if you love me, keep it to yourself

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

for a second, you say nothing. you just stare in that way you sometimes do, attention stuttering over his features. the shape of his mouth, the curl of his lashes, the freckle just above his left brow that you've claimed as your favorite.

"no," you admit softly. "i've never faked anything with you, andy."

"but you've still never finished, right?"

you shake your head in dismissal and set your drink on his nightstand. "it's not about just that, though. not with you."

his brows furrow, and he tries to understand but can't quite wrap his head around it. he wants to ask for clarification, but there's a part of him that fears the answer.

but you see it, even without a word spoken. you see him, the way you always do. the way you always have. "i just like being close to you," you explain. "you always make me feel...i dunno. special."

"you are special," he says. it's not meant as a compliment. rather just truth. but it makes you smile, and pope finds himself wanting to say it again.

he lifts his hand from where it sits at his side, not much more than a twitch, nearly reaching for you out of instinct. but then he puts it back down again, unsure of himself, unsure of...this.

the space between you feels precarious. a new layer of naked truth stripped bare. another curtain pulled back.

you notice, but you don't push.

andrew tries again, heart racing fast as he sets his palm on the inside of your knee. “we could…would you want to…to try?”

a smirk pulls at the corners of your pretty lips, glossy and strawberry flavored (andrew knew, because he paid for that lipgloss at the beauty store you dragged him to a month ago). “you wanna try and make me cum?”

he shrugs and strokes his thumb across the top of your thigh. “if you want. i mean, no pressure anything like that but…it just feels wrong. like, unfair or something.”

“you actually want to?” this time it is a laugh that escapes you. a pretty, heartwarming sound he’s adored for as long as he can remember. “like…here? now?”

craig and deran’s party thrums with life just outside pope’s bedroom door. you’d come here for a little bit of peace, some respite. only to make a confession that unsettled him more than the noise. “why not?”

“what if i, like…you know. can’t.”

a crease forms between andrew’s brows. “well you have before, right? like, by yourself?”

your smile grows. “uhm…yeah. yeah, i have. i mean i can, but what if i can’t today. like, here.”

“then we try again later,” he answers simply. and then quickly amends, “i mean if—if you want.”

for a moment, you sit in the quiet together. you’re considering, pope knows. weighing the offer. his thumb still rubs tiny circles into your thigh casually. it’s an intimate touch but not sexual in nature, not suggestive.

not until you nod and say, “okay, yeah. we can try.”

and then he moves his hand upwards, slowly snaking his fingers between your legs. he presses against your hip, pushing you onto your back, and feels the metallic button of your jeans.

pope nearly pops it open on instinct but forces himself to slow down. tells himself he needs to take his time with this.

so he slips his hand beneath your top instead, cracking a small smile when you squirm as his fingertips ghost over that ticklish spot just a few inches below your rib. he finds the swell of your breasts and massages gently over the fabric of your bra.

you lean forward just enough to pull your top up and over your head, discarding it on the floor at his feet.

andrew reaches around your side and unclasps your bra, albeit a little clumsily, before adding it to the growing pile of your clothes.

when you lay back down, he follows you. presses his soft lips against the corner of your mouth first, a quiet asking for permission.

you turn your head to kiss him fully, lips parting to let him inside. andrew has never really felt good at much, but kissing you, specifically—he feels confident in. he's had a fair bit of practice, and knows just how you like it. messy and a little frantic, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth.

you moan into his mouth and it feels like a victory. andrew bites harshly at your bottom lip, but he's quick to soothe the ache with his tongue.

he crawls further onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and moves his lips just a little lower. laying wet, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your pretty neck, over both of your collarbones, and sucks a blooming bruise at the side of your breast. easily covered, but still a tangible claiming. a mark of his possession.

he laves his tongue over each of your nipples, licking and sucking until your spine bends off the mattress. and then he moves even lower, littering kisses down your abdomen, breathing the scent of your soft skin deep into his lungs.

only now does he allow himself to unbutton your jeans, pulling the zipper down with his teeth. you're wearing a pretty, blue pair of panties beneath, and he presses a chaste kiss to your pubic bone over the fabric.

"god, andrew," you say, kicking your sneakers off at the end of the bed. "i love when you touch me."

he pulls away just a little, enough to turn his eyes up at you. you look so beautiful from this angle, he thinks. eyes glassy and pupils dilated, breathing unevenly. "m'gonna need you to talk to me. tell me what feels good and what doesn't," he explains. and then for good measure adds, "and don't lie to me. i'll know if you lie."

you give him the prettiest smile and then nod. "yeah…yeah, okay."

he doesn't waste any more time, hooking his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and underwear and tugging them down your legs.

pope is already hard as stone, but the moment you're bared to him everything changes. you're so beautiful, and all he wants is to make you feel good.

he presses a gentle kiss to your clit first, pushing your thighs apart to spread you open. then he drags his tongue through the seam of your cunt, tasting all the sticky wetness he's created, unable to quiet the groan that rumbles through his chest.

you let out a dreamy sigh and your head falls back as your hands come to tug at the roots of his hair.

pope takes his time; there's no hurried movement to be found. he lets his tongue grow familiar with every hill and valley of the shape of you, the stubble of his day-old facial hair catching on the inside of your thighs.

when he sucks your clit into his mouth—no teeth, just all tongue and lips and softness—you gasp for air and he can't help the pride that wells in him.

his fingers flex around your thigh, a silent urge.

and like the special girl you are, you quickly say, "good. feels…s-so good. that's perfect."

he takes it a notch higher, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerve endings.

this time it's not a gasp you give him but a sultry, real moan. so pope stays there, circling your clit with his tongue, spelling his name and yours and hoping it does something in the cosmos to seal the two of you permanently together.

the crease between your brows is telling. he squeezes again, a little harder this time, and pulls away only long enough to order, "talk to me."

"can you—" he seals his lips around your clit again, drool and slick coating his chin. "oh god. can you…your fingers, too. can you—?"

pope untangles his limb from around yours, finding your opening with practiced precision. he carefully slides his index finger inside you, humming in response when the intensity of your moaning grows.

he adds his middle finger in beside the first. you're already so wet that he encounters no resistance, pretty pussy taking him greedily. andrew curls them inside you, feeling and pressing against different spots, different angles, until—

"fuck—jesus christ, don't—oh my god don't move just stay right there, please."

he wants to praise you, to comment on how good you're being for him, how perfect.

but pope does exactly as you ask instead—he stays right where he's at, fingers moving inside you, tongue circling your pulsing clit. he can feel the silky walls of your cunt constricting around him, squeezing tight and pulling him in deeper.

you're trying. chasing it. but he knows it needs to happen organically. knows that if you try too hard, you'll get in your head about it and never fall over the edge like he wants.

the words vibrate against your clit when he speaks. "stop thinking."

you let out a dramatic groan. "but i don't know if i can," you whine. "i'm so—hm—i'm so close, but…"

pope pulls away completely now, because though spoken in frustration, your words are still direction. and he heeds it like a dog called to heel. "let's try something else, then."

he leans back on his knees and pulls his shirt up and over the back of his head. he flushes beneath your acute attention, eyes unashamed as they drink up his bare chest.

andrew unbuckles his belt and starts to shove them down his hips. "do you have a favorite…way? something that feels the best."

"oh, uhm…from—from the back, i guess?"

"you guess?"

"well, that's what feels good for me but it usually means…"

you hesitate, embarrassment shining bright in your eyes.

pope urges, "means what?"

"people don't typically…last very long when we—"

andrew playfully clicks his tongue, grips you around your thighs, and wrenches you down the mattress. he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and says, "don't worry, i'll last. now turn over."

he says it with confidence because this is a task for him. and a man like andrew cody? he's thorough.

but that confidence wavers when you arch your back, hands extended beneath the pillow in front of you. the slope of your body is mouth watering. graceful and feminine and yet still so sultry and sinful.

and when he pulls his cock out, lines himself up at your entrance, and pushes in real slow?

he starts to get it.

it's almost too much. too good. you're so tight and wet around him and with his hands on the decadent curve of your ass and the sight of you laid out before him?

yeah.

he understands.

it doesn't take him long to find a good rhythm, thrusting his hips forward and burning himself deep. he settles on his knees , finding an angle that elicits a moan he likes. "how's that, hm? there?"

you nod with your face pressed against the pillow. the next instruction is a single word and spoken in a quiet exhale. "harder."

pope obliges. adds a little more force behind his hips, grunting low to fight off the blinding pleasure that threatens to coil up his spine. you feel so good. "touch yourself," he orders.

with a little effort, you wiggle your hand beneath you to find your clit and pope groans when he feels you clench around him the moment you do.

he watches with panting breath and sweat beading on the back of his freckled neck as the muscles in your shoulders move, working yourself up, being the perfect girl for him. the sight of you a feast of grandeur that he devours.

"oh, fuck—that's good. that's so good, andy, i—" a soft sound escapes from between your lips, the sweetest, most carnal moan.

pope knows you're close. he knows because he can feel it, the warm, silken walls of your cunt pulsing around his cock. your fingers keep circling your clit, pushing you just a little further towards the precipice of release.

but then—

"i need—oh my god—i need to kiss you. i won't be able to finish unless i kiss you, please—"

it nearly breaks him, in truth. the sight of your pretty pussy swallowing down his cock like it was made to take him while begging for something as innocent as a kiss.

no one has ever wanted him like that before. not like you do.

and it makes him feel…changed, almost. like he's been on one path his whole life and here you stand in the center of it, changing his course.

pope groans, the sound guttural, his hips stilling. he leans forward, chest to your back, and presses his mouth right between your shoulder blades. the small affection is slow and measured and intimate. he counts each of your panting breaths as the oxygen enters and leaves your lungs.

"hey," pope whispers, easing himself out of you. "c'mere." he gently tugs you upwards, offering the strength of his hands as support when you lean back on shaking legs. "turn around for me."

pope leans back on his knees and turns you so your position mirrors his, face to face. he just stays there for a moment, looking at you, into your pretty eyes, finding himself grateful for this night and this stupid party and that stupid song they played that you hate.

the energy that passes between you is…profound. honest and intimate and aware.

"you're so beautiful," he says, and he doesn't even mean to. it just slips out. "come here. come sit on my lap."

with a slow nod you say, "yeah. okay." you shift forward, anchoring yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders.

he supports you with one big hand on the small of your back, and uses the other to hold his cock steady while you sink onto him.

your moans are in perfect unison; a heavy, desperate sigh. when you roll your hips, andrew shakes his head and says, "no. let me."

he thrusts upwards, hard. stretching you open on his length, forehead pressed to yours.

"oh my—fuck, andrew that's—"

"touch yourself," he orders again. "and don't stop until you cum."

white spots cloud his vision the moment you do, feeling you tense up, tightening around him. he presses his forehead to yours and his nose brushes your cheek. each of your breaths become shallower, more ragged, ghosting across his lips and tasting of peppermint and the remnants of your raspberry seltzer. "kiss me," you say again.

he does. kisses you hard, tongue finding yours and claiming your mouth. he thrusts his hips up into you, swallowing your moans and and groaning low.

the thought crosses his mind, for just a second—that he might disappoint. because andrew cody realizes very suddenly that he might be in love with you, might have been in love with you for some time. and having you this close is enough to have his heart beating fast and his cock throbbing inside of you. he's not going to last.

he's not.

and then—

"don't stop," you whimper against his lips. "don't stop, don't stop, i'm gonna—oh god. god, fuck i'm gonna cum—"

"there you go. give it to me," andrew urges.

your nails dig hard into his shoulders. "cum with me. please, andrew—please, please—"

that white-hot coil around his spine snaps. you beg so prettily he can't hold it back, spilling his release deep inside you, sticky webs of cum right up against your cervix. he kisses you again, squeezing you tight against his chest. "you're so perfect," he whispers. "my perfect girl. did so good."

his cock quickly grows sensitive. but he doesn't stop moving below you until your muscles go slack and you collapse in his arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

you hum, the sound vibrating against his skin, lips wet with his saliva and yours. and then, so gentle and so quiet, you say, "thank you."

pope strokes his fingers over your spine, tracing each one of your vertebrae. he sets you down against the mattress, over the top of his wrinkled but still perfectly made comforter. he lays beside you, observing for a few moments. eventually, he admits, "i don't want you to see anyone else."

a smirk forms. "yeah? that right?"

"yeah." andrew's hand finds yours, fingers closing around your knuckles. "i figured…y'know. since we're making confessions tonight."

you laugh, the sound light and airy. but then silence settles and it feels…heavy. real. "okay," you say.

a crease forms between his brows. "okay?"

"i won't see anyone else."

carefully, almost experimentally, andrew leans forward. his mouth finds yours, lips moving like it's his first time kissing a woman.

he feels you smile and a moment later you ask, "does this make me your girl?"

and he thinks yeah. of course it does. you've been his girl far longer than he'd realized.

"yeah." andrew nods. "my special girl."

thank you for reading, i love you!!!

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.