or the one where Simon gets wine drunk.
Simon Riley doesn’t drink wine, he’s positive he’s never had a glass— ever. He doesn’t care for that fancy shit, a cheap pack of beer or a glass of bourbon will get him where he needs. Bitter malt burns away the words on his tongue and the tightness in his chest.
So, when you invite him over to binge on greasy take out and watch some shitty rom-com he doesn’t expect you to hand him a glass of red wine. He arches his brow, it’s almost comical how the glass shrinks in his massive palm.
‘It’s all you have,’ you explain, ‘plus, you can’t watch a rom-com without wine!’
He’s a big man, isn’t even buzzed off of one glass, so he goes for another, and another. The second glass makes his face warm, cheeks burning hot, body a little looser. A third glass makes a searing heat lick down his spine, desire pooling thickly in his stomach as he stares at your thighs.
Simon can handle his liquor, better than most people can, takes him quite a while to get drunk. But the wine sloshing in his belly has his cock throbbing against the cotton fabric of his boxers in an unfamiliar way.
You’re friends, but if you end up stretched thin around his fat cock by the end of most nights well that’s just another thing.
His hands move on their own accord, pulling you into his lap so your back is pressed to his chest. You don’t pay him any mind, too preoccupied with the plate of food in your hands to care.
You go for a big mouthful of rice when he spreads your legs open, resting them on either side of his knees. It doesn’t falter you; you just adjust to him, shimmying deeper into his hold, ass rubbing right up against his half-chub cock.
His eyes practically roll, stifling a deep groan at the sensation of your plump ass. The wine has him on overdrive, like some aphrodisiac, hyper aware of the pulsing at the head of his cock, balls heavy. He can’t help himself, really, his hands grip at your breasts before he even realizes.
You gasp in shock, coughing on a spoonful of food, “Simon, what are you doing?”
He’s already panting in your neck, one greedy hand moving to your hip so he can rut up into your ass. The movies not even at the halfway mark.
“The bloody hell ya’ put in tha’ wine?” He grunts it out like the wine was holding it hostage in his throat.
You laugh, cocking your head at him with a glimmering smirk on your face. “Simon Riley, are you wine drunk right now?”
