He pressed against the seam of your cotton underwear, the fabric soft and worn from too many washes. You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together for a moment before relaxing again. A little sigh escaped you, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

“Ben,” you murmured, not quite a protest. Ben, instead of Dex. A peculiar habit of yours.

“S’okay,” he said. “Just relax.”

You did.

He pulled into the parking lot of your office building and killed the engine. Before you could reach for the door handle, he cupped your chin and turned your face toward him. He pressed a kiss to your left cheek, then your right, then the tip of your nose. You giggled, a shy little sound that made his grip tighten on your jaw.

“Turn your head,” he murmured.

You did, obedient and trusting, and he kissed you properly. Slow. Thorough. His tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft, surprised sound. He tasted the mint of your toothpaste and the faint sweetness of the orange juice he’d poured for you an hour ago.

When he pulled back, your eyes were glassy. Your lip gloss was ruined.

“Good girl,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at five. Don’t wander off.”

You nodded, dazed, and stumbled out of the car.

He watched you until you disappeared through the revolving doors.

The evening was warm, the last dregs of sunlight painting the city in shades of amber and rose. He was waiting for you outside your building when you got off the bus, because of course you’d forgotten he was picking you up. You’d taken the bus instead of waiting. You apologized three times on the walk up to your apartment, and he hushed you each time, thumb stroking the back of your hand.

“I’m not mad,” he said, and meant it. He wasn’t mad. He just made a mental note to pick you up directly at your desk tomorrow.

Inside your apartment, he settled on your worn-out couch while you kicked off your heels with a groan of relief. He’d stopped at the corner store on his way over and picked up a cone of ice-cream, your favorite, and he held it out to you now like an offering.

“For being good,” he said.

Your face lit up. You padded over to him, barefoot now, and reached for the cone. He caught your wrist and tugged you down onto his lap instead.

“Dex!”

“Go on,” he said, nodding at the ice cream. “Eat it before it melts.”

You straddled his thighs, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Tentatively, you leaned forward and licked a stripe up the side of the cone. A bead of melted cream dripped onto your fingers, and you hurried to catch it with your tongue.

He watched, enraptured. The way your lips pursed. The flicker of your tongue. The blissful flutter of your lashes.

His hand found the hem of your skirt again, but this time there was no barrier of a car console, no steering wheel to work around. Just the warm give of your thighs and the damp cotton between them.

You gasped when his fingers slid beneath the elastic, ice cream momentarily forgotten.

“Keep going,” he coaxed, and you did, shaky and distracted, licking at the cone while he pushed two fingers inside you. You were already wet. You were always so responsive, so ready for him, even when you didn’t realize it yourself. Your hips twitched, trying to rock into his hand, and he tutted softly.

“Easy. Let me take care of you.”

You whimpered, head dropping forward, and a dollop of ice cream splattered onto his shirt. You made a mortified little noise, but he only laughed, low and fond.

“Messy girl. That’s alright. I’ve got you.”

He curled his fingers, thumb circling your clit with practiced precision. Your mouth fell open, cone tilting dangerously in your grip. He reached up with his free hand and steadied it, guiding it back to your lips.

“Don’t waste it.”

You took a shaky lick, then another, and then you were coming apart on his fingers with a broken moan, your body clenching and fluttering around him. He worked you through it, murmuring praise against your temple, his lips brushing your skin with every syllable.

“That’s it. Good girl. So good for me.”

The ice cream was melting properly now, dripping down the cone and over your knuckles, but you didn’t seem to notice. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breathing ragged. He took the ruined cone from your hand and set it aside on the end table, licking the sticky residue from your and his own fingers.

Then he lifted you, just enough to free himself from his jeans, and guided you back down onto his cock.

The sound you made was his favorite thing in the world. A high, breathy keen that caught in your throat and stuttered into a moan. He let you sink down at your own pace, hands steady on your hips, watching your face the whole time. Your brows pinched. Your lips parted. Your eyes squeezed shut and then flew open again, meeting his.

“There you go,” he breathed. “Taking me so well.”

He started slow. Gentle bounces that barely lifted you off him, just enough to feel the drag of you, the slick heat. Your hands found his shoulders and clung. Your skirt bunched around your waist, pale blue fabric crushed between your bodies.

When you squirmed, restless, impatient, chasing something you didn’t know how to name, he tightened his grip and snapped his hips up harder. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Uh-uh,” he crooned, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You squirm, you get it harder. That’s the rule.”

You squirmed again, on purpose this time, testing.

He grinned against your cheek. “Oh, you want it harder, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, and he gave it to you, bouncing you on his cock with a rhythm that had the couch creaking and your breath sawing out in sharp, punched-out gasps. He felt you tighten around him, fluttering on the edge, and he pressed his thumb to your clit again, a quick, relentless pressure that sent you tumbling over.

You came with a sob, burying your face in his neck, and he followed a moment later with a low groan, spilling into you while you trembled in his arms.

He stroked your back through your rumpled blouse, tracing the knobs of your spine.

The ice cream was a puddle on the end table. He’d clean it up later.

“You did so good,” he murmured into your hair. “My sweet girl. See how much easier things are when you let me take care of you?”

You nodded against his throat, boneless and pliant. He smiled, slow and satisfied, and held you tighter.