yee haw

On any given night, however, you typically haven’t gone at it for hours. Once Matty was off the stage, your hands were on him, pawing at his chest, inching your way into the waistband of his trousers, toying at the elastic of his briefs, your fingers dipping into the front to give him a solid squeeze as his mouth found yours in the elevators out of the venue. Matty hurried you into the car and out of the venue, fighting every urge to groan from the backseat of the car, his hands squeezing at your thighs as you whisper every single thing you want to do to him all the way back to the hotel. He nearly ripped your shirt from your body, tearing it off your torso with a laugh, “Not quite true, is it, love?”, the sex with you sucks logo falling to a heap on the ground quietly. His hands unbuttoned your jeans with ease, his hand sliding through the front of your underwear with an ease that said, we’ve done this far too many times, but we’ll never stop.

Clothes strewn messily on the floor, an opened wine bottle splayed on the bedside table, a pack of cigarettes opened with an ashtray ready, the lighter set nearby. Matty falls on the mattress beside you, his chest heaving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. He knows, just by the spring in your step and the look on your face, you’re not done with him quite yet, and he wants to regain his strength before going again. He can keep up. He has no issue keeping up with you. He doesn’t have a show tomorrow either, so he has all the time in the world to recover, but the pull of a cigarette and a glass of water would do him well.

“Can you grab me one, baby?”

“Cig or water?” you say, grabbing a water for yourself and playing with the carton on the counter, grabbing a cigarette and putting it in your mouth, lighting it quickly before tossing the water to him. “I’ve got both.” Matty sits up slightly, a pillow propped behind him, letting the water fall down his throat smoothly, his eyes never leaving you as you stare out the open window and nurse the burning cigarette between your lips.

“Get back here,” he says sternly, raising his eyebrows when you narrow your eyes. “Please?”

“That’s what I thought.” His chest is shining with sweat, the definition of his abdomen begging to be traced and touched. His thighs are tense, moving ever so slightly to adjust you when you straddle him, his cock already growing hard beneath you. “Already ready to go again, huh?”

“Give me a smoke and maybe I’ll go again.”

“Feel like the participating party involved is ready without the smoke.”

Matty laughs, a smile spread across his lips as he admires you on him, lazily dragging the cigarette from your lips and letting the smoke puff out in a cloud around you. “Thought I told you to stop smoking. It’s a bad habit for your pretty lungs. Got to keep them healthy to keep you around for a long time.”

“Could say the same to you, Mr. Musician. You’re the one that sings for a living. I write my silly little novels and essays and call it a day.”

“They’re not silly. I hate that you call it that.”

“I just don’t see it the way that you do, baby. That’s all. Nothing special.”

Matty clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “It’s incredibly special. I love when you write. I love what you write. And I especially love when you write about me,” he hums, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek, your jaw, his voice getting lower and lower as he continues kissing down your neck. His voice is sultry and smooth, sexy in all the right ways. He knows what he’s doing, his hands pressing into your body the way that he knows you like. “Does that count for anything?” His mouth is soft against your neck, kissing all the way down your skin and to your shoulder, nipping at your collarbone and moving his face down ever so slightly to connect with your chest. "Now you’ve gone quiet, hm?”

“Matty,” you whisper breathily, fingertips laced through his curls, tugging harshly at the root as he sucks on your breast, kissing between the valley of your chest to connect with the other side. “God.” Cigarette smoke pools above your head, the ashes of the butt beginning to fade.

“Say that you’re special. I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m special,” you moan, your head knocking back against your neck, your eyes squeezing shut as you lift onto your knees and whine at the feeling of his cock brushing against you, his hand guiding himself in as you settle on him, once again. “God, I’m special, if you say so.”

Matty groans at the feeling of you bouncing on him, the rhythm you keep so steady and enjoyable for the both of you he nearly forgets the cigarette in your mouth. He reaches for it, bringing it to his lips. “Stay with me. Never leave.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause I’m fucking you,” you laugh breathily, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Honestly, you didn’t care why he was saying it, if Matty asked you to stay, you’d never leave. That’s something that waiting years for him taught you, once you have him, don’t let him go.

Matty puffs out a smoke, “Never. It’s because I love you.”

“How am I supposed to have filthy sex with you when you’re professing your love for me?” you laugh, the smile on your lips permanent and fixed. He’s been yours for so long, it’s hard to remember what your smile felt like before he was giving it to you, before he was the one behind it.

“Don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Matty leans forward slightly to put the cigarette in the ashtray, his hands coming to cup your face and kiss you deeply.

He’s everywhere. He’s inside of you, and kissing you, and holding you, and making your heart warm and your vision fuzzy. He’s somehow the reason the world turns and the reason it stops turning. He’s the sunrise and the sunset, the moon and the stars. “I love you,” you say; that’s all you can say.