muse

From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.

From the moment you stepped out of the safehouse that evening, the dress clinging to your curves like a second skin and your lips painted crimson red, he hadn’t spoken a word.

Jaw tight. Hands flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach for something—anything. His eyes dragged over you, slow and sharp, like a blade drawn deliberately over bare skin. Heat rolled off him in thick, stifling waves, all of it coiled tight beneath the surface, barely held in check.

He didn’t look at you like a teammate. He looked at you like a threat. Like temptation in its most dangerous form, alive and breathing and standing right in front of him. A trap wrapped in silk and sin. And for a second, you swore he stopped breathing entirely, just standing there, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his throat like a warning.

Like if you moved, if you so much as breathed, he would snap.

And some part of you wanted him to.

You weren’t sure if it was the slit running dangerously high up your thigh or the way the plunging neckline dipped low enough to make any man ache, but something in him shifted the second he looked at you. His gaze caught there, throat bobbing like he’d just swallowed a curse, a growl, a need too sharp to name.

Still, your boyfriend said nothing. Just clenched his fists and looked away.

Now, inside the ballroom that was glittering with chandeliers and crawling with sharp-dressed criminals, his silence followed you like a storm cloud.

You moved through the crowd like smoke, effortless. Laughter light as champagne spilled from your lips as you curled your fingers around the arm of Armand Liska, the smug weapons liaison you were specifically tasked to distract tonight.

He was handsome in that over-polished way men with too much money and too little substance often were. Sculpted jaw, tailored suit, expensive cologne, and a smirk that reeked of entitlement. The kind that believed every woman in the room was already his.

His money made him bold. His arrogance made him sloppy.

Perfect.

You laughed at something he said, some tired line about Geneva and cigars, and leaned in just enough for your perfume to reach him, just enough for Bucky to see. Your hand slipped casually to Armand’s sleeve, fingers resting there like you belonged.

You didn’t have to look. You could feel it.

Bucky’s gaze from across the room, it was cold, hard and burning a hole straight through you. Thirty feet away and you could still taste the tension on your tongue. He was watching. You knew that weight. Knew what it meant.

And maybe, just maybe, you leaned in a little closer.

His voice crackled through the earpiece once—tight, clipped. “You’re getting too close.”

You pressed your fingers to your comm. “He likes it close.”

Behind you, Armand chuckled, utterly oblivious to the tension stretching like wire across the ballroom. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip… then lower still, settling on your ass with the kind of casual entitlement that made your skin crawl.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink. Just kept your smile painted on and tilted your chin, throwing a slow, deliberate glance over your shoulder, straight at Bucky.

And there he was.

Posted like a sentinel at the marble bar, a glass of whiskey cradled between his hands, the leather of his glove creaking against the metal plates of his prosthetic. His jaw clenched. His eyes, steel grey, dark, locked on you burned hotter than the liquor in his glass.

You held his gaze.

And then, as if to twist the knife, you let your smile grow just a fraction wider. Turned back to Armand, letting your fingers drift higher along his arm, nails just grazing fabric.

Across the room, the glass in Bucky’s hand groaned under the pressure of his grip.

One second more and it might’ve shattered.

“Jesus,” came Ava’s voice through the shared comms. “He’s going to explode.”

Yelena added with a smirk in her voice, “You okay over there, Barnes? Want us to send in another drink and a stress ball?”

John chimed in, full of smug amusement. “Or maybe just one of those ‘get well soon’ cards. ‘Sorry your girl had to flirt with some greasy asshole”.

“Back in my day,” Alexei added with a sigh “if man touch my woman, I break his finger and stir drink with it.”

Bucky wasn’t listening. He was too busy watching you run your fingers down the arm of a man who wasn’t him. Watching you laugh, lean in, play your part like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

Without a word, he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the bar, the movement sharp, deliberate, like peeling back a layer just to keep from snapping.

The second Armand’s hand slid lower, squeezing your ass like he could get away with it, Bucky moved. No hesitation. No warning. He didn’t walk, god, he stalked, every step deliberate, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the weapons dealer like a kill order had just been given.

His eyes locked on you like a predator finally off the leash, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. The suit jacket strained across his shoulders as he pushed through the crowd, focused, seething, every step radiating barely restrained violence.

You saw him coming. And you didn’t flinch. You just stood there, a little breathless, lips parting in the faintest smile—knowing exactly what you done.

Bucky didn’t spare your mark a glance. His metal hand clamped around your wrist—tight enough to make your breath hitch as he yanked you into him, chest to chest. The grip wasn’t gentle and you knew it wasn’t meant to be.

“Let’s go,” he growled, low and rough against your ear, voice edged with something dangerous.

You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been caught. “Excuse me?”

Armand let out a quiet laugh behind you, hand still gripping your ass like he owned it. “Hey man, I’m getting lucky here.”

Bucky stopped.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes dragging down to where Armand’s hand still sat, bold and possessive. That smug fucking grip. Like you were something he could touch. Keep. Claim.

“You’re touching something that doesn’t belong to you,” Bucky said, voice quiet—too quiet. “Take your hand off her. Or I’ll take it off for you.”

Armand raised a brow, still grinning. “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”

Bucky didn’t blink. “I’m the reason you’re still breathing. Don’t make me change that.”

The smile dropped off Armand’s face.

There was a beat of silence before he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, muttering under his breath. Bucky didn’t look at him again.

“Bucky—” you started.

“Now.”

He moved without hesitation, his arm snapping around your waist as he pulled you into his side, possessive and unyielding. His pace was fast, controlled, but every line of his body screamed tension.

You could feel it in the way his fingers dug into your hip, in the rigid press of his frame against yours as he steered you through the crowd like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

The air around him felt charged—sharp, crackling with restraint barely holding. The team watched in silence, heads turning as you passed, no one daring to speak.

John’s voice finally crackled to life. “I owe Ava twenty bucks.”

“I told you she was pushing his buttons,” Ava said smugly.

“Seven minutes,” Yelena murmured. “They’ll be back. Probably looking freshly fucked.”

Bucky didn’t care.

He should’ve waited. He should’ve remembered protocol. He should’ve played the part of the calm soldier, the cool operative.

But he couldn't, not after watching another man put his hands on you. Not after seeing you lean in, smile, let that bastard touch your waist like he owned a piece of you. Like he had the right to stare at your body, to laugh into your ear, to treat you like something he could keep.

You weren’t his. And Bucky couldn’t stomach that for one more second.

The bathroom door slammed shut behind you, the heavy echo ricocheting off marble and tile like a gunshot. You barely had time to gasp before you felt it—Bucky’s body pressing into yours, pinning you flat against the door with the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

His hands slammed against the door on either side of your head, caging you in. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, the heat radiating off him in waves. He was too close, too still, like something barely leashed and seconds from snapping.

His scent hit you next, whiskey, leather, and clean sweat and it coiled through your senses like a drug, setting your nerves alight. It made you shiver, made your pulse jump in your throat.

Your eyes locked in the small sliver of space between you. He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or punish you. Maybe both.

Then, low and gravel-rough, his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You wore that fucking dress on purpose.”

Your lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. The kind that always made him twitch. The kind that always got you in trouble. “Maybe.”

His hand moved fast—fingers gripping your jaw, thumb pressing just below your chin. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it made a point. It claimed. Possessive and unmistakable. And you didn’t resist.

“You let him touch you,” he said, quieter now, the words sharp enough to cut, laced with heat and something darker.

You shrugged, as much as the door behind you would allow. “It was part of the mission,” you said, breathless and sweet.

His mouth dragged along your jaw, rough stubble scraping your skin. He bit down, just enough to make you whimper, then pulled back to snarl against your ear, voice low and dangerous.

“You let him touch your ass.”

Your mouth parted. “It was part of the job—”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you stop him?”

His voice dropped to a growl. Real, rough, and ragged with restraint—like it physically hurt him to keep his hands to himself.

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy with jealousy and need. And you told him. Soft. Honest.

“Because I knew you were watching.”

That broke the dam.

He groaned, low and feral, and then you were moving—spun around so fast your heels nearly slipped. His hands locked around your waist, gripping tight, shoving you forward until your palms caught the edge of the marble sink.

The counter was cold against your skin, grounding, even as your thighs trembled beneath the press of his body.

Bucky didn’t say a word. Just stared at you in the mirror. And you stared back. Your reflection was already wrecked, flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glassy with lust.

You could feel the wild beat of your heart pounding against his chest behind you, every inch of your body mirroring the tension in his.

“Look at yourself,” he growled, mouth brushing your ear. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

His hands slid over your hips, slow at first, rough palms tracing the dip of your waist as he pushed your dress higher with every pass.

There was no hesitation. No patience. Just raw, hungry need, burning through his touch like fire.

You arched into him with a soft gasp when you felt the hard press of his cock grinding through his slacks, pressed tight against your ass.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “Me watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine?”

A quiet moan slipped from your lips as you nodded, eyes fluttering toward the glass.

“Say it,” he snapped, his hand curling around your throat. “Say who you fuckin’ belong to.”

Your voice was breathless. Barely audible. “You.”

He made a low sound—half groan, half curse—and his lips grazed your shoulder, teeth dragging across your skin as he bunched the dress higher and exposed the thin scrap of lace you’d worn beneath. When he saw you weren’t wearing anything else, the breath hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck, princess. You only wore this tiny thing?"

You nodded again, trembling beneath the weight of his touch. His hand clenched on your hip.

“You knew what this would do to me,” he muttered. “Walking in like that. Letting him touch you—like you didn’t fucking know better.”

He didn’t finish the thought. Just yanked your panties aside with one sharp tug, his fingers sliding between your thighs—finding you already soaked.

“Jesus. Drippin’ for me already?”

Your forehead hit the mirror as you exhaled a shaky breath, palms braced against the cold countertop. Your reflection was a mess, cheeks burning, mouth open, eyes dark with arousal. You looked breathless, flushed, completely undone by him—and he hadn’t even taken his time yet.

“Please, Bucky,” you whispered.

He didn’t make you beg for long.

One smooth motion—his zipper down, cock out, the tip teasing through your folds, slick and slow. You pushed your hips back into him, desperate, but he held you firm.

“No,” he said, voice like broken gravel. “You wanted to tease me? Now you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch of what you did to me.”

And then he pushed in.

Agonisingly slow, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out, stretching you wide. The breath caught in your lungs, and your nails bit into the edge of the countertop.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Watch yourself get fucked.”

You did. You watched the way your body trembled, watched the hunger in his eyes, watched the veins in his arm flex as he started to move.

His rhythm was rough, relentless and punishing, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure straight through your core, echoing between your thighs like fire.

“You feel that?” he growled against your neck. “That’s what you fuckin’ do to me. All night, hard as a rock, watching you let some asshole touch what’s mine.”

His hand slid up again, fingers wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding, anchoring. You moaned as he fucked you harder, deeper, angling his hips just right.

Your eyes fluttered shut, but he tugged your chin back to the glass. “No, no. Eyes open princess,” he said, breath hot on your ear. “You wanted the attention? You get it. Watch what I do to you."

And you did.

You watched the way your body bounced with every thrust, his grip bruising into your hips, marking you. Watched the red flush crawl up your chest, watched his expression, jaw tight, lips parted, eyes black with lust as he dragged you toward the edge.

Your moans grew louder. Desperate. He slapped a hand over your mouth, smirking darkly.

“Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. People outside will hear how needy you are for me.”

That only made it hotter.

Your legs started to shake. The pressure builds fast, your orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he asked, his voice fraying at the edges.

You nodded, eyes wild, breath caught.

“Then say it,” he snarled. “Say who this fuckin’ pussy belongs to.”

You gasped against his hand, voice shaking.

“Y-You, Bucky. Fuck—yours.”

He groaned, loud and filthy, and slammed into you one last time just as you shattered around him. Your orgasm hit like a wave, body convulsing, breath gone, thighs trembling from the force of it. You clenched so hard around him he swore through gritted teeth, fucking you through it as he spilled inside with a broken growl.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice rough. “That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

Neither of you moved for a moment. Just panting, tangled together, your bodies buzzing from the crash. Outside, the party carried on—music drifting faintly under the door, as if the world hadn’t just come to a standstill inside that room.

Finally, Bucky leaned in and kissed your shoulder—softer now.

“Next time,” he whispered, still catching his breath, “you even smile at another man like that, I’ll bend you over in front of the whole damn party.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile this time. You could still feel him inside you. His voice, his breath, his hands—etched into your body like a promise.

You swallowed hard, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor as you made your way back down the hallway. The air was cooler out here, but it didn’t help the burn still simmering between your thighs. 

Your legs weren’t entirely steady, and you could feel the ache in every step. You didn’t dare look back at him. You didn’t need to. He was watching you. Always.

“Stop fixing your dress,” Bucky murmured low behind you, so close it ghosted against your ear. “Let ‘em see what’s mine.”

You bit your bottom lip, pulse fluttering. You weren’t sure if it was pride or arousal—but either way, you obeyed.

As the ballroom came into view, your stomach twisted. You knew the team would notice. They always did.

Sure enough, Ava was the first to clock you. Her eyes flicked over you once, then to Bucky, and then back again. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a knowing smirk as she lifted her champagne flute like a toast.

“Huh. You two were gone a while,” she drawled, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “What’d you do, fall into the toilet?”

You tried to play it cool, brushing a hand along your necklace like you hadn’t just been fucked against a bathroom mirror by your boyfriend. Bucky said nothing, of course he didn’t, but the smug tilt of his jaw said everything.

John spotted you next and immediately barked out a laugh. “Oh no. Oh no. You didn’t—” He pointed vaguely toward the hall behind you. “You did.”

Yelena let out a long whistle and leaned in, hands clasped in mock prayer. “ Jesus. I thought the walls weren’t soundproof.”

Her gaze flicked to Bucky, and she grinned. “You’ve got lipstick on your jaw, Barnes.”

You blanched, immediately reaching up to fix it, but Bucky caught your wrist, stopping you with a firm grip. He didn’t even glance down. Just leaned into your ear with a quiet, gravelly murmur meant only for you.

“Leave it.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

And damn you, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

“Okay, but really,” John said, his grin practically splitting his face in two. “Bathroom? Bold move.”

“Definitely mirror sex," Yelena added. “That’s his thing, right?”

“Yelena,” you hissed, cheeks burning.

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? It’s not a judgment. Just an observation.”

Bucky didn’t offer them the satisfaction of a reaction. His eyes were scanning the crowd again, narrowed and alert, but his grip on your waist told a different story. You weren’t getting away. Not yet.

He pulled you closer with one strong arm, pressing a subtle kiss just below your ear—more threat than affection—and when he spoke, it was quiet, dangerous.

“If that asshole so much as looks at you again, I’ll put him through the goddamn table.”

And that? That was not a threat for public consumption.

But it made your thighs clench all over again.

You let your head tilt toward him just slightly, your voice low, teasing “Jealousy looks good on you, Sergeant.”

His answering smirk sent a shiver down your spine.

And as the team returned to their drinks, pretending not to watch, the heat between you and Bucky crackled just beneath the surface—undeniable, unresolved.

His touch on your waist lingered like a brand, his breath still warm against your skin. You didn’t need words to know what came next.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

You weren’t sure who moved first, maybe it was him, maybe it's you, but now his gloved hand was curled over your mouth and his metal fingers were buried inside you, fucking you open with a pace that was slow and dangerous.

You gasped against his palm, breath catching, hips jerking. The comms crackled.

“Yelena, anything from the south corridor?” Ava’s voice rang low in your ear, clinical. Detached. Unaware.

“Nothing yet,” came Yelena’s reply. “You two find anything?”

You whimpered before you could stop it.

Bucky’s hand tightened over your mouth, his other buried deep between your thighs, metal knuckles slick with your arousal. He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Be quiet princess, they can hear you.” The words weren’t just a warning. They were a command. And god, the way he said it, low and breathless, strained like he was hanging by a thread himself made your knees go weak.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered, jaw brushing your cheek. “If you make one more sound, I’ll stop. And you’ll walk back to base dripping for me.” You shook your head, desperate.

He chuckled then, low and dark and dangerous. A sound that buzzed right into your core. His fingers curled inside you again, slow and deliberate, pressing against the spot that made you see stars. You bit back a cry, eyes fluttering, nails digging into the tactical vest stretched across his chest.

You were soaked. You could feel it, could hear it, the quiet, obscene wetness echoing off the metal shelving. And yet, the comm still hummed softly in your ear, alive and vulnerable.

John’s voice suddenly cut through, louder than the others. “We’re moving up. You two stay put, I want eyes on the west exit.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, ragged and sharp. You felt it ghost across your jaw. “You hear that?” he rasped, barely audible. “We’ve got a few more minutes. Stay still. Take what I give you.” He fucked you deeper then, not faster, just deeper, like he wanted to unravel you slowly, like he needed to.

His thumb circled your clit and your thighs trembled. You had nearly lost your footing, but he caught you easily, thigh pressed firm against your body, locking you in place as your head fell back against the cold steel wall behind you.

“Pretty little thing,” he muttered, voice rough and full of need. “You’re soaked. So fuckin’ soft for me. And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You made a desperate noise into his hand, teeth pressing into your lip hard enough to sting. He smirked against your temple.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured. “You make another sound and I’ll cum in my pants before I even get to fuck you.” That image, him losing it like that, rutting against you in this dark corner, wrecked by need nearly undid you.

His fingers moved again, a steady thrust and curl, thumb relentless against your clit. Your thighs shook as his chest heaved against yours now, cock hard and trapped against your stomach in the tight space between you. He was falling apart too. You could feel it in every ragged breath, every whispered curse.

“I should’ve waited,” he said, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Should’ve taken you back to the safehouse. Laid you out nice and proper. But fuck, baby, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop picturing you spread open like this, begging me.” You nodded frantically, eyes glassy with need, your body coiling tight.

He grunted low in his throat, fingers working harder now, faster, still trying to keep you both silent while everything inside you shattered.

“I’m gonna make you come right here,” he whispered. “You’re gonna stay quiet. You’re gonna keep those pretty eyes on me while you do. Understood?”

You nodded again, frantic, desperate, on fire.

“Good girl.”

The praise, filthy and tender, like a knife pressed to velvet was your undoing.

You clenched around him, trembling as your climax tore through you in waves, heat spilling down your thighs, head tipped back in silent ecstasy. You moaned, just once, barely muffled by his hand, and he cursed under his breath, shifting like he wanted to fuck you right then and there, right through the shelf, mission be damned.

You collapsed against him, boneless and breathless, the taste of ozone and sweat thick in the air. Slowly, tenderly, he eased his fingers out, slick and glistening.

Just as you were catching your breath, the comm buzzed again.

“You two good?” John asked, his voice casual. “You’re awful quiet.”

Bucky clicked the comm with his clean hand. “Still clear. No movement.”

Then he cut the line and turned to you, thumb smearing your slick across your inner thigh like a mark only he had the right to leave. “Next time?” he gritted out, voice hoarse and low. “You come with my cock inside you.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse still racing in your throat. “Promise?” you whispered.

He smirked, wicked and already half-hard again. “Count on it.”

For being the strongest man on Earth, he looks downright nervous.

He can take the force of a thousand bullets without a single scratch and fly at the speed of sound. Shit, he even brought Manhattan to its knees in a matter of minutes.

But here, in front of you? With his large, calloused hands gently resting on your parted thighs like they're sacred?

He's trembling.

"I just. . ." Bob swallowed, a loose curl falling onto his flushed forehead, slick with sweat and nerves. "I watched some videos online and—and I just want to do this right."

You ran a soothing hand through his hair. "You will, baby. I'll teach you how. Just listen to me."

He pouts and nods furiously. It makes your heart ache a little bit. This man could fly you to the next galaxy and pluck the stars out of the sky for you, and he would still believe that he isn't good enough.

Lying half-naked on the bed with your thighs spread comfortably around his warm body, you lean back on your elbows. Bob is still dressed in his cozy forest-green crewneck sweater and cream-colored corduroy pants. You feel rather vulnerable being more exposed than him, but the thought of soaking his clothes with your juices and leaving your mark made you absolutely drip.

There is no doubting he could see how wet your pussy is. He seems too anxious to look directly at it, still wanting to play the perfect gentleman. Instead, he opts to take quick glances and then dart his eyes away before you can catch him staring.

You reach down and intertwine your fingers with his, trying to ground him. He offers you a shy, crooked smile that makes your heart leap. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to absolutely ruin this man; to make him cry, to make him scream, to turn him into your pliant little play-thing.

But that was for another time.

Tonight, you were teaching him how to worship you like a devoted acolyte at the altar.

"Okay," you murmur, "start with some kisses."

Bob leans down, practically folding himself over you. One of his massive hands snakes around your outer thigh, anchoring him in place as he turns his head inwards. He begins by nuzzling his nose against your inner thigh, breathing in the intoxicating scent of your soft skin. Then, he places a single, hesitant kiss.

And another. And another. And another, until he's trailing soft and reverent kisses all the way up to your core.

Just when he's hovering where you need him the most, mere centimeters away from your dripping cunt, he shifts to the other thigh to continue the exact same ritual. The way he's taking his time, so gentle and focused on doting on you, makes your head spin.

With each kiss, he starts to gain more courage. He brushes higher and higher until—

A sharp gasp escapes you as he finally kisses your center. There was no tongue yet. It was just sweet and tentative, like he was afraid to break you.

"That's good," you breathe. "Keep going. Don't be afraid to get a little messy, baby."

Bob's eyes flick up to you, tears already threatening to spill out while silently begging for permission. You nod.

That's all he needs.

He shifts in closer, parting your puffy lips with two thick fingers. Then, in a sudden burst of courage, he leans in and drags his tongue through you in one long, slow, mind-numbing stroke.

"Ohh—fuck."

He dives back in, repeating the motion. His head moves with growing enthusiasm, curls splaying against your tummy as he buries himself deeper within your thighs. It's sloppy. Unpracticed. But fuck, it feels so unbelievably good.

The way he groans against you is almost animalistic, like your taste shattered something in him and is currently rewiring his brain chemistry.

"Holy shit," he pants, pulling back just enough for air, his chin glistening with your slick. "You taste—fuck. Fuck you taste so good."

Before you can respond, he's back on you, devouring you like a starving man. He experiments with every flick and stroke of his tongue, eyes intently watching you—watching, listening, learning. He hones in on the spots that make your hips jerk or thighs clamp around his head.

Each moan you give him is answered by a deep, guttural sound from his throat, like he's getting off just from pleasing you. It's raw, unfiltered, and so undeniably desperate.

Then he pauses, breath warm and heavy against your skin. Slowly, carefully, he adjusts his position. His thumbs come up to gently pull back your hood, revealing the sensitive bundle of nerves underneath.

And then, ever so lightly, he starts to kitten-lick your clit.

He definitely learned that trick from the dozen of videos he watched for 'educational purposes'.

"Oh god, right there," you gasp, throwing your head back. "Right there. Just like that."

A high-pitched whine escapes him, almost as if he has been waiting his whole life to hear that he's doing a good job. His grip on your thighs tightens as he pulls you impossibly closer. He buries his face even deeper in your pussy, dragging slow and reverent strokes over your clit.

Wet clicking noises fill the air, mixing in with the grunts, pants, and your ragged cries.

You start to grind against his face, chasing that sweet, mounting pleasure in your abdomen. "A-ah—you're so good. Bob, you're doing so good."

He groans again, much louder this time. The vibration against your core makes your legs twitch.

His mouth is eager and deliciously sloppy, tongue flicking experimentally then circling with new precision when he hears your broken moans.

He's learning you inside and out—hungrily, obsessively. Every whimper and desperate cry to God you give him is fuel.

Then, his lips close around your clit and suck.

Your back arches. The sensation is pure electricity; it is magical yet almost painfully overwhelming.

"Fuck! Right there. Don't stop, don't stop."

He would rather die.

His fingers flex on the plush of your thighs to ground himself. This is the tightest he has ever held onto you. He's always worried about hurting you with his strength, opting for feather-light touches that never leave you feeling quite satisfied.

But now?

Now he's undeniably pussy-drunk, and the fear has vanished entirely.

"You're so pretty," he pants in between strokes, his words muffled against your cunt. "I want—to do this—forever. I'll—get better. Let me—make you come. Please."

You're already right there.

With your hips jerking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, and his name spilling out of your mouth like a prayer, you are coming undone. It's the worship in his voice, the way he presses adoring kisses to your clit between licks, and the primal desire he has to be good for you that sends you over the edge.

You wail, clutching his hair as your orgasm crashes over you. Your thighs clamp around him, your juices spilling out all over his lips and chin. He licks it up, greedy and reverent, not daring to waste a single drop.

But he doesn't stop.

Being as inexperienced as he is, he keeps going with the same eagerness and fervor. It helps you to ride out your high, but quickly leaves you feeling overstimulated. A part of you wanted to push through the pain and get lost in the pleasure again. However, that familiar sharp ache in your clit makes you flinch.

You squirm and push his head back. Only then does he finally pull away, eyes glazed over, like he just tasted heaven.

You're still catching your breath, thighs twitching as your body tries to recover from the storm he just dragged you through.

His voice cracks through the silence. Soft. Unsure. Raw.

"Did I do okay?" Bob asks, slowly rising.

You blink, trying to focus your vision on him once again. And fuck, he looks absolutely ruined.

His lips are pink and puffy. Your slick coats his chin and cheeks. His lashes are clumped with moisture, like he cried from overstimulation. Maybe he did.

Your chest aches again with that same devious desire to wreck him. The way he looks at you—like a sinner pleading for salvation—makes you feel like a goddess; divine and beautiful, with his animalistic devotion dripping from every glance.

You sit up on trembling elbows. "You did so good, baby. You were so perfect."

Relief washes over him. That same crooked little smile appears and his shoulders sag with solace.

"I wanna get better," he whispers, eyes flicking down to the damp spot on your bedsheets. "Wanna learn everything you like. Wanna be good for you every time."

That sends a pulse of heat straight through you. You reach out your arms in silent invitation.

He climbs up your body and you grab his jaw to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. You cradle his face as he hovers there. It is sticky and messy, but so painfully intimate.

"My good boy," you whisper against his lips, rubbing your thumbs just underneath his eyes where the tears escaped. "I adore you."

A blush spreads across his cheeks.

He gently lowers his full weight against you and shyly nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. You stroke his hair, over and over, slow and calming. Every pass of your hand helps him relax, to feel safe and appreciated.

"You okay?" you ask softly, careful not to disturb his peace.

Bob nods into your skin. "Never been better."

You press a kiss to the crown of his head. "You're trembling."

"Only a little," he admits, arms wrapping around your waist. "Just can't believe I did that."

You lay there for awhile in the quiet afterglow. His breathing eventually evens out but your fingers never stop moving; they stroke his back, lightly scratch at his neck and scalp, and trace soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

Eventually, his voice breaks through the stillness again. It is low and timid.

"When you're ready. . ." he begins.

You hum, eyes still closed. "Yeah?"

There's a pause. Then, you can feel a bashful grin growing against your neck.