it’s 4 am — you’ve been fucking all night, and after making them come a fourth time you kissed them as sweetly as you could like a gentleman, but (of course) kissing turned into making out, which turned into hips pushing forward gently into each other, which turned into rutting against their thigh like the sweet, mindless little thing you are.
so now — god — you’re rocking back and forth on their thigh, too far gone to be ashamed of it, too close to coming to control the sounds escaping from your mouth or the frantic jogging of your hips.
you did so well, you fuck me so well, they purr into your ear, one hand carding through your hair and the other spread over the small of your back. you make me feel so fucking good. gonna come for me?
and god, yeah, you whine, you want to, need to, already feeling it deep in your belly, knowing there’s not much either of you can do to stop it, and still and still and still —
you want to know you’ve earned it. you'd think four orgasms would be sufficient proof of your skill, of your worth, but goddamn it — you want to be the best, want to give them the world and want them to take it eagerly and know it was you who made it for them.
can you — you gasp, not sure you'll be able to ask the question. can you tell me —
you can't get the words out, but they understand immediately, nodding and pressing a kiss to your temple as your hips snap forward. between the pounding in your ears and the whimpers and moans you let out you can hear them whisper those words you're dying for:
"can you be a good boy and come for me?"
and god, fuck, you can, you will, you do.
