. He nods, his own tears falling.

"Say it," you whisper, his face achingly close.

Your lips graze over each other's, soft sniffles echoing between you.

"I won't leave. Ever again. I promise, baby," he whispers, and closes the gap between you.

Draping your arms over his neck, you allow yourself to succumb to his touch. His hands run down your back, a cheeky grasp pinching your backside.

He melts into you immediately, bringing his arms around you to pull you even closer. Reaching under your thighs, he lifts you up, legs wrapping around his waist.

"I love you," you whisper, kissing all around his face. "Even when you are a huge dick."

He laughs at this, your own lips peppering down his neck. His groan vibrates through his throat, and it's a bit ticklish.

"'m gonna do better, I promise," he whispers against your mouth, hands massaging at the plush skin of your thighs.

"Prove it, Mikey," you moan. "Make it up to me, baby."

He flops you down onto the couch, a squeal escaping you as he rounds the corner.

He pulls his t-shirt off, and you arch your back off the couch. Lifting your arms up, you reach for him, pinching your fingers together to summon him quicker.

He smiles. It's familiar- loving, but condescending in the way his eyes darken at your need.

"Y'missed me, baby?" He asks, and you melt at his soft tone.

A ferocious nod shakes your head, and he chuckles. Grabbing your ankles, he slides you closer to him, lifting your legs as far apart as you'll let him.

"Missed you so much," you mumble, too turned on by the hair dusting his round tummy to feel embarrassed by how quickly you folded.

He brings your ankle up to his shoulder, pressing sweet kisses there, moving his open mouth up your calf, to your thigh. The closer he gets to your center, the hotter the pit in your belly burns.

Your leg dangles over his shoulder as he continues his work, slowing down considerably as he approaches the spot you both need him most.

"I'm gonna make it up to you properly, baby," he whispers, sinking his teeth into your soft skin. You squeal, and he places an apologetic kiss to the impacted skin.

"Promise I'm gonna treat you so good," he continues, inching up closer and closer. "Just gotta let me do this first, yeah? Gotta say sorry the best way I know how."

The confession hurts your heart, and you reach up to grab his hand. Interlacing your fingers with his, you bring his gaze down to yours for a moment.

"Hey," you mutter. "You need to give yourself more credit," you tell him. The tone shifts, and uncertainty flashes through his gaze.

"Sure, I'll tell Jefferson," he tries to laugh it off, but you give him a small swat on the ass. "Hey!" He quips, and you roll your eyes.

"Baby, 'm serious. As good as you are at this," you nod your head towards your conjoined bodies. "You're good with your words, too. You need to use them for the better more often."

He presses his lips together at this, his big brown eyes suddenly glossy. You smirk, lifting your leg closer to him again.

"But, for now…" you drag, looking up at him through your lashes. "Are you going to eat my pussy, or what?"

This springs him into action, his large hands lifting your butt off the couch, your shorts sliding off soon after. He's on his stomach, next, lifting your legs over his shoulders as he settles between you.

His breath fans over your core, and you let out a sweet whine. He presses a loving kiss overtop your panties, your hips involuntarily grinding up toward him.

A brattier whimper falls out of your mouth when he presses down on your pelvis, making sure your body stays still on the couch.

His big fingers maneuver your panties aside, an elongated groan leaving him.

"Baby," he grumbles, brows furrowed. "Babybabybabybaby," he coos, sliding your panties the full way down.

He presses a sweet kiss to your clit, a soft 'ah!' escaping you. You feel him smile against you, and you wiggle your hips ever so slightly.

He presses down once again, a quiet, 'be good,' leaving his lips. You oblige, and he dives in.

He drags your wetness from your hole to your clit, flicking his tongue against your most sensitive spot. Head falling back onto the couch, you tangle your fingers in his hair.

He groans as you give a light tug, delving his tongue into your hole. A gasp spills from you, hips grinding up to meet his face. This time he's a bit harsher, flat palms now pressing you down hard, legs flying over his shoulders.

"I said," he starts, lifting up your backside and swatting you between words, "stop," smack, "moving," smack, smack, smack.

A pathetic squeal flies out of you, a sweet "Michael," accompanying your whines.

"I know, honey, I know," he coos, lapping at your center, fingers keeping a relentless pace on your clit. "How you feelin', hm?"

"Close," you gasp, and the tip of his nose nudges your button. "Michael!" You gasp out, grabbing his hair to keep him there, rubbing his nose right into your most sensitive spot.

"Ooooh, baby, that's it, yeah?" he murmurs, wiggling his nose further into you, two fingers diving in to stretch you out.

You gasp, legs beginning to shake around him.

"Yes," you gasp, "fuck your nose feels so good."

"Y'gonna use my nose to get you off, baby? You love me that much?" He asks, the sharp point of his nose creating a delicious friction that has your insides tightening.

"I love you, Michael, oh God, please make me cum," you rasp out, and he chuckles.

"You got it, angel, let go," his permission snaps the coil in your belly.

A fiery orgasm rips through you, your veins aflame with pleasure. Arching your back off the couch, Michael's name spills from your lips like a prayer, sweet, sultry, and desperate.

Robby works you through your orgasm until you're clenching around his head, your telltale sign that it's becoming too much. He pulls off of your pussy with sweet, quiet, 'okay, okay, okay's, sitting up on his knees.

He's hard. It's the first thing you see when your vision clears. Mouth watering, you reach up for his boxers before he puts his hands atop yours.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, and you look up at him with wide, sad eyes.

"Mikey…" you whine, lip jutting out in a sweet pout.

He leans down and kisses it off, but it still doesn't improve your mood.

"Want your cock, Mikey," you moan, tugging his boxers lower and lower.

"Y'gonna get it, don't worry, angel. 's just, if you suck me off I'm gonna cum, and I want to wait until I get inside you," he tells you.

You don't care.

Continuing to pull his waistband down lower, he springs out, and you nearly drool. He's thick, heavy, tip red and leaking. Sitting up, you're eye level with his pretty cock.

You tell him so, hand coming up to wrap around him. He twitches in your hand at the compliment, and you coo, pressing a sweet kiss to his tip.

"Oooh, I forgot how much you like being called pretty, huh Mikey?" You tease, your hand speeding up just a touch.

"Baby, 'm gonna cum," he whines, and you smile.

"Do you want me to stop? Because I'll wait for you. Maybe I'll just have to ride your nose this time to get you hard agai- mmph!"

Your words are muffled, his large hand cupping the back of your head, shoving his cock in your mouth.

You swallow him in with ease, his tip hitting your throat in record time. Hollowing your cheeks around him, his head falls back with a throaty groan. Hands reaching up, you scrape your nails lightly against his balls, causing him to stutter.

"Holy fuuuuuck," he growls, hips thrusting into your mouth.

Pulling off of him, there's a string of spit connecting your mouth with his cock. The sight is nearly obscene, and you can feel yourself practically soaking his expensive couch beneath you.

You look up at him through your lashes, your hand still working his considerable length. Spreading your legs slightly, your fingers find your clit with rehearsed ease.

"Babyyyy," he whines. "Fuck, I love you. Thank you so much for being here with me, oh God, oh God," his groans are shaky, voice cracking.

"Gonna make yourself cum again?" He asks, and you nod, picking up the speed.

"Fuuck, you're so fucking perfect. My big dick on this tongue makes you so wet you gotta rub your pussy?" He spells it out, and you know he loves this. The validation it gives him, the praise.

You tap his cock against your tongue, a sweet, 'yes sir,' falling out of your lips before taking his tip back into your mouth. His hips stutter, but your gaze tell him to stay put. He listens, because of course he does, and you give him sweet little kitten licks along his head as a reward.

Dipping your tongue into his slit, his salty precum coats your tongue. You close your eyes, a depraved hum rumbling low in your throat.

"God, you're fuckin' nasty," he groans, hands now on the back of your head.

Taking him further, you feel your saliva pool around him, dripping below you both. It falls onto your pussy, and you use the extra lubricant to get you closer to your own edge.

Robby twitches on your tongue, and you know he's close. His tip in your mouth, you bob your head as you move your hand up and down his shaft. A loud groan spills from his lips, and he catches his breath as he spills his load.

You stick your tongue out, letting him see how you collect his seed. The weight of his cum on your tongue mixed with his heated gaze is enough for you to find your own release.

Your fingers speed up through your orgasm as you close your mouth and swallow. He kisses you through it, and you love how little he cares about tasting himself.

You dart your tongue into his mouth, and they dance together as you come down. He pulls away to let you find your breath, chests heaving against each other's.

"Jesus fucking Christ, baby," he groans, placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Nevermind that you're both sitting in the aftermath of your two orgasms.

It's not long before his hands are scooping you up, and you let out a surprised squeal. Your body's limp as he carries you, and he shows no signs of struggle carrying your dead weight.

"Mikey," you whimper, your sensitivity at an all time high.

"I know honey, I'm gonna fuck you. I told you," he murmurs. "Wasn't gonna do it on my couch. Need you comfy."

Your heart swells at his words, and you let him carry you. He places you gently on the bed, his hands lifting your shirt over your head.

His hands spread your knees apart as he kneels between them. A gentle hand strokes up and down your inner thigh, and you shiver each time he gets close to where you want him most.

"'m still gonna need a minute, baby," he whispers.

"That's okay," you smile sweetly. "Remember, I know you. Don't gotta explain yourself to me."

He nods his head, eyes glossing over once more. He bites his lip, but the tears come anyway.

You shush him, opening up your arms for him to come join you. He relents, lowering his body onto you as you wrap yourself around him. He loves his koala time, even if he'd never admit it.

His softening length slots against your folds, nudging your clit just a little. You shake. still sensitive from the orgasms already ripped from you today.

He brushes his hand down the back of your hair, smoothing it down and pressing sweet kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your nose.

You pull him in with a long, sensual kiss that has him groaning against you. His tongue slides in to taste yours, and you use his relaxed state to get him on his back.

Your nails lightly graze the hair on his tummy as you settle over his lap. He lets you maneuver him, head flopping back on the pillow. Reaching down to his sweet face, you peel his glasses off.

His hands grip your hips as you lean over, putting them on the night stand. He lets a hand crack on your ass as you lean, and though you squeak, you knew it was coming.

Once you rest back onto his thighs, he's fully hard again. You're impressed, the lift in your brows telling him such. He blushes as your nails scrape down his chest.

"You're just that pretty," he murmurs, and you press a finger to his mouth.

"Thank you, baby," you coo, "but again, no explaining. I love you just the same."

You punctuate this by sinking down onto him, his face going from lovesick to pleasured. His mouth and eyes pinch together as he tenses up, just his head stretching you thus far.

"God, already so much, Mikey. What am I gonna do?" You ask, sinking just a bit lower.

He groans at the praise as you continue your descent towards his lap. Fingers tangle in his chest hair as you prop yourself up for leverage, sinking the rest of the way down.

Plopping yourself onto his lap, his hands clasp at your waist, pinching and squeezing your plush skin. Giving yourselves time to adjust, you wiggle your hips slightly before lifting them up.

Robby's eyes are trained on yours as you sink back down, his mouth forming a sweet 'o'. You pinch his cheeks in your hand, puckering his lips for you.

"Feel good, Mikey?" You ask, and he nods ferociously. Gripping his jaw, you bring his pouty face to yours, kissing and licking into him. "Good," you whisper, lifting yourself up once more.

He grips your hips, slamming you down onto him harder. He continues to manipulate your movements, bouncing you up and down his cock. Soon after he finds a rhythm, he plants his feet on the bed, thrusting up into you.

Robby's eyes are trained on your tits, their jiggle as he pounds you, occasionally flitting down to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock. You're dizzy, breathless under his gaze.

"That's it, baby, taking me so fucking good," he groans, the wet plap of your ass meeting his thighs echoing through the room.

"So biiig, Mikey, God," you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

Your body goes limp, allowing Robby to dig his fingers in as hard as he needs, as hard as it takes to work you up and down his cock.

"Yeah? Y'so full? So full, I know, baby," He coos as you nod. "I know, it's so good, so good, baby."

You whimper at his words, pressing your fingertips into his chest so you can control your movements. His hands come up behind his head with a groan, happily letting you take over.

You're hazy as your orgasm approaches, legs shaking once again as your stomach winds tighter and tighter. You clench down on him, blood roaring in your ears as your heart skips.

"'m gonna cum, Mikey, please," you whine, rhythm going sloppy as you near your high.

"Me too, baby, you can do it," he encourages, and you whine.

"I love you, oh God, I love you so much," you whimper, going still as you reach your peak.

He brings you to him for a kiss as he fucks up into you through your orgasm. Clenching down hard on him, he's joining you soon after, spilling his release into your leaking pussy.

Time slows as he works you through it, shock waves racking your sensitive body. His hands find the small of your back, jiggling you on him slightly as you ride out the remainder of your high.

Your pussy pulses around him as you find your breath, his heavy ones echoing off yours. Resting your head on his shoulder, he rubs his palms up and down your back.

"So good, sweetheart, thank you for being so good to me," he punctuates this with a kiss on your shoulder. "For giving me a second chance."

"I love you, Mikey," you whisper, lifting your head up so you can look at him. "But I'm serious about what I said before. You can't leave again. Even when it gets scary, even when it gets hard."

He nods, eyes darting behind you. You grip his jaw, forcing him to look back at you.

"Hey," your voice is stern, and he obeys. "You wanna make this real?" He nods. "Show me, then. We got off to a…fairly good start today," you both chuckle at the insinuation of your words. "But if you want to make this real, this needs to be the norm. Make sense?"

He nods, placing a tentative kiss on your lips. You melt into his touch, pressing your mouth harder onto his.

"Love you," he murmurs against you. "'m sorry, always gonna be so sorry."

"I like the sound of that," you tease, and he snickers.

He pulls you down on top of him, his arms holding you close, his dick still inside you.

It's quiet for a moment, the stillness almost eerie. Robby rakes his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as your eyes flutter.

Your heart is still beating at an outlandish pace, the giddiness of having Robby near never fully subsiding.

"We can't fall asleep like this," you eventually mutter, and he lets out a soft chuckle.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he replies, a gentle hand pulling him out of you.

You whimper at the loss, placing a sweet kiss to his lips before swinging your leg off his lap.

You cringe at the mix of fluids leaking down your thigh, though Robby doesn't let you stay embarrassed for long.

"You're okay, babe," he quips, following you into the bathroom.

Switching on the shower, the steam fills up the bathroom, allowing your still-slightly hungover head some reprieve.

His gentle hands clean you up, massaging shampoo into your hair, running a soap bar over your skin. It does wonders for you, not only for your post-coital, sweat-ridden body, but to wash the rest of last night off.

"So," Robby starts, moving under the stream to wash his own body. You're not as much help, slinking over to the other side of the shower for your favorite show. "You really cried into a bottle of tequila last night?"

A laugh bursts from your chest, hands reaching up to cup his soapy tummy.

"Yeah, I did," you admit, grazing his hairy, coarse skin. "Alone, too. It was after I'd gotten dropped off, and I just wanted you. Tequila was all I had."

He laughs, though it's sad, and pulls you back into him, soap bar be damned.