There’s a pool cue dusting up against the inside of your thigh. It’s just a brush of wood, but the flesh is tender and the stick goes flying before you register the surprised look on Sam’s face as he considers that the force of the impact has cracked the cue.

“Your thighs did that!” he exclaims.

The clatter gets The Look from Gus, and an eye-roll from Sebastian, and a “Get a room,” from Abigail, but Sam shrugs and grins and picks it up the broken shaft like none of its intentional.

“Damn, peaches,” he says. “Had I known those gams were weapons of mass destruction, I’d have used my face.”

You flush, telling him, “We agreed: not here.”

Sam’s grin widens. “Ask nicely.”

You glare.

“You okay? You’re looking a little flushed,” he teases.

“I thought you put your hand up my skirt,” you tell him under your breath. “Which would be…?”

“Inappropriate,” he mutters, not in the slightest bit chastised. “Maybe I can’t wait until we get home later.”

“Maybe three rounds prior to coming out here to hang out with your friends should have been five.”

“Peaches, I’m so very okay with the chafing. Make it six.”

You roll your eyes.

“Hey!” Sebastian says. “Are we playing or not?”

“Yep!” Sam skips over, taking another cue from the rack. “Let’s make it interesting this time, though — gonna have to pay Gus back, I think.”

“Wager?” Seb cocks an eyebrow.

“Whatever, man. As long as I can keep my girl by my side.” He tilts his head in your direction. “Better than a rabbit’s foot, this one.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” you tell him. “Remember the last ten times Seb wiped the floor with you?”

Sam leans in, his grin wolfish as he steals a kiss. It tingles, tasting of spearmint. “Don’t care. I’m the one getting lucky.”

“Or you could just save your money and find a better use for that pool cue in the back room.”

He’s only stunned for a second, staring as you shrug. And if your timing wasn’t perfect, the strap of your dress falls off your shoulder.

“On second thought —“ He shoves the pool cue at Abi, your hand already wrapped up in his larger one, the fingers warm and gentle, but you know half the fun is in the deception:

He’s lifted you off your toes with two of them alone before.

“— We’ve got a thing we need to take care of. Abi can get this one.”

There isn’t time enough to hear anyone protest, because he’s pulled you through the door into the storage room and with one push, he’s got you pinned against the wall, his mouth on yours, your straps tugged down, and a hip notched into the apex of your thighs for friction.

“Tits,” he murmurs into your skin, which is code for, “Give me them,” but if Sam’s gone monosyllabic, the translation happens with his tongue ring:

One lick with that thing along the column of your throat and you’re already grinding his thigh, the fine line between ‘too much’ and ‘not enough’ lost in the way denim offers friction enough to get you off, but not enough to be as satisfying as having his cock to clench on.

“I really want to fuck you with that thing now,” he says. “Just the end, like it was a dildo. I could watch you come from five feet away like that.”

“It’s not as good as your cock,” you manage, and that’s enough for your panties to be shoved to the side, two fingers buried into your pussy as you climb up his body.

“Fine,” he says, “but you need to squirt for me tonight.”

You almost do, too: Sam’s got the piston and pressure of a guitarist’s fingers, and he knows where to press exactly to make you tear at his hair while you try to keep silent. You bite him, and he chuckles, keeping a steady pace without faltering.

“Love it when you get a little feral. I know you can match my energy if I touch you just right.”

“Asshole.”

He just grins, watching your control slip as he presses a thumb to your clit to add to your frustration.

“Just come quick, baby. It’s not even a thing. I’ll even give you another with my mouth before I slide you down my dick.” He kisses your hip. “You’re sweet as fucking candy when you get all flustered. Just give it to me. Say, ‘Sammy,’ in that breathy little voice that I like. Say, ‘Sammy, please!’”

He pushes your skirt up to watch you clench, the exposure a little unnerving because Sam doesn’t get embarrassed — he’s happy knowing that you’re his, that he can fuck you like this, and that everyone in the whole bar knows it.

“Yoba, so pretty,” he murmurs. “You’re drenching me already. Dripping down my wrist like you want to get fisted in this dingy little back room with everyone out there. Fuck, peaches.”

“Three fingers,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut tightly because the embarrassment feels like dying.

“Nuh uh,” Sam murmurs against your mouth. “You look at me when you come.”

He nudges your cheek.

“Come on.”

He kisses your temple.

“I won’t do anything you don’t like, you know that. I just love seeing you get a little shy.”

You look at those sky blue eyes, shaken at the strength of his words, even at a whisper. Yoba, he’s handsome, and so fucking earnest you might actually consider it.

“Give me three. Fucking. Fingers. Samson.”

He grins, obliging you, the stretch delicious, bordering on discomfort, but he can’t reach deep enough to do damages. He just rubs you, and rubs you, and rubs you, his attention on your face, as he tells you softly, “You’re such a good girl. You’re so soft, baby. You’re so wet for me. I love you so much. Look at how good you take me.”

And you’re coming. Stupidly. Hard. You don’t even know you’re screaming until he clamps a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, your pussy punched out, your knees unable to hold you, and you think for a second he’s going to help out by supporting you with his face because he’s on his knees and lapping at your juices while you bow over him, still twitching on his tongue as he licks up your come.

“S-Sam,” you manage. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing it better,” he says when he surfaces. “Such a good little cunt.”

He gives it a little pat that’s more like a slap, and you buckle into his arms as he laughs.

“Forever so sensitive.”

Sam drops, hauling you into his arms ass first and carrying you the ten feet into the deeper storage where he sits you on top of a barrel. The lip digs into your thighs, and dazed, you watch him lapping up your juices from his face, his expression elated as he undoes his buckle, and then his zipper, and he pulls you forward into a kiss to distract you as he snaps your panties off at the hip.

“Won’t be needing those any more,” he says against your mouth, but he’s smiling when he pulls you flush to his chest, his cock brushing your mons, and then your clit to rub it a bit while he holds you in place against him, trembling a little as he pushes in an inch and pulls out, teasing.

“You’re slowing down,” you murmur.

Sam only grins. “Just trying to see how much it takes before you try to snap me in half, baby.”

Your eyes narrow, your hips flexing involuntarily as he pins you one handed, slicking himself with your spend but not pushing in save for just a little bit.

“Or maybe I’m trying to get you to beg me.”

Yoba, but he’s as bad as he is good sometimes. You roll your eyes, but he’s grinning, knowing he’s the winner after all.

“Fine, Sam. Go get the pool cue,” you tell him.

But he just chuckles, licking into you as he sinks home in an easy thrust — snug against your body as he rolls his hips a little, fucking you gently as your legs shake to cling to him.