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—.”

His fingers found their mark, curling sweetly, succinctly, to find the evidence that you were enjoying this far more than you should be, given the party beyond the door. 

“Tell me to stop, and I stop.” His mischievous edge dissolved with the rasp in his tone, lips lowered to the shell of your ear so that he might press closer still, the warm pad of his palm pressing more firmly to where you needed him most. 

“I— no, please,” it was a struggle to so much as wet your lips. “Just, quickly. Please, Billy—” 

His smirk returned, broken only as he lingered against your cheek in a kiss, then your jaw, then your throat, each one slower than the last. He drew in a deeper breath there, as though seeking a fix of his favoured drug, the scent of you beneath your delicate perfume breaking through more insistently now. 

“Be quiet for me, carińo.” 

You could do little more than nod, fingers finding his hair, aiding his slow descent to his knees, the gathered fabric concealing him, your weight against the desk – your father’s desk – as his lips pressed so reverently against the curve of your thigh. His fingers sought new purpose, pressing slowly, curling, one followed by the other until your cunt took them to the knuckle, rough from hard labour, now toying so delicately with the spot he knew would make you mewl, his quiet challenge to your composure. 

His lips, as attentive as they had been to your own, fixed themselves quickly, as promised, offering little adjustment. Sucking at the ridges of your clit like a man starved, lapping with all the frivolity of a puppy as if this were for his own pleasure, irrespective of your own. 

“B-Billy—” 

One hand clamped over your mouth, a desperate attempt to stifle the sounds drawn from your chest by his dexterity, breath catching against his precision. The other moved blindly to him, finding the rough outline of his presence beneath the cloth, close enough to feel, not close enough to control, pressing him closer, regardless. 

There was no denying the way your walls pulled him deeper, desperate in truth for the stretch only he could offer. His tongue flattened, lapped, swirled – every flick draining the control from you, undoing you precisely. You could feel him melting against you, his own groans barely muffled by the fabric. It was obscene, the cover – as if anyone who walked in could not tell at once what was happening – but as the crook of his fingers urged another spasm of your cunt, there was little concern left for reputation, nor for your father’s disapproval.

If he had wished for you to remain sweet, he should never have employed such a man.

The slurp was positively salacious, beyond the border of indecent, and you knew you were soaking his chin. The image of the glisten of his skin developed against your closed lids, the harsh suckle against your bud, the reverberation of each depraved groan, the ragged force of his fingers urging the tension in your stomach tighter, tighter still, until you snapped, teeth baring into your palm hardly suppressing the broken sob of his name, fluttering around the rough pads of his fingers. He allowed mercy, slowing, twitching just barely against the abused muscle. 

He emerged flushed, just as you imagined yourself to be, his chin still damp and glistening. That same self-satisfied grin lingered on his features as he accepted your handkerchief from trembling fingers, buffing at the evidence of your slick on his skin. 

“Delectable, darlin’”