Homecoming | Preston & Cat
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Her hands were always busy, typing, balancing saucers of leftover coffee and plates and pens, twisting through his hair while they watched dumb movies because they could, pointing discreetly at random passers by in ridiculous outfits. Preston shouldn't have been surprised that, despite his deliberate movements, Cat still had to be touching him, had to be making him teeter at the brink before they even began. He jerked back slightly from her kiss the second she tugged, responding more than he had meant to. She never really listened when it got in the way of what she wanted. But it was his turn, not hers, and slowly, pulling away from Cat's lips and the tip of her nose and her eyelashes and her tongue―god, that fucking talented tongue―he withdrew the fingers that had worked so hard to find her clit. There was space between them now, almost painful, but Preston met her eyes and, again, slowly, precisely, tasted her on his index finger, smirking with half-closed eyes. There was no Cat sexier than a kinky one, and she was not without her triggers. With his other, decidedly unoccupied hand, he reached down to his cock [a lonely movement he still made time to time when she was gone] and her own hand, prying it off and bringing it into the air. Step one, like a guide to turning his girlfriend on to the point she would be writhing on the mattress, begging, and he could give her what she deserved, so much goddamn pleasure. Her wrist replaced his fingers in his mouth, and he bit down softly, then slightly harder, marking it with his teeth. Preston's tongue traced a line up her  palm, ending at the tip of her middle finger, and for a second, he sucked it like he had his own a few breaths before. Then, he let go, for a brief moment, but still too long, letting neither of them touch each other back. He abandoned the pretence he was not desperate to make Cat cum first rather quickly, hesitating just slightly before pushing her onto her back further up their bed, finally getting some goddamn space. Her breasts, tan line from their runs on the shore cutting across them, splayed against her chest in that familiar way [he had seen girls with plastic surgery more than once, ddark times he preferred to ignore]; her legs were, annoyingly, only slightly parted. He fixed that for her. Preston resumed his earlier task, before she had gotten greedy, but his lips replaced his hand. He pressed a lip of kisses up her inner thigh before pausing, drawing out the torture. Reaching up with his free hand, he took Cat's hand in his own for the first time in a long time, holding it, really holding it, fingers interlaced and tight. His thumb stroked her wrist bone as he, finally, made his way to her labia, swollen and wet, and, finally, lapped up the taste of her. Before he had gone down on that first girlfriend, long gone, no one to be jealous over, he had never believed anyone could be so sweetly aroused. But Cat was, different from his own slight bitterness. Attempting to time the movements to happen simultaneously, he brushed his lips over her clit, then grazed it with his teeth, and squeezed her hand.
