logan who’s exhausted after a long day, sat in the dining room with his girl under the table. he hasn’t even touched his food yet before you took it upon yourself to help him take his mind off a shitty day, climbing beneath the table he fixed for you, fucking your throat down onto his cock until you’re sore. he never had to ask. his jeans are tucked beneath his balls, denim dark and damp with your saliva, so desperate to satisfy your man who has decades worth of weight on his shoulders. you’d massage the knots out for him later in bed. he’d watch you silently, cigar tucked between his lips. if you were so stupid to even think to pull back to try an talk to him he’d put his cock directly back into your mouth.
“i didn’t fuckin’ say you should stop.”