Beloved Sandworm Of The Desert

He buries his face in the soft fabric of your dress, the one you wear whenever you want to tease him—with the the hem that hits right at the middle of your thighs, the hem that slides up just a little when you plop down on the couch beside him. He's on you as soon as he sees it, fallen for the bait like he's stupid.

God. There's something about you that makes him stupid.

You pause, folding the book in your hands closed around your index finger, keeping your place.

"Eddie?"

He hums, burying his face further into your stomach, his glasses nudging themselves up over his forehead. He's buzzing with want, shot through with a drug-like high when he thinks about what you're wearing beneath the thin fabric, wondering if it's one of his favorite pairs. Or if you're wearing anything at all.

"What are you doing?"

You grip his chin in your free hand when he doesn't respond, lifting his face so you can see his eyes. Your fingers press indents into his rounded cheeks. He used to be embarrassed by them, used to wonder when he'd grow out of all this baby fat. Now he sees them for the blessing they always were—any part of him you're willing to touch is holy.

Eddie knows he must be red-faced, and teary-eyed, looking like he's about to bawl if he doesn't get his way.

Your fingers squeeze tighter, just hard enough to sting. "Use your words, Eddie."

"Wanna taste you," he mumbles, voice distorted by your grip, "need it."

You drop your hand from his face with a soft scoff, and he presses into you once again. Your skirt has ridden up a little more with the shift of your hips, high enough he can brush his lips against skin, taste it on his tongue. He squirms, body feeling too large to be contained. Fuck.

"God, Eddie. Aren't you desperate?"

"Mhm," he mumbles. His mouth is busy, sucking wet kisses along the inside of your thigh, rubbing his face on every inch of you he can reach.

You laugh, high and musical, shifting your hips more comfortably into the couch. "You're pathetic."

You aren't being mean, when you say the words. Just stating the facts. He nods, cheeks flushed, his little whimpers muffled by your skin. Yes, I'm pathetic. He thinks. If loving you makes me pathetic, I'll never be anything else.

He hears the dry scratch of a page turning and your heaving sigh, but that doesn't matter because you're spreading open your legs, one thigh resting against his shoulder, the tips of your toes on the other foot just brushing against the carpet.

There's grey cotton between your thighs, and his tongue darts over thin lips when he sees the little damp spot that covers your cunt. It's a reminder that—as much as you pretend you don't want this—you like it. It gets you off—teasing him, making him beg. He's so fucking lucky you even let him touch you, let alone enjoy it. He could spend the rest of his life on his hands and knees, would let you use him as a coffee table, and he'd still feel like the luckiest man alive.

Desperate fingers trail up your thighs, slipping beneath the hem of your underwear. You pull him back with a hand in his hair.

"Leave them on."

God, you're not even looking at him. Your eyes don't move from the page. He bucks his hips against the overstuffed couch cushion. He's rock hard, lightheaded. He's not going to last.

You release him from your grip and he melts into you, hoping to make something of the moments he has—breathing in the scent of your arousal, tasting the leftover hints of your detergent as he presses his tongue against your center, wetting the fibers with his spit, turning the fabric darker as his tongue slides deeper. He buries his nose between your folds and laps urgently at your cunt.

You don't react. Don't move at all. Why would you? He has to work for it, if he wants to make you feel good. Has to earn it.

He mouths at the damp cotton, head pillowed against your your thigh, the only sound his own heavy breathing and the rustling of paper. His tongue finds your clit through the fabric, and it's the first reaction you offer him—a slight hum, the settling of your hips, and, best of all, your hand coming to rest in his hair.

You stroke your fingers through his sandy strands as he kisses and licks at your clit. You're barely touching him at all, and it's still too much, the thrill of your notice, of this small act of praise sinking straight to his groin. He whines, slipping one hand down to cup his cock, bucking into it.

He's seconds away from cumming, feels the sparks of his self-immolation. He knows it, and you must know it, too. You push his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, but he still can't see anything, vision blurry with tears.

"Be quiet, Eddie. I'm trying to read."

That's what does him in. He reaches his peak, body aching with the weight of his need for you, cumming in his pants like a fucking teenager, soaking the fabric of his jeans with a moan and a sob.

He gasps for air, and for a moment he's found it. The answer he's always been searching for. The heaven of your fingers in his hair and the taste of you on his lips.

"Eddie?" He hears you, just barely past the roaring in his ears. Perks up his head, a watery smile on his face.

"Yes?" He'd die for you, if you asked it. He'd kill for you.

You press down harshly at the back of his head, burying him against your cunt, holding him there.

"Did I say you could stop?"

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