Mila

"Pope, baby, please. I need to let this dry."

Acting like he didn't hear you, or willfully ignoring you, Pope presses closer to you on the couch, his stubble dragging down your neck. You hold your hands in the air, the freshly applied manicure still curing. Pope grunts into your neck, one hand pressed on your waist, and one between your thighs.

"Baby, I just applied the top coat. It'll smudge," you whine again.

"S'okay," he pushes your thighs open. His hand rubs down the front of your panties. "Don't need to use your hands."

Ignoring your whines and whimpers, Pope pulls the scrunchie out of your hair. You hold your hands above your head, and he carefully ties the scrunchie around your wrists, wrapping it twice and narrowing missing your nails.

"If you mess up my manicure, you're taking me out to get it redone," you try to threaten, but your stomach is fluttering so much that your voice comes out weak.

Pope's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, leaving wet kisses down your neck. Your protests die in your throat when he makes his way down your stomach, ending on the wet heat between your legs.