facetimed me last night with a button down on and it was slightly unbuttoned and he was frustrated about something or another please can i be #normal about this
thinking of teenage dream matty and girlie making out for AGES on the couch. like steaming up the windows and barely breathing/breaking apart. him eventually cumming in his pants because she's so warm on his lap and she wants HIM so bad. oh GODDD
HIIIII ACE <3 <3
oh my godddd that's so so good
No doubt they have some really long make-out sessions. They always get heated and a little messy fairly quickly because they're just so excited to get their hands on each other. They're barely even taking breaks to breathe because they're so eager, totally losing track of time, neither of them knowing how long they've been going at it for
He has his little habit of automatically rocking his hips when he's horny, so of course without even really thinking about it he's grinding against her, sighing and whimpering into her mouth at how good the pressure feels on his dick that's only getting more achy the longer they kiss
She breathlessly whispers to him against his lips about how hot she thinks he is, how turned on she is and he's just done for. The fact that she's on top of HIM. Kissing HIM. Telling HIM he's hot? He can't handle it. He's never had anyone want him that way, he certainly doesn't think of himself as "hot" or enough to make a girl wet, so it just drives him absolutely wild because what do you mean his dream girl is into him this much?? And she's so, so warm and pretty on top of him, it's like all of his wet dreams come to life
He reaches that point of no return, unable to stop himself as his whole body tenses up. His hips start to jerk upwards against her, shuddering through his whole body and he just whines so sweetly, burying his face into her neck when he cums in his pants.
He's so embarrassed about it, sweet boy :( he's holding onto her shirt so tightly as his hips make little bucks upwards with the aftershocks of his accidental orgasm, gasping while he's telling her that he's sorry and he loves her.
"'M sorry... 'm so sorry... felt so good... love you so much... I-I didn't mean to..."
She gently shushes him, petting his hair and telling him that it's okay, that she loves making him feel good which only makes him want to nuzzle into her neck closer, pressing little kisses to her skin as he recovers, so so dazed and in love
If she were to grind a little on top of him while he's still coming down, having just cum... jesus christ he'd be pathetically loud, shaking like a leaf under her
Need teenage dream matty to finger me in a car and sloppily make out with me with a cd he burned for the occasion playing in the background
Is that too much to ask?
EEEEEEEE
And he WOULD
Maybe it would go something like this
You were only supposed to go to the movies, but Matty had his hand on your knee in the theater that kept inching up little by little as the film went on, and by the end it was resting on your upper thigh (and he’s sooo nervous about it too, not daring to look away from the screen because his face is so flushed).
By the time he’s driving you home, you both know you can’t get out this tension at either of your houses, so it ends with the both of you in the backseat of his (parents) car in an empty parking lot, definitely past curfew. He’s already put on one of his horny grunge cd mixes he made for when you have these little backseat encounters
Once you’re back there he is allll over you, sliding down your jeans while he’s messily kissing and licking at your neck, pulling down the collar of your shirt to litter hickeys near your breasts because he’s obsessed with leaving little marks on you. The heated noises you’re both making combine with the music humming from his stereo and the gentle pattering of rain on the roof of the car
With a breathless whisper of “please, please, let me make you feel good”, he’s got his hand down the front of your panties, moaning into the crook of your neck as he shakily dips his fingers into your pooling arousal.
The windows of the car are fogged up at this point, the two of you only illuminated by the dim street lamps as he eagerly licks into your mouth. It’s sloppy, it’s a mess of tongues and lips and teeth while he fingers you, much better at it now than the first few times he’d tried. He knows where he curl his fingers, he knows how much pressure to use when he’s hastily rubbing your clit, how to make you squirm against the leather seats while he’s murmuring things like “couldn’t stop thinking about you during the film… couldn’t focus, wanted you so bad.”
He loves kissing you messily when you cum, there’s nothing hotter to him than feeling you shake against him and whimper into his mouth, feeling how good he’s making you feel while sliding his tongue against yours. It has him desperately grinding himself against the palm of your hand when you reach down to grasp him through his jeans. Nothing gets him off more than pleasing you, particularly in the midst of the thrill of messing around in cramped backseat of his car with his tunes playing <3
late night talking (sweetheart!george x reader smut)
calling it smut is lowkey misleading, but it's definitely extremely very sexy. day 7 of summer75, set in the weird tentative dating era after you and george reunite. enjoy <3
you're in bed when your phone buzzes beside you, cocooned in blankets while watching a third consecutive episode of drag race; when you see the caller ID, you extract your arms as fast as you can, one hand scrambling to mute snatch game while you answer the call with the other, smile surely audible. “hi, george.”
“hi, angel,” comes the reply, the always-devastating combo of gravel voice and pet name awakening the butterflies in your stomach. fuck, you've missed him. “how was work?”
“was okay. busy.”
“you're settling in alright, though, yeah? nobody giving you grief?”
“yeah, everyone’s nice. how was your day?”
“busy, too. really busy, actually,” george sighs. “still found time to miss you, though.”
you smile. “i missed you too, babe.”
“missed you calling me that and all,” he giggles after he speaks, the same stupidly high laugh that's always made your heart feel funny. “sorry for how uncool i'm being, by the way. i know we said we'd be cool about everything, about us, but…”
“s'alright. i get it,” you reply, not unkindly, because you do get it, you understand completely. choosing not to rush back into a relationship seemed like the sensible thing for you and george to do after four years and a few countries apart, but it's proving to be much more difficult in practice; he is your first (and honestly only) love, after all, and you never could resist that voice. or those eyes. or those lips, actually - the first time you kissed him again recently (just a normal smooch, mind you), you almost swooned. like, actually swooned, proper virgin behaviour. “feel like a teenager all over again with you, to be honest.”
“so do i, baby - can i call you that, or-?”
jesus. you hope you don't sound too breathlessly desperate. “of course.”
“thanks, baby,” the grin on george's face is obvious, and yours widens even more as you wriggle further out of your blanket cocoon and roll onto your stomach. “but yeah, i genuinely do feel like i'm seventeen again…”
“good film, that.”
“knew that was coming as soon as i said it,” he sighs down the phone, before joining in with your giggling. “genuinely, though, angel - feel like it's still 2007, because all i can think about is kissing you. m'serious. can't get anything done.”
you kick your legs back and forth, overjoyed to hear him admit he feels the same as you. still, you don't miss the opportunity to take the piss out of him. “jesus, it's the new gucci perfume fiasco all over again.”
“christ, don't remind me of that,” george groans, voice slightly muffled by what you know is him facepalming, dragging his hand down his face slowly; he's a creature of habit, your… well, your george. “thought i’d died and gone to heaven when i got a whiff of it the day we ran into each other in the shop, when we first saw each other again.”
“shut up.”
“m'not kidding, baby. driven me mental since day one, that perfume.”
you rest your head on your folded arms, wistful. “i remember. you walking into the art classroom door because you were that distracted trying to lean over and smell me? how could i forget?”
“yeah, well, it had its benefits too, that day,” george retorts. “if i recall correctly, it motivated me to get all my homework done quickly so i could kiss you, no?”
“that's true,” you allow yourself to briefly get lost in the memory, so strong you swear you can feel the shitty bic pen in your hand now. the flashback progresses to a scene you almost wore out repeating at the time, the workbooks and pencilcases shoved off the bed, and school uniforms following as you and george took advantage of having his house to yourself that monday afternoon. despite not having even discussed doing that with george in the modern version of your relationship yet, the mention of that after-school activity leaves your lips before you realise. “and if i recall correctly, we did a lot more than kiss that night.”
there's silence from the other end of the phone line. a very particular, pregnant type of silence, one that you intuitively know will end with something pivotal to you and george's relationship; despite this make or break moment, you keep quiet, not wanting to make it worse by fumbling an apology or explanation, even though you've got a growing sense of creeping dread that you might've just fucked the whole dynamic up beyond repair already.
and then he speaks, and you can exhale again. “i think about that a lot, you know.”
the atmosphere shifts again - it's still one of anticipation, but of the more… sensual variety, you'd say. heart pounding against your sternum, you wriggle out of the blankets completely, clicking the tv off so you can give george your complete, undivided attention. “yeah?”
“yeah. that night, and my eighteenth, and your eighteenth. prom, and all our holidays, and christening your uni flat,” george hums, giggling after he's done listing. “just any time we fucked, really.”
“you miss it?”
he sighs. “a lot.”
“so do i,” you say softly. “i really miss… no,” you close your mouth, shaking your head. “i can't say it. not yet. s'inappropriate.”
“baby,” there's a hint of forcefulness in george's voice, and it goes straight to your already-slick core. “tell me, please. wanna hear you.”
fuck. you really have missed him.
you sigh. “you're sure you wanna do this?”
“angel, i've never been more sure of anything,” george replies, and you know he means it. “talk to me.”
“alright,” you can't help smiling, both at george and the memory. “was gonna say that i really miss the way you would hold me after we both came, you know? you'd just wrap your whole body around me and kiss my neck, and i'd just feel, y'know, so safe, and happy,” you pause, then grin. “i mean, i miss the actual sex too, of course, but…”
he laughs, and your heart flutters. “i miss that too, the post-shag hugging. you're cute, y'know, baby - thought you were about to say something filthy, honestly.”
you twirl a strand of hair around your finger, flirty. “well, if you want me to be dirty, g, i can. can be whatever you want me to be.”
george groans. “don't fuck me about, angel.”
“m'not!” you decide to be proper serious for a second. “i just want to make you feel good, george. i miss doing that. i miss you,” you bite your lip, releasing it slowly in a poor imitation of the man at the other end of the phone line. “and i want you. i really, really want you.”
another brief silence, then he replies. “how do you want me?”
you smirk. “you tell me. like i said, sweetheart, whatever - and however - you want me to be… i'll do it.”
“well, in that case,” god, his voice. “i want you to come over. right now. how does that sound?”
“perfect,” you aren't lying. “is there anything else you want me to do?”
“be my girlfriend again, but we can discuss that when you get here, yeah?”
you beam, kicking your legs excitedly. finally. “yeah. alright,” you roll out of bed and make a beeline for your lingerie collection. “i'll be over as soon as i get changed, babe.”
“please be quick,” george sighs. “oh, a final thing, baby?”
“yeah?”
the smirk on his face is crystal clear. “bring a vibrator.”
"you can pretend all you want, i can see the fucking mess you’re making of yourself.“ with teacher!au would be sooo hot😋
hi, my love!! thanks for requesting this, I had fun trying to work out what to do for this one. hope you enjoy!! 18+ only please, mdni!!
content warnings; arguing (with Jamie lol), fingering, joint fingering swearing, use of a mirror, and light spit play.
word count; 2.4k ish!
p.s, I'm quite rusty with writing, so I'm really sorry if this sucks!!! this has been proofread, but I'm so bad at seeing errors so sorry if there's loads lol <3
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“Oh fuck off Jamie, that’s not what we agreed and you know it.” Matty huffs down the phone. you hear Jamie raise his voice on the other side even from across the room, so you know something really fucked him off, and he clearly blames Matty.
Matty seems just as pissed off with him, rolling his eyes and pacing at the end of the bed as he speaks, “Don't talk to me like I'm a child. Jesus Christ. Just- okay- I'm hanging up now. No, I don't care, Jamie! It's not my fucking fault you cant organise shit!” every word exchanged between them is getting gradually louder, and Matty’s hands start moving wildly as red hot words erupt from him.
You sit against the headboard and watch Matty get more and more irate with every second, and you can't deny it's making you feel something. Maybe it's because he's generally a calm huy, despite what people may think. Or, calm at home anyway. Not so calm when he's screaming about fascist governments on stage. The boys always joked that fatherhood mellowed him out, and from the stories you heard, that sounds about right.
But seeing him growing angrier by the second makes your skin tingle, that same electricity you feel when he’s on top of you whispering filthy demands into your ear. Suddenly, the fabric of your pyjamas feels scratchy against your skin, begging to be slid off and thrown onto the bed beside you. Without thinking, your hand slides under your top, rubbing against the overheated skin of your stomach as your pinky finger dips below the hem of your shorts gradually.
“What a twat,” Matty starts to rant as he marches over to you, staring down at his phone with a frown on his face. “He’s annoyed at ME just because he can't organise anything! I told him I couldn't do next weekend and still-” Matty stops dead in his tracks when he finally reaches you, his eyes tracing over your face and studying you suspiciously.
“You alright love? Your cheeks are all red,” he says worriedly, his hand coming up to feel your forehead. You can't help but lean into his touch. The feeling of his skin on your was charged with something, making the flush covering your skin darken immediately.
It's then that Matty realises why your cheeks are a pretty shade of ruby woo and why your once calm eyes are black with an emotion he didn't immediately recognise. You want him. Something about seeing him shouting down the phone made you horny. He couldn't help but smirk at the realisation, already forming a plan in his head as he slid into bed next to you.
Instinctively, you move towards him, trying to feel the warmth of his body against yours. But before you can throw your leg over his, Matty guides you between his legs, facing you towards the end of the bed and pressing his chest against your back. His hands immediately start moving over your body, massaging your arms and shoulders before moving further down slowly.
He pulls up the hem of your shirt slightly, only showing a few inches of skin, but it's enough to make you gasp, leaning into his touch and sighing blissfully. Closing your eyes as his fingers trace the soft skin of your abdomen. One of his fingers dips below the hem of your shorts ever-so-slightly, so quickly and delicately you would've missed it if you weren't so turned on you wanted to scream.
His fingers stay there, though, just teasing and dipping below the elastic until you open your eyes again and see his staring into yours in the mirrored wardrobe doors that sit at the end of your bed. He nods slowly, almost questioningly. He wants to know if he can take your shorts off if he can see you.
You move so slightly that no one else would see it, but your soft nod combined with your whispered, “yes.” is all Matty needs to slide the fabric over your hips as you lift them, smiling softly as you feel the fabric move down your legs and off your skin.
Your thighs part without you thinking, staring at Matty as you spread your legs. His eyes hold yours for a few seconds, but he can't keep them there for any more time than that. Instead, they drop to between your legs. Suddenly, the whole mess with Jamie melted away from his mind and you feel him stifle a groan at the sight of your wet core, his hands instinctively moving to your thighs as soon as he sees you. The intense need to touch you overpowering any thoughts he could have, every once replaced with your name on a loop.
“What got you this wet, baby? Tell me.” Matty whispers in your ear, his soft voice cascading down your neck, goosebumps rising in its wake. Every brush of his digits over your skin was torturous, fingertips dipping between your legs and hovering above where you needed him most. Instead, they move to the soft skin of your inner thighs, leaving featherlight touches that make you whine.
You throw your head back against his shoulder, begging him to touch you properly with soft cries as you buck your hips, desperately needing to feel his fingers inside you. You swear the air around his fingers is thick, and every time he edges closer to your clit, your skin heats up in anticipation. But that same cold feeling overtakes you when he slides his hand away from your core again. You know he wants to hear you, he always does. Forcing words out feels impossible but when his hand teases your tender skin again, you manage to mumble needily.
“S’nothing. not important, please, Matty.” You whimper, closing your thighs around his hand to keep it trapped.
“you can pretend all you want, I can see the fucking mess you’re making of yourself,” Matty smirks as he slides his free hand over your arms, watching cockily as he sees goosebumps rise in the path of his touch.
“Fuck- s’just because of you. You look so good when you're angry. Please make me feel good.” The words pour out of you within seconds, not being able to think about anything other than Matty’s fingers inside of you.
“Good girl, so good telling me what got you this wet. You like seeing me like that, hmm?” Matty waits until you start nodding furiously, wanting to make you wait just a few more seconds, letting his ego swell even more.
“Don't worry baby, I'll make you feel good,” Matty smirks as he speaks, forcing apart your thighs by hooking his feet around your own, pulling them open and watching as your slick glows on your skin, covering your inner thighs. You think he’ll tease you again, but whatever god there might be finally has mercy on you, and his hands start moving to where you really need them.
Heat rushed to your head the second his fingers finally sunk inside you, feeling them crook and hit that spot that made your hips jump, chasing more of him. His other hand grips your jaw, fingertips digging into the soft skin of your cheeks and forcing your head forward, making you stare at your reflection in the mirror.
Rosy red cheeks and lust-filled eyes meet yours in the reflection, looking fucked out already. You stare at the mottled red flush creeping up your chest and neck, obscuring the freckles that cover your skin, your desperation clear from the vision in front of you.
Your pulse quickened as you looked back at Matty’s reflection, watching his tongue dart out and wet his lips. His eyes don't meet yours, instead staying focused on the image of his fingers inside your cunt, watching in awe as they skink into you, seeing your wetness spread further and further down his digits.
Focused eyes watch as his thumb meets your clit, and just for a second, they flick up to your face in the reflection, just to watch the way your jaw shakes and the whites of your eyes become the only thing visible, uncontrollably rolling into the back of your head.
His pace was slow and deliberate, playing you like one of his guitars, moving his fingers with the same precision he uses on stage. The haze in your head was making it impossible to focus, pleasure already pooling at the base of your spine from each purposeful curl of his fingers.
Calloused skin brushes over your bud, sending shocks of electricity up your spine, licking every nerve as it shoots inside you. You can't help but gasp at the feeling, sucking in air desperately. Butterflies hammer against your ribs as you look at Matty again, seeing the deep pools of his eyes filled with pure black, trained on your body, studying every move you make.
Matty twists his head, reluctantly pulling his eyes away from your core to press a kiss to your temple and whisper in your ear, stopping his movements and moving his thumb away from your bud as the words drip from his lips like honey, “Explain what I'm doing to you baby, tell me how I make you feel, hmm?”
You shake your head, wanting Matty to just keep on moving, but the seconds without him inside you drag on, and you lose the fight in your head. “You're- fuck. You’re torturing me.” You pout, wriggling your hips and trying to get Matty to move again, pleading to feel that same push and pull of his fingers.
“Oh s’that bad, is it? Why don't you show me what to do then baby, teach me a lesson, yeah?” Matty laughs teasingly as he removes his fingers from inside you, the wet noise of the loss permeating the room along with your pained whimper.
You nod needily, moving your hand down to meet Matty’s between your legs and puppet it, pushing his fingers deep inside you, one of your own sliding in with them, guiding his digits. You suck in a breath as you stretch to accommodate your finger along with his, joining Matty’s as they press further inside you before pulling out slowly, watching your arousal string between them.
“Faster” you whisper, keeping your eyes laser-focused between your legs, watching your nearly manicured nails gripping the skin of Matty’s hand and speeding up his movements. He listens immediately, and soon, that slow torturous pace is replaced by quick frantic pumping, your slick dripping down his wrist with each rock of his fingers. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.” you pant, bucking your hips in time with each thrust of his hand.
“Rub your clit” Matty demands, clearly deciding your teaching moment was over, and he was back in charge. His pulse was racing under his skin as he stared in the mirror. Anticipation filled his body, his mind hazy as he forgets to breathe whilst watching your reflection. He studies the way your nipples harden under the flimsy fabric of your vest, watching your chest heave with every desperate breath. You slide your finger out from inside you, holding eye contact with Matty as you slide it up to your clit.
But your finger doesn't stop as he expected, instead, he watches with a dropped jaw as you bring it up your lips, tapping your fingertip on your bottom lip before pushing it inside your mouth, moaning wantonly as the taste of yourself fills your mouth. Matty mouths “fuck” in the mirror as he watches, keeping his eyes trained on you. He watches wonder as you swirl your tongue around your digit, studying the way your saliva strings from it as you pull your finger from your mouth, smirking at Matty with each move you make.
Just as your spit-soaked finger touches your clit, Matty's other hand grips your jaw and forces your face to meet his, pressing his mouth against yours and forcing his tongue in your mouth, chasing the taste of your release on your tongue. The feeling of his lips on yours as his fingers move with abandon inside you, and your finger rubbing your clit was too much for you, and within seconds you're cumming with a shout against Matty’s lips. Your whole body shakes as overwhelming pleasure rocks your body, waves of bliss radiating under your skin.
“Fuck!” you cry out, letting the intoxicating feeling of pleasure crash over you, your eyes glazing over as the seconds drag on, time melting with each rock of your hips. Your hand clutches Matty’s, your nails leaving crescent moon-shaped marks in his skin, trying to ground yourself with the feeling of his fingers still inside you.
Matty watches intently, a flushed look covering his face as his skin glistens from the thin layer of sweat that covers him. Seeing you fall apart because of him will never get boring, seeing everything leave your brain and be replaced with all-encompassing bliss was a sight he couldn't compare, nothing made ego fizzle up his spine like watching you completely at his mercy.
Once the waves subsided, your grip loosened, and Matty pulled his fingers from inside you. You whimper at the loss, but Matty gently shushes you, forcing you to open your eyes and make you watch him place his fingers inside his mouth, smirking around them as he sucks them clean, groaning at the taste of you. Weakly, you slap his arm with a giggle at his exaggerated moans before turning around to face him, matching his smirk and opening your mouth slowly.
Wordlessly, you and Matty have a conversation, his raised eyebrows asking if you're sure and your slow nod telling him you've never been more sure about anything. His eyes stare into yours as his mouth moves over you, guiding his hand to your jaw and cupping as he spits into your mouth, using his grip to force it closed and watch you swallow. His eyes follow your every move, studying the way your throat bobs and smirking when you open your mouth proudly, showing him your clean tongue.
“Dirty girl” he whispers, smiling at you with crinkled eyes, letting them trace your every feature as you grin back at him, giving him a peck on the lips and settling into his arms contently.
“Mmm, your dirty girl, though,” you respond quietly, smiling happily when you feel Matty press a kiss to your head, both of your bodies sinking into the bed below you and letting the warmth pull you under.
(mdni) in which an enmity with a certain infuriating singer turns mutually beneficial. 11775 words.
warnings: oral (f and m receiving), semi-public sex, mild exhibitionism, praise, degradation, switch!matty
Entering Battle of the Bands at your local had started off as a joke. Mostly. Your bassist Sabrina had pointed out the poster last time you were there for drinks, and you’d signed your name. It’d be a laugh, you’d reasoned, a good way to get into playing live shows and meet some other local bands. Plus, a hundred quid cash prize couldn’t hurt.
But that was before you met Drive Like I Do. Or, more specifically, their insufferable little twerp of a lead singer, Matty.
He meets your eyes across the bar, smirking like he likes what he sees, and, honestly, he doesn’t hurt to look at, so you lift your drink in his direction and beckon him over. “Hi,” he grins. “I’m Matty. Are you staying for the show?” You nod, but he interrupts you before you can elaborate. “We’re on last, so you might have to sit through some right shit before it gets good. Have you seen some of the names on the lineup? I mean, True Romance? I bet they just named it that ‘cause it sounds pretty. Probably haven’t even seen the film.”
You glower, and it’s obviously not the reaction he expects, his face screwing up in confusion. “That’s my band. And True Romance is one of my favourite films, not that it fucking matters.” You get up from the table, scowling at him. “And I have a name, thank you so much for asking.”
Annoyingly, Matty’s right; most of the bands on the lineup are shit. But you figure that means you’ll wipe the floor with them, having actually rehearsed and learned your own songs that aren’t covers.
You look out at the crowd, adrenaline pumping in your veins as Grace tunes her guitar. This is probably the most people you’ve ever played for, you realise with a jolt, swallowing around the lump in your throat and stepping up to the mic. “Hello, everybody! How’s everyone feeling tonight? You feelin’ good? Yeah?” The crowd cheers back at you, and you grin blissfully. “Alright, I’m not here to dick about, I’m here to play some fuckin’ songs! We’re True Romance and this is Dream Girl.”
You throw yourself into the set, your hair sticking to your forehead as you sweat under the lights. Your gaze keeps wandering to Matty, sat in a booth with who you assume are his bandmates, nodding along and watching you with intrigue. He quirks an eyebrow at you and you tear your eyes away, grateful for the heat that hides the flush in your cheeks. The crowd is practically frenetic, cheering wildly as the final note whines out of the speakers, and you join hands with your bandmates and bow.
You blow a kiss to the audience and step off stage, passing Matty as he and his band take their positions. Checking the lineup, you scoff when you read the name of the band playing directly after you. Drive Like I Do? And he had the audacity to call your band’s name shit? But you quickly realise they could have the longest, most nonsensical name in the world, and it wouldn’t matter; they’re really fucking good. Matty looks like he was born for the stage, soaking up the crowd’s attention and magnifying their energy tenfold. It doesn’t even matter what they’re singing about (as far as you can tell, a video game) — every girl in the bar is screaming her head off, giggling to her friends when one of the boys so much as looks at her.
Okay, so maybe you’re a little smug that Matty won’t stop looking at you. You’re not blind, after all. Doesn’t make him not a cocky little prick. He comes straight over to you when his set finishes and you roll your eyes. “What, are you expecting me to fall at your feet ‘cause you can hit a few notes behind a mic stand?” you scoff, and he laughs.
“Oh, come on, love. No need for the only two good bands in here to be fighting. Promise I’ll buy you a drink after I win.” You scowl. “Oh, and she’s even prettier when she’s angry. Was it something I said?” he smirks.
“Fuck off and die,” you say with a saccharine smile.
Sabrina slides into the seat Matty just vacated. “He’s into you,” she says, passing you your pint with a slight wrinkle of her nose. You give her a look, and she scoffs, the pair of you so attuned to each other by now that you can communicate without words. “Oh, don’t be all you about it. He’s hot,” she laughs. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Be my guest. He’s a dick.”
She snorts into her Sex on the Beach. “The way he’s eye-fucking you? Tenner says he goes home alone tonight.” She leans in, smirking conspiratorially. “Or with you.”
You roll your eyes. Betting on a stranger’s sex life is… strangely on brand, for the two of you. “I’ll take that bet. Look at the state of him.” You wave a hand in his general direction, a pint glass in one hand and some girl’s ass in the other, her skirt hiked inappropriately high in plain view. She’s pouting, though, his attention clearly not on her even as he paws at her ass, gaze locked on you instead.
Sticking your middle finger up, you turn resolutely away as the other two members of your band wander up to the table. You lose yourself in the conversation, still wild with adrenaline from playing a proper show, and for a moment you forget why you were playing in the first place. When you’re announced as the second place holders, though, you remember, scowling openly because you know there’s only one band who could possibly be winning.
Matty extricates himself from the girls clinging onto him as the cheers start to die down and strolls over, setting a drink in front of you. “Here. Told you I’d get you a drink when I won,” he smirks, and you accept it grudgingly. Look, you’re not about to turn down a free drink, alright? “Don’t sulk, love. We…” He waves a hand, indicating both your band and his. “Collectively, wiped the floor with every other fuckin’ person in here. C’mon, don’t be a sore loser. Let me get you drunk, you won’t pay a penny, I swear.”
And as much as you want to punch his smug little face in, pour your drink over his vintage band tee, one you recognise as being horribly expensive, you’re tempted by the offer of getting smashed on Matty’s tab. Plus, Grace is giving Drive Like I Do’s bassist the eyes, so she’ll be fucking off over there either way.
So you take him up on it, downing vodka cokes until you can barely see straight, screaming in Matty’s face that Blur is obviously better than Oasis, come on! You don’t know how it happens, but you find yourself dancing with them and not hating it? Spinning breathlessly between Ross and George (who are actually pretty sound, in all honesty), you grab Grace and Sabrina by the hands and let them pull Alice, your drummer, into a circle, kicking your legs and laughing wildly.
Lost in sticky floors, thumping bass and a spirit-fuelled haze, you don’t push Matty away when his hands find your hips. You grind your hips back against him, let him press damp kisses to your neck, licking the sweat off your skin. A shudder runs down your spine, faint threads of desire creeping under your skin. “Stopped bein’ a sore loser yet?” he taunts, and your good mood vanishes like a snuffed-out candle.
You turn, slinging your arms around his neck and leaning in close. Matty’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips distractingly, the skin plush and soft. You have a sudden craving to bite down on the skin there, feel it tear beneath your teeth, taste blood in your mouth. You want him, and you want him wrecked. “You,” you say, low voice carrying all the intimacy of a kiss. “Are the most self-absorbed, insufferable piece of shit I’ve ever met. Bathroom. Five minutes.” Matty’s face splits in a wicked grin, leaning so close he could kiss you. You stay like that for a moment, sharing oxygen, the feeling of breathing him in intoxicating, like you’re drunk all over again.
The sticky air of the pub feels impossibly cold as you break away, Matty’s gaze burning into your back until you’re swallowed into the crowd, weaving your way into the bathroom. Matty clicks the door open a few moments later, glancing around furtively before slipping inside. All the air rushes from his lungs as you slam him against the door, one arm braced against his chest and the other tensed beside his head. A gratifying flash of fear crosses his face and you smirk at him, leaning close to speak against his lips. “Am I scaring you, baby?” He swallows thickly. “Good,” you breathe, connecting your lips in a harsh kiss.
Matty moans into your mouth, the taste of gin spilling from his tongue as you devour him. You kiss to hurt, to injure, to bruise, biting down on his lower lip and licking over the wound. He whimpers a little, from pain or arousal you can’t tell, but you have a sneaking suspicion it’s both. “Fuck, you kiss like an animal,” he gasps, chest already heaving.
You grin viciously. “Only when I hate you. C’mon, on your knees. I haven’t got all night.” Matty pouts a little. “Oh, what, did you think I was gonna let you fuck me? I don't know where you’ve been, you fucking whore.” His eyes widen, liquid desire pooling in his irises. “I’m waiting,” you hiss, and he obeys unthinkingly.
His hands come greedily up to your waist, fumbling with the chain looped through your jeans. Finally, he pulls it free, unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down your thighs. Seemingly unable to resist, he presses a kiss just above the waistband of your panties, and you clench your jaw against the shudder that runs through you at the contact. “God, you’re so fucking pretty,” Matty groans, tipping his head forward so his curls brush against your lower stomach.
“Get on with it,” you growl, shoving your panties as far down your legs as they’ll go. Matty stares unabashedly at your cunt, slick with the only evidence of your desire you can’t suppress. You gasp as his fingers find your clit deftly, rough and calloused over your swollen nerves.
Without warning, Matty grabs your hips and pulls you towards him, so forcefully that you stumble on your feet. His tongue swipes through your folds, a pitiful whimper falling from your lips, and he smirks up at you. “Taste so sweet, darling. Like a fucking peach.”
You roll your eyes, gripping his hair and dragging him back to your cunt, his tongue lapping deliciously over your clit. “Use that pretty mouth for something better than talking,” you snap, moaning softly as he obliges. Matty’s fingers dig into your hips, nails biting crescents of frantic desire into your skin. He laps at you starvingly, tongue-fucking you deep and fast, the punishing rhythm making you dizzy. Heart rolls up your spine, his name poison-sweet on your tongue as you grind your hips down against his mouth.
You fist a hand in his curls, tugging sharply, Matty’s answering moan reverberating through you. “God, you are a fucking slut,” you groan, pleasure swirling low in your belly. “Like that I’m hurting you, hm?”
“Uh-huh,” he moans, indistinct and muffled as the sound vibrates through you. Liquid desire drips down your spine, pooling between your legs and melting on Matty’s tongue, hungry and sure as he buries it deep inside you. He pulls away to suck on your clit, your legs turning jelly-like as a pulse of blinding ecstasy washes over you. You aren’t sure if the bare bulb in the dingy little bathroom is flickering or if your vision is going dim, lost in mind-wiping desire as Matty braces your hips to press his tongue even deeper into you.
Whining, you clench your cunt around his tongue, holding him in place as his fingers come up to play with your clit. You’re barrelling towards an earth-shattering end, twined with the intoxicating power of having Matty whimpering on his knees. “Think you’re so much better than me, huh?” you murmur. “This is where you belong, on your fuckin’ knees for me.” He clings to you like you’re a mirage, like you’ll dissipate and leave him if he lets go, hard and begging and alone with your taste lingering on his tongue.
He draws sloppy figure-eights on your clit, euphoria spreading in your limbs, burning up your blood as you moan his name into the liquor-laced air. Your fingers scramble for purchase against the poster-plastered walls, losing your grip on reality, your impending orgasm stealing the breath from your lungs. A string of honey-slick moans fall from your lips, one hand buried in Matty’s curls as you roll your hips down against his mouth. He makes out with your cunt messily, wantonly, like he’s been starved.
“I’m so close, Jesus fuck—” you cry, slapping a palm over your mouth to keep from screaming as Matty bites down gently on your clit, the flash of pain enough to tip you over the edge. You tumble into oblivion, pleasure burning so hot in your veins that you aren’t sure you have any blood left. Matty licks at you, sucks on your clit, fucks you with his tongue as your cunt flutters around him, swallowing every drop of your arousal as you come undone on his mouth.
Matty’s eager, fucked-out grin is the first thing you see when you come back to Earth, legs weak and skull throbbing. Mustering up your dignity, you sneer down at him like he hasn’t just given you probably the best orgasm of your life in a cramped, dirty bar bathroom. “Just because I let you eat me out, you think that means I’m just gonna put your filthy fucking dick in my mouth?” you scoff. Casually swinging a leg, the tip of your boot meets Matty’s clothed cock, not quite a kick, but not much of anything else either. A helpless little moan tumbles from his lips and you laugh condescendingly, tilting his chin up so he’s looking in your eyes.
He grinds down against your boot, power thrumming heady in your veins. “Baby, please,” he whimpers, the sound dizzying and gratifying.
“Pathetic,” you say, low and sweet. “Getting off on my shoe like a fuckin’ animal. Bet you’d let me do whatever I wanted, huh?” He nods frantically, desperate to please, his jaw coming compliantly open when you pull down. A thrill steals up your spine as a wad of spit lands on his tongue, chased by a bolt of desire when he swallows obediently. “Don’t come back out until you can fucking control yourself.”
You dress yourself, Matty still panting at your feet, his chin slick with your arousal, and slip back out of the bathroom. Like you’d predicted, your friends are too hammered to question your absence much, accepting your excuse of having gone for a smoke without question. The four of you laugh and sing and dance the rest of the night, Grace slipping away with Ross at a tasteful two a.m., you and Sabrina exchanging a knowing look at her lack of subtlety. At some point, Matty had joined you again, throwing you looks so venomous you’re a little scared.
Just as you’re calling it a night, you scrawl your number on a damp napkin and shove it into his pocket. “In case you’re ever after a rematch,” you say, low enough not to be overheard, and his answering smirk is wicked.
Sabrina sighs dramatically at his retreating back. “Hate to see ‘em go, love to watch ‘em leave.” You snort, shoving her playfully. “Alright, pay up. What did I say? Alone, or with you.”
Groaning, you dig in your wallet and slap a ten-pound note in her outstretched palm. “Alice, have I ever told you you’re my favourite?” Giggling, the three of you stumble out to the taxi rank, the sting of your loss almost forgotten against the heat still tingling between your thighs.
Matty doesn’t text you until the next evening, and you’ll take the grin that split your face at the sight of his message to your grave.
So about that rematch?
Don’t beg it’s pathetic
Had enough of that last night
You know where to find me when you’re ready to put up a real fight
You don’t hear from him for a little while after that, but something tells you the pair of you aren’t done yet. Or maybe that’s just his voice in your head while you bury your hand between your thighs.
Sabrina throws a house party for her twenty-first, because she’s still barred from every good club within ten miles for underage drinking. You’re a little tipsy, a little high, singing along to the CD spinning in the player and sipping a cocktail while you wait for everyone to arrive. The house is a sweaty, heaving mass of bodies by eleven, screaming drunk as you stumble onto the patio. You’re alone except for one other boy with his back to you, his silhouette blurred in the dark as you fish for your cigarettes, alcohol making your body uncoordinated and slow to obey direction.
Sliding one between your lips, you call out, “Have you got a light?” The boy turns, and your heart skips a painfully embarrassing beat. Matty smirks back at you, annoyingly gorgeous with a cigarette dangling from his lips, clad in a floral shirt and a worn leather jacket.
“Long time no see, darling,” he grins. “Was wonderin’ if I’d run into you.” It’s a fight to rein in your thoughts, running wild as want licks up your spine. It’s fucking Pavlovian, you tell yourself, getting off to the thought of him setting off some instinctual reaction to his presence.
“Been thinking about me a lot?” you tease, privately curious as to the answer.
He steps closer, and you try not to flinch. “Oh, I’ve been pulling the absolute cock off myself thinking about how you kicked me in the dick and left me on the fucking ground. Kind of scenario wet dreams are made of,” he snaps.
You laugh like he’s recalling a fond memory to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks at the image of him touching himself. “Oh, don’t be a baby. Shouldn’t have made it so satisfying to kick you in the dick, then.”
Matty flashes his teeth. “You were plenty satisfied already, if memory serves. Jesus fuck, I’m cumming, oh, God, Matty, fuck,” he taunts, putting on a high, breathy affect of your voice, taking another predatory step towards you. He breathes smoke out over your face, the grey cloud curling in front of your eyes, blurring the planes of his face and casting him in a hazy glow.
“You’re making me want to kick you in the dick again,” you threaten, but it lacks any edge, all the fight draining out of you as Matty lifts your hand to slip your forgotten cig between your lips. The touch sparks under your skin, stacked kindling waiting to catch alight, burn you up in the blaze.
“Breathe in,” Matty says quietly, leaning in to press the end of his cigarette against yours, the flame passing between you in a shared breath, smoke burning in your lungs as you draw the moment as long as possible, pulling it like elastic between your hands.
You blow out your smoke, twin exhales staining the air between you. “Kiss me,” you murmur, a breathy plea delivered from chapped lips, blackened lungs, through cold air into unreadable honey-brown eyes.
Matty takes a deep drag on his cigarette and flicks it away, taking your jaw in both hands while the smoke sits in his mouth. You try not to envy that it curls on his tongue, your lips parting instinctively for him as it pours from his mouth into yours. Your inhale is quick, perfunctory, an aside to what comes after you blow it out. His lips are soft, your bite mark healed now, moving against yours with what you could almost mistake as tenderness. His hands slide down to your ass, squeezing gently and pulling you flush against him.
When he slides his tongue into your mouth, you can’t help your relieved little moan, something cool and sharp and dangerous lodging itself in your ribcage. “Oh,” he says, delighted. “Missed me, have you?”
“If I say yes, will you fucking touch me?” you snap.
“So needy,” he croons, fingers skirting just below the hem of your skirt. “Wanna stay out here where anyone could see how needy you are for me?”
You stamp on his foot childishly. “If anyone ever finds out I let you touch me, I’ll kill you,” you say, the threat familiar on your tongue, a fraction of your control reigned back in.
Matty laughs. “You’d miss me too much.” You scoff. “Alright, let’s find somewhere to keep this secret, then.”
You practically drag him to Sabrina’s bedroom, and he raises an eyebrow. “If I tried shagging in one of my boys’ rooms, I wouldn’t live long enough for you to kill me,” he remarks.
“Oh, please. You think you’re the first guy I’ve ever fucked in here?” You don’t miss the way his grip tightens around your wrist, stiffening slightly. You don’t want to examine what that means.
He sits on the edge of her bed, legs spread and face expectant. “Your turn, love. On your knees, yeah?” You pause, and he laughs darkly. “Oh, you thought you were gonna get fucked?” he taunts, the words a mocking echo of your own, and you feel them like ice thawing in your spine. “Love, the first time I fuck you isn’t going to be in someone else’s bed at a house party. I wanna take my time with you, tear you to fucking pieces.” Your cunt pulses desperately, forcing you into obeisance even as you wear your disgust plainly on your face. “Oh, you want it bad, huh?” Matty murmurs, low and cruel as you unbuckle his belt and pull his cock free from his jeans. “Fuckin’ gagging for it, aren’t you? Go on, darling, get me hard.”
Your jaw falls open, saliva dripping from your tongue and trailing down his cock. You wrap a hand around him, his hips jolting at the contact. Pumping him slowly, his cock fills in your palm, precum sticky on your fingers when you dig your nail into his slit. You lean down, kitten-licking over the head, and he bucks his hips up with a gasp. “Someone’s eager,” you smirk, pushing his hips down with a smirk.
“Shut up before I shut you up,” he says, darkly threatening in a way that makes you believe him, arousal pooling between your legs.
Matty gathers your hair into a crude ponytail in one fist and you look up at him through your lashes. “If you push my head down, I’m biting your dick off,” you warn, lowering your head and wrapping your lips around his tip.
He moans, fighting not to thrust into the warmth of your mouth as your lips creep down his cock. “That’s it, baby. Go on, take it all. Take this filthy fucking dick. Good girl,” Matty croons, moaning as his cock bumps the back of your throat and you swallow a gag. You bob your head, inhaling deeply through your nose and trying to take all of him. Your nose meets his skin and you grin victoriously around his cock, sugary praise falling from his lips and his eyes fixed on you. “Look so pretty on your knees, baby. If you keep being good, I’ll let you swallow my cum,” he adds, and a bolt of lust strikes your core, tinged acrid with shame at letting him hold power over you.
You jam a hand between your legs, rutting wantonly against it, the friction hot as your clit grinds against the seam of your jeans through your panties. A moan spills out around Matty’s cock, the salt of him filling your mouth as he bucks his hips a little. Pulling up, you swallow around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth. Matty moans your name, the sound so sweet in your ears that you want to press it into a vinyl, layer it in the back of a song you can listen to over and over. A string of spit connects your skin as you pull away from him, sitting back on your knees to look in his eyes. “I changed my mind,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them, an unbidden admission from a hazy head and swollen lips. “Fuck my mouth.”
Groaning, Matty lets go of your hair and brushes it out of your face when it falls. “Fuck, love, are you sure?”
You smirk up at him, holding his gaze in challenge. “C’mon, Healy, you know you want to. Fucking ruin me, wreck my voice, make me cry,” you say. It’s a demand, not a plea, and he knows it. Knows that he’ll be giving you what you want, conceding territory in your battle, letting you knock a piece off the chessboard. But he wants. His hand tangles in your hair, his eyes closing as he moves like he doesn’t want to see himself capitulate. The sting in your scalp feels like victory, the ache in your jaw a triumph. Matty fucks your mouth with abandon, dragging your head and thrusting up to meet the back of your throat, moaning as you gag around him.
You’re helpless, your panties soaked with arousal and your cunt clenching around nothing. Pure, unadulterated need rises in you, needy whines slipping out around his cock while he fucks your face like a toy. “You getting off on being used like this?” he taunts, eyes lidded and face flushed. “Little slut. Not so fuckin’ mouthy now, huh? Such a fuckin’ bitch until you’re on your knees gaggin’ on my cock.” Lewd, wet sounds fill the room, his words pushing you to the precipice of submission threatening to overwhelm. You grind pathetically against your palm, desperate for more than the feeble embers flickering in your belly. “You wanna cum, darling?” he murmurs, lifting you off him, your breaths coming hard and heavy and impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.
“Please,” you whine, past the point of caring for your fractured dignity. “M’so wet, Matty, I need it so bad.”
“I shouldn’t let you,” he says musingly. “Not after what you pulled last time.” He grins, knocking your knees apart with one booted foot. “But I’m a gentleman. These, off,” he orders, kicking at your thigh to indicate your jeans. You scramble awkwardly out of them, kicking them into a pile of Sabrina’s clothes that you’re definitely going to pick up a new shirt from later. Matty presses his boot between your thigh, the pressure on your clit so glorious you swear you almost cum, a wave of pleasure knocking the breath from your lungs. “Go on, baby. Get off on my shoe like a fuckin’ animal,” he growls, your stolen words hitting you like a shock of ice water.
You hate yourself just a little as your hips roll, taking his cock in your mouth and moaning as he takes up his punishing rhythm. The lace of your panties is rough and scraping over your clit, pain and pleasure mingling in your belly and dripping on Matty’s shoe. Tension winds tight in your belly, a fist clenched so tight it almost breaks skin. Matty fucks your mouth messy and frenzied, his hand tight in your hair and your name sticking to his lips. It sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer — is there a difference, if God doesn’t exist?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, gonna cum, darling, don’t stop,” Matty groans, head thrown back in rapture. You pull out every trick, swallowing and humming around him, swirling your tongue across his skin until he’s spilling in your mouth with a broken groan. “Fuck, yes, good girl, take it all,” he says. “My little cumdump,” he adds, the words striking at your core, pouring liquid heat directly over your nerves, achingly hot.
You pull off his cock with an obscene pop, opening your mouth to show off your painted-white tongue. A string of cum drips from your mouth, landing over his wet cock. You lap it up eagerly, Matty hissing at the contact to his sensitive skin. Your hips grind faster, cunt throbbing with need. With your mouth now freed, you whine out filthy pleas, tasting burning shame in the back of your throat. “Matty, please, I can’t—” you whimper, cut off when he grips your chin and forces your jaw shut, smirking meanly.
“You can, and you will. M’not gonna help you, baby. Can get off on my boot or not at all.” His cool, impassive tone is belayed by his flushed face, lips parted and eyes wide as he watches you grind pathetically against him. Pleasure coils under your skin, tangling with the burn of humiliation, your head thrown back and incoherent whines falling from your lips. “Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ wet dream,” Matty moans out, dragging you by the hair so your gaze falls back on him. “Pretty girl. Can’t wait to make you fall apart on my cock, shit.”
Your cunt throbs near-painfully, molten ecstasy turning your organs to liquid, your climax sweet and hot on the tip of your tongue. “M’so close,” you whimper, pleading little gasps stumbling from your lips. You grind your clit harshly against the tough leather of Matty’s shoe, fucking debasing yourself as you chase your orgasm. Digging your nails into his calf, you moan helplessly, gripping him like a lifeline as your head starts to float clear of your body. His eyes glitter triumphantly, holding all the power while reducing you to a pathetic, pleading mess grinding against his shoe.
Ecstasy swirls in your belly, dizzying. It’s thick in your lungs, stoppering your thoughts until all you know is Matty’s cruel little smirk, his lust-blown eyes, his shoe pressed against your cunt. Your final, last-ditch act of rebellion comes when the thread tethering you to your sanity finally snaps. You might have sunk low, lower than you ever thought you could, but you will not plead to cum on his shoe. That final thought circles as pleasure knocks you breathless, a keening wail ripping from your throat as your cunt pulses. Matty’s hand tightens in your hair as you cum, aching bliss coursing through your bloodstream. “Fuck,” you mumble, your legs weak as you crumple to the floor.
“That feel good?” Matty asks, flashing teeth.
“Fuck you,” you snap, painfully conscious of how little effect your words have when you’re on the floor below him, your cunt still pulsing with aftershocks.
“I will,” he says sweetly, and you groan.
Trying not to stagger, you get to your feet. “This,” you gesture in the air between you. “Means nothing, alright? As far as everyone we know is concerned, we can’t stand each other. In fact, I can’t stand you.”
“S’that why you got on your knees so fast?” Matty smirks, still leaning insouciantly on Sabrina’s bed. You scoff, disgusted with yourself, and turn to leave. “Might wanna clean yourself up, love,” he calls as you shove the door open. “You look like you just sucked a dick.”
You don’t realise that leaving was a concession until the door clicks shut and you catch his smirk before he disappears from view. Slipping into the miraculously empty bathroom, you realise he’s right; you do look like you’ve just sucked a dick. Your hair is wild, raked through and tangled, mascara running down your face and your lipstick smeared over your chin. The matching ring that must sit around the base of Matty’s cock makes you smirk to yourself, a tangible reminder of the encounter that he’ll have to work to remove.
You manage to tame your appearance and wander back downstairs, finding Sabrina and Alice deep in conversation with Matty and George. “There you are!” Sabrina gasps, loud enough to be heard over the screaming music and loud background chatter. “Thought you’d fucked off home. Was just telling the boys about our gig,” she grins. Oh, right. Your actual fucking gig, where you have to play your songs to a crowd of fans there for somebody else, and somehow hold their attention for an entire set. And you’d just stopped feeling fucking nauseous about it.
“Love, why didn’t you tell me?” Matty says, mocking in a way that only you can sense, prodding at a wound only he can see.
“Oh, please.” You pour yourself a strong drink and take a long sip before you continue. “I’d rather not spew over the front row seeing your ugly fucking mug in the crowd.” George snorts and Sabrina swats your arm.
“Don’t be a cowbag, it’s my birthday,” she scolds, eyes lighting up as they land on an undrunk bottle of tequila. “I know how to loosen you up a bit,” she grins, brandishing the bottle and digging in the fridge for a net bag of limes. “Body shots!” She spins around, wiggling her eyebrows, and you tip your head back with a groan.
She grabs a knife from the kitchen drawer and wobbles over to the counter to start chopping the limes, forcing you to your feet before she lands herself in A&E. “Calm down there, Ghostface,” you laugh, grabbing the knife before she can do any damage. Slicing the limes into neat wedges with bartender-practised ease, you grin at Sabrina and clamp a slice between your teeth. She brushes salt across the top of your tit, her tongue hot over your skin when she licks it up. The shot glass slams on the counter before you even register that she’s picked it up, her lips ghosting against yours as she bites into the flesh of the fruit, the juice spilling across your mouths.
You spit the rind to the floor and cup her jaw, melting into a passionate kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Licking the taste of lime out of her mouth, one of your hands threads in her hair, and Ross whistles. “Fucking hell, are we interrupting something?”
Sabrina snorts. “If that’s got you blushing, the things we’ve done to each other would make your head spin, pretty boy.”
You risk a glance at Matty, rooted to the spot with eyes as wide as saucers, like he can’t believe what he just saw. Interesting. “Who’s next?” you crow, delivering the words as a deliberate taunt to him. “I’ll even take my top off, give you some more space to work with,” you grin, peeling off your top and gratuitously squeezing a tit.
“Do we get a snog, too?” George smirks, getting to his feet.
Sweeping your hair off your neck, you tilt your head and smile tantalisingly. “Only if you’re good.” Matty’s jaw clenches. Very interesting. Salt scrapes over your skin as George licks you clean, something molten and dangerous pooling in your core at Matty’s intense eye contact. George bites the lime out of your mouth and spits it to the floor, his lips finding yours waiting.
He’s a good kisser, his mouth sure and firm against yours, tongue brushing against your lips as he cups your jaw. Parting your lips for him, the sharp taste of lime lands on your tongue once again, George tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and smiling slightly when he pulls away. Matty looks at you like you’re a future regret, like the narrative is written and he’s only stepping into his role when he comes towards you.
Ever overdramatic and impaired by liquor, you drape yourself over the table, lifting your head to grin up at him. Matty reaches for a shot glass, and you chide him, meeting his gaze in challenge. “C’mon, it’s called a body shot, after all,” you goad, and he swallows, gripping the neck of the tequila like a lifeline.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. The liquor is cold as he pours it into your belly button, splashing from his trembling hands. The muscles of your stomach twitch, contradictory heat pooling in your core as anticipation creeps under your skin. Salt pours between the valley of your tits, Matty cleaning it off eagerly as you fight not to squirm. You swallow a gasp as Matty sucks and licks the alcohol from your body, the feeling of his tongue swirling gratuitously against you falling straight to your cunt.
With a grimace, Matty straightens, leaning down to grip the lime between his teeth, sharp tartness soaking your bruised lips once again. You savour the sting, Matty’s eyes wide with desire as he leans in. The kiss is messy, all top lip and tongue as you lick the tequila out of his mouth, slowly sitting up and slinging your arms around his neck.
One of his hands tangles in your hair, the rest of the world melting away the longer you lose yourself in his kiss, reality tunnelling down to Matty’s skin on yours. He exhales regret against your lips, pulling away slowly and thumbing over your swollen lip. Fuck, that stings. Matty smirks like he can read your thoughts, like your pain is sweet on his lips.
“Jesus, get a room!” Sabrina scoffs, chucking a lime at your head that you don’t have the facilities to dodge. Matty goes red, wrenching his gaze away from you and fumbling for a cigarette before stumbling out of the room. Sabrina squints at the space he vacated. “Like, will the two of you just fuck already? Instead of subjecting us to whatever that was?”
You glare, folding your arms and screwing up your face as if you can’t think of anything worse. “Don’t be gross.”
Sabrina gets up, turning to face the room at large. “Right, show of hands. Who thinks she just needs to fuck Matty and get it over with.” Six hands go up, and you scowl. Okay, maybe you do want to fuck him, but does everybody need to know about it?
“Please,” groans George. “He’s insufferable when he gets like this about a girl.” He puts on a high effect of Matty’s voice, and you snort. “‘Oh, do you think she’s gonna be there? Will she like this shirt? Does my hair look pretty?’” You roll your eyes, praying the heat in your cheeks is indistinguishable from the flush of the alcohol.
“Ugh,” you say, forcing a shudder. “Get me checked for a brain tumour if I ever fall for that.” You grab the discarded bottle. “Anyway, I’m done being a shot glass. Someone else’s turn.”
Your head spins as you take shot after shot, licking salt from Sabrina’s neck, Ross’ chest, George’s belly. The passage of time slips from your grasp, and before you know it, the party’s mostly over. The last few stragglers are drifting out, Sabrina nowhere to be seen, having slipped upstairs with a girl you vaguely recognise from high school about half an hour ago. Probably shouldn’t tell her that she’s not gonna be the first (or even second) person to get off in her room tonight.
You end up crashing out on the couch, stripping out of your tight jeans and leaving them crumpled next to you — your shirt is long gone. Not a big deal, you can nab one of Sabrina’s in the morning. By some miracle, your headache in the morning is only mild, easily quelled with a glass of water and some painkillers. The house is still, the previous night lingering in sticky floors and plastic cups littering every surface.
One of Sabrina’s guitars is propped against the wall, and picking it up unlocks a vague memory of picking the beginnings of your first song on it, before you had one of your own. You smile fondly, lifting it into your lap and kicking one leg over the arm of the sofa. Your fingers move instinctively, coaxing out the melody you’ve been working on, repeating it over and over and groaning when the next notes just won’t come.
“You’re really good.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re still here?”
Matty shrugs, sloping into the chair next to you, seemingly indifferent to your matching states of undress. “Hann was designated driver, and he fucked off somewhere between the body shots and the karaoke,” he snorts. “Brina said I could stay.”
“Don’t call her Brina,” you snap. “You’re lucky she’s so nice. If it was up to me, you’d be in a ditch somewhere right now. Or flattened on the motorway. Wouldn’t that be nice…” you say, wistful as if you’re daydreaming about his viscera splattered across tarmac.
“You’re such a bitch.” It’s a compliment, you can tell, despite his derisive expression.
Not dignifying him with a response, your fingers creep across the strings, plucking out a familiar riff that you can’t quite place. Matty’s smug little grin flashes you back to the day you met, and you realise with disgust that you’re playing the first four notes of Robbers over and over. Your scowl silences the taunt on Matty’s lips. “Shut the fuck up and stop looking at me like that before I make you.”
Matty shudders, shifting in his chair. “You’re so mean. Who hurt you?”
“This conversation is hurting me. Talking to you feels like voluntarily hitting my own head with a brick.” Matty just smirks at you, conspicuously dropping his hands into his lap. “Oh, my god. Is this getting you hard?” you scoff.
An infuriating smirk creeps across Matty’s face “I can’t help it,” he says. “You’re hot when you’re mad at me.”
“I’m always fuckin’ mad at you.”
“Exactly.” His grin is filthy, legs spread wide as your eyes trail down to where his cock is straining against his boxers.
Still plucking idly at the guitar, you speak without looking at him. “Touch yourself for me,” you say, snorting as Matty chokes on his inhale.
He makes a spluttering little sound, and you don’t look up from the guitar in your lap. “Are you being serious? Here? Now?”
You shrug. “You don’t have to. But don’t pretend you don’t want to. Go on, give me a show. S’just about the only thing you’re good for.”
Matty moans, the resolve in his face visibly crumbling as you lift your gaze to meet his. His cock is flushed and dripping as he frees it from his boxers, throwing his head back with a groan. Heat creeps across your cheeks, the display of him obscene. Arousal clenches in your belly as your name spills involuntarily from his lips, cock disappearing into his fist as he strokes himself.
“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that,” you murmur, breathing slow and deep to keep yourself controlled. Matty’s moans are sweet and syrupy in your ear, low and melodic against your skin. Almost without your knowledge, your fingers dance across the guitar strings, pulling the next notes of your broken melody free instinctively as you watch him. “So pretty like this, baby. Know you can be louder than that. Let me hear you, yeah?”
Slick sounds fill the room, tangling with his moans flowing freely from his lips. Your cunt is dripping in your panties, pleading for attention as Matty fucks his fist, the guitar finally abandoned in your lap. Your hips shift needily against the sofa, the tiniest pulse of pleasure humming through you. “Come here,” he groans, the dominance in his tone sudden and intense.
“What did you just say?” you say, tone carrying a low threat that you don’t even think he notices.
“Can’t make a mess, can I? C’mere, come finish me off. Can see how fuckin’ needy you are from here, love.”
Carefully sliding the guitar off your lap, you stand so you’re towering over him. He gazes openly at your tits, cupped together in your bra, breath hot against your skin. “Who,” you say, voice gentle but full of steel, sliding a hand into his curls. “Do you think you’re talking to?” you demand, fisting your hand and dragging Matty’s eyes up to meet yours, his little pained whimper falling straight to your cunt. “You fucking piece of shit,” you scoff, lowering yourself into his lap. “Get your hands off.” He obeys with a whimper, and you laugh scornfully. God, he’s too fucking easy. “You fucking disgust me,” you murmur against his lips, low and reverent like you’re pouring praise against his mouth. “Who the fuck do you think you are, talkin’ to me like that?”
You tuck him back into his boxers, rolling your hips down and tipping your head back as pleasure runs through you. “M’sorry,I—” You press two fingers against his lips to silence him.
“Gonna let you get off like this. That way you’re only making a mess of yourself, yeah? Say thank you, baby.” Matty ruts his hips up against yours, hungry lips meeting your neck and greedy hands tangling in your hair.
“Th-thank you,” he stammers, breath shaky against your neck. Want pulses sickly in your belly, rising into your chest and squeezing hard as Matty bucks his hips. It doesn’t take long until your name pours free from his lips, tangled in moans and expletives, and he goes limp under you.
Despite your desperate cunt screaming out in protest, you climb off his lap and smile patronisingly down at him. “Fucking filthy,” you say, staring down at his soaked boxers and committing the sight of him to memory, chest flushed and heaving. “You can get dressed and get the fuck out, now. Hope nobody points out the cum stain.”
Matty gives you a look that’s pure loathing, tinged with needy lust, and you jerk your head at him as if to say go on. “Just you wait,” he mutters darkly. “Just you fucking wait. I’ll fucking wreck you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
You don’t see Matty face-to-face for a little while after that, but that doesn’t mean he stops plaguing you. A concerning number of your nights are spent with your phone on your pillow, listening to him moan in your ear as you fuck yourself on your fingers. You have to bite down on his name when you’re fucking other guys, the word bitter as you swallow it back down, longing to spill free. It only makes you hate him more.
You hadn’t thought he’d actually come see you play, but George and Ross’ silhouettes are unmistakeable in the crowd of fans screaming for the band you’re opening for. As is the head of dark curls next to them. Your heart catches in your throat, bleeding over your tongue as you step up to the mic stand. The lights shine into your eyes, adrenaline pumping and nerves jangling. You introduce yourself, introduce the band, the few scattered whoops not even making a dent against the unimpressed faces of the front row. George shoots you an encouraging grin, clapping over his head to make sure you see, and it soothes you a little; enough that your body loosens and you can coax your fingers into strumming on your guitar.
By the third song, you’ve relaxed into it, instinctive. Your hair is plastered to your forehead, jewellery tangled around your neck, sweating into your shirt. The crowd has warmed up a little, nodding their heads and swaying, even a few people singing your choruses back at you. You feel electric, a current zapping through you and echoing out of the speakers. Matty is transfixed, you can just about see — his gaze hasn’t left you for more than two seconds at a time since your set started. His thoughts are so plain on his face that you can practically hear them, filth pouring from him and pooling around you, warming your core and… Jesus. Focus.
Mentally dousing yourself in ice water, you lean close to the mic and catch Matty’s eyes. “This next song… I feel like it’s a story every girl knows. You’re at a bar, you’ve had a few drinks, and you’re lookin’ for a bit of fun, right? And you meet a boy and you think he could be the one, at least for tonight. Then he opens his mouth,” you pause as everyone laughs. “And he just won’t. Stop. Talking!” You launch into the song, unable to keep the grin off your face as Matty recognises the melody, the one you played while you watched him get himself off. The memory heats you from the inside out, identical film reels flickering in both your and Matty’s heads as your insides burn with desire.
Apparently, the song resonates with more than a few, the crowd and the cheers wilder with every song now you’ve finally attracted their attention. Disappointment twinges in your gut as you realise you’re onto the last song. “You guys have been fucking phenomenal tonight. You looking forward to the main event?” Obviously, the crowd cheers louder than they have for you all night. You try not to take it to heart, though. “Thank you guys so much for having us, seriously. You up for one more song? Yeah? Let’s fuckin’ go!” Adrenaline rushing to your head and inflating your ego, you grip the hem of your shirt and tug it up to your neck, soaking in the cheer that goes up as you show off your bare tits.
There’s only one reaction you care about, though, Matty’s jaw going slack and his gaze hot and heavy against your skin. The room melts away, the tension stringing between you a living thing that roots you to the spot. The fuse is lit and you know it, can’t stamp it out. All that’s left is to find out which of you ignites first.
You slip into the back of the crowd just before the main act starts, and immediately get suckered into a sweaty, congratulatory group hug from the boys. You don’t even push Matty off when he smacks a kiss at your temple, his low good fucking girl murmured in your ear making you shudder.
The band you opened for are a little stuck-up, but nice enough, so you take them up on their offer to celebrate after. Their frontman’s grin when he tells you to bring some friends, if you like tells you that he’s going to be very fucking disappointed, though, when the friends you bring are four blokes from a well-known local band instead of the girls he’s clearly imagining. His face falls when he sees them, pushing off to chat up a group of girls hovering around the bar.
Which leaves the eight of you in the now-familiar position of being crammed into a too-small booth, with you once again half on Matty’s lap. “Can’t believe you wrote a song about me. You’re too sweet, darling, you shouldn’t have.” he remarks, and you swing your heel back and laugh at his hiss when it connects with his shin.
“Oh, please. You think you’re the first good-looking asshole I’ve ever met in a bar? Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You think I'm good-looking?” He’s wearing a shit-eating grin, too comfortable pushing your buttons in public. You need to grind him beneath your heel, put him back in his fucking place.
You drop your hand under the table, tracing circles in his thigh and feeling the muscles tense under your touch. “And he’s got selective hearing, too. Who's surprised?”
His hips shift needily against your hand, squirming as he tries to force you into giving him what he wants. “Oh, come on, darling. We both know this only ends one way.” He’s full of shit, false bravado layered deliberately in his voice that you can see through like he’s wrapped in cellophane.
“In your dreams,” you bite out, pressing your hand against his cock in the same moment, kneading softly and watching blood rush into his cheeks as he swallows down a moan.
“Oh, every night, darling.”
Sabrina gags, breaking the two of you out of the bubble you’d been in, the hazy edges of your reality suddenly back in sharp focus. “Can you two stop being gross for two fucking seconds, please? For all our sakes?”
Rolling your eyes, you set your drink down on the table, dangerously close to the edge. “Oh, it’s my fault he’s fucking obsessed with me?” you scoff. “Read my fucking lips, Healy. Never. Gonna. Happen.”
You focus back into the conversation, relishing in the way Matty’s responses fall shorter and shorter as you tease, his voice going weak and breathy with barely-concealed need. With your free hand, you pull your phone out to type him a text.
i was fucking incredible on that stage today
hope youre ready for a long fucking night
not gonna stop unless you beg me.
Matty’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly as his gaze flickers across the screen, staring resolutely forward even as his hips shift and his cock fills under your palm. You slide your other hand under Matty’s jeans and boxers a moment later, his cock twitching needily in your palm. His knee jolts at the feeling of your hand against his bare skin, sending your full glass toppling over him, covering him in a sticky combination of soda and alcohol.
Withdrawing your hand, you gasp, turning and pretending to fuss over him. “Fuck’s sake, Matty, you- Oh, my God!” You give a spluttering laugh. Matty’s eyes go wide with fear, pleading with you as he correctly predicts your next words. “Do you have a boner?” you demand incredulously, pulling away from him in fake disgust. The table erupts into laughter, Matty’s face fire-engine red as his hands fall to his lap in a desperate attempt to preserve what’s left of his dignity. Oh, God, he looks so fucking good embarrassed like this, and it makes you squirm a little in your seat to know the humiliation is just turning him on more.
“He totally fucking does!” crows Sabrina, cackling and craning her neck for a better look.
“What’s got you all worked up, mate?” George taunts. “Been so long since you got your dick wet that you’re popping one from being next to a hot girl?”
“No,” Matty snaps. “I mean– I get my dick wet plenty, thank you very much. And I don’t have a boner,” he adds, attempting to push past you and escape. “I just— not feelin’ well. I should go.”
You elbow him harshly, and he winces, biting his tongue around a whine. “Aw, George, you think I’m– give me a second, sex pest, I’m having a conversation– you think I’m hot?”
He grins. “I think you’re a knockout, love. Hey, are you free tonight?”
You snort. “Not for you,” you shoot back, George holding his hand to his chest, mock-affronted. You finally take pity on Matty and let him out of the booth, surreptitiously sliding your hand into his pocket and dropping your spare key. Dramatic? Yes. A bit much? Maybe. But you’ve never claimed to be anything less. “I know it’s gonna be tough, but try not to stick your dick in anything that’ll cause permanent damage on the way home!” you can’t resist shouting at his retreating back. When he’s gone, you pull out your phone to text him your address.
go and wait for me, sit on your hands if you have to, but do not fucking touch yourself
if you’re good, i *might* let you cum tonight
do u want me to break in or something
check ur pocket
you’re insane
ill be home in an hour
can u behave until then?
He doesn’t answer, and you’re looking forward to finding out what that means. You stay for another two rounds, anticipation thrilling in your belly at the prospect of what (or rather, who) is waiting for you at home. Walking into your bedroom, you find Matty face-down on your bed and grinding desperately against your sheets, still fully-clothed as needy little whines slip from his lips. “God, you are just fucking pathetic, huh?” you murmur, your thighs clenching at the pretty picture he makes.
Matty gasps. “M’not touchin’, m’not touchin’,” he promises frantically, and you click your tongue.
“I know, baby. But that doesn’t look much like sitting on your hands, either,” you murmur, peeling out of your shirt and kicking off your jeans. “Couldn’t even be a good boy for me for an hour? Worthless little slut,” you scoff, and he whimpers in response. “Least you kept that pretty dick hard for me. Does that feel good? Grinding on my sheets like a little fucking whore?”
He whimpers, still face-down but not moving, like he won’t be able to control himself if he lays eyes on you. “Yes. M’sorry, feels good. Not as good as you. Didn’t mean to be bad, m’sorry,” he babbles, his desperation obvious.
“Look at me, baby, eyes on me,” you order. Matty obeys instantly, a punched-out groan slipping from his lips as he takes in the sight of you, his eyes glued to the silver barbells glinting teasingly in your nipples. You snap the waistband of your panties against your waist, the action beckoning his gaze down your body. “D'you think I look pretty?” He nods furiously, but you cut him off before he can start lavishing you with praise, rolling your eyes condescendingly. “Didn’t wear it for you, before you start. Thought maybe I’d finally find some hot guy to take me home and fuck me like I deserve,” you hiss, climbing onto the bed next to him. Taking his jaw in your hand, you brush his curls out of his face. Matty shudders under your touch, pliant and needy as he melts into your palms. “Do you think you can fuck me like I deserve, Matty?”
His pride wars openly with desire in his face, eyes glassy as his tongue flickers out to wet his lips. “No,” he says finally, the admission ghosting feebly against your lips. He succumbs so sweetly that you press your lips against his, licking the taste of sugary surrender from his mouth.
“That’s what I thought. I could be getting fucked right now, you know. Could’ve had any man I wanted. But no. I get your whining, pathetic ass in my bed instead, fuckin’ rubbing yourself off on my sheets like a disgusting animal. S’bad enough that you’re making me do all the fucking work, least you could do is behave,” you snap, and Matty squirms, your cruel words rooting in his brain, digging claws tearing his every coherent thought to shreds.
“Can make you feel good, promise,” he whimpers. “Let me make you feel good, let me make it up to you, please,” Matty begs, reaching out to tug at the elastic of your waistband.
You slap his hand away, and he whines. “Behave. So greedy,” you chide. “Did I say you could touch me?”
“N-no.”
“Do you think you deserve to touch me?”
“I— no.” You grin, wide and predatory, and tug his shirt off over his head, running your hand down his slim, toned chest. Unbuckling his belt, you help him out of his jeans, the sticky, wet spot near the waistband of his boxers evident and growing.
You thumb over it gently, pressing the digit into Matty’s mouth as he moans and accepts it eagerly, swirling his tongue pornographically. “So fucking wet,” you murmur. “Needy little whore soaking his pants for me,” you tease. “Come here,” you order, sliding your panties down your legs, cool air kissing at your wet cunt. Matty scrambles to obey, laying between your legs and gazing up at you adoringly, seemingly unsure where to look as his eyes dart between your face, your nipple piercings catching the light, and your glistening cunt inches from his lips. “Go on. Beg for it. Beg for the privilege of touching me, of tasting me, of making me cum.”
“Fuck- fuck. Please let me get you off, sweetheart. Let me taste your pretty pussy, let me make you feel good, make you forget everything. Please just fuckin’ use me, I want— mmph!” You cut him off, pulling his face into your cunt by his hair, his pained little whimper spiralling deliciously through your body.
“Forgot how fucking annoying the sound of your voice is,” you groan, rolling your hips up against Matty’s face as he licks at your cunt like melting ice cream. “Put that mouth of yours to better use, hm?” You take his wrist in a punishing grip as he attempts to slide it up your thigh. “God, it’s like you don’t even want to cum. I never said you could touch me. Can make me cum with just your mouth or you can get up and walk out of here with nothing but that little problem between your legs, okay?”
Matty mumbles something that sounds vaguely agreeing into your cunt, pleasure coiling in your veins as Matty makes out with your hole sloppily. “Thank you s’much for lettin’ me… taste so fucking good, baby,” he moans, whining pitifully when you tug harshly on his curls.
“Don’t talk.” Your grip in his hair is punishing as he whimpers into your cunt, sucking and licking like a man starved. “God, such a fuckin’ slut, baby. You like it when I hurt you, hm?” His muffled moan of yes, fuckin’ love it vibrates through you, shivering pleasure ricocheting through every corner of your body. Matty sucks greedily on your clit, your hips bucking and legs kicking in the air.
It would be a lie to say knowing he’s getting off on the degradation doesn’t turn you on beyond belief. Your cunt pulses against his mouth, his tongue starving and wild over your clit. Matty tongue-fucks you, ravenous, his moans vibrating through your body deliciously. “Fuck,” you moan out, pulling hard on his curls to grind his face harder into your cunt. Heat thrums under your skin, biting your lip so hard you taste blood to swallow your moans. You must be suffocating him, his tongue buried deep in your cunt, but he just keeps going. A moan tears free, low and shameful, and he redoubles his efforts, swirling his tongue over your clit. You’re writhing under his attentions, dripping in his mouth as he starts tongue-fucking you at a dizzying pace. Tension pulls tight in your belly, close and electric under your skin as you clench around his tongue, Matty’s name spilling free from your mouth in a crazed entreaty, tugging on his hair just to feel his answering moan spiral through you.
His teeth scrape over your clit, the flash of pain finally tearing you loose from your body, ecstasy cascading over you as your cunt pulses against Matty’s mouth. He laps at your dripping cunt, bliss flooding against his tongue as your body wracks with sensation. “That’s right,” you groan, desire pulsing through you, leaking into the corners of your body with every thud of your wild, insistent heartbeat. “Fuckin’ swallow my cum. All of it. Yeah, just like that. Good boy.” The words only spur him on, cleaning you up with helpless enthusiasm, essentially locking himself into an impossible task. Every swipe of his tongue only serves to make you wetter, his moans stirring arousal that pools in his mouth. You pull him off you by his hair, tugging him up to meet you.
Matty grins, already hazy and fucked-out, his lips and chin soaking wet. You commit the sight to memory for a second, bruised lips and lidded eyes, your own personal, yielding little doll. “Thank you,” he says without prompting, and you grin. All it takes is a few sugared words, and he’s putty in your hands.
“Been such a good boy,” you croon, swiping your thumb across his mouth and sucking your own taste off your skin. “You wanna fuck me?”
A flash of something dances across his face, some aborted desire he’s not brave enough to voice dying on his tongue. “Yeah. I– yeah. I want that. Really bad. But… I might not… last, uh, very long. M’so fuckin’ hard, I just want–”
You prise open his jaw, silencing him as his eyes go wide. “Don’t push your luck. I’m letting you cum, ‘cause you’ve been such a good boy for me. Cum without my permission and I’ll make you wish you weren’t born,” you threaten lowly, spitting in his open mouth to seal your words.
He swallows eagerly, nodding hard. “Okay. Uh-huh, okay. M’sorry. Won’t cum, I swear.” You push him onto his back, staring impassively down at him as you straddle his waist. “Can you– I want– please,” he stammers, words tripping over themselves to escape his mouth as you laugh meanly down at him.
You dig your nails into his chest, anchoring yourself and scraping a mark into his skin. You start to trace your first initial, something droning and possessive buzzing in your ears, then think better of it. Slowly, you circle your hips, teasing the tip of his cock at your dripping hole. “You want me? Want me to fuck you like this?” Matty grasps needily at your hips, whimpering uncontrollable pleas into the thick, lust-drenched air of your room. He cries out as you slam your hips down, unable to stopper the moan that falls from your lips as your cunt stretches wide around him.
Grinding your clit against his stomach, you gasp as Matty thrusts up into you, fucking you impossibly deep. “Shit, Matty,” you hiss, pleasure pulsing under your skin. His gaze is fixed on your tits as you bounce on his cock, timed with his thrusts so he fills you as deep as possible. Running a hand up your body, you squeeze one of your tits, twisting the barbell just enough that it smarts a little, a pained gasp weaving effortlessly between your moans. You whine as Matty’s calloused fingers come up to circle roughly over your clit; sloppy like he can barely control his limbs. “Fuck, baby. You tryin’ to get me off faster so I don’t notice how quick you cum?” You grab his jaw so he can’t look away. “Pathetic.”
Matty doesn’t even speak, just moans helplessly as you ride him, rolling your hips and bouncing on him. Liquid heat pools in your veins, your thighs starting to burn and your heart pumping ecstasy into every nerve of your body. The slick sounds of your hips meeting echo off the walls, tangling with heavy breaths and wanton moans in a lurid melody you wish you could press to vinyl. Your nails dig into his shoulders so hard you break skin, leaving a tangible, lasting mark in the unblemished marble of his skin.
You circle your hips, head swimming with desire. Matty’s desperate little moans only turn you on more, his hips stuttering as he gets closer. Pleasure hums under your skin, a soft throb in the back of your skull and the base of your spine. Your thighs are beginning to burn with the effort, but you barely feel it as you fuck him harder, chasing your own release as it hangs tantalisingly out of reach. “You feel so good,” Matty whines, breathless and needy as he fucks up into you with abandon. His blunt nails dig into your hips, pulling you down to drive deeper into you. White spots dance in your vision, everything in your world going hazy but the point where Matty’s skin meets yours.
Pleasure courses up your spine in a sweet, sparkling arc, moans flowing freely as Matty’s fingers tease back over your swollen clit. “Fuck, feels so fuckin’ good,” you gasp. “Doin’ so well, baby. Gonna make me cum all over your cock, yeah?” He moans, rubbing tight, frantic circles at your clit. Tension coils tightly in your belly, the thread pulling taut until it finally snaps, arousal burning up your veins and flooding out against his skin, moaning helplessly as he keeps fucking into you. Dizzy, you fall forward, bracing your arms over Matty’s head and cunt pulsing around his cock. Matty’s lips close around your nipple, licking and sucking feverishly as you ride out your orgasm. “Shit,” you mutter, his other hand twisting your piercing as he groans, every motion tinged maniacal with need. “Did so well, Matty. You gonna cum for me? Go on, baby. Fuckin’ fill me up, yeah?”
Your words tip him over the edge, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, moaning your name around your tit. He gasps and whines, writhing helplessly under you. “God, feels so fuckin’ good,” he moans. “Thank you s’much,” he adds, smiling dopily up at you as you climb off him and test your weight on your feet before you stand. When you come back from cleaning yourself up, Matty’s dressed again, looking so miserable that you can’t help but take pity on him. “I’m goin’, don’t worry.”
You scoff. “Come back here.” Matty freezes, spinning on his heel so comically slowly that you stifle a giggle. “Jesus. I’m not evil. S’fucking freezing out there, I’m not making you trek back to fucking Wilmslow after that.” Matty just stares, and you roll your eyes. “Come back before I change my mind.”
Matty strips to his boxers embarrassingly fast, but you kind of don’t have it in you to tease when he slots himself sweetly into your arms. It’s almost… nice. Blech. “Did I do good?” he murmurs, his voice soft and sleep-thick.
You scratch your nails over his head and he hums happily. “Yeah, did so good, baby. Dunno what happened to all that shit you were talking about wrecking me, though. Kinda seemed like the other way around…” you tease.
He laughs softly. “I’ll get another chance. Gonna look so pretty crying on my cock, love.”
“Promises, promises,” you say, the muscles of his stomach tensing as you trace idle patterns in his skin. “Are you gonna keep them?”
“Piss me off enough and you’ll find out.”
Excitement thrills in your belly, the words sealing the two of you into some kind of promise, a brutal, delicious game of chess that you honestly couldn’t predict the winner in. “You know I will.”
working as a bartender on a college program at the palmetto casino, you spend your nights working the floor or bartending private rooms with dealer matty healy. he’s far too old for you, but really, that just makes you want him even more.
masterlist.
wc: 7.7k
contains: age gap, unprotected p in v sex, public sex, fingering, overstimulation, use of sir, he’s a bit mean, excessive amounts of playing blackjack
—
The dry Vegas heat blisters against your skin as you step out of the baggage claim into the outdoors. It's ungodly hot out, and knowing this is the temperature you will be living in for the next few months sends you into a a brief internal spiral. You pull your sunglasses out of your bag in anticipation of stepping into the sun, fumbling as you try to gather all of your luggage. The taxi horns from the pileup of cars blare over the noises of the crowd and the loud industrial fans blowing above you, the only relief from the heat.
You look around the pick-up area for the white branded car you've been told to look for. The chaos makes it hard to identify anything, a bachelorette party behind you squealing and hordes of excited couples pushing through the piles of baggage. You walk further down the line, and quickly spot the white car emblazoned with the electric green logo of The Palmetto.
You hastily walk to the passengers side door and tap lightly on the window. It's a dingy car, clearly more than a decade old. The driver look up from his phone at you and hastily rolls down the window with the crank on the door.
"You here for the employee transportation?" he asks, nearly shouting over the hubbub of the crowd.
You pull the folded yellow paper out of your back pocket, hot wind blowing your hair to the sides. "Yeah, I'm, uh, ID 82913?"
He scrolls through his phone, and clearly finds what he is looking for before stepping out of the car to help you with your bags. You lug your suitcases into the trunk, and nearly collapse with exhaustion into the backseat as he drives you to the casino.
—
"So, here's the main floor. Slots, low stakes games, all the regular fixings." You're being practically dragged through the casino part of the hotel on a tour by an extremely excited and kind waitress named Jordan.
The casino floor is insanely chaotic, filled with the noises of cheering gamblers, loud slot machines, and the racket of the crowds traveling through. Your attention is pulled in every which way as you walk through, almost feeling overstimulated with the sheer amount of action occurring.
Jordan is borderline shouting in order for you to hear her, and you have to uncomfortably sleepwalk to match her energetic pace.
“That’s the main bar, where you’ll be working weeknights. Watch out for the poker tables nearby, drunk gamblers get angry when they lose and they love to pick a nearby target to yell at, unfortunately.” You practically blanche, wondering just what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.
You’re about to start walking through another row of loud glowing slot machines that seem to be cat themed before Jordan abruptly stops in her tracks. You flip your head around to meet her oddly stern stare, eyes grave.
"Let me just warn you. This place is super super incestuous." That could not have been further from what you predicted her to say.
"Huh?" you ask, incredulously and a little dumbly, to your immediate regret.
Jordan sighs, clicking her tongue. "Yeah, so like, I don't know if it's the alcohol, or just the vibes and everything, but most of the employees of this place have had at least something with another employee." You don't quite know how to respond. You've already walked past more employees than you can count, is it seriously that pervasive?
"You too?" you ask her, eyes wide.
She sighs, dreamily. "Ugh, Derek. He used to be one of the servers with me, but they transferred him over to the sister casino further down the strip. Best head of my life, girl. You don't even know. God, I should really call him."
Before you can react, Jordan spins around on her heels and sets off once more. She keeps walking at a breakneck pace, turning back to face you periodically. "But yeah, super incestuous. So he's sleeping with her, and she used to sleep with him and he’s so jealous." She's pointing at random workers who are walking through the casino as you walk, barely giving time for you to process as your head darts around to follow her hand. "Those two manning that bar used to fuck, and they hate each others guts now. Ooo, and that girl is dating that craps stick guy, but that blonde guy collecting glasses is desperately in love with her."
You nearly stumble into a patron running through the casino, who yells, "Watch it!" You whip your head back to see him sprinting to the chips exchange before turning back to Jordan. It's only been ten minutes and you can't remember the last time you were this overwhelmed.
"Am I supposed to know all this?" you squeak, running after Jordan.
"Oh, this isn't even the half of it, girl! This is just the stuff that everybody knows. Can't have you out of the loop!" You wouldn't have exactly minded being out of the loop, but it might be a little late for that. Now, you're only curious.
"Is there anyone not involved in this insane workplace romance web?" You're near the back of the main floor now, past the dinging slot machines and surrounded only by card tables.
“Trying to stake out where there's no competition?" Jordan gasps dramatically, giggling at the prospect.
"No, god no, I just-"
"Don't you worry, girl. I support the hoeing!" You're too exasperated to argue with her, and simply let her continue.
"There's two guys that I know of that haven't had anything with any of the other employees. That bleach blonde bartender over there, George. My theory is he is in witness protection, he's so weirdly mysterious. We've got a pool on it, actually, if you want in."
The bartender in question in serving an older woman that is clearly infatuated with him, making you smile. He's got yellow-lens sunglasses on, even though it's inside, and moves with such a confident air that it's impossible not to notice. You turn back to Jordan, who's fiddling with some dices on an abandoned craps table.
"Who's the other one?"
"Oh, that's Matty. He's one of the high roller dealers, works in the private blackjack rooms. He doesn't talk much with anyone other than the bartender in his room, and never comes to any staff events. Kind of a buzzkill, if you ask me. He's over there actually, he's the brunette walking towards the hotel connection."
You spot him immediately. It’s hard not to. He's in a black and white suit, the Palmetto's uniform for the high rolling dealers. Brown curls splay across his forehead, bouncing with each step he takes. You can see the glint of a hoop earring in one of his ears, as well as the faint outline of a tattoo on his chest through the white button up. Your eyes follow him as he walks, confident and rhythmic. Jordan's voice piping up distracts you from your unabashed ogling.
"Oh, shit, wait. You're working high-roller rooms weekends, right?" You nod in agreement, trying to remember the schedule they sent you. You're working the main floor weeknights, and in a private high-roller room Friday and Saturday nights.
"Which one?" Jordan asks, head turned towards you.
You pull the battered paper out of your pocket once more. "Uh, the Flamingo Room?" The cheesiness doesn’t miss you, causing you to let out a small laugh. They are throwing money at you to bartend though, so who are you to complain? The summer college program pays far more than any other internship in your field, and the brief stint of bartending you did in first year allowed you to qualify.
"Oh, that's Matty's room! You'll be working with him then. Please tell me if he's got any details on George, I wanna win that pot."
Your eyes watch him travel across the room, fumbling for a cigarette packet before heading out a back door.
—
"So, you're my new weekend bartender."
Matty's stare pierces you from across the room. He's leant against the dealing table, arms folded and confidence radiating off of him. His gaze looks you up and down, and you suddenly become extremely aware of your age in comparison to him. He's at least a decade older than you, experience in the casino clear with the way you watched him handle a table moments prior.
"Are you even 21?" He asks with an eyebrow raised, further twisting the self-conscious knife in your stomach.
"I'm 22, for the record," you tell him, gaze narrowing. "I'm on the summer college program," you say. You're trying to sound authoritative but it comes out more as bossy, which is really not helping your attempts at maturity.
"Hmm." He thinks for a moment before speaking again. "Are they putting you in the Paradise Tower?" he asks, brows furrowed.
"Oh, yeah, I think so," you say, checking the paper in your pocket once more. "Yep, 4th floor, Paradise Tower. Why?"
He chuckles, rubbing his thumb across his upper lip. Your gaze follows it entranced, studying the callouses across his spindly fingers. "That's where they put us when I was your age, back when I did the college program. It was shitty and outdated then, so pity you having to stay there now."
"Have you been here ever since?" you ask him, cocking your head to the side. You can't exactly envision a life in Vegas, the non-stop heart that beats through the city never calming down. You'd get so overstimulated that you would probably be burnt out within a year.
"When you start to get your first round of tips, you won't be too excited about leaving, either. Especially from the blokes you'll be dealing with in here." He smiles, referring to the high rollers room you’re standing with him now. You match his grin, the idea of boundless cash to pay off your hefty amount of student loans an attractive one.
"So," he says, clasping his hands together. "Ground rules. Number one, don't talk to the guests unless they talk to you first. Two, don't be too loud making drinks, and three, listen to me."
Matty’s near dismissiveness catches you off-guard, eyes slightly narrowing. You try to ignore the heat it shoots to your core, his attractiveness turning the regularly demanding commands into something more desirable. Still, subtle annoyance leaks onto your face, and he continues before you have the chance to interrupt him, raising a hand in the air.
"I'm not trying to boss you around or anything, love. It's just the general rules of these rooms, and it's also for you own best. Rich assholes can become even worse assholes when they are drunk and betting tens of thousands a hand. Follow my lead in there, and you won't have to worry about anything going wrong." Understanding dawns on you, realizing just how tense these rooms might be compared to your college bar.
"Got it?" you nod rapidly, eyebrows slightly raised as you lookup at him. He smiles, a devilish quality to it. "Good girl." Your stomach does backflips, heat racing to inflame your cheeks. Has he seriously not slept with any other employees here?
—
"Well, how'd you find that, love?"
It's nearly four a.m. and you've just finished working your first night in the Flamingo Room. Your eyes are drooping with need for sleep, the shift horrifically long. Matty was familiar with the five men who came into the room to gamble, and prepped you on their orders beforehand to ensure you were prepared (two gin Martinis, one Negroni, an Old Fashioned, and a Rusty Nail.)
The only word you can use to describe the men that came into the room that night is slimeballs. They didn't do anything, per se, you thankfully feeling safe behind your bar with their backs to you the entire time. But when the first man walked into the room, you watched his eyes scan your body and linger far too long on your chest for it to be excusable.
It's not a feeling you're unused to working in bartending, an unfortunate side effect of the career that you usually just have to accept. But that doesn't exactly make it feel great, or null the stomach-churning feeling that lasts for ages inside when you catch their eyes leering at your body for far too long.
They paid you no mind for the rest of the game, ignoring your quiet serving of their drinks and replacing them whenever they got empty. You met Matty's eyes briefly when bringing one of the men another Old Fashioned, and the slight worry behind them made your insides flush. You feel relieved that you got paired with a dealer who at least gives a fuck about your well-being. And the fact that he's probably the hottest man you've ever laid eyes on doesn't hurt either.
"Not too bad," you sigh. "To be honest, I was slightly worried when they walked in as Mr. Rusty Nail would not stop starting at my tits," you chuckle, rolling your eyes at the recollection. "But the rest was great, actually. Thank you for those directions, I actually enjoyed kind of blending into the background rather than having the attention on me. Far less stressful than a bar setting. Plus, the several hundred they tipped didn't hurt," you smile, biting.
Matty chuckles, shaking his head slightly. "The tips do tend to null any of the wounds the clientele dish out, you're right about that. If you are ever feeling too uncomfortable though, raise your hand in a peace sign and head out the door behind you. Don't want you getting burnt out from creeps before you can even begin, love."
The thoughtfulness makes your cheeks burn, and you bite your lips to stop from smiling too hard. You hope you're not coming off as the infatuated school girl you feel as if you are inside, stomach cartwheeling every time he flashes you a smile.
"You hear me?" he asks, and you nod in assent.
"Good girl," he hums, sending a column heat down your spine and through your body. You'd do anything to have him continue to call you that, the usually patronizing phrase sending you for a whirlwind.
"I'll see you tomorrow night, yeah?" He reaches out his arms for a hug which you gratefully bound into. You press your face against his chest, breathing him in as his arms tighten around you.
"Yep," you mumble into his chest, the warmth of him enveloping you. He smells like cigarettes and wine swirled together, filling your senses and swirling in your mind.
You fall asleep that night dreaming of nothing but him, dark curls and nimble fingers splayed across the cards.
—
The staff bar tucked away in the basement of the casino is a dingy, putrefactive room. But compared to the manufactured plastic glitz and glam of the rest of Vegas, the dive bar-esque environemnt only accessible through weaving concrete corridors is nearly salvation.
You're stood behind the bar, as you drew the short-stick and got assigned to working the Sunday night party. It hasn't been terrible, however. You've gotten to meet several employees you haven't before over these past three weeks, and you chatted with Jordan for ages before she got caught up drunkenly making out in the corner with that server she told you about who she smuggled into the employees only area.
You're cleaning up some leakage from one of the beer taps with a spare rag when you hear one of the bar stools being pulled out. You look up to see Matty taking a seat, simpering down at you. He's out of his suit uniform, but still in a white button-down that is open enough for you to see the tattoo splayed across his chest. Your eyes linger a little too long to be excusable, and you look up to find his eyes already in yours, twinkling with mirth. Every shift you’ve worked with him has been a losing battle to not ogle him the entire duration, watching him command the room with confidence and natural ostentation.
"How's the shift, princess?" He's clearly tipsy, but no where near enough to be considered a mess. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the counter while smiling at you patiently.
"Wouldn't you rather be over there pestering those other dealer friends of yours?" you gesture with your head to the group of men Matty came from, drunkenly causing a ruckus over in a corner booth.
"Nope," he pops exaggeratedly. "I'm having fun visiting my favourite bartender at the moment." He continues to tap his fingers on your bar, distracting you from finishing wiping the taps.
"Make me something I haven't heard of,” he requests impishly, curls shaking as he turns his head slightly to the side.
"That might be hard, wouldn't an old man like you working in a casino have gone through the IBA list by now?" you ask, coy and roguish.
"Hilarious." He tries to put on an air of annoyance, but you can tell he's enjoying this as much as you are. "Now make me a drink, princess. One without vodka."
"Didn't you ever learn your manners?" You tsk, turning around and grabbing the ingredients you need. "A please and thank you goes a long way, you know," you say, back to him.
You pour your white rum, cognac, triple sec, and lemon juice into a shaker, shaking it once you've added ice. "Oh yeah? I'll keep that in mind then.”You hear his retort from behind, and you're thankful your back is to him so he doesn't see the pathetic grin splayed across your features.
You strain his drink into a cocktail glass and turn around, shoving it towards him. His eyebrows raise before sipping it, thinking for a moment.
He clicks his tongue before speaking. "It's good. Little sweet, but I don't mind it. What's it called?"
"Between the sheets," you laugh at him, biting your lip.
He rolls his eyes with a slight headshake, exasperated. "Nice of you to have me enjoy a drink I'll never want to order again." He takes another sip as you laugh lightly, his eyes mockingly glowering over the rip of the cocktail glass. The effect is nulled by his visible smile peaking out at the corners of the glass.
"Anyone of these drunkards been giving you a hard time, princess?" His eyebrows raise as he takes a sip once more, referring to the full room of intoxicated employees, bumbling around and jeering.
"Nope, you've been sat far away so its been real peaceful over here," you hum cheerily, returning to wiping down part of the bar as you smile to yourself.
"Watch it there, love. I'd say you're far more trouble then I am,” he cuts with a snort.
"I don't know about that," you stop to smile at him, eyebrows raised. "What would all your friends say about you preferring to hang with your twenty-two year old bartender rather than them?"
"There's that trouble," he grins, shark-toothed and venomous. "And I'd tell them to get more entertaining if they want to monopolize my attention any longer."
"You think I'm entertaining?," you hold a hand to your heart, mock-honoured.
He takes a final sip, finishing off his drink. "I think you're a lot of things."
"And what would those things be?" you ask him, head cocked to the side and coyish.
Matty snorts. "Well, trouble, for one," he says, eyebrows raising. "And I'll let you figure the rest out on your own, Ross will have my head if I spend any time longer away from them."
He shoves the cocktail glass back towards you, fingers brushing as you take it out of his grasp and place it in the dish rack tucked underneath your bar. You return your eyes to find him stood, staring down at you.
He rests his forearms on the bar, leaning in close to you. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "I'll see you later, princess. Don't get in too much trouble, yeah?"
—
It's the next Saturday, and the group booking for the room filed out ages ago. One of the women pulled out her phone and shrieked about some celebrity you haven't heard of being at their hotel, and they left before it even reached midnight.
"You're telling me," Matty says as he stops cleaning up the chips, eyes wide and mouth parted. "That you are working in a high rolling blackjack room, and you don't even know how to play?" He's incredulous, scoffing in surprise.
"I didn't know I'd be working private rooms, okay! I was hired for a bartending job, nothing to do with any of your little card games," you snort as you finish cleaning the last of the few cocktail glasses the group used. You see Matty beginning to unpack the card decks he had placed under the enormous mahogany table.
"Well this just cannot do. C'mere, princess. I'll show you how to play." There's mischief twinkling in his eyes. You sigh with a smile and place the cups in the racks. You grab the Mary Pickford you made for yourself before walking towards him and taking a seat on one of the red leather chairs arranged around the table.
"You've got to be the only person working in Vegas who doesn't know how to play blackjack," he says, shaking his head as he deals four cards on the table, three of them faced up. "Children know how to play blackjack, for fucks sake," he laughs at you as he says it, arranging the cards so the face down and face up pair are in front of him, and the two open faced are in front of you.
"Someone has got to be the exception to the rule," you say, tongue-in-cheek. Maybe not knowing how to play a single casino game before going to work at one wasn't the smartest idea. But sat in the lounger, legs crossed and staring up at Matty as he deals the cards with those long, lissome fingers of his, you've never been more grateful for your past self's negligence.
You take a maraschino cherry off the pick and pull it between your teeth, watching as Matty's eyes lock on your lips with the action. A grin rips across your face, and you lean forward as you place the drink on the table. "So, how do I play?" you simper, placing your elbow on the table and leaning your face against your hand.
"So, your goal is to get as close to 21 as possible without going over, and to get closer than I do to it." His eyes flicker between the cards below and your own, deft hands tapping against the rim of the table.
His hand reaches across the table to tap lightly on the cards in front of you. "This is your hand, which is currently at 15," he says, counting up the five and the jack displayed in front of you. His hand is a two, the other card's identity obscured.
"You'll either say hit me, or you'll stand; taking a card, or keeping your hand as is. What do you wanna try?"
You take a sip of your drink, maintaining his gaze all the while. You return your gaze to your hand one more time before uttering, "Hit me."
He smiles, nose exhaling and lips pursing. He flips a card to reveal a ten, much to your displeasure. "That's a bust there, princess," he laughs, you groaning in annoyance.
He flips over his hidden card to reveal a four, totaling to six. He places another card to reveal a jack, smiling before saying, "And that's a win for the house."
"Again," you cheekily demand, pulling off another cherry with your teeth.
He deals you a four and a ten, himself a visible five along with the hidden card. "What's it gonna be?"
"Well, four is my lucky number, so I'm going to stand," you say, and he shakes his head with laughter.
"You sure?,” he asks, eyebrows raised and face nearing patronization. It only makes your tongue curl, and spurs you on more.
"I'm sure."
He flips his card to reveal a seven, and begins to deal. First, an ace, and then a three, and finally a jack. He groans, throwing his head back, causing you to dissolve into laughter. “Maybe I should start joining the games in here,” you remark, proud of your win.
He sets up another game, clearing the cards off the tables as you tap your fingers on the green carpet. "So, I've heard so much already about the kinds of things that go on with the staff here, that’s it’s all very incestuous, apparently, and how you," you pull the final cherry between your teeth, "don’t play one part in it."
You say, "Hit me," before he can get another word in, and smile when you win another round to his immense displeasure.
Matty sets up another round onto the carpeted table, looking somewhat surprised at your remark. "I don't usually shit where I eat, love. And besides, most of the staff are college kids like you just looking for quick fucks and stories to bring back to their friends in the fall. I don't need any of that," he hums.
"Ooo, jaded old man swearing off love, how adorable," you laugh at him, and he shakes his head in matching laughter without looking back up at you.
"Very funny, sweetheart," he says sardonically. "That’s not exactly love, anyways. And besides, there’s always an exception to a rule, like you said, isn't there?"
Your fingers stop their tapping as you meet his gaze, his forwardness sending knots into your stomach. You bite the inside of your lip as you smile up at him, dark curls framing his face so beautifully. The dim lighting of the private room casts an amber glow on his face, and you can’t help but study every inch of it.
He interrupts your staring with a click of his tongue. “Come here, princess. I’m gonna teach you how to deal.”
You hold his stare as you place your glass onto the table, and carefully walk over the inside of the table where he stands. He backs up slightly when you arrive to allow you to stand pressed against the wooden rim of the table. You feel him approach behind you, his chest warm against your back as he meets you against the table. A breath catches in your throat as he boxes you in, and his hands wrap around you to return to the table.
The familiar smell of wine and cigarettes fills your nostrils, mixed with the whiskey he's been nursing since the group left.
You feel your heartbeat increasing, hammering against your chest as his own pushes you slightly forward against the table.
“Grab the deck, love,” you hear him say behind you, his chest vibrating slightly against your back as he speaks. You reach across the table past his arm to grab the boxed deck and begin to pull the cards out.
You hear him hum once before beginning to speak. "Since everyone else here is so… incestuous… as you put it, have any of the other boys in your college program tried to hit on you yet, princess?"
You deal the cards how he showed you, a dealer's hand for you and the players hand for him. He's got a three and a king, and your face-up card is an ace.
"Surely not if you keep calling me things like that in front of all of them," you shoot back, and he pinches your waist in retaliation.
"Watch it there, princess," he emphasizes the nickname with bright venom dripping from his tongue. "Now answer the question. And hit me." You pull a card from the deck, flipping it over to reveal a seven. Twenty.
You sigh, dramatically. "Well, one of the craps boys, keeps hitting on me on all my breaks."
"Is that right?" You can feel his hand brushing against your lower thigh before resting there, calloused fingers prickling against your bare skin. It stills for a moment, as if to ask for your permission to be there, before traveling slowly upwards. "And I'll stand. Flip your card, love"
You flip the card to reveal an eight. His hand points towards the deck, and you flip one more, a nine. Nineteen. Matty wins. He hums behind you in pleasure, the noise reverberating through your skull and occupying your mind. You begin to set up another game before continuing to speak.
"I won't be going anywhere with him, don't you worry there. I'm just so bored of college boys."
The hand on your thigh freezes. Matty is silent behind you, and suddenly becomes very still. The effect you have on him leaves you emboldened, and you can't help but continue.
You sigh dramatically in displeasure. "I think I just need to stop with them all together. Stick with men who are a little more experienced." His hand travels further up your thigh and slowly moves inwards, dangerously close to your burning core.
"Don't start what you can't finish, princess."
"Why would I need to when you can finish me yourself?" you bite out cheekily, all apprehension long out the window. You hear Matty let out a slight groan behind you, his free hand still boxing you in tightly against the table.
You feel Matty's head lean in closer to your ear, his breath warm in your ear. "Remember when you said you'd listen to me? On the first night?"
You nod, twitching as his fingers move lower to the edge of your skirt, fiddling with the hem.
"Good girl. Now keep dealing cards." His hand slowly makes its way under your skirt, grazing on your skin and forming goosebumps in its path.
You strain to focus on placing the cards in front of you, the task impossible to focus on with his hand traveling so deftly across your skin. Your mind shortcircuits as the callouses on his fingers drag across your skin, tracing patterns on the soft flesh of your inner thighs.
You place one card down, and your hand freezes when you feel his fingers slowly brush across your underwear. You feel him laugh tauntingly into your neck as they travel over the soaked fabric, moving up and down in precise teasing movements.
He presses a chaste kiss against the back of your neck and his fingers continue their ministrations, and slowly leaves a trail of kisses in the direction of your ear.
"Deal me a hand," he whispers, before continuing to nip and suck at your neck. His hands move upwards towards your clit and press meanly against it, eliciting a cry out of you. He begins to rub circles against your bundle of nerves as you slowly reach out a hand to place the cards on the green carpeted surface.
"Matty, please-" you nearly whimper, desperate for him to stop teasing you. His fingers continue circling over your bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you with each of his motions.
"Shh, love," he murmurs into your ear, the condescension syrupy and sweet. "Keep playing."
You mewl out a noise of affirmation, carefully reaching out to deal the cards. Your quivering hand slowly manages to deal his hand, placing a four and a six to your left. His own hand refuses to let up as the circles he draws on your bud grow tighter and tighter. You pant out a moan as you deal for yourself, revealing an eight.
"Hit me," he says, and before you have the chance to flip the card, two of his fingers enter you. The feeling is so sudden it causes you to cry out, leaning forward onto the table. Matty leans around to your side and bites your earlobe before whispering.
"Did I say," he traces the outline of your ear with his tongue, sending shivers down your spine, "that you could stop dealing?"
His fingers are frozen inside of you, your face clenching in pleasure as you ache for more. "No," you whimper, the shame burning inside your core and loosening your mind, hazy with pleasure.
"No, who," he asks, before nipping at your neck and beginning to suck, surely leaving behind a violent dark hickey. He soothes the mark with his tongue, swirling over the bitten flesh.
"No, sir," you shake your head vehemently. His movements cease, and he instantaneously moans into your neck, his body tightening around yours. The warmth of his neck against the side of yours is intoxicating, and you’re desperate to touch any of his skin.
"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, grip on your hips tightening. His teeth bite sharply into the side of your neck, and moan erupts loudly out of you. "That's right, isn't it? Call me that again, princess."
"Please, sir, please fuck me, I need you,” you practically pant, desperate for him to move his fingers that still lay motionless inside of you.
"And I need you," he punctuates the word with a thrust of his fingers even deeper inside of you. You cry out in a desperate moan as he continues, "to do what you're told. Now be a good girl for me, and deal."
You nod, unable to form a single sentence. As you carefully flip over a card to display a two of clubs, you feel his fingers exit you before thrusting back in. They curl so deftly your arms that hold you up to nearly collapse, elbows aching.
You whimper as you wait for him to make a decision, his fingers inside of you so precise and pulling the most pathetic cries from you.
"What do you think I should do, love? Should I hit or stand?" His voice is so steady, so composed, that it makes you want to scream. You can feel yourself dripping on his fingers, and you bite your lip to stop from screaming when he reaches up to press at your clit.
"Answer me."
Your vision feels blurred, and it has never taken more focus in your life than to look at the cards beneath you. The dealer's hand is still the lone eight, and Matty's hand on the table is resting at a twelve. His actual hand, meanwhile, is thrusting in and out of you. His hands are rough but precise, skilled in the way they draw out the cries from your throat and the tears pooling in your eyes. Your hand reaches out to claw around Matty’s own that’s placed on the table. You dig your nails into his arm, surely leaving behind half- moon indentations. You stare at the cards and try to make a decision, the process slowed by the pleasure fogging your mind and blurring your thoughts.
"Hit, sir, hit," the final word comes out as more of a moan as his fingers return to thrusting inside of you. His mouth moves down to the right side of your neck and bites down violently onto your collarbone, drawing out a near-scream from your mouth. He drags his tongue over the spot as your head lolls back onto his shoulder. Your brows are furrowed and eyes shut tightly with pleasure. His fingers never cease within you, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Good decision, love. Seems I haven't fucked you dumb yet, gonna have to work on that." He taps your cheek patronizingly before grabbing your chin between his fingers, and maneuvering you into a kiss. You moan desperately into his mouth as his fingers refuse to cease, curling so deliciously inside of you. His tongue traces your lower lip before biting it, teeth pulling sharply at the skin.
He takes your hand and maneuvers it over the card to flip. Your fingers shake as you reaches out to touch the card. It's revealed to be a king, his plastic face smiling up at you. Matty dramatically groans in disappointment behind you. "Would you look at that, princess, I've gone bust. You've got a chance to win now. Why don't you flip your card over, yeah?" His voice is taunting and demeaning, flaunting his composure over your near wanton state against the table.
Your hand slowly reaches out to flip your card, and a queen of hearts joins your eight. You can feel your orgasm is approaching, the coil growing inside of you so close to bursting. Pleasure travels up your spine, and your vision nearly goes blurry as you get closer to the edge.
"Sir, I'm going to- I, I-"
"Shh," he murmurs into your neck, "Come for me, princess." You shake in his arms as pleasure overwhelms you, washing over you completely. Your grip on reality leaves you as the bliss fills your mind. Your limbs go slack into his hold as he grips you tighter against the table.
You come down from the high slowly, feeling completely out of your body. Matty's hand doesn't exit you, however, fingers frozen still inside of you.
"Another game now, love." You sniffle pathetically, trying to regain the ability to concentrate enough in order to follow his directions. You hum in acquiescence, and you hands shake as you reach out to re-deal another game, desperate for Matty to continue to touch you. His fingers resume their movements once you reach out for the cards again, the pleasure white-hot in your veins.
"Good girl," he murmurs into your neck as your quivering hands begin to set more cards up, and the praise makes your core flutter, eager to please him.
Your dealer's hand is a ten, and Matty's hand is a four and a seven. "Hit me," he says, with a particularly hard curl of his fingers, your head drooping over the table in response as a guttural moan comes out of you. He returns to pressing kisses to your neck, occasionally nipping and laughing at your sensitivity.
You pull out a four with a sob, your second orgasm approaching you already. Fire burns through you as you reach for a second card at Matty's direction, hand shaking to reveal a six. Your breaths increases, and you feel yourself teetering over the edge some more
“Please, I-” he ignores your cries, and simply continues fucking you until you clamp desperately around his fingers, your orgasm practically blinding you.
"And that's a win for me," Matty cockily exclaims as you cum in his in arms, trembling and panting as you try to regain awareness.
"Again," he demands, referring to the large still unplayed deck sitting before you. You can barely take anymore of this, your mind feeling so far from your body.
“How many times-" you ask exhaustedly, already bone-tired and desperate for him to fuck you. “Just fuck me already, sir. I’ve already come twice, please just-”
He tsks condescendingly, shaking his head against you. “What was it you said, darling? Four was your lucky number? I think four orgasms before I fuck you sounds about right then, hm? Wouldn’t want to be unlucky,” he punctuates with a particularly hard thrust of his fingers that causes you to cry out, “Would we?”
Your head drops and nods, relenting to Matty’s demands. "Do you want me to stop?", he asks
You shake your head rapidly in dissent, the idea of him stopping now a horrifying one.
"Cat got your tongue there, princess?" You glower at the table as your head dips low with exhaustion and you groan in desperation. His awareness of his power over you shouldn't elicit such heat burning in your core, but every patronizing word he speaks only makes the fire burn brighter. "Use your words," he demands.
"No, no, please don't stop, sir,” you spit out, desperate for him to continue.
"Then keep dealing," he says with a sharp bite to your neck.
The next few hands he forces you to deal blur together in your mind, the two successive orgasms that filter through them making it hard to conjure a single thought that isn't about Matty and the pleasure he is eliciting from you.
You finally finish the deck, panting and exhausted from the four orgasms he drew out of you. He kisses your neck once more before murmuring against it.
“Do you want me to fuck you now, love?”
You nod your head rapidly, unable to get a word out in your current state. The syrupy condescension in his voice travels straight into your core, and you tilt your head down as you try to get a moment of rest. You feel him back up slightly from you, and you hear the jingle of his belt buckle being undone.
He clicks his tongue in disappointment at your inability to speak, and you feel his hand slowly pushing the back of your skirt upwards. You lean forward onto your elbows, whimpering and desperate for him.
"That's not good enough, princess. I want to hear you beg. Beg for me to fuck you since you're gagging for it so bad. Beg for me to fuck you like I’ve wanted to this entire time. After all,” he leans down on top of you, smirk pressing against your ear, “don’t manners go a long way?”
You let out an obnoxious moan at his callback to the bar, clenching in response to his words. Right before you can speak a response, he stuffs three fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.
You try to stumble out the words around his fingers, moaning and gagging as they press deeper into your mouth. "Ple-fuck-please, sir, I need you so bad, please just fuck me, I've been so good, I dealt all the cards, please, please-" you gag around his fingers, unable to pronounce the words properly around them.
You can’t finish your sentence before you feel him enter you, and your eyes practically roll back into your head at the feeling. He’s in so deep you can feel it deep in your stomach, and your head hangs against the table as you moan.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, princess. Feel so good around me,” he says as he begins to thrust, hips pushing against your thighs. You whimper against the table, so overwhelmed with pleasure it’s unbearable. You feel like you’re going to black out when he hits your g-spot, and you hear Matty laugh teasingly at the way you clench around him.
“Please, please,” you whine around him, not even quite sure what you are begging for.
One of his hands reaches around to rub your clit, and you cry out in overstimulation as Matty begins to speak. "This is why I don't fuck the pretty little servers like you, love. You just get so needy. Isn't that right? Do you need me?" he taunts at you.
"Not a server," you gasp out with the little strength you have, "Bartender." Your quip immediately followed a slap to your ass, pain blooming from his touch so deliciously.
"Someone's feeling bratty," he hums, moaning at the way you tighten around him in response to the slap. His hips snap against your hips rhythmically, thirsting so deliciously deep inside of you.
"God, fuck, you look so pretty like this,” Matty practically coos in your ear, leaning down against you. “Been thinking about having you like this since you walked in here. Dreamt about-fuck-about fucking you over that little bar of yours, making that perfect eyeliner drip down your face.”
You cry out at a particularly deep thrust, feeling yourself growing closer to the edge once more. You muster as much strength as you can to speak, your head so dizzy with pleasure.
"Thought about blowing you under the table while you deal,” you gasp out, panting against the carpeted table.
He groans in response, the idea of you touching yourself to the fantasy of him an unbearable one. “Yeah, you like that idea? Wanna be a good little pet and keep me warm while I deal for guests?”
You nod eagerly and aggressively against the carpet, whimpering at the thought. Your insides tighten even more as you get closer to the edge. Your moans increase in volume, and your hands claw out to grab onto anything.
“You’d have to be real quiet then, be nice and good for me. Could you do that, princess?” Matty’s hand hasn’t once let up from your clit, driving you insane as it tightly rubs circles into you. You feel his thrusts grow more uneven, and you know he’s about to finish too.
“I promise, sir,” you moan out, the coil forming within you winding tighter and tighter. “I’m on the pill, come inside me, please- fuck- I’m so close, please, please-” you rush out the words as crest over the edge. Your vision goes white as you collapse against the table, coming with a final moan of his name.
He empties inside of you simultaneously with a groan, and he slowly leans down on top of you. You feel his breaths as you try to regain yours, his heartbeat racing against your skin.
You feel Matty slowly pull out of you, moaning as he watches his cum drip down your thighs. His hand reaches down to your thighs to swipe at your wet cunt. You grab his arm as he does so, bringing it to your face and sticking his drenched fingers in your mouth. He throws his head back at the sight with a moan.
“You’re gonna kill me, princess,” he mutters as you hum happily around his fingers, swirling your tongue to clean them off.
He brings his lips down to yours for a kiss, and you nip at his his bottom lip as he smiles against you. He pulls away to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours.
“Wanna let me see if the Paradise Tower is still outdated?” he asks, breath ragged and the smile audible in his voice.
“Only if you’ll teach me how to play poker,” you smile back.
You snap the Society Papers shut with a huff, glowering at your mama over the top of the paper. As if it weren’t bad enough to be married off to some stranger, must the entire ton know about it? You already know what they’ll say; false compassion murmured behind fans, just loud enough for you to hear. Poor thing. Three seasons out, the family must be getting desperate. That marriage is sure to be a loveless one. Perhaps there’s something… not all there about the girl. Your fists clench, blinding anger rising in you the longer you stew over your predicament. Sold off like cattle to a man you don’t even know, your entire marriage a spectacle in which you’re an unwilling performer.
Well. You know Lord Healy, in much the same way a chamber-maid knows her mistress. You remember him well, his last season your first, every girl in your set tripping over herself to catch his eye. You remember him as handsome, certainly, but little else; not worldly or clever, not remotely interested in propriety or the role he long should have stepped into by now. Content to just lounge about, rakish, his utter lack of interest in taking a wife had only served in making the mamas more ambitious and their daughters more desperate. Then, as the season came to a close, he had announced his distaste for polite society and disappeared, ostensibly to travel the world.
His return had already been sure to cause a stir, not in the least after his mother had sent yours a letter you can only imagine to be pleading for you to take him off their hands. The news had spread fast, gossip travelling faster than wildfire among the gentry, and you can’t imagine the bedlam he’d been greeted with when he docked has made him any more amenable to the idea than you are. And yet, you can hear gravel crunching under wheels and hooves, your skirts splayed out and arranging you into a perfect, demure little picture as the shackles you’ll wear for the rest of your life stroll up the steps to your door.
“You’ve a caller, my lady,” says the maid, curtsying hastily as you wave a hand to have her beckon him in.
Getting to your feet as he enters, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He’s more handsome than you remember, once-cropped curls now loose in a halo around his head, the silver in one ear standing out starkly against the dark backdrop. His sleeves are rolled up, and… good Lord, does he have a tattoo? As if you weren’t enough of a laughing stock to the ton, the only man willing to have you is a pierced, inked rake whose defining characteristic is flagrant disregard for the aristocracy. He holds his hand out to your mama, bowing politely. “Lady Marlowe. A pleasure to see you again.” His voice is smooth and rich, yet tinged bitter, expensive coffee poured over your senses.
You curtsy to him as he turns to face you, taking your hand in his own, calloused from hard work and smudged with ink. “My lord,” you murmur, eyes to the floor as he lifts your hand to his lips, warm where they meet your skin. Something sparks between you, flaring to life as you meet his eyes.
“Miss Marlowe. So lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I was rather… shocked, to return to England and find myself betrothed, but I suppose I ought not see a woman so beautiful as you as anything less than a blessing.” You flush, swallowing hard. Of all the reactions you might have expected from your first meeting, this certainly isn’t a turn of events you could have predicted.
You give a high, tinkling laugh, polite and artificial. “You flatter me so, my lord. I am not deserving of such–”
“You certainly are,” he interrupts, his smile disarming. Your traitorous heart longs to trust in his honeyed words, your rational brain desperately beating out the smoke before anything can catch alight. “Would you care for a turn about the garden? I find it so stifling to be cooped inside on days like this.”
With your mama following at a distance, you loop your arm through his and allow him to lead you through the garden. The last lingering raindrops clinging to the grass wick into your skirts, cold and grounding as they brush against your stockings. “My lord,” you begin, low enough that your mama won’t overhear.
“Matthew, please. I have spent three years travelling the world simply as Matthew, and I’ve taken quite a liking to it. Lord Healy sounds to me like someone rather tiresome.” The nails of your free hand bite into your palm. It’s all very well and good for him to flout every maxim of polite society, scoff and bite his thumb at whomever he likes; you don’t have that luxury.
You’d been perfectly happy to live as a spinster, well-learned in the thin line you’d have to tread for the few remaining years before the season closed its doors on you, and you resent that he has the luxury of walking out of his own volition, that open arms were waiting for his return. “That isn’t proper, my lord,” you reply, clipped and irritable.
Lord Healy’s answering smirk is exactly what you’d expect, louche and irreverent. He leans close, and you shiver. “Fuck proper.” You give a shocked little gasp. “Listen, darling. I can tell there isn’t anywhere in the world you’d like to be less than here, but I’m afraid this is our lot. The way I see it, proper’s what’s trapped us like this. Won’t you break the rules with me? It can be our little secret.”
He smiles earnestly, and you feel a sick sense of guilt even as you swoon. So charming and handsome that he could have had any woman he liked, now saddled with a girl best known for being a lost cause. And yet there’s something undeniable and sincere in his eyes, and you find yourself meeting them boldly. “Very well, Matthew. I suppose a little secrecy never hurt anyone.”
“Well, I’m glad that we settled that. I suppose if we’re to spend our lives bound together in matrimony, we ought get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, love, please.”
You smooth your skirts, the practised spiel springing easily to your lips; the laundry list of qualities that might make you a suitable wife, a successful mother. “I am accomplished on the pianoforte. I am fluent in French. I am talented at needlework.” You don’t even attempt to sound as if you care for any of it.
Matthew makes a short, disparaging noise. “That all sounds… incredibly dull. I feel as though you agree, love. I want to know what you enjoy, not what you think might please me to hear.”
A flush creeps up your chest, a traitorous stain high on your cheeks. You aren’t certain whether that question has been asked of you once in the last ten years. “I am… an amateur novelist, I suppose. I was, in youth, a skilled fencer, although I am out of practice, to say the least.” The admission feels tight as it escapes you, a confession that belongs buried in the drawers of your writing-desk under piles of correspondence and spilled ink.
Matthew smiles, boyish and almost fond. “A fencer. You must remind me to cower behind you, should we ever encounter bandits.”
Scowling, you slip your arm out of his and fold it across your chest. “If you were going to tease, I don’t know why you would ask.” That butterfly of hope you had foolishly allowed to flicker in your chest is snuffed out, and you curse yourself for even letting it take root in the first place.
A warm, concerned hand rests against your arm. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to be hurtful.” He draws a deep breath, tipping his head back and exhaling slowly before he speaks. “I know this isn’t remotely how either of us pictured spending this time. But, truly, I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. I’d like to make this as painless as possible for the two of us, so I implore you to humour me, just for a little while. And I promise, if the thought of being my wife still reviles you by the time we’re wed, you’ll live out your days wanting for nothing with as much freedom the constraints of society allow you.”
His words are sweet, flowery, surely born from the ink staining his hands. On the surface, it sounds a charmed life, an ideal outcome; to you it’s nothing more than empty words, the bitter taste of arsenic disguised in sweet almond marzipan. You’ve long accepted living without love, made your peace with the pitying looks of the ton, and yet he presents you with further ways you might be humiliated, arranges them on a silver platter like you wouldn’t notice the rotting centre.
You aren’t an imbecile. You understand what such a marriage would mean for your already-tattered reputation. You can practically hear the murmurs, read the gossip rags, feel the prying stares. Can you believe it? The new Lady Healy couldn’t keep her husband’s interest for even a month. I can’t say I’m surprised. Always an odd one, wasn’t she, like a repellent of the opposite sex. Certainly, you’d be free, with your husband in any bed but your own, but free only to wither and rot in the darkness of his country home with only a swaddled heir for company.
It’s been too long since you’ve spoken, Matthew expectant at your elbow. “I don’t believe I have much of a choice, my lord,” you murmur faintly, and his face falls.
Your conversation is stilted, polite but stiff as you make your way back to the house. At the door, Matthew bows to you, lips warm against your hand. “Please, think on what I have said. I eagerly await seeing you again.”
No sooner has he climbed into his carriage than your mama practically accosts you trying to climb the staircase. “Well?” she demands. “What on earth did he say to you?”
You sigh, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream. “Not an awful lot, mama. That is what happens when you attempt to force a rake and a spinster into matrimony.” Folding your arms across your chest, your mama presses her lips into a thin line, displeasure etched into her features.
“You are not a spinster, dear.”
You scoff. “No thanks to you. I hope that whatever agreement you reached with the Healys is worth the cost of my happiness,” you say bitterly, not staying long enough for your mama to formulate a response and sweeping up the stairs. For the best part of an hour, you sit at your writing-desk, quill poised above parchment, writing and scratching out the same handful of words over and over in a Sisyphean rhythm. By the time you decide to give up and go to bed, ink-stains blotch your hands and bloom across your skirt with nothing at all to show for it.
Your sleep is restless, dreaming of engagement rings looming into shackles, binding at your wrists and ankles. Matthew’s smirk and his honeyed words drift through your dreamscape, a cruel torment disguised as remedy. Relief fills you as sunlight slants across your bed, your eyelids cracking open and letting you shake off the dream. You sluice cold water across your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes gratefully. Naturally, though, your relief is short-lived, your mama bustling into your room with three housemaids in tow, far too chipper for the hour.
“Good, you’re awake. Come, we are to the modiste this morning,” she says firmly. Resistance is futile, so you stand, letting yourself be primped and squeezed and poked at until you at least resemble a respectable lady. You rattle through the streets of London, the bustle of the city only serving to feed your longing for the worn paths and quiet streets surrounding your country house.
You hesitate deliberately at the door to the modiste, long enough that your mama scowls in frustration and seizes your arm harshly to drag you inside. The seamstress bustles over, your mama immediately lighting up and engaging her in conversation about the quality of her fabrics. Quickly, you tune it out, wandering idly across the shop floor. A hushed conversation drifts into your ear, and you pretend to be admiring the bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling as you inch closer to its source.
“...Cannot imagine he’ll stay that way,” says a first voice, high and haughty. “Lord Healy was always the rake of his set, and has since travelled the world, surely… sampling many worldly women on his travels.” She pauses to allow her companion to titter snidely, giving you time to place her voice; it belongs to Evelyn Mountfitchet, a girl your age who had married in her first season, her tongue sharp and cruel, weaponised with her seemingly endless stores of gossip. Her companion, then, must be her sister Elizabeth, surely thrilled to be out in society and now privy to scandal. “I tell you, he’ll take what he wants from that girl, then leave her ruined and without a ring. It wouldn’t even be the first time,” she adds smugly, and you feel a pit open up in your stomach.
You hadn’t even considered the possibility of such a scheme, and now you feel even worse the fool for not seeing it. Everything dichotomous about him clicks into focus as if Evelyn has lifted opera glasses to your eyes. It couldn’t be plainer — his sweetened words, promising what he surely knew he couldn’t provide; his disinterest fading into persuasion as he determined you a desirable, susceptible target. You’re trapped, utterly and completely, worse than you’d thought. Until moments ago, the worst-case scenario had been living with a husband who carried on behind your back, with at least the respect tied to being a lady to cushion the blow. This is worse than you could have imagined. Lord Healy is going to leave you utterly ruined, whether you give yourself up or not: if that is precedent, that will be what the scandal sheets announce, that will become gospel to the ton, leaving you cast out, dishonourable, utterly unmarriageable. You won’t even be able to retire peacefully as a spinster with the stain that will stick to you.
“My goodness!” gasps Elizabeth, shocking you back to the present. “Who is the poor girl?” She sounds eagerly scandalised, a voracious little gossip-monger in the making.
Evelyn makes a non-committal sound. “I know not. The family are being ever so tight-lipped. Although, I suppose I should be, too, knowing my fate was either to have my daughter married off to or ruined by a man like him. Do you know he has tattoos? As if he were a shipyard worker or some other such lowlife,” she scoffs bitingly.
“He is ever so handsome, though. Perhaps the girl is so vile of face that his progeny will save the family from ruin. Or overwhelmingly poor, and they–” Elizabeth’s excited diatribe is cut off by exaggerated hushing, and you slowly sink into a chair as you attempt to process all that you’ve heard.
“You shouldn’t speculate so. Not where anyone could hear, at least.” Evelyn’s smirk is audible. “It is most likely that the family are simply desperate, that the girl failed to capture any man’s attention in her seasons, and must be married before she winds up in spinsterhood.” She pauses to giggle. “Perhaps it is the Marlowe girl.” Your blood runs cold. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but ever so odd. Fits the bill exactly, I’d wager.”
Nausea roils in your stomach. Having the news broken at a debutante ball would have been scarring enough, even with dozens of other girls for the vultures to circle. But having it found out early, allowing the scandal sheets days to pick over you and your history before you even set foot in a ballroom? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Delicate footsteps pick their way toward you and you scramble to stand, ducking around a corner to escape from view. No such luck, though. “Darling, where did you go?” your mama calls, obnoxiously loud. “I must see how this fabric will look against your complexion.” Face flaming, you pick your way back to your mama and the seamstress, letting them drape a delicate lilac silk across your shoulders.
“Oh, how wonderful you shall look, miss,” the seamstress declares. “Your engagement shall be the talk of London, I will make sure of it.” Your heart sinks, so fast and far that you’re sure it lays in two pieces in your slippers, Evelyn and Elizabeth exchanging a proud, shocked glance, and you know for certain you’ll be plastered across every gossip sheet in London the instant they come off the press.
You grit your teeth. “Yes, I am certain it will.” Your voice comes out scraped over gravel, your venomous glare in the sisters’ direction most definitely not helping matters. The dresses you paid for will be beautiful, to be sure, but hardly worth the stinging slap of humiliation you endured to get them.
When Lord Healy calls on you the next evening, you don’t even attempt to hide your scowl, listless as he attempts to ply you with flattery while leading you into the gardens. “News of our engagement will reach the gossip rags by morning,” you warn, tone flat and eyes directly forward, lest he disarm you with that deceptively sweet smile of his.
“Bollocks,” he swears. “Nobody in this godforsaken city can mind their fucking business.” His jaw clenches, furious, and you hate yourself a little for how undeniably attractive you find the emotion on him.
“Must you be so vulgar?” you snap. “Are you not putting me through shame enough for your selfish goals that you think it fair to humiliate me even before this farcical engagement meets its end?” The words come out bitter, corrosive and acrid on your tongue, genuine hurt written across Lord Healy’s face. “My lord,” you add poisonously.
His nails dig into your arm, halting you in your stride and forcing you to face him. “Are we really back to my lord? Damn. I had thought you might be warming up to me.” He throws you a grin that you’re sure makes the women he’s used to weak in the knees. When it doesn’t work, he switches tack. “Look, love. I don’t know what you’ve heard to make you think so lowly of me. I would have thought you of all people would know not to believe the scandal sheets, but–”
“Do not patronise me,” you hiss, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know that you were engaged before, that you ruined some other poor girl. I know that you plan to do the same to me. I plead that you at least allow me some final months of dignity before you leave me with nothing.” Something sour has rooted in your chest, decaying from the inside out; your insides withering to match your reputation.
To your surprise and disgust, Lord Healy tips his head back and laughs. Revolted, you start to turn away, and he reaches his arm out. “That’s what this is about? Love, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was never engaged, I was courting the girl.”
“Oh, well, I’m ever so glad that was clarified. I suppose it shouldn’t matter, then.” Anger is boiling in your veins, his flippant tone only serving to further enrage you.
Lord Healy takes your hands, his skin soft and warm against yours. “If you’d let me finish,” he scoffs, but there’s fondness colouring his tone. His wide, brown eyes shine earnestly, and something convinces you not to pull away. “That girl was a friend, and I was doing her a favour, I swear it. She needed a way out of the ton, all its rules and restrictions, in order to live and love freely. And she is. Much happier these days, lives a more honest life than this.” He waves his hand, collecting your house and gardens in one insouciant motion. “I’ll take you to meet her someday, if you like. If you won’t be too scandalised by the kind of unsavoury company I keep,” he adds with a smirk, and some of the ice in your veins thaws.
Really, you have no reason to trust Evelyn Mountfitchet over him, spiteful woman that she is. Mollified, you slide your arm back through his, and his relief is palpable. “I’m not such a delicate flower, you know.” You pause, weighing your words carefully. “That was a kind thing to do for her, knowing what the scandal sheets would say.” You’re certain you know what sort of love the girl wanted, to necessitate such a sure and dramatic departure from polite society, and it’s a comfort to know where he stands in regard to such relationships. “I think that, perhaps, if it is til death that we may part, we ought to be friends,” you say cautiously. Matthew’s answering smile is brilliant, so dazzling that your heart melts just a little, like fondant on a hot day.
“I’d like that very much,” he says softly, something like affection in his gaze. “And, it was only the decent thing to do. I hate to see a friend struggling, especially not when I could help. Besides, it was rather mutually beneficial — the ambitious mamas kept away as if I were diseased,” he laughs.
“And now you are saddled with me,” you say. It’s intended as a joke, but it comes out self-deprecating and a little pathetic.
“There are far worse women I could be saddled with,” he says, playful enough that you aren’t offended. He pauses, still and pensive. “Truly. You are a most unique manner of woman, and I mean that in the most earnestly complimentary way possible. If I were the marrying type, I would surely have devoted myself to capturing your affections.” You flush, pressing an embarrassed palm to your heated cheek. “I must commend your skills in deception, to convince so many that you are undesirable. Kind of you to allow the other girls in your set a chance.”
At that, you laugh outright, clapping a hand to your mouth in embarrassment. “It isn’t an act. I simply have no time for such things. Or, had, I suppose. I should have liked to be a spinster and utterly invisible to society, but I see that fate had other plans.” You wander your gaze over him, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle slope of his cheek, the alluring lines of his body. You wonder, briefly, if maybe your life isn’t over. Maybe, just maybe, Matthew is a gift.
Something must change in your expression, because Matthew mirrors it exactly, a fond smile crossing his face and his hand moving from your arm to low on your waist. The contact is thrilling, scandalous and precious, a thing to be held onto and treasured. “We do make quite the pair, don’t we?” he chuckles. “An aspiring spinster and a rake with the heart of a romantic.” It’s eerily similar to what you said to your mother, yet woven through with the thread of gold that links you; a flimsy, frail thing, but shining nonetheless, and you allow the hope you had killed to flutter back to life, a butterfly beating its wings against your ribcage.
“A romantic, hm?” you begin, circumspect. “I don’t know if I believe that. If you are only playing the rake, you play him very well.” You hope your tone is coming across light and teasing, that you’re only curious at his motivation behind the falsehood, if one exists. “I have seen your behaviour firsthand, you know. Three years past, my first season out. You were quite the catch, and I don’t recall seeing you ever dance with the same girl twice.”
“Do you want the truth?” You nod eagerly. “My first season, I truly looked forward to the prospect of finding love. But there was never any thrill, any excitement, any romance. Every girl just a two-dimensional caricature of what is considered desirable, and most just sold off to the highest bidder. It’s all so proper, and it disgusted me. Earnestly, it reviles me that you haven’t a choice in this arrangement. If I could grant you one, I promise I would in a heartbeat.”
Your chest warms, heart softening with every word, passion spilling over every syllable. “I know,” you say softly, and mean it.
“The reputation as a rake came that year, I suppose. Polly and I came to the arrangement that we would pretend to court, and I would leave her ‘ruined’ and free. The scandal sheets simply ran with the idea, and I didn’t stop them. It kept the expectations off of me, but the more I came to know how the rest of England lives, the more I was overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of it all. A friend of mine, my best friend, is deeply and irrevocably in love with a woman, a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman. The kind of love that should be shouted about from the parapets and paraded in the streets. And yet, he is forced to love her in secrecy and solitude, because she is not the ‘right kind of woman’ for a man like him.”
You frown, filled with sympathy for these lovers. “It sounds like a love story in a novel I would be forbidden from reading.” He laughs, liquid and mellifluous, the sound worming its way into your chest and cradling your thumping heart. “Well, that explains the rake. When does this supposed romantic heart come into play?”
Snorting, Matthew digs you in the ribs. “I’m getting to that. So impatient, aren’t you?” Something about those words runs cool water down your spine, a feeling you can’t place buzzing to life under your skin. “When I left England, I fell a little bit in love with everyone I met. So many people, so many places, so many lives, all unique and blessed in their own way. The wide world is true poetry, and I suppose that I long for a romanticised place in it.”
Your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth, words you might struggle for hours to pen falling easily and thoughtlessly from his plush lips. For the first time, you notice that your mama has retreated inside, affording you the tiniest moment of snatched privacy. Emboldened, a wave of brazen desire overtakes you, so strong that you go lightheaded. Your mouth opens without permission, words spilling free before you can stop them. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”
Matthew smiles, eyes crinkling as one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. The simple touch makes you weak in the knees, your gaze curious as he leans down, so close that his lips are a hairsbreadth from yours. He murmurs one simple word. “Please.”
Your lips connect, head spinning as his mouth moves against yours. You’re floundering a little, at a loss in unfamiliar territory. Time slows around you; Matthew’s lips on yours the only feeling you know, your head going hazy like you’ve drunk far too much wine. It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning, like you’ve lived all your life in a sketch and suddenly been ripped into three dimensions.
The world blurs around you, grounded by his hand at your waist, his lips on yours. It’s all top lip, shockingly chaste despite the passion spinning between you, all your desire poured into the kiss. He’s breathing heavily when you pull apart, lips slick and face flushed. “Was that… I… I’ve never…” you trail off, suddenly riveted by the grass beneath your feet.
“Then you are a natural,” he praises, and you flush impossibly redder. “So adept on your first try, darling. I’ll surely die a happy man if you continue to kiss like that.”
“So presumptuous,” you tease, audacious bravado fuelling you. “Who says I’ll continue? Perhaps the desire has been flushed from my system,” you say with a smirk, laughing when he clutches his heart in mock-horror.
“You wound me so,” he laughs, taking your hand. That butterfly seems to have multiplied in your chest, a kaleidoscope of them fighting to burst free from your chest the longer his palm warms yours.
You find yourself forlorn when he leaves, the mere hour you spent in his company having shifted your worldview on its axis. As you had expected, your engagement is plastered across every gossip rag you come across, but you don’t find yourself debilitated by it; you have a confidant in Matthew, at the very least, and a chance for companionship to bloom into something more. You don’t dare tease yourself with the word, refuse to prop open the window for him until you’re certain of what you want.
That night, your pen flies across paper, inspiration flowing free. You even pen a letter to Matthew that will never again see the light of day, a messy, raw untangling of your sudden feelings that bares your soul uncomfortably. Instead of dreaming of shackles and snide words, your head is filled with sparkling jewels and soft lips, hands in your hair and… You wake flushed and sweating, the mirage of his touch still on your skin, certain that you wear your shame plain on your face.
To make matters worse, your mama has invited a dozen respectable, recently-married ladies to pass the morning in your home, insisting that you must become acquainted with your peers in ladyship. Among them, of course, will be Evelyn Mountfitchet, sharp tongue poised to entertain the other ladies with a colourful recounting of your every misstep disguised as concern. Really, it’ll be an open forum to discuss your shortcomings while you’re forced to smile like you’re being lavished with compliments, and you’ll hate every minute of it.
Nonetheless, you are dutiful first and foremost, and knowing now that your married life shan’t be an utter torment buoys your spirits a little as your maid laces you into a sage-green daydress. Sipping at your tea, you peruse the morning’s scandal sheets, grateful that the vultures seem already to have moved on. The day’s transgression appears to be a lord having taken a fancy to a merchant’s daughter, leaving the family horrified when he presented her at dinner. You really ought to stop purchasing the gossip rags, but your curiosity wins out each time your fingers hover over the paper. In all fairness, the gossip is already printed — is there such harm in you being one of the hundreds of readers?
You curtsy idly to the women as they cross into the parlour, mentally reciting their names over and over to save yourself from any faux pas. Tight, awkward smiles and knowing glances thrown at your expense across the table in lieu of conversation, until the silence is miraculously broken. “My compliments to your cook, Miss Marlowe. I don’t know that I have ever been so delighted by tea and cake in my life,” says Mrs Vincent, a woman you remember as having a good, sensible head on her shoulders. You had been rather disappointed when her attentions were captured, hoping that you might have found a friend whose ideals lay in a similar bent to your own, but she and her husband seem a true love match, which is rare enough that you cannot begrudge her for choosing happiness.
“You are most kind,” you say, grateful for a conversation topic that allows you to hold your own. “Our cook comes from France, brings with her the most wonderful French cuisine.”
Evelyn titters snidely behind her hand, and you swivel to face her, annoyed. “Don’t you find it rather fanciful? Personally, I prefer a good, honest English meal. But, I suppose you ought ensure your palate is discerning to the tastes of your betrothed. He has rather a taste for the European, no?” The implication is clear, the other ladies watching with bated breath for your response.
Careful, practised calm holding you still, you take a pointed sip of your lemonade before you reply. “My betrothed is well-travelled, certainly. I could not be satisfied with a man who has no regard or curiosity for the wonders of the Earth beyond our borders.” It’s a simple, dignified response — that doesn’t acknowledge or address her insult. Exactly what the women at the table expect. You can see pity in their faces; they think you haven’t perceived it at all. “Although…” you add, a dozen heads suddenly perked up with interest. “If I recall correctly, your husband took a similar trip just months after you were married. Perhaps you concern yourself with the wrong man’s European… proclivities.” You try not to grin too smugly, eyebrows raised across the room and Evelyn turning an unattractive shade of puce. None of the other women thought you had it in you, and you know it.
Having spent years curbing your tongue, sitting in shadowed alcoves at balls, you’ve enough repressed wit and stockpiled gossip to start your own scandal sheet, should you so choose. Keeping your lips sealed and your cards close had seemed the best option when you were aiming to avoid notice, but with your position changed, you suddenly harbour a most esurient need to make the ton take notice of you. “Would anybody else like to offer their unsolicited opinion of my intended, or should the discussion perhaps turn to something more productive and befitting women of our station, hm?”
Newfound respect is written across their faces, carefully reframing their social games in order to take you seriously as a player. You even enjoy the conversation a little, filing away each new piece of gossip with a grin and accepting invitations to social events you’d never have even glimpsed before today. Proud, satisfied and even a little excited as you wave your guests off politely, your mama stands smugly at your shoulder. “It is lovely to see you engaging willingly in your role, dear. Perhaps you might allow me to gloat a moment, for I recall telling you numerous times that if you would just–”
You square your shoulders. “I shan’t,” you say brusquely. Ordinarily, you’d never speak so bluntly to your mama, but the knowledge that you’ve mere weeks until you’re a lady in your own right emboldens you. “There is a difference between going somewhere willingly, and going there without complaint due to the executioner’s axe at your back. It is fortunate that Lord Healy is a good man, and one I could come to love, yes, but that could easily not have been so. He could have been any manner of man, a gambler, a drunkard, a sinner.” You aren’t yet entirely sure he isn’t the lattermost, if the heat you feel under his gaze is any indication, coiling under your skin and knotting in your chest, working its way down, down, down… Heavens, this is hardly the time! “And nonetheless I would be his wife. So, I implore you, do not mistake my acquiescence for forgiveness. I had made a choice, and you took it from me.” Your mama gapes at you as you leave, stalking into the library to lose yourself and forget all your troubles.
The passage of time escapes you, and you don’t realise how long you’ve been in the library, resting in a patch of sunlight like a house cat with your nose buried in a book until a maid finds you and informs you that you must dress for dinner. In all your distaste of the morning, your evening engagements had entirely escaped your awareness, and you dimly remember dinner with the Healys scheduled for the night.
Your ride is spent in stony, cold silence, your parents looking anywhere but your eyes. It’s not a long journey, thankfully, but it feels like an eternity before your carriage pulls to a stop and a footman helps you to the ground. You dip into a polite curtsy to Matthew’s parents, softening into a smile when you lock eyes with your betrothed. “You look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Matthew?” his mother says, nudging him unsubtly.
Matthew clears his throat, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I— Yes. I don’t quite… have the words for how lovely you look,” he says, his gaze intense as you meet it boldly.
“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” It’s a stiff response, measured and polite, born from uncertainty over your company.
His smile is winsome, your mama pinching your back as if to say I told you so, and you bite back a scowl. “I am afraid dinner is not quite ready yet,” he says with a polite nod to your parents. “Perhaps you might like a brief tour of the house, Miss Marlowe. It is soon to be your home, after all.”
Your mama makes a soft noise of protest. “That would be rather improper, no?” she says, casting glances at Matthew’s parents for support she evidently doesn’t find. You conceal a smirk; perhaps if she’d had a care to learn anything about the man she was marrying you off to, she wouldn’t need to be so concerned of what was proper.
“Oh, I do find the rules of propriety so stifling at times, don’t you? They are a young, engaged couple, we ought allow them a few moments of privacy. Come, we will take tea, and the men can have their whiskey and cigars. Dinner shan’t be long,” she says, and though your mama desperately wants to argue, a retort hanging from her lips, her own imposed rules of politeness prevent her — they are the hosts, after all.
Matthew takes you by the hand, the contact sending a pulse of warmth spreading from where his skin touches yours, and leads you deeper into the house. The moment you’re alone, he pulls you against a wall, his hands falling to your hips and grasping tightly. The closeness thrills you, heat prickling under your skin as he watches you with heavy, lidded eyes. “I have thought of nothing but your kiss since your lips left mine. May I kiss you?” he asks, hushed and reverent, and you nod slowly, eyes closing and head tilting up in anticipation. His lips meet yours, sweet and soft and gentle, but interlaced with a foreign, breathtaking hunger.
You melt against him, letting him take control of the kiss, determined but tender. You part your lips eagerly for his tongue, the taste of him suddenly overwhelming your senses. Breathing hard as you pull apart, you look up at him with wide eyes, feeling foolish and lovesick, some unfamiliar feeling of want pulling under your skin. “Is there really going to be a tour, or was that simply a facade to get me alone?” you tease, and Matthew smirks, interlacing his fingers with yours.
“I have often found that mixing an honest goal with an impure one can be… pleasurable… for all involved,” he answers, almost a purr. Something unknown thrills in your belly, licking down to settle in your core, forbidden. Then, his intense gaze breaks into a smile, and the tension breaks. “No, there really was somewhere I wanted to show you.”
Your footsteps echo through the cavernous halls, interspersed with breathless giggles when he pulls you a little too fast and you stumble into his arms, meeting in a sweet kiss before you start off again. You almost can’t believe your luck, that you’ll get to spend your days traipsing through these halls and kissing him whenever you like; you feel as though you’re waiting with bated breath, like pride must come before a fall.
With a dramatic flourish, Matthew comes to a stop before a grand set of double doors, flinging them open to reveal an even grander library. Your jaw drops as you marvel; stacks of shelves that must stretch the entire height of the house press against both walls, light filtering through a pane-glass window and puddling on the floor. He seems to sense your awe, his body warm at your back as he takes hold of your waist. “You seem like the kind of woman to appreciate a good book and some peaceful, private space.” He leans heavily on the word private and mouths at the shell of your ear, a shudder running through your body at his ministrations.
“I do,” you say shakily, though you can’t think of a time you’ve cared less about books than standing here with Matthew’s lips hovering against your neck.
“May I ask you something rather…” he says, slowly spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. “Improper?”
The look in his eyes is familiar, now, but impossible to define, eyes wide and crow-black. “It’s a little late to be seeking my permission for your indecorousness, no?”
Matthew smiles, the expression slow and salacious as it creeps across his face. “Perhaps,” he says, taking your hands and walking you deeper into the library. “But this is a question of a more… intimate… nature.” You’re acutely aware with every step that, should anyone else enter the library, the two of you would stay obscured from view. “I want to know…” he begins, voice low as he pulls you down onto a chaise, tucked neatly away in a shadowed corner. “What do you feel when I kiss you?”
Your heart speeds, stomach swooping as clumsy words stumble to your lips. “I— I don’t… I can’t describe it.” You lower your eyes, looking up at him through your lashes, that same, indecipherable look in his face.
“Would you like to know what I feel?” You nod minutely, breath caught in your chest. The air around you feels charged, like the minutes before a thunderstorm when your hair starts to stand on end. “I feel desire. Have you ever known desire, sweet thing? A quickening in your pulse, heat under your skin, smouldering in your chest.” Matthew inches closer with every word, pressing you back against the cushions until you’re almost prone, rucking up your skirts with one knee.
His every breath against your lips is incendiary, the feeling rushing under your skin finally given a name as you breathe out the word that might be your unmaking. “Yes.” Matthew crashes your lips together, slides a hand into your hair, all pretence at being a gentleman cast aside in favour of a frantic, consuming hunger. His tongue is greedy, his teeth sharp, pulses of pure want skittering down your spine and settling between your legs. The sensation thrills you, illicit and sharp and new, the heat of his body against yours soaking through your clothes.
“I was not entirely honest, before,” he says, and your blood runs cold. Your fear must be evident in his face, because he cups your cheek gently before he speaks. “When I said I had thought of nothing but your kiss. I thought of you constantly, certainly, but in a rather… filthier way.” His low tone washes over you, stomach clenching in some sort of sick anticipation as his lips meet your neck.
“What…” The words catch in your throat, desire clamping your neck like a vice. “What did you think about?”
A gasp slips from your lips as Matthew catches your earlobe between his teeth, kissing softly at your pulse point and pressing a soft hand against your leg. “I thought about you while I pleasured myself,” he murmurs, and you go hot all over, your skin feeling far too small to contain all you’re becoming, your chest tight and pulse racing. “I spilled in my hand with your name on my lips. I thought of how you might look, undressed beneath me, caught in rapture. Have you ever felt pleasure like that, darling?”
His voice is low, raked over gravel. You can sense his restraint, that he longs to teach you. “We cannot. Not now, not here, not before we are married.” You taste regret as you speak, so consumed in desire that you want to discard every carefully-learned edict of society, but the warning bells that chime for this act are too much to ignore.
Matthew huffs a quiet laugh. “So, you haven’t. If you trust me, sweet thing, there are ways I can show you pleasure without fucking you.” He leans heavily on the curse, an answering thrill clenching in your stomach as his fingers find the hem of your chemise. “Would you like that, darling?”
“Please,” you gasp, a breathless invocation from wanton lips. Matthew’s hand creeps up your thigh, higher and higher until… Your eyes fly open, your entire body jolting as a spark of pure sensation catches you alight. “Oh, my God,” you cry, back arching up as he slowly circles with the tip of his finger.
“I also answer to Matty,” he smirks, and though you groan, you’re grateful for the diffused tension. Your hips move of their own accord, chasing the pleasure that spills from his fingertips. “My God, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he groans, his gaze fixed on your face as you slip into bliss. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?” You shake your head, whining quietly when he pulls his hand away and takes hold of your wrist. The tips of his fingers are wet where they meet your skin, and you flush crimson. “I’m going to show you how to pleasure yourself, and, tonight, when you’re laying in bed with your lights turned out, I want you to bring yourself to that peak as many times as you want; get to know your body in the most intimate way. And then,” he leans close, whispering into the shell of your ear, his filthy words coiling under your skin and licking deliciously down your thighs. “I want you to tell me all about it. As your husband, I must know exactly what brings my wife to ruin.” In the same moment, he slides two of your fingers into you, the sudden stretch between your thighs unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Matty’s thumb comes up to circle your bundle of sensitive nerves, puppeteering your fingers in and out of you torturously slow. “Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”
It takes a moment for your hazy mind to register what he’s asking, whining as your hips rock up into his touch. “Only if you go faster,” you gasp, choking on a whimper as he speeds his motions, pleasure washing over you and wiping your mind clean.
“Anything you want,” Matty murmurs, tugging on your wrist so your fingers speed up, pressing deep as your eyes roll back in your head. “Curl your fingers for me, love,” he instructs, and you obey unthinkingly, gasping as a shock of pleasure ripples through your body, drool pooling in your mouth as Matty watches you adoringly. “Does that feel good?”
You moan out an affirmative, writhing under his touch and slowly picking up a rhythm of your own, too caught in a haze of pleasure to find words for what he’s making you feel. Tension coils in your belly, your body limp and loose on your bones. “Oh, God, please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for. He knows, though, somehow able to show you exactly what you need as he slides two of his own fingers alongside yours.
“Oh, love, you’re soaked,” Matty croons, following along with your rhythm and steering you to move faster, every movement sending a ripple of desire pulsing through your veins. “I think you needed this, didn’t you, sweetheart? Needed someone to show you how to feel so fucking good?” His palm is warm against the back of your hand, calluses pressing rough against your skin as your body stretches out around him. Your eyes fall closed, head swimming in slick, gleaming ecstasy. “Come on, love. Watch,” he instructs.
Obediently, your gaze falls to where your hands are joined, your wetness dripping over your fingers and a slick sound embarrassingly audible; sounding in time with the thumps of pleasure rolling over you. You moan helplessly, letting Matty take control as you fall into bliss, his breath coming in hard gasps against your lips. There’s a pulling low in your stomach, a twisting tendril of carnality tugging at every muscle of your body. A final swipe at your bud of nerves sends you pitching over an edge you hadn’t even known you were approaching, biting down hard on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out wantonly. You flutter around your fingers, gasping and rocking your hips, chasing the high as it fades from your grasp.
“That was… incredible,” you murmur, Matty’s expression at once smug and awed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I just… fuck,” you breathe, almost a laugh as the curse slips from your lips, the only word that feels fitting for the feeling rolling through your body.
“I promise you, darling, that was barely the beginning. Just you wait until we share a bed.” He smirks down at you, the eye contact deliberate as he slides his wet fingers between his lips, swirling his tongue purposefully, desire spiking in your core all over again. “And you taste so sweet,” he praises. “Go on, have a taste for yourself, love,” Matty urges. Cautiously, you bring your hand up to your lips, softly licking at the pads of your fingers. The taste of you is unfamiliar, but you strangely don’t hate it, pressing an eager kiss against Matty’s lips and licking carelessly into his mouth.
You trade lazy kisses for a few long, sweet moments, breaking away only to giggle against his mouth and gaze deeply into his warm, honey-brown eyes. Eventually, regretfully, you pull apart and climb to your feet, legs shaking a little until Matty loops an arm around your waist to support you. The dinner is lovely, to be sure, and his parents are perfectly pleasant, but you can think of nothing but Matty’s eyes on you, his tongue in your mouth, his fingers stretching you out and pulling you into oblivion. The barest brush of his lips against your hand, a polite goodbye, is almost enough to set you off again, a shudder running through you as a knowing smirk pulls at his lips.
Matty’s gaze meets yours, sharp and challenging, and he mouths think of me just as you leave. A flush creeps up your cheeks, and you look away, the intensity of his eyes too much to bear. And yet, you obey, moonlight slanting across your bed as you push your nightdress up around your waist. Matty’s voice circles your brain, his name sweet on your lips as you drag yourself to that peak countless times. Your body is exhausted but insatiate, an endless well of greed tapped and free-flowing. You can barely stand to clean yourself when you finally give in to lassitude, legs trembling and a voracious cramp in your wrist.
Your mama gasps in horror at the circles under your eyes the next morning, shameful imprints of your long, desire-soaked night. “Goodness gracious,” she gasps. “What on Earth kept you awake all night? Good Lord, you aren’t a child anymore. You simply cannot spend your nights with a candle and your nose in a book any longer. You have responsibilities.” You nod idly, stifling both a yawn and a smirk. “Go back upstairs. Get some rest — you might at least attempt something resembling respectability for the ball this evening.”
Oh. In your daze, you’d utterly forgotten. Ordinarily, you’d refuse out of spite, and your mama gives a long-suffering sigh, expecting a fight. But something thrills you about showing off your engagement so publicly, staking a claim on the man so many debutantes failed to ensnare. The chance that you might slip away with him into a shadowed alcove or a private garden certainly doesn’t hurt either. So, with nothing more than a slight scoff, you go back to bed, snatching a few hours of much-needed sleep. Visions of Matty dressed in full finery fill your head, a surprising, sudden excitement growing in your chest.
You can’t hold back a gasp when your mama produces your gown; you’d never bothered examining the new season’s dresses, already resigned to misery. Your fingers trail gently over the sparkling fabric, running like water under your touch. “You shall be the most spectacular thing in the room, dear,” says your mama smugly.
The word thing hits you like a splash of ice-cold water. Of course. “Yes,” you say faintly, your voice sounding muffled to your own ears. “I must pen a letter of thanks to the modiste,” you add pointedly, your mama’s face falling. She sweeps out of the room without a word as if to say, see how well you’ll look without me.
It turns out, unsurprisingly, that your ladies are even more proficient at their craft without your mama’s hawkish gaze picking and prodding at whatever she pleases. You gaze at yourself in the looking glass, awestruck. Your cheeks hold a healthy glow, dusted with rouge that matches the stain on your lips, and as you smile softly, you realise that, for the first time, you find your reflection pretty.
Even the now-familiar cold silence of your journey fails to dampen your spirits, the glittering warmth of the ballroom enveloping you as you cross the threshold. You search the room for Matty, a little crestfallen when his wild curls aren’t immediately apparent. Of course, you shake off your parents as quickly as possible, surprised by your sudden enjoyment of the atmosphere without the crippling burden of a dance card looped around your wrist.
Lost in the wealth of colour and light surrounding you, you jolt at a gentle touch to your elbow. Expecting to meet Matty’s warm, adoring gaze, you turn eagerly, only to come face-to-face with a lord who’s practically withering into dust where he stands. “Good evening,” he says, a sinister smile revealing half-rotted, missing teeth. “May I have this dance? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
You don’t think so either, but you’d be surprised if the man could remember how to button his own waistcoat. His fingers are like sandpaper against your bare arm, the sensation positively emetic. “I am spoken for, my lord,” you say, without even attempting at politeness. He’ll hardly remember it tomorrow, age-addled as he is. As if on cue, a murmur ripples through the young ladies, eagerness turning to disparagement as it reaches their mamas, and you look up to see three young men burst into the room.
On the left, the most serious-faced one holds up a pocketwatch, evidently admonishing the other two for their more-than-fashionable lateness, while the tallest one laughs him off. In the middle, you watch Matty slyly ribbing the former until he relents, smiling exasperatedly. “Ah!” you say brightly, grateful for the out. “There is my betrothed now. Good evening, sir.” You curtsy politely and blow out a relieved breath as soon as his back is turned, beelining for Matty and his companions.
“Hello, love,” he says warmly, something in your body instinctively relaxing in his presence. He takes your hand, warm in his calloused palm, and brings it to his lips. You smile a little self-consciously, hyperaware of the other two sets of eyes on you. Nodding politely to the other two men, you bite your lip and jerk your head at Matty; it isn’t polite for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman, and you’ve too much company to publicly flout the rules of conversation.
When he doesn’t pick up the hint, the more solemn one shakes his head with an annoyed yet fond laugh, bowing politely. “Mr. Hann,” he says. “Adam, really.”
It seems to spur the other into action. “George,” he says simply, and you raise an eyebrow. “Lord Daniel, if you must be an utter bore about it.”
You curtsy, but flicker your gaze to the ceiling in the universal gesture of Lord, give me strength. “Great heavens, there’s two of them.”
Adam snickers. “Four, actually. I’m certain it shan’t be long until you discover that for yourself,” he adds with an enigmatic grin that makes you like him all the more.
“Fuck’s sake, Hann,” Matty scoffs, and you still jump a little at the vulgarity and how easily it falls from his lips. “I told you how hard I had to work to get her to like me, don’t go turning her against me now. I’m not all that likeable, you know.” He turns to you, and the full effect of his disarming, fathomless-deep gaze settles on you. You run hot all over. “Would you care for a dance, my lady? Before I allow you to be poisoned any further against me,” he chuckles, and you accept with a gentle smile.
Matty sweeps you into a waltz, leading commanding and effortless, and you can’t keep a smile off your face as you lose yourself in him. “You look radiant, love. Truly, a beauty like yours is mythical.”
Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, demure and slightly disbelieving. “You’re quite the dancer, my lord,” you say, in an obvious and unconcealed attempt to divert the subject.
Thankfully, he allows it. “You sound surprised,” he says, mock-affronted. “I’m a musician at heart, darling, I could lead a waltz in my sleep.” You smile, but your attentions are drifting; snatches of conversation pass you by, murmured but not so low you can’t hear them. An odd pair… Surely ruin her… Heavens, look at him… Isn’t nearly pretty enough…
Matty is utterly oblivious to the noise, watching your face fall with obvious confusion. “What are we doing here, Matty?” you murmur, suddenly helpless. “Even if we could be happy together, how can that possibly be enough? Endless whispers, following us anytime we set foot in society; this stain stuck to us forever.” Pain is written clearly across his face — he wants to argue, but he’s at least allowing you the courtesy of coming to the point before he does. “You could still leave me,” you say quietly. “Find safety with the devil you know. Play the rake until the perfect girl comes along, one without all the collateral I carry.”
Fittingly, the song draws to an end, Matty pulling you to the edge of the room with eyes full of frustrated consternation. “I’m not going to fucking leave you,” he hisses, crowding breathlessly close. “You want me to go searching for the perfect girl, yes? I have travelled from nation to nation, spent days upon weeks in the open seas, visited wonders on every continent, and yet… if you were to ask me the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen? That smile, that first real smile you gave me. Without a question or a second thought. Please, darling, let me love you. See yourself the way I see you.”
Your resolve shatters, that greedy, hungry part of you that’s gone starved for love all your life snapping to the forefront in your chest. “How do you see me?” you breathe, low and pleading, hunting for an answer in his eyes.
“I know this house well,” he says, and your brow furrows at the sudden change of subject. “The thought of an audience for the maudlin display I am about to put on is almost too much to bear.” You huff a quiet, disbelieving laugh and let him lead you through a maze of winding, labyrinthine corridors until you come to an empty parlour. The air is still, quiescent, like stepping into a still-life portrait as you sit delicately at the edge of a divan. Matty sinks to his knees in front of you, resting his palms against your skirts over your thighs. “You want to know how I see you? I see a fierce, clever woman, one who has, perhaps, never been truly seen before. I see the woman I want to make a life with, who I want to share my thoughts, fears, dreams with. Who I hope will respond in kind.” Pure, earnest kindness shines in Matty’s gaze, a frail hope you recognise as a twin to the butterfly that perches on your ribs.
You can’t do anything but smile down at him, at a loss for words. “I simply… I just… I cannot…” you stammer, stopping and starting as if you’re hunched over your writing-desk.
“Do you trust me, love?” You nod mutely. “Then trust this, trust what you feel, trust yourself,” Matty urges.
Damn him. Damn him to hell. “Come here and kiss me.”
His wide, adoring smile turns to a slow smirk. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, love.” His hands fall to the hem of your skirt, slowly inching up your legs, familiar heat coiling to life between your thighs. “Now, tell me. Did you do as I asked last night, darling?”
“Yes.” The answer comes rushed, breathy, shameless. Matty gazes up at you, encouraging. “I thought of you, only you. I wished it were your hands bringing me to ruin over and over again, wished I could do the same to you.” His eyes are black with desire and your mouth goes dry. “I know that you have… experiences, and I do not wish to–”
“All that means, darling, is that I have the privilege of being the one to teach you,” Matty insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your knee. Your skirts brush against your heated skin, pushed up until he’s gazing at your exposed, glistening core. Your eyes follow him, questioning, as he leans ever closer. “You’ve felt pleasure by hand, yes, but what I really want is to get my mouth on you. Would you like that, sweet girl?”
You shudder. “Please.” No sooner has the word left your lips than his mouth connects with your core, lapping up your arousal with an ebullient hunger. A moan escapes you, blinding heat flashing across your skin. Your breathing is instantly ragged, pleasure burning in your chest as he buries his tongue deep inside you.
Your hands slide into his hair, anchoring yourself to reality. His answering moan against your skin ripples through you, muscles tensing and loosening in keeping with your hammering heartbeat. “Just like that, darling.” Matty murmurs against your skin. “Good girl.”
The praise draws a long, pleading whine from your lips, a cavalcade of desire marching through your bloodstream. “Matty, oh, fuck,” you gasp. The profanity still feels foreign on your lips, but there truly isn’t another word in your lexicon that can describe the pure ecstasy coursing through you.
Matty presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, smearing your arousal against your skin and licking you clean. A flash of teeth scrape against your tender flesh, pulling a gasp from you as you drag his mouth back to where you need it most. Euphoria winds under your skin, an insistent hum at the base of your skull growing louder with every passing second. His tongue works over you in sure, fast strokes, dragging you higher and higher.
He sucks on your nerves, your legs flailing out helplessly in response. One of his hands creeps up, teasing your nerves as he fills you with his tongue over and over. A filthy sound fills the room, slick and wet and lustful, and you clench your hands into fists in his hair. You clench your thighs around Matty’s head, his tongue driving deep into you as you clench your thighs around his head, whimpered obscenities dripping from your mouth. His pace speeds, slows, never allowing you to get complacent in a rhythm, flames stoked in your core.
You’re half-delirious with it, implorations for something you couldn’t name falling slurred from your lips. Pleasure balls into a fist in your belly, hot and demanding, knocking the wind out of you as it slams into your gut. You gasp out his name in an endless litany, writhing with need as pure bliss rolls over you, loose and free on your bones. “Oh, my God,” you breathe, still pulsing with aftershocks as Matty pulls away, lips and chin soaked when he smiles up at you.
“No God, darling. Just me,” he says smugly, and you scoff. He quirks an eyebrow, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “What? Look around, love. Do you see God in this room? Or do you see a man, bringing you pleasure?” You bite your lip, chest still heaving with the tangible, real evidence of what you felt. “In any case, I am kneeling for you. Not for any God,” he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, your slick obscenely visible against his alabaster skin.
Matty stands, pulling you with him, and tugs you in for a slow, deep kiss, the taste of you blooming in your mouth. “That’s blasphemy,” you say, appalled and intrigued in equal measure. “You could be prosecuted for that.”
He grins against your mouth. “Are you going to turn me in?”
Your heart thuds where your chest is pressed against his, heartbeats aligning in a perfect, rhythmic duet. “Never.”
another summer75 fic. warnings for shibari (light) and breeding kink (HEAVY). bon appetit <3
“you're sure you don't need anything else, ma'am?”
“thanks, claudia, but we're all good,” you smile at your assistant, her eyes flitting between the windows (and the party on the lawn outside) and you. “it's been a busy morning - i think you should go and relax, do some celebrating of your own, yeah?”
her eyes light up. “really?”
you laugh. “of course. just, piece of advice? don't drink anything anyone tries to serve you from a fishbowl tonight,” you grimace, shaking your head. “too many 5th of julys have been ruined for me that way. and for the president, actually, he was so much worse than i was at parties. stupid boy.”
claudia giggles. “noted, ma'am. i'll be sure to have a glass of water after every drink, too.”
“smart girl. well, i'll leave you to it,” you stretch, moving to close the door to the presidential living quarters. “have a good weekend!”
“and you, ma'am!”
closing the door behind you, you wander through towards your bedroom. aside from the sound of your husband humming to himself in there, the place is quiet, only the two of you around.
just how you like it.
you smile as you enter your bedroom, ogling matty as he pulls his shirt over his head. his hands move to his belt, but he stops his undressing in favour of walking towards you with love in his eyes and a grin on his lips; you pretend to sulk, but open your arms anyway. “damn, i was enjoying the show.”
“of course you were,” matty kisses your forehead, pulling back to arm's length to look at you. “i don't look half as good as you do, though. i love that dress, baby.”
“i thought it was pretty,” you clasp your hands behind matty's neck, and his find home on your hips. “it's really uncomfortable, though.”
it's a blatant lie, and you're sure you aren't being very subtle, but matty has the good grace to play along anyway. “is that right, my love?” he coos, hands moving across your back to undo the halter neck “well, we'd better take it off, then.”
“fabulous idea, mr. president,” you snuggle into him, sighing when the fabric of your dress falls to the ground and your bare chests press together. matty's arms wrap tightly around you, and the feeling of home washes over you. the two of you hug in comfortable silence for a second, your fingers gently twisting into your husband's curls, before you speak softly. “m'really proud of you, you know. it was a good morning. and i know you were reluctant to host anything today, but… i'm glad you did. it was fun.”
matty huffs out a laugh into your hair. “was only reluctant because it cut short our usual long weekend plans. and you know how much i love those.”
his hands travel towards your ass, sliding under the waistband of your thong to squeeze it; you giggle softly in response, pressing a long kiss to your husband's neck and enjoying the moan he lets out. “sometimes i wonder if you'll ever get bored of driving to the cabin whenever we get a few days off.”
“if we ever get rid of the shibari rigging hooks, i might.”
“as if we'd do that. be serious, please, matthew.”
matty laughs, scooping you up and dropping you onto the bed. “i love you, my perfect little rope bunny. and wife, obvs.”
“love you too. i also love that you've got your priorities straight,” you bite your lip as you watch matty undo his trousers, leaning up to kiss him messily as he crawls up to hover over you. it's a good kiss, sloppy and passionate, one that goes straight to your underwear and prevents your brain from thinking about anything other than matty inside you. “fuck, baby. tie me up now, please? we still have,” you glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “two hours before we need to start driving. pleeeeeeease?”
matty simply raises a brow.
you pout, batting your lashes. “come on, baby, please? just a little design? a little preview for the rest of the weekend?” you wrap your legs around his waist, smiling prettily the way you've done to get whatever you want from matty since you were twenty-two. “because you love me?”
at that, your husband sighs, nodding and trying to keep the smile from his face. sap. “legs only, alright? just because i love you.”
“mhmm,” you take his face in your hands and pull him in for a kiss, smiling at the way he melts against you. “thank you, my love.”
“sweet girl,” matty strokes your cheek, before moving off you and reaching to pull a box from under the bed; inside, you see pink rope neatly arranged in loops of figure eights. your heart leaps and core gushes at the sight, but matty makes a face at it. “not very patriotic colour-wise, is it?”
“pretty sure the amount of time i'm gonna spend on my knees worshipping you this weekend will make up for that, mr. president.”
“fuck. underwear off, now,” your husband quickly takes two separate loops of rope from the box, twisting them into position while you shimmy your thong and lie down, practically vibrating with happy anticipation. “and speaking of knees - bend them for me, darling, that's it. tell me if it's too uncomfortable, yeah?”
“i will.”
“good girl.”
with that, he begins to loop the rope around your left thigh and shin, securing them together with an intricate pattern you hope to god will leave a mark on your skin. you can't remember whether it was you or matty who first suggested trying shibari a decade or so ago, but you both took to it with enthusiasm - since then, every extended private moment you've had together has involved some sort of artistic bondage, exploring new designs and positions and making each other feel good. the rope took a bit of getting used to, initially, but now you love the feeling of it against your bare skin; it's a reminder that, for at least the next few hours in your busy lives, it's just you and matty, alone together, getting to love and appreciate and care for each other at the most primal, most intimate level.
once he's done, matty taps your bound knee. he moves back, smiling at his handiwork. “that feel alright, gorgeous?”
“yeah. thank you, angel.”
he blushes, and your heart flutters. “you're welcome, my darling. gonna do the other one now, yeah?”
“go ahead.”
the two of you settle back into comfortable silence, matty continuing his work while you smile at the way his tongue pokes out of his lips in concentration, one of the things that first endeared him to you when you met at law school. suddenly, those lips part as he speaks. “isn't it funny how many people just, like, handed their babies to us at the garden party this morning?”
your brow furrows slightly. interesting topic of conversation. “happens to me quite a lot, to be honest.”
“yeah, i've noticed. s'happened eighteen times to you in the past week alone.”
your brow furrows further. “you've been counting?”
matty's cheeks go pink again. “well… not deliberately, darling, i just,” he sighs, finishing off the shibari and sitting back on his heels to look at you sheepishly. “i can't help but notice when you're interacting with babies at the minute. like, i really can't.”
oh. how interesting. and, if you're honest, not entirely unwelcome. you smile. “you think it's time?”
his eyes widen. “for… for us to-?” he clears his throat. “for us to… have a baby of our own?”
“yeah, sweetheart,” you reach up to caress his face, smiling softly at the way matty leans into your hand. “do you think now’s the time?”
“well… yeah.”
you smirk, removing your hand from your husband's face so you can use it to pull your bent legs open as wide as possible and expose your glistening cunt. “let's make a baby, then.”
matty blinks. suddenly, your instructions seem to sink in, and he follows, not even bothering to take his boxers off fully before sliding through your wetness and pushing inside you; his lips meet yours as he bottoms out, the two of you sighing into each other's mouths.
home at last.
for a moment, there's nothing but the two of you kissing like teenagers, passionate and messy and desperate, matty throbbing inside you in the most delicious way, and then he moves, pulls his hips back and snaps them forward again, over and over and over, drawing soft moans from your lips every time he slides in. a huge part of the reason matty was elected, everyone says, is because he does everything with focus and conviction - the way he fucks is no different.
he pulls back from your lips, resting your foreheads together in the most tender way and sliding his hands over yours against the pillow; when you intertwine your fingers, he smiles. “sweet girl, taking me so fucking well.”
“your sweet girl.”
“that's right. my girl, all mine,” matty beams. something about the ownership reminder spurs him on, makes him thrust faster and harder and deeper into you. you whimper his name, and he kisses your nose. “what is it, darling? need me to fill you up, is that it? put my baby in you and let everyone know you're mine?”
the words go straight to your cunt, brain too hazy with pleasure to properly take them in. “please.”
“cum for me first, sweetheart, and i will,” he coos, stroking your face and dropping a sweet kiss onto your nose. “touch that pretty clit for me, yeah? and then i'll fill up that needy little pussy of yours. promise.”
“okay,” you exhale, hand sliding down your sweat-shiny chest and between your legs, circling your aching clit the way you know matty would. ecstasy shoots through your body the instant you touch the bundle of nerves, causing you to whine and clench around your husband's dick - which in turn makes him whine - but, somehow, it isn't enough. “matty,” you croak out, blinking up at him. “need you to talk to me. please.”
“oh, my darling,” matty grins, not unkindly. “need me to tell you how good you feel, how much i love how fucking tight your cunt is? even after all this time, after all the pounding i've given you, she's still clenching around me like a fucking vice. could stay inside you forever, you know. wanna do that. i think you want me to, as well, don't you, gorgeous? feels like it, anyway.”
the pleasure's practically blinding you at this point, tightening your muscles and clouding your mind - all you can do is frantically rub your clit, and whimper. “yeah, yeah, want you in me all the time.”
“needy girl,” matty's lips crash onto yours, tongue licking into your mouth before he murmurs against you. “can't fucking wait to fill you up properly, sweetheart. please tell me you're close.”
“i am, oh shit, i am!” you aren't lying, either - your legs are quivering as much as they can within the rope, and the pressure building in your lower stomach feels like it's about to reach breaking point. you're vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face and pooling on your chest, but all you can focus on right now is matty. “gonna cum, please, please let me cum.”
your husband leans forward, cock driving impossibly deep and lips ghosting over your ear. “do it, my darling. cum for me, let me give you a baby. our baby.”
and that's all it takes.
you cling to matty like a liferaft as your orgasm hits, although the more accurate nautical metaphor would be to liken him to an anchor; without him above you, hands digging into the flesh of your legs almost as much as the rope, you're certain you'd float away, buoyant from sheer fucking ecstasy. he cums with a guttural moan of your name as you clench around him, kissing you deeply as his thrusts get more and more shallow, and you don't think you've ever been more full, metaphorically (of love) and literally (of cum, crass as it sounds). once he's done, your husband nuzzles into the crook of your neck, both of you sweaty and breathing heavily.
for a few blissful minutes, you stay like that, weaving a hand into matty's messy curls and scratching his scalp while you exchange murmured “i love you”s. your eyes flick sideways to the alarm clock, and you tap his shoulder in a feeble attempt to get him to move. “sweetheart, we need to get cleaned up before we leave.”
“just give it another minute or two, darling,” matty mumbles into your skin; he pulls himself up just enough to kiss you, looking adoringly into your eyes. “have to make sure the baby sticks, after all.”
you giggle, stroking his flushed face with your thumb. “we'll miss seeing the fireworks from the cabin if we don't get a move on, though.”
“trust me, my love, you'll get your fireworks this weekend no matter when we leave.”
(mdni) in which three is a crowd, and four is a party. part of the regret me universe and summer75 2024. 4274 words.
warnings (take a deep breath): foursome (f/f/m/m), degradation, oral (f and m receiving), switch!matty, mentions of choking, spit, cumplay, idk this gets pretty gay, incredibly unhygienic use of a hot tub
Sweat prickles at the back of your neck, steam curling from the water surrounding you as a massage jet pummels your back soothingly. Matty’s thigh presses against yours from one side, Sabrina’s shoulder grazing on the other. George leans back on her other side, stretching and deliberately pulling three pairs of eyes to the muscles of his chest. The summer air is thick with humidity, an expectant tension pulling between you; each one of you knows exactly what the other three look like when they come.
The awareness hangs heavy over you, Sabrina’s hand on your thigh an inevitability in the same moment you pull Matty in for a kiss. He’s cautiously eager, hyper-aware of his audience as you slide a hand into his curls. You aren’t entirely sure why he’s so hesitant — George and Sabrina are both very familiar with the way he touches, kisses, fucks. Four, though, is new. But when you hear Sabrina sigh into George’s mouth as she reaches up to untie your bikini top, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but a thrill.
You groan softly as Matty takes a greedy handful of newly exposed skin, his fingers rough on your tender flesh. A pleasured moan from Sabrina pulls you from Matty’s mouth, and you turn to see her stripped naked and grinding her hips down against seemingly nothing with George still kissing her feverishly. She breaks away, turning to you with a flushed face and a sleazy grin. “Should just kick ‘em out and— mmh, get off on the jets, babe. Feels fucking good.”
Sliding your bikini bottoms off, you shift your hips experimentally, your vision nearly whiting out when you find the perfect angle and a bolt of white-hot pleasure crashes over you. “You’re onto something,” you smirk, rolling your hips down. “Still, we keep ‘em around for a reason, right? Give us a show, yeah?” you instruct. In a split-second, Matty surges across the hot tub, catching George in a searing kiss, soaking wet hands tangling in his hair
“Jesus, he’s needy, ain’t he?” Sabrina murmurs, eyes trained on the boys even as her hand wanders between your legs. You gasp, and she smirks. “But so are you, huh? Which one d’you think’s the bigger slut, Georgie?” she adds, the meanness in her tone familiar and yet newly turned on you.
“Matty,” George answers unthinkingly. “Never heard her cry and whine for cock the way he does.” Sabrina works two fingers over your clit, eyes wide with interest.
“You fuck him?” she breathes, warm water lapping at your bare breasts as slow bursts of arousal lick between your thighs. You nod, need thrashing under your skin. “Shit. That, I have to see.” Your reply is cut off by George’s low moan as Matty slides his hand into his shorts and palms his cock, kissing at his neck when George throws his head back in pleasure.
You smirk, climbing over her and settling in her lap. “Next time,” you say, tilting her head up to brush a slow, featherlight kiss to her lips. Her eyes widen. “What? You didn’t think this was gonna be a one-time thing, did you?”
She grins wickedly, arching up so her chest presses against yours, her hand wandering to cradle your ass. “Blow my mind and we’ll find out, doll.”
Behind you, George heaves himself out of the water and you twist in Sabrina’s lap to watch him as he seats himself on the ledge. Dripping wet and gloriously naked, cock half-hard between his legs, he’s a fucking vision as Matty starts to lean in. You cough pointedly, drawing the pair of them from each other sheepishly. “S’not nice to play with somebody else’s toys without asking, George,” you say, dripping condescension as Sabrina’s head falls to kiss over your tits. “You gonna ask for what you want?”
“Want him to blow me,” George groans, muscles tensing as Matty kisses against his inner thighs, mouth desperately close to where he needs it. The sight of them is dizzying, your hips grinding down against Sabrina’s as you moan softly.
“Think you can take him, princess?” you croon, identical, sharp inhales at the sobriquet sending a burst of heat between your legs as Matty turns to you, eyes glazed and jaw slightly slack. He nods wildly, and you laugh. “Greedy little slut. Careful. He’s bigger than me. You gonna choke on his cock, pretty boy?”
In response, Matty wraps his lips around George and swallows him down, gagging when he meets the back of his throat. “Aw, s’that all you can take? Need a hand, baby?” Sabrina teases, lifting you off her lap and settling next to George, wrapping a hand around his cock as Matty bobs his head enthusiastically. You stare, entranced, as George catches Sabrina in a hot, messy kiss, playing with her tits with one hand and threading the other into Matty’s curls.
Matty whines pathetically around George, hips shifting needily with a tent in his shorts visible even through the churning water. You take pity on him, sliding down next to him and palming him through his shorts. Pressing a soft kiss against the damp skin of his neck, the salt taste of his sweat lingers on your lips as you lean to stage-whisper against the shell of his ear. “If you cum from this, that’s it. You get to help the rest of us get off and stay all needy, okay?”
He nods feverishly, George groaning at the moan Matty gives when you slip your hand under his waistband, tugging his shorts off and stroking slowly over his cock. Sabrina’s knees knock against your shoulders as she gasps into George’s mouth, his hand having wandered between her legs. Eagerly, you watch him draw tight, fast circles over her clit, her whines pitching up as she chases the sensation. The four of you must be painting an obscene picture, your head between Sabrina’s thighs while George kisses her tits, his cock in Matty’s mouth while his sits heavy and thick in your palm.
Leaning in slowly, you lick a broad, flat stripe along Sabrina’s cunt, mouthing teasingly at George’s fingertips as he toys with her clit. She gives a gasping, shuddering moan that falls straight to your cunt, thighs clenching. “How come you guys are having all the fun?” you pout up at her, licking over her hole just to hear her whine.
“Get— oh, fuck, yes! Get me off, and we can— mmh— switch,” she says, her free hand sliding into your hair and pressing you into her cunt. The taste of her slides sweetly across your tongue, dripping down your chin as low moans and slick, wet sounds fill the air above you. Matty whines and drools next to you, practically making out with George’s cock as he thrusts messily into your hand. For a moment, all you know are pleasured sounds, Sabrina dripping against your tongue, Matty’s skin against yours, the warm, soothing water around you.
You hear Matty gag obscenely, followed by George moaning out, “God, so good, fuck—” He gives a shuddering gasp, his fingers stilling as he rides out his high. “Go on, swallow like a good boy, yeah? That’s it.”
With Matty’s mouth freed, he leans against you and presses needy, open-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach, whining when you dig your nail into his slit. George and Sabrina are still sloppily making out above you, her thighs clenching around your head and spurring you into action. You tongue-fuck her hard and deep, writhing at every needy whine she gasps into George’s mouth. Moments later, she comes against your mouth, cunt clenching around your tongue as she whimpers your name desperately. You turn your head unthinkingly, catching Matty’s jaw and licking hungrily into his mouth. The taste of George’s cum lingers on his tongue, smearing with Sabrina’s between your tongues as he moans lowly into your mouth.
“Je-sus,” Sabrina says after a moment, breaking the silence that’s fallen between you. “Let’s take this inside, yeah? Someone’s gotta get fucked into the mattress before tonight’s over, right?” She gets to her feet without another word, deliberately swaying her hips as she tracks wet footprints up to the door, her bikini still discarded somewhere by the water. The three of you share a brief, charged look before scrambling after her, almost pitching over when you slip on the wet tile.
Sabrina is lounging on the bed when you catch up to her, uncaring of her damp hair pressing against the sheets. She smirks at you, beckons seductively, and any semblance of control you might have had burns away as you fall on top of her, her lips greedily searching for any arousal that lingers in your mouth. Then, she looks over your shoulder, past you, locking eyes with Matty. “Mind if I try out your little toy, doll?”
You grin wickedly, climbing off her to gaze over at Matty, hard and begging, his skin flushed with need. “Go ahead. Doesn’t look like he’s gonna last long, though. Fuckin’ gagging for it, isn’t he?” Matty chokes on his inhale, cock twitching at being spoken about like he isn’t there, like he’s a thing the three of you can use for your own pleasure. “Come on, then, princess. Can’t be so dumb already, right? Do as you’re told, yeah?”
Spurred into action, Matty practically trips over himself in his haste, kneeling between Sabrina’s spread legs with an eager smile. “How do you want me?”
She slides a hand into his damp, messy curls. “Oh, just shut up and fuck me,” she growls, a whine pulled from his lips as she tugs hard on his hair. “Rough as you want, babe. Do whatever you want, s’long as you make me cum, yeah?”
Your cunt pulses at her words, an identical flash of arousal sparking in Matty’s gaze. Matty enters her slowly, your eyes trained on her face as her lips part in ecstasy, chest heaving and urging him to go faster. You jerk your chin at George. “C’mere,” you order, climbing on top of him the second he lays down. Leaning down, you kiss him hard, leaving him breathless as you pull away and flip around so your cunt is in his face. “What are you waiting for? My permission?” you grin, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock. He hisses, bucking his hips up and lapping at your cunt.
You inch down slowly, letting George stretch out the corners of your mouth gorgeously. Spit drips down his cock, his tongue insistent against your clit as you swallow around him. You relax your throat, pushing down a gag; taking George is something you have to work for, and you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. The rhythmic noise of Matty fucking Sabrina beside you makes an obscene soundtrack, George’s moans into your cunt rippling through you as you drip on his tongue.
Your nose presses against the damp, sweat-slick skin of George’s belly and you grin victoriously as best you can around him, his tongue deep in your cunt melting your brain into nothing. Sabrina’s free hand finds your clit and you grind back against her fingers, moaning around George’s cock as he fucks your mouth. An evil idea flickers to life in your mind, your hands moving almost of their own accord. You reach up to tease around Matty’s hole, the muscle quivering under your touch. Sabrina chokes as he jolts, his hand pressing hard at her throat. “Shit! M’sorry, are you—”
“Fuck, yesyesyes, do that again,” she moans, the pure lust in her voice striking directly in your core. The air is thick with arousal, saturated with breathy moans and lewd sounds, Sabrina crooning encouragements to Matty the moment he allows her breath. You’re fucking dizzy with it, drunk on George’s tongue in your cunt, his cock in your mouth, the mattress dipping under the weight of your… boy fucking your best friend as her skin presses against yours.
George is fucking your mouth with abandon, one hand digging into your hair as he laps at your cunt like you’re his last goddamn meal. You melt against him, limp, letting him fuck your mouth as ecstasy hammers hard in your blood, cunt clenching around his tongue and dripping against Sabrina’s fingers. You can hardly think, wrapped in sensation, a marionette dancing on the strings he’s pulling.
Hips rolling against George’s mouth, you swallow around him, moans coming out garbled and pathetic as slick, hot pleasure thumps in your veins. “Shit, m’gonna cum, don’t stop, fuck!” George gasps against you, moaning helplessly when you redouble your efforts, forcing him as deep down your throat as you physically can and moaning exaggeratedly. He moans out your name, hips bucking as he comes in your mouth, the hot salt taste of him intoxicating. Sabrina pinches your clit, the sharp flash of pain in your sensitive nerves kicking your racing heart into overdrive.
You pull off George and sit up, grinding down hard against his tongue and focusing your gaze on Matty and Sabrina. Her chest heaves, skin flushed and eyes glassy, the skin of her neck already bruising under Matty’s fingers. “Oh, fuck,” you moan, euphoria winding tight under your skin and threatening to burst free. One final, deep thrust breaks you, screaming out George’s name and locking eyes with Matty as you cum, cunt fluttering and arousal gushing over his lips. You moan low in your throat, your vision blurred as you climb off George with shaking legs, letting him shift a little to make room.
Drool mixed with cum leaks from the corner of your mouth, and you catch it on the tips of your fingers and press it into Sabrina’s mouth. She sucks greedily on your fingers, smirking up at you when you pull them free and wipe her saliva against Matty’s chest. His mouth hangs open, panting and moaning as he gazes at you with a faraway look in his eye. “Look so pretty, darling. Like a fuckin’ pornstar, just for us,” you groan.
“He fucks like one, too,” Sabrina grins, rolling her hips up and gasping when her clit brushes against his stomach. “Shit, baby, harder. Just like that, good boy…” she groans. Matty’s hips stutter at the praise, striking a spot inside her that makes her eyes roll back in her head.
“You’re a fuckin’ wet dream,” George groans, his cock twitching valiantly as he stares, entranced. “Does he feel good? You like gettin’ fucked while we watch? Gonna look so pretty cumming on his cock, baby.” Even without being addressed, George’s low voice sands your brain smooth, your need an insistent throb in the base of your skull.
“Oh, God, Matty, don’t stop. M’so close, fuck.” Your head swims, delirious with the obscenity playing out before you, your soaked cunt begging for attention and throbbing between your legs. “Fuck, Matty, shit! Oh, m’cumming, m’cumming, yes!”
Ever theatrical, she gasps and writhes under Matty, doing everything she can to make him lose control as he fucks her through her orgasm. Sure enough, it’s barely a minute before Matty gives a low, shuddering gasp and pleas spill from his lips. “Shit, m’gonna cum, m’so fuckin’ close, fuck! Can I cum, please, please!”
It’s impossibly gratifying that he directs his words to you even as he’s bottomed out in another girl. A sick thrill runs through you at the vicious ownership you feel over him. But this is your best friend, not a girl from the bar or a groupie, so you flash a smile and give a delicate shrug. “I don’t know. Does he deserve it?”
“God, fuckin’ look at him. He needs it so bad,” she pouts, and Matty whimpers. “Needy slut. Been so good, haven’t you? Go on, sweet boy. Cum for us.” The permission is all he needs, spilling deep inside Sabrina with a low, desperate whine, practically trembling with the release.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck, feels s’good, fuck,” he whimpers, going limp when he pulls out with a slick, obscene sound. Your eyes fall to Sabrina’s cunt, soaked and dripping with Matty’s cum.
“Look so pretty all fucked out. Both of you,” you grin, nudging Matty out of the way so you can lean down over Sabrina and kiss her messily, swallowing her gasp as you run your fingers over her sensitive clit. You lift your hand and suck the mess off, moaning graphically as their combined taste hits your tongue.
Hooking a leg around you, Sabrina flips you with surprising strength, knocking the wind from your lungs and leaving you gasping and grinning up at her. Her hips shift until her cunt presses against yours, and you whine at the pressure over your swollen, neglected clit. “Shit,” you whimper as she slowly rolls her hips down against yours, heat thrumming under your skin.
“They gave us a show,” she murmurs, tossing a smirk over her shoulder at George and Matty where they stare unashamedly. “Our turn now, right?”
You grind up against her, the flames in your belly leaping higher and higher with every moan that slips from her lips, Matty’s cum smeared between your bodies. Matty is crammed into George’s lap, the pair of them trading bruising kisses as they watch you. Their gaze is hot, a shameless stare that amplifies every burst of pleasure that rolls over you. George breaks away, holding his hand under Matty’s mouth and murmuring, “Spit.”
Matty obliges, and your eyes stay glued to George’s palm as he reaches down, closing his hand around their cocks and pumping slowly. You could almost cum just from Matty’s answering moan, the sight of them disappearing into George’s fist in a languid, teasing rhythm making your head spin. Sabrina leans down, catching your jaw and your attention. “God, they look good, huh? Gettin’ off together ‘cause they know we’re watching. Can feel how wet that’s makin’ you, doll.”
You give a strangled moan, unable to tear your eyes away from Matty and George, moaning into each other’s mouth and grinding sloppily together. Your head swims, drool pooling in your mouth the longer you lose yourself in the scene unfolding around you, rolling your hips ever faster as Sabrina tweaks your nipples, the brief flash of pain utterly intoxicating. Lust-struck, you gaze up at her, a filthy smirk stretching wide across her face as she grinds down against you. “Look at you,” she croons. “Gone all stupid with it, huh? Pretty cunt feels so fuckin’ good, baby. Wanna feel you cum against me so bad.”
Whining, you thrash your head back and forth, caught between watching Matty and George or Sabrina above you. Heat throbs in your skull, your world tunnelled down to the four walls of the bedroom, the four bodies grinding against each other. “Shit, G, feels s’fucking good, you feel so good, I wanna– fuck,” Matty whimpers, moaning helplessly against George’s mouth and grinding in his lap.
“God, he is just– ohh– the sweetest little thing. Trained him up so well, haven’t you, doll?” Sabrina murmurs, leaning down to graze the words against your lips, spit-slick as she licks into your mouth. Your soaked cunts kiss, arousal stringing between you as your vision blurs with lust.
It takes monumental effort to pull together a coherent sentence. “He fuckin’ loves being used like– mmh– like this. Just wanna get us off, don’t you, baby? Such a good little slut.” Your pulse roars in your ears, amplifying every soft, lewd sound breathed out into the heavy, warm air. Your muscles are tense, pulled taut like guitar strings ready to be plucked, waiting to be tuned to that rapturous frequency.
“Oh, fuck, m’gonna– I can’t– M’so close,” Matty moans, writhing helplessly against George as he leaves bruising kisses over his neck and chest.
“Greedy little whore wants to cum again,” Sabrina smirks, cheeks hot as she admires him, eyes lidded and almost black with lust. “D’you think he deserves it?”
Matty can barely control himself, desperate and wanton, flushed all over and quivering with need. “Please,” he says weakly, head thrown back and damp curls plastered to his forehead.
“He looks so pretty when he’s made a fuckin’ mess of himself. Go on, pretty boy. Cum,” you order, and he does. You can see it in his whole body, practically convulsing against George as ropes of cum spill over his fist and splash against their stomachs. George follows a second later, his fist slowing as he paints their bodies white. The whole thing is obscene, and you can feel Sabrina pulsing against you as she watches, the sensation rippling through you and bursting from your lips in a lewd moan.
Entranced, you watch as George, sweaty and panting, lifts his cum-covered hand to Matty’s lips. “So fucking filthy,” he croons. “Gotta clean up your mess, baby.” Matty sets to work eagerly, the sight absolutely pornographic. He moans lewdly as he laps at George’s skin, sucking on his fingers and rolling his eyes back in his head.
“God, tastes so good,” Matty moans, dizzying arousal filling your head as you grind desperately up against Sabrina. The tension pulling tight in your core is begging for release, hot, liquid ecstasy flooding your veins. You lose your grasp on time as you chase your pleasure against her, desire saturating every inch of your body.
“Oh, fuck!” you gasp, your body suddenly collapsing in on itself as your orgasm steals the breath from your lungs. Your brain is melting, liquid that drips from your ears and pools on the mattress, all your awareness cut loose as your high overtakes you. You’re fucking floating, cunt pulsing insistently and tiny, breathless gasps stumbling from your lips.
“Good girl,” Sabrina murmurs. “Such a good girl, cumming all pretty for me.” You can feel her words lulling you into submission, your body weak against the slow, sweet onslaught of praise. “She’s so fucking wet, could just fuckin’ fill her up right now and she’d hardly notice.” You whine out a barely comprehensible plea, begging instinctively before you even process her words. There’s a wicked glint in Matty’s eye when you turn your head, wrenching your awareness onto him as he climbs out of George’s lap. “Shit, you want a turn? C’mon, baby, go ahead. She’s fuckin’ gagging for it.”
Matty climbs over you, filling the space Sabrina left before you even notice she’s moved, her legs in the air under George as he pushes into her slowly. “Fuck, look at you,” Matty says, tone dark and promising. “Shit, y’such a mess. Pretty little slut.” He grips your jaw, pulling your mouth open and spitting on your waiting tongue. You swallow before he even has the chance to instruct you, and you swear the faint taste of cum lingers in your mouth. He grins proudly, giving you no warning before he fucks deep into you.
You can hardly speak, barely think, aware of nothing but Matty’s hips slamming against yours, the slick sounds of sex filling the room. Matty pours filth into your ear, condescending praise sliding against sweet degradation as he fills you over and over. A sound that’s half-scream, half-whine rings out, and it takes a moment for you to realise it’s yours. “So fuckin’ gorgeous all fucked out, doll,” Sabrina murmurs, turning your head to face her. Bliss is painted over her features as she kisses you, your lips slack as you struggle to muster up the ability to reciprocate. She pours whining gasps against your lips as she comes, face contorting as she writhes under George, enraptured.
All you can feel is euphoria, winding tight around your organs as Matty rubs at your sensitive clit, his frantic rhythm choking you. You whimper what might be his name, your legs locked around his waist deepening his thrusts. “Doing so good, darling. Takin’ me so well. Y’always do,” he praises, your cunt clenching wantonly around him. “Y’gonna cum for me, baby? Fuckin’ soak my cock, yeah?”
He pinches your clit, the heat in your belly reaching dangerous levels. You’re sweating, trembling, your words slurred and pathetic as you teeter on the edge. “Wanna cum, please, need it s’bad, Matty, please!” you cry out, wanton and lust-sick and fucking desperate.
“So pathetic, darling. Such a little cockslut. Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?” The words are all you need, tumbling into oblivion as Matty keeps fucking you, deep and hard and punishing as you cum impossibly hard. Your vision whites out, head spinning with pleasure and sensation and pure fucking carnality, the sounds escaping you animalistic in their hunger. Dizzy as you come to, Matty grins indulgently down at you, his pace now languid and relaxed. You clench around him, weak pleas spilling from your dry throat. “Aw, baby. Needy little cumslut. Don’t worry, baby. Gonna give you what you need,” he promises.
All you can do is lay back and fucking take it, letting Matty use you like a toy until he’s spilling inside you, moaning slickly and gasping out your name as his cock pulses. He pulls out of you, panting on his knees, and you finally catch your breath.
“Well, that was fun,” Sabrina chirps, somehow carefree despite her still-heaving chest. “Jesus, I feel disgusting. I need a shower, spliff and something to eat, in that order. Anyone coming?”
Given that you can barely move, you watch George follow her into the bathroom, unsurprised when you hear high, breathy moans echoing off the tile. Matty meets your eyes with a smirk.
Fuck. You’re in for a long night.
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