Open Heart, Open Mind — sim jaeyun x f!reader
Summary — After years of terrible dating experiences, you've come to the conclusion that men only want one of three things: sex, a mother, or a therapist. Jake, however, is the only man whose intentions you can't seem to sniff out.
CW & Tags — 18+ MDNI, Smut, Fluff, Humour (I try), kind of bratty!reader? x soft dom!Jake, reader hates men, strangers to lovers, blind dating, rich!Jake, Jake is a little shit but he's sexy and kind so that's ok, sexually frustrated reader, p in v sex, brief mentions of oral (m and f receiving), cowgirl (riding), thigh-riding/dry-humping, mild size kink, handjobs, fingering, creampie, no condom but on the pill, cuddling, alcohol consumption, allusions to shitty past partners (but nothing abusive), petnames: (Sweetheart, beautiful)
Words — 6.5k
A/N — I literally had to restrain myself from writing a daddy kink in here... anyway. Here is green flag Jake to cleanse myself from the absolute depravity that was my last work.
Jake is confusing.
See, in all your experience as an unofficial, uncertified expert in dating— or in other words, a woman who has been on far too many failed first dates that she tries to cope with her disappointment by statistically analyzing them— you'd come to the conclusion that men only want one of three things: sex, a mother, or a therapist. And if they don't want just one of them, they want all three.
Men are no strangers to being greedy, nor are they particularly adept at hiding it. All it took was a few sweet words into leading questions to get your prey to crack, to reveal their true intentions. You’ve gotten so good at it, in fact, that the prospect of dating had become almost entirely undesirable— entirely, painfully boring.
So how exactly did you find yourself sitting in a taxi in your heels and dress, dreading the moment you’d have to sit in front of your date and listen to him chatter to himself for hours while you pretend to listen? Your friend, who foolishly believed she could revive the beating of your cold, dead heart, swore up and down that her boyfriend knew a guy who is perfect for you.
“Just give him a chance,” she pleaded with you, with that all too hopeful look in her eyes. It didn’t take much for you to cave. It had been a long time since you’d been out, after all, and maybe you’d have a little fun playing with a new toy like Jake.
Though truthfully, you didn’t think he would be nearly as interesting as you’d hoped. You’d already stalked his Instagram page, and it was nothing short of normal. He was, however, abnormally good-looking, and clearly seemed to know it by the number of shirtless beach photos and gym selfies he had in his monthly photo-dumps.
You remember sighing to yourself in defeat. Hot guys who know they're hot almost always fall into the first genre of men in your unofficial dating hypothesis: the ones who are looking for sex. And though you were consoled by his gorgeous face, you already knew his personality would be nothing short of cocky and bland. But, hey. You didn’t hate the thought of letting him hit it if he turns out to be at least a little bit bearable.
However, he then shared the restaurant's location. The name, a place you couldn't even pronounce, the price, way out of your humble budget. Right then and there, your first baseless assumption about Jake crumbled before your eyes. Because let's be honest, no man is trying that hard to impress you if all they're looking for is pussy— especially a man as good-looking as him.
A mother, you then decided, as the taxi pulls up in front of the restaurant location. You step out of the taxi, stilettos clicking against the concrete, smoothing down the length of your silk black dress.
Men who try too hard are always looking for a partner who will mother them. They want a capable, responsible, but tender and caring woman who will soothe them through their temper tantrums, pack their lunchboxes for work and tuck them into bed like the man-children they are. They want a woman who will manage their schedules, who will remind them when they have a dentist appointment in two weeks, but still call him the man of the household to make him feel important.
Men like this have to try harder because they know that a partner who tends to their every aching need is doing twice the expected labour than the ones who only provide sex. And though they'll spoil you with attention at first, the connection will slowly fade into annoyance as you start to realize how incompetent they are at simply taking care of themselves as a grown adult.
But a man-child doesn't show up to his date early, as Jake does. Nor does a man-child get up to pull out your seat, or pour you a glass of the red wine bottle he's already ordered. Which means that now, you’re back to square one.
Your eyes narrow at his frustratingly handsome face from across the table as he smiles back at you. You despise how genuine he appears, carrying himself with confidence, and yet, without arrogance. Then, you look down at his hands clasped together on the table, catching a glimpse of his Armani watch. Wealthy but tasteful, too. That fact only irritates you more.
"So, Jake," you form as gentle a smile as you can.
The softer you appear, the easier it is to disarm them. Especially, the ones that are looking for the third thing: a therapist, as that is the only remaining thing left on your list.
These ones are the hardest to spot, as they often don't start to pile their emotional baggage onto you until after they've gotten you invested. But, you're a seasoned professional at this point, and you know that if you play your cards right, you can get him to show his true intentions early.
"You must make a lot of money," you finally say, your tone playful enough to get away with the bluntness of your statement. Your intention is to grant the illusion of familiarity. By being upfront, you are essentially laying your cards down on the table, which in turn, should make him feel that there is nothing to be afraid of when speaking to you.
"You have your priorities straight, don't you?" He teases back, meeting your sharp gaze directly, "That shouldn't come as a surprise. You already know what I do for a living."
And you do. You were well aware that he's an engineer, and that his entry-level salary alone was likely twice that of your current one. He's also single and has been working for many years now. That fact alone means he has more than enough to enjoy these types of luxuries.
"I mean to say, this," you gesture around, "is quite the investment for a first date."
"It's like you said. Money isn't a problem for me. I happen to like this restaurant, so I chose it," he affirms. Again, no hint of conceit, no shift in his tone. You begin to simmer in your annoyance at his resistance to bending to your will. But then, he continues, "And I wouldn't describe this as an investment. That makes this whole thing seem so transactional, you know? We're just two people getting to know each other."
Bullseye.
A smile spreads all too quickly across your face.
"You don't think dating is transactional?"
"It shouldn't be."
So he views dating as an emotional ordeal. How adorably sweet of him. Well, that certainly crosses him out as a man who is only looking for sex, right? Now you're getting somewhere, you think, your French-manicured finger nail mindlessly tapping the white tablecloth.
At your silence, he cocks his head, "Do you?"
You’re caught off guard by his question— or rather, the fact that he was even asking you a question at all.
"I don't think it should be, either. Actually, it's very refreshing to hear that." You hum, pretending care, as if you have any desire to get to know him beyond research purposes. "I take it, you're looking for something serious, then?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. But if we have a connection, then I don't see why we shouldn't explore it."
You frown. Damnit. If he were looking for a therapist-girlfriend, he would've given some kind of sappy, false promise to sweep you off your feet and assure you that he takes you seriously. Now your entire theory is being flipped on its head.
This man... why is he so normal? You start to backtrack, brushing the thought aside. No. You've dated enough men to know that none of them are normal. He might have a genuine smile, adorably expressive eyes, and the loveliest voice to ever grace your ears, but he cannot fool you. He must have ulterior motives. They always do.
A soft laugh interrupts your analysis, and you look up.
"Do you treat all your first dates like this?" He's leaning forward now, his chin resting in the palm of his hand.
"Sorry?" You fold your arms.
"You asked me three questions in a row, and now you're glaring at me like I'm an equation you can't figure out," he raises a brow. "I came here with an open heart and open mind. Can you say the same?"
"You don't know anything about me."
"You're right. I don't," he concurs. "So tell me about yourself."
Sex. There. That has to be the thing that he wants from you, and it's final. Most men fall into that category, anyway. Just because he spent a little extra spare money on you, and took his time to actually ask you thought-provoking questions, and actually appeared to listen when you spoke, doesn't change a thing. Sometimes, they like to play with their food before eating it.
Your prediction is affirmed by his offer to drive you home, and you glare at him each time he opens the car door for you, acting like the gentleman you know he isn’t. You have to hide your smug grin as he walks you to the steps of your building, thinking of what kind of silly excuse he’d come up with to invite himself inside. But in the midst of your thoughts, you skip a step, and you find yourself slipping.
"Careful, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for your arm, steadying you straight. Too distracted by his rather firm grasp, you barely register the nickname. “Are you alright?
You blink, then furrow your brows.
"Sweetheart?"
"Because you’re so sweet,” he says with a cheeky smile, and you can’t even pretend not to roll your eyes. “Still haven't warmed up to me, yet, huh?”
"Yet?” you scoff, “You sure have a lot of faith in yourself."
"I have a lot of faith in you, too," he starts, hand sliding from your arm down to your hand, "faith that you'll come around to me by our next date."
"I don’t do ‘next dates’."
“Sure, you don’t.”
You face him beneath the small, dim light that hangs above the entrance. Your expression is pulled into a frown, while his remains relaxed, almost pleased. He's ridiculously gorgeous in person, and even more so up close. It’s a shame that, in only a few moments, you are sure the whole gentlemanly facade would come crashing down. Except, it doesn't.
He doesn’t lean in to kiss you, he doesn’t move his hand down to your ass or try to whisper something obscene in your ear. Instead, his fingers interlock with yours, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before exchanging goodbyes.
You spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, your sheets too suffocating, your skin too hot. You replay the feeling of the warmth of his hand in your head, wondering what it would feel like to hold you, to touch you. Your own thoughts make you want to scream.
Jake is confusing, because only he can make you that fucking horny from just touching your hand.
You find yourself sitting in yet another restaurant that is way out of your price range, in another dress and pair of heels, glaring straight at Jake like you want to kill him. Or fuck him. Or both. These days, you’re not really sure what it is that you want. But regardless of what it was, it somehow possessed you to agree to see him again.
"Why did you ask me on a second date?" You finally ask, picking at your food.
"Because I like you."
"Why?"
"Because I do,” he brings his glass of wine to his lips, and you feel your eye twitch.
"There's nothing to like about me,” you say with a huff, setting your utensils down.
"Now, that's not a very nice way to talk about yourself.”
"The first thing I asked you about was your wealth and status. You really want to date a woman like that?"
He pauses, thoughtfully.
"The way I remember it, you were making a valid observation,” he affirms, without even a hint of sarcasm, “To me, that indicates honesty, perceptiveness and intelligence."
You stare, dead silent.
"You can't be serious."
"See, that's the only bad thing about you. The fact that you don't seem to believe a single word I say."
"I have my reasons."
"Which are?"
"Look,” you clasp your hands together, leaning close to make sure he meets your gaze, “I don't care how rich you are. How nice you pretend to be. How stupidly handsome your face is—"
"You think I'm handsome?"
"—None of this is going to work on me,” You seethe, and yet again, he doesn’t waver.
You wonder if it’s even possible to make him frown, or if his face is permanently formed into an easygoing smile forever. You absolutely despise how he carries himself, seeming as if to float through life without a single worry.
"That’s really interesting, considering you’re still sitting here with me," he notes, using his knife to cut another piece of his steak. “You’re acting like I’m forcing you to sit here, but you’re the one who agreed to a second date, sweetheart.”
"Who am I to turn down a free meal?"
"You've barely touched your food," he uses his fork to point at your pasta dish, of which you’d only taken a few bites so far, "If you didn't enjoy our conversations, you wouldn't be taking your time."
"Maybe I've lost my appetite."
"Or, maybe,” he grins, “It’s because you want to stare at my ‘stupidly handsome’ face for even longer."
"One compliment, and it goes straight to your head."
With that, you’re sighing, a hand at your temples. You look to your near-empty glass and grab the bottle at the centre of the table, and to your disappointment, only a few drops remain.
"In my defence, you don't give me very many to work with.”
"How about this?” You place the bottle back down. “I'll give you one more if you order another bottle."
"Just one?"
"Don't be greedy."
And with that, he’s waving down the waiter, and you can't help the warmth that creeps to your cheeks.
You want to trust the facts and statistics you've collected, to remind yourself that getting your hopes up will only lead to disappointment. But then he's pouring you another glass, and you're trying not to laugh at another stupid joke, trying to ignore how your heart skips a beat.
"Okay, sweetheart, let me hear it.” He starts, “And it has to be from the heart. No sweet-talking me, I can tell.”
"I like your voice," you admit all too easily, "Not just the tone, or the accent. But the way that you speak. Sometimes, it sounds like you genuinely care."
"That's because I do.”
You stare him down, burning up inside because you just can’t seem to get the sense that he’s faking this to you, no matter how hard you focus on him. But you just can’t help the feeling that if you believe him, you’ll end up a fool.
"In that case,” you sigh, “I also admire how good of a liar you are. Unlike every other bastard I meet, I can't tell when you do it. So there. Two compliments. Lucky you.”
"I'd feel a little luckier if the second wasn't based on wrongful assumptions about my character, but I'll take what I can get." He’s smiling, raising his glass to yours, "Cheers?"
“To what?”
“To you, learning to play nice with me.”
“I’m not cheering to that.”
He leans his glass over to clink yours anyway, and this time, you can’t fight your smile.
You share a taxi home because you're both far too drunk to drive, and you suppose that’s your own fault for thinking two bottles of wine was an appropriate amount for two people. And yet again, he walks you to your steps.
When you see his beautiful self this close to you again, you can't help but tug him by the collar of his shirt, pressing your lips to his.
You'd long since decided, sometime halfway through the second bottle of wine, that you don't care about his intentions anymore. The only thing that matters now is your intention of getting into his pants and devouring him. But his lips aren't needy like yours. His are kind, controlled, and tender, like nothing you’d ever felt.
While other men kiss to take something, Jake kisses you for the sole purpose of simply kissing you. His hands don’t wander, his lips don’t search for more, and you just melt into him, putty in the palm of his hands.
When he pulls away, he lets his forehead fall to yours, and his hand encompasses your own in a warmth you had been waiting to feel since the last time you saw him. It’s in that moment that you realize you never wanted to be fucked by a man so badly in your entire life.
"You're very beautiful,” he whispers, warming your heart and the space between your legs.
"You’re not too bad, yourself."
You wait with bated breath, and feeling impatient, you open your mouth to invite him inside yourself, but he speaks before you can.
"I'll see you soon.”
You look at him, trying to conceal your shock, as if you aren’t weeping between your thighs, as if you aren’t dreading how you’ll be simmering in sexual frustration for the next few days, until you see him again.
You squirm nervously in your seat as the waiter begins to take your plates away, meeting Jake’s gaze. Everything about this was unfamiliar. The fact that you were seeing the same man a third time, the fact that you were genuinely enjoying your time with him, and the fact that he made you feel happy instead of disgusted or annoyed.
You couldn’t even begin to make sense of it or understand how he had torn down your walls brick by brick without really even trying. But you refused to let it show. You refused to let him crawl further under your skin until you’ve successfully crawled under his first.
"I have a new theory about you,” you say, as soon as the waiter leaves the table.
He‘s leaning forward, "Do tell."
"I think you're a virgin."
He snorts. Loud. A little too loud for a dinner in a candle-lit restaurant, and you nudge him with your foot under the table to silence him. A few other restaurant-goers hear and turn to look at the pair of you before returning to their meals, unfazed.
"Sorry,” he snickers, flashing you a smile, “I don’t mean to disappoint, sweetheart, but if you were looking forward to taking my virginity, then I’m afraid to tell you it's already long gone."
"What a shame," you deadpan, rolling your eyes at him.
"You didn't really think that, did you?" He grins, lowering his voice, "I know I don't kiss like a virgin."
"What am I supposed to think?" You defend yourself, index finger pressed to the table, "What kind of guy doesn't try to have sex on the second date?"
"You wanted to have sex?"
"This isn't about me."
"Isn't it? It takes two to tango," Jake grins, and you can feel your face start to heat up, too flustered to search for a retort. "I hate to say I told you so, but look at you. Already succumbing to my charms."
"In your dreams," you try, rather defensively. And lucky for you, he doesn't press it.
"If you want a real answer to your rhetorical question,” he starts, gazing into your eyes with a look you couldn't quite place, “It didn't feel like the right time."
"Alright, now you really sound like a virgin.”
He raises his hands defensively, "Hey, I prefer my sex sober. What's the point if I can't remember it the next morning?"
You shake your head, recalling all the unsatisfying nights you wish you didn't have to remember. All the men who let themselves finish, only to not return the favour. All the men who pushed your head down while kissing, all the men who didn’t even know where the clit is. The only memorable thing about those experiences is how awful they all were. At least being drunk made them bearable.
"Maybe some people would rather forget."
"Well, sweetheart," he’s leaning forward again, and your breath catches when his hand takes yours across the table, rubbing gentle circles over your knuckles, "You won’t want to forget me."
"Slow down, baby," he hums against your lips, hands moving to halt the movement of your hips.
Annoying, you think as a heavy sigh of frustration escapes you. You've just about had it with Jake, because even after having to be the one to invite him inside, even after being the one to lead him to the couch and mount him, he never caves to your demands. Even now, as he is hard, seated beneath you.
Every time you kiss him with too much urgency, he reels you back in, controlling the pace as he pleases. Every time your hands wander down to his waistband, he raises his knee to the throbbing heat between your legs, your hands flying to his shoulders to brace yourself.
It doesn't help that he's hands down the best kisser you've ever experienced. His lips, soft and warm. His tongue, slow and deliberate. He doesn't poke his tongue around like an idiot or try to swallow your face. He's controlled. Intentional. It makes you want to rip his clothes off like an animal.
"Why?" You hate how whiny your voice sounds, squirming as you try to grind your hips down against his thigh. He doesn't budge.
"Because I want to take my time with you," his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing you ever so slightly as he sucks down on your sensitive skin. "You're so beautiful like this."
"You're an asshole," you inhale, biting down your lip to suppress the whine that threatens to escape you.
His mouth continues to trail downward, worshiping your neck, but never harsh enough to leave a mark, as he had promised he wouldn't— You're a working professional. It would be a pain to cover up.
"You're quite mean for someone so needy," he replies, moving your hips for you at his decided pace, "So demanding."
"You just want to watch me suffer."
"The opposite, actually. I want to make you feel so good." His lips nip at your collarbone, and you grind against his thigh in just the right way. You dig your fingers further into the fabric of his shirt, a timid whimper falling from your parted lips. "Wanna give you everything you need. Just be patient, baby."
You huff. The last thing you want right now is to be patient, and you swear to god, if he doesn't whip it out right now and bury himself so deep inside you, you might start to cry. But you've learned by now that he doesn't heed to your call. With your eyes fluttering shut, despite the distracting, toe-curling friction between your legs, you start to scheme.
You bring a hand to his cheek, guiding him away from where he kisses your neck. And with the tip of your fingers, you lift his chin, meeting him eye-to-eye.
"But Jakey," you pout, "Don't you want me to touch you?"
You lean forward, hand at his chest pushing him a little further into the couch, and this time it's your lips at his neck, nipping his skin, your head spinning at the low groan that escapes his throat. His hands move to the small of your back, rubbing slow, encouraging circles into your skin. And now, without him controlling your hips, you press yourself against him with more fervour.
"I can’t help being mean. It's only because I want you so bad," your hand trails down his chest, slowly, until your finger tips reach his belt. "Should I make it up to you?"
You press your lips to his to cut off his presumed words, desperate and hopeful that your womanly woes are enough to shake his quite frankly terrifying self-control, in the hopes that now, finally, he would let you take what you want. The thought of it alone has your hips stuttering, and you whimper into his open mouth, a familiar pressure starting to build up inside you.
Though, you don't realize what you're chasing until it's too late, and suddenly, you snap, calling out his name against his grinning lips like a bitch in heat as he swallows your sinful moans, legs shaking in the aftermath of your high. And when your hips finally come to a stop, your cries fading into heavy pants, that's when it hits you.
He pulls away, looking at you up and down in awe, watching how your chest rises and falls, admiring the dazed look in your eyes.
"Did you just...?"
You nod, slowly, trying not to shrink under his prideful gaze. To say you were embarrassed would be an understatement. You're both fully clothed, and he hadn't even touched you beyond kissing you, and yet you already finished. He laughs softly, his thumbs still rubbing in slow circles at your back, the simple movement alone setting your body aflame.
"I wasn't expecting that."
"Neither was I."
"Hm, does that make me special, then?"
"Well, I usually have to fake these things,” you admit bashfully, “so I guess that does make you pretty special.”
"You sure know how to flatter a guy, huh?"
"I know a lot of ways to do that," you say with a sly smile, earning a brow raise from him, “If you’ll finally let me?”
Your eyes drop to the tent in his pants, and your mouth parts with want. If you were with any other guy, you probably would've reached down to drop his pants and get on your knees unceremoniously, but something about Jake makes you want to carry yourself with a little more class.
Instead, you move your lips to his neck, and your fingers begin to work at the buttons of his crisp, button-down shirt. But your eyes begin to feel a little heavy, and your fingers start to feel a little too clumsy, struggling with only the first button. Your lips only manage to press a single kiss before you're yawning, exhaustion overtaking you as you mentally start to recover from your high.
"Tired?" He asks softly, with maybe a hint of trying to disguise his amusement.
You finally undo the top button, moving to the next and sigh against the side of his neck.
"A little," you admit, thinking about how you only managed to get a couple hours of good sleep. "Last night, there was this project deadline. Deadweight coworkers did nothing, so I had to pick up the slack, last minute."
"Sweetheart, you should've told me. You must be exhausted," his hands move from the small of your back to your middle, rubbing up and down soothingly. His eyes soften in concern, in a way that makes your pussy throb. Christ, there’s something wrong with you. "Now I feel bad that I've kept you up so late."
"Don't feel bad. It's not your fault that my coworkers are incompetent." You scoff, your head slowly falling to rest in the crook of his neck, and your hand clutching uselessly at the fabric of his shirt. The rhythm of his fast-beating heart is almost enough to lull you to sleep right there, but you will yourself not to. You don't want to be done with him yet.
"Mm. Well, if it makes you feel better, you're not the only one struggling with incompetent coworkers," he laughs softly, and you can feel the vibrations of his chest.
You let out a louder yawn this time. But when you shift to adjust yourself more comfortably in his arms, you're reminded that he is still hard as a rock beneath you— a reminder that you hadn't yet returned the favour. Admittedly, you want nothing more than for him to slip it out and stick it inside you right there, to fuck you until you're wide awake again, but you know he won’t do that. So instead, your hand slides down his chest and fumbles around with his belt.
"Watcha doing?" He hums, “Thought you were tired?”
"You got me off, so—"
"Did I?" He chuckles, and you feel your face burn. Okay. Maybe it was more like you got yourself off. But still. "I don't need anything, beautiful. Save it for when you have the energy."
You're too tired to fight him on that as he lifts from the couch, carrying you bridal-style to your bedroom. And laying you gently on the mattress, you get this overwhelming sadness at the loss of his warm body against yours.
You try to sweet-talk him into giving you what you want, as he helps you rid yourself of your dress and stockings, and though his eyes linger on the matching set you decided to wear underneath just for him, he only offers you a polite, respectful smile. It almost annoys you how considerate he is, asking you where you keep your makeup wipes to help clean your face.
You pout when he kisses your forehead, finally, saying something about how he should be on his way.
"Stay," You tug at his sleeve. You don't want to think about how ridiculous it is that you're asking a guy you've been on three dates with to basically cuddle you to sleep. Since when did you act so clingy? Since when did you want someone to stay in bed with you, if only to keep them close, and nothing more? Timidly, you lower your voice. "Do you... want to stay?"
It's all worth it, at least, to be able to watch him strip down, your eyes taking in his lean, muscular form. He's still hard in his boxers as he crawls into your bed, and you smile when you finally feel him flush against you again, with big, strong arms wrapped around your centre.
He doesn't try to grope your breasts, or grind into you, or whisper dirty things in your ear, and it's almost offensive, you think, because how can he behave so well when you're backing your hips into him, the obscene wetness between your legs staining the fabric of his underwear? What kind of inhuman self-restraint does this man possess?
You quickly give up your shifting movements, realizing he won't budge. And as your heavy eyelids fall shut, you can't help but think that maybe he was right. For now, you would rest. Only so that you could have all the energy in the world to pounce on him the very next morning and take his dick until you can't walk.
"Mm, Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"I can't wait for you to fuck me," the words slip out too easily. He laughs into the crook of your neck, but you don't miss his shaky exhale, and the way his grip seems to tighten around your form.
"Go to sleep."
"You sure you don't want me to make you breakfast first?" He asks, as if you don't have his entire cock in your mouth right now.
If you thought he was gorgeous last night, he was irresistible now, with his dark, messy hair over his eyes, his voice hoarse and sleepy. Naturally, you just couldn’t resist yourself as you'd pushed him back onto the mattress and crawled under the sheets, hungrily stalking the imprint of his cock. And though he tried and insisted that he should be the one getting between your legs instead, it was too early to be manhandling you like that. So he just let you do your thing while providing annoyingly unwarranted, kind and considerate commentary.
You glare at him through your lashes, removing him from your mouth, letting your hand do the work instead.
"Fuck breakfast."
He lets out a half-laugh, half-groan as your mouth returns to the head of his dick, licking away the precum that leaks from him like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. Because really, this was the only thing you were hungry for: getting to finally touch him, and hear those pretty sounds of his amidst his running mouth.
"It's the most important meal of the day, you know," he continues, hands curling in your hair to get a better view of your face, rather than to control your pace this time, "Never good to start the day on a— ah— empty stomach."
"Really?" You can't help the sly grin that curls at your lips, before you're crawling up. You sit yourself on him, grinding against his cock through your lacy little getup, "Then fill me up."
He looks up at you, eyes wandering down your body to admire what you'd worn for him last night, and his hands move to your hips to thumb the fabric.
"Wearing stuff like this on the third date," he smiles, "Flattery really is your forte."
He says, as if having sex on the third date as two fully grown adults is some kind of taboo. Though you suppose he’s right. Never in a million years would you have done something like this for any other idiot guy.
"It's only called flattery if it's insincere, right?" You reply, feeling him hook his fingers around the waistband. He starts to pull them down, and you let the fabric slip down your bare legs. "Trust me. I'm very sincere about this. You deserve it."
"Me?" He smiles ear to ear, like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Yeah, you. You've been very polite, Jake," you sigh when you feel your bare cunt pressed against him, the head of his cock catching your clit. "Let me show you how much I appreciate it."
"Whoa, hold on, beautiful," he hisses, hands flying to your hips as you press his tip to your entrance. He’s panting below you, and you whine in his grasp, trying to press down. "Haven't even prepped you yet, and—”
"Holy shit, Jake, I don't need it," you groan, and he opens his mouth to protest again, but you cut him off, "And I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me right now. I'm on the pill, so don't worry your handsome self over anything else, just let me have you.”
Without much convincing at all, he eases his grasp, and you whine when you start to sink on him, now understanding exactly why he was concerned about prep. He’s huge, and you've never been stretched out like this before, but you don't care. The slight sting of being stretched out is nothing compared to the satisfaction you feel of finally being filled. You close your eyes when you sheath yourself to the hilt, feeling him deep in your guts.
"You okay?"
"Oh, I'm amazing," you sigh, flashing him a smile. You start to move just a little bit, rising and falling in shallow thrusts, slowly working your way up, "I'm riding a hot, respectful guy with a huge dick, is that even a real question?"
He laughs, and it morphs into a moan as you fully raise your hips to slam back down again.
"Well, the most gorgeous little thing I've ever laid my eyes on is trying to ride my dick like it's nothing, so it's only right that I make sure she's okay.”
"Trying and succeeding," you insist, feeling the competitive urge to prove yourself a little more.
Your hands press down on his chest to brace yourself, and you start bouncing on him, your vision going blurry every time you feel him hit that spot inside you just right. The curve of his cock just fits you so nicely, you can't help the chorus of noises that escapes you— nor can Jake, apparently, who only seems to know how to shut up when you’re fucking his brains out. You pray you won't be hearing a noise complaint from your next-door neighbours, but the chances are slim.
"Fuck, you're good at this," he groans, resisting the urge to fuck up into you. His hands move to your waist, and one presses against your lower stomach, where he can feel himself right there. "Feels good? You like feeling me all the way in there?"
You whimper when you feel a hand at your breast, kneading and pinching the soft flesh. His eyes are all over you, worshipping you, and suddenly, you can’t remember the last time you’d even had sex in daylight. Normally, you felt too exposed. Too vulnerable. Right now, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You want to watch him as he falls apart. You want him to see you.
"So good, Jake,” you stammer, your teeth sinking into your lower lip to muffle your sighs, “Fuck, could do this all day."
"Yeah? You're something else, aren't you?" He smirks, "But I don't mind. I'll let you ride me til your legs give out, if that's what my needy girl wants.
"Your girl?"
"Hopefully," His voice is gentle as his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you down until you're flush with him, "but I'll save that question for the next time I take you out."
You want to laugh because, even as he's balls deep inside you, he's still trying to be romantic. And somehow, that thought alone has you trembling, pushing you towards the edge. The wind is knocked out of you when he starts fucking up into you, hands gripping your hips, taking the pace into his own hands.
Just like that, you're crying out, and he's fucking you through your orgasm, his own nearing as you clench around his dick. It doesn't take long for him to finish either, releasing deep inside you, watching it gather at the base of his cock.
You let your head fall to his chest, still twitching inside you, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head— soft, delicate and, somehow, innocent. Then, you hear his stomach growl, and you both start laughing.
"You still want breakfast?" You tease.
He hums, thoughtfully, and you squeal as he flips you over onto your back.
"Fuck breakfast," he quotes you from earlier as he slips out of you, using two fingers to keep his cum from dripping out of you. Overly sensitive, you writhe, and you whimper when you feel his breath hover just above your clit. "I want you."
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