perfume, cognac, lilac fumes

That's what made her different than all the other girls he fucked. (Because technically, she wasn't a girl that he'd fucked. Yet.)

"You do? I always think about you. All the time, not just when I'm studying history."

As if this were some sort of competition on who thought about the other more, who missed the other more. Jack wasn't trying to one-up her or anything, but he was trying to get into her pants. Maybe tonight would finally be the night?

Phoebe seemed to really love the tidbit about the squirrels. She perked up immediately in a way that Jack found absolutely fucking adorable. It was going to ruin him. She grabbed his arm, gushing over the squirrels that Jack had only seen once.

"Squirrel Jack was definitely doing crazy shit. And Squirrel Phoebe was totally fluffing her tail, you're right, I think I saw that."

Jack grinned, searched for her eyes.

"That's why you need to tell me when you're at the library. So I can go see you, and so we can see our squirrel counterparts together."

Jack's hand was still resting at her lower back, rubbing gently above her denim skirt. She was so fucking hot. And sweet, and her smile was really nice, and whenever Phoebe took a hand to the back of her curls, Jack wanted to die because she was so fucking cute.

He couldn't help it — Jack leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. He leaned into her completely for a quick five second kiss, before pulling away. He hadn't said hi yet, had he? He had now.

Thud, thud, thud, fast and hard and frantic, is the pace of Phoebe's heart against her breastbone. Wide, captivated, enraptured is the look in her eyes.

How did this even happen?

How did Phoebe attend the mixer, by luck, meet Jack, by luck, and somehow everything is unfolding as if she'd dictated herself it in a fucking dream journal?

It was all so perfect. The margarita on her tongue— cold and sweet and tart. Jack's smile— boyish and charming and aimed only at Phoebe.

What a gentleman. Phoebe ducks her head, quietly imagines Jack thinking of her at night, in the dark of his room. Had he dreamt of her yet?

Things were progressing well. Was it so crazy to think Jack might want to make it official, at some point? Maybe soon? Ish? Maybe tonight he would dream of Squirrel-Jack and Squirrel-Phoebe scampering across the lawn together.

'That's why you need to tell me when you're at the library. So I can go see you, and so we can see our squirrel counterparts together.'

Immediately she's nodding.

"I will! I'll text you each time!" She nods again, as if to put an emphasis for Jack on just how seriously she meant this. "And I'll help you study. And when we need a break, or something, we can try to win the squirrel's trust, or something." Well— realistically, they wouldn't be doing much studying. But that was fine! She smiles proudly regardless. "There was a turtle at my old school that would always come when I tapped the water."

In all truth— it was a captive animal, at a man-made pond behind the gymnasium. But Phoebe likes to think the animal recognized her, especially when she had been given the coveted assignment of feeding it each day. She had chucked those pellets in with such gusto!

But the turtle wasn't even the point. The point was the squirrels. The point was Jack thinking of her. The point was that leaning in to kiss her now and Phoebe smiles so wide against the touch.

'I don't think you can be a bunny and a squirrel, though. What are we gonna do?'

She frowns— takes this moment to lean in against him, chest pressing against his, one arm curling tighter round the muscle of his bicep. That felt good. Felt like she was cuddling up against a boyfriend.

"I'm definitely a bunny, right? I'll be whatever you tell me I am. But I do think I'm a bunny..."

"Let me think about it," he finally said. "I'll let you know by the end of the night if you've got the job."

It was very easy to be stupid with Phoebe. Silly. And fun. And flirty. He liked it, or maybe he only thought so because he was drunk. Phoebe sipped on the margarita mix — she liked it. That was good.

Phoebe inched toward him, and Jack placed a hand at the small of her back, pulling her in even closer. He'd missed her, right? And Jack was being so classically Jack in that moment. Phoebe didn't know any better. Everyone else definitely did, and if Jack were sober and had a conscious, he would've felt bad that Phoebe was so left out. Even if the truth hurt.

This is what Jack did with women — he got them drinks, pulled them close, flirted, made out on the counters, snuck away to a spare closet.

Poor Phoebe.

"I remind you of John Laurens?" Jack wondered, brow raised. He paused, unsure of what to think. "Kidding. That's sweet, babe. I wish you would've texted me. I was by the library today at like 1:30. Maybe I coulda seen you."

Another sip of his beer. What could Jack offer Phoebe that was just as sweet as what she'd admitted? A lie, maybe. Or a half-truth.

"I saw these two squirrels on the lawn," which was true. "And I thought — that's me and Phoebe. And Phoebe is obviously the smaller squirrel."

He hadn't thought that.

That was fine! Phoebe likes a challenge, likes having to prove herself in a situation. One night, a couple of hours, and that position would be hers, no doubt! Phoebe could be a good girl again. She could be a good girl whenever Jack needed.

She grins to herself when Jack presses a hand to her back and hauls her close.

'I remind you of John Laurens?'

The cocking of his brow is a distinct problem— it makes Phoebe's grip on the margarita tighten. It's so boyish and charming and handsome and it disarms her just as easily as the joke about the shakedown had. Her fingertips are probably turning red from the pressure, and from the cold of the glass. No wonder she couldn't stop seeking Jack out.

'Kidding. That's sweet, babe. I wish you would've texted me. I was by the library today at like 1:30. Maybe I coulda seen you.'

Oh, add it to the list. Bunny, baby. Babe! Another little word that slices through her as cleanly as an arrow— cupid's arrow, if she's being honest. A little noise escapes her, whiny, regretful, sad that she had missed out on seeing him.

"I bet you could have given me such good historical context about everything too. I always think about you when I study history..."

Which— yeah. Jack seemed to know everything about everything regarding the American Revolution, but that wasn't even the point at all! The point was they could have been together. Phoebe could have been perched in his lap in some library chair. She could have kissed on him gently, smelled his cologne, eventually barricaded a door in the bathroom so they could get even closer.

But the other part was equally true as well. She did think of Jack— constantly. Every chapter read. Every historical document examined. At every 18th century china plate, at every paragraph deconstructing the Jay Treaty, Phoebe found herself thinking of Jack.

That happens often.

Which makes it all the more thrilling for Phoebe to learn she was on Jack's mind as well.

'I saw these two squirrels on the lawn,'

Phoebe perks up.

"And I thought — that's me and Phoebe. And Phoebe is obviously the smaller squirrel.'

Oh. My. God. That was totally them. Phoebe was totally the smaller squirrel!

"Jack," she gushes, grabbing at his arm. "That is sooooooooooo cute. That's so us. I wish I could have seen them! I bet Squirrel Jack was probably... doing crazy tricks on the branches, and stuff."

She takes a hand— flips it airily behind her curls.

"Yeah. I know. I like it," Jack said. "Bet it makes your ass look great."

Yeah— what happened to the very chivalrous gentleman that Phoebe had met only a few weeks ago? He was gone, or incognito for the evening, suppressed by all the liquor flowing through his bloodstream.

Phoebe was offering to guard his back, which Jack appreciated.

"That's so sweet, bunny. But you're too short to watch my back. It would be very ineffective."

The teasing had begun. He smiled at her, tilting his chin in the direction of the kitchen, where all of the drinks were stored.

He poured Phoebe some of the margarita blend someone had made earlier. Brooks, maybe. It was nice and sweet and probably exactly the sort of thing Phoebe liked to drink at parties.

"Try that," he said, handing her the cup.

Jack decided on a beer for himself. He was already pretty drunk — not blackout drunk, or anything, but he wanted to keep it going. He plucked a bottle from the very bottom of the cooler. His hand was ice cold, dripping wet, and he didn't care. He twisted the top off and took a sip, letting the cold water drip down his arm, onto his shirt. Whoops.

"We'll take some shots later, if you're down."

Jack leaned against the counter.

"I missed you a lot today."

'Yeah. I know. I like it,'

Oh.

'Bet it makes your ass look great.'

Oh!

Phoebe giggles then, incredulous, seconds away from twisting around to look at her rear as if to check. Did it look good? Well— that was the hope. But she can't believe Jack said that! Wow! Her face is warm, and Phoebe decides to chalk it up to the alcohol. There was scattered bottles, on every surface open containers, and Jack had probably just indulged in a few drinks too quickly. It was fine! She likes the compliment anyway, it makes her chest feel all warm and her nerves all tingling.

Besides— how can Phoebe not swoon when he uses the nickname?

'That's so sweet, bunny. But you're too short to watch my back. It would be very ineffective.'

She makes a show of acting affronted.

"Jackkkk. No. I would be, like— super good at protection! I'm really good at looking at you, so I can't believe you would say that."

See! Phoebe can flirt too. Phoebe can emphasize how she is also checking Jack out. Quite readily, too. She follows Jack into the kitchen, accepting a cup of something cold and blended and colorful.

Margarita— it tastes nice upon her tongue, tart and sweet and tropical. Had Jack remembered she liked that kind of stuff?

"Thank you,"

Phoebe nearly drops the glass watching water dribble down onto his shirt. Oh, Christ. She needs to focus. Jack is talking about shots— talking about missing her!

That sends Phoebe into a fit of giggles. She would do shots with Jack. She would do anything that let her stay close to his side.

"Really?" she asks, scooting a few inches closer to where Jack stands. Now that was delicious. Every fucking week, every fucking day and hour Phoebe had felt the same— leaning upon her palm in math, remembering his smile, stirring the cloudy liquid of her macchiato and wondering what he was up to at this very moment. It feels good, exhilarating, even, to know Jack had thought of her as well.

"I missed you too. I had to, uh— pull up this old newspaper clipping in the library, like a scan of it— from the Pennsylvania Gazette, or whatever, and it was about John Laurens."

"Obviously I thought of you."

Classes were in full swing. Jack's schedule was packed, between track and baseball, but he'd make all of the time in the world for Phoebe. And partying.

"You look so good. Wore this skirt for me?" He asked rather boldly, pressing a hand on the outside of her thigh to feel the denim. Yeah. Jack got handsy whenever he was drunk. Did Phoebe remember all the shit he talked about the people making out the first night she came over? Jack was one of those.

"No, God. Worse. So much worse, actually. I owe the phone money, and I'm trying to get out of paying it back. Reverse shake-down."

"Let me get you a drink. Because we're drinking tonight. A lot."

Oh, Christ. And there's the press of Jack's hand on her leg as well. Phoebe giggles, transparent in her response, looks down at how big and wide his hand looks against her.

"....Umm, maybe. Possibly, yeah. Probably." A beat— Phoebe can barely stand firm in her half-denials. "Okay, yeah, yes the skirt was definitely for you."

She didn't mind the hand on her leg; it was pretty mild, as far as touches go, and a significant part of Phoebe liked that others could see it. It felt... possessive, right? A clear sign to all the other guys in the house. They weren't official, or anything, not technically exclusive, but Phoebe wants to radiate an air of inaccessibility to everyone else but him. Him, only ever and always him.

Though, it seems like there may be more pressing things to worry about at the moment— Jack was in hot water!

'No, God. Worse. So much worse, actually. I owe the phone money, and I'm trying to get out of paying it back. Reverse shake-down.'

Her shoulders shake. She's perilously close to giggle-snorting right now. Fuck! Why was he so funny? And why was he so hot, breathless when he'd been caught in the middle of rough-housing, walking over the couch with a careless, effortless sort of disregard?

Ugh. Not like her. She'd spent two fucking hours getting ready, agonizing over every little thing, every little detail. Jack was just naturally perfect! Phoebe folds one hand into the other, arms coming together in a way that makes her chest push out a little more— just the slightest bit of emphasis on her tits.

"Oh. That sounds very Sopranos."

Her lip pouts as if in sympathy of his situation.

"Maybe ... I should guard your back while you get us drinks."

"No, no, no!" Jack said in a sing-songy voice. "If Emily sent you nudes, I think we are all entitled to see," Jack announced, holding the iPhone up even higher. "Conrad. Con-man. What is your brother's passcode?"

"He changed it after last time," the younger twin responded, barely holding it together. His face was red with laughter. Everyone was howling. And Brooks was mortified. "But Jack's right, Brooks. Emily's tits are massive. And you're my brother. We share everything," Conrad reminded him.

Brooks shook his head, exasperated. "I'm not giving you my passcode. Emily and I are going out again, and she will definitely fucking kill me if I show you guys."

Jack shrugged, then, and in a very bratty way, and leaned down to hold Brooks' phone over a red solo cup filled to the brim with beer.

"Then why did you tell us about the nudes in the first place?"

Jack clapped rather loudly, gathering everyone's attention.

"Threeeeee..." Jack began, grinning.

"Twoooooo..."

And then the front door opened.

Phoebe appeared.

Jack let go of the phone immediately, on accident, after seeing Phoebe, like a kid who'd just been caught redhanded doing something horrible. Brooks, thankfully, had excellent reflexes and rescued the phone before it fell into the cup.

"Hey," Jack said, slightly out of breath, climbing down from the table to greet Phoebe. And instead of walking around the couch, he climbed over that, too, until he towered over her, slightly breathless.

"You made it."

Her shirt is tight too. Babydoll, again, and her Sambas are blue, petal-soft in shade, and the makeup on her face has been applied with a light hand. She's hanging out with Jack at a frathouse— she needs to look cute! She needs to look good! She needs to make sure Jack never once regrets bringing her into her space, and that he'll keep inviting her, keep bestowing upon her those special Jack grins.

God. The idea of one of those had kept her up and awake in anticipation last night. Phoebe steps through the door of the frat house with a tiny smile, eyebrows raising when she sees the state Jack is in— in the midst of frat hijinks? It's cute, whatever it is. It's even cuter somehow when Jack marches up and over the back of the couch without even blinking.

That was very athletic, in all honesty. And very hot, in all honesty.

God, Jack was tall. Tall enough that it made her lungs want to collapse and her knees buckle and her body sag against him all helpless and close and fawning.

'You made it.'

Phoebe grins. She would have skipped her own birth and her own funeral to get here.

"Of course I did."

She giggles. Tries not to bounce in place in excitement.

Did he ask Phoebe to go? Gently? Make up some bullshit about an early morning practice, or not feeling well, suddenly, or ...

Fuck. It would've been too shitty if Jack did that, too despicable. She didn't deserve that. And Jack didn't want her to go— deep down, he wanted her to stay, even if he wasn't willing to admit these sort of things to himself. How fucking complicated was this?

Phoebe was rambling a little. It was cute instead of annoying, and that's how he really knew that he was fucked.

She was cold.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I keep it really cold in here. Helps me sleep better."

Jack let the words hang in the air for longer than necessary, and then he awkwardly turned toward her to fill in the silence with some more bullshit.

"Probably because you're sweating a little. And the air is cold."

Yeah, fucking obviously, Jack. He shook his head, as if that would help him shimmy away his nervous fucking disposition. This time, it wasn't on purpose. He wasn't pretending to be a bumbling idiot. This time, he really was one.

"Here. Uh, do you want to get under the covers?"

Jack moved his pillow, gently yanked the comforter down so she could slide in if she wanted to. Jack was wired but also exhausted. Deeply relaxed, all the way down to his bones. He could worry about all of this tomorrow, couldn't he? The implications of all of this? Letting Phoebe stay over? Letting her kiss him tenderly when he was on the brink of an orgasm?

Had she noticed the shift? Jack hoped not. He reached over and turned off the lamp by his bed, too. Somehow, it was easier to face Phoebe in the darkness. Maybe she wouldn't be able to read the vulnerability plastered across his face if it was pitch black.

But it wouldn't be for very long.

Jack reached for the remote.

Phoebe only smiles gently, twisting towards Jack on the bed with a barely-constrained eagerness.

"It is better that way, right? Like— way comfier."

The cold was comfier, but it was also better for cuddling too. When the air was crisp, on the other side of cool, it was probably nicer to snuggle up to someone than when it's warm, right? Exchanging body heat, and all that. Was Jack good to snuggle with? He looks that way, but Phoebe doesn't know from experience, and she doesn't want to be too pushy, or drape herself all over Jack and squeeze him and nestle into his arms and generally be a big ol' clinging nuisance unless it was something he wanted as well.

Fuck. She really did like him so bad. She really did want this again— she'd do anything for it.

Phoebe nods along when Jack supplies the very reasonable explanation for her chills. Sweat. Sweat, yeah, makes sense. They'd been doing a lot of sweat-inducing activities.

But then it's like God himself offers her this next moment.

'Here. Uh, do you want to get under the covers?'

It's all Phoebe can do not to sit up and vibrate with excitement when Jack peels back the comforter. It's all Phoebe can do not to squeak with fucking excitement when he adjusts himself against the pillow, the mattress, the headboard, extending his arm and creates a little section all for her— practically offering his shoulder.

Phoebe bites her lip, nodding, face-warm again and pleased as she begins to work her way beneath the comforter, inching and scooting her way over to Jack. They could watch something, even. He was tired.

"Thank you," she manages, easing herself down into horizontal. Oh, fuck. She didn't want to come on too strong— didn't want to cling to Jack like a barnacle and scare him off with her closeness. But he'd offered, right, his shoulder, and Phoebe is too pleased and too exhausted and too blissed to worry about this too much. So Phoebe is reasonable. She slots herself alongside him. Rests her head on his shoulder, softly, curls fanning about her as she does.

A beat. Oh, it felt so fucking good she could cry. It felt right!

She hopes Jack likes her next to him— she hopes she feels soft and warm and comfortable, she hopes that he's happy he invited her into his bed. Drifting off with something on the t.v. sounded nice.

"We could definitely watch something. I think it's kind of hitting me n–"

And then, embarrassingly, Phoebe is unable to finish her sentence. In the midst of explaining her sudden exhaustion to Jack, a head-splitting yawn overtakes her, sudden and unbidden.

Phoebe smiles in embarrassment. Oh, gosh. Can she keep it together? Jack just made her come— like really hard. She wanted to look pretty and cool! Can she at least try to maintain a little composure tucked up against him?

Post nut clarity was real. Hah.

"So— that was good, right? I made you feel good?"

Phoebe, though, was looking shy, smiley, asking Jack what he thought, and Jack returned her smile. What really threw him off, though, was when she licked some of the come off of her hand. His mouth flew open, and it stayed that way for a few seconds.

"That's so fucking hot," he finally said, feeling a faint ache at his cock. God, not again. Too soon, too soon. He was so sensitive still. "And yes, Phoebe. That was fucking incredible. I came so hard. As you can see."

He smiled a little wickedly.

"That was really good. And what you just did was really hot. Maybe we can work on that next. Using our mouths?" He suggested, very casually, before he stood from the bed.

"I'm gonna get you something else to wear."

Jack kissed her forehead before he stood. He told himself he'd only done that to keep up appearances. Because he wanted to fuck her, at the end of the day, and the only way to do that was by earning even more of her trust.

But, fuck, what did he do? What was that? All of the tender moments between the two came rushing into view, and it made Jack want to lock himself in the fucking bathroom.

Her clothes were still soaking in the bathroom. He used the other empty sink to dampen a cloth. He wiped the come away from his stomach, staring at himself in the mirror. His hair was crazy. There was sweat all over him— gliding down his neck, his chest, his forehead. His face was red. He was still breathing pretty heavily. He used a clean towel to wipe at his forehead, neck, chest.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what was he going to do?

He brought out some towels for Phoebe— one of them dampened, and Jack didn't know why, but he helped her clean up. He swiped at her pretty little hands, small in comparison to his, very tenderly. He placed the other towel on the bed for her use, and tossed the dirty clothes and towels into the laundry basket. (Overflowing, of course. Jack fucking hated laundry.)

Finally, Jack walked back to his closet. He slipped into a fresh pair of briefs. He wanted to shower, honestly, but he felt like it was a dickish move— leaving Phoebe on his bed, or kicking her out... but that had never stopped him before.

Fuck. What did he do, what did he do, what did he do?

Alright, game plan. Offer Phoebe some fresh clothes, sit with her for 5-10 minutes, then Uber her home? Walk her home? Or watch a movie until they fell asleep? Or did he let her stay? Fuck.

"I can wash all of your clothes," Jack offered. An excuse to see her again. "And for now, you can wear these," he said, walking over a fresh pair of sweats, a fresh T-shirt, and even some of his boxer briefs, considering her underwear were damp and on the floor.

Had he done too much? Created too much space between them? Jesus Christ, Jack was a fucking amateur at things like this. He sat on the edge of the bed.

That's enough to make Phoebe's legs press together. Hard.

Apparently, licking the come from her hands wasn't an issue with Jack— quite the opposite, in fact. That was great. Good to know, actually, super good. Now the tautness below her navel has returned, now she's all warm and tingly again.

Phoebe smiles shyly at Jack when she notices his mouth had actually opened in incredulity at the act.

'And yes, Phoebe. That was fucking incredible. I came so hard. As you can see.'

Another giggle.

"I did see that."

But Phoebe had just wanted to check, wanted to hear from Jack himself that she had been able to make it as good for him as it had for her. The wicked smile he gives next sparks something wild inside Phoebe, sparks no small amount of curiosity as well.

'That was really good. And what you just did was really hot. Maybe we can work on that next. Using our mouths?'

Jack stood then, and Phoebe nods. Owlishly, probably, cheeks warm at all the things that could happen with their mouths, imagination running wild as she pictures it. Well. She could put her mouth on his cock, for starters. That sounded hot. She'd never given a blow job before— obviously— but something told Phoebe that Jack wouldn't have minded the opportunity to teach her.

And that was to say nothing about Jack putting his own mouth on her! Down there! Between her legs! Christ!

Phoebe clenches the muscles of her thighs together again with a whine.

"Yeah," she breathes. "Um– yeah. I wanna tray tha— we could definitely use our mouths."

Another long swallow. Phoebe's mind would probably start wandering into the specifics of them and their mouths and where they could put their mouths if it weren't for what happens next— Jack, standing beside the bed, pressing a soft kiss to Phoebe's forehead.

Oh. That makes something flip around inside her. Was it selfish that Phoebe wants to ask him to lay down now? Phoebe wants to delay clean up just for the chance to cuddle up to him, skin to skin, flushed and warm, feel the press of his lips against her forehead for a few more precious seconds.

It makes her feel really good.

It makes Phoebe feel special. Like she wasn't just some girl, but someone worth bringing around again. Was she a girl worth bringing around again?

Jack is still being so considerate— he's being caring, getting her something else to wear, helping the pair of them get tidied! Phoebe can't complain about that.

It's just that her silly little heart is feeling so cuddly. Attaching herself to him so fast, with an intensity and swiftness that has even her startled.

Jack disappears into the bathroom, and Phoebe takes it as an opportunity to attempt to compose herself— swiping a knuckle beneath her eyes, for wayward mascara, attempting to toss her mass of curls away from the damp skin of her neck. Did that even help? There's a possibility that she still looks a mess. But when Jack returns, she smiles just as bright, heart flipping around in her chest when Jack moves to wipe her hands clean. He was cleaning the come off her hands!

Phoebe blushes bright scarlet.

"—Thank you," she says, voice pitching into a bashful squeak. There was something tender in the motion, and Phoebe has to swallow hard when she reaches for the other towel, wiping herself down while Jack goes over to his closet.

God, she was wet. She'd really made a mess of herself. What was she supposed to do now? A sudden pulse of uncertainty shot through her— this was all fucking new to her! In all the books and all the movies, the girls stayed over after sex. Well. It happened that way with the good relationships. But this wasn't a movie, and they hadn't technically slept together in the first place. Phoebe, miring in her uncertainty, decides she won't leave unless Jack asks her— or unless he implies it in some way, drops some obvious and unmistakable hints.

Was that okay? It was late now. There was a drunken mass of people downstairs. But truly, more than anything, Phoebe... just wants to be near Jack. Maybe he wanted to be around her too! Maybe the forehead kiss was a sign. Or maybe all his running around was? Did he want her to linger, or did he want space? It felt— difficult to tell. So far he's been a perfect gentleman.

She smiles gratefully when Jack supplies her with a fresh set of clothes, tugging his boxer briefs up over his hips, shedding one soft shirt for the others. He'd even offered to wash her clothes, courtesy laundry service after her things had gotten quite soaked, ever the gentleman.

"Thank you," she repeats, chomping hard on the inside of her cheek. There's goosebumps working their way up her arm. "And— um. Thank you for the clothes. I'm actually kind of cold now." She sticks a leg up, tugs the soft grey sweatpants up and over her foot, quickly tugs it up and over the other.

"Which is— surprising, right, that I'm cold? That doesn't make any sense. You wouldn't think I would be freezing after how—" A beat. Phoebe realizes she's babbling— words running together in an excited stream as she looks over at Jack seated over the bed. Oops. She smiles, bashful and apologetic, shoots him a sweet look in apology. Phoebe sits up— tucks her legs up to her chest. "— after you got me so hot."

Jack's insides were on fire.

His heart was a roaring, blazing fire, the kind that burned for thousands of years.

She was stroking him so fucking good, harder, faster, using her brushing over the head of his cock, all while she rolled her palm against his balls.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. She was so perfect. And she looked so pretty like this, ducking down to kiss him. She let Jack know that he could have anything he needed— offering every part of her, it was all his anyway, apparently, and he'd never heard that before, never felt it so soon, never felt it during — 

Jack's vision went black for half a second as he forced his eyes shut, squeezing hard, and he could hear himself — something between a moan, a groan, as he emptied himself. His body tightened, abs rigid as he felt the best fucking orgasm he'd ever had in his life roll through him. It was nearly violent in the best possible way. He gripped at the mattress, feeling the fitted sheet snap off the end of the bed. He didn't care.

"Ooohhh, fuck," was all that Jack could say, sweating, panting, thrusting into her palm, come spilling onto the bed, his stomach, her hand. Jack was red faced, flushed, a little ashamed that he hadn't even been able to respond to her.

His ears were buzzing. He felt so hot all over, so sensitive and yet, he was still thrusting into her fist, riding out the last few waves of pleasure. When he finally stopped, his cock twitched one last time.

"Fuck, Phoebe, I thought —"

Jack swallowed, unable to think or speak or even breathe. He stayed silent for a few moments, a little stunned at his own release. Did he apologize? Promise her that he'd last much longer when he was actually inside of her? His breathing was short, ragged, rough. Even seconds later, it felt like he was still coming. Jesus fucking Christ.

"That was so good," he said, deciding to leave it there, not wanting to embarrass himself further. "You did so good, baby."

Jack sat up slightly, propping himself up on an elbow.

"God, Phoebe," he said, leaning forward. He kissed her again. A quick peck, suddenly more aware of what had just happened between them. It was... intense and hot and ... very intimate. And Jack felt like running away from it.

It's the hottest thing in the world.

It's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Eyes shutting, body tensing, every muscle flex, and then—

Phoebe blinks hard, sucking in a breath when she feels Jack spill over and finish on her hand.

'Ooohhh, fuck,'

Another first for Phoebe— watching guy come. Seeing come on her hand. Her cheeks are blazing, entire body hot when she watches Jack thrust into her hand for the remainder of his orgasm.

Hmm.

That's hot. That's really fucking hot, actually, Phoebe feels almost shy for how hot she finds the whole thing, how enraptured she is with the process of it all.

'Fuck, Phoebe, I thought —'

Oh, God. Did Jack know how hot he looks right now? Breath ragged, hair wild, chest heaving? Phoebe is entranced, obsessed, she can't stop staring and smiling all dazed and dopey like an idiot.

She just hopes she did good. She just hopes that Jack feels good now, feels perfect, she hopes Jack can tell just how badly she wants to make him happy.

'That was so good,'

Happiness— pure and instant, flooding every inch of her with a pleased sort of bliss.

'You did so good, baby.'

She did good! She did good! Smiling, fucking beaming, Phoebe releases his cock, pulls both hands away— only to place her right hand below his navel, briefly, fingertips rubbing against the wiry hair with gentle affection as he props himself up on an elbow.

And then he kisses her. A quick little peck. Phoebe's entire body is buzzing, tingling, alight with satisfaction and happiness and some other emotion Phoebe cannot quite label, cannot stick a pin into and identify.

But it feels good.

It feels really good, and it only feels that way when she's next to Jack.

'Let me, um. Get you something. To clean up.'

Phoebe slowly pulls her hand away, places it delicately on her lap— she doesn't want to get in the way of that! Clean-up! But in truth, Phoebe is feeling very affectionate. Very giggly, very happy, very connected to Jack in a way that she can't control. She wants to cuddle him, wants to stare at him all night like a fucking idiot.

"Thank you," she giggles preemptively, suddenly feeling very shy. She did need to clean up— she was probably a mess, between her legs, her forehead shone with sweat and her hand still glistened with. Well. Jack.

She looks at him. Bites her bottom lip hard.

"So— that was good, right? I made you feel good?"

Phoebe isn't sure what comes over her now, but something does— curiosity, a desire to be closer to Jack, something— but whatever it is, it has Phoebe raising her right hand, delicately licking a bead of come from her palm with a curious lap.

Hmm. She likes it, she decides—Jack tastes good. And then she blushes, furiously, red and bashful, wondering if she'd just weirded Jack out, or perhaps embarrassed herself in some way. Did you do that? Was that normal of her to do? Phoebe isn't sure, only knows that she had wanted to do it very badly, wants to taste all of him. She wants all of Jack, frankly.

She smiles. Tries to rush past her embarrassment. Her body is still tingling from the aftershocks of her orgasm, still half-floating, everything all syrupy and slow.

"I'm gonna be the first one to fuck you, too," Jack blurted out, face hot, chest heaving. They'd established that earlier, hadn't they? When Jack told her that he needed to get her ready for his cock. But he was saying it out loud now, directly to her. He was going to fuck her.

He squeezed her breasts again, a little harder this time, but found it hard to pay attention to anything other than Phoebe's perfect fucking hand on his cock. Twisting and pumping him, better than he'd ever had before. He thought back to all the shitty handjobs he'd ever gotten. They were nothing, nothing, compared to this.

Jack held her wrist in place for a second, thrusting his hips up and off the bed, fucking her hand just because it felt good — because his body was restless, and he was vibrating with all of this energy. So much desire, all for Phoebe. It'd never been like this before— would never be this way with anyone else.

Everything he felt, all of the energy, had nowhere to go but her fist.

Jack felt the sweat accumulating at his forehead. He was close, so close, he didn't want to finish. Not yet. Please, not yet. Think of something else, Jack, anything! He began thinking of his hatred for Harvard, shitty fucking school, his subpar performance at last week's baseball practice, the time someone dented the driver's side door to his brand new truck.

But he also wanted to come — so fucking bad.

Nothing was working.

"Phoebe," he said, swallowing. "I'm — you're doing so fucking good, baby, bunny. I'm. I'm not going to... I can't last very long right now, I —"

Jack was trying to find the explanation, to offer the reassurance that whenever he fucked her, he'd last as long as he needed to.

...But would he, realistically? Would he last more than five seconds when he fucked her if he was already struggling with just her hand?

He was practically writhing around on the sheets, unable to stop the few thrusts he pumped into her hand. He couldn't finish his thoughts, couldn't even gather them. What was he thinking about?

Phoebe. Phoebe's hands on his cock. Phoebe crying because he made her come so good. Phoebe's tits. Phoebe's moans. Phoebe.

"Your other hand," Jack said, grasping for it. He searched for Phoebe's eyes, lowering her hand down across his abdomen, past his cock, down to his balls. He pressed her hand there— a delicate, soft spot that Jack didn't normally let any girls near. But he liked it. Liked it even more because it was Phoebe.

His eyes rolled shut again. Fuck.

And— well. Phoebe knew that somehow already. They'd as good as said it tonight, Phoebe could just fucking sense the truth of it in her gut. But Jack saying it aloud? Blurting it, acknowledging it, making it feel even more real between? Making it tremble in the air with words?

It makes something else burn below Phoebe's navel.

Anticipation.

"Yeah," is all she can pant at first.

And then she swallows, nodding eagerly at him, wide-eyed and flushing as her hand goes up and down along his length, palm fisted tight.

"It has to be you. You're gonna be the first guy to have me, Jack."

Who the hell else would it be? Phoebe finds it revolting, at this point, the idea of any guy other than Jack putting himself inside her— it just had to be him! Her mind knows it. Her body knows it.

Her heart knows it most of all.

Phoebe watches his face with an enraptured sort of awe as he gets closer to the edge— mouth suddenly widening in surprise when Jack's hand closes around her fist, holding her in place as he bucks upwards.

Fuck. Okay.

That was hot. It was really hot, actually, Jack holding her hand still so he could essentially fuck her palm. Heat rises to her cheeks— pools again in her belly.

He rasps her name. That too is really fucking hot, so many hot things happening right now Phoebe can barely fucking stand it.

'I'm — you're doing so fucking good, baby, bunny. I'm. I'm not going to... I can't last very long right now, I —'

Pride rises inside Phoebe like a balloon. Ohhhh... Jack was close. Jack was feeling good, good enough to orgasm soon, and it was because of the way she was making him feel. Her! Phoebe, and her hand, and the tits he was squeezing, the way she's squeezing his cock and ducking down to kiss him softly.

Phoebe could stare at him like this forever— all worked up. Close to the edge, needing this from her, of all people, inexperienced Phoebe. His gaze burned, his breath deepened, his muscles flexed. It was all so beautiful of him, so captivating, and Phoebe knows she's probably staring wide-eyed like a weirdo.

But there's more important things now, because Jack fucking needs her. Phoebe has to be good. Phoebe has to be here for him. He needs her other hand— which Phoebe gives, readily, watching curiously when Jack brings down over his navel and cock and— oh. There. Phoebe and certainly never touched a guy there.

'I'm close. Keep going,'

It felt different than his cock— less firm, maybe requiring a gentler touch? Phoebe doesn't know, but Jack needs her, and she's close, so she needs to fucking do this right. She wants to be so, so, good for him.

"Jack," she entreats gently, following instinct, pressing her forehead down against him.

"Jack," she repeats sweetly. "I wanna be there for you when you finish. I want you to feel so good."

So she strokes him, harder. She strokes him, faster. She lets her finger glide over the tip of his cock, rubbing at it a little with her thumb, that sensitive spot, she uses her other hand to tentatively touch his balls— rolling them a little, soft and very careful.

"I'm here for you. I'm here only for you, just you."

She ducks down to kiss him, lips pressing against his in a lingering touch before she eases up. How did you get a guy to come? How did you ease him into pleasure? Phoebe's never done this before, but she's trying hard, desperate to please, desperate to watch Jack's face melt into bliss. Her brows knit together earnestly.

"What do you need from me? You can have it. You can have every part of me, Jack, it's all yours anyway, you can have whatever you want from me, baby."

And when she began to stroke him, Jack made a noise. He relaxed against the mattress, forcing his eyes shut for a few indulgent seconds. Yeah. It felt that fucking good. And when she thanked him, reminded him that he was the only guy to make her come, the only guy whose cock she'd ever touched, Jack's breath fucking hitched.

That had never happened, either. His lungs felt smaller, somehow, as he worked himself up to a slight pant.

God, he was fucking pathetic. He needed to focus. He didn't want to fall apart so soon, but Phoebe. God, Phoebe was fucking unpredictable and perfect in the best possible way.

"I wanna make you feel so good."

"You are," he said, swallowing, staring down at her hand — perfect, manicured in their school colors, was that a Y for Yale? He wanted to ask her to put a J next time. Would she do that for him? Why did he want her to? "Oh, fuck, your hands are so pretty."

"Kiss me," Jack demanded, leaning up in search of her mouth. And whenever he found it, he made another noise against her lips, low and hungry. He reached down, wrapped his hand around her fist like earlier before. He squeezed her hand which in turn squeezed his cock. It felt nice. So fucking nice.

He moved her wrist a little, twisting it, gently sliding her fist over the tip of his cock. He made another noise. His brows furrowed together, his eyes rolled back slightly.

And then he smiled a little wickedly, finding Phoebe's eyes again.

"Phoebe. You're so fucking good at this already. You don't even need me."

He removed his hand — she didn't really need it. And instead, he reached over, grasping for her breasts over his Yale t-shirt. He squeezed.

"Go a little faster. Not too much."

Yeah. He didn't want to come yet. Soon, but not yet.

She keeps working at him, keeps her hand moving up his length when his eyes finally opened again, throat bobbing in a swallow.

God. Fuck. She wanted to look into them forever. She wanted to draw more noises out of him, keep his breath hitching in pleasure every fucking night, if it were possible, keep him happy every fucking day, if it were possible. Who wanted to go to class when she could watch his body react this way?

Jack assures her that she was making him feel good— even offers her a compliment when his gaze drops down to where she's stroking him.

'Oh, fuck, your hands are so pretty.'

That was nice. She'd done her nails special for this week— keeping them well-manicured and moisturized especially for the party. And it had paid off!

A giggle escapes, though the sound is fleeting before her attention turns else where— Jack needs something else.

'Kiss me,'

The demand melts her. Phoebe rushes down as Jack surges upwards, mouths meeting eagerly, tongues brushing as they drink each other in, the low noise from Jack's throat down her body to her still-sensitive clit.

It's crazy, how hot watching him get off was.

It's crazy how hot feeling his hand guide her was too. He squeezes it harder, moves her hand up, and down, even teaches her how to rotate her wrist into a twist as her hand crests over the tip.

That he really seems to like, and Phoebe carves that bit of information right into the wall of her skull. He'd made her feel so fucking good– of course Phoebe was going to memorize everything that made Jack feel good in turn.

Something inside her does another unsteady somersault when Jack suddenly directs a wicked grin at her.

Woah! Hot, hot, hot!

'Phoebe. You're so fucking good at this already. You don't even need me.'

His hand disappears from hers— now relocating to her breasts, closing around her tits and squeeze. Was she really doing that good already? That she didn't need his hand to guide her? Phoebe's cheeks burn with pleasure. Oh, fuck. Fuck.

Phoebe kisses him, of course, simply because it's needed.

He instructs her to go faster. Indulges in another squeeze, staring up at Phoebe.

'Fuck, even your tits feel good.'

Well— his hands on her tits feel really good too. Phoebe grins, dazed, pleased, obeying Jack eagerly and increasing the pace. Up. Down. Twisting her wrist, trying to rotate like he had shown her.

"Jack," she giggles, ducking down so that her lips brush his, something shy to her eyes and smile.

"You should squeeze them as much as you want. As hard as you want. Do you wanna know that you're the first guy to touch my tits too?"

She bites at her lip, hard, tightening her grip on his cock when her hand lowers to his base, still smiling shyly, something earnest in her eyes— desperate to be good for him.

"You are. So you should touch me and squeeze me however you want."

Most of the girls he fucked weren't like this.

In fact, none of them were. None of them were Phoebe, none of them would ever be, which would likely be a problem further down the line, but Jack's dick was so hard that he didn't really care to think about that too much.

She was saying his name, panting, propping herself onto her elbow as she turned to face him, wasting no time. She reached for his cock, and Jack collapsed backward, lying flat on his back. He stared up at the ceiling for half a second, before rolling his head over to one side, staring at her.

Fuck. She was happy. Jack had made her so happy, he'd made her cry, and not in a bad way. All she wanted was to be a good girl and take care of him.

He was going to let her.

Jack curled the pillow beneath him, propping his head up so he wouldn't miss a single fucking second of this.

"Oh, baby," he whispered, his entire body tight and buzzing, desperate for relief. He didn't think he would last very long. He'd been struggling with that since she touched his dick for the first time, but now? Now, Jack was more than turned on. Whatever level was above horny, Jack felt that, times infinity.

"Yeah, be a good girl, take care of my cock. I'm so fucking hard, Phoebe. I need you to help me come."

Jack reached for the lube again, squirting a few drops onto the head of his cock. He twitched. And, just because he was sick, he had a few more requests.

"Spit on your hand, too. Please."

He would have asked her to spit directly on his cock, but he figured she wasn't ready for that yet. Maybe next time.

And he still needed to show her, right?

"Hold my dick a little tighter. Start slow."

Jack paused. He had one last bit of instruction to give.

Phoebe, propped upon an elbow, stares down. Drinking it in. The gleam of excitement in his eyes.

'Oh, baby,'

Another thrill shoots down her spine. Everything about her body felt so easy to excite now— over-sensitive from her orgasm, nerves exposed and laid bare after such an intimate encounter. She's flushed. Eager. Buzzing.

'Yeah, be a good girl, take care of my cock. I'm so fucking hard, Phoebe. I need you to help me come.'

Need. Jack Kennedy needs her, and how can Phoebe not fucking help him? How can she not take care of his cock?

It's unthinkable after how well, how thoroughly he had just transformed her with pleasure. Jack drips more lube, and Phoebe's hand curls up over his length, spreading it, feeling the coolness against her flushed palm.

And then—

'Spit on your hand, too. Please.'

Oh! Phoebe had just been gasping his name— pleading like a whore, tightening around her fingers, but the request still makes her cheeks heat like a solar flare.

Was that hot to Jack? Her spit on her palm, on his cock, warm and slick? Maybe it was.

And Phoebe was a good girl, after all. And. In truth? Kinda made her abdomen tighten in excitement.

Slowly, she releases him and then, shyly, with as must gusto as she can manage, spits right onto her palm.

A... generous amount.

No. She certainly hadn't half-assed that in the slightest. Palm now significantly warmer, she wraps herself back around his cock, leaning down so that their faces can almost brush. Her stare is eager— fixed on Jack with a burning intensity, eyes big and pleading.

Let me be good, her eyes say.

Luckily for Phoebe, Jack is eager to each.

'Hold my dick a little tighter. Start slow.'

Okay, yeah— clear instruction. Phoebe grips him at the base, firmer, feels her heart stutter as his next words almost render her almost speechless.

'Go on. Thank me for making you come.'

But not quite.

Not quite speechless.

Because Phoebe is good— she's so happy, and she's glowing, and she's going to thank Jack. She's going to thank Jack for being so good to her.

But God, if Jack's command doesn't make every cell in her body perk up in excitement.

"Jack," she whines.

Her hand tightens around him— strokes up, and down, slow as he had instructed. Up, down. Slow and steady, her spit easing the motion.

"Thank you,"

She ducks down— lets her lips brush along his own, brows pinched in earnestness.

"Thank you so much for making me come. You're the first guy to ever make me come. I'm so happy it was you. I can't imagine it not being you."

Which— was true. Phoebe had only known Jack a week, but she knew it to be true. There was an impression in her heart now, Jack-shaped, and Phoebe was neither oblivious nor dumb enough to pretend that doing this with Jack hadn't made a very significant impact on her. Or, for that matter, her feelings towards him. He was a first— a big one— and she'd already had feelings for him in the first place!

This had simply turned up the dial to the max.

"I wanna make you feel so good. I've never touched a guy's— cock, Jack. I've never made a guy come. I wanna do it right for you. I wanna thank you the right way. Teach me. Please teach me. I wanna learn how to do it only for you."

Jack was watching her closely, and the sight of her eyes watering awoke something in him that he didn't even know was there. It made him so hot all over, made his stomach tighten, almost made him come again.

Phoebe was going to ruin his life.

Or maybe he would ruin hers.

She was so sweet, so good, so perfect, and Jack wanted her more than he'd ever wanted another human. Was that normal? One week of knowing her, less than one hour of fooling around, and he was already this fucking down bad.

Jack didn't slow his movements. When she begged, when she said his name, again and again, declared that he was the only guy in the world, Jack cursed.

"Oh, fuck," he mumbled, kissing her again, hard and deep. He felt her walls tightening around his fingers, and instead of slowing down, Jack sped up — went further, somehow, harder, ensured that his thumb grazed her clit each time he moved. He pulled away from her mouth to clench his jaw.

And then he felt it — her unraveling in his bed, right beneath him. It was the sexiest thing Jack had ever witnessed in his whole fucking life. She said his name again, and it was the best sound he'd ever heard in his life.

"Yeah, there you go, that's it. That's my good girl," Jack whispered. His fingers worked her through her orgasm, kissing the side of her flushed face, licking at the tears on her cheek because it felt like the right thing to do, he didn't know, but he did it. He littered her face with kisses until he found her mouth.

"I know. I know," he said, fingers slowing, relieving some of the pressure on her clit, knowing it'd be sensitive. He gave her a few more thrusts, deep but slower this time, before he pulled his fingers out. He kept them there, in between her legs, the palm of his hand resting against her. She was warm and slick, and he didn't want to pull away yet.

Jack's heart was fucking racing.

He was in his own sort of agony, but the thing is — Jack didn't care. He didn't care because he'd just made Phoebe come so fucking hard, and she'd never forget it.

With his other hand, Jack brushed her curls back, out of her face.

"Oh, fuck, bunny. You look ..."

Jack couldn't even finish his sentence. He could only stare, dip in to kiss her again.

'Yeah, there you go, that's it. That's my good girl,'

The physical bliss— it turned Phoebe inside out. It flexed her muscles, stole all the air inside her lungs. White hot pleasure, radiating from her clit, from deep inside herself where Jack's fingers worked. But the emotional aspect of it? It tears Phoebe apart, into tiny sparkling atoms, puts her back together in a way she doesn't know how to describe?

How can she even talk about what she feels when Jack licks the tears from her cheek? What confusing emotion is she even experiencing? All Phoebe knows is that she needs Jack— needs more of him, chest tightening with the rest of her, something inside her heart orienting itself in Jack's direction. He was just so—. So. Good to her. Good with her. He was taking care of her so well, showing her things she had never understood until now, and now all Phoebe wants to be is his good girl.

When Jack looks at her, she wants the sight of her to make him happy. She wants her noises of pleasure to please him. Can she be good enough to do that? What can Phoebe do to make Jack as happy as she is now? How can she keep them together like this always? She can't even think about the fact she only met Jack a week ago— all she knows is her urges and needs. All she knows is the squeezing in her chest.

'I know. I know,'

Phoebe pants, stares up at him with pleasure dazed eyes, fixated on his assurances, thighs squeezing around him again as she slowly sinks down into the mattress. Slower thrusts from his fingers— deeper, but not as rapid, a few last pumps as she settles down. God. God. She definitely can't talk. Really can't think beyond Jack. Her body is flushed, damp from sweat, and God knew how fucking wet she was from between her legs.

She's wrecked, blissed-out, and all she can do is float in the afterglow and absorb every kindness Jack gave her.

'Oh, fuck, bunny. You look ...'

Phoebe's lip trembles.

'You're such a good girl. You did so good.'

Thank God. Thank God she did so well. It's exactly what Phoebe needs to hear— needs to absorb. For a long moment, Phoebe lies back, pulse thudding, body tingling, staring up at Jack with a very open adoration. She can't even really think beyond how happy she is.

Though. Once she's back in her body, once her panting isn't quite so severe, Phoebe is able to extract one singular thought from her brain.

A want, really.

A need.

"Jack," she pants, twisting to support herself onto her elbow.

"Jack."

And then she's reaching for him.

"I'm so happy," she whines, words tumbling together as she presses her mouth against his. Desperate to make him feel this way too. Desperate to give him any sort of bliss, even though she's inexperienced, even though she's panting and flushed and probably a fucking mess. Jack was so hot, when he kissed her, soothed her, encouraged her, licked the tears from her cheek and guided her through her orgasm, and now all she can think about his cock and making sure he knew how badly she wanted to do this for him. So fucking badly. She wants to watch his beautiful face change because of her. "Jack, I feel so good, I feel so good. 'Need to take care of you. Jack, please, please , pleaseeeee let me be a good girl for you, please."

Jack felt this unbelievable ache at his dick, something he'd never felt before, not even on his horniest days! (And he'd had some pretty fucking horny ones).

But now, with Phoebe, it was so different. There was an overwhelming desire to be inside of her, and Jack knew that it wouldn't ever go away until he fucking did it. Which is why he had to. He needed to earn it.

I need you, she pleaded, and Jack could feel her around his fingers, growing tighter somehow, wetter, dripping down onto his sheets, which he found unbelievably hot. He wished he were down there right now, lapping it up with his tongue, tasting every bit of her.

"I really need you, Jack."

And the words that came next might've damned him permanently.

"You have me, baby. I'm right here. I'm right here. I want you to come," he told her, his own voice growing ragged, his cock twitching and leaking precum again. She was really making him fucking crazy. He leaned in to kiss her, deeply, messily, with his tongue crashing against hers. He made a noise in his throat, and he didn't fucking care how it sounded.

Jack's wrist snapped faster this time, fingers going deep, disappearing inside of her. He went hard and fast, not daring to slow down, not daring to break his rhythm. He wanted her to come.

"I want you to come all over my fingers like a good girl. I know you can. You're right there, aren't you? Yeah, I can tell, I can feel it."

All these words, dirty and lewd, said right against her lips.

"So wet. God, you're making a mess for me, and I fucking love it. My good girl. The best girl, taking my fingers so good."

'You have me, baby. I'm right here. I'm right here. I want you to come,'

Thank God. Thank God Jack was there, that she had him. Phoebe couldn't even find herself on a map, but she had Jack, she can feel his fingers inside her, can feel his thumb working against her clit, can feel her body squeezing around him as pleasure builds. Gentle pleasure, lapping against her like a wave. Wild pleasure, reverberating through every cell in her body, the hard strum of an instrument, her body twitching in response.

"Please," she manages again.

But only just. Manages. Talking at all seems like a miracle. Jack kisses her, and she whines, Jack's tongue swipes again hers haphazard and hot and she arches up into the kiss and his fingers. He had her. He had her so well. Jack was the most beautiful and talented fucking guy in the world and he was taking care of her so well and he had her.

'I want you to come all over my fingers like a good girl. I know you can. You're right there, aren't you? Yeah, I can tell, I can feel it.'

She was, in fact, right there. Sheets bunched up beneath her, helplessly twisted, body twisted too, hips bucking, thighs jerking upwards, squeezing around his hand.

She can just hear the bed squeaking beneath her tossing. She can can just feel the first tear of pleasure slip down her cheek, blinking hard, staring up at Jack so she can memorize his face while he guides her.

'So wet. God, you're making a mess for me, and I fucking love it. My good girl. The best girl, taking my fingers so good.'

Several breathy grasps, Jack's words spoken right up against her mouth, lips tingling— Phoebe's voice is ragged.

"Jack."

"Jack, please."

Now she's bucking her hips up to meet the movement of his fingers— hard, faster, curling, thumb still working circles on her clit that make her thighs jerk.

"I need you, I'm your good girl, I'm your best girl, please, please, yes, Jack, Jack—"

Fuck. Okay, she can hear it— wet, slick sounds, beneath her panting, she's so fucking wet? Jack is making her that way. She wonders if it's all over his hands, and his sheets, and it's hot, it's so hot to think that, it's so hot that Jack fucking knows how wet she is for him. How much she needs him!

Phoebe doesn't think anyone has needed Jack the way she does right now. She thinks about Jack still being hard, and the hunger in her abdomen triples. She pants. She whines. She bucks up into his hand, chasing the pleasure, desperate, babbling, unraveling. He's so good. He's so perfect to her, can't it always be like this, can't she always have Jack?

"—Please, please, I'll do anything, you're only guy in the world, Jack, you're the only guy who can have me, you're the only thing I need, I need you, I need you, I—"

The thread in her belly snaps; there's the free-fall over the edge, the wave crashing, collapsing in on itself, Phoebe's muscles bunching, a ragged, ragged whine, her eyes fluttering and rolling her and her tightening around Jack's hands as the orgasm rocks through her like a seismic wave and turns her fucking inside out.

Phoebe is unraveled and changed, there is only one thing she can say.

He wanted that now. Even over the loud music, the yelling and laughing downstairs, he somehow wanted everyone to know that he was up here making Phoebe come.

When Jack finally pushed the second finger inside of her, she moaned loudly, and it felt like he was going to come again. Fuck. He wanted to spend the rest of the night coaxing those noises out of Phoebe.

She was begging. Please, please, please. She wanted to be ready for his cock.

His movements were still slow, cautious as she stretched out around his fingers. His thumb worked heavy circles into her clit, and Jack leaned in to kiss her neck. He sucked and bit at the flesh on her neck, all while his fingers slowly pumped in and out of her, leaving another mark. He wanted to cover her in him.

She was his, no one else's. He was going to be the one to take her virginity, to be the first man who ever made her come.

"My fingers, yeah. Your pussy," he countered, smirking against her neck, followed by a low laugh. "You're so wet, bunny. I can hear you, I can hear all of you."

Her wetness, her moans, her breathing. And if Jack really focused, if he really listened, perhaps he could have heard the beating of her heart.

It turned him on so fucking much.

Finally, Jack changed the pace. He felt like she could take it now. His wrist snapped at a faster rate this time, fingers curling inside of her, pads of his digits pressing into her. With each movement, in and out, his thumb was stuff, brushing against her clit with each movement.

"You're such a good girl, taking my fingers. I know you're going to take my cock like a fucking angel."

Was he doing too much? All of the pet names, the kissing? Yeah, but Jack was genuinely too horny to care about the consequences to his words, to his feelings. He captured the corner of her mouth into a kiss.

"I'm gonna be the first guy to make you come, bunny, I have to be."

Jack, motivated by his own words, pushed his fingers in deeper, beyond the second knuckle, until his fingers were fully slotted inside of her.

Sudden inhales— embarrassingly sharp and deep. Long whines, broken and pitching as Jack's thumb continues to work at her clit. Her body twitches beneath him, shining with sweat, panties long-since fallen to the floor, curls tangled around her head in a tumbled mess. Her mascara was probably smudged, right? Phoebe had taken so much time getting ready for the party, and a few of Jack's fingers had made her a twitching, begging, flushed mess.

He plucks her apart and puts her back together so easily.

She thinks she really likes it.

She definitely does.

It was ... fucking hot, to know that Jack can unspool her like thread into a wild bliss. She reacted to him, his hands and words and touches. Jack alone has made her abdomen feel molten— her whole body!

Phoebe lets out a whining pant when Jack presses her mouth against her throat.

'My fingers, yeah. Your pussy,'

Jesus.

'You're so wet, bunny. I can hear you, I can hear all of you.'

Was she? Loud? Phoebe certainly knows she's wet— she can feel herself on her thighs, dripping down, and it makes her belly burn hotter to think that Jack can fucking hear the fruits of his labor between her panting breaths.

Phoebe is about to say something— babble about how wet she is for him— when there's a sudden change, a noticeable uptick in the tempo of Jack's fingers.

It makes Phoebe crazy.

'You're such a good girl, taking my fingers. I know you're going to take my cock like a fucking angel.'

Angel, baby, bunny. Phoebe could replace the oxygen in her lungs with those words and be perfectly fine for the rest of her fucking life.

"—Ah," more desperate whines, at the image of Phoebe taking his cock, him pressing in while she twitches and pleads and pants around him. "I will. I'll take it so good."

'I'm gonna be the first guy to make you come, bunny, I have to be.'

Tightness, stretch, her body giving beneath him, suddenly Jack's knuckles to the hilt— Phoebe makes some strangled noise and arches her spine, hard, something reverberating in her body at the deepness of the penetration. New. So, so, new, so untouched until Jack had pushed into her there.

This was fucking insane.

Phoebe feels possessed— unable to inhale steadily as a completely new kind of pleasure vibrates throughout her flesh, a muscle-nerve-skin kind of pleasure.

'Look at me. Don't stop looking at me. I don't want to miss anything. And let me hear you, bunny. Say my name, say anything. Make those noises you were making.'

Her body continues to flex and twitch around him as she pants.

"Jack," she begs.

It takes every ounce of effort in the world to keep her eyes open, but Phoebe obeys Jack— she stares at him like he's the only man in the world. Which he fucking is. He's the only guy to ever exist, and obviously he's going to be the first guy to make her come. That belongs to him alone. It's all his.

"Jack,"

That was probably the only word in the world, anyway. His name. But she had better invent some new ones while she's twitching around him, because Phoebe needs to tell him— needs to ask and let him know what he's doing to her.

"I need you."

And then Phoebe feels it— embarrassingly enough, moisture has pooled in her eyes now, drawn out of her from pleasure she has never experienced before, foreign sensations, vision blurring, a depth of fucking bliss that felt fucking blinding, cellular deep, somehow in her chest too?. God. Why did she feel this so keenly? Was that embarrassing? Was she embarrassing herself now?

But Phoebe can't help it. She just feels so good, pleasure piling up and cresting soon, Jack is so good, all she can think about is him, his fingers inside her where they belong, they fucking belong there, always, forever.

She looks up at him, pleading, out of breath, hand gripping his wrist with wild desperation.

Phoebe was whining and pleading, squirming around beneath him, telling him it felt good whenever he curled his finger. She should have begged for this the first day that she met him, and Jack couldn't get over how fucking hot that idea was.

"Oh, bunny," he managed to say, somehow out of breath despite the fact that he wasn't really exerting himself at all. Jack was in great shape. Better than great. And this fucking eighteen year old freshman was making him lose it.

Jack continued with the same movements, again and again, slow and gentle but with enough pressure for her to really feel it.

How would she do with a second finger? Was it too soon? Jack kept his rhythm for now, gliding his finger in and out, curling it upward, pressing and rubbing against her inside with each movement.

His thumb extended out, pressing against her clit in a back and forth motion. Slow, heavy circles. The perks of having big hands.

He could really take care of Phoebe this way.

"I wish you had. Could you imagine that? Me finger-fucking you like this in the bathroom? Making you come all over my hand?"

Jack's stomach tightened at the idea. Two strangers, known each other for only a pair of hours, getting each other off in the bathroom of that fucking mixer.

His ring finger pressed against her entrance, pushing gently.

"It's gonna feel like a lot, but my cock is bigger, and I need you to get used to it."

Very presumptuous of Jack to assume that Phoebe would let him take her virginity. It didn't really matter anyway (it did), because this could all be chalked up to some insane dirty talk in the heat of the moment. He didn't give a shit. He was going to try to fuck Phoebe. Not that night, but he was going to make it his number one priority.

Jack began to push his ring finger inside of Phoebe very slowly.

It was another one of the dozens little things that plucked the stitches from Phoebe's side, made her unravel so totally and so completely.

The cheek kisses. Baby. Bunny.

'I wish you had. Could you imagine that? Me finger-fucking you like this in the bathroom? Making you come all over my hand?'

Phoebe nods, helplessly trapped in bliss as Jack's thumb now begins to soothe at her clit. Or tease it? His touches felt like they calmed her hunger and also stoked it into something almost unbearable. A delicious sensation, one that has her chest heaving and muscles flexing in an entirely new form of pleasure.

But. God. That wishful fantasy— the idea of Phoebe begging Jack, a fucking stranger, to take care of her now in the mixer. Her whining around his fingers, bathroom locked, Jack's hand gleaming from her wetness as he works her good. It's enough to draw another pathetic whine from Phoebe, another pathetic nod. If only! It makes her all hot, to think of Jack wanting her so badly on the first day.

"—I would've been loud,"

Her voice is a whine. Something almost guilty in the admittance, like she was half-apologizing for the noises she would have made in the bathroom, whines that might have alerted to everyone else what was going on behind the door. Would he have minded? God! What was going on with her! Before Yale— before Jack, actually— Phoebe was never so bold. But now this bashful sort of hunger has seized her completely, and it feels fucking good.

Phoebe's legs jolt from imagining it. But there's something else pressing at her brain, demanding attention— another finger, Jack's ring, now pushing gently at her entrance.

The inhale that follows is deep.

'It's gonna feel like a lot, but my cock is bigger, and I need you to get used to it.'

She moans then, involuntary, and the noise is loud, and whiny, and she isn't even sure what is making her moan louder— the addition of Jack's finger, the foreign sensation of having to stretch to accommodate him, Jesus, or the idea of his cock being bigger. Jack's cock. One day it was going to be Jack's cock inside her, and she probably wouldn't even be able to accurately describe the sensation with words.

Abdomen tight, eyes glassy, Phoebe curls around Jack's hand. God. What would that even feel like? She really hopes it happens— really hopes that Jack is the first one inside her, the first guy to take her virginity. She couldn't imagine anyone else! There couldn't be anyone else! It had to be Jack, she needs to fucking feel him, Jack was the only guy in the world she could give this to and trust.

Phoebe nods again, obedient and desperate.

"Yeah," she manages, wondering if Jack can make out the desperation in her eyes, the eagerness to be able to take his cock one day. "Yes. Jack. Pleaseeeeee. Please make me ready for you, just you, just you and your cock."

Another phantom ache in her belly— heat expanding imagining his cock inside. So big, he'd fill her up so much, every bit of her would probably be able to feel him, right? From her head to her toes? It's a dizzying thought. Enough to make her delirious with desire and need.

Jack soothes her as he pushes inside, and Phoebe hangs on to each word as the two fingers stretch her, take care of her with a special attentiveness.

'Breathe. And take it, baby. I know you can.'

Take it. Take it, take it, take it. Phoebe does. She listens, obeys, nods, eyes wide, mouth lax, hips jerking and thighs jerking as her body learns to accommodate a second finger, the stretch, the dull burn, and then the pleasure that bursts through after.

"—Ah!"

God, that was really new. Pleasure not just from her clit, but reverberating deep from within her, radiating from the tight heat of her walls. Her hips buck, her eyes are trained desperately on him.

He kept his fingers between her legs, applying a gentle pressure, occasionally, swiping his fingers up to rub her clit.

When Phoebe told him her secret, Jack's cock twitched again. He was so fucking horny. Out of his mind. And he couldn't wait any longer, and he wasn't going to make her wait any longer, either. Not when she'd done exactly what he'd asked, obeyed and asked so sweetly.

"That's so hot, baby," was all that Jack managed. He leaned in, kissed her on the mouth. He'd always wanted to take someone's virginity, and that obviously wasn't going to happen that night, but the idea was driving him fucking crazy. The idea that Phoebe was so untouched, pure, just for him?

The things that Jack was thinking about were so fucking horrible and sinful.

"Here. Don't worry about my cock for a second. I just want to focus on you," he told her, in what might have been Jack's greatest act of selflessness. It surprised even him.

He wrapped an arm around her, repositioned her so that she was flat on the bed. He climbed on top of her. It'd be easy to finger her this way, he thought. And she could relax, into the bed, and tell Jack all about how he was the first guy to have ever been inside of her.

He was off to the side of her body slightly, half on top of her, half on the mattress, his own cock throbbing. He didn't care for now. He placed a hand in between her legs yet again, carefully spreading her open, before he pushed his middle finger inside of Phoebe. He watched her closely. She was warm, soft, and he kept his finger there, giving her time to adjust.

"Just breathe," he told her, voice low. "Breathe and relax and be so good for me. You're already so good for me, you know that, baby?"

Jack kissed the side of her face. Another very generous and intimate gesture. What the fuck was he doing? It felt nice, though.

"You wanna be my good girl? You want me to teach you? Tell me."

Which was perilous, because the answer was yes. Yes, Phoebe had tried to sneak glances when his shirt rode high. Yes, Phoebe had walked with him to class and wanted to grab his bicep and press herself against him on the way to Chemistry!

She was guilty of it all, and now, in Jack's lap, her ears burn at the possibility of being found out. But he seems to love her secret.

'That's so hot, baby,'

Phoebe giggles in relief, even giggles into his mouth when he moves in for another kiss.

But his next words make all the sounds in her throat go silent.

'Here. Don't worry about my cock for a second. I just want to focus on you,'

Huh? Not worry about his—? There's no pause at all when Phoebe finds herself gently falling atop the bed, Jack arranging her, draping her over the blankets with care— positioning her just right. So sweet with her, as always. So thoughtful.

It had felt nice to stroke his cock, so fucking hot, but it appears Jack has other plans for now.

He was being very selfless.

Selfless, in the way he gently spreads Phoebe open. Selfless in the way he angles himself atop her, not crushing, but skin hot against hers, pulses thrumming against each other as he begins to press his middle finger inside.

"—Jack," Phoebe says, an abortive swear following.

"Jack," she says again, this time through clenched teeth.

Fuck. The heat, the pressure— the sensation of finally being filled. Bliss. A bliss that both tamed her hunger and made her ache for even more.

'Breathe and relax and be so good for me. You're already so good for me, you know that, baby?'

Sweet words, praise, baby.

A finger inside her. A kiss pressed to the side of her cheek.

That alone is almost enough to unravel Phoebe, something pricking behind her eyes, flashes of heat spreading throughout her body. That felt— funny. Funny good. Funny in a way that makes her chest flip. It's like she can still feel the touch of his kiss tingling across her cheek, cellular deep, and Phoebe has a feeling she is going to feel it tomorrow as well. God.

Only one finger and the taut pleasure between her legs is so strong. She looks up at Jack— probably pathetically— as if he is the only thing in the world. Which he is. The party, the thrumming music, the frat boys, the sorority girls, the front porch and the littered red cups and the streetlights and the dining call and the Monday classes and the stars and the moon don't even exist at all.

It's just her and Jack and this bed.

And the involuntary recoil her body experiences when he curls his finger.

'You wanna be my good girl? You want me to teach you? Tell me.'

Phoebe whines, louder than she intended, hand shooting out to grip his wrist. The sheets bunch up beneath her as she stares up at him.

"—Ah,"

"Please,"

She blinks, some useless attempt to compose herself, then abandons the idea that she's going to be in control of herself at all. Better give into the begging now.

"Please teach me. Please. Please let me be good for you."

The muscles in her thighs tighten, muscles in her abdomen flexing too as she babbles.

"That feels so good. When you curl your finger—" A pant. "You feel so good. You're so good. I should have begged for this the first day I met you. I need this. I need this, please."

She tightened her hand around his cock before Jack could even ask her to. Fuck, she was perfect, she knew exactly what he wanted. Jack made another noise, low and deep, and whenever Phoebe said she'd never had anyone inside of her — Jack made a noise that was louder, unrestrained, desperate.

His cock twitched, his abdomen tightened, and he wished desperately that he was inside of her.

"I'm gonna be the first one?" Jack wondered, but he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear it. His knuckle applied more pressure at her clit before he removed her underwear without asking. He hoped she didn't mind, but if he was going to put his fingers inside of her — he wanted no restraints. He left the wet fabric somewhere below her knees, not caring any further because there were bigger things to worry about.

"Open your legs," he demanded, voice low. Jack's fingers found her entrance in record time, feeling the wetness there, spreading it over her clit. He applied pressure there, rubbing in small circles, before his fingers slid further down.

"So wet," he observed, said in a way that didn't make it seem like he was fighting everything within himself not to fucking come.

One of his fingers applied the smallest amount of pressure at her entrance, and it really wasn't the time to fuck around, but Jack couldn't help himself.

"Tell me how much you want it, bunny. Ask me really nice. Really, really sweet, okay? Look at me when you ask me."

He kept his fingers in place, circling around her entrance, applying the smallest amount of pressure, but never pushing inside. Not yet. Because he was a fucking dick.

What the fuck.

Why did it sound so good? The fucking ... lack of restraint, in his voice? Phoebe feels Jack's cock twitch in her hand, and that too makes her body heat up, the white-hot nerves in her body flare up all sensitive.

"I'm gonna be the first one?'

Phoebe nods, wide-eyed, mouth brushing against his own. Thank God, honestly. Thank God she had never allowed some stupid boyfriend, some douchebag, some opportunist, inexperienced freshman to get inside her.

This is for Jack.

This belongs to Jack.

He's the first one— the only one.

And he's already doing it so well, yanking Phoebe's panties down, no preamble or hesitation, the damp fabric brushing the interior of Phoebe's thigh as it's discarded. Jesus. So wet for him, but no surprise there, huh? She's been all but desperate to grind on his thigh to relieve the pressure. To give her clit the tiniest bit of help.

Which he does— Jack more than helps. He finds her clit, slides his finger around in soothing little circles, increase of pressure, slick heat helping his fingers to slide.

"Ah—" she pants again, fingers squeezing into his neck.

This was perfect. This was bliss. The hunger inside her is so great, red-hot and needy and whining that Phoebe doesn't even have time to feel bashful about being bare in front of him. He could see her now. Could see the dampness glistening between her thighs.

Maybe he'd see that and help her.

'Tell me how much you want it, bunny. Ask me really nice. Really, really sweet, okay? Look at me when you ask me.'

Or maybe he'd make her ask first.

Something shivers inside Phoebe— something rears it's head in acknowledgement of the task given to her. She could do that! Jack could ask her something, give her a challenge, a command, and Phoebe would obey. Fucking of course she would! Not only would Phoebe obey, but she'd do it better than anyone else in the fucking world.

But God. It's kind of hard— Jack's finger is circling at her entrance, this untouched part of her, teasing, just pressing against her so she could feel him, so she could feel him intent, but never quite delivering the relief.

Phoebe had to be good and earn that.

She detaches her head from the comforting nook of his shoulder, still stroking him, mouth still lax.

"Please, Jack," she pants. "Please give me your fingers. I want it so bad. I want you to be the first guy in me, so, so, so bad."

Is there a word more desperate than begging? Maybe they should invent it for Phoebe's sake. Maybe they'd make a new word just for how pathetic and needy she's acting, how carefully she's hanging onto everything Jack tells her— nodding hard before he's even finished his sentence.

'Tell me again that I'm the only one. Tell me something else, too, whatever you want. Tell me a secret. Right now.'

Fuck. Phoebe's hips buck a little— involuntary and needy, seeking sensations she's yet to even experience before.

"You're the only one. Of course you are. And—"

A beat. Phoebe falls silent. Swallows, hard, eyes flickering down on instinct before immediately snapping back up. He'd wanted Phoebe to look at her. He'd wanted that eye contact, and hadn't Phoebe said she would be good?

Jack Kennedy wanted a secret, and there was something supremely flattering in the request.

Right now, he'd said.

It erupts out of her.

"I was checking you out in the kitchen," she half-wails, brows knitting together bashfully. "I kept— wondering about you. Like your chest, and your ass, and your abs, and stuff, and I wanted to look, and then I felt like I was being kind of— I don't know. I was wondering if that was okay of me. I just kept thinking about you and my face felt all hot."