hello! my name is faye, she/ her, 24, 🇸🇻 I love Sanrio and y2k fashion is my fav
about my blog -I write for Jujutsu Kaisen as of now! I write smut strictly for 21 + characters. Smut or stories / fics in general will not be written for underage characters!
RULES FOR MY BLOG…
- NSFW / smut posts will have 18+ and MDNI warnings on them. If you’re under 18 do not interact with my blog please n thank you <3
- NO type of hatred or discriminatory comments will be tolerated, that be racism, transphobia, or anything along those lines. You will be immediately blocked. BE NICE!!
- please do NOT post my work on other platforms , no permission is granted to steal/ claim my work or for it to be posted on other sites with or without my permission.
- I write for fem! reader but anyone is welcome to read (18+ only ofc )
- please don’t be shy to leave me an ask :) your support is most appreciated <3
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, sunshine, pretty, baby + no y/n), oral (f. receiving), fingering, mutual pining, cream pie + one very down bad handyman ⋆✴︎.ᐟ
Knock. Knock.
“Coming!”
Your voice carries through the apartment over the steady trickle of water somewhere inside. Rain boots squeak across the soaked hardwood as you hurry toward the front door, splashing through a puddle before yanking it open.
The second you see Rafe standing in the hallway, relief crashes into you so hard you don’t even think before reaching for him. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold while you kick the door shut behind him with your boot.
“Oh, thank god.” You let out a breathy laugh, already pulling him farther inside before he has the chance to say hello. “Thank you so much for coming over. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
Rafe barely manages two steps before he stops. “…Jesus.”
His eyes move slowly around the apartment, taking everything in without saying anything. Every towel you own has been thrown across the floor in an obvious attempt to stop the water that has already escaped the laundry room and spread halfway through the kitchen.
Damp clothes hang from cabinet handles, dining chairs, doorknobs, and the oven handle, dripping steadily into baking sheets and mismatched bowls you’d shoved underneath them to catch the water.
A pastel floral duvet is draped across the backs of two barstools, three bras spin lazily from the ceiling fan, and a string bikini is looped around the refrigerator handle.
The whole apartment smells like fresh laundry, warm vanilla, and clean cotton lingering in the air beneath the faint scent of standing water. It’s complete chaos.
“I’ve been trying,” you blurt out before he can say anything else, throwing both hands toward the disaster surrounding the two of you. “I Googled it.”
“I can tell.”
“I watched, like…” You squint toward the ceiling, trying to remember. “…Seven videos?” He nods once. “And every single one told me to do something different.”
“I believe that.”
“So then I panicked.”
His eyes drift back toward the puddles stretching across your floor before settling on you again. “…Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“Come here.” You wave him toward the laundry room. “It’s worse over here.”
His head dips as a soft laugh escapes through his nose, though it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
Rafe follows without a word, stepping carefully around a towel as his boots splash through the thin layer of water covering the floor.
You’ve somehow managed to get yourself almost as wet as the apartment. Damp strands of hair cling to your forehead while everything else has been shoved impatiently behind your ears, your fitted white tank hugging your frame.
That tiny jean skirt kisses your upper thighs, creeping higher every time you step over another puddle, bright yellow rain boots squeaking against the tile as you stop beside the open washing machine and look back at him with the most hopeful expression you can manage.
“There she is,” you whisper sheepishly.
Rafe steps up beside you and looks into the drum. The washer isn’t full of clothes anymore because you already hauled every last piece out by hand. It’s still nearly full of cloudy blue water, soap suds floating across the top thick enough that he can’t even see the bottom.
“It won’t drain,” you explain, chewing lightly on your bottom lip.
“Alright.” He reaches for the cuffs of his flannel, rolling one sleeve up before doing the other, exposing his forearms. By the time he finishes, he can already feel your eyes on him.
Your lips part ever so slightly, your attention catching on his hands before drifting farther up his forearms, getting completely lost somewhere between the strength in his hands and the quiet concentration written across his face when he reaches in to check the depth. The water skims his flannel and it’s clear—the shirt has to go.
“This okay?” he asks, already shrugging off one shoulder. Your mouth goes a little dry, lips still parted, lashes fluttering when he asks you again. “Sweetheart?”
The pet name does nothing for your sanity, your cheeks blooming with warmth as you try to answer a question you never heard. “Hmm?”
“My shirt? Can I take it off?” he asks through a chuckle.
“Of course,” you smile. “Take anything off.”
A quiet snort slips out before he can stop it as he strips the plaid fabric off his body, showing off the white cutoff t-shirt underneath. He wraps the bigger shirt around his waist, cinching it with a knot before adjusting the bandana on his head.
“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, sunshine.”
His bandana keeps most of his hair pushed back, though a few stubborn pieces still fall forward across his forehead as he squints down into the machine. The cutoff shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders every time he shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath sun-tanned skin as he twists the center agitator back and forth.
“…C’mon,” he grunts under his breath. You watch his jaw tighten as he gives it one more firm pull.
The agitator slides free. Rafe takes a careful step backward, lifting the surprisingly heavy piece out of the washer with both hands. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his skin, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip to keep it from slipping.
His worn blue jeans are tucked into work boots, and for a second you’re so distracted watching him that you almost forget he’s waiting for an answer.
“You got somewhere I can set this?”
“Oh!” You blink hard, snapping back to reality. “Hang on.”
You spin toward the hallway a little too quickly, and the rain boot hits another patch of soapy water. Both feet slide out just enough to send your arms pinwheeling through the air.
“…Oh, shit,” Rafe huffs, his head snapping up instinctively as you manage to catch yourself, bent over at the waist. Nothing but ass and purple lace greeting him as you struggle to find your footing.
He tears his eyes away almost immediately, clearing his throat as heat creeps into his cheeks. His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he can’t quite hold back, his head tipping to the side as the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen somehow managed to look like she’d stepped onto a sheet of ice.
“I meant to do that,” you smile over your shoulder, scurrying into the bathroom before returning a few seconds later with a thick striped beach towel bundled in your arms.
Rafe blows out a breath as he watches you move, every inch of your apartment a hazard for a slip and fall. He smiles as you lay the towel on the floor, glancing up at him safe and sound.
“Perfect,” he hums, offering you a hand, guiding you closer.
The two of you lean over the washer together, peering into the cloudy blue water that hasn’t budged an inch. Rafe studies the drum a moment before nodding once.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he mumbles, looking to his left where you stand beside him, but you’re bent over now. The white tank top clinging to your curves is translucent—the purple lace bra underneath cups your breasts so perfectly he can’t help but sigh, the low scoop and soft swell of your breasts leaving him wondering what words left his mouth last and where he was goin’ with any of this.
His heavy eyes lift and you quirk an eyebrow teasingly, your glossed lips drawn to the side.
“Somethin’,” he huffs, and you nod. “I—I think things.” Words leave his lips, but they’re not the ones he’s reaching for. Your giggle fills the little laundry room, his laugh joining it. “Sorry—”
“Don’t be,” you smile, stepping a little closer, watching the breath catch in his chest.
“I think your drain’s clogged,” he says, getting his feet under himself again. Rafe reaches both hands back into the drum, feeling carefully beneath the cloudy water.
His brow furrows a little deeper, the tip of his tongue slipping out to rest lightly against his upper lip while he concentrates, fingertips searching along the bottom where he can’t see.
“Hang on,” he mutters. “I think…” He pinches onto something beneath the water, his expression shifting with recognition. “I think I got something.”
His fingers tighten around whatever he’d managed to catch beneath the hazy water before giving it the gentlest tug.
“Shit…”
“What?” you ask, your eyes widening immediately as you peer over the edge.
“I think it’s gonna rip.”
Your nose scrunches and you laugh softly. “It’s okay.”
“You sure?” he asks, looking back at you. “I don’t wanna wreck your stuff, sweetheart.”
“If it fixes my washer, it fixes my washer,” you say simply, resting your hands on your hips, and he chuckles.
Rafe smiles as he gives the fabric another gentle tug, every muscle through his forearms tightening. His biceps flex with the effort, boots squeaking faintly against the damp tile as he plants himself a little wider.
“Well…” he murmurs, glancing over at you with the smallest smile. “If I break it…” Another careful pull. “…I’m replacin’ it.”
A laugh bubbles out of you almost immediately. “Rafe, you’re not replacing anything.”
“We’ll negotiate later,” Rafe says, his blue eyes flicking toward yours for just a second before he braces himself for another pull.
You let out a breathy little laugh, shaking your head as you fold your hands behind your back. “There is no negotiation.”
“We’ll see,” he hums, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back into the washer.
A strip of black lace slips through the cloudy blue water first, dripping between his fingers before hanging there in complete silence.
Water drips steadily from the towels hanging around the apartment while neither of you says a single word. His eyes drop to the lace dangling from his hand before very, very slowly lifting toward you. Yours are already on him. “…Oh.”
He pulls again, and this time pale blue satin slides free beneath the black lace, a delicate strap catching somewhere inside the drain before cherry-red mesh follows behind it, tiny bows glistening with soapy water as they break the surface.
Your lips part and Rafe’s lashes flutter. “I—Umm… I don’t…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks around the words. A horrified giggle escapes you before you can stop it.
“Oh my gosh.” You press both hands over your mouth, already feeling your face warming from your neck all the way to the apples of your cheeks while Rafe looks very deliberately back into the washing machine, trying to focus on literally anything except the fact that he’s somehow standing in your laundry room holding what is very obviously the prettiest collection of panties he’s ever encountered.
“I don’t think I’m done,” he admits after another second.
“You’re kidding,” you sigh.
Bubblegum pink lace slips free this time. Then delicate little white florals. Another gentle pull brings soft lavender mesh knotted through the first three, followed by a ribbon of satin that disappears beneath the growing bundle collecting in his hand.
Somewhere deep inside the drain they’ve managed to twist themselves together into one impossible knot, every tiny strap looping through another until what should’ve been one pair becomes two…then four…then six, the growing chain spilling farther and farther across the striped beach towel you spread on the floor only minutes earlier until you’re in the double digits.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth trembling as he tries not to smile.
“I am so embarrassed—”
“I’m impressed,” he mumbles.
“Stop,” you giggle, holding out a hand to block his handsome face when he catches you peering through your fingers.
“This is quite the collection,” he teases, hissing under his breath in faux pain when you shove at his shoulder.
You cross your arms over your chest, turning away slightly, rubber boots squeaking against the tile when a little whistle breezes past his lips. The culprit of it all, the white lace t-string that barely qualifies as underwear in the first place, threads through his thick, rough fingers. The final pair of panties in the makeshift line.
He looks down at you, the dimple in his cheek deepening, waiting to catch your eye again.
“C’mon, pretty. Don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he drops the panty chain to the floor in a heap, reaching for you as he straightens, his hand settling against your hip to turn you toward him.
Your heart beats a little faster when his blue eyes rest on your lips, the tension in his shoulders unwinding when your mouth tips into a smile.
“I can’t believe there were that many,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he sighs, glancing at the pile before returning his attention to you. “How do you think I feel? I told you I was replacing them.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, feeling your stomach flutter as he wets his lip, his thumb rubbing against the wet cotton at your hip—snap!
The sudsy water gurgles, bubbles popping from the middle of the drum, as the blue soapy water twirls down the drain like a cyclone until all that’s left is a clean slate.
Your lashes lift and your gaze rests on his. A part of you knows you should be relieved that the water is gone. A smaller, far less practical part of you has been hoping the machine might remain stubborn for an extra hour if it meant Rafe had to stay.
“Well, look at that.” He smiles, looking down at the drum.
“You’re amazing.” You squeal, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips pressing against his cheek before you draw away.
For one long second, Rafe forgets how to act.
His eyes stay on yours, searching your face like he’s making sure you really meant to do that, the warmth of your lips still lingering against his cheek.
His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip before he lets out a slow breath through his nose, one hand tightening where it rests against your waist.
“Well,” he murmurs, his voice lower than it had been a second ago.
“What?” you ask, the smile playing in your voice.
“I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
Your hands smooth down his chest, his hand falling away from your hips reluctantly. He looks away under the excuse of checking the washer again, dragging one hand along the back of his neck.
He’d spent his days fixing things for people—broken garbage disposals, leaky faucets, doors that wouldn’t quite shut, washing machines that refused to drain just like this one.
None of those jobs had ever left him standing in a tiny laundry room with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met smiling up at him like that. For the first time, he finds himself wishing something else around the apartment were broken—not because he wants another repair, but because he isn’t anywhere near ready to leave.
“I, uh—think we’re golden,” he says, reaching down for the agitator and resting the final piece of the puzzle back in before clicking it in place like it’s nothing.
“That’s it?” you ask, glancing between him and the washer. “You’re completely finished?”
“Unless you’ve got something else hidin’ somewhere that needs me,” he answers with a chuckle, hoping there’s something around here that will give him a little more time with you and another kiss on the cheek at the very least.
You glance around the apartment, taking in the soaked towels, the mixing bowls scattered beneath dripping clothes, and the duvet still draped across two barstools in the kitchen.
There is more than enough cleanup left to keep you busy for the rest of the day, but none of it technically requires a broad-shouldered handyman you’ve had a crush on since you first saw him down the hall.
Your lips press together in a slight pout before you can stop them, your boot digging lightly against the wet floor as you look back into the empty drum.
Rafe notices immediately. “What’s that face for?” he asks, brushing the water off his work-worn hands on his jeans.
“What face?” you ask, peering at him out of the corner of your eye.
Rafe catches you smiling before you realize you’re doing it. “That one.” He nods toward you, amusement pulling at his mouth. “You looked happier when your washer was broken, sunshine.”
“Did I?”
“You absolutely did.”
You bite your cheek as he lowers the lid of the washer, starting an empty load just to test it out. “So did you,” you mumble, calling his bluff, and his lips fall open like that can’t be so—like you’re reading him all wrong—but the chuckle gives him away.
“You think so?” Rafe asks quietly. “…Guess I wasn’t hidin’ it very well.”
“M’happy it’s fixed,” you hum. “Obviously. I just thought it might take a little longer.”
Rafe rests one hip against the washer, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he studies you. “You wanted it to take longer?”
“Maybe,” you smile.
“Huh,” he huffs, one hand lifting from his side to rest on your cheek, making your pulse jump as the other slides around your waist again.
Rafe brushes his thumb across your cheek, his palm settling carefully against the side of your face when you lean into the touch.
“You know,” he murmurs, “it didn’t take shit breakin’ for you to call me over.”
“No?” you ask, and his arm tightens around your waist, guiding you closer. You smile bashfully, hands wrapping around his waist as well, chest pressing against his until your soaked breasts push into his broad chest.
“Been waitin’ for a while,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow pass over your skin. “Just needed you to give me a reason.”
“Yeah?”
His eyes hold yours as the corner of his mouth lifts. “‘Course.”
The sincerity in his voice steals whatever response you were about to give him. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath the thin fabric as you tilt your chin up toward his.
“Are you going to kiss me, or did I flood my apartment for nothing?” you whisper, your lips so close to his that all you can feel is the breath of his chuckle.
“You didn’t flood your apartment for this,” he mumbles, the warmth of his words brushing over your lips as he teases you.
“You know…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for you to chase his lips, “…you’ve been lookin’ at me all afternoon.”
“So’ve you.”
“…Yeah.” The admission comes so easily it makes your heart stumble. “I’ve been tryin’ real hard to be a gentleman.” He lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, like there wasn’t much point pretending anymore. “Been havin’ a hard time lookin’ anywhere else.”
Your mouth parts on a soft breath, and Rafe’s body reacts to it instantly. His own lips part, catching your bottom lip in a gentle tug, humming out a deep sound before he murmurs, “I think you’re makin’ it pretty difficult.”
His forehead falls to yours for the briefest second, both of you smiling into the inch of space between your mouths. His thumb strokes once along your jaw before his lips press together, like he’s trying to convince himself to keep doing the gentleman thing he’d been talking about thirty seconds ago.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs.
Rafe’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time.
He turns and presses your back to the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.
He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, nails sliding in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a deep groan from his lips.
You giggle breathlessly, and he buries his face in your neck, his fingers flexing against your skin as he physically holds himself back. His smile pulls along your skin, the weight of his body still holding you where he wants you, and even though he’s not kissing you for the moment, you can tell that it’s killing him.
“Sweetheart,” he mutters, warm at your neck, his teeth sliding against your skin.
“Rafe Cameron?” you answer, the sound of his name leaving your lips like that doing nothing for his restraint. He glances toward the ceiling for a second before looking back at you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.
“Baby,” he mutters against your neck, his voice rough enough to send a shiver through you. His eyes squeeze shut for a second before he tips his forehead to yours with a quiet laugh. “I’m bein’ so damn good right now.”
He sets you to your feet, your body still pinned to the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.
“You don’t have to be,” you whisper, and his jaw tightens, his eyes falling to your lips again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, smiling when the corner of your lips curls. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”
You look back at him through your lashes, shaking your head no, but everything in your body language screams yes as he stares back at you, his lips still tingling.
“Can I ask you something?” he whispers.
“Mhmm,” you hum.
“Would you let me take you out sometime?”
You bite your lip, stifling the giggle bubbling on your tongue because the answer had been sitting on the tip of it before he’d even finished asking.
“I’d really like that,” you whisper.
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you answer.
“You can keep those boots on,” he teases as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and it’s clear that the last thing he wants to do is wait until then.
“I have something a little cuter I can wear,” you whisper.
Rafe’s eyes drift over your face before the corner of his mouth lifts again.
“Somehow…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip, “…I don’t think that’s possible,” he sighs, stealing your breath when he steps back. “Pick you up around six?”
“Six sounds perfect.” You smile, fixing your skirt where it’s ridden up your thighs a little, feeling your body throb from your head to your toes.
Rafe reaches for his toolbox, then the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle before he slowly pulls it open.
He steps out before turning back toward you.
“Tomorrow.” You smile, your head resting against the doorframe—a floaty sensation coursing through your veins, the desperate need to kiss him again leaving your body trembling with adrenaline.
“Tomorrow.”
For one impossibly long second, it feels like you’re both waiting for the other person to break. Instead, Rafe smiles. He gives one small nod before finally forcing himself to turn away, the old toolbox swinging lightly beside his leg as he starts down the breezeway toward his place.
You stand in the doorway, one hand still resting against the edge of the open door as your eyes follow him farther and farther away.
The afternoon sun catches the back of his shoulders, flannel tied around his waist shifting against his jeans. He looks over one shoulder, catching you still standing there watching him when he reaches his door.
You lift your hand, waving with the tips of your fingers, feeling your heart race in your chest.
You let out the tiniest sigh before easing the front door shut, the latch clicking softly behind you. Your back settles against the cool wood of the door, your eyes drifting shut as the biggest smile you’ve worn in weeks spreads across your face all over again.
Your shoulders slide another inch down the door until your rain boots squeak against the hardwood beneath you.
“Tomorrow,” you repeat, nodding to absolutely no one. “Not today. Tomorrow.” You press your lips together, trying very hard to look serious despite the fact that nobody is there to witness it.
“Which means…” You point one finger toward yourself in mock warning. “…You are not going to chase after him.” You nod solemnly. “You are a grown woman. You are capable of waiting…” Your eyes drift toward the front door. “…Twenty-four hours.” You pause. “…More or less.”
The washing machine sloshes cheerfully behind you as your head tips back against the door with another little groan. “Oh, he’s so handsome though,” you pout, your lips still tingling, the smell of his cologne clinging to the cotton of your tank top.
You push yourself away from the door and wander aimlessly toward the kitchen, your fingertips trailing across the backs of dining chairs draped in damp clothes.
“You’re not texting him.” You tap your cellphone as you pass it. “You’re not calling him. You’re not coming up with some household emergency because—because you can’t…”
“And besides…” Your eyes flick toward the laundry room where the machine continues humming along perfectly. “He fixed the only one you’ve got.”
A smile slips across your face before you can stop it. “He asked me on a date.” You gossip the words into the nothingness of your kitchen, your yellow puddle boots squeaking when you twirl. “He asked me.”
You stand there for a beat, the quiet hum of the washing machine filling the apartment before you let out one long sigh through your nose. “…Alright.” Reality.
The flood might be over, but your apartment still looks like a tornado spun through for fun. Towels lie scattered across the hardwood, damp clothes hang from cabinet handles and dining chairs, and somewhere beneath the floral duvet draped over your barstools is probably the mixing bowl you’d spent half an hour using to bail water out by hand.
The laundry basket waits against the wall exactly where you’d abandoned it earlier. You cross your arms over your body, peeling off the white tank top first, flicking it into the basket, shimmying the denim skirt down around your hips before lofting it into the heap as well.
You gather a handful of drip-dried clothing strewn across your place, cheeks warming all over again as flashes of the last hour replay in your mind.
The crease between his brows while he concentrated. The way he’d completely forgotten how words worked the second he’d looked over and caught sight of you. “…Poor guy.” The smile refuses to leave your face.
One by one, you begin dropping everything into the hamper, wandering back toward the scene of the crime as the water from the test-run starts to drain, the metal drum turning like a top for the final spin.
Something metallic rattles softly on the washer and your brows knit together, eyes snapping toward the appliance.
A wrench?
It sits on top of the metal lid, bouncing with the last lazy turn of the drum before settling perfectly still in the middle of the washer.
A laugh escapes before you can stop it.
“Rafe Cameron…”
He hadn’t touched a wrench all afternoon. Not once. You’d watched every second of it. He’d rolled up his sleeves, reached into the washer with those big hands of his, hauled the agitator out without so much as looking for a tool, and somehow fixed the entire thing anyway.
The wrench wasn’t forgotten… It was an excuse.
You lift it into your hand, turning it over once between your fingers as your smile grows impossibly wider.
Knock. Knock.
Your heart stumbles, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. You round the corner, not even glancing toward the peephole before you throw the door open.
You lean into the doorframe, smiling as the wrench hangs lazily from your fingers, giggling breathily as your heart pounds.
His eyes find yours first, his lips parting like every word he’d prepared has disappeared into thin air when he sees you in those little puddle boots and the panty set he’d spent the walk back fantasizing about, but it’s so, so much better.
Rafe simply stares. Every coherent thought leaves him as his little plan unfolds into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
The toolbox hanging from his hand suddenly feels twenty pounds heavier as his eyes fall down your body, lingering for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I—I forgot somethin’,” he manages, though it comes out rougher than he’d intended.
“Did you?”
You look down at the wrench resting in your hand before lifting it between the two of you. His eyes flick to it for all of half a second before they wander right back to your face.
He steps forward as your fingers fist in the front of his cutoff, bunching the soft cotton beneath your hand as you give him one determined tug over the threshold, and his lips find yours first.
The toolbox clatters to the floor, the front door slamming shut as every ounce of restraint he’d pretended to have around you disappears the second your lips meet.
Rafe lets out one low sound against your mouth, lifting you off your feet just as effortlessly as he had before. The urgency makes your heart race, the wrench slipping harmlessly from your hand into the hamper of clothes as he presses deeper into your place, work boots pounding over the hardwood, and your fingers fist the hair at the nape of his neck.
“In there,” you mumble through a smile into your kiss, and he chuckles hungrily, his hold on you tightening.
He kicks off his boots at the threshold of your bedroom without missing a beat, setting you down just to walk you back to the mattress, his hands coming up to comb the bandana out of his hair as your fingers greedily tear at the knotted flannel around his waist.
Rafe strips off his shirt as you toss his flannel aside, smiling against your lips as your fingers unfasten the hardware of his blue jeans, his voice deep and warm when he whispers, “You sure?”
“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands reaching behind your back to unfasten your bra as his jeans fall in a heap at his feet.
“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, dipping down to get closer as his big, rough palms reach up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his lips sucking down on your neck. Your fingers wrap around the band of his boxers, drawing the material lower, shoving them down his thighs.
Rafe kisses up your neck, lips brushing by your ear as he sighs deeply. His fingers hook around the panties on your hips—the last piece of clothing separating you from him.
“I’m still trying to be good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice honeyed and deep. You can hear the smile in his voice as he snaps the fabric against your skin, making you suck in a breath.
Your hand drifts between you, the tip of his thick cock already pressed against your thigh. He groans beside your ear when your fingernails trace softly from the base of his dick, shuddering out a breath as you work your way slowly to the tip, goosebumps spreading across his tanned skin.
“Are you?” you ask teasingly, sucking in a breath when he lifts you off your feet, taking you down to the mattress, pinning you under his weight as he steals the smile off your lips.
His tongue slides between your lips, rolling slowly with yours as your fingers thread through his hair, his hips rocking into you with a practiced sway, rutting against your clothed clit, making your thighs fall open.
“Been waitin’ for this forever,” he mutters into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours when he breaks the kiss, looking at the space between you as his dick grinds over the purple lace between your thighs.
“Please,” you whisper, and his eyes lift to yours.
“Teasin’ me all afternoon?” he chuckles, pulling back, his body sliding lower on the mattress. “Think you don’t deserve a little teasing too?” His lips travel over your chest and stomach, pressing softly below your navel as his thumb traces over the lace panties along your slit.
He works lower, lips teasing the insides of your thighs as he kisses down your legs, stripping off your boots before he lets them fall to your bedroom floor. His biceps and shoulder muscles swell as he dips down again, the stubble on his jaw grazing your soft skin.
“Rafe,” you pout, and he chuckles between your thighs, the warmth of his laugh making your legs draw in, but he spreads them apart again, those rough hands you couldn’t keep your eyes off earlier pressing your thighs into the mattress.
“Tell me you didn’t wear that little skirt just to torment me?” he hums, his mouth dipping down so his teeth can catch along the lace, dragging it down your thighs. “A wet, white tank top… How?” he asks as he tugs the lace the rest of the way down your legs before he bunches it up in his fist, tossing it to the side. “How was I not supposed to end up right… fucking… here…?” he asks, his breath blowing warm against your clit.
“I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words making your thighs tremble. Your hips lift off the mattress when his tongue drags up your center, a moan falling from your lips and filling your bedroom as his groan vibrates between your thighs at the taste.
Rafe smiles, pressing your legs wider into the mattress, kissing your clit and making your back arch off the mattress as your hands fly to his hair, holding him close.
His rough fingers trace up your legs as his tongue circles your puffy clit, sucking against it as two thick fingers shove through your entrance.
Your eyes roll back in your head as he works his fingers in and out, curving them to hit that spot that has your thighs shaking with every push of his hand and flick of his tongue.
“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles into your pussy, adding a third finger, stretching you out as he feels you tightening around his digits, humming against your clit as he tastes your sweetness on his tongue and you break, fluttering around his fingers as his name leaves your lips in a breathy cry.
He watches you from between your thighs, working you through each wave of your orgasm until you’re gasping and whimpering in overstimulation, your hands tangling in his hair to drag him up to your lips.
“Proud of you,” he mumbles between kisses as you try desperately to catch your breath, the two of you smiling into your kiss when he rubs the thick head of his cock between your thighs, catching the wet mess he’d left pooling between your legs.
“Fuck, you drive me insane,” you whisper, feeling him rub his tip against your entrance.
“Yeah?” he asks, pressing just enough for your lips to fall open. His mouth curls against yours, feeling how desperate you are. “How was it?”
“So fucking good,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his body, nails sliding down his strong back.
“What about this?” he asks, feeling your hips lift off the mattress, making him sink deeper into your pussy as you grind up to fuck yourself on the first few inches.
“Keep teasing me, Rafe. See what happens,” you smile, and he laughs.
“Still picking you up at six tomorrow,” he manages to push out, the muscle in his stomach tightening with how good you feel around him.
“Can’t wait,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to him.
“I’ll drop you off and you can drag me back inside and we can do this shit again, huh?” he asks as you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down to your lips. You catch Rafe’s deep moan as he presses your hips down into the mattress, pushing in, stretching you wide.
“Yes, s-shit,” the words whimper past your lips as you cradle his sharp jaw in your hand, peering down to watch his hips draw back, the length of his cock pulling back slowly just to drive back in.
“Feels so good,” he groans against your mouth, pushing in and out. “Taking me so good,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours to watch as his toned hips strike your skin again and again.
“Fuck, baby. That’s it,” he praises as you lift your legs, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, a loud moan falling from your mouth as his pace quickens, thrusting harder, in and out.
He leans into you a little, the position letting him fuck into you impossibly deep, his eyes rolling back into his head as your bottom lip slips between your teeth, your hands twisting the sheets below.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, and he nods like he knows what you need, changing the angle just enough to fuck into you as his fingers rub and circle your clit.
“Fuck, Rafe,” you whine, your back arching off the mattress as he rocks into you further, swirling his fingers over your clit when his lips find yours.
“Cum for me, baby,” he breathes. “Cum on my cock—”
Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into you as your body falls apart around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight he buries himself in your neck, grinding his teeth with the effort, moaning against your skin as he fills you with his climax too, his hips stuttering as your body softens around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck as you giggle blissfully, your fingers slipping and threading into his hair. He stays like that for a moment, breathing and nuzzling into your neck, taking in the scent of your sweet perfume as he presses gentle kisses up to your ear. “I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”
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