#clurb

His hips lifted impatiently, giving you room to tug the fabric from him, cuffs catching briefly at his ankles before you pushed them aside with more haste than grace. You settled onto your knees as comfortably as you could, the hardwood biting beneath you even through the rug and now crumbled layers of your dress.

“What would your daddy say,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement as his hand returned to the mattress (far softer than he was used to, you were sure) balancing himself against his palms as if the slow drag of your nails against his thighs were enough to hold him on the brink, “if he knew you had me up here like this, huh?”

You considered him for a moment, half bare, twitching and erect against the cheap shirt he could afford, achingly pretty in a way that called to the depths of your own depravity — to your desire to be entirely ruined by your outlaw boy.

“Nothing good, to be sure.”

His smirk mirrored yours, dropping with the last of his composure as your lips closed around his leaking tip, fingers enveloping the base of him, urging your throat relax. The heat of him against your tongue was maddening, the erratic throb of his arousal enervating, toying with your impatience to have more of him. 

Each bob of your head took him deeper, measured breaths forced through your nose with the effort. His rough fingers tightened steadily against your scalp, the strands of hair acting as his anchor as he worked you lower, barely tempering his restlessness until his hips bucked of their own accord. 

“Oh, fuck—” 

The wall of your throat contracted against the intrusion, saline slick coating your tongue to match the budding water on your lashes, holding your composure in place by force alone as his disintegrated with alarming speed in the palm of your hand. 

“S-sorry, doll,” his breathing quickened, the resolution in his apology diminished by the next roll of his hips, meeting the back of your throat again, fingers tightening to fix you in place. 

You didn’t mind one bit. 

“S’ goddamn pretty like this.” The resonance of your groan seemed to satisfy, each broken reverberation drawing him closer. “My lil’ lady.” 

Each word punctuated by a less rhythmic stutter, the effort of his pleasure evident in the thickened drawl, the heavy twitch of him against the roof of your mouth. He never was so pretty as when he was fighting so tenuously between respect and debauchery, exploiting the wet heat of your tongue, pressing himself deeper with barely veiled consideration for the effort it took to accept him without retching.

“Shit, gonna–” 

You didn’t need his hand to guide you lower this time, to press him against the barrier of your throat until your nose brushed the thick curls of hair at the base of him so that your senses were so utterly commandeered by him, fighting the spasm as he spilt, thick and warm and satisfying, coating your tongue. 

“Fuck—.”