#cliff booth

You tried to follow the newscaster's voice but he was talking so quickly and you were quite distracted. Could anyone blame you? Cliff was looking ravishing. Maybe it was the result of heat radiating through the metal of the cadillac but damn, you felt hot. Even though the windows were rolled down and fresh air streamed inside, it could not be described as anything other than scorching.

You could see a faint layer of sweat on his skin as well. He was wearing his infamous yellow hawaiian shirt, his chest exposed just enough to make your mouth water but not enough to be considered indecent in public. A drop of sweat had collected at his brow, threatening to roll off his temple, slowly, teasingly.

You tried to look out the opened window, to take in the view, concentrate on anything else but Cliff’s hands pulled you back into heat like a vortex. He was driving with one hand on the wheel, his other arm propped on the window sill. His veins popped out deliciously. Just like they do when he fingers you into oblivion. You just wanted to lick up and down his arms and -

“You good, sweetheart?” Shit. Cliff had noticed your staring and uneasy energy, his lips curled up into a slight smirk. “I’m fine, just…a little hot.” You shuffled restlessly in your seat, eventually sticking your arm outside the window in the hopes of catching a cooling breeze.

He chuckled, knowing exactly what type of heat you were experiencing. It wasn’t the first time you had spaced out looking at him while he was driving. Usually that meant you would jump at him the moment you both arrived home and closed the door to his trailer. But this time something felt…different. More desparate.

“How long until we arrive home?” you ask, clenching your thighs together, secretly hoping he notices. “About 20 minutes. If we’re lucky. The way this line moves we might be stuck for a while.” He replies while looking at the long line of cars in front of you. You pause internally and contemplate on what to do. You need him. So bad. Right. Now. What if-

Your breath hitches and you turn your body towards him, staring at him seductively. His head turns to you, displaying a raised brow. The drop of sweat has now finally started its descent down his handsome face. His expression is a mix of confusion and daring you to go on.

“You want me to suck your cock?”

Silence. For a short moment you regret asking but the thought quickly fades as he chuckles, turning his head away from you. Was he blushing? He turned towards you again, this time studying your face. After breathing in and out deeply, he says:

”Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Grinning from ear to ear he shifts his hips forward, making himself more comfortable for the upcoming event. You smile and bite your lip enticingly. Your gaze shifts from his beautiful eyes down to his chest. Your hand slowly makes its way underneath his hawaiian shirt, across his pecs, playing a little with his silver blond hair.

His ribcage moves up and down slighlty more intensely than usual. Satisfied your fingers head down his biceps. Ellbow. Forearm. Eventually reaching the steady hand he has on the wheel. He loosens his grip slightly upon your touch and you gently tug on his fingers. He gets the hint and replaces his steering arm with the other, letting you take his hand. You lead it to your mouth slowly but surely.

You take his index finger in your mouth, keeping eye contact with the rugged man sitting next to you. He can’t help but smile at you, excitement for whats to come coursing through his veins.

The air is thick. Humid. Tension high. By now you are sucking on two fingers like an ice lollipop. Holding onto his muscular forearm, you feel every callous in your mouth. A sign of Cliff’s dedication to his craft. Stunt work requires blood sweat and tears, a real commitment physically and mentally. The thought stirs something deep inside you and you decide to spend some extra love on each callous with your tounge.

Cliff keeps his eyes on the road, looking as cool as ever, as your tounge licks down the protruding veins on his forearm.

“I know you think I’m smoking hot, but you said you wanted to suck my dick, not my fingers.”

Your lips part from his skin and you let out a mischievous smile. Your panty is completely soaked already from all the work you have been doing on his muscular upper body.

“Patience. I am just getting started” you said, biting your lip while caressing his thighs. Both your hands move over his jeans, deliberately avoiding the area he wanted touched the most. His already hard thighs were even more tense than usual.

“Sweetheart, I'm too old to get teased like that.” He bucks his hips upwards exhaling slowly, a bit of impatience escaping his chill facade. You try to hide a succesful smile and move your hands towards his belt. One trained motion and the buckle was open.

It was hard to say who was more excited: you or him.

His cock springs free once you pull it out of his boxers. Veiny, girthy, perfect. A little drop of white had already collected at his reddened tip from the teasingly long wait.

Keeping your eyes locked onto his, you dive down and with one lick of your tongue the white drop disappears in your mounth. You can hear the squeaking sound of leather as Cliff tightens his grip on the wheel.

You take him into your mouth, bobbing up and down, taking him deeper inch by inch. With every bob you can feel his body relax and melt into the seat of the car. If he didn't have to keep his eyes on the road he would have closed them to revel in the sensation.

Spit drips down his shaft, making wet sounds with the guiding motions of your hands. The sounds were competing with the newscaster on the radio.

One hand still on the wheel, Cliff's other hand reaches down to support your head. He looks down endearingly at you. A look you don't see, too busy sucking his cock like it was your last day on earth.

You change your rhythm now and then, alternating between slow and fast. Sucking, licking, kissing. Using your lips to their fullest capabilities.

Honestly, you have no idea how long you've been down there, neither does Cliff. All you can think about is making him feel good and enjoying every bit of the process.

You have to moan when you take him as deep as you possibly can. The vibrations making your eyes turn to the back of your head.

“Shit.” Cliff says.

“I won't last much longer, sweetheart”.

You just hum in response, his shaft never leaving your mouth. You start twisting your hands, rotating them into opposite directions.

Cliff grunts, his body tensing up. His hips thrust upwards, making you moan in return. You continue your rhythm despite his slowly collapsing facade. He starts pushing your head down, firmly but not forcefully. And you anticipate what is coming next.

With an strained grunt and a tight grip on your hair, he spills into your mouth. You still your movements, looking at his face, with his mouth slightly open.

Once his raggard breathing has calmed down and you swallowed all of him, you find your lips locked onto his. Who initiated the kiss is hard to determine.

His tounge makes a distinct swipe in your mouth, with the mission to taste himself and make sure that everything has been swallowed.

Parting your lips, you lean back and pull your knees to your chest. A triumphant smile on your face.

“And? You cooled down a little?” Cliff asks visibly more relaxed than before. His hair slightly tousled. You loved this. The effect you have on him.

You shake your head. “Not even a little bit.”

He has to laugh at that and switches the radio to another channel. Music fills the car and you look out the window, daydreaming about the things he will do to cool you down once you arrive home.

• ────── ✾ ────── •

ֺ A – Aftercare

Cliff isn’t sappy in the slightest, let alone romantic. But he’s practical and protective. After sex, he offers you a clean shirt or covers you with a blanket so you don’t get cold. He makes sure you drink water, and if he notices you’re feeling sensitive, he’ll hold you in silence while he strokes your back.

B – Favorite body part (his and yours)

He loves his hands: strong, calloused, and precise, perfect for holding you or handling you at his own pace, leaving you marked exactly where he wants (often in visible spots just because he loves people knowing he fucked you. Seeing his fingerprints on your skin turns him on). On you (aside from your ass and tits, which are very important to him) he adores your hips; he loves how they fit in his hands and how they move under him.

C – Cum

He’s not worried about making a mess, but he prefers cumming inside if it’s safe, or on your stomach. Not a fan of swallowing in oral (he’s not into performative or overly dramatic stuff), but if it happens, he won’t complain. Though he does love seeing his cum dripping from your mouth down your chin and neck.

D – Dirty Secret

He fantasizes about fucking you in places where you could get caught, like a parked car on the side of the road or behind a bar, with just the right amount of risk. He loves the idea of you biting your hand to keep quiet. He adores public sex, but he’s still not sure about dragging you fully into that world.

E – Experience

Very experienced—his cock is well used. He knows exactly what he’s doing, where to touch, and when to change the pace. His experience comes from years of no-strings-attached sex and a few intense relationships. Even with Billie, the sex was incredible.

F – Favorite position

Any position where he can see your face and control the rhythm. He likes being on top, propped on one arm while the other hand explores your body, especially your tits. He loves seeing every expression on your face when he pushes himself even deeper inside you.

G – Goofy (humor during sex)

Not a laugher, but he’ll drop short, dry, double meaning lines that make you smirk in the middle of the heat. More the “You like that, huh?” type than long jokes. He does love to dirty talk you though. A “little slut” or “my good whore” is never out of place.

H – Hair

He doesn’t consciously style it, even if he somehow likes how it looks, but he doesn’t mind it getting messy while he’s fucking you. As for body hair, he keeps it natural; he just smells like a man. Thinks those metrosexual grooming habits some Hollywood guys have are total nonsense.

I – Intimacy

Not a verbal romantic, but in moments of real connection, he can look at you like you’re the only thing in the world. His way of showing intimacy is by staying, touching you calmly afterward, unhurried.

J – Jack off

Practical. He does it when he needs to, no rituals, usually thinking of you if it’s been a while since you saw each other, meaning his cock stays hard most of the day, so he has to relieve himself one way or another. Not something he does often; he prefers real contact since that relaxes him better, like a good blowjob, for example.

K – Kinks

He likes public sex, physical control (pinning your wrists, manipulating your body), and low, deep dirty talk. He also enjoys the daddy kink now that he’s older. Any dynamic where he feels like your superior turns him on. Call him “daddy” just once, anywhere, and he’ll be fucking you in an instant, doesn’t matter where you are.

L – Location

He loves places that mean something to him: his car, a cheap motel, or spots where he knows there won’t be interruptions (though that often contradicts his love for public sex). But if tension is high, he can make use of a busy spot with no problem.

M – Motivation

Seeing you deliberately tease him. If he senses you’re provoking or challenging him, he switches on fast, though it might lead to rough sex. He also gets turned on seeing you in tight clothing. He loves lingerie on you, but will probably tear it off anyway, and will make sure to buy you more later.

N – NO

He doesn’t like losing complete control of the situation. Not a fan of games that put him in a physically or mentally vulnerable spot. He likes you riding him, but he’d never let you tie him up unless he’s extremely drunk.

O – Oral

Skilled and patient when it comes to eating you out, focused on making it last until you’re almost begging him to finish. Prefers receiving, not out of ego, but because he loves how you look at him while you do it. He’ll tell you he loves how his cock feels in the warm, tight wetness of your mouth.

P – Pace

Sometimes slow and calculated, with deep thrusts, especially when you’ve been good for him or when he just wants to make you feel good. If he’s stressed or wants to punish you, he can get rough and fast, but he never loses control of the cadence.

Q – Quickie

He’s fine with them if the situation calls for it, especially if there’s a lot of built-up tension. Blowjobs are his favorite type of quickie, whether giving or receiving. He likes the idea of fucking you fast in an unexpected place, but he’ll still come back later for something longer.

R – Risk

He gauges the risks before taking them, but with you, he might go for something riskier if the adrenaline’s worth it. Still, he’ll usually read what you want, he’s not a complete idiot. If you’re uncomfortable, he’ll just try another time, or find a better way to convince you.

S – Stamina

One or two long, well paced rounds are his thing. Prefers quality and control over quantity, but if he’s particularly turned on, he might go for more. He's not a stuntman for nothing.

T – Toys

Doesn’t usually use them, but if you suggest it, he might think about it. Still, he’s very old-school, he prefers his cock, fingers, and tongue. He trusts his own body more.

U – Unfair (teasing)

An expert. He can spend minutes playing with your clit with one hand and your tits with the other, while kissing and biting your neck and shoulder, grazing, whispering in your ear without giving you what you want, just to watch you lose control.

V – Volume

Pretty low: growls, heavy breathing, low murmurs. The occasional controlled moan when intensity peaks.

W – Wildcard

He likes using his jacket as a blanket after an impromptu fuck. He also enjoys you wearing something of his afterward, as a silent sign you were with him. And the marks, he loves leaving them all over you, like claiming you as his. It’s one of the best parts of sex for him.

X – X ray

Big cock, thicker than it is long. Quite a bit of pubic hair. Loves when you keep yours too. He likes things “natural” in that sense. The trail of hair starts from his navel to the base of his cock and continues. He loves when you follow that trail with your mouth before giving him a blowjob, the sensation is addictive for him, especially if you’re doing it in his car. The fact that you take your time even in a relatively public place turns him on.

Y – Yearning

High but controlled desire. He doesn’t jump on you constantly; he knows he has to handle his own business and thinking with his cock all the time isn’t a good idea. But when he decides he wants to fuck, he makes it known, and it’s hard to say no, he gets what he wants in interesting ways.

ZZZ – Sleep

The sun is still out when you pull up to Rick’s place, but it’s starting to dip. Everything is washed in golden light, like the whole street’s been dipped in honey.

Rick’s voice hits you before the engine even cuts. “Jesus, you made it! Hey, watch the driveway, it’s a little- no, yeah, you got it.”

You barely have time to grab your bag before he’s pulling you into a hug, all energy and movement and half-finished sentences. He smells like aftershave, cigarettes and whiskey.

“C’mon, c’mon, I wanna show you the place. I've been fixing it up, y’know, bit by bit-”

He takes your suitcase like it weighs nothing, already halfway up the path, and you follow, eyes dragging over the house. Inside, it’s cooler, thank god, the curtains half-drawn against the heat.

Rick’s still talking.

“You hungry? I bet you've been eating crap in college, I think I got stuff in the fridge, or we could go out, there’s this place down the-”

“You plannin' to let her breathe first?” The new voice comes from somewhere behind you, lower and slower than Rick's.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time. Like he belongs there more than anyone else in the room, you know who he is before Rick even says it.

“This is Cliff. You've met, I think, years ago.”

Cliff doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a second, eyes dragging over you in a way that isn’t exactly rude, but definitely isn’t polite either. Like he’s sizing you up.

Then he pushes off the doorframe, steps closer. “Rick’s sister, huh. You've grown up.”

It’s not really an observation as much as a statement.

“Forgot he had one,” he adds, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, well,” Rick cuts in, dropping your bag with a soft thud, “she still exists, believe it or not.”

He sticks his hand out.

His grip is firm, warm, lingering just a second too long before he lets go. Not enough for anyone to call it out but just enough for you to notice.

“Cliff,” he says, like you didn’t already hear. You give your name back, and he nods once, like he’s filing it away somewhere.

“Long drive?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

That’s it. Conversation over, apparently. But you don't have time to dwell on it because Rick’s already moving again, pulling you toward the living room, pointing things out you’re not really listening to.

“-and the pool, you gotta see the pool, it’s the best part you'll love it-”

The next morning comes quieter than you expect. The sunlight slips through unfamiliar curtains, and the air is already warm. For a second you forget where you are.

Then you hear movement somewhere in the house.

Voices. One of them is unmistakably Rick, half-loud even when he’s trying not to be. The other is slower. You throw on something easy and follow the sound down the hall, bare feet soft against the floor.

The kitchen is already occupied.

Rick’s at the counter, mid-story, gesturing with a piece of toast like it’s all a part of the performance.

“-and I’m telling you, the guy didn’t even look at me, just kept-”

Cliff’s leaning against the sink, coffee in hand, like he’s not really listening but you can guarantee he's catching everything anyway.

He glances up when you walk in. “There she is,” Rick says, turning when he sees Cliff's attention drifting away from him. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good, you want coffee? Cliff made it, so, y’know, no promises, but-”

“It’s damn fine coffee, thank you very much,” Cliff mutters.

You move toward the counter, reaching for a mug, aware of him without looking directly. You pour the coffee.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, just beside you now. “It’s hot.”

You glance up and find him closer than you expected. “I can handle it,” you say. His mouth twitches, like he almost smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

Days fold into each other, warm and slow and sun-heavy, and somehow he’s always there.

Always just around.

You start noticing things, like the way Cliff moves through Rick’s house like it’s second nature; fixing things without being asked, leaning in doorways, taking up space without trying to.

You sit with Rick on the couch, running lines for some upcoming project. You can feel it before you even look. Cliff, somewhere behind you watching.

“C’mon, more emotion, he’s leaving you, you gotta sell it-”

"Rick, I'm not the one in the movie. Why do I have to have emotion?" You protest, already getting frustrated.

"For me, please, I need to feel in the zone." So you try again, louder this time, more force behind it.

Rick nods, satisfied. “Yeah, that’s it-”

“Too much.”

You turn.

Cliff’s in the doorway, arms crossed. Rick frowns. “What?”

“She’s pushing it,” Cliff says, eyes on you, not Rick. “Doesn’t feel real.”

There’s a beat, then Rick sighs, already conceding. “Alright, fine, what would you do, Mr Expert?”

Cliff shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Less.”

The next day you decide to use the pool Rick keeps gushing about.

He's inside, on the phone, voice carrying through the open door, you can hear him where you’re stretched out on a chair, sunglasses low on your nose, heat pressing into your skin.

You hear the gate open, and then Cliff walks in, nodding once when he sees you. He grabs a beer from the cooler without asking, twists it open, and leans back against the fence.

Silence settles.

“You always this quiet?” you ask after a minute.

He glances over. “Only when I don’t got anything to say.”

“And right now?”

Another sip. A small shrug. “I dunno. Still deciding.”

You huff a laugh, turning your head toward him. “About what?”

His gaze lingers this time.

“You.”

That night, Rick is half-asleep on the couch, TV flickering low. You’re at the other end, legs tucked under you, not really watching.

Cliff sits in a chair across from you, boots kicked out, arm draped over the side. Every time you glance up, his eyes are already on you.

Like he knew you were going to look.

It's impossible to point to one exact moment where it changes, but it does.

He starts keeping his distance.

Not always, but enough for you to notice. He sits a little farther away, leaves the room a little earlier, cuts conversations short, like he’s correcting something.

So you sit closer again one afternoon, your shoulder almost brushing his.

He stills and you can feel the tension in his body, tight and controlled. “Somethin’ you need?” he asks, not looking at you.

“No.”

“Then you might wanna give me a little space.”

You lean back anyway just to see what happens. His jaw tightens, just slightly. “Or not,” he adds, huffing.

Rick doesn’t notice anything, he never does.

He just keeps talking, moving, existing in his own orbit, pulling you both along with him without realising what’s building underneath.

One evening the house feels abnormally quiet. Earlier, it had been filled with Rick’s voice; loud, restless, spilling from room to room in half-finished thoughts and half-formed plans. Something about drinks. Something about a meeting. You hadn’t really been listening.

You only remembered nodding, at some point, as he grabbed his keys and disappeared out into the night like he always did.

You sit in the living room with the lights low, the television on but muted, more for presence than your attention. A glow washes over the space in soft, unfocused colours.

The sound of the door clicks through the house before you see him.

Heavy boots on the floorboards. A familiar rhythm now, one your body has started recognising before your mind does.

Cliff.

Keys land on the table with a quiet clink. His jacket comes off in one smooth motion, shrugged from his shoulders. Everything about him feels unhurried.

You glance over as he moves further inside.

“Thought you were with Rick,” you say.

“I was,” he answers simply, nothing else follows it.

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open, the soft clink of glass. When he returns, there’s a beer in his hand, condensation already forming along the bottle.

He doesn’t sit immediately, instead, he stays standing for a moment longer than necessary, eyes on you. “Why’re you still up?” he asks.

You shift slightly on the couch, pulling one leg in beneath you. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A quiet hum leaves him, almost dismissive, like he doesn’t fully buy it but isn’t interested in challenging you on it. He takes a sip, slow, before finally lowering himself onto the couch beside you.

The silence stretches out again, filled only by the faint hum of the television and the distant sound of the city beyond the windows.

He takes another drink. You don’t look at him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then he exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite anything. “No, I haven’t.”

You turn your head slightly. “Yeah. You have.”

His jaw tightens in the smallest way, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But you’re close enough now that you do.

“Kid-”

“Don’t call me that Cliff,” you cut in immediately.

A beat passes.

Then, quieter, more controlled, he corrects himself. He says your name instead, low and deliberate, “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I really?”

You shift toward him now, no longer pretending to stay still. His grip tightens faintly around the bottle.

“You pull away every time I get too close,” you continue, voice steadier now. “You won’t even look at me half the time anymore.”

“That’s not-”

“It is.”

Another silence settles between you, thicker than the last. Eventually, he sets the bottle down on the table in front of him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Then tell me.”

He doesn’t answer.

For a brief moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath around the two of you. “You really want to have this conversation?” he asks finally.

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in you.

He leans back a fraction, studying you now instead of avoiding you. “You’re Rick’s baby sister. I mean, you're in college for Christ's sake,” he says at last, flatly.

“So?”

“So…” He exhales quietly, the sound carrying more weight than his words. “That should be enough for you to understand why... whatever this is, needs to stop.”

“It’s not.” Your voice softens without losing its certainty.

His eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest moment, too quick to be anything obvious, then return to yours.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “That’s the problem.”

You move slightly, and your knee brushes his. It could be accidental, there's no reason for it not to be, but you both know it isn’t.

He goes still immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he says. Not angry, but firm.

You don’t move away.

“Why not?”

His hand drags once across his face, slow, like he’s trying to steady something in himself rather than change the situation around him.

“Because it’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“It is, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “If you listen to it.”

You tilt your head, watching him more closely now, and the air between you seems to get heavier, charged in a way that makes everything else seem distant. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breaks eye contact.

“You gonna stop me?” you ask.

You see it happen, not dramatically, but unmistakably. The smallest fracture in his otherwise impeccable control.

He leans in, just enough that everything shifts. Close enough that you can feel him; his heat, presence, the tension stretched tight between your bodies, but he stops before anything resolves. Suspended in that space where restraint and impulse collide.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher now. “I am.”

Then he pulls back, rising from the sofa before the moment can stretch any further, running a hand through his hair.

“This isn’t happening,” he says, almost under his breath.

The distance returns all at once, sharp and cold, filling the space between you like it had never been gone. You stay seated as he reaches for his keys again, watching him move toward the door.

He pauses there for a second.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

And then he's gone.

The next time you see him its not the same.

He's standing there like normal, leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, exactly where he was yesterday.

Except it's definitely not normal.

Because this time, when you walk in, he doesn’t look at you.

No one else would notice, but you do. His attention stays fixed somewhere else; on Rick, on the counter, on nothing in particular.

Anywhere but you.

You move around the kitchen, reaching for a mug, opening the fancy cabinets you’re still not used to, but you’re aware of him the entire time. Of the space he’s not taking up. Of the way he’s choosing not to acknowledge you.

Suddenly, Rick launches into one of his monologues, already halfway out the door, grabbing his keys, his sunglasses, talking as he moves. “Alright, I gotta run, I’ll be back before- actually, no, maybe not, depends how long this thing goes. But you’ll be fine yeah? Cliff’s here, so nothing bad will happen.”

There’s something in the way he says it so casually, like it means nothing.

Cliff’s here.

Rick’s gone just as quickly as he started, the door shutting behind him, his voice fading out into the driveway.

And suddenly it’s quiet again.

Just you and Cliff.

The same as last night, except now there’s no point pretending it’s normal.

“You should eat something,” he says, tone even.

“I’m not hungry.”

A pause.

Then, finally, he looks at you. It’s brief. “Suit yourself.”

But there’s something underneath it now; he's less steady than before You lean back against the counter, arms crossing. “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

His jaw sets.

“It didn't,” he says, quieter this time.

“That’s not what it felt like.”

“What you think it felt like doesn't change what actually happened, honey.”

You watch him for a second, taking that in. “Right,” you say.

He nods once, like that settles it.

You wait for a bit, then push off the counter and move past him, close enough that your arm almost brushes his, and move to the living room.

He goes rigid.

Cliff lingers near the doorway for a second, like he’s deciding something, then follows you in.

He doesn’t sit right away. “You got somewhere to be today?” he asks.

“No.”

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just watch him, really watch him, in a way you haven’t been able to when Rick’s around.

“Like what?”

He huffs, not quite amused.

“You know.”

You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering that. “Like you almost kissed me last night?”

“That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

“No?” you ask, softer now.

“No.” He shakes his head, voice low.

You lean back slightly into the sofa.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” you ask.

“I am lookin’ at you.”

“Not like you did before.”

He finally moves, stepping closer. “You want me to?” he asks. The question is low and controlled, but there’s something under it now. A strain that wasn’t there before.

“You’re the one who said it’s a bad idea,” you say.

“Yeah.” His answer comes without hesitation, like he’s already decided how this conversation is supposed to go.

You watch him for a second. “And you always avoid bad ideas?”

That pulls something loose at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. “No,” he says.

It hangs there after he says it. Doesn’t get cleaned up or softened.

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you.

“Probably should,” he says, sighing as he finally sits down next to you.

The couch creaks softly under you as you turn toward him more fully, the distance between you narrowing without either of you naming it. Your knee brushes his.

His eyes flick to where you’re touching him.

Then back to your face.

He starts to lean in, just a bit, but you've run out of patience. You meet him halfway.

Your hand catches at his shirt as you close the space, and when your mouth meets his, it isn’t careful or uncertain anymore.

He responds just as fast.

One hand sliding into your hair, steadying you without hesitation, pulling you in like there was never really a question about whether he would.

He pulls you in closer, not rough, just certain now, like whatever line was holding him back finally gave up. Your hand fists his shirt harder without thinking, fist curling into the fabric as the distance disappears completely.

He's warm and solid, real in a way that makes everything else feel a little far away. His mouth moves against yours with increasing intensity. When you don’t pull away, when you don’t do anything except stay right there, he exhales against you, something in him settling.

His thumb shifts slightly in your hair and you lean into it without thinking.

The sofa behind you shifts as you move further into his lap, bodies adjusting without breaking the contact. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and you feel him start to harden again against your thigh.

"Jesus," he mutters against your mouth. "What are you doing to me?"

"Same thing you're doing to me." You shift, pressing closer, and he groans.

His other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you more firmly against him. "We should stop."

"Should we?" You rock your hips.

"Fuck." His grip tightens. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that right?"

"Good." You kiss along his jaw, down his neck. "Die happy."

He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. Then he's rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. "You're a menace."

"You like it."

"I do." He kisses you hard, possessive. "Too fucking much."

One second you’re pressed into the couch beneath him, and the next his hands are everywhere at once, urgent, searching.

Your fingers catch at his shirt, tugging it loose, and he pulls back just enough to drag it over his head, barely breaking contact before he’s back on you again. Fabric gets in the way after that, yours, his, it doesn’t matter. It’s all just something to push past, to get rid of.

Your breath catches when his hands finally find your bare skin, when yours do the same. Before you can properly process anything, you're left with nothing between you but heat and the press of him against you.

You can really feel him now, hard and ready against you.

"Wait." He pulls back, breathing hard. "Gotta grab a condom, sweetheart, gimme a second."

"Stay here," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before climbing off you.

You watch him walk to where his wallet sits on the sideboard, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness. He's beautiful, all lean muscle and controlled power.

Even now, after everything, he moves with that same careful precision.

He returns with the small foil packet. "Spread your legs for me."

The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you obey. He kneels between your thighs on the couch, and his expression softens as he looks at you.

"Gotta get you ready for me first, baby," he says quietly, lowering himself onto his stomach.

"Cliff, cmon don't make me wait-" you whine, voice coming out breathy.

His jaw tightens, and you see heat flash in his eyes. "You keep saying things like that, and you won't be walking tomorrow."

"Promise?"

He makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly his mouth is on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair as his tongue drags through your folds.

"Fuck," you gasp, but you're not pushing him away.

"You can take it." His voice is muffled against you. "You're going to take everything I give you."

He's meticulous, working you slowly despite. His tongue circles your clit in lazy strokes, never quite enough pressure to push you over, but enough to make you squirm.

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"More. I need-"

"I know what you need." He slides two fingers into you, and you're so embarrassingly wet that they go in easily despite the stretch. "You need me to fuck you again. Need me to fill this pretty pussy up."

"Yes." You're trembling, caught between too much and not nearly enough.

He works you with his fingers and mouth until you're writhing, until you're begging, and only then does he pull back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger.

"Turn over," he says. "Hands and knees."

You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on cushions. You feel exposed like this, vulnerable, and it makes your pulse race.

His hands smooth over your ass, squeezing. "Look at you. So fucking perfect."

You hear the tear of foil, feel him fumble behind you for a second. Then he's pushing into you from behind. The angle is deep, shocking, and you drop to your forearms with a moan as he bottoms out.

"That's it." His hands grip your hips. "Take all of me."

He sets a harsh, relentless pace, a far cry from his usual controlled self. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his rough breathing.

One hand slides up your spine to grip the back of your neck, holding you down.

"You feel so good," he grits out. "So fucking tight."

You can't form words anymore, can only moan and push back against him. The pleasure builds fast, your body already primed from before. When he reaches around to rub your clit, you come with a sharp cry, clenching around him.

"Fuck, yes." He doesn't slow down, fucking you through it. "Give me another one."

"I can't-"

"You can." His fingers work your clit in tight circles. "Come on. One more."

The second orgasm crashes into you before you've recovered from the first, and you sob into the mattress. He follows you over, groaning your name as he spills into the condom.

You collapse forward, and he comes down with you, careful not to crush you with his weight. You're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling.

"Okay?" he murmurs against your shoulder.

"Mmhmm." It's all you can manage.

He pulls out slowly, and you look down to see the mess on the sofa beneath you.

"Christ. We really did make a mess."

You laugh weakly. "Your fault."

"My fault?" He nips at your shoulder. "You're the one who can't keep your hands off me."

"You're the one who just fucked me."

He rolls off you, and you expect him to get up and grab his clothes. Instead, he disposes of the condom and then pulls you back against his chest, seemingly content to lie in the aftermath.

"We should clean up," you mumble.

"In a minute."

But a minute turns into five, turns into ten, and neither of you moves. His hand strokes lazy patterns on your skin, and you trace the lines of muscle on his chest.

"This is insane," you say quietly.

"What is?"

"This. Us. I only just met you again like five days ago."

"Six," he corrects. "But who's counting?"

You tilt your head back to look at him. "Doesn't this feel weird to you?"

His expression is serious. "Nothing about this situation is normal. Normal rules don't even apply."

"Is that your way of saying you don't regret it?"

"I don't think I could ever regret you." He cups your face. "I just don't want you to regret it. When this is over, when you're thinking straight and back to your normal life in college-"

You kiss him to shut him up. "Stop thinking about later. I want now."

He kisses you back, deep and thorough, and you feel him starting to harden again against your hip. You reach down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.

"Again? Really, honey? You sure you're ready again?" he asks, but he's already responding to your touch.

"Shut up."

This time you push him onto his back and climb on top of him. You're sore, definitely going to feel this tomorrow, but you don't care. You want him again. Want to feel him inside you, want to watch his face as you ride him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and his hands come up to grip your hips. "Fuck. You're going to kill me."

"You keep saying that." You start to move, rolling your hips. "But you're still here."

"Can't seem to help myself." His eyes are locked on where you're joined. "You're addictive."

You ride him slowly at first, finding a rhythm. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into the touch.

"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need, sweetheart."

You do, chasing your pleasure, using him. He lets you set the pace, content to watch and touch and murmur filthy praise. When you start to tire, he takes over, gripping your hips and fucking up into you.

"Come on," he urges. "Another. Give me another one."

"I can't-" But your body is already responding, tightening around him.

"You can. You will." His thumb finds your clit, and that's all it takes.

You come with a broken cry, and he follows immediately after, pulling you down hard onto him as he empties himself inside you, each pulse sending more shockwaves of pleasure through you.

You collapse onto his chest, completely spent. Your thighs are shaking, you're not sure you could move if you wanted to.

For a moment, there’s nothing except breathing.

His hand moves back to your hair, but slower now. Less intent, more instinct, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it now that everything’s already happened. His other arm shifts around you anyway, steadying you without thinking about it.

Protective, almost automatically.

Like it’s easier for him to do that than anything else.

The room feels different now. Real in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

You can feel him under you, warm and solid, his chest rising and falling at a pace that’s still not fully even. Like he’s trying to catch up to something his body already decided for him.

Neither of you speaks. There is no clean way back into language from this.

Eventually, he exhales, but it doesn’t sound as steady as he probably wants it to.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet, still rough around the edges.

You nod against him before you can really think about it.

“Yeah.”

Then it hits you, cutting through the daze, your hand tightens slightly against his chest.

He notices immediately.

His arm shifts around you, “What?” he murmurs, voice lower now.

You hesitate, just for a second. “We didn’t- Cliff we forgot the condom the second time, what if-” You don’t finish it, but you don’t need to.

There’s a pause.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s choosing calm on purpose. His hand moves up into your hair, steady, reassuring, fingers threading through it in a way that feels more deliberate now.

“Hey,” he says quietly, dipping his head a little closer. “S’alright.”

His thumb brushes lightly along your arm, slow and grounding, like he’s pulling you out of your head before you can spiral too far into it.

“We’ll figure it out,” he adds, softer now, voice right against your hair.

His hand smooths down your back once, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to bring you both back into your bodies again instead of wherever you just were.

Reality starts creeping in around the edges after that.

The shift of fabric, the unfamiliar quiet, the awareness of space that used to be filled. Your hand tightens slightly against his chest without meaning to, a defence mechanism, perhaps.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His arm around you shifts again, not tighter, but firmer. Like he’s anchoring you on purpose now instead of instinct.

“You don’t gotta bolt,” he says after a beat.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I’m not bolting.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what that actually means, then he gives a quiet huff through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Good,” he says.

His thumb brushes lightly once near your shoulder, absent-minded again. “This is… not complicated yet,” he adds.

There’s a hint of warning in it. Or maybe honesty, it's hard to tell. You let out a small breath of laughter against his chest.

“Give it time,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says after a second.

Neither of you moves to fix anything, because there’s nothing clean to fix yet. Just the two of you, tangled up in the aftermath of a decision that already exists, whether you’re ready for it or not, and a brother who will come home eventually.

The top of your head bumped the undercarriage of the glove compartment as you adjusted yourself, settling in deeper between his legs like you owned the spot. Like it was your throne. Cliff’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror—empty road. Good.

He hissed when your tongue did that thing again, the one that made his hips buck just a little, the one that had him seeing brief flashes of white behind his eyelids. He slammed a palm on the dash. “You keep that up, baby, and I’m gonna miss the damn turnoff—”

But it was too late.

Red and blue lights flared up behind him.

Cliff swore under his breath.

You didn’t stop. You little devil.

“Fuck. You’re kidding me,” he hissed, hitting the turn signal and guiding the car off to the side of the highway. You stilled just barely, lips parting from him with a wet little pop, breath warm on his thigh.

“Don’t you dare move,” he growled low. “You stay down, sweetheart. Be real quiet now.”

But you just hum around him like you’re proud of yourself.

You’d started soft, playful, tongue swirling just to get him twitching. Then you got mean about it. Sweet little Southern accent whispering “Mmm, I love how heavy you get in my mouth…” before sinking back down like you were made for this.

Cliff clenches his thigh muscles. His left hand leaves the wheel just long enough to thread into your hair—not to stop you, but to warn you. A silent careful, sugar. Because he's close. Too close. And you know it.

Goddamn, you’re good at this. Too good.

But you weren’t done with your game.

Cliff rolled down the window and tried like hell to adopt his usual calm, cool grin. The officer leaned in—a young guy, fresh face, badge gleaming.

“Evenin’, sir. Got a little fast back there.”

Cliff forced a shrug and a lazy smile. “Yeah, sorry about that. Was just tryna get home before the heat really sets in.”

You took that moment—of course you did—to flatten your tongue back against him, slow and deliberate. Cliff coughed. Twice. Loud.

The cop raised a brow. “You alright there?”

Cliff fake-laughed, jaw tight. “Yeah, yeah. Just—damn summer allergies. Pollen’s a bitch.”

Another pass of your mouth. Your teeth just barely grazed. Cliff’s knee twitched. He wanted to throttle you. He wanted to praise you. He wanted to pull over and ruin you in the back seat.

“License and registration?”

Cliff handed it over with a shaky hand. “There you go, officer.”

More tongue. Slower now. Teasing. Cruel.

The cop looked at him strangely. Cliff gave his most innocent smirk. “Gotta love this car, huh? My buddy Rick’s. Drives like a dream.”

The officer nodded, then walked back to his cruiser.

The second he was gone—

“You little minx,” Cliff growled, voice dark and cracked with lust. He pushed your head back down with a rough hand, both desperate and furious. “You think that was funny?”

You giggled around him like an angel with a mean streak, and Cliff Booth finally lost it.

His hand gripped the wheel like it might save his soul, but his hips were lifting, his breath stuttering, his mouth falling open with a low, wrecked groan.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—don’t stop, don’t—”

You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Not until he was stifling every noise he had against the back of his hand, cumming so hard it nearly blinded him, hips trembling under your grip.

When the cop finally returned to hand back his license, Cliff had both hands on the steering wheel and his sunglasses on, still panting like a man who’d just run a mile uphill.

“You alright, sir?”

“Peachy,” Cliff grunted. “Just gonna… ease off the gas a little.”

The cop left.

Cliff slammed the gear into drive.

“You,” he muttered darkly, looking down at you with a gaze that could shatter glass, “are in so much trouble.”

You blinked up at him all wide-eyed and innocent, licking your lips, and he nearly growled.

“As soon as we get home,” he promised, “I’m gonna show you what that fucking mouth of yours is good for, screaming my name all night long.”

You smiled sweet as pie.

“Yessir.”