A/N: sorry to the anon who requested this, I accidentally deleted your ask. I hope this post will find you! This one got filthy real quick…
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·✶· kinky!gator who swears on everything holy that anything near his ass is “gay shit” and will never fucking happen. He says it loud, red-faced, all puffed-up deputy bravado, “I ain’t into that weird shit, okay?” Until the night you’re riding him hard and he just won’t shut his mouth. You press one slick finger against his hole and push in slow just to quiet him. The sound that rips out of him is filthy, high, broken, almost a sob. “F-fuck—wait, what are you—” His whole body jerks, cock twitching violently inside you as his hips stutter and push back onto your finger like his body already decided for him. He shoves his burning face into your neck, panting wet and shaky. “Fuck—fuck, don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop” even as he rocks back for more. You feel him clench around the single digit, tight and hot. Later he lets you work a second finger in, then a third, thighs shaking so hard the bed creaks while he comes with a choked-off cry. “Shit—I’m coming, I’m—” he tries to muffle it in the pillow and fails.
·✶· kinky!gator who has stared at his own handcuffs in the dark more times than he’d ever admit. Same childhood bed, walls still plastered with old half-naked girls posters. He only admits the curiosity once, half-drunk and already leaking, voice rough: “Just… curious, is all. About the cuffs. Don’t make it weird.” When you actually click them shut around his wrists and pin him to the headboard, then straddle his cock and wrap a hand around his throat, he keeps his eyes locked on the ceiling. “Fuck—tighter,” he grits out, chest heaving. Every thrust forces punched-out little grunts past the pressure of your fingers. “You’re gonna leave marks—don’t care, just—keep going.” His cock kicks hard every time you squeeze. You find out he also gets stupidly hard when you leave the cuffs on after and make him stay there while you clean him up with your mouth. He just breathes, “Jesus Christ… look at you,” voice wrecked.
·✶· kinky!gator who can degrade you for hours without blinking, “Look at you, taking it like a needy little slut” but the second you turn it back on him he short-circuits. “Look at you,” you murmur while bouncing on his cock, “my desperate little winner, so fucking pathetic for it.” His face goes scarlet, hips stuttering hard. “Shut the fuck up,” he tries to snarl into the pillow, but it comes out broken and needy. “Don’t—don’t call me that” His cock throbs so violently inside you that you both feel it. When you follow it up with a soft “good boy” right after, he makes a punched-out sound and comes harder than he ever has. “Fuck—say it again,” he breathes before he can stop himself.
·✶· kinky!gator who has a secret, filthy little thing for sucking toes that makes him feel like a freak. You only find out because one night your foot ends up near his face while he’s between your legs and he just… leans in. Warm, wet mouth closing around your big toe. “Shit—sorry, I—” he starts to pull back, ears bright red, but you push your foot deeper and he groans around it. “Fuck, you taste good,” he mumbles against your sole, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks harder, messy and hungry, spit running down. After that he never asks, but if you offer he drops to his knees without a word. Sometimes he gets so into it he mouths along the arch and the soft skin of your ankle, leaving it shiny. “Could do this for hours,” he admits once, quiet and embarrassed, before going right back to it.
·✶· kinky!gator who discovers your own buried kinks the same messy way. He finds out you get soaking wet when he’s the one cuffed and helpless. “You like this?” he asks, voice rough, watching your face while you ride him and choke him. “You like having me like this?” He finds out you love the way he falls apart with fingers stretching his ass, “Still calling it gay shit while you’re pushing back for more,” you tease, and he just groans. He finds out you get almost feral watching him suck your toes. And he finds out you like making him eat his own cum off your fingers or out of your cunt. The first time you push two cum-slick fingers into his mouth he goes cross-eyed. “Fucking hell,” he mutters around them, already hard again. “You’re sick… keep going.” Every time one of your secrets spills out he stares at you like he’s seeing you new, then dives right back in like he can’t help himself.
·✶· kinky!gator who also turns out to have a quiet, shame-soaked thing for being edged until he’s crying. You keep him cuffed and on the edge for almost an hour, just the tip of your finger circling his hole and the lightest drag of your nails over his leaking cock. “Please—fuck, please, I can’t—” he’s shaking so hard the headboard rattles, tears streaking into his hair. “I need it, I need to come, please” By the time you finally let him he’s sobbing through it. Afterward he hides his face against your thigh. “Don’t… don’t look at me right now,” he mutters, but the next time you reach for the cuffs he doesn’t stop you.
·✶· kinky!gator who finds out you’re obsessed with having your tits and nipples played with the night he’s got you on your back and absently thumbs over one while he’s talking shit. You arch so hard the bed creaks and let out this punched, needy little sound that makes his cock jump. “Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes locked on your face. He pinches a little harder, rolls the peak between rough fingers, and watches you fall apart. “These sensitive little things? Fuck, look at you.” He spends the next twenty minutes just working them: sucking, biting, stretching, flicking until you’re dripping down your thighs and begging. Every time he comes back to them after that he grins like he just found free money.
·✶· kinky!gator who learns you love his balls almost as much as his cock when you reach down one night and cup them while he’s buried deep. He stutters mid-thrust, a broken noise catching in his throat. “Fuck—careful,” he mutters, but when you roll them gently in your palm and give a light squeeze he pushes into your hand like he can’t help it. You find out he gets stupidly vocal if you tug a little, or press your thumb behind them while you’re sucking him. “Jesus—do that again,” he grits out, thighs shaking. After that he starts guiding your hand there himself when he’s close, voice low and rough: “Play with ‘em… yeah, just like that.”
·✶· kinky!gator who already had a breeding kink, but the night he realizes how deeply you are into it changes everything. He’s buried to the hilt, muttering the usual filthy stuff about putting a baby in you, when you clench hard around him and whisper “do it, fill me up, I want it.” His rhythm stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes blown wide. “You mean that?” When you nod he drops his forehead to yours and starts fucking you like he’s trying to breed you for real: deep, grinding strokes, one hand splayed over your lower stomach. “Gonna pump you so full it takes,” he pants, almost reverent. “Keep every drop, yeah? Don’t you fucking waste it.” He comes so hard his vision whites out, and the way you moan when you feel it makes him stay locked inside you long after.
·✶· kinky!gator who discovers you love being edged the same way he does: slow, mean, and relentless. He finds out by accident the night he keeps pulling out every time you get close, just to watch you squirm. “Look at you,” he laughs, breathless, “so fucking desperate already.” But when you whimper “please, don’t let me come yet” something in his expression shifts. He spends the next hour keeping you right on the edge: fingers, cock, mouth, stopping the second your thighs start to shake. “Not yet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with how hard he is. “You can take more.” By the time he finally lets you finish you’re crying and thanking him in the same breath, and he looks wrecked just from watching you.
·✶· kinky!gator who finds out you love when he comes all over you after morning sex and then lets it dry on your skin. He’s still half-asleep, cock in hand, finishing on your tits and stomach when you start rubbing it in slow, spreading the mess over your skin like lotion. He freezes, watching. “What are you doing?” You just smile, coat your fingers, smear it across your collarbones and down between your breasts, then stand up and start getting dressed like nothing happened. His eyes stay locked on you the whole time. “You’re gonna walk around with my cum under your clothes all day?” His voice is rough. When you nod he groans, already getting hard again. After that he makes a point of finishing on you most mornings, watching with dark eyes while you rub it in and pull your shirt on over the sticky mess.
·✶· kinky!gator who discovers you both love swapping cum while kissing the night he comes in your mouth and you immediately pull him down into a filthy open-mouthed kiss. He tastes himself on your tongue and makes a punched-out sound, but instead of pulling away he kisses you deeper, messy and wet, pushing some of it back into your mouth. “Fuck—that’s nasty,” he mutters against your lips, but his cock twitches hard against your thigh. You pass it back and forth until it’s mixed with both of your spit, thick and shared. Later, when he comes inside you and you scoop some out with your fingers to feed him, he doesn’t even hesitate. He sucks your fingers clean, then kisses you again so you can taste it too. “We’re both sick,” he breathes, already leaning back in for another wet, cum-slick kiss.
·✶· kinky!gator who has a slight, mean little piss kink he only lets out when he’s already deep in it. Sometimes it’s him bullying you into it, holding your hips down while you’re straddling him, voice low and taunting: “Go on. Do it. Right on me. I wanna feel it.” He keeps talking until you’re too far gone to argue, and when you finally let go he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever felt, cock twitching hard underneath you. Other times it’s him taking you in doggy, fucking you rough until he’s close, then pulling out last second to piss right across your ass and lower back. Hot, filthy stream marking you while he strokes himself through it. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching it run down. “Marked you up proper.” He always looks a little too satisfied after.
·✶· kinky!gator who is obsessed with spanking your ass hard, especially when you’re in doggy or riding him. He’ll start with a few testing smacks, then get meaner once he sees how you react. Open-palm cracks that leave his handprint glowing red on your skin. In doggy he braces one hand on your lower back and just rains them down while he thrusts, the sound loud and wet in the room. “Fuckin’ love how this bounces,” he growls, landing another heavy slap. When you’re on top he grips your hips and spanks upward, timing each one with your drop so the impact hits right as you take him deep. Your ass ends up mottled and hot, and he can’t stop running his hands over the marks after, almost proud. “Gonna feel that every time you sit down tomorrow,” he says, voice rough with how much it turns him on.
Hey! Lately, I can't stop thinking about Gator being obsessed with his little sisters' babysitter... she's so good and sweet, and he can't stop thinking about corrupting her (without realizing she wants the exact same thing)
Sweet Thing
Gator Tillman x babysitter!Reader
Summary: You’re the sweet, reliable babysitter for Gator Tillman’s little twin sisters. Soft voice, careful hands, never a raised word. Gator can’t stop watching you, can’t stop thinking about how good you’d look ruined. He tests the waters for weeks, certain he’s the only one with filthy thoughts. Then one night after the girls are asleep, he finds out you’re nowhere near as innocent as you seem… and he decides he’s going to corrupt you properly.
Word count: 3.5K
Warnings: NSFW, smut (unprotected p/v sex), dirty talk, degradation, risk of being caught, mild possessiveness/obsession, creampie, fingering
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The kitchen table is buried under construction paper, glue sticks, safety scissors, and enough glitter to make the whole room sparkle under the overhead light. Jessica is cutting out a lopsided shield with careful, determined snips. Maude is pressing gold stars onto a paper wand she insists belongs to the blue rabbit. You’re between them, sleeves rolled, helping Maude keep the wand from collapsing under too much glue.
“Hold still, baby,” you murmur, guiding her sticky fingers. “There. Sir Rabbit’s official now.”
Maude’s face lights up. “He needs a horse. A big one. With armor.”
“We’ll try,” you say, reaching for brown paper. “Horses are tricky.”
Jessica looks up, crown half-finished in her hands. “Gator’s gonna wear this one. I’m making him.”
You smile. “I bet he will.”
The front door opens. Heavy boots on the hardwood. Both girls freeze, then scramble off their chairs so fast Maude nearly takes the glue stick with her.
“Gator!”
He’s still in uniform, dark sheriff’s deputy shirt, badge glinting on his chest, duty belt low on his hips, the radio clipped at his side. The Stark County patch sits on his shoulder. He crouches just in time to catch them, one arm around Jessica, the other hauling Maude up onto his hip like she weighs nothing. There’s a faint smear of road dust on his sleeve and the clean, sharp scent of cold North Dakota air clinging to him.
“Hey, wild ones,” he says, voice low and a little rough from the day. His eyes find yours over their heads and stay there a beat too long. “Crafts again?”
“They wanted knight gear for the rabbit,” you answer, standing, brushing glitter off your jeans. “It’s been a whole production.”
Maude wriggles to show him the wand. “Sir Rabbit’s a knight. She helped with the sticky parts.”
Gator examines it with complete seriousness, paper crown still dangling from Jessica’s fingers. “Looks official.” He sets Maude down, takes the crown Jessica shoves at him, and settles it crooked on his head without a single complaint. It sits ridiculous over his dark hair, right above the badge.
“Happy?” he asks Jessica.
She nods hard. “Yes.”
You watch the three of them, deputy uniform, glittery paper crown, twins talking over each other about horses and armor, and something warm and tight settles under your ribs. He glances at you again while the girls are distracted. The look is heavier. Hungrier. Like he’s already thinking about what happens once the house is quiet.
Karen calls from the living room that dinner’s almost ready. Roy’s still at the station handling paperwork, she says, voice carrying the usual clipped edge she gets when he’s late. Gator answers her without looking away from you.
“Coming, Karen.”
He doesn’t take the crown off right away. He helps the girls clear the table instead, big hands careful with their paper creations, then follows you into the kitchen where Karen is pulling a casserole out of the oven. She’s polite to you the way she always is, pleasant, distant, already half-focused on whatever Roy will need when he gets home. You help plate while Gator washes the glitter off Maude’s cheek with a damp paper towel, muttering, “Jesus, kid, you’re a mess,” soft enough that it sounds almost fond.
At the table he sits across from you. Every so often his boot bumps your ankle under the wood, not accidental. You feel the solid press of it and have to focus on cutting Jessica’s food smaller. When Karen steps into the pantry for more bread he leans forward just enough that only you can hear.
“You always this patient with ‘em?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. “Or do you save the soft voice just for when I’m watching?”
Your fork stills. Heat crawls up your neck. You glance at the twins, busy arguing over who gets the bigger piece of garlic bread, then back at him.
“They’re easy to be patient with,” you say carefully.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Sure they are.”
Karen returns. The moment folds away like it never happened. But the air between you stays charged.
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After dinner Roy still isn’t home. Karen takes a call in the other room. The girls demand one more round of crafts. Gator ends up at the table with you again, sleeves rolled now, helping Jessica tape a paper sword while you and Maude attempt the horse. His hands are big and precise. When his fingers brush yours reaching for the tape, neither of you pulls away.
“You’re good at this,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. “Crafts?”
“Them.” His eyes flick toward the twins, then back. “Making this place feel like something other than a bunker.” A beat. “Roy doesn’t notice half the shit you do. I do.”
The words land heavier than they should. You keep gluing the horse’s legs and try not to think about how close his shoulder is, how the radio on his belt occasionally crackles with distant dispatch chatter.
Later, while the girls are occupied with their finished knight gear, he tests the water again. You’re rinsing glue off your hands at the sink when he steps up behind you, close enough that the heat of his body reaches your back. His voice drops so only you hear it.
“You got any idea how many times I’ve thought about bending you over this counter while they’re upstairs?” He says it casual, almost conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Soft little babysitter who never raises her voice. Bet you’d stay quiet too if I told you to.”
Your hands freeze under the running water. You don’t turn around. You don’t tell him to stop.
He waits. When you stay silent he lets out a low, almost amused breath and steps away just as Karen walks back in.
Bedtime is baths first. You handle the hair-washing while Gator leans in the doorway in his uniform shirt, arms crossed, watching the twins splash and argue over the blue cup. Every time you look up he’s already looking at you, eyes dark, expression unreadable under the paper crown he still hasn’t taken off.
Once the girls are in pajamas you all end up in their room. Tonight’s story is the lighthouse keeper and the storm, quiet, steady, about a man who keeps the light burning no matter how hard the wind blows. Gator reads it in that low, even voice of his while the twins lean against him on either side of the bed. You’re on the floor near the foot, blue rabbit in your lap, doing the soft parts when the story calls for the wind or the waves.
Jessica’s eyes are heavy by the middle. Maude lasts longer, but only just. When the final page turns both of them are out. Jessica’s hand curled in the front of Gator’s uniform shirt, Maude’s cheek smashed against his arm.
You stand carefully. Gator eases them down, pulls the blanket up, and smooths Maude’s damp hair once. Then Jessica’s. The nightlight stays on. He follows you out and closes the door until it’s just cracked.
In the hallway he stops you with a hand on your wrist. The badge on his chest catches the dim light.
“Stay,” he says. Quiet. Final.
You look at him. The careful older-brother softness is gone. What’s left is the version of him that watches you when he thinks you won’t notice, the deputy who knows exactly how to lean on people until they give.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Downstairs the living room is still scattered with paper scraps and glitter. Karen has already gone to bed; Roy still isn’t home. You start gathering the crafts out of habit. Gator doesn’t help. He just stands near the couch in full uniform, watching you bend and reach and move around the house like you belong in it.
“You’re always cleaning up after them,” he says.
You glance over your shoulder. “It’s part of the job.”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “It’s more than that. You care. They know it. I know it.”
You straighten, a handful of star stickers in your palm. He’s closer now. You didn’t hear him move.
“I’ve been watching you for months,” he continues, voice lower, the rough North Dakota drawl more pronounced. “Watching how soft you get with them. How patient. How you never raise your voice even when Maude’s being a little shit. And every single time I think the same fucking thing.”
Your pulse kicks hard.
“What?” you ask, even though you already know.
He steps into your space. Close enough that you have to tip your head back. Close enough that you can smell the cold air still clinging to his uniform, the faint leather of the duty belt, the clean soap underneath.
“That I want to take all that sweetness and ruin it,” he says. “That I want to hear what that soft voice sounds like when it’s begging. That I want to put my hands on you and make you forget how to be careful.”
Your breath stutters.
His hand comes up, rough palm cradling the side of your face. Thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you haven’t been thinking about it too.”
You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself. “You’re not wrong.”
Something in his expression cracks open, surprise first, then something darker and hungrier.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re not as innocent as you look, are you?”
You don’t answer with words. You answer by tipping your face up and kissing him first.
He freezes for half a second, then growls into your mouth and takes over, deep, hungry, no hesitation. His mouth is hot and sure. One hand stays on your face; the other slides to your waist and pulls you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he already is through the uniform pants. You make a small sound against his tongue and he answers with a low, rough noise that vibrates through both of you.
He walks you backward until your calves hit the couch. Then he’s lowering you onto it, following you down, knees bracketing your thighs. The weight of him is solid and warm and overwhelming. The badge presses cool against your chest through your sweater. He kisses you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth. You can taste the faint mint of toothpaste and something darker underneath that is just him.
When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. His eyes are almost black.
“Upstairs is quiet,” he says. “You keep it that way. Karen’s a light sleeper and Roy’ll be home eventually. You make a sound I don’t like and I stop. Understood?”
You nod.
He sits back on his heels and reaches for the hem of your sweater. You lift your arms. The soft fabric slides up and off. Your bra follows a second later. He unhooks it with one practiced motion and tosses it aside. Cool air hits your skin. Your nipples tighten almost immediately.
Gator just looks for a moment. His gaze tracks over your bare chest like he’s memorizing it. Then his hands are on you, big, calloused palms covering your breasts, thumbs dragging slow circles over the peaks until they ache. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, hot and wet, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch.
“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin. “Softer than I thought. Been thinking about these every night while I’m on patrol. Thinking about coming home and finding you still here so I could do exactly this.”
You thread your fingers into his hair and hold on while he switches sides, sucking harder this time, leaving the skin damp and flushed. Every pull of his mouth sends a spark straight down between your legs. You’re already wet, have been since the hallway, and the pressure of your jeans is starting to feel unbearable.
He notices the way you shift. One hand drops to the button of your jeans, pops it open, drags the zipper down. You lift your hips so he can strip them off along with your panties. The air is cool against your bare skin. He sits back again and looks at you completely naked on the couch, thighs slightly parted, glistening, while he’s still fully dressed in the deputy uniform, badge and all.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, almost under his breath. “Look at you. Sweet little babysitter soaked for the deputy. You been walking around this house all night like this?”
You nod, unable to form words.
He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, thick, steady, curling just right. The stretch is immediate and perfect. Your hips lift to meet the next stroke. He watches your face the entire time, eyes locked on every micro-expression as he works you open with slow, deep thrusts of his fingers. The wet sound of it fills the space between you. Your thighs start to tremble.
“That’s it,” he says, voice low and filthy. “Take it. Let me feel how much you want this. All that time being so good with my sisters and this whole time you were this wet for me?”
You nod again, biting your lip hard.
He adds a third finger. The stretch burns for a second, then melts into pure heat. His thumb finds your clit and rubs tight, precise circles. Your breath stutters. A soft, broken sound escapes before you can stop it.
Gator’s free hand covers your mouth gently but firmly. “Quiet, sweetheart. They’re right upstairs. You wanna keep this job? You stay silent while I finger-fuck you on my daddy’s couch.”
The crude words in that rough voice nearly undoes you. You nod against his palm. He keeps working his fingers deeper now, faster, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with every thrust. The coil in your gut tightens hard and fast. Your legs shake. Your nails dig into his forearm through the uniform sleeve.
He leans down so his mouth is at your ear. “Come on my fingers. Show me how dirty the good girl really is.”
You shatter.
The orgasm hits like a wave, sharp and full-body, your walls clamping down around his fingers in rhythmic pulses. You cry out against his palm, muffled and desperate. He works you through every second of it, fingers still moving, thumb still circling, until the pleasure tips into oversensitivity and you whimper.
Only then does he ease his hand away. He brings the glistening fingers to his mouth and tastes you without breaking eye contact. The sight makes your empty cunt clench around nothing.
“Sweet,” he says simply. “Fucking sweet. Knew you would be.”
Then he’s standing, unbuckling the duty belt with practiced efficiency, setting the radio and holster aside carefully. Shirt next, badge still pinned, discarded on the coffee table. Boots, pants, everything else. He’s thick and hard, the head already flushed and wet. You can’t stop staring.
He comes back down over you, knees spreading your thighs wider. The blunt heat of him presses against your entrance. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just holds there, the head of his cock kissing your soaked folds, and looks at your face.
“You sure?” he asks, voice strained. “Once I’m in you I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve ruined that soft little voice for anyone else. Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me tomorrow when you’re reading them stories.”
“I’m sure,” you breathe. “Please. Fuck me.”
The crude word from your mouth makes his eyes flash.
He pushes in.
The stretch is intense, slow, relentless, the thick ridge of him dragging against every sensitive place inside you. You feel yourself open around him inch by inch until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours, so deep it steals your breath. He stays still for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “Tight. So fucking tight. Feel like you were made for this cock. Sweet little babysitter taking every inch like a whore.”
You can only nod, overwhelmed by the fullness.
He starts moving.
The first few thrusts are measured, deep, controlled, the wet slide of him unmistakable in the quiet. Every withdrawal leaves you aching; every return fills you so completely your toes curl. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wants you. The couch creaks softly under the rhythm.
His mouth finds your throat, open and hungry, sucking marks you’ll have to hide tomorrow. Every time you make a sound he answers with a low, approving growl against your skin.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, filthy and rough. “Take every fucking inch. You’ve been wanting this just as bad as I have, haven’t you? Walking around in those soft little sweaters, looking at me with those big eyes, pretending you’re not thinking about getting bent over and used.”
“Yes—” The word breaks on a particularly deep thrust.
He shifts the angle, hitching one of your legs higher over his hip. The new position makes him drag right over the spot that makes your vision spark. Your back arches. A sharp, involuntary cry tries to escape. His hand is there instantly, covering your mouth again.
“I know,” he says, voice wrecked. “I know it feels good. But you stay quiet for me. You come as many times as I want and you do it silent.”
He fucks you harder after that, still controlled, but with less restraint. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder. Your body takes him greedily, clenching around every stroke. The coil is building again, tighter than before, centered low in your gut and spreading outward in hot waves. Your thighs shake around his hips. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can hold on.
He watches your face the entire time, pupils blown, jaw tight with the effort of staying quiet himself. Every time your eyes start to flutter he growls, “Look at me,” and you force them open again.
“Gonna come again,” he tells you, like it’s a fact. “I can feel this pretty cunt getting tighter. Do it. Come on the deputy’s cock while I’m this deep in you. Show me how filthy you really are.”
His hand leaves your mouth only long enough to slide between your bodies and find your clit. Two rough, perfect circles and you’re gone.
The second orgasm crashes through you harder than the first, full-body, white-hot, your cunt spasming around him in strong, rhythmic pulls. You bite down on the side of your own hand to keep from screaming. Tears prick the corners of your eyes from the intensity. He fucks you through every pulse, never slowing, chasing his own release now with short, powerful thrusts that keep you pinned and shaking.
“Fuck—fuck—” His rhythm stutters. He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, broken sound against your neck, hips jerking as he spills deep inside you in thick, hot pulses. You feel every one of them. The way he holds you through it, arms locked around you, face pressed to your skin, feels almost as intimate as the act itself.
He stays inside you for a long time after, breathing hard, occasionally pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. When he finally eases out, the loss is immediate and filthy. His come starts to slip out of you onto the couch cushion. He watches it happen with dark, satisfied eyes, then reaches for the soft throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and carefully cleans you up.
You both get dressed slowly. He helps you with your jeans, his hands lingering at your hips. When you’re fully clothed again he pulls you in and kisses you once more, slower this time, deeper, almost tender, while still only half-dressed in his cargo pants.
“Tomorrow,” he says against your mouth. “I’m off early. They’ll want the lighthouse story again. You’re staying after. And next time I’m not gonna be as nice about it. Next time I’m gonna make you say every dirty thing you’re thinking while I ruin you.”
You nod, still a little dazed. “I’ll be here.”
He walks you to the door the way he always does, except this time his hand stays on the small of your back the entire way. At the threshold he stops you one last time, tips your chin up, and looks at you like he’s already thinking about the next time.
“They’re lucky to have you,” he says quietly. “So am I. And now I know you’re not as sweet as you pretend. Makes me want to corrupt you even more.”
Then he lets you go.
You walk to your car with the ache of him still between your legs, the marks of his mouth on your throat, and the quiet certainty that tomorrow night after the crafts and the story and the soft goodnights to Jessica and Maude, Deputy Gator Tillman is going to take you apart even filthier, and you’re going to beg for every second of it.
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