#peter loew

He jokes with you at the bar, orders you a drink or two, resting a hand on your lower back as he walks you the two blocks back to his apartment.

It’s all so familiar by this point, so easy, he doesn’t think twice before you’re both undressing.

He works his tongue into your mouth, licking over your teeth, your gums, your palate, until you’re both breathless.

But, as you part, your hands pull at his undershirt, coaxing him into removing the fabric until you can explore his bare chest freely.

Then, the world seems to spin.

He’s too drunk to resist when you push him back onto the bed, an ugly snort escaping him in almost delirious surprise.

No one’s ever done that to him before.

You follow him down, climbing between his legs and pinning him to the mattress when he attempts to rise. He blinks up at you, brow furrowed despite the smile still spread across his face.

And, with one hand still holding him down, your mouth finds the side of his neck.

You peck at first, chaste and sweet. Then, you lips purse and you find suction, branding him with a faint hickey, then a deeper one, and more down his throat.

He’s panting beneath you in the span of just a few minutes, muscles tense as he struggles not to writhe.

So, with him blissfully distracted, you take the opportunity to sink your teeth into his flushed skin.

The second you do, he panics, startled, hands fisting into the bedsheets. But once you release him to bite down again a little lower, he moans.

His hips roll up against your own, his hand spanning the nape of your neck to hold you close as he submits to your ministrations.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, yes, yes…”

You cover nearly every inch of his neck in bites, kisses and bruises, tongue laving over your masterpiece.

He whimpers when your dull teeth find his collarbone, head tossed back as he finds his release, still utterly untouched.

You pull back, holding eye contact with him while he catches his breath, looking winded and confused.

Not allowing him a moment of respite, you palm at him through his boxers, the damp, sticky fabric clinging to his overheated skin.

“Please,” he begs, eyes falling shut again, shaking his head from side to side. “Oh, god, please.”

But his body betrays him, refusing to soften just yet.

By the time you’re finished with him, his ego is as bruised as his neck, leaving you to comfort him with sweet nothings until he falls asleep.

And, despite how much as he hates himself for indulging in something so emasculating, he makes you coffee the morning after.