#pope code smut

He knew it. Could see it in the confident way you paraded around. Could feel your eyes following him around the bar as he pretended not to notice.

He's not worried you'd cheat on him. Hell, Craig and Deran give him shit all the time for how mutually obsessed you are with each other. He knows you love him. You just like to see him... primal. Possessive.

And he'd be madder about it if you didn't suck his soul out of his body and fuck him into the mattress each and every time you finally went home together.

"Wow! You surf? That's, like, so cool."

Your voice carries across the bar, too clearly. Like you want him to catch every word. The guy who's currently talking to you beams like he's just hit the jackpot. Dumbass.

Pope bitterly throws back the last warm sip of his Modelo before pushing it away. Deran's eyes flash to him, and then you, before sighing.

"No fights tonight." He slides a fresh beer across the bar with a rigid point. "I mean it."

"Wasn't planning on it."

Deran huffs. "Right. Just like she's not planning whatever that is over there."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Another high-pitch giggle out of you has his hand squeezing around the glass bottle, imagining it was Chad or Kyle or Zach's neck.

"The cops are still on my ass about last week," Deran grits out. "We're lucky that guy couldn't remember shit."

Pope's jaw ticks. He can remembers all too well the way that guys hand slid up your thigh like it belonged there, fingers gripping hard enough to leave soft indents in the supple flesh. Something about that made Pope think maybe his teeth didn't belong in his mouth anymore.

He smells you before he sees you. Citrus and vanilla, like those popsicles Julia used to love on hot summer days. He still gets a whiff of them when he's at the beach sometimes.

"Hi baby," you say, knocking your shoulder into his as you lean onto the bar with your elbows. "Having fun?"

His mouth quirks. "Always."

You both know it's a lie.

"Sorry for going M.I.A." Your Bambi eyes carry just the faintest glint of amusement, missing innocent by a mile. "Just making friends."

"You always do," he affirms, taking another sip.

"Hey Deran, can I get another drink for that guy over there? He's teaching me about rip currents."

Deran's eyebrows flash in mock fascination, but he pops the top off another beer anyway. "Wow. You'd think you'd know all about them considering you're on the water almost every day."

"Yeah, well, always more to learn, right?"

"If you say so."

You give Pope's forearm a squeeze and then practically bound back over to your "friend," taking any warm feelings he was starting to mount with you. The stool under him creaks every time he shifts his weight.

"I've told you this goddamned chair is uneven about ten times. You ever gonna fix it?"

Deran wipes down the bar a little harder than necessary but doesn't answer. Meanwhile, Pope's attention snaps back to you.

You're social in a way that's never made sense to him. A breezy smile here, a calculated flip of hair there. He'd never gotten whatever rulebook you'd learned from. Hell, you made it look easy. Someone with more empathy might even feel bad for the poor suckers you pulled into this trap, night after night.

Fire burns low in his chest when you push out your chest and the guy takes the bait-- a slow, molasses gaze lingering on your tits while you're not looking. His throat bobs.

Pope turns back around. Maybe it's better if he doesn't watch. He burns a hole through on the opposite wall and counts the seconds. Maybe tonight will be uneventful, other than the punishments he'll dole out when you're alone.

"Uh oh," Deran mutters, staring over Pope's shoulder.

Maybe that was too much to hope for.

It seems the guy got too overzealous, possibly courtesy of his fifth or sixth or seventh beer. The reason doesn't matter. What does matter are his fingers locked around your wrist, despite your obvious attempts to pull him off of you.

"Come on, sweetheart," the man goads with a leer. "Just come to the bathroom with me real quick."

Pope's ass is off the stool before he makes the conscious decision.

"Get the fuck off of her."

He rips the man's hand off you and pushes him back. He stumbles but puts his hands up like deescalating is an option that he didn't blow past the moment looking turned into touching.

"It's all cool, man. We know each other."

"Right," Pope scoffs. "I'm sure you'd like to."

While the words are absent of an outright threat, his tone isn't.

"Andrew, this is Cody," you explain. "He's in town for the surf competition."

Pope says nothing, but doesn't pull back his glower by a fraction. He'd known Cody was a tourist from the jump. The locals would know better than to try anything with you.

Pope may be shorter, but he's spent a lifetime winning fights he had no business being in. This guy's baby skin and clothes slapped in flashy labels tell him one good hook would have him on the floor. His fingers twitch in anticipation. He can almost taste the iron.

"Whatever," the guy finally relents, turning away to toss back a shot. "She doesn't look like she puts out anyway."

And just like that, Pope's fist is making contact with his jaw with a speed that this stupid fucking douchebag never saw coming. His body falls back into a table, tipping it over until glass scatters and shatters.

Cody's friends lunge forward to back him up, but Craig and Deran get there first. One look at the bat in Deran's hand and all six-foot-three of Craig and they surrender before the brawl could even start.

"Out," Deran barks before looking straight at Pope. "You too. Both of you."

No one moves, other than Cody wiping a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth. Pope almost grins. Unhinged is where he's comfortable. He welcomes the way adrenaline buzzes in his veins like neon. Violence is simple. Violence makes sense.

"Out!" Deran shouts, breaking the spell. While the group of tourists filter out, he pushes a shoulder in Pope's chest. "What did I fucking say?"

Pope gives a halfhearted shrug. "It's not really a fight if he didn't punch back."

"Unbelieveable." Deran works his jaw and only musters a disapproving glance in your direction. "You can't do this shit in my bar anymore. Go somewhere else."

You nod, chastised, and follow Andrew out into the cool night. Your hand finds the curve of his bicep, giving it a squeeze before leaning over to brush your lips across his ear.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Hell yeah he does.

You don't even make it out of the parking lot before you're riding him in the driver's seat of his truck, slamming yourself down hard enough to make the frame shake.

He keeps you close with a bruising grip right over your hipbones and sinks his teeth into your neck, hoping he marks you everywhere he touches. Mine. Every arc of pain has you rolling your hips and practically screaming out in pleasure.

"This what you wanted?" He asks, voice like gravel while a hand roughly threads through your hair and pulls. "Act like a slut, get treated like a slut."

You moan in response, clenching around him so tightly you can't tell where you end and he begins. He groans and pulls your neck even further back. Your thighs are splayed, skirt bunched up around your waist. He watches his cock disappear inside of you and revels in the way it brushes the lace of your thong that has been hastily pushed to one side.

"Say it," he demands, thrusting up to hit a spot that punches the air out of your lungs.

"I'm your slut," you gasp out, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of tension builds up your spine. He licks a long stripe up the skin of your neck in approval.

"Don't you fucking come. Only good girls come."

Despite his words, he lays you across the bench seats without pulling out and holds you open to piston into you. You claw at his back and try to hold back the oncoming orgasm, but he knows your body too well. He's set you up to fail by hitting your favorite spot over and over and over while moving his hand up to lock around your throat.

"Just can't help it, can you? I just fuck you too good, is that it, baby?"

He's mocking you and unfortunately for you, that's the final push you need to be thrown off the precipice. You gush around him, but he doesn't stop. He's at least nice enough to fuck you through it. You're a shivering, shaking mess when your brain returns to your body.

"You shouldn't have done that," he tuts, pulling himself free to hastily kneel over you. He swipes his cock against your cheek before pressing it intently across your lips. "Open up."

You're fucked out and still coming down, but do as your told. Your mouth parts hesitantly and that's all he needs, pushing in until the salty taste of your coupling is spread across your tongue.

"Good girl," he groans, hand already finding your oversensitive clit to circle it before pushing two fingers in as deep as he can get them. Your cry means he can push himself deeper until you're gagging on him. "That's it. You can take it. Just like that."

He hooks his fingers and just as you spasm around him, your mouth floods with thick ropes of cum. You suckle his softening cock, swallowing every last drop while his hand continues working you open. He pulls both out before smearing your own fluids across your tongue to clean himself up, eyes never leaving yours.

He leans in to kiss you but before he can make contact, a loud thump on the hood of the truck startles you both.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Pope?!"

Deran's face is twisted up in both disgust and anger, while Craig is doubled over laughing next to him.

"Hell yeah, get some!"

"Not in front of my fucking bar! Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops myself!"

Andrew turns the key in the ignition with a smirk and makes a show of slowly checking his rearview mirror before pulling away. You're already curling up into his side, kissing a leisurely path from his neck to his jaw with an intensity that has him planning round two.

"Deran seemed serious this time," you purr, twirling the curls at his nape. "Should we try the bar on Third tomorrow?"

He shakes his head but grins anyway. Yeah, he thinks. You're perfect for each other.

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