He stops with a sharp breath, his hands locking around your hips, fingers digging in hard. He’s close—too close—and you can feel it in the way his thighs tense under you, in the way his chest rises unevenly.
"Wait," Simon rasps as his one hand leaves your hip and finds your face, pulling you down until your mouth is on his.
It’s that lazy kind of kiss—lazy and wet, all tongue, just the way you love it. His lips are warm, soft, and parting with a hum when your teeth scrape just a little. He kisses you like he’s trying to catch his breath through you, like if he slows it down, he might not cum right then and there.
Your body doesn’t get the memo.
You're already soaking, but that kind of kiss? That slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours? It makes you clamp down around him so tight he chokes on a moan.
“Fuckin’—love,” he grits out against your mouth, voice rough and cracking. “Stop squeezin’ me—I’m gonna fuckin’ cum.”
You smile into the kiss, smug and breathless. “Then stop kissing me like that.”
He stares at you for a split second—just one—and then drags you back down, kissing you deeper, messier, like he’s punishing you for talking back.
He bucks once, twice, hips jerking under you like he’s losing the fight. "You fuckin'—ngh—"
You feel it when he gives in.
His head drops back, jaw slack, hands gripping your ass like he’s trying to anchor himself. You ride it out slow, lips still brushing his, feeling him pulse inside you while you grin like a little menace.
“You’re evil,” he mutters, breathless, his eyes half-lidded.
“And you’re terrible at resisting me.”
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