Masterlist.
I write about Pedro Pascal & most characters š
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A/N:Ā Sooooo it only took me literally 6 years to write this, but it has been requested a lot so here it is. I hope you like it <3
This is Pt. 1
Warnings: angst, mentions of violence
Javier sat slumped on a weathered barstool, his hands wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey. The amber liquid glistened under the dim, flickering neon lights of the bar, casting warped reflections onto the sticky countertop. Muffled voices and blurred faces surrounded him as he drowned his sorrow, his guilt. He stared at the liquid, unblinking, as though searching for answers at the bottom of the glass.
The bar was a quiet one, tucked into a corner of BogotĆ” most people ignored unless they were trying to disappear. Faint music played from a jukebox in the corner, a melancholic tune that paired well with the taste of regret. Around him, the patrons were only figuresāshadows moving, laughing, drinking. None of it registered.
He took another sip, the whiskey burning its way down, though the pain was muted compared to the ache in his chest. Her face wouldn't leave his mind. The shock in her eyes, the hurt that seemed to radiate from her like a living thing.
How had it come to this?
Javier had always prided himself on being in control. At work, in the field, even in their relationshipāhe was the one who stayed calm, composed, rational. But tonight, he'd crossed a line he never thought he'd approach. The image of her recoiling, tears streaking her face as she told him to leave, was burned into his memory.
He rubbed his temple, his jaw tightening as the memory replayed for the hundredth time. The whiskey wasn't helping. It wasn't numbing anything.
"ĀæOtra ronda?" the bartender asked, his voice cutting through Javier's haze.
Javier shook his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. He didn't need more whiskey; he needed clarity, but he wasn't sure where to find it.
He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused, the hands that had inadvertently hurt the one person he'd sworn to protect.
"I didn't mean to hurt her," he muttered under his breath, his voice so low it was swallowed by the bar's ambient noise. He wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.
But the intention didn't matter. Not now. Not when the damage had been done.
The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cool night air. Javier glanced over, his heart jumping for a second, foolishly hoping to see her there. But it wasn't her. It wouldn't be.
He turned back to his drink, his shoulders sinking further.
The fight hadn't been about the anniversary, not really. It was about everything else. The late nights, the missed moments, the way his work had consumed him. He'd thought she understood, that she'd known who he was and what he'd signed up for. But understanding wasn't the same as accepting. And love wasn't enough to fill the gaps he'd left.
Javier clenched his fists, the tension radiating through his arms. He wanted to fix it. To go back. But he didn't even know where to start.
For now, all he could do was sit in the quiet hum of the bar, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a vice.
Tomorrow, he'd face her. Somehow. If she let him.
Tonight, though, he'd sit here, drowning in a sea of what-ifs and should-haves, with nothing but a glass of whiskey and the sound of his own guilt for company.Ā
---
You sit on the sofa, knees drawn to your chest, the glow of the candles still flickering on the dining table in the corner of your eye. They've burned low now, their once romantic light reduced to sad, wavering shadows that stretch across the walls. You tell yourself to blow them out, but you can't move. Not yet.
Your cheek throbs where his hand had struck you, accidentally or not, and your fingers press against the tender skin as if to soothe it, though the ache runs far deeper. The tears come in wavesāhot, stinging rivers that blur your vision and leave salty trails down your face. You'd told yourself you wouldn't cry tonight. This was supposed to be a happy night, one filled with laughter, with love.
But that seems like a cruel joke now.
The room is too quiet, save for your soft, uneven breaths. Every little soundāthe tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigeratorāfeels magnified. Mocking.
You glance at the table again. The plates are still set, untouched, the food cold and congealing in its carefully arranged presentation. It feels ridiculous now, the effort you'd poured into this evening. The dress you'd picked out with such care clings to your body like a costume, a reminder of the version of yourself you thought you'd get to be tonight.
And then there's him.
Javier. His name echoes in your mind, bitter and sweet all at once. You don't want to think about him, but it's impossible not to. The look on his face before he leftāconfusion, regret, angerāall of it swirling together in his dark eyes.
You want to hate him for what happened. For his lateness, his indifference, his temper. For the way his hand flew up and changed everything in an instant. But even now, even with your cheek burning and your heart splintering, you know you don't hate him.
You hateĀ this.
You wipe at your face, but the tears won't stop. They keep spilling over, a relentless tide of grief and frustration and love. God, you love him. That's the worst part, isn't it? That even after tonight, you can't just turn it off.
The what-ifs circle your mind like vultures. What if you hadn't said anything? What if you'd let him leave? What if he hadn't been so late? What if this isn't something you can come back from?
Your head pounds with the weight of it all. You press your palms against your temples, as if you could will the thoughts away, but they cling to you like a second skin.
The clock ticks on. You don't know how long you've been sitting there, but the candles are almost out now, their flames guttering and weak. The dress feels suffocating, and you tug at the fabric, peeling it off like it's a part of the night you can shed. You pull a blanket over your shoulders, seeking some kind of comfort, though none comes.
You stare at the door, half-expecting it to open, for him to walk back in. For him to apologise again, to try and explain. But the silence stretches, and you realise he's not coming back. Not tonight.
The thought makes your chest tighten, and another sob escapes before you can stop it.
You curl tighter into yourself, trying to hold your breaking heart together. You don't know what tomorrow will bring, but tonight, you're aloneāwith your tears, your pain, and the fading glow of candles that should've lit up a celebration, not a battlefield.
---
You wake up to the morning light slipping through the curtains, too bright, too harsh. Your body feels heavy, like it's weighed down by all the emotions you didn't manage to cry out the night before. The faint ache in your cheek is the first thing you notice when you sit up. The second is the silenceāit's deafening.
The flat is still as you shuffle to the kitchen, your feet dragging across the floor. The table from last night is exactly how you left it, the plates untouched, the candles burned down to puddles of wax. You avoid looking at it for too long. Instead, you boil water for coffee, the routine giving your hands something to do even as your mind races.
You don't know what you'll do if he comes back.
You don't know what you'll do if he doesn't.
The knock at the door is soft but insistent, breaking through your thoughts. You freeze, the mug in your hand trembling slightly.
It's him. You don't have to check to know it's him.
For a moment, you consider not answering, letting him stand there until he gives up and leaves. But something pulls you toward the door,Ā the bloody doorĀ that changed everything. You press your hand against the frame, hesitating, before finally opening it.
There he is.
Javier looks worse than he did last nightāif that's even possible. His hair is disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot as if he hadn't slept a second. He's holding his leather jacket in one hand, and for a moment, you think he might crumble under the weight of his own guilt.
"Y/N," he says, his voice low, hoarse, like it hurts him to speak. He takes a hesitant step forward, but stops short when you flinch ever so slightly. His jaw tightens, and his eyes drop to the floor.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "IāGod, I don't even know where to start."
You don't say anything, just cross your arms over your chest and stare at him. He looks up, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, you think you see his composure crack. His lips part as if to speak again, but he hesitates, the words caught somewhere between his throat and his heart.
"Please," he finally says, and there's something raw in his tone, something you've never heard before. "Please let me explain. IāI need to talk to you. I need you to hear me."
His voice shakes, and when his eyes meet yours again, they're glassy, on the verge of spilling over. Javier PeƱa, the man who's always so strong, so controlled, looks utterly wrecked.
You swallow hard, trying to keep your resolve. But it's not easy, not when he's looking at you like that, like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and it's all his fault.
"I don't know if I want to hear it," you say quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper.
"I know," he replies, his voice cracking on the words. He runs a hand through his hair, a shaky, desperate gesture. "I know, and I don't deserve it. I justāI have to try. Please."
He takes another cautious step forward, close enough now that you can see the faint tremble in his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I swear to God, I didn't. I was angryāno, not at you. At myself. At everything. And I took it out in the worst way possible. I... I'll never forgive myself for what happened."
You feel your chest tighten, his words pulling at the threads of your resolve. You don't want to let him inānot again, not after everythingābut the sheer vulnerability in his voice makes it hard to look away.
"I love you," he says, his voice breaking completely now, the tears he's been holding back finally spilling over. "I love you so much, Y/N. Please. Please let me make this right."
Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you don't know what to say. The room feels too small, too heavy, with him standing there, his heart in pieces at your feet.
You have every right to slam the door in his face. To tell him to leave and never come back.
But you don't.
Instead, you step aside, just slightly, enough to let him in.
Javier steps inside hesitantly, like he's afraid he doesn't belong here anymore. The door clicks shut behind him, and he stands there for a moment, wringing his hands as if he's still trying to gather the courage to speak.
You don't make it easier for him. You cross your arms again, keeping the space between you as you watch him. You want to appear strong, determinedā when inside, you're actually a weak and trembling mess. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating, and for a moment, you think he might turn around and leave.
But then, he takes a deep breath and looks at you.
"I don't even know where to start," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've been sitting with it all night, trying to figure out how to say this... and I don't think there's a way to make it sound right. But I need you to know that last night was the worst thing I've ever done in my life."
You don't move. You don't respond. His words hang in the air, heavy and raw.
Javier's hands drop to his sides, his fingers flexing as though he's searching for something to hold on to. "I've been drowning, Y/N. In work, in everything. This... this job, it does something to you. It takes pieces of youāpieces you didn't even know you'd missāand it hardens them, turns them into something else. And I thought I could keep it separate. I thought I could leave it at the door when I came home to you."
He looks down, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his words is dragging him down. "But I didn't. I couldn't. And instead of keeping the world out, I let it bleed into us. IntoĀ you. And that's not fair. It's not right. You didn't sign up for that."
You feel your chest tighten again, your emotions warring between anger, sadness, and a flicker of something you don't want to name yet.
"I've been so focused on everything else," Javier continues, his voice trembling, "that I forgot what matters most. I forgotĀ us. And last nightā" He pauses, his voice cracking as he drags a hand down his face. "Last night, I saw what I've become. Tough. Hard. Blunt. And I hate it. I hate what this job is doing to me, to us."
His eyes meet yours again, pleading, desperate. "But I don't want to be that man anymore. Not for you. Not forĀ us. I know it won't happen overnight, and I know I can't undo what happened, but I swear to you, I'll do whatever it takes to change. I'll do whatever it takes to make this right."
The raw emotion in his voice cracks something inside you, but you stay silent, your mind spinning.
"I love you," he says again, softer this time. "I love you so much. And I can't stand the thought of losing you. But if you need me to go, I'll go. If that's what you need to heal, I'll do it. Justājust tell me what to do, Y/N. Please."
His tears return, slipping silently down his face. You've seen him angry, you've seen him determined, but this? This vulnerability, this unravellingāit shakes you to your core.
You lower your arms, your breath catching as you take a hesitant step closer to him. He doesn't move, just watches you, waiting, his heart in his eyes.
"I don't know if I can just... forget what happened," you say softly, your voice trembling. "But I... I don't want to lose you either, Javi."
His breath shudders, relief mingling with the anguish on his face.
"I'll prove it to you," he says quickly. "I'll do better. I'll make you proud of me again."
The words hang between you, fragile and full of hope. You don't know if things will ever be the same, but for now, you take another step closer, letting him see the glimmer of hope in your own eyes.
Your silence stretches between you, heavy and uncertain, as you weigh his words. There's a part of you that's still angry, still hurt, still caught on the memory of last nightā the shouted accusations, the bruised ache on your cheek, the way it all unravelled so fast. But then there's the other part, the one that sees him now, standing before you, broken and bare, willing to do whatever it takes to fix this.
You exhale shakily, lowering your gaze to the floor. "It's not something I can move past overnight. I need time... to process, to heal. I need you to understand that."
"I do," he says quickly, his voice steady despite the emotion brimming in it. "I'll give you all the time you need. I'll wait as long as it takes."
You look up at him, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, you see something that feels like hopeātentative, cautious, but there. "Forgiving you... doesn't mean I'm okay with what happened," you continue. "It means I'm willing to try. For us. But it has to be different, Javi. It has to be better. I can't... I won't go through this again."
He nods, swallowing hard. "I hear you," he says, his voice trembling with sincerity. "And I promise you, it will be. I'll be betterāI'llĀ showĀ you that I can be better."
You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms across your chest. "And how do you plan to do that?"
His lips press into a thin line, as if he's been waiting for this moment. "I'll start small," he says. "I'll take days off, make sure I come home at a decent hour. I'll cook for you, plan things for usāactual dates, not just sitting in front of the TV and calling it time together."
He steps closer, careful not to overstep, his eyes locked on yours. "And I'll talk to someone about work. A counsellor, maybe. I can't keep bringing it home with me, not like this. You don't deserve that."
The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you keep your expression guarded. "You'll talk to someone?" you ask, sceptical.
He nods, his gaze unwavering. "I will. I've been avoiding it for too long, thinking I could handle it all on my own. But I can'tānot without it hurting us. And I won't let that happen again."
His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn't. Instead, he continues, "I'll prove it to you every day, in every way I can. Not just with words, but with actions. Whatever it takes, Y/N. I don't want to lose you."
You study him for a long moment, your chest tight with the weight of everything you've been feeling. The anger, the pain, the loveāit's all still there, tangled and messy, but the love is what makes you finally nod, your voice soft but resolute. "Okay. But this is on my terms, Javi. My pace. If I feel like you're not following through..."
"I'll follow through," he interrupts, his tone filled with conviction. "I'll prove it, I swear."
For the first time in what feels like forever, you see a small flicker of the man you fell in love with. Not the hardened version that's been consumed by work, but the one who cares, who listens, who tries.
It's not a perfect ending. It's not a clean slate. But it's a beginningāfragile and uncertain, but a beginning nonetheless.
Warnings:Ā smut! unprotected sex, praising, hard!dom alex (he's a bit softer in some parts of this one), oral (both receiving), rimming & anal play (f receiving), power imbalance, unspecified age gap (reader is of legal age!), swearing, I think that's all!
Part 1
There it sits on your bed, the purple butt plug, staring at you.Ā It's never going to fit, you think, as you turn towards your mirror with a sigh. Your critical eyes scan the outfit you chose for tonight. It's a white strappy bodysuit- the straps barely covering any skin. It's comfortable though, and you feel sexy wearing it. In fact, you feel very sexy.
The rules for visits at his house are simple. One: You dress appropriately. Two: You don't ask questions. Three: The only rooms you frequent are his bedroom and the adjacent bathroom (and the hallway when you enter the house, of course). Four: You leave when he's done with you. You do not stay over.
Professor Turner is very peculiar about his privacy, hence he never lets on more than necessary. To your dismay, because you're curious. Oh, you'd snoop around in his house if you had the chance, your fingers itching to find out more about him- his interest, friends, family. You've caught glimpses of the other rooms, the living-room and kitchen, his office. He's living in a two-storey town house, it's aesthetically decorated and always meticulously clean. Inside, it smells of coffee and musk, pine trees- a comforting scent that calms you down no matter how nervous you are.
You knock on his door at 8:30 PM sharp.Ā You mustn't be late.Ā Lateness is amongst many things he absolutely loathes.
Professor Turner opens the door swiftly after not more than five seconds.Ā You mustn't be seen.
He greets you formally and ushers you inside, his eyes scanning the peripherals of his house for intruding eyes, and he promptly shuts the door behind you.
Gentleman-like, he takes your coat and hangs it up while you remove your shoes and neatly place them next to the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of his home, of him, floods your nostrils, and you inhale it without hesitation or a second thought. It does wonders to soothe your bubbling nerves.
Once in his bedroom, you wordlessly strip off your summery dress. Professor Turner is still dressed in the same outfit as this morning, and he still looks absolutely impeccable. There is not a stain, not a wrinkle on his shirt or his slacks that fit him like a glove. You admire his sense of neatness, of accuracy, when it comes to his clothing.
Feeling a little self-conscious standing in front of him only wearing an attire that barely covers your modesty, your eyes find his.
He holds out his hand with the palm up, and with a little hesitation you place the butt plug into his hand. It looks so much smaller in his hand than it did in yours; nevertheless it frightens you a little.
The Professor nods, and his dark eyes scan you from top to bottom, a satisfied hum leaving his throat.
"You look very nice, little one."
His comment sends a shiver down your spine, and you respond with a feeble smile, "thank you."
Professor Turner sits down on the edge of the bed. He's taken off his blazer and is now only wearing the same white dress shirt he wore this morning when he fucked you bent over his desk.
Now, he pats his thighs, "c'mere."
Once again, you know what to do. You position yourself over his lap so you're laying across his thighs. His large, warm hand runs over your back and comes to a halt at your bum, where he delivers a gentle slap.
"Did so well this morning. Took your punishment like a good girl, didn't you?"
Obediently, you nod, biting your lip. His punishments are one thing you like about your encounters with him, but what you like even more are his rewards. He not only makes you cum, but he also lets you experience things you've never felt before. He memorises your body and the reactions precisely, and he knows which buttons to push to send you over the edge with a force.
"My my, looking so pretty," he tenderly runs his warm hand over the still stinging flesh of your bum, "all marked up. Everyone can see who you belong too, hm?"
You don't reply, because you aren't sure if his question requires a response, and he forces an answer out of you by pulling harshly on your hair. A whimper laves your lips, and you grip his thighs for support.
"Who do you belong to?" His voice is rough and deep- a stark contrast to the almost soothing touch he just spoiled your ass cheek with.
"You, Professor. I belong to you." Your voice comes out pathetically weak.
He chuckles, "that's right. Now..." His hand lands on the sensitive skin of your thigh, "lay down on the bed, ass up for me."
It's going to happen.
You obey, crawling onto the bed and positioning your body exactly as he wants you to. He clearly likes you on your front- bent over his desk or spread out on his bed with a good view of your aching cunt. The bed sheets you are squished against are white and silky soft, probably Egyptian cotton or something fancy like that, and if you could, oh, if you only could sleep in them. You'd sleep like a baby next to the man whose intimacy and softer touches you're craving, although you very well know that is a thing that'sĀ notĀ going to happen. But a girl can dream.
The bed dips behind you and you know he's there, most likely admiring the sight before him. The harness your wearing has little bows attached to the back, and you can feel him run his hands over the smooth black leather.
You didn't know what to expect to begin with, but it certainly wasn't this. Professor Turner spreads your cheeks apart and without a warning, you feel his tongue at your asshole. He's circling it, coating it in his saliva, humming against you like he's enjoying a meal, which makes your pussy clench around nothing. The moans coming from your mouth are muffled against his pillow, hence the Professor pulls away with a tut.
"Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you like having your little asshole eaten out."
You groan without restraint at that, finally releasing all the sounds he wants to hear. His tongue is back on you in an instant, and the next second you feel it inside your ass. The moan you vocalise is pornographic, it's loud, and you can feel him smirk against you. He tongues your ass, boldly plunging his tongue in and out of you while his big hands hold you in place. It feels so good you're fisting the sheets in your hands and don't hold back a single moan or whimper.
When he pulls away, you can't help but sigh in protest at the loss of sensation. Professor Turner doesn't make you wait long, though, because he spits on your asshole and spreads his saliva with two of his fingers. That makes you tense up a little, and he can't help but notice.
"Let's prep you a bit before you take the plug. And when you take it nicely like a good girl, I'll reward you. How's that sound?" He delivers a firm slap to your left cheek, "wanna see that plug in your tight little hole, and then I'll make you cum on my tongue, just as you love it."
The promise sends shivers down your spine, hence you respond with a slack nod.
"Say it."
"Yes, Professor. I'll take the plug like a good girl."
"Good. Because we need to stretch that tight little hole properly before you can even think about taking my cock in there."
You groan. Him ass-fucking you with his massive cock isn't something you're actually anticipating. It's a thrilling thought, yes, but nonetheless, it scares you.
His fingers slip into your ass with ease. He's done it to you before, with his fingers and the smaller plugs, stretching you out and fucking your pussy until you came hard on his thick cock, almost pushing the plugs out of you from the force of your orgasms alone.
He scissors his fingers inside you, quite literally stretching you out. The feeling is new each time, yet strangely familiar, and you can't help but enjoy it. You enjoy being completely at his mercy, succumbing to his actions and needs.
"So, are you ready?" He wants to know, and you hear him open a bottle of lube, squeezing some on the plug and spreading the rest around your asshole with his fingers.
"Yes, Sir," you manage to reply with a now much weaker voice.
He slowly eases it into you. The first few centimetres slip in fine, but then there's more resistance. You take long, calming breaths to help your body relax. The Professor stops moving the toy for a moment.
"Come on now, sweetheart. Relax." His hand slowly trails along your inner thigh.
You're surprised to say at the least at his tenderness. His fingers dance closer to your clit, and he ghosts them over it, barely touching. You gasp, anticipating his touch on your throbbing,Ā achingĀ clit since he fucked you this morning. He withdraws his hand, and you can't see what he's doing next. But then you know, because his now slick fingertips come in contact with your clit. It makes you moan when he starts rubbing slow, wet circles over it.
"That's it. Good girl. Now relax and let me insert the plug." He knows pushing and pressuring you will only make it worse, so you're beyond thankful he's taking his time and lets you adjust. He pushes the plug further inside, and the next moment it stings a little before it slips inside fully. You can feel your asshole puckering, adjusting to the intrusion.
"Look at you," the Professor hums, "so fucking pretty."
Now that the toy is snugly inside you, you're able to relax more.
"Such a good girl," you hear him praise you, "come sit on my face."
He's still fully dressed when he lays down on the bed and mentions for you to come closer. Your gaze can't help but wander to his tented slacks, the outlines of his thick cock clear to your keen eyes.
He chuckles, reading your mind, "later."
You straddle his face, and the view you have of his smirking face between your legs is to die for. Professor Turner licks his lips in anticipation, and brings his thumbs to your folds to spread you open and reveal your clit.
"Now be a good girl and cum on my face, yeah? I bet your asshole will pucker around that plug when you cum, can't wait to feel it around my cock."
You moan at that, because you know it will. Another moan gets drawn from your lips when his tongue starts to kitten lick your clit. He coats it in saliva, circling and circling and sealing his lips around it to suck it into his mouth. Moans and swearwords leave your swollen lips as you can't help but grind on his face. He holds you firmly in place and tongue-fucks your needy hole that's leaking with arousal, coating his tongue and lips and chin.
It feels so fucking good you think you're gonna lose your mind, and your orgasm is approaching shockingly fast. It hits you like a ton of bricks, you cry out, your mind is hazy with pleasure as you ride it out on his face. Both of you are moaning continuously until the feeling eventually subsides and you're left a sweating, panting mess above him.
When you meet his eyes, your heart stutters. He's looking at you proudly, almost adoringly, with your slick all over his face.
"Well done," he praises with a smirk. The Professor pinches your thigh and brings his thumb to your overstimulated clit, upon which you squirm.
He chuckles. "Mh, I can't wait to fuck your little cunt. It'll be even tighter now with the plug inside your asshole."
You nearly blush at that. "D'you want me on my knees, Sir?"
He sighs, shaking his head, "no. You're gonna ride me. I've done enough work today, don't you think?"
"Of course," you nod, obediently, and slowly move away from his face. Your legs are wobbly from your recent orgasm, and you straddle his thighs.
"Take off my clothes, little one."
This is one of the moments you've been waiting for all day. Undressing him. Seeing him naked. Obviously, your encounters on campus are quick and needy, there's no time for undressing as such. But every time you come to his house, you get to see his body in all his glory. And it's to die for.
You open the buttons of his silky shirt with shaking fingers, licking your lips. His chest comes to view, and you supress a gasp, he's muscular, he's defined. There's a small patch of hair in the middle of his chest and the necklace sitting on his collarbone is the cherry on top. His arms, oh... You want to lick them, to run your tongue along his muscles and the visible veins, savouring the taste of his skin.
Once his shirt is discarded, you open his trousers and pull them down, revealing the bulge in his white Calvin Kleins and his thick thighs. He's literally perfect and you wish you could see him like that all the time.
He doesn't miss the way you look at him, of course not, and it has him smirking. He doesn't comment on it, though, he just revels in how much you clearly admire his body.
The last item of clothing is removed, and he lays bare before you. His piercing gaze makes you blush and sheepishly look away from his dark eyes.
"You want my cock, hm?"
What a question. You nod without hesitation.
"I want to fuck your mouth first, just as we practised."
Another nod from your side as you straddle his thighs.
"No gagging this time, understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good. Let's see if you did your homework."
You get to work. He's taught you how to take him deeply in your throat without activating the gag reflex, and has instructed you to practise at home with a dildo.
So now, you take his erection in your hand and wrap your lips around his tip. He doesn't like to be teased, so you don't waste any more time than necessary and start taking him into your mouth, down your throat. He's big and he's thick and it's difficult. But, you hear him groan underneath you and feel how he's gathering your hair to wrap it around his hand.
"Deeper," he commands.
You close your eyes and breathe in through your nose, trying to memorise all the things he's told you that prevent you from gagging, and to your surprise it works. You take him so deep that your nose touches his abdomen and tears fill your waterline. Before you gag you pull off him, revelling in the success for a split second.
"Good, fuck. Again." Professor Turner pushes your head down on his cock before you can prepare, and this time you gag.
He releases your head, and you pull off him, avoiding eye contact.
"For fuck's sake," he groans, audibly annoyed, "have you learnt nothing?" The Professor shakes his head, clearly disappointed in you, but you want to show him how eager you are.
"No, I'm sorry. I wasn't prepared, let me try again, please!"
He raises an eyebrow and tuts, "if you gag again you're going to be in so much trouble."
"I won't, I promise."
"Fine. Go on."
With extreme resolution and focus, you take him back into your mouth. Slowly, you let your tight throat adjust to the size of him, the hardness, the sensation of his throbbing length. With the breathwork you manage to take all of him until your nose once again comes in contact with the warm skin of his lower belly. He groans loudly beneath you and keeps you there for a moment with his hands firmly in your hair. You make an effort and swirl your tongue, careful not to drool around him too much. The Professor seems to like it. He moans and bucks his hips up and into you, making it even harder for you to remain calm and composed.
You know it's a test. It's a test he puts you through to find out how much you want this, him, everything. He likes to find out how much it takes for you to say your safe word.
He pulls your head off his cock, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his tip.
"Well done, little one. Who would've guessed?"
His praise makes you clench around nothing again. Your aching for him at this point. You need his cock inside you.
Professor Turner mentions for you to ride his cock. You hover with your hips above him, and he watches as you line him up with your sopping entrance. He slides in easily, the slick of your needy cunt coating his length in an instant and you sink down on him until your hips are flush with his.
You feel so full. With the big plug nestled inside your asshole and his thick cock filling your pussy, it's almost difficult to concentrate on one sensation at a time. Both your holes are pulsating, puckering around what's inside them. And god, does it feel nice.
"So fucking tight, god," The Professor drawls, his eyes rolling back from the sheer pleasureĀ you'reĀ giving him. You start rocking your hips back and forth, up and down in a steady rhythm.
He grabs your head with both hands and pulls you closer to him for a kiss. You're surprised, shocked even. In the, maybe 15, encounters with him he's kissed you... a grand total of three times? Hence every kiss is a shock to you, a sudden intimate gesture you are not prepared for in the slightest. But oh, do you love it.
Despite his rough and dominant nature, his kisses are sweet and tender. They're slow, sensual- he's drawing out the movements of his lips and tongue against yours like he's not in a rush and it makes you melt into a puddle every single time.
Naturally, each time he pulls away leaves you wanting, craving more.
You know he's close. The way his hands grab your flesh and his body tensing up beneath you is a telltale sign he's about to fill you up with his hot cum.
"Turn around," he pants, "wanna see the plug and that ass bounce on my cock."
Without pulling off, you turn around in his lap so you're sitting on him in reverse cowgirl, supporting your weight on his thighs. You start bouncing up and down again, his gaze burning on your back.
He groans loudly, the reverse position most likely providing him with an added sensation. Your thighs are burning, but you want to make him cum so bad. It's everything that's on your mind. As you lean forward more, your clit is throbbing, aching to be touched. So, you wet your fingers and bring them between your legs to rub it.
Professor Turner, however, catches on and slaps your ass once, "focus. You've cum once, that's enough for tonight."
You roll your eyes in response, happy he can't see, and withdraw your hand from your needy bundle of nerves. Instead, you put more effort in bouncing up and down him again.
"That's it, fuck," he groans, "'m gonna fill up that tight little cunt, are you ready for it?"
"Yes, Sir," you pant, your legs getting more tired by the second. The stretch of his cock inside your walls is a sensation like your body is on fire. It burns and burns, and after another minute of you riding him, you feel his sticky seed painting your bruised walls. He moans and releases throaty groans behind you, his hands coming to your hips to slow them down and eventually stop you from moving.
A sigh escapes your lips, a sigh of exhaustion and happiness that you've made him cum by your actions alone.
"Good girl," he mutters, breathing some heavy breaths.
You smile proudly and climb off him, kneeling beside him on the bed with your gaze trained on your entwined hands in your lap, his hot cum slowly trickling out of your hole. Professor Turner leaves you surprised once again when he takes your hand in his and cradles it against his chest for a short moment. His post orgasmic state must make him sensitive, you think, while you obediently wait for him to speak.
"Lay down," he instructs, softer than expected, and you kneel on the bed again with your ass in the air. Professor Turner comes behind you and gently tugs at the plug. You breathe out and he withdraws it with a pop.
"Look at your little hole, all puckered and gaping. Looks about ready for my cock." He slaps your bum as a sign for you to get up from the bed.
As usual, you climb off it and clean yourself up in the bathroom and go for a wee. As you wash your hands, you can't help but take a peak in his bathroom cabinet where he stores his cologne. You take the bottle and smell it, closing your eyes for a brief moment. It smells like heaven to you, and all you want is take the dress you're wearing and spray it in his cologne to take home. But, you know you can't.
So you emerge from his en-suite, gather your dress from the floor and slip it back on in silence. The Professor watches you from the bed with his hands behind his head.
"Don't forget to bring me your panties in the morning, sweetheart."
"I won't forget, Sir," you promise sweetly, "I'll see you tomorrow."
Professor Turner rises from the bed and fetches his boxers from next to it, "I'll walk you to the door."
Oh? He's neverĀ everĀ done that before. Hence you freeze, not knowing where to put your hands, where to look or what to do entirely.
"Don't look so shocked," he mocks you with a deep chuckle, "come on."
With his boxers back on his hips, he accompanies you downstairs and watches as you put on your shoes and coat.
Awkwardly, you stand by the door, "bye then."
"Bye," he smirks, and leans in to peck your cheek, his warm lips leaving a tingling sensation on your flushed skin, "see you tomorrow."
You grab the door handle and open it, stepping into the crisp night air. What an evening.
A/N: So this is new. It has been up on Wattpad for 6 weeks or so but I wanted to post all my old stuff before posting this. It's the first fic I wrote after my 'break'. It's more on the hard dom side which I don't usually prefer, but I wanted to try something different. Part 2 to this has been up on Wattpad for about 2 weeks as well. Also, this is absolutely bald Al coded for me. Enjoy!
Thanks to @tbhclove for providing me with these FINE photos!
Warnings:Ā smut! power imbalance, age gap (reader is of legal age!), harddom!alex, spanking, some fingering, praising, unprotected sex, mild degradation, swearing.
Professor Turner.
The mention of his name alone has you pressing your thighs together. He's your literature professor at university. There's an age gap, maybe ten to fifteen years. Professor Turner is confident, incredibly handsome and dominant. Not in an unprofessional way, though. Students know what to expect from him. He doesn't shout, he stays fair, no matter what. And, when someone misbehaves, he acts accordingly.
So, you're sitting in the front row of your last lecture this afternoon. The sun is beaming down from the sky without mercy, and everyone is sweating, dreading to sit in the lecture hall when there's so much to do outside in the sun. The air in the room is muggy, nearly unbearable, no breeze is entering through the open windows.
You're wearing a high waist skirt and a black crop top without a bra, every extra layer too much on a hot day like this. Your skirt ends about the height of your knees when you stand, so naturally it rides up when you're sitting down. Not that you mind, it relieves your clammy skin from the clingy fabric.
Everyone is waiting for Professor Young, your teacher in this particular class. She's always late- so nobody bats an eyelid at the time. She's already fifteen minutes late when the door swings open and in comes... Professor Turner.
He's in his usual attire, slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, and a blazer. He chose beige for today- the light colour looks fantastic on him and accompanies the white shirt perfectly. However, your subtly shake your head at him wearing far too many clothes for a day mid-July.
Professor Turner lets his briefcase drop next to the desk and straightens his collar. Typically, the top few buttons are undone, giving you a clear view of his chest and the silver necklace sitting on his collarbone.
"Professor Young sends her apologies, she can't come in today. That's why I'm here," he begins, his deep voice reverberating through the room. Everyone's attention is on him in an instant. That's what his voice does to people, "I believe you have assignments to do?"
A few students nod and mumble affirmations.
Professor Turner hums, "good. Work on that, then. I'm here if you have any questions."
He takes a seat behind the desk, that's when his eyes land on you for the first time this afternoon. He has no shame checking you out from bottom to top. His gaze starting at your feet, slowly raising up your bare legs, your skirt, your tiny crop top, the subtle layer of sweat on your cleavage, your puffy lips and finally, your eyes.
Your breath hitches in your throat. Similar to his voice, his gaze turns heads. When he looks at you, he somehow makes you feel like you're the only one in the room.
You return his fixed stare, blinking a couple of times, hoping he'll look away soon. BecauseĀ that lookĀ makes you sweat even more, profusely in fact- it makes you shift in your seat, it makes tingles run through your entire being.
Professor Turner raises a challenging eyebrow when neither of you looks away. You purposefully let your tongue stick out and wet your lips, and his eyes instantly shift, if only for a fraction of a second. His eyes are on you again, and he opens his mouth, "something unclear, Miss?"
"No," you mouth, gently shaking your head. His dark brown eyes leave yours, and you release the breath you didn't know you were holding in. Professor Turner quietly takes out a stack of papers from his briefcase and seems to start grading exams. You know his red pen all too well from endless scribbles on your assignments and exams, some praising words, some corrections. You can't help but admire the way his hand is holding the pen, his fingers strong and thick, and you involuntarily press your thighs together.
The girl next to you drops something and you jump from the sudden noise, disturbing you from your day dream. Professor Turner's attention is on her for a short moment, and you watch how his eyes shift to your legs again. He seems in thought, twiddling the pen between his fingers.
A sudden boost of confidence curses through you and you uncross your legs slowly, pretending not to notice his burning gaze on you, and you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. In the process, it rides up your thigh even more, and you spread your legs just a little wider.
You don't dare look at him. Instead, you take your provocation one step further and bring your hand to your neck, imagining it was his hand wrapping around it. You squeeze a little before sitting upright and stretching your back and your arms above your head. The movement makes your short top slip further up your chest, and you feel how it almost reveals the lower part of your breasts. Again, you lick your lips while you look down on your papers, biting your cheek at the sight of your peaked nipples that are clearly visible through your shirt.
Slowly, you lift your eyes from your table until they're met with Professor Turner's. Your eyes meet his and you freeze. Suddenly, you're not sweating anymore. You feel cold, ice cold. His gaze is firmly trained on you, and it's a warning one. It tells you everything you need to know. You see how he's clenching his fist above the desk, so firmly his knuckles are turning white. A vein in his neck is sticking out.
Oh fuck.
You advert your gaze, trying to focus on your assignment again, but it's no use. Cold sweat trickles down your back, and your pulse is hammering against the skin in your neck.
The rest of the lecture feels endless, like torture. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours. You manage to write a few words, but they're most likely utter bullshit and no use anyway.
Finally, Professor Turner stands up from his chair, and as usual he has everyone's attention. "Class dismissed," he announces, "enjoy the sunshine."
You sigh, relieved the lecture is eventually over. Everyone hurriedly packs up and leaves the room between chatter and laughs, and you stand up, gathering your belongings. Just as you're at the door, a deep voice calls your name.
Hesitating, you turn around. He's not looking at you, no, he's neatly stacking up his papers and lets them slide into his briefcase.
"My office in fifteen minutes. Don't be late."
A heavy lump forms in your throat, and you gulp, wanting to get rid of it, but it won't go away.
"Understood," you murmur, and leave the room. You rush to the nearest bathroom, and splash cold water onto your face. It does nothing to relieve the burning of your skin, but it does calm you down a little. You're in trouble. But, made your own bed and now you get to lie in it. Simple as that.
Your heart is beating out of your chest as you knock on Professor Turner's office door exactly fifteen minutes later. Your hand is shaking, your knees are wobbly, and your mouth is dry.
"Come in," sounds his deep voice from inside, and you slowly open the door and step inside.
Professor Turner is standing behind his desk. He takes off his blazer and opens the cufflinks of his immaculate white shirt with skilled fingers to roll up the sleeves.
"You wanted to see me, Sir?" It's the best you can say with your weak voice.
Professor Turner straightens his collar once again, "lock the door." His voice is harsh and unwavering, and it gives absolutely no room for backtalk.
You nod and do as you're told, turning the lock. Your ears are ringing from the thumping of your heartbeat. Dropping your bag to the floor, you lift your gaze to search for his.
He's standing there, arms crossed in front of his chest, the same look in his eyes from earlier. It makes you want to hide and curl up into a ball.
"Decided to provoke the shit out of me today I see?" He asks, but it's a rhetorical question. You don't answer, and you know he wouldn't want you to speak anyway, not without his permission.
"Shifting in your seat and wriggling your body in my face during a lecture? Silly little girl." He tuts, his eyes full of despite.
"You didn't think you'd get away with that, did you?"
You open your mouth to utter an answer, but he's having none of it.
"You know what happens now. Are you ready for your punishment?"
All you can do is nod.
He chuckles darkly, "prove it."
You know what to do. You step in front of his desk and shimmy out of your panties. You hand the flimsy piece of fabric to the man next to you, his authority and dominance unmistakable in this very moment. Once he's holding your panties in his hand, you lean over his desk, your chest pressed to the solid wood. And you wait.
Professor Turner inspects the dampened material carefully and hums, "I'm not convinced."
"Please, I- I'm ready, I swear, I..." you babble nervously.
He lets your panties disappear in the pockets of his slacks and wordlessly comes to stand behind you. His hand flies to your hair and gathers it into a makeshift ponytail, pulling harshly on it, making you whimper.
"How many times do I have to tell you: you speak when I give you permission."
You want to apologise, but speaking up now, even when it's meant to soothe him, will only result in him being even angrier.
His tight grip on your hair is hurting your neck, and you sigh when he finally releases it. Your head falls between your arms against the wood of his desk with yet another sigh. Professor Turner's hand comes to slide up your thigh, the feigned gentleness of his touch almost credible to you, before two of his fingers enter you without a warning. You jerk forward with a harsh gasp, clasping a hand over your mouth in an attempt not to moan. He curls his fingers once, before pulling them out as quickly as they've slid inside you.
"That's better," he smirks as he watches almost in awe how his fingers stick together, coated in your arousal. His other hand gathers your hair again, and he slips his fingers into your hot mouth. It almost makes you choke, but you close your eyes and swirl your tongue around his digits, tasting yourself on them.
"Good, that's done," Professor Turner releases your hair again and pushes your skirt all the way up so your bum is perfectly visible and within reach for him.
"Let me think," he drawls, "how many do you deserve for almost making a fucking fool out of me in front of twenty other students?"
It is again not a question for you to answer- instead, you close your eyes and hope it's a not number higher than fifteen. He'd given you fifteen before. It had been tough.
"I'm thinking twenty," Professor Turner contemplates out loud, "but I'm willing to negotiate." His hand runs over the flesh of your bum, squeezing.
"Now, my naughty little brat, what's your offer?" He walks over to his desk and opens a drawer. You know what's inside that drawer, and it once again makes your breath hitch.
"Well?"
You take a deep breath, you offer better be good. "Eight with your hand, three with the ruler, and I make you cum with my mouth."
Silence hangs in the air. Gut-wrenching silence. After what feels like minutes, Professor Turner scoffs.
"No," he says simply, "try again."
That would've been too easy.
"Ten with your hand, five with the ruler, and I make you cum twice."
"Hmm," he walks up and down behind you, clearly basking in the feeling of making you wait, "is that enough for what you put me through earlier?"
You know he's gonna say no, so you speak up again, bravely, "and I bring you my panties each morning for a week."
He stops behind you, "for a week?" You hear him laugh dryly, "you're willing to walk around campus without panties for a whole week?"
You're throbbing, most likely your arousal is leaking out of you, mixed with your sweat, "yes, Sir."
"Deal," he chuckles, evidently pleased with your offer, "let's begin, then."
No matter how filthy and dirty the situation, Professor Turner manages to keep his composure, verbally and physically. He never slips, he never stumbles over his words, he's always controlled.
"Although, how you want to endure five with the ruler I don't know. Remember last time? You said your safe word after two slaps."
"I-I can take it," you stammer, wanting nothing more than to make him proud, to call you a good girl. That, unfortunately, is a term he barely uses. Only if you wereĀ reallyĀ good. He would always say that he is not going to praise you excessively.
"Oh, you will," he smirks, coming to stand behind you, "count."
A firm slap of his hand lands on your right butt cheek. It makes you gasp, he doesn't ease you into it, he dives right in. The first four slaps are usually bearable, it's the last ones that are problematic.
"One," you say, biting your lip.
Professor Turner delivers five hard slaps with his hand before he pauses, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. Your skin is of a crimson red, and he can almost see the faint outlines of his handprint from the last time five days ago. It makes him smirk.
Slap six to ten are getting increasingly painful and harder to endure, as predicted. You clench your fists, counting out loud with every slap he delivers on your already aching skin.
"Well," Professor Turner growls, "that's looking quite pretty. Nice and red. Do you have anything to say?"
He's inquiring if you want to say one of your safe words, but you're not going to cave in this time.
"No," you croak.
"Right," he moves to pick up the ruler from his desk, which he had placed right in front of you before so you could very well see what was coming for you while you endured his first ten slaps.
Professor Turner's hands slides between your legs again, and he slips the fingertips of two digits inside you once more. It makes you whimper and wanting to push back against him.
"Good," he hums, satisfied when he sees you're still soaking wet for him-another confirmation to proceed with his punishment.
It's only five slaps, you tell yourself,Ā it's going to be over in no time.
Professor Turner delivers his first slap without a warning. You squirm, supressing the whimper you want to voice at the sharp, stinging pain in your backside.
"Count." His voice is the only thing that can soothe your nerves at least a little, and the anticipation of having him inside you later. In your mouth or your pussy, you don't care.
"One," you mutter, squirming again when the ruler comes in contact with your skin for a second time.
"Two."
The third slap almost makes you tear up. He spanks you with such a force that your body urges forward each time.
"Three." Only two more.
You have to admit it hurts. A lot. You don't even want to think about how the skin on your bum looks, because it would intensify the pain tenfold.
"Four." A tear spills from your eye. Just one more. You bite your cheek to brace yourself, but nothing happens.
"That's enough," Professor Turner declares behind you.
"What- I, no!" You exclaim on the verge of tears, "please, I can take it!"
"I said it's enough." He rubs his hand over the stinging flesh.
You don't understand, why did he stop? It's frustrating, you almost did it! While you're still in your thoughts wondering why he would do such a thing, be so mean, you hear his trousers fall to the ground behind you. His hand grabs your hips and the next second his tip nudges your entrance. A gasp falls from your lips, which turns into a drawn-out moan when he pushes his thick cock all the way inside you. It fills you to the brim, and Professor Turner gives you no time to adjust. No, instead he slides his hand down your thigh and pushes it higher so it's sitting on his desk. The new angle makes you wince when he begins to plough his hips against yours. The slight pain definitely weakens the soreness of your bum, and it blends into pleasure promptly.
"Good girl," he praises, which makes your eyes roll back along with a powerful thrust, "looking so pretty, taking all of me." His fingers are sinking into your flesh, pulling you against him with every merciless move of his hips, "your lovely red butt cheek, makes me want to fucking wreck you. This is what you get being a fucking annoying brat."
You moan and whimper, trying to hold onto his desk but there's nothing within reach. He feels so good, hitting that spot inside you every time that has your mind going hazy, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone words or sentences. His movements are urgent, rough, and it's evident his only goal his to climax. But you don't mind, it's the dynamic the two of you had developed, and you know he will reward you soon enough.
Professor Turner's moans are getting heavier, you can tell he's close, and from the way he's gripping your hips you know it's gonna be any second now.
"Please, Sir," you encourage him, "need you to cum inside me, need you to fill me up."
That's what does it for him. Curse words and profanities leave his lips as he cums inside you with a couple of stuttering thrusts before he stills his movements completely. You moan as you feel his hot cum paint our walls, sticky and tingly inside you.
"Fuck," he mutters before he pulls out of you, "you can stand up."
Your leg hurts when you remove it from his desk and so does your back, so you stretch your arms above your head with a sigh.
As you turn around, you see your professor pull his trousers back up. You frown.
"That's it for now," he explains as he sees your puzzled expression, "go home."
He's full of surprises today. First he doesn't go through with his slaps and now he passes up on a second orgasm?
"But-" you begin, and he tuts.
"Don't manoeuvre yourself into even more trouble, little one. I'll see you at my house tonight. We'll continue this then, I have somewhere to be."
Oh.
"Okay," you reply, nodding and fixing your outfit, "can I have my panties back, please?"
The professor responds with a snarl, "excuse me?"
"I..."
"No, you can't. You can remember me all the way home now. Are you taking the bus?" He laughs, revelling in the idea, "you're gonna stain the seats with my cum,Ā oh, what a joyful sight that would be."
"Can I at least get a tissue? Please?"
Your pathetic attempt is met with another chuckle, "get out. Be at my house at 8:30 tonight."
Defeated, you sigh. It's no use, so you quietly, obediently grab your bag from next to the door and unlock it.
"Bring the purple plug," Professor Turner adds before you can open the door.
Your eyes go wide. He's bought you an assortment of butt plugs, three of them, in different sizes and colours. The purple one being the large one.
"Of course, professor," you agree with a feeble voice, already feeling his cum trickling out of your abused hole.
He chuckles meanly as he sees you squirm, "get home safe."
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Can you please write something about Javier PeƱa taking care of a little kid? Maybe babysitting for the Murphys when Olivia is a little older (toddler or preschool age, so that they can talk to each other). Or finding a little girl on the job and protecting her as a witness? Please please, I promise Iāll comment on it! :)
Every time you stepped out from the kitchen your eyes flickered anxiously from face to face. It was Oliviaās birthday party and you knew that Steve invited Javier too. What you were unsure about was whether you were ready to see him again.Ā
It seemed he wonāt make it. You heard he retired after he unveiled the connections behind the Cali cartel. He may have begun a whole new life in Texas and he is not at all interested in old friends.
Maybe you better never see him again, you thought as you walked to the table to pick up the dirty dishes when you heard the unmistakable, dark, warm-toned voice. Your heart jumped into your throat.
āY/N?ā Javier approached you with a wide smile on his face. He wore a bright shirt with jeans. His face was fuller, his mustache leaner than you remembered, but his eyes did not change anything.
āJavier.ā You smiled back at him and let out the breath you had been holding.
āItās so nice to see you. How are you?ā He said biting his lips toĀ contain his excitement.
āIām good.ā You nodded awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. āNothingĀ much going on. Just working a lot, soā¦ Iām good. How are you?ā
āI miss you.ā He answered honestly and your eyes grew suddenly wide, and your breath caught in your throat. āSorry, Iā¦ I didnāt want toā¦ā He added, obviously embarrassed at the startled look on your face.
āJavi?ā You said in a small, frightened voice.
The bedroom was dark and would be quiet if not for that rattling sound startled you awake. You moved into your boyfriendās apartment a few weeks ago but you still couldnāt get used to him coming home late.
āGoddamned buckle!ā Javier cursed as he finally got rid of his jeans. āSorry, Iā¦ didnāt want to wake you up.ā His voice was darker than usual and it sounded weak somehow.
āAreā¦ Are you ok?ā You sat up in bed and threw a hand over your eyes, blinking in pain as you turned on the light on the nightstand.
He drew in a long breath as if he was about to speak but no words came. He slumped his back against the wall and rub a finger across his eyes. He wasnāt ok.
āOh, babe!ā You said softly. āCome here.ā
He moved like a ghost as he walked across the room. Pale, languid and silent. He lifted the white sheet and snuggled down into the warm bed beside you. His body curled up to yours and he shoved his head under your chin.
āWhat happened?ā You asked and felt his embrace tighten around you. He took a shaky breath and that was all he could offer as an answer but it was enough for you to understand.
āItās ok, babe. You donāt have to talk about it.ā
Before you came into his life his job was his everything and sometimes he wondered how his life would be without you. He was glad and he was genuinely grateful that you were there to him. You were always there to him.
He moved his head to raise his bloodshot eyes to yours. Those pure, glowing brown eyes you had learned to read so well over the years. They were always rich, full of emotions but now you saw nothing. Nothing but grief.
You didnāt expect him to kiss you back when you placed a light peck on his lips but he kissed you back with need. You could feel the taste of whiskey on his tongue as he deepened the kiss and when his body weighed onĀ you, pressing you down as his hands pinned yours above your head you couldnāt help the soft, choked noise that escaped you.Ā
āJavi?ā You shuddered faintly at the sensation of his lips moving across your neck to your cleavage. But he didnāt stop nor look at you.
He pulled the straps of your nightgown from your shoulder and lowered it untilĀ exposing the soft swell of your breasts. He was raw and passionate and there was something in his pretentious manner that filled you with want.
With your thighs spread wide around his hips, he tugged his strong hand under the hem of your gown and you felt a surge of heat to flood your body.
āFuck!ā You whimpered out in pure delight. His touch felt rough but pleasant against your unclothed clit.
His erection was ridiculously hard in a second after he freed it from his underwear but you could feel it grow harder as you wrapped your fingers around it. He gently knocked his head against yours as he leveled himself at your entrance. His eyes bored into yours and your hands moved to frame his face but you could not keep your eyes open when you felt him slowly slid into you.
He tried to muffle a raspy gasp at the feeling of your walls clenching around him but he couldnāt. He shuddered between your thighs as he began to move and it didnāt take long for him to pick up a merciless rhythm.
His thrusts were powerful and rough as he pounded you against the bed and your breathy moans against his ears drove him closer to his ecstasy. He groaned aloud and his body shook. He came hard, exploding himself into you like it was all he had.Ā
His body quickly went lump, putting all its weight over yours as he pulled himself out of you. He rolled to his side and leaned on his elbow, trying to take control of his rapid breaths as he watched you rearranging your gown.
āIām sorry, Iā¦ā
āSssh!ā You shushed him kindly putting a finger on his lips. There was nothing to apologize for. He was a sinner and you were his redemption.
āI love you so much.ā He whispered warmly against your finger then grabbed your hand to lay a soft, lingering kiss onto your palm.
You couldnāt help the wide smile that formed on your face and it was the first time on that night when you saw him smiling back at you. Smiling with a smile which ignited life back in his mourning eyes.
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The whiskey convinced him you wouldnāt show tonight. But you did. Wearing that dress. He watches you cross the room, feels his pants growing tighter at the sight of you. His eyes linger. So do yours. You offer the first smile. He finishes it.
