Peach Bourbon
Rating: E Relationship: Armitage Hux/Reader Tags: Renamed Hux, Modern AU, Modern Southern Gentleman Hux, Cpt. Hux (32 sexy), Ultimate Wish Fulfillment, Industrious Abuse of Italics, Filth and Sugar, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, No Peach Pies Were Harmed In The Making Of This Fic, Dirty Talk, Hux Can't Shut Up To Save His Life Summary: You were just supposed to be visiting your relatives for the summer, not falling in love with their neighbor, but between the bourbon, the peaches, the sun, and the tea, there's really no hope for you. Words: 3190
The pie is good. The crust is flaky and rich, the lattice of pastry on top crusted with crystal sugar that glitters in the late afternoon sunlight coming through the window. The peach slices nested carefully against each other are soft and sweet on a bed of vanilla custard. There’s a hint of cinnamon in there somewhere too, you think, but you couldn’t say whether the crusted had been dusted with it or if it had been mixed into the custard. Either way, it’s much easier to look at the remnants of the slice of pie on your plate than it is to look at the man leaning against the counter next to you.
The first time you saw him, he was chopping wood in his yard, a gleaming expanse of sweat-slick skin above olive pants held in place with a brown leather belt. You had half-hidden behind the window curtain, watching curiously and wondering whether he was really using a fireplace in the middle of a humid Southern summer. He had straightened up, wiping his brow with the back of one hand, and turned toward the house and the window you were lurking in. You had stepped a little further behind the curtain, but he had paused to watch your window intently.
And then he had waved. You had been mortified.
That was Friday, and today, Sunday, he had dropped by with a bottle of bourbon (turned out he owned the local company that made it) for your family. When you expressed interest in his manor-style house, he had politely invited you over to have a look at it. He told you that while he’d installed modern appliances and made some minor changes, he’d kept all the antique furniture and had it all restored in the past couple of years.
“I’ve got a peach pie,” he’d added with a laugh as he combed fingers through his strawberry blond hair, “And as much as I want to, I can’t eat it by myself.”
Mr. Hux (he’d said to call him Bren, but you hadn’t dared take him up on that yet) leans against the counter beside you, his shirt collar open and sleeves rolled to the elbows. The white fabric makes his skin glow warmly in the late afternoon sunlight coming through the window, and you sense more than actually see him looking at you as you poke your fork into the last piece of crust on your plate. You put it into your mouth, chewing, and then he puts his hand out for the plate. You dare to glance up at him, catch his dimpled smile.
“I can take that,” he says, and shyly, you let him take the plate, hurriedly putting your fork down on it. He carries both your plate and his to the sink, forks clattering to the stainless steel as he sets them down. You find yourself staring at his back and his back side , and you attempt to distract yourself by picking up your glass of sweet tea and taking a sip. It’s strong and sweet, but not overpowering, and you wonder briefly how it would taste if you had taken Mr. Hux up on his offer of a half shot of his company’s special peach bourbon in it. Would it have had that juicy, high summer flavor? Would it have had a delicate hint of burn as you swallowed? Or would it just have been warm?
“So did you enjoy your tour of the house?” Mr. Hux asks in his unhurried cadence, his vowels drawn out, his consonants soft. Listening to him is like listening to running water, and you keep finding yourself being lulled into a trance by it. You give yourself a quick mental nudge out of complacency. Maybe later you can daydream about that voice, but for now you should probably do your best to carry on the conversation. It shouldn’t be difficult, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to, intoxicating voice aside.
“I did! I was a little surprised you were willing to share so much family history,” you tell him sincerely, glancing up at his face. You’re distracted for a moment by his square jaw, but then you skip past his grinning mouth to his eyes. They’re blue, as blue as the cloudless summer sky outside, and it’s a challenge not to get lost in trying to memorize the striations of shading that make them that extraordinary color.
“My family has lived here for so long,” he says with a laugh, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his bared forearms over his broad chest, “Seems like the whole world knows my family’s history. At least, everyone in town knows it.” He cocks his head as he looks down at you and you drop your eyes, briefly taking in the way his open shirt collar frames his throat. Trying to keep yourself from staring again, your sight line falls further to his chest, and from there to the toes of your shoes. You can see the tips of his too, he’s standing so close, but there’s just really no safe place to look. You don’t trust yourself not to stare at him like an idiot.
“Is it nice, living someplace where everyone knew your grandfather?” you ask, scuffing the edge of one of your shoes against the edge of the other, as if you’ve seen a mark there that offends you. There isn’t, it’s just something to focus on while you pull yourself together so you can attempt not to make a fool of yourself in front of one of the most attractive men you think you've ever seen. Tall and broad, without being bulky, there's an elegance to him that makes you feel awkward in comparison.
“In some ways,” he answers, “Not so much in others.”
“Pros and cons?”
“Exactly.”
Another silence follows and you can feel him studying you, examining your face, quietly taking you in. You get the sense that he wants to ask you something, but you have no idea what it might be. Your heart speeds up a little as you speculate on it. You’re the new girl in town, at least for the summer, so maybe he’s interested? Maybe he’ll ask you to go on a date with him. Where to, you don’t know, there didn’t really seem to be anything much in town, though you suppose there’s a country club somewhere. There’s a river nearby, maybe a picnic there?
“Look, I know we’ve only just met, but… May I have the pleasure of kissing you?” The question is phrased so carefully, his tone so cautious, like he expects you to say no and is already prepared to respect that. But he wouldn’t ask unless he thought there was still some hope of you saying yes, right? When you look up at his face, there’s no arrogance there, only a kind of infinite patience and a strange lack of anxiety. He’s steady and strong, grounded and all the more charming for the touches of boyishness he’s shown you through the afternoon.
“Okay,” you murmur because you want to, you would love to kiss him, at least once. It seems like the kind of thing you shouldn’t miss out on, and weren’t you hoping just a few seconds ago that he would ask you on a date? At some point your eyes dropped to somewhere around his belt buckle and you almost panic, not wanting him to misinterpret a signal you didn’t mean to give, but then the backs of his fingers are under your chin, encouraging you to lift your face.
He steps closer, already bending, but he doesn’t kiss you just yet. You can’t imagine why he’s waiting, and then you remember, belatedly, that you should probably breathe. You let the breath in your lungs go, then inhale, and he’s smiling again as he hovers above you. His hand is still under your chin, keeping you from looking away, and there’s something more to his smile that you’re having trouble naming. He looks… captivated, yes, but also troubled, like maybe he’s afraid of something-
Except then he closes the distance between the two of you and his lips are pressed against yours. The kiss is chaste, simple, tender, and it only trends further in that direction as his fingertips travel back towards your ear so that he can cradle one side of your face in his cupped hand. He lingers a little longer, pulls away just enough so that you can gasp for breath, and then he’s back again, his lips moving slow and sure against yours. His other hand has left the counter to slide around your waist and support the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. Your hands settle on his chest, but they slide up to his shoulders and from there to the back of his neck
You stand on tip-toe to press a little harder into the kiss and he must read that as a positive sign because suddenly there’s an increasingly frantic energy in the way he crushes his mouth against yours. His tongue strokes and curls around yours, the fingers of the hand at your back curling and gripping your waist. When his grip slips, he fists the hem of your shirt, and the brush of his knuckles against your skin sends electricity sparking through your nerves. This time when he pulls away, he’s panting hotly against your lips, his chest heaving, rising and falling as rapidly as your own.
“Can I- Shit-” he pleads breathlessly, trembling and wide-eyed and looking enthralled as he stares into your face, “ Fuck , I need to taste you- I know how it sounds, but I just- Please -”
“Oh god,” you whisper, his begging sending molten lava through your veins to flush your entire body with heat, and you probably shouldn’t agree so easily, but you want to- “Yeah, okay, you can-” You can’t even bring yourself to finish the sentence, but that’s all he needs and he maneuvers you with unexpected gentleness against the counter before he falls to his knees at your feet. He’s looking up at you with a kind of reverence that’s fast approaching worship as he unbuttons and unzips the fly of your shorts, slides the denim and your panties over your hips and down your legs.
He gets them down to your ankles, pulls one side of the mass of fabric over the requisite shoe before he’s parting your legs. He leans close, lips parted, the tip of his tongue sitting just behind his teeth, inhaling. He looks up one more time as his hands curve around the backs of your legs, sliding up to cup your ass. He buries his face at the apex of your thighs at the same time as he pulls your hips toward himself, his tongue running through your folds. You almost hit the floor as he groans, barely catching yourself on the edge of the counter with your hands as the vibrations shimmer through flesh that shouldn’t be that sensitive yet, should it? He’s barely touched you, but-
“Fuck,” he moans shamelessly, “Fuck, you taste so goddamn sweet - Shit, shit , need my tongue all over this pretty pussy-” You bite your lip and tighten your grip on the counter, trying to stifle the high pitched sound threatening to break out of your throat. He’s making good on what he promised, shoving his open mouth against your cunt, dragging his tongue deep through your folds, the tip of it dipping shallowly inside you for a second before flattening out and passing over your clit.
“God, yes, fuckin’- So sweet, so good- ” You wonder how the hell he’s breathing with his mouth on you like this, you can feel every single word he speaks against you. Every one has a different shape, sends a different kind of sensation shivering through you. He follows it up by pressing his tongue flat against your cunt, and then he’s pulling one leg up and over his shoulder. You lurch, but he steadies you, one hand going from your ass to the counter behind you, his forearm keeping you from tipping too far.
“That’s it, babygirl, that’s right, open up for me,” he purrs, adjusting your thigh to spread you a little wider before suckling on your clit, his tongue swirling over the tight bud of nerves. You choke on air and buck up into his mouth, one hand releasing the counter and ending up in his hair by reflex. You fist the silken mass of it that just a minute ago was so carefully styled, pull on it by accident trying to get him closer to you, and he makes some kind of unholy sound against your pussy and almost sprawls on the cream tiles of the kitchen floor beneath you.
“ Fuck ,” he hisses when you pull on his hair again, trying to get him to make that noise a second time because you have never heard someone enjoy giving oral this much, “Fuck, yes , pull on my hair- Want you to cum on my face- Fuckin’ need you to cum in my mouth-” He seals his open mouth to your cunt, thrusting his tongue up into you as far as he can, withdrawing and then repeating the action again and again.
“Bren,” you whimper from between your clenched teeth, still trying to keep quiet. You’d almost said, ‘Mr. Hux’, but it hadn’t felt right, had had too many syllables. He’d asked you to call him by his first name, hadn’t he? The memory feels fuzzy and far away even though it couldn’t have happened more than an hour or two ago, but saying his name is so easy, feels so natural and right passing between your lips. The edge of the counter digs into your palm as you grip it hard, your knuckles turning white, and your hand tightens in his hair as you rock helplessly against his mouth, mewling with all-consuming need.
“ Shit , yes, say my name again-” he gasps, sounding almost as if he’s in pain as he laps blindly at your clit, “God, so wet and so fuckin’ sweet- Like a goddamn peach , fuck -” His hand slides over your ass and down the thigh slung over his shoulder before it moves back up and under you. Without warning, two of his fingers are pressing deep into your cunt, crooking and curling back towards him, and you can’t stop yourself from crying out, your knees almost buckling under your own weight. You catch a shaky breath, but then he’s sucking on you again and you brokenly moan his name, your voice hitching somewhere in the middle of it.
“Fuck, fuck , please, please cum on my face-” he begs, letting your too-sensitive clit go just long enough to plead with you, “Need all that sweet cream on my tongue, want you to fuckin’ drown me with it-” Abruptly, he’s sucking on your folds again, rotating his wrist to twist the fingers inside you. The firm press of the tips of his digits against your walls makes your hips roll reflexively, and you squirm, pressure building low in your belly and heat collecting under his mouth and low in your back.
“Oh, oh , fuck, Bren, I’m - I’m going to-” You want to warn him, but you’re not sure if he can even hear you considering how far between your legs he is. Besides that, you don’t sound like yourself, your voice faint and unsteady and not loud enough. Somehow, he does hear and he growls possessively against your core as he turns his hand again and drags his fingertips in a curving trail against your insides. The feeling of it drives you closer to the breaking point, provokes a shudder and a high-pitched keening you can’t keep yourself from making.
“ C’mon , kitten- Shit - Want it, want it so bad -” he says, pushing his fingers deep into you, pulling back, and then adding a third. The stretch makes you jerk, leaves you trembling on the edge of orgasm as he drags his tongue over your clit once, twice, and then a third time before he growls again, saying, “Want you to fuckin’ cum for me-”
His lips close around your clit, his tongue lashing over it as he sucks, fingers dragging against your insides. You double over above his head, your other hand in his hair now too as the heat gathering low in your back washes over you from head to toe in a hot wave of orgasm. It’s all you can do just to keep yourself upright, but he doesn’t stop and you throw yourself back against the counter, grabbing desperately for the edge with both hands to try to support yourself. The ragged cries spilling out of your mouth sound like they belong to someone else as you clench painfully tight around his fingers, hips thrusting up against the heat of his mouth where you feel like you’re melting.
His hand slows and he eases off the suction on your clit, and then you’re shaking as you look down at him, panting and dazed. He peers up at you from under his messy hair, parts of it standing up where you had your hands in it, lets his fingers slide out of your body with a slick, wet noise that would embarrass you if you were feeling more self-conscious. His eyes are still on yours as he sucks his fingers clean, his expression adoring, even worshipful. You’re mesmerized when he shivers, his eyes closing for a moment. When they open again, he pulls his hand away from his mouth, wraps his hand around your thigh as he leans into you and rests his cheek on your hip.
“ Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice raw and rough, “God, I need you in my bed- Fuckin’ need you right now, I’m so goddamn hard- Please -”
It may only be the one time, it may never happen again, but he’s looking at you like you’re the only woman in the world and if he’s that good with his mouth, then you want to find out what else he can do. You let go of your white-knuckled grip on the counter, run the still-trembling fingers of both your hands through his hair. He leans into your touch like no one’s ever been so tender with him, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.
“D’you think we can actually make it to your bed?” you ask, your voice rough as you try not to laugh and only partially succeed. He grasps the counter on either side of your hips and pulls himself to his feet, your hands sliding out of his hair and to his shoulders as he rises. He pins your bare hips to the edge of the counter with his own, his olive khakis doing nothing to hide the thick heat of his erection against your thigh.
“We’ll make it,” he promises breathlessly, grinding slow against your leg, “I’ll make sure of it.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” you whisper as he dips his head to kiss you again.