#tbp2

next to you was a guy. a guy with messy brown hair, a white t-shirt, and the shape of a face you knew way too well. finn. as in, your best friend finn. you let out a sigh through your lips, but ended up taking it right back in. how on earth did the two of you end up in the same bed?

something scratched your now fidgeting fingers. there, on your ring finger, was a clearly fake sapphire ring. the cheap silver and gemstone both had tall rays of light bouncing off them. you furrowed your eyebrows. before you could even start to search for an answer, the sound of finn snoring made you jolt. you followed it. 

sleeping on his stomach, finn looked the most relaxed he ever had: his mouth was slightly agape, his jaw wasn’t in its typical clench, and his palm was flat against the pillow, resting not too far from his face. on his ring finger was a ring with the same silver as yours. the only difference was the lack of gem.

your eyes flicked between your ring and his over and over again. if it was a dream, you surely would’ve done enough eye movement to out-rapid the REM. nothing was shifting. the rings were still there, the hotel room was still around you, and finn was still in bed next to you. 

you shook him lightly. “finn. finn, wake up.”

finn rolled onto his back slowly, his limbs heavy from sleep. he carded a hand through his hair. normally, you would’ve grown heart eyes at that, but you had a way more important objective literally on both of your hands.

“what..” his voice slurred. “why are you in my bed?”

“i think we got married,” you said.

you dangled your ring in front of finn before he could react. he barely gave you time to move your hand before he flung his own right hand up to his face and flicked it forward like an old man trying to read the paper.

“how the fuck did this happen?”

he glared at you like you were the one at fault, a kind he hadn’t given you since before the two of you became actual friends. you crossed your arms over your sunken stomach.

“i don’t know.”

finn’s face softened. “sorry. i didn’t.. i meant it more towards myself.”

keeping his gaze averted from you, he approached the dresser to lean against it. you relaxed your arms. finn hadn’t scared you like that in a while, and you hoped he wouldn’t ever again. in his hand was the picture the wedding venue had provided you two with. having not seen it—while sober, at least—his reaction would be the blueprint to yours. 

“do you remember anything that happened last night?” he had a hint of a smile on his face.

your body softened. “no, but i assume we did that thing where we got drunk and married.”

finn clenched his jaw. even in the sunlight pouring in from the window, the indent it’d created was still a painful reminder of every other time you’d seen that expression on his face. he set the picture on the dresser behind him. the silence of the room thickened beyond noise, your skin falling clammy.

“i don’t know how i’m going to explain this to gwen. with my dad and all.” he said.

being hungover and a newlywed, it took your mind a few seconds longer to connect the dots. you finally remembered finn’s father and all of the stories he’d told you about him. he was an alcoholic, an abusive one at that, and finn had emphasized that he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. he wanted to be a role model for his younger sister. there was no phrase of comfort you could say that he hadn’t already heard, so you walked to stand next to him.

finn stared down at his feet. you tried to think of anything you could possibly do to make it somewhat better. when one idea came to mind, you went with it. 

“it.. it was my suggestion,” you admitted in what you hoped was a non-obvious-lie voice.

“i think i suggested we drink.” finn mumbled.

“but i suggested we get drunk, and i suggested we get married.”

while you genuinely had no recollection of anything that night, you didn’t entirely put any of that past yourself. you’d had a crush on finn for a few months at that point. it was small enough for you to act normal around him when you were sober, but could’ve easily been too big for alcohol to mask.

you stood up from the dresser. finn’s eyes followed your movements as they usually did, then looked into yours. the darkness in them was basically a truth serum.

“i’m really sorry. i promise i will explain all of this to gwen. i’ll.. i’ll say i was the drunk one and dragged you into this,” you said.

finn kept his jaw clenched. the silence seemed like way too good of an opportunity not to fill. you placed a hand on the dresser to support your weight before speaking.

“i’m about to make this moment so much worse.” you warned. “and i’m really sorry.”

he sighed. “can’t really do that.”

“i have a crush on you.” you forced the words out of your mouth before you could think. “and i guess i just.. lost control.”

the fabric of the carpeting below your feet had never looked more interesting in your life. you started to wonder what the exact name of each color was. where did each string come from? could they pull you out of this situation? could they tie you to the floor so finn could leave and never have to see you again?

in your peripheral, finn was staring at you like his best friend—now turned spouse—just randomly told him they had a crush on him.

“actually?” his tone was unreadable.

“yeah.”

he stayed frozen for a moment. you squeezed your eyes shut so hard that fireworks burst behind them. finn shuffled, pulling something from the dresser behind him. 

“i like you too. i think it’s made pretty obvious in this picture,” he said.

you opened your eyes and immediately took the photo in your fingers. there, in front of a minister dressed like elvis, was you and finn embracing each other as you exchanged vows. you were both wearing the outfits you’d drank, apparently gotten married, and fallen asleep in—him in a white t-shirt and jeans, you in a dressier outfit you’d insisted on bringing to go out in vegas. you both had huge, dazed smiles on your faces. it was like a scene pulled straight out of a romance movie.

you looked up from the photo at finn. your stomach filled with butterflies. sneaking a glance to his lips, the way they felt to kiss was one you recognized but didn’t remember experiencing, like a familiar daydream.

“it kinda sucks that our first kiss happened when we were both drunk.” you said, setting the picture back down. “we should make up for it.”

finn furrowed his eyebrows. “make up for it how?”

you flicked a more obvious glance down to his lips. finn blinked but eventually took the hint to lean in. just when you could feel his breath fanning on your skin, he paused, looking you in the eyes. you nodded in encouragement.

finn finally kissed you. only a few seconds of hesitant kissing passed before he brought his hand to keep your face in place. his grip was tight but secure, like how you’d imagine he’d grab your hand. your wedding kiss hadn’t been pictured, yet if that was what it was like, part of you was tempted to keep that ring on your finger forever. you smiled against his lips at the idea of the memory.

taking that as a signal for who knows what, finn pulled you off from the dresser by your waist, adjusting so your hearts were flush against each other. you instinctively placed your arms around his neck. somehow, through all of the movement, you two managed to keep your lips together. as the kiss progressed, the muscles that held you upright were slowly melting at his touch. the lightness started to spread to your chest. you reluctantly pulled away.

“hold on. i’m not used to kissing like that.” you took one of your hands from his neck, clutching your chest.

both of you laughed breathily. finn’s arms relaxed around you. you leaned your head on his shoulder. even from down there, you could feel the heat radiating from his face.

“finn blake blushing?” you hiked your eyebrows.

“i’m literally your husband.” he said through a smile that suited him better than anything.

you closed your eyes where you stood. finn’s chest suddenly seemed like the best pillow ever. it was warm, had a cotton casing—

“we both need breakfast.” finn broke the silence.

“Is it weird that I wanna suck your dick?”

You erupt into a violent coughing fit, the smoke you just inhaled from the blunt between your fingers transforms from soothing vapor into daggers. Your throat and nose burn like they did the first time you ever smoked; you feel like an amateur.

“Jesus, Finney,” you wheeze between coughs, “You can’t just say shit like that!”

You wave away the smoke in your eyes and pass him the blunt. There’s the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes a hit. Like he’s proud of the fact that he threw you off your game. When he exhales, you both watch the smoke billow up into the night sky and momentarily blot out a blanket of stars.

“I kinda mean it though,” he says offhandedly.

Rolling your eyes, you yank the joint from his grasp. “You’re high.”

“Yeah. When am I not though?”

“Touché.”

You side eye him as you take another hit. His expression hasn’t changed much. He still looks relaxed—that vacant, almost far-off look in his eyes. It still blows your mind to this day that this seemingly careless stoner you met in your English 201 class somehow managed to off a serial killer when he was just a kid. He never talks about it, of course. But everyone in the state seems to know the story. It may not be what he wants, but everyone knows who he is: Finney Blake, the boy who killed the Grabber.

“So, you don’t want me to?”

You blink. “Want you to what?”

“Blow you. Don’t tell me you’re too stoned to remember something I said a minute ago.”

“I’m not— Why are you even thinking about that?“

He shrugs. The nonchalance of the whole thing is driving you crazy. Not once has he talked about his sexuality or his attraction to anyone. After months of friendship, you’d come to the conclusion that he was disinterested in sex altogether. After all, no one could possibly blame him given the trauma he went through as a kid.

“Look, I’m not tryna be rude or anything but are you even gay?” You ask cautiously.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He holds out his hand in silent request. You oblige, handing him the joint so he can take another hit.

He exhales a cloud of smoke before adding, “It’s hard for me to think about sometimes. Deep down, yeah, I think I am. But then I remember the basement and all the things he—“

His words cut off abruptly. His eyes close, brow furrowing sharply as he experiences a flash of dark memories. You wish you could make it stop, wish that you could climb inside his head and scrub those awful experiences from his mind like dirt off the kitchen tiles.

“In a way, it’s all…tainted,” he murmurs. “I can’t even jerk off half the time ‘cause I end up thinking about that shithole. I want to feel good, to try the shit other guys get to without thinking about the fucked up shit he did to me.”

He opens his eyes and takes a long, hard drag of the blunt. You can see now that there are tears threatening to rappel off his lashes. It makes your heart ache. You want to reach out and comfort him with a hug or a hand on the shoulder, but you know better than to touch him unexpectedly. The last thing a victim of such abuse needs is to be triggered by unwanted contact.

“I think that’s why I want to try it with you.” He punctuates the statement with a sniffle and wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

“Because…?”

“Because I trust you,” he says quietly.

And suddenly, for the first time since you both came out to your backyard patio, he’s actually looking at you. His gaze no longer seems vacant. Instead, he seems desperate, vulnerable. He’s gazing at you like you’re holding the barrel of loaded shotgun to his forehead, yet he knows that you’ll never be the hunter that pulls the trigger.

Your heart beats heavily in your chest and your stomach feels like it’s full of lead. “Finney, I…” The well-worded response you seek evades you as you feel your cheeks flush.

And given the fact that he immediately starts leaning in towards you, a verbal response apparently isn’t necessary. He seems to know exactly how you feel just by the expression on your face. You want to try things with him too—to kiss him, to touch him in ways he wants and feels comfortable.

“Kiss me,” he whispers once he’s only a breath away from your face, “Please.”

So, you do. Without hesitation, you close the distance between your mouths and gently press your lips to his. He inhales just a little bit at the contact but doesn’t flee from it. After the initial surprise, he presses just a bit harder and moves his lips against yours experimentally.

Instinct drives you to reach for him. But before you can caress his neck or clutch at his shirt, you still your hand.

Don’t, that little voice of reason in your head reminds you, You’ll scare him.

As if sensing your hesitation, he grabs you by the wrist and guides your hand to the exposed skin just above his collar. You graciously accept the invitation, wrapping your fingers around the side of his neck. When the kiss deepens, that hand slides upward to cup along his jaw and gently guide his head into a tilt that angles his mouth to perfectly accommodate yours.

After a few more slow, almost exploratory kisses, Finney’s mouth pries open and he exhales. The delicate noise that escapes his throat in tandem with his breath—some crossbreed between a delighted sigh and a needy whine—sends a spark of excitement down your spine. At first, you’re uncertain if he’s looking for a chance to catch his breath or if he’s asking for you to level up the contact. But when his tongue dips out to drag along your bottom lip, you realize very quickly that it’s the latter.

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye. His cheeks are dusted with a soft shade of pink, his pupils blown wide as he gazes back at you. It’s so easy to see just how badly he wants this but that doesn’t stop you from asking, “Are you sure?”

He nods.

You kiss him again. This time, however, you slip your tongue in his mouth and bury your fingers in his hair. He stumbles slightly at the intensity of the kiss, so you guide him a couple of steps backward until he’s got his back pressed up against the wall with you standing in front of him. The shift in position reasserts the dynamic of this whole interaction: you’re not dominating him, but you’re definitely in a position of control that you cannot—and will not—take for granted.

As the two of you make out, his hands seek shelter on your body. One finds a resting place on your waist while the other snakes its way up the back of your shirt to nestle between your shoulder blades. You shiver at the feeling of his cool fingertips against your bare skin.

Assured by his exploratory touch and the soft, pleased groans he’s making as a result of your kisses, you press yourself closer to him. Chest to chest, you can feel his stomach rise and fall with each labored breath. Of course, you can feel the lump of his growing erection against your thigh as well. And man, does that make your dick lurch with excitement too.

Careful not to move too fast or push too far, you adjust your stance so that you can ease the top of your knee between his legs. Every muscle in his body seems to grow tense at the new contact and he inhales sharply. For a brief moment, you fear you’ve blown it. But fortunately, he doesn’t completely freeze up or shove you away. Instead, he moans into your mouth and rolls his hips in an attempt to find more friction.

When you finally pry your mouths apart to catch your breath, you allow yourself to take in the sight of his blissed out expression. His lips are swollen, eyelids low and heavy as he huffs and sighs. There’s even a stray strand of saliva clinging to the corner of his mouth that his tongue dips out to swipe away before you say anything about it.

“Can I…?” The words that encapsulate your desire fail you, but your eyes trace the hard line of his neck muscle and your thumb strokes the underside of his jaw to communicate your intentions.

He nods. “Uh-huh.”

You lean in and start kissing along the tender skin just below his jaw. At first, you try to keep your affection gentle, but when he starts to roll his hips to grind against your thigh, you match the fervor by nipping and sucking at his skin. Special attention is paid to his throat, where your tongue glides over his Adam’s apple before you mouth hungrily at it. There will undoubtedly be a hickey or two for him to find in the morning.

While you further leave your mark along his tender flesh, you let your hand wander up his shirt. Fingertips ghost over his belly and all the way up to his chest where your thumb ever so gently swipes across his nipple. He shudders, the tiniest breath of a whine weaseling out of his throat. That sound acts like a shot of pure adrenaline being injected directly into your veins—your heart leaps, your breath catches, and your dick throbs with the rush of excitement.

You want more.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you whisper against the velvety soft skin just behind his ear, “I love when you moan for me.”

The hand on his chest continues to caress the skin beneath his t-shirt. You trace the curve of his pectoral muscles before gently pinching his nipple between your fingers to give it a little tug.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he blurts while feebly pushing you away with one hand.

You freeze. Guilt sinks its venomous teeth into you with immeasurable force. You immediately start apologizing, “Shit. I’m sorry. If I went too far o-or made you uncomfortable, I didn’t mean to. I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—“ He hesitates, his cheeks bright red and eyes pointedly evading yours. He juts his chin toward the outline of your hand still on his chest as he finally admits, “If you keep doing…that, I’m gonna cream my fucking pants.”

“Oh.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“You know that’s not, like, a bad thing, right? It’s actually kinda hot.”

For the first time that night, he laughs. It’s such a relief to hear a chuckle from him. And the tiny smile that accompanies that warm sound makes your heart swell with delight.

“Okay, but I for one don’t wanna deal with the mess. Especially not before I’ve gotten the chance to blow you.”

“You’re still on that, huh?”

“Cheap weed and a few hickeys aren’t gonna stop me from wanting to give you head.”

He finds the waistband of your sweatpants with one hand and pushes them down a smidge to get a peek of pubic hair. To your surprise—and delight, of course—he looks like he might start drooling just eyeing that tasteful preview of what lies below your waistline.

“Easy, tiger,” you warn as you grab his wrist. “Love the enthusiasm, but we gotta talk first.”

“About what?”

“Well, one: don’t you think we should go inside where it’s at least somewhat warm before you take my fucking pants off?”

He shrugs.

You snicker and roll your eyes. There’s no malice behind the reaction though. His casualness about such an intimate gesture is oddly endearing.

You continue, “Two: I’m not like most guys. So, whatever you’re imagining when you say you wanna blow me, is not exactly how it works with me.”

His brow furrows slightly with confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, I’m trans, Finney,” you confess softly. “My dick isn’t like yours. Shit, a lot of people probably wouldn’t even call it a dick but whatever. It’s my dick and I love it the way it is.”

He blinks, clearly processing the information you’re sharing with him. It had never been your intention to come out to him in such a way but hey, you do what you have to do when you’re about to let a guy get in your pants. Probably should’ve seen it coming the moment he mentioned wanting to suck your dick.

“And yeah, before you ask, I do have a pussy.”

“Oh. Uh, okay.”

You eye him cautiously, studying his every micro expression in search of disgust or fear or some other negative reaction. Maybe it’s the marijuana, but he seems alarmingly unfazed by the whole situation.

“Okay?” You repeat. “You’re not…turned off by that?”

Another lax shrug. “Honestly, man, I don’t give a shit. You’re fucking hot and I trust you. You could have tentacles or some other weird ass monster cock and I’d still wanna suck you off.”

The statement earns him a hearty chuckle and, judging by the soft smile that curves his lips in response, your laughter is as pleasant to him as his is to you.

“Again, love the enthusiasm. Let’s go inside, though. I don’t need any nosy neighbors catching me with my pants around my ankles.”

You lead him inside to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been there, but it’s definitely the first visit where you’re both fully aware of your mutual attraction—a dynamic shift that has changed the vibe of the room altogether. For the better, of course. Now there won’t be any shame when you find yourself thinking about him while you rub one out at night.

Standing at the foot of your bed, his hands find your waist. His eyes study your face carefully. There’s so much going on emotionally in his expression that it’s hard to make out every individual feeling. At the heart of it, you can see a mixture of curiosity, hunger, and adoration—undoubtedly a good combination for a moment like this.

You lick your lips and watch his gaze lock on to the movement of your tongue. His pupils dilate at the sight. Call you cocky, but something about knowing how bad he wants you fills you with pride.

“Quit staring at my lips and kiss me, Finney,” you tease.

He follows suit, closing the distance to capture your mouth with his once again. The kissing is hot and heavy from the get-go this time. Both of you are worked up, bodies vibrating with anticipation of what’s coming.

When you feel him push at the waistband of your pants this time around, you reach down to help. Without ceasing the onslaught of kisses, you wiggle both your pants and underwear down your legs, exposing your lower body to him for the first time. You’re instantly grateful that you had coaxed him into coming in the house for this. The air in your room feels cool on your bare skin. One can only imagine how cold it would’ve been had you stayed outside.

His hands snake around to your ass. Night-chilled fingers gently squeeze your buttocks and draw a soft groan from your chest. He eagerly swallows the sound before pulling back to take a look at you.

His chest is practically heaving, mouth agape as he eyes your lower body. Part of you had been fearing that seeing you without your clothes—granted, you still had your shirt on—would make him lose interest. But clearly, the anxieties were unnecessary. He still looks ravenous because of you.

He asks an unfinished question. “Can I…?"

Fortunately, you know exactly what he’s asking. “Yeah.”

He readjusts his hands. One of them slides back to anchor itself to your waist while the other dips down to your pelvis. His palm drags slowly across the plane of hair at the bottom of your abdomen before curling between your thighs. Instinctively, you spread your legs a little to give him better access.

Exploratory fingertips dip between the folds of your flesh. You watch his face as he touches you. His lashes flutter, eyebrows jerking up with pleasant surprise when he finds his fingers getting coated by the warm, wet fluid coming from your eager body. Easing your lips apart with his index and ring fingers, he slides his middle finger over your entrance a couple times before very gently pushing the tip of it inside. And when that finger slips in deeper to rub along your inner walls, your hand reflexively clutches at his shirt.

“Are you okay?” He asks the second your fingernails dig into his clothing.

“Y-yeah, I’m okay.” A breathy laugh is interrupted by a quiet gasp as the butt of his palm rubs your swollen dick at just the right angle. “Fuck, I’m far better than okay, Finney. Keep doing that.”

He obeys the command and rocks his hand back and forth while he fingers you. With that tastefully slender digit working at your hole and his palm grinding against your dick, you find yourself a groaning mess. It feels so good; too good at times. After all, if he’s serious about going down on you, you really don’t want to miss out on the opportunity just because his curiosity got you cumming on his fingers.

Before you can even truly process it, a second finger is pushing inside you. The added pressure that comes with the additional digit is a very welcome surprise, of course, especially when he starts stroking all the right places inside of you. He’s got a good rhythm too, so much so that you can’t help but roll your hips to try and ride his hand.

When you feel yourself getting close to the edge, you cease your movements. “Okay, we gotta stop.”

He immediately pulls his hand away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying not to cum so fucking fast.”

His brows cock upward at that. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were getting so close.”

“Yeah, well, at the rate you were going, I was probably about soak your entire fucking hand.”

A tiny, haughty smirk ghosts across his lips. “Hot.”

“Shut up,” you mutter with a light shove to his chest. “You wanna suck my dick or not?” You punctuate your question by sitting down on the edge of the bed with your legs spread.

His eyes instantly lock onto your exposed body. The way he sinks to his knees in front of you with a look of burning need makes you feel akin to the flame a moth simply can’t resist. Never before have you had someone so eager to go down on you.

With one hand gently grasping your thigh, he leans in to slowly drag his tongue along the topside of your dick. It’s just a cautious, exploratory first lick but Christ, does it feel so good. Your greedy little dick aches for more. And fortunately, he doesn’t hesitate to deliver.

After a few more wary drags of the tongue, he wraps his lips around you and starts to suck. You tilt your head back and moan at the sudden feeling of being engulfed in his hot, wet mouth. You’ve been waiting so long for someone to blow you like this. Never would you have guessed Finney Blake, the certified pothead who always keeps to himself, would be the one to worship your cock.

“Shit,” you groan when you feel the vibration of his satisfied hum around your dick. “That feels so fucking good.”

You reach out with one hand to bury your fingers in his hair. At first, it’s a gesture of comfort and support—a non-verbal cue to let him know you approve of the attention he’s giving to your cock. But when he starts bobbing his head and alternating between fervid suction and hard laps of the tongue, your fingers tangle tightly in those brown strands and you find yourself pushing him toward your body. At this point, with you mindlessly rocking your hips back and forth, you’re basically fucking his mouth.

“F-fuck…Finney, I’m gonna cum,” you warn when you feel your body start to shake. “That’s—Oh fuuucck!”

You cum hard, your nails nearly burrowing into his scalp as you sporadically buck into his mouth. It’s easily one of the hardest, most satisfying orgasms you’ve ever had. Despite the intensity of you fucking his mouth and the sharp tugging in his hair, he lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue until you collapse onto your elbows in a breathless mess.

When he finally pulls back to sit on his haunches, you can see just how drenched his mouth and chin are. His tongue dips out to swipe some of the fluid. Watching him lick his lips like that after he’s just gone down on you is undeniably hot. There’s no doubt you’re going to masturbate to that memory in the future.

You cock your brow at him. “And?”

His tongue takes another swipe at his lower lip before he wipes his chin with his shirt collar. “And what?”

“Was sucking my dick everything you wanted or what?” You tease.

A chuckle rattles in his throat. He nods. “Fuck yeah.”

Your eyes wander down to the tent in his jeans where his erection is pressing firmly against the fabric. “I could return the favor,” you suggest with a nod toward his groin. “If you want me to.”

He looks down. “Oh. Yeah. I don’t…know.” His hand covers his crotch subconsciously, his entire body nervously fidgeting just enough for you to notice. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“That’s okay. I’m never gonna pressure you to do anything you’re not up for, I promise.”

And you mean that wholeheartedly. His comfort comes first. As much as you’d love to jerk him off or let him use your mouth, you fully respect his decision to keep it to himself. You can only imagine what that sick bastard did to him back in that filthy basement and just how traumatizing the whole experience was for him.

“There’s something I wouldn’t mind trying but it’s kinda…I don’t know. Weird, maybe?”

“What is it?”

“Okay. It’s—“ He blushes. “I don’t know why this is so fucking embarrassing to say out loud…If you just turn around on your knees, I can kinda, uh, stand behind you and stick it between your legs…”

“Dude, it’s just a thigh-job. You don’t have to be so weird about it."

“I don’t know, man, it feels pervy asking for it!”

You laugh softly and reach out to stroke his cheek affectionately. Thankfully, the intimate gesture isn’t unwelcome. He leans into your hand just a little. “Relax, Finney. You trust me, I trust you. Besides, thigh-jobs are fucking hot.”

You get into position on your knees at the edge of the bed. Behind you, you hear the sounds of him finally undressing himself: the clanking of his belt being undone, the zip of his fly opening, and the shuffling of denim jeans falling to the floor. Part of you really wishes you could turn and watch him strip out of his clothes, but you won’t violate the trust he’s putting in you. Never will you ever take any of this for granted.

A hand warily caresses your bare ass so you push back to give your approval and invite him to proceed. He accepts, slowly sliding his cock between your thighs until his body is fully flush against yours—your ass cheeks kiss the sharp v-line of his lower torso. He sighs at the feeling of being enveloped by your warm skin, his balmy breath tickling the back of your neck. It gives you goosebumps.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs with the tiniest roll of the hip.

Such a lewd remark being made so innocently like that makes you want to moan. “You like it?”

“Mm-hmm.”

His hands take hold of your hips as he starts to move. It’s a little awkward at first, but once his dick is coated with the fluid from your sopping wet hole, he’s able to glide freely between your thighs. His lips latch onto your neck, placing sultry, open-mouthed kisses along your collar.

To your absolute delight, he’s vocal when he’s getting off too, very vocal. As he humps you, he practically whines. They’re such breathy noises, more whimpering in pitch than groan. It’s almost endearing how desperate he sounds. If it weren’t so incredibly raunchy to have him making those noises while he fucks your thighs, of course.

Placing your hands over his, you start to push back in an effort to ride him. The occasional squelch of his drenched cock grinding against your flesh is so wonderfully obscene, especially when it’s bookended by the soft smacks of skin against skin. Oh, to one day be able to bend over and let him pound your hole so that you can feel his balls slap against your cunt at the same time…Such a salacious fantasy makes your dick twitch.

“Shit,” he whimpers into the crook of your neck, “I’m gonna—“ A helpless moan cuts the declaration short and he starts to jerk his hips quicker. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He fervidly fucks the space between your thighs a few more times before reaching the edge. His fingertips press tightly into your skin as he convulses behind you. You watch as his cum shoots onto the sheets below, a few strands catching on your thighs where they’re free to drip down your flushed skin rather than cling pathetically to the cotton fibers of the bedding.

His head knocks into your temple as he places his chin on your shoulder with a huff. You can feel him struggling to catch his breath. You reach up to soothingly stroke his hair.

“How you feeling?” You inquire softly.

“Good. Really fucking good, actually.”

A proud smile finds its way to your face. How could you not be beaming with pride hearing that? It took so much trust for him just to allow you to kiss him, let alone guide him to the bliss of post-coital exhaustion like this.

“Good. Why don’t you lay down and catch your breath while I wash off?”

“‘Kay.”

You climb off the bed and head for the bathroom, leaving him to gather himself. The shower isn’t long by any means, but by the time you come back out to the bedroom, the soiled sheet is crumpled up on the floor next to your and Finney’s discarded pants and Finney himself is passed out on the mattress in his boxers and undershirt. How he managed to fall asleep so damn fast, you’ll never know. But you’re definitely touched by the discovery. Not only does he trust you enough to do everything you just did together, but he sees your home and your presence as a safe haven.