Feast // Billy Butcher x Reader (18+)
A prequel to Stuffing
pairing: dad's associate/friend!billy x f!reader rating: explicit // word count: 5.6k // ao3 link warnings/tags: no y/n, age gap, flirting, cheeky banter, fingering, oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected PIV, fucking in your childhood bedroom with your father in the house because why not, Billy being Too Much (both physically and in personality), mentions of eating, smoking, and alcohol consumption, blink and you'll miss it daddy!kink divider by @saradika-graphics <3
summary: Your father's associate always seems to have an eye for you. Maybe you have an eye for him too. And maybe you're choosing to do something about it.
It’s a struggle to keep your eyes off of Billy Butcher. Particularly when he seems to struggle keeping his own off of you.
He likes to shoot the shit with your father, likes to give him a hard time. And as powerful a man as your father may be, Butcher seems to keep him on his toes well enough.
Shit, it seems like child’s play for him to exercise that little talent on you as well. A sharpened sword with a double-edged tongue, wrapped in a wink and a cheeky smile. It’s a perilous combination, that. Lethal as shit — poison for the pussy, heroin for the mind. He doesn’t even seem to blink when he turns it on.
Dangerous.
On one of your first encounters with the man, it had been in a lull of conversation between him and your father. The latter had gone off to take a call, the former leaned over the island at the center of your father’s kitchen, thumbs tapping away at his phone screen.
It’s rude to stare, your father has always rebuked. But Billy always seemed to hook his gaze onto you when you were in a room. This was an uncommon instance where he was preoccupied. You had time to study.
The lines in his aging face, the way they’ve done nothing but complement his looks. The trim of his facial hair, dark with sparse strands of dignified gray. The gentle scarring scattered across his skin. He’s mesmerizingly terrifying. A nightmare that spurs your pupils to dilate like a schoolgirl crush. A statuesque paragon of masculinity that makes your—
“‘F you wanna snap a photo to make it last longer, I’ll flash my tits for ya, doll,” he mutters, still staring at his phone. When you let out a small squeak upon being caught, his eyes flick up to you with the cheekiest of smirks on his lips.
“No, no, I wasn’t…I didn’t mean to…”
“‘S’alright, love. Don’t get your panties in a twist over it,” he banters back, garnishing his words with a wink as his attention returns to his phone.
You wish you could have come back at him with a witty retort. Something filthy, crass, cutting. Your smart remarks only come to you in hindsight, with your fingers on your clit that night.
Bold of you to assume I’m wearing panties.
Maybe if they’re already twisted, you could shove them in my mouth instead.
Try not to shit in your adult diaper at a young woman showing your old ass an ounce of attention, Butcher.
He could one-up your counters so easily, but the thought of getting him to stumble in the slightest, even cocking an eyebrow at you in unexpected delight, has you coming with his name on your lips in your bedroom.
Your encounters are brief, but impactful. Each one harder to scrub from your memory, lingering longer on your fingertips as they circle between your thighs.
There was one…oh, there was one that cemented your need to try him, taste him. A late night with your father in his study with the door cracked several inches and cigar smoke spiraling from the brass tray between two armchairs. A half bottle of scotch drained by the two of them, decorum lost. You happened to catch Butcher midway through a sordid tale.
His words are moderately slurred in his intoxicated state, but you’ve become attuned to his accent with the amount of time you’ve rehashed his turns of phrase in your head.
“Now, mind you, I’d just been havin’ a romp with the little slag the night before. You’d think that’d be worth something, I dunno. I thought I was a right gentleman with her. Maybe less emphasis on the ‘gentle’ bit, but I thought we was having a grand ol’ time of it. But I guess it’s that old song ‘bout no honor amongst thieves and all’at. Cunt’d cleaned me out by the next morning.”
Your father grunts and takes another swig from his crystal tumbler rattling in his grip. “Like I’ve always said, Butcher. Never trust a bitch with a dragonfly tattoo.”
Butcher scoffs, wagging around his own tumbler in dismissal. “Oh, fuckin’ come off it, ‘I’ve always said.’ You ain’t never said bullocks,” he refutes with a shake of his head. He jabs a finger at him from the hand nursing his glass, sloshing the liquid inside. “I’ve taken pisses longer than your last shag, you bald cunt. The fuck you know about a slag’s tattoos when you blow your load by the time she even got her tits out.”
Your father squints back at him. “The fuck do you know about my track record, you fucking asshole?”
A sleazy sort of smile creeps across Butcher’s face, and he massages at the corners of his upturned mouth as he looks devilishly up at your father with his forearms on his thighs. “You remember that…blonde bird with those two little beauty marks above her eyebrow at that charity fundraiser bullocks a few weeks back?” He asks, scratching his nail above his own brow for further emphasis. “The one you took home with ya?”
Your father squints in suspicion. “Lydia?”
“Was that ‘er name?” He asks, leaning back in his armchair opposite your father, his mouth twitching downward in lieu of a shrug. “Don’t think she ever said. She was, uh, bit preoccupied hollerin’ mine to high heaven the night after.”
Your father is practiced in composure, but not perfect by any means. The shell-shock on his face at the comment dissipates quickly, but it does make an appearance before he composes it. Then he nonchalantly tips his glass to Butcher and nurses another sip as he says, “By all means, take my sloppy seconds.”
Butcher’s eyes go dark, debaucherously reminiscent as he regales. “Oh, she was sloppy alright. She was sloppy on me all fuckin’ night long. And that’s because I…oh, what’s that?” He asks rhetorically, snapping his fingers thrice as though in search of the words before pointing to your father again with a glint in his eye, “Right, because I can get it up, and keep it up. Not blow my wad in the first quarter like a fuckin’ wanker. Or that’s what the broad told me you did after I had her seein’ Saturn, Venus, and fuckin’ Pluto behind her fuckin’ eyelids for the fourth time that night.”
It really is involuntary, but the pulse between your thighs is frighteningly powerful hearing him put to words what you’d hoped of him. A beast of a man, as obsessed with pleasing a woman as he is taking pleasure from her. You have to stifle the sound that escapes your mouth for fear of being caught in your eavesdropping.
“You’re a fucking shitstain motherfucker, Butcher. Fuck that bitch,” your father spits out. “She doesn’t know shit about fuck.”
“Right, right. I’ll let you reflect on that alone for a tick, guv,” Butcher teases, stumbling up from his chair. “Gonna take a leak. Give my wankin’ hand somethin’ to do for once since Lady Lydia’s made it practically obsolete,” he snipes with a wink at your father.
You spring into action, darting from the door and putting some plausibly deniable distance between you.
Not fast enough, because Butcher clears his throat upon seeing you in the living room down the hall. You turn around guiltily to see him leaning against the wall, eyes on you. But instead of a snarky remark, he just says, “Apologies, love. A lady ain’t need to hear all’at. Was just takin’ the piss out your old man is all.”
You drop onto the couch, resting your elbows on the arm of it closest to Butcher and crossing your legs with a wry smile. “I’ve heard men talk before. I’m a big girl. Congrats on the sloppy blonde, by the way. Bummer on the dragonfly bitch.”
Butcher’s eyes scan you, an element of intrigue on his face that fills you with satisfaction. “Ain’t you just a wee little Christmas cracker of surprises, love.”
Perhaps all the mulling over worthy comebacks has come in handy after all, as the next words that tumble out of your mouth are, “Maybe you should give me a little tug. See if I bust open for you.”
You see a light go on behind Butcher’s drunken eyes at the comment, see his fingers tap in succession against the wall. Then he pushes off the surface with an abruptness that has your heart rate rising with it, and waggles a finger in your direction with a smirk. His voice low to avoid your father’s detection, he asks, “Does your Pops know he’s got a sleeper slag for a daughter?”
You shrug with a small pout. “He only knows what he chooses to see. I’m sure you’ve scouted that out about him by now.”
“S’pose I ‘ave,” he acknowledges, dipping his head as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Gonna find yourself in a nasty bit of trouble if you make a habit of skulkin’ about like‘at, doll,” he imparts, the depth of his voice tickling something in your stomach at the tone of it.
You lounge against the back of the couch, intentionally allowing your dress to inch up your thigh with the fluid movement. “Oh yeah? How nasty are we talking?” You ask, floating your voice with a glimmer of naïveté that seems to tickle him right back judging by the filth in his encroaching grin.
Butcher meanders over to you, hands firmly in his pockets as he stands in front of your crossed legs as his own spread apart. He casts a fleeting look down the hall toward the study before his eyes pull back to you. In that same low timbre, he utters, “Bent over in the back alley of a pub with your lacy knickers around your ankles and an half-smoked fag danglin’ from my lips, love. ‘Til it’s tricklin’ down into your fuckin’ trainers. How’s’at for ya?”
Your breathing goes shallower than expected at his response, heat blossoming in your cheeks. “You’re drunk, Butcher. And clearly all talk.”
His lips twitch infinitesimally. His hands slip from his pockets, landing on the top of the couch to cage you in. Your breath catches, and you can smell the scotch and your father’s cigars on him this close.
“Call me Billy, love,” he purrs, and dips closer to your ear. “And if there’s one thing I’m not known for, it’s spoutin’ bluffs.”
Your eyelashes flutter as your skin tingles, the hair on your arms and the back of your neck going taut. You feel the absence of him before you see it. When your eyes pull open, he’s already halfway to the nearest bathroom, an unmistakable swagger in his step.
That’s when you knew. You had to suss out if he was all talk, or if the brutal Billy Butcher could give it as good as he claims he does.
You spied his name on the invite list for Thanksgiving dinner, and again on the seating chart right next to yours, and decided to craft a plan.
—
You’d expected him to make a move on you at some point prior to or during dinner. But thirty minutes into the meal, Billy had done nothing. Engaging in raucous conversation with your father and anyone else foolish enough to tango with him at a dinner table.
So, taking matters into your own hands it was.
You allow your fabric napkin to slip off your lap onto the floor with a mumbled, believable, “Oops,” and pull your chair out a smidge. You duck your head under the table and snag the napkin, grazing your hand ever so softly against Billy’s leg. Gentle so as not to startle, but firm enough there’s no mistaking it was intentional.
You clear your throat as you situate yourself back in your chair, sneaking a look to your right. Billy’s face reads as some amalgam of perplexed, curious, and amused.
He gives you a little whisper out of the side of his mouth. “Alright there, doll?”
“Right as rain,” you chime back just under your breath with a sly smile, picking up your utensils to continue eating.
“Wouldn’t fuss about you slippin’ back beneath that table for a spell. Show me some real Yankee nosh on this delightful day of thanks,” He mutters, his wine glass dancing in a circle on the table along the rounded base as the liquid licks the sides.
“I bet you wouldn’t,” you banter right back. You opt to end further escalation there for now. You have time for more later, when there aren’t so many eyes on you.
That time comes approximately an hour later. The dishes cleared, many guests gone, a significant portion of those remaining draped on couches and chairs in sleepy conversation until they’ve dozed off with bellies full on food and wine.
Billy isn’t dozing. You find him trolling around upstairs. And where else would you possibly find him but loitering in your bedroom, his back turned to the door, his attention on the light pink and aged white of your vanity dresser.
Perhaps you should have locked this door before guests arrived. Perhaps you purposefully didn’t.
“Is it everything you predicted it to be?”
“It’s exactly as I predicted it to be,” he rumbles with his back to you, entirely nonplussed by your presence, the familiar melody of your music box drifting through the room. He places a finger on the head of the spinning ballerina on her rust-speckled spring, pulling her back slightly and releasing the tiny ceramic figurine to watch her jiggle about at a much more violent tempo than the somber lilt of her tune.
Billy does a leisurely aboutface, and he deliberately spies the door at your back, now firmly closed behind you. “Somethin’ you wanna have a private little chinwag about, love?”
You smirk at him, stiletto heels digging into your childhood carpet as you advance measuredly toward him. His eyes grow darker, the closer you step.
“Sure. Let’s talk. Just talk,” you say quietly, unconvincingly.
“Oh, you know me, doll. I could talk the ear off the Venus de fuckin’ Milo. Broad’s already missin’ her arms. Wouldn’t miss losin’ something else.”
“You really don’t ever shut up, do you?” You say in exaggerated exasperation, coming to a stop inches from his imposing form.
“Not unless me mouth’s got more pressing matters to attend to,” he volleys, eyes skating over your figure in your dress.
“And do you?” You lead, slightly apprehensive fingers breezing over his shirt, your forefinger catching briefly on one of the gaps between two buttons. “Have a matter currently to…press into?”
He stares down at you, his fingers draped around the edge of your dresser. Not with nerves, not with restraint. At least not the kind of restraint you’d expect — not like the type you might find in a dog snapping and snarling and yanking on its leash until its handler gives the go-ahead.
It’s moreso a matured restraint. One could call it respectful, but that doesn’t quite capture it either, not on someone like Billy Butcher. It’s unhurried restraint. It’s…almost cocky.
It’s “make her make the first move, you know she will” restraint. Confident, slightly belittling. Sexy as fuck and prepping to shatter.
He leaves it up to you to fill in the blanks for him. You fix your eyes on him, attempting to read this man who seems unreadable, as trembling fingers find the bottom button on his shirt. You feel like a virgin on prom night, the extent to which your fingers fumble to get the little brass bastard through the hole. He seems to find it moderately amusing, observing your struggle.
He takes an ounce of pity on you, fingers still dormant on your dresser as he rasps out under his breath, “I do. In fact. Have a matter I’d very much like to press into.”
Your breath escapes you in a whoosh, and it sends your hands into a tizzy, scrambling to unveil the full expanse of Billy’s chest to your insatiable eyes as he conversely remains calm, all the fire in his blood contained to the look he’s bestowing upon you as you work.
Once you’ve finally shoved the offending clothing off his shoulders, only then does Billy relinquish his grip on your vanity, one hand whipping up to cup around your throat and the other to grip your jaw. You freeze, a cat pulled by its scruff as its owner — its owner, god — bores deep into its eyes.
“You want this?” He asks you, and it’s not exactly polite, rather than him compelling you to admit it, to debase yourself for him before he’s even done his damage.
And you don’t hesitate. “I want it.”
“Fuckin’ right you do.”
His lips are soft, and he tastes like whiskey and the after-dinner butter mints. You’ll be the first to admit you’re not all that practiced in kissing a man with facial hair, at least when it’s this lush, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. Particularly when a strong, commanding tongue is overtaking your mouth and making it his. He walks you back to your bed, hands in your hair, on your waist, rucking your dress.
With your head spinning as madly as it is, you’re deeply grateful for the blatant manhandling of your body he’s taken it upon himself to initiate. Your ass hits the plush bed of your youth, for far more nefarious reasons than you’ve employed before, at the hands of a man old enough to be your father, who is stupidly volatile and almost certainly does not have your best interests at heart.
It’s heady and delicious and exactly what you wanted. Whether he intentionally made you want it or not.
There’s teeth down your neck, rough fingers at the zipper of your dress, and you’re being stripped to your tits without a single word passing between you.
Billy breaks the chorus of heavy breathing and rustling clothes to mutter, “Christ, you’re a tasty little morsel, eh?”
You moan at the drag of his mouth, the prickle of his beard along the curve of your tits, his tongue dancing over your nipple as his hands dispose of your panties. Then he’s sucking kisses down your ribs, over your stomach, until he’s on his knees at the side of the bed, peering up at you from between your thighs. He places a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your bare mound — bare for him, on purpose, you weren’t sure if he’d mind — and breathes over the throbbing bud poking out from your lips with a smirk. You whimper at the feral look in his eye, squirming despite yourself.
“Careful, love,” he whispers, lowering himself down. “Don’t want daddy to hear.”
Your eyes roll as your elbows slip out from under you, landing on your back and knitting your fingers into his hair as his mouth descends on your cunt. You fail to muffle the gasp that sprouts from you when you feel the scratch of his beard on your inner thighs. A three-course meal tucked away, and he still eats at you like he’s primed for another one.
“Oh, Billy, that’s…that feels so fucking good,” you moan breathily, tugging on his dark locks as he groans into your pussy, his tongue bearing down on your clit.
He smiles up at you, mouth shimmering and smile lines prominent with your slick. “Say that like you’re surprised.”
“Maybe I am,” you counter with a playful smirk of your own, only for it to warp into another gasp of pleasure when a finger prods at your entrance, sliding deep and thick inside you as he grins into your clit.
It’s not a conscious decision when your thighs clamp down on either side of his head, but Billy seems to find it flattering. His mouth is occupied, but there’s laughter in his eyes.
He really is a wretched man, Billy Butcher. A personality that could either charm the robe off a nun or send her fist hurtling toward his face, likely within roughly five seconds of each other. Smug, self-serving, caustic…and gives some of the best goddamn head you’ve ever experienced in your life thus far. You may pull your own hair out if you weren’t presently doing so to his.
You wish your resolve was more robust, but judging by the predicament you’ve found yourself in, you should’ve known better. You can feel your thighs practically vibrating against his ears as he spears you through with his fingers and drenches his own beard with the fruits of his dedication.
Your stomach tightens to the sight of Billy’s eyes looming over your cunt, bright as you’ve ever seen them from making dessert of you. He gives you a brazen wink at your mesmerized stare, and you unravel all at once, plunging your forearm between your teeth to mute your moans.
“Gorgeous little creature when you come, doll,” he mutters against your inner thigh, sinking his teeth into the flesh and shooting sparks through your core. “Now I’m dyin’ to see how pretty you look on my cock.”
“I’ve been dying to see it. Every fucking time my head hits my pillow and my panties come off.”
On his journey up your body, he cocks his head and halts. Smiles. His eyes trail over your breasts, your throat, your lips. “What a dirty fuckin’ slut,” he purrs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to spread you open.
“Is that a problem for you?” You challenge, taking it upon yourself to grab hold of your legs as he wrangles himself out of his pants.
“Depends on which you’re askin’ about,” he counters, his hand stuffed into his jeans and taking hold of his cock where you don’t have the pleasure of witnessing it quite yet. “Do I got a problem with you jackin’ your Jill without me there to see it, or with you being a little scarlet whore right under your daddy’s nose?”
You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip as you stare down the fabric concealing what you so desperately want to devour. “Both. And you’ve gotta stop calling him my ‘daddy’ when I’m naked like this,” you plead.
You catch the smirk on his face as you see the veins in his forearm shift, exposing the way he’s flexing around his length while hidden from view. “Why? Daddy issues got you all hot and bothered, love?”
“Why don’t you take him out and we’ll see if you’re worthy of me being hot and bothered?” You bait, tugging on the open flap of his jeans.
He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Seemed to think I was plenty worthy a minute ago when she was gushin’ all over my bloody face, now, didn’t she?”
You huff, jerking harder on his pants. “Will you just fucking let me see it already?”
You could smack the smug grin off his face, but then he’s finally shoving his bottoms down his hips and gracing you with everything he’s been concealing.
And Jesus, it was a lot to conceal.
You don’t even have to say it, because you know it’s written all over your face by the pompous expression Billy is exuding.
“Everything you predicted it would be?” He asks snarkily in recall, stroking down the length of himself as your eyes glaze over at the action.
“Shut up and put it inside me,” you order breathily.
Billy tuts at you with a disapproving look, but situates between your legs regardless, aligning himself with your exposed cunt. “How’s about a ‘please’, eh? Utilize those posh little manners for me.”
You give a frustrated groan. “Please, Billy,” you beg him with a tone filled with sass.
“Good girl,” he croons, dragging the tip of him through your slit teasingly and making you jump as it brushes your clit. “One more thing.”
“Fuck, Billy, will you please—” you moan in impatient aggravation, beating your clenched fist onto your mattress. Billy grabs hold of your jaw firmly, wrenching your eyes to him.
“You’re gonna watch it,” he dictates, his gaze burning into yours. “You’re gonna watch me split this little cunt open with your own two fuckin’ eyes. If you want it so bad.”
That you can agree to.
You nod emphatically, propping yourself high up onto your elbows to provide yourself with a view. You can see the tip of his cock, reddened and slick with arousal, parting your lips and settling at your entrance. Large and intimidating, but all the more enticing at the prospect of stretching around him like you’ve imagined so many times recently.
“No going back, doll. Open up for it. Take a nice, deep breath for me.”
You whimper quietly, locking your eyes onto where he’s pressing against you, and you take the recommended deep breath.
But then he actually presses inside you, and your jaw drops into an agonized moan at the sharp sting of it. He looks obscene, gripped by your naïvely ambitious pussy, and feels even more absurdly huge than he looks. Yet, somehow, you still have the urge to thank him for giving it to you like this.
“Fuckin’ beautiful little cunt. Look how pretty she is, stretched open on me like’at,” he groans, his brows drawn together in pleasure as he slides deeper.
The devastating fact that Billy feels better than you’ve ever imagined is as hard to swallow as he is to physically take. There’s nothing worse than a man who talks a big game, and subsequently backs it up. He put his money where his mouth was, and as a result made your pussy feel priceless beneath his tongue. Your father has always been wealthy, but you’ve never felt as expensive as you do now, loose from your climax with your blood warm and molten like liquid gold.
You can hear how wet this man has made you in a matter of minutes, and if you had enough cylinders firing in your brain to conjure anything but pleasure, you might feel mortified at how effortless it was for him. Soft conversation filters up the stairs, but with the cessation of the ballerina’s lullaby, the most prominent sounds are Billy’s restrained grunts and the slick of your cunt as he thrusts into you.
The deeper he goes, the harder it is to keep your head from flopping back from the force of his hips against yours, and you eventually give up on the endeavor and allow your body to take over. You dig your heels into Billy’s back and let your head drop, and Billy doesn’t complain.
“Atta girl, fuckin’ feel it,” he rasps, taking hold of your hips to pull you down onto him as he powers into you at the same time, squirming as he drags along the end of you in the most tantalizing way.
You whimper at the intensity of it, the sensitivity of having someone so deep inside you like this for the first time. “Fuck, Billy, you—it’s too—”
“Little too much for you, love?” The condescending smirk oozes from his words so thoroughly, you can hear it with your eyes pinched closed.
He doesn’t let up at your mild discomfort, and you’re grateful. You don’t want him to stop, or need him to stop. You’re already beginning to crave the size of him, the pervasive yet addictive sting of your stretched opening as he parts you open on him with every thrust.
“N-no, it’s fucking perfect,” you moan for him, breathy and overtaken with your satisfaction at how the evening has developed so unquestionably in your favor.
He groans in response, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth again to suck and bite as he buries himself inside you with confidence and well-earned bravado. The additional stimulation has you reaching for your clit, in search of a second reward for your bravery tonight for chasing what you wanted for once instead of waiting for a move to be made on you. It’s freeing and invigorating, and you’ve never felt so empowered while being impaled on a man’s cock before. Sex, until now, had felt like something transactional or obligatory. Never as mutually thrilling as this.
Maybe this is what sex with older men is like.
Perhaps you won’t get ahead of yourself. This is just what sex with Billy Butcher is like. Wisdom informed by his age. Looks significantly enhanced by that same measure. And just so happens to also be frustratingly blessed with the equipment that a man this wise, this sexy, and this thorough absolutely deserves, as much as you’re loath to admit it.
“That’s right, doll. Let me see those pretty little eyes roll back in that pretty little head.”
The stubborn streak in you doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but your body is wholly ignorant to the fleeting desires of your mind. You’d be surprised if Billy even knows what color your irises are with how they’re constantly cheating back into your skull with his unapologetic exploitation of your pleasure.
Your legs shudder around his waist as you scrub feverishly at your clit, a slew of wanton noises and pleading sentiments sliding from your lips as you beg him to keep doing precisely what he is doing to you. Far be it from Billy to disappoint, apparently, because he takes the cue to stay steady on the course as your cunt begins to spasm around him in earnest.
You cry out your climax as he beats and batters your insides into submission for him, all while his tongue curves around the filth he’s crafting moment by moment in a crass commentary of how you look beneath him, how you feel around him, what a naughty thing you become at his hands.
You’ve scarcely unearthed your consciousness from the toothsome grip of your orgasm when Billy’s thrusts start to go sloppy and heavy with his own impending finality.
“Fuck, what a good fuckin’ girl. Oh, fuck,” he groans in resolution, slamming his hips into you in staggered thrusts as his cock spills within your walls. He growls into your ear as he fucks his spend into your warmth, not bothering to stop until you feel it pushing out from your opening each time he spears back inside you. Until you can feel it dripping from one hole to another, slipping over the pucker of your ass and down onto your soft, floral duvet from your childhood.
His breathing is ragged and relentless against the side of your skull, fluttering your hair as he gently scratches at the shell of your ear with his mustache and beard, still damp with the manifestation of your arousal.
“Quite the fuckin’ ride you are, doll,” he rasps, a telltale smirk apparent in his voice. You can hear the wince in his facial expression as he grunts and extracts himself from your tight, fatigued embrace, and you feel his lips press feather-light against the underside of your jaw as he does so.
You observe him reverently as he stands up to his full height, stretching his back out from the presumed ache of the prolonged hunch of his former position. His fingers rake through his sweaty, dark locks as he awards himself a deep, revitalizing breath. His softening cock flexes with his movements, still impressive regardless of its progressively shrinking state, and you subconsciously lick at your lips and pull the plump bottom one between your teeth as you leer at him with unabashed lasciviousness.
“Feel free to get back in line,” you banter back, tilting your head against your shoulder as you study the cut of his bare chest and stomach, the guiding “v” of his hips down to his delicious length, the plume of dark hair at its base, and what you can see of his strong thighs before his jeans rob you of further intimate inspection.
His chest still heaves, his jaw dropped open as he exhales labored breaths from the exertion. The reaction is slightly flattering with what a rough-and-tumble brute of a man Billy is. Proof that he deemed you worthy of exhausting himself, making himself vulnerable to the point of breathlessness, solely for the sake of tearing you apart and splintering your mind into disorganized fragments. And making it feel so goddamn good.
You lament his actions as he pulls his pants back over his hips, his eyes lingering over your leaking cunt and hardened nipples.
“How long is the queue, love? This a corner shop or fuckin’ Disney World?” He quips with a lilt to the corner of his mouth as he fastens the buttons of his retrieved shirt, not even glancing down once as his gaze continues to snag on the expanse of your naked form. The focused attention has your cheeks heating, despite the reality that this man was just inside you, is still inside you technically, and currently trailing his way out.
“Not entirely sure which one would be preferable, to be honest,” you admit. “Do you want me to play ‘hard to get’?”
He gives one last, long, scrutinizing sweep up your body. Then he fluffs out the collar of his shirt and takes a few leisurely steps back toward your vanity. He lifts your music box wordlessly, giving the knob a few good cranks before he sets it back down and watches the tiny ballerina rotate one full revolution to the tinkling tune before glancing back at you.
“How’s about I let you know,” he answers dubiously as he meanders over to your bedroom door, giving you another cheeky wink as he slips out through it.
Entirely unsure what to make of that, you collapse back onto your bed, ears clinging to the shrill, nostalgic melody until the spinning stops.
Thank you for reading!! 💖💖
