You've babysat for families before, but never for Matt. That's what made you say yes when he calledâwell, that and the money. He'd been polite on the phone, a little rushed, explaining that his wife was out of town and he just needed someone to keep an eye on his daughter for a few hours. Nothing complicated.
When you showed up at his door, though, polite went out the window.
He's taller than you remembered from seeing him around the neighborhood. Broad shoulders, light brown hair that falls over his forehead a little. Wearing a simple henley that stretches across his chest when he leans against the doorframe to greet you. His smile is easy. Warm. The kind that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.
"Right on time," he says, stepping aside to let you in. His voice is low, casual, but his eyes drag over you onceâjust onceâbefore he turns away.
You tell yourself you imagined it.
He gives you the tour. Kitchen. Bathroom. His daughter Lily is already camped out on the couch with a tablet, barely looking up. "She's easy," he says, shrugging on a jacket. "Bed by nine. Don't let her talk you into staying up laterâshe's got a tell."
You laugh. He smiles at the sound, holding your gaze a beat too long.
"Help yourself to anything," he adds, grabbing his keys. "Wine's in the fridge. I'll be back by midnight."
Then he's gone, and you're alone in his house, trying not to think about the way he said help yourself like he meant something else.
The night is easy. Lily goes down right at nine, just like he said. You watch TV, scroll your phone, eat some of their expensive crackers. By eleven, you're starting to think he'll be late. By eleven-thirty, you're wondering if you should text him.
Then you hear itâkeys in the lock.
The door opens slower than you expected. Matt steps inside, and you can tell immediately. He's not wasted, not stumbling, but there's something different about him. His movements are loose. His eyes are slightly glassy. He smells like whiskey and cold air when he passes the couch.
"Hey," he says, voice rougher than before. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over a chair, running a hand through his hair. "Everything okay?"
"She's asleep," you say. "Was fine."
"Good. Good." He nods, but he doesn't go upstairs. Instead, he walks over to the couch. Drops down on the other end. Then shifts closer.
Your heart starts beating faster.
"Long night?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
He turns his head to look at you, and his gaze is different now. Heavier. His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second. "Long enough. Kind of glad to be home, actually."
"Yeah." He says it like he's not talking about the babysitting at all. His hand rests on the cushion between youâclose enough that his pinky grazes your thigh. "You look comfortable."
You swallow. "Just watching TV."
"Mm." He tilts his head, studying you. The air between you feels thick, charged. He's not moving his hand. You're not moving away. "You always this pretty when you babysit, or is tonight special?"
Your breath catches. "Mattâ"
He smiles, slow and lazy. "What? I'm just saying."
You should stop this. You should stand up, get your stuff, tell him to go to bed. But his thumb is brushing against your leg now, back and forth, and you can't make yourself move.
"You have a wife," you finally say. Quiet. Almost a warning.
Matt's smile doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens. His fingers press in just slightly, and his voice drops lower.
The words hang there between you, and something in your chest dropsâor rises, you canât tell anymore. His fingers are still on your thigh, light but sure, and heâs looking at you like heâs already decided how this ends.
âMatt,â you try again, but it comes out breathier than you want.
âSâjust a word,â he murmurs. ââWife.â Doesnât change whatâs happening right now.â
His hand slides up, just an inch. His thumb grazes the hem of your shorts.
You should stop him but you donât.
Instead, you watch his faceâthose blue eyes gone dark around the edges, that light brown hair falling over his forehead. Heâs close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and sweet. Close enough that when he speaks again, his lips almost brush your ear.
âYou been thinkinâ about it,â he says. Not a question. âSaw you lookinâ at me earlier. In the kitchen.â
Your face heats. âI wasnâtââ
âSâokay.â He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his smile is lazy, knowing. âMânot mad. Kinda like it.â
His hand moves again, palm flat against your thigh now. You feel every finger. Your pulse is pounding somewhere low and deep.
âTell me what you want,â he says.
Your mouth opens. Closes. âIââ
âDonât be shy, baby.â The word baby hits you like a match to gas. âYou heard what you heard, didnât you? Friend of a friend. Talkinâ âbout me.â
Your eyes widen. He laughs soft, low in his throat.
âYeah. I know what people say.â His hand squeezes your thigh once, firm. âWanna find out for yourself?â
Youâre nodding before you can think. His smile sharpens.
âThatâs what I thought.â
He kisses you like heâs been waiting all night. One hand tangles in your hair, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer until youâre half in his lap. His mouth is hot, a little messy from the drinks, and it makes everything spin faster. You make a sound against his lipsâsurprise, want, youâre not sureâand he swallows it.
âShh,â he breathes. âLilyâs asleep upstairs. Gotta be quiet, yeah?â
You nod again, dizzy. He kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing that spot that makes your back arch.
âMâright here.â His voice is rougher now, strained. âMânot goinâ anywhere.â
He stands, pulling you up with him. Your legs feel shaky. He noticesâsmiles againâand hooks a finger into the waistband of your shorts, tugging you toward the hallway.
âNot the bedroom,â he murmurs. âThatâs hers. Couchâs fine.â
The couch. The one youâve been sitting on all night. He pushes you down gently, then follows, hovering over you, one arm braced by your head. The lamp light makes his eyes look almost silver.
âYou still got time to change your mind,â he says, but his hand is already sliding up your shirt, palm flat against your stomach.
You pull him down by the neck of his henley.
âShut up,â you whisper.
He laughs againâlow, darkâand then his mouth is on yours, and his hand is moving lower, and thereâs nothing left to say.
His fingers find the button of your shorts, pop it open one-handed. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, teeth catching your bottom lip.
âTold you,â he murmurs against your skin. âGotta be quiet.â
You bite your lip hard. He watches your face as his hand slips inside, fingers dragging slow through the slick heat of your folds. His eyes go half-lidded.
âJesus,â he breathes. âThat for me?â
You canât answer. His thumb circles once, twice, and your hips roll up on their own. He makes a soundâlow, satisfiedâand dips his head to your neck again, biting down just hard enough to make you see stars.
âWanna feel you fall apart,â he says, voice muffled against your skin.
His fingers push inside youâslow, deliberateâand your back arches off the couch. He shushes you gently, lips brushing your ear.
âThatâs it, baby. Thatâs it.â
You grip his shoulders, his arms, anything you can hold onto. His pace picks up, his thumb working in tight circles, and you can feel it buildingâthat hot, sharp coil low in your belly.
âLook at me,â he says.
You force your eyes open. His blue gaze is locked on yours, intense, hungry.
âWanna see your face when you come,â he says. âCâmon. Give it to me.â
And you doâquiet, shaking, your mouth open in a silent cry as he works you through it, his fingers never stopping, his eyes never leaving yours.
He leans down when you finally go limp, kissing the corner of your mouth.
âGood girl,â he whispers. âBut weâre not done yet.â
His hands go to his belt. The metal clinks softly in the dark.
And from the way heâs looking at youâlike youâre something heâs about to devourâyou know he meant every word.
His belt slides free with a soft hiss of leather. You watch his fingers work the button of his jeans, and something about the way he does itâslow, unhurried, like he's got all nightâmakes your thighs press together.
Matt notices. Of course he notices.
"None of that," he murmurs, hooking his hands behind your knees and pulling you flat again. He spreads your legs open, settling between them, and the weight of him thereâstill clothed, still barely touching youâmakes your breath stutter.
"Look at you," he says, voice low and rough. His eyes drag down your body, stopping where your shorts hang open, where your chest is still heaving from the first orgasm he ripped out of you. "Already a mess. And I've barely started."
He pushes your shirt up higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs. His palm slides up your skin, rough and warm, until he reaches your breast. He squeezes onceâfirm, almost too muchâand your back arches into his hand.
"Shh." He leans down and sucks your nipple into his mouth, hard, and you bite your lip so hard you taste copper. His tongue flicks over the peak before he pulls off with a soft, wet sound. "Told you. Quiet."
His hand drops to your shorts again, tugging them down your hips. You lift your ass off the couch to help, and he laughs under his breathâa dark, appreciative sound.
"Eager," he notes. "I like that."
Your shorts hit the floor. Your panties follow a second later, discarded somewhere behind the couch. Cool air hits your slick skin and you shiver.
Matt sits back on his heels, still kneeling between your legs, and just looks at you.
It's almost unbearableâthe way his gaze drags over your bare thighs, the soft swell of your belly, the place between your legs where you know you're glistening. His jeans are undone, the top of his boxers visible, and there's a dark patch already soaking through the gray fabric.
"Christ," he breathes. He reaches out, one finger dragging through your foldsâjust one, light as a whisper. You jolt. "You're soaked."
Your face burns. He smears your wetness up to your clit, circling lazily, and your hips twitch.
"All soaked for me, hm?" His voice is almost sweet, which makes it worse. "Was it the kissin'? When I had my fingers inside you? Or were you like this before I even walked through the door?"
You can't answer. His finger keeps moving, slow and torturous, not giving you enough pressure to chase anything.
"I asked you a question," he says, and his other hand presses down on your hip, pinning you to the couch. "Were you wet earlier? While you were sitting on my couch, waiting for me to come home?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, okay? Iâfuck, Mattâ"
"Yeah." He sounds satisfied. His finger dips lower, tracing your entrance, not pushing inâjust circling, teasing, making you ache. "I know. Saw the way you looked at me when you got here. All wide-eyed and polite like you weren't imagining what my hands would feel like on you."
He pushes one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, then pulls it back out. You whine.
"Thought about it, didn't you?" he murmurs. "What I'd do if I came home drunk and found you alone in my house."
Another finger circles your entrance. Slips in slightly. Withdraws.
"Maybe you wanted me to do this." He pushes both fingers in this timeâslow, deepâand your head falls back against the couch cushion. "Maybe you were hoping."
Your hands grab at his wrist, but not to stop him. To hold him there. He laughs soft and dark.
He fingers you slow at first, knuckle-deep, watching your face. Your mouth falls open. Your hips try to move but he holds you down with that firm grip on your hip, controlling the pace entirely.
"Sounds pretty," he murmurs, and you realize he's talking about the wet noise your body is making. "Fuck."
He pulls his fingers out entirely and you almost sob. But then he's sitting back, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you see himâthick, hard, the head flushed and leaking.
"See something you want?" he asks, stroking himself once, slow. His eyes never leave yours.
"Yes," you whisper. "Please."
He moves over you, one hand braced by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. You feel him thereâthe blunt heat of him pressing against your soaked foldsâand your whole body tenses in anticipation.
He pushes in just an inch. Stops.
You do. His blue eyes are nearly black in the dim light, his jaw tight.
"This what you wanted?" he asks, voice strained. "When you came over tonight?"
"Good." He thrusts forwardâone hard, deep stroke that buries him to the hilt. Your back arches off the couch, a cry tearing from your throat before you can stop it. He slaps a hand over your mouth, not hard, but firm.
"Quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear. "Or I'll have to stop."
You shake your head frantically. He smiles.
He pulls back almost all the wayâjust the head of him stretching your entranceâthen slams back in. The couch creaks beneath you. His hand stays over your mouth, muffling your gasps as he sets a brutal paceâdeep, fast, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
"Fuck," he grits out. "Feel that? Feel how tight you are? Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
You can't answer. You can barely breathe. He's so deepâdeeper than you expectedâand every stroke hits something that makes your vision blur.
He shifts his angle, hips driving harder, and the sound of itâwet skin, his low groans, your muffled criesâfills the dark room.
"You like it rough, don't you?" He's not really asking. His hand moves from your mouth to your throatânot squeezing, just resting there, thumb pressing into the hollow of your collarbone. "Like when I take what I want."
You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He leans down and licks one off your cheekbone.
He pulls out suddenlyâso suddenly you whimper at the emptinessâand flips you onto your stomach. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, pushing your face into the couch cushion.
"Hands behind your back," he says.
You obey. He grabs your wrists with one hand, holding them pinned, and kicks your legs wider apart with his knee. You feel him at your entrance againâslick, readyâand then he pushes back inside you in one long, brutal stroke.
The new angle makes you see stars. He's deeper like this, hitting a spot that makes your toes curl, and with your hands trapped behind you, you can't do anything but take it.
"That's it," he groans, fucking into you with hard, steady strokes. "That's it, baby. Take all of it."
His free hand grips your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The couch is rough against your cheek. You're drooling onto the cushion, every thrust pushing a broken sound out of your throat.
"Knew you'd be like this," he mutters, pace quickening. "Knew you'd take it so good. All that sweet politeness just hiding a dirty little thing underneath."
He lets go of your wrists. Before you can move, his hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.
"Open," he says. You do. He shoves two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck."
You close your lips around his fingers, tasting salt and skin and something that might be you. He groans, hips stuttering.
"Fuck, yeah. Just like that."
He fucks you harder nowârougher, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet houseâand you can feel yourself getting close again. Your fingers claw at the couch cushions. His grip in your hair tightens.
"You gonna come again?" he asks, voice ragged. "Gonna soak my cock like a good little babysitter?"
You moan around his fingers. He pulls them out of your mouth and wraps his arm around your chest, hauling you up against him. You're on your knees now, back pressed to his chest, and he's still inside youâso deepâone hand splayed across your stomach, the other gripping your jaw, turning your head so he can bite your shoulder.
"Come for me," he growls in your ear. "Now."
The command breaks you. You come with a silent scream, body shuddering, clamping down around him so hard he curses. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, his hips slamming into yours with desperate, uneven thrusts.
"Inside," you gasp. "I'm onâI'm on the pill, justâ"
He groans, low and wrecked, and you feel him pulse inside youâhot, thick, filling you as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there, shaking against your back.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Then he exhales, slow and shaky, and presses a kiss to the back of your neck. Almost tender.
His arms loosen. He pulls out carefully, and you feel the warm trickle of him sliding down your inner thigh.
"Stay," he murmurs. "I'll get something to clean you up."
You collapse onto the couch, legs trembling, and listen to his bare footsteps pad toward the kitchen.
The house is quiet again.
Lily is still asleep upstairs.
And you're already thinking about next weekend.
A/N- I hope everyone enjoyed @chriss-slutt said this was the best smut iâve ever written so đ„č letâs hope itâs up to everyone expectations. Any likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated if anyone has any requests please send them in!!
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