Tuesday night
[That night.]Keira's belly hurts from laughing, her throat hoarse and her mouth set in a permanent grin when she clambers out of Paul's car onto the drive of her building. Nic is usually fairly adept at convincing him to drive them to and from places if neither of them feel like being particularly responsible, and that's most of the time
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With the curl of her leg heavy and warm over his shoulder, tugging him forward, the descent of his mouth seems inevitable. Maybe it had always been inevitable, though.
She hisses as he flicks his tongue across her clit, and then makes a gratifying growl of discontent when he pulls back slightly. "Shhh," he murmurs, shifting his fingertips minutely against her slick folds, aligning them; he considers warning her, but decides not to. What would be the fun in that? And he wants to see her face, wants to find out what she sounds like when she's surprised like that.
And she's wet enough to take it.
He dips his head to catch her clit carefully between his teeth as the presses forward with his fingers, both of them, hard, twisting his wrist (and her cunt fucking clamps down on them tightly, her interious muscles both quivering and holding, so bloody hot), and her hips jerk forward, straining against the steadying hand he has curled around one hipbone. The cry she utters is sharp and almost pleading; he feels one of her hands fist in his hair, jerking him forward hard enough that he has to release her flesh from between his teeth or risk actually doing some damage. He sucks it into his mouth instead, careful pressure -- he knows what she likes by now, understands that what always seems like it might be a little too rough to him seems to be just fucking right to her -- but insistant and rhythmic, matching the pace of his fingers pushing furiously into the softslick heat of her cunt.
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"Fuck. Bill, yeah, that's good, that's very good, yeah, yes..."
Her mouth is slack now but her words are soft and mumbled by habit, because she knows she sounds silly dirty-talking for Johnny, no matter what Johnny says, or Nic, or Orlando that one time. It never comes naturally on the prop bed, but she's started to get used to it with Bill, and the words sound less awkward and forced when he's the one begging for them.
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His cock is fucking aching in his dress trousers and his hips are doing that thing they do with her that they've never actually done with anyone else, some sort of gently insistent rocking motion that has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that he can't quite keep them still when she whimpers like this, unselfconsciously needy (he hasn't quite got the hang of unselfconscious yet, but he's getting better); the motion doesn't really provide any friction, only a shifting of the constriction his trousers are inflicting on him, but it's still pretty fucking good, something sultry and harsh about the denial of pressure and pleasure while he listens to her coming apart.
She makes no sense when she comes; she hisses his name once, twice, followed by a handful of throaty vowells that might be pleas if she were a bit more coherent (they effect him viscerally, whatever they are, they make the fingers on her hip clench and the fingers in her cunt flex and shove, and he ignores the slight ache in his wrist from the angle, thinking not so much that it's unimportant as that it's a small fucking price to pay, as is the harsh pull of her fingers wound in his hair), and then he's bracing her with the hand on her hip, half holding her up as her knees go boneless and her hips shudder demandingly and her thighs clench, her leg over his shoulder flexing hard and forcing him as close as it's really possible to get.
He understands that persistence is the key in this particular art, and he's never had a problem with persistence. He keeps his lips constant around her clit, sucks firmly, keeps her with him as her lungs seize up and she bears down on his fingers (his cock responds helplessly, conditioned, jerking so painfully in his trousers that he groans a little), and he fucking loves the way he can feel the heated, clenching shudder of her orgasm, loves the suddenly more apparent slickness inside her, loves that she's groaning, "...god, oh my god, oh my god..." and that her hips arch sharply forward with every 'god.'
He pulls back only when her hand in his hair tugs him back, but then he does it at once, with the barest parting swipe of his tongue over her swollen clit, which makes her twitch and gasp.
She shifts like she's going to move, and he presses her back with the hand on her hip. "Wait," he says, "wait, quaen," and she settles back against the dresser, panting. He withdraws his fingers slowly (she sighs, and he loves that, too, loves that she always sounds pained when he leaves her), and he finally gets to taste her on his fingers, slides them into his mouth (she moans and he can feel himself flushing slightly; he ignores it), taste the tartness of her, the musk, and his eyes flutter closed at the richness of her flavor on his tongue.
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There's a tight clench in her belly at the sight, something that's not quite as white-hot as the lust boiling over in her limbs and chest, but something bright (yellow, she feels, buttery and warm) that makes her hold her breath for a second as she reaches for him again. Her fingers curve gently at the back of his neck and he lets her sink down to him, pulling him closer.
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She is feathering kisses over the top of his head, and he smiles faintly, desperately aware of her naked thighs on either side of his, still clad in his rapidly-becoming-extraneous trousers, of the feel of her hands on his back, stroking, the feel of her breasts barely brushing high up on his chest, their height disparity magnified by the position, yet he has no real urge to move immediately.
He is comfortable here, in her arms.
"I'm sorry, Keira," he murmurs, and doesn't quite manage to issue the apology and look up at her at the same time. "For last night. For scaring you."
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"I'm just not used to caring for someone quite this much, you know?," she murmurs and moves to feel her way down his chest, cupping his cock through the crotch of his pants. He hisses and groans when she does, but stays otherwise silent, still not looking up at her.
"Come to bed with me," she says, a strange echo of the first time she asked him to, and pulls them both up and onto the bed, where she straddles him and kisses him hard enough to bruise her own lips on his teeth.
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He's dazed for approximately half a second, and then she's kissing him and he forgets to be dazed. Her lips are soft and hard at once on his, and it elicits a kind of surprised questioning sound from him that sounds a bit too much like a whine for his own comfort.
She draws back slightly, and he's conscious of the disparate sounds of their breathing, his own heavy and harsh and with the decided edge of a gasp to it, hers light and quick. Then she's grinding down on him again, lips and groin, and he's conscious of her heat and dampness through the thin material of his trousers (and the fact that his hips are arched up to meet her, but that was never really a question) even as her fingers are tugging at the buttons on his shirt.
He's conscious of the fact that she's worked his mouth open with a combination of teeth and tongue that he'd had nearly nothing to do with, and it's odd, he feels nearly helpless against the abruptly furious assault of her lips and body, and his hands don't seem to know what to do other than clutch at her rumpled comforter while she bloody devours his mouth.
He's not often felt helpless (and his mind shies away from the few occasions that he has, which is easy, actually, as this is nothing like those times, this is the polar fucking opposite of all of them), and he's rarely liked it when he has, but...
Holy God, the girl can bloody kiss!
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His hands fist the duvet tightly when she sits on his thighs and pops open the button of his slacks. The zipper goes down smoothly (nice trousers these are) and she hooks her fingers into the waist of his boxers so they come down too when she yanks forcefully. His cock is deep red, flushed and sweat-slicked bobbing against his belly (heaving with tight, short breaths) as she moves to blindly remove his boots and tug the slacks and boxers completely off his legs.
When she crawls up his legs again, Bill is very, very still.
Wordlessly, she watches him watch her for a moment, then stretches out, nudging his legs apart. He makes a gargled choking noise when she curls her fingers tightly around the base of his cock and squeezes. Like she'd never touched him that way before, the night before even, as he'd hovered over her, predator-like. This is hardly the same Bill, quivering and moaning under her, spine curving off the mattress.
It makes her cunt clench again, hyper-senstive, missing his fingers.
She elbows closer, squeezing again, this time adding a shallow suck at the tip of his cock head, then a gentler, experimental kneading of his balls.
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The hand that she doesn't have wrapped around the base of his cock is curled gently around his balls. He can feel the side of her thumb pressing between them lightly, then sweeping across that tender, shivering skin, and his legs shift wider without his permission or direction. Oh, he wants to say, or maybe yeah, but he says nothing because his lungs have locked up tight, though every time her soft little fist clenches gently around his balls his breath is shoved out of him in tremulous gusts.
He closes his eyes because the only thing to look at is her ceiling, cracked and water spotted, and he doesn't have the coordination necessary to shove back up onto his elbows so that he can look at her, which is the only thing he wants to look at.
For long moments that's all she does, tongue a wetly heated teasing around the head of his cock, slender fingers exerting expert pressure on his balls. He's barely aware of the her shifting before she is fucking going down on him, and the thought that he's the luckiest bastard alive shoots briefly through his mind before he feels the tip of his cock hit the roof of her mouth, then glide, smooth as silk, into her throat.
"Oh holy fuck," he groans throatily, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice, and he strains to keep his hips still, keep from arching up into the constricting heat of her fucking amazing throat. "Fuck," he repeats, faintly this time, and her hand around his balls kneads again, careful and precise, and something coarse and husky escapes from his throat without the benefit of having been shaped into anything as useless as words.
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It's not like she's never seen Bill vulnerable, never heard him curse incoherently out of anger or frustration, but his voice when she's the one wringing it out of him (low and grumbled and gravel-worn like Glasgow, the way she remembers it from a family trip there ten years ago) makes her want to hold him down and break him completely.
He's struggling to stay still now that she's let her lips slide down his dick again. His hips half jerk up with every slight press of her fingers behind his balls and Keira fucking loves the way his thighs are parting; there's nothing hotter than a straight bloke giving it up a little.
Keira pulls away, drags lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth along Bill's cock until she suckling the head again, drawing out the most interesting little squeak out of Bill (she smiles at that, and it grows wider when she wonders if he can feel it against his cock head). He whineys gruffly when she pulls away so she tightens her hold on him, sliding her fist snugly over the spit-slick skin (warm to the touch) while she wets two of her own fingers.
One of his legs has conveniently bent at the knee, foot flat against the mattress, which affords Keira a nice angle when she reaches behind his testicles again and rubs the blunt pads of her fingers a little further than before.
She's rewarded with a sudden silence in the wake of an intake of breath that has yet to be pushed back out. Keira smiles and dips her head to run her tongue across his sac, dragging it slowly all the way to the leaking tip of his cock.
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Like Nic, who only subs for girls.
Um..., he thinks, and then her lips are descending again, not around his cock -- her hand is taking care of that now, steady, tight strokes creating an urgently pleasant twisting at the base of his spine -- but across his balls, lips warm and sucking, tongue wet and lapping, and he can hear himself gasping desperately. His hips twist upward, beyond his ability to still this time, and she obligingly swipes her tongue lower. The slick, hot pressure of her tongue on the underside of his nuts is enough to unwire him, leave him snarling wordlessly and helplessly up at the ceiling, aware of her hand on the back of his thigh, pressing it up, presumably to give her room, but absolutely unable to resist it and uncertain if he actually would if he could.
He presses his heel into the matress and sets his weight on it to keep it here, as it seems only polite to be as helpful as possible if she's going to suck on his fucking nuts.
She makes an appreciative sound (oh, you're welcome, he thinks dazedly), and her hand around his cock twists and squeezes hard at once. He groans and resists the urge to pump up into her fist; it's not so much that he's in a hurry as that he feels like he's gearing up, revving like an engine and waiting for her to step on the gas.
Her tongue presses firmly just behind his nuts, licks upward, presses again, and he doesn't really even have time to wonder if she's going to before she does, and he...
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He twists a little, helpless not to, and he supposes blearily that it's allowable, understandable even, as he's never had a tongue in his arse before, and he had no bloody idea it would be enough to drag such an appalling whine from his throat or draw his balls up in such a clenching, painfully good fashion, and when her hand strokes up his cock again, still with the same steady, practiced pressure, its wet when it travels back down the shaft again, slick with something, either his own precome or lube maybe, but it's good, fucking great and he shoves his cock up and through her palm restlessly.
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She's sure Bill will appreciate.
She's briefly taken her hand off his cock to uncap the tube and squeeze out a palmful of it, all the while pushing her tongue in as deep as he'll let her, which isn't much right now, but she'll fix that. He groans when she takes both hand and mouth away for a second, but the groan is cut short on a choke when she slides two slick fingers along his balls to his asshole. She rubs at the tight muscles gently, propped up on her elbow so she can watch him.
He's gone completely silent, expectant, but his body is everything but still: tiny ripples of muscle in his thighs, his belly; the staccato heaving of his chest, the slight hitch in his hips. Keira pushes at the back of his thigh again, this time making his foot leave the mattress completely.
She pauses the gentle rubbing to apply, with the pads of her fingers, a bit of pressure where the skin is already slick with her spit, already a little loosened. His hole tightens a bit at the feeling, but admits the first knuckle of her finger easily enough.
She pauses, watching his face. "Bill?"
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"Bill?" she murmurs again, and her hand around his cock administers a gentle squeeze and then a long, slick pull, and breath he hadn't been aware of holding escapes past his lips with a hiss. She leans forward (he feels her weight on the edge of the bed, and the only thing he can think to do is curl his fists tighter into her comforter) and her tongue presses wetly against his nuts again. He shifts, breath catching uncomfortably in his throat at the oddity of the combination, the slick and heated pressure of her hand around his cock, the wet, soft barely there friction of her tongue on his nuts and the not painful, but not exactly pleasurable feel of her finger inside him, and he's pretty sure that's supposed to feel good (prostate, right? where exactly is that thing when he needs it), but instead it just feels weird. "Okay?" she murmurs right up agains his nuts, which causes and interstingly tickling vibration.
He shivers at her voice, husky and hopeful, and he can't tell her no. He just can't, and it's not like it hurts, and obviously she wants to and he wants her to have what she wants (although he sort of wishes she hadn't asked, had just done it, because he's finding the idea of actually saying it's okay with him if she jams a finger or two up his arse a bit unsettling). He manages a slightly garbled, "Aye, okay," and doesn't open his eyes.
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The tone of his voice, the tight lines of his mouth, and sudden clench around her finger; he's not quite enjoying it yet, and while she knows it's just a matter of relaxing into it, she doesn't like to see him that way. She slides out and offers a more comfortable, familiar kneading of his balls while she walks up and over him to settle an elbow on the mattress near his shoulder. He opens his eyes at his and looks directly at her, looking both painfully aroused and slightly panicked.
She smiles, small and real, before kissing him softly but deeply. His breath shivers shakily into hers and she waits for a calmer inhale before reaching past his balls again and just slicking her fingers over his hole again, without pressing in.
His teeth dig into her lip and he inhales sharply again, but he doesn't stop kissing her, and his cock twitches wetly against her stomach. One of his hands finally abandon the sheets to curl a little desperately at the back of her neck.
She smiles into his mouth, rubs her fingertips harder against the taut skin behind his balls. "Yeah. This better?"
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He slides his fingers up from her neck and into her hair -- he's not sure about the why, but having his fingers tangled in her hair is sexy, the way it feels is sexy and the way it makes her breathe, and the way it makes her look, eyes half-lidded and smoldering, when he tugs firmly with his fist full of warm, smooth strands of it -- and smiles a little at the way her teeth catch at her lip, and then ruins the sultry half-smile thing totally with a totally undignified gulping sound as she sweeps her thumb across his balls.
"Okay?" she asks, and presses just behind his balls, and why had he never known to do that, because wow, it's insanely good, sends heated, clenching shivers all the way up his spine, and the best he can do is another gulpy sounding groan, and she chuckles softly against his lips.
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"Will you let me touch you again?" His breath hitches against her mouth, and if there's reluctance in his non-answer, it's superceded by the evident spark her words are already kindling. She nudges his thigh higher with hers and he opens up without resistence, opens up for her, just as the muscles underneath her fingertips clench tightly, then loosen when she slides her tongue into his mouth again, licking hotly. "I want to be inside you, Bill, like that." She presses a fingertip against his hole again, intent but still not insistent yet. "Fuck you and suck your cock till you come screaming." He's stopped breathing again, and she nips at the prickly angle of his jaw, breathing the last word low. "Will you let me?"
Funny how even though she's the one asking, grammatically speaking, he's the one about to beg.
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