driver, roll up the partition, please!
includes. SMUT 18+, paige bueckers x fem! reader. public setting still somewhat private, oral, drunk and nasty, little bit of sub paige, praise and begging, grinding, makeup smudging, just all over each other…
about. after your girlfriend gets drafted number one overall, neither of you have the patience to wait until the afterparty. surely the driver won’t mind if paige celebrates a little early… right?
ju speaks. incase you didn’t know, i am @ohbueckers :) mama had to make a whole new blog, but she’s back! this is a bit of filth but i haven’t wrote any good smut in so long so i poured it all out here lol. p gets drafted in less than a month, let’s cope the right way, amen!
“Driver, roll up the partition, please!”
She says it all politely, like her lips aren’t as red as a cherry and swollen, like your hands haven’t untucked and found their way up under her dress shirt, nails scraping over the ridges of her abs, like she hasn’t been grinding against you for the last two blocks, all while tasting like champagne and every bad decision you were always going to make tonight. Your leg is hiked up over her lap, and she’s been kissing you like she doesn’t give a damn that the limo is still moving, that you’re supposed to be on your way to the afterparty, that there’s a whole world outside this car waiting to celebrate her—number one overall, finally Dallas’ rookie.
The second she stood up, walked across that stage, and held up that jersey, she was already thinking about getting back to you. And when she did, when she came striding over, still grinning like a kid on Christmas, the most anticipated person in the room but still just your girl, she grabbed you like she needed proof this was real.
Her arms slid around your waist, pulling you in like she was scared someone might try to take you from her. You smiled up at her, and expressed how proud you were, of course. Her lips brushed your forehead, and she made sure you heard the six words that followed, whispering into your hair, “couldn’t have done it without you.”
This time, your mouth is on her neck before she even finishes her sentence, nipping and sucking at her skin, breathing in her Valentino like you can pick apart every ingredient in it. Too eager for manners, and way too far gone to care, you don’t even hear the driver’s muttered response, not even the hum of the partition sliding up and clicking into place. No more audience. No more distractions. Just you and her. Atleast for a couple more miles.
And Paige? Back like she never left, like she needed that barrier up before she could really lose herself in you. “Ain’t even gon’ take ya time with it?” she teases, smiling as her hands slide down, find the swell of your ass, squeeze like she’s been dying to do it all night. “Fuck, y’so impatient,” she mutters, tilting her head back just enough to let you work, and when you bite down just right, she shivers, the pads of her fingers tightening against your shoulder for some sense of stability.
“Mhm?” You grin against her throat, licking over the marks you just left. “You wanna do something about it?”
Paige groans, large hands already pushing the fabric of your dress up over your hips. The amount of need in her movements is overwhelming, because she’s been too good the entire night. She’s been sitting pretty at that table, shaking hands, doing interviews, feeling your eyes on her and knowing she couldn’t do shit about it. Not yet.
And now she’s got you all to herself.
Paige never does anything halfway, and that includes kissing you like she’s trying to ruin you. Your tongues move all sloppy, the sounds even nastier than the kiss, and you swear you hear the music get louder, vibrating against every corner of the vehicle, the driver clearly trying to drown out the obscene sounds of Paige Bueckers losing it in the backseat. But fuck, you’re not quiet either.
You let two of her fingers push your panties to the side, gasping as they run through your slick. You grip onto her tighter as Paige hoists you fully into her lap, straddling her leg as she whispers filth into your ear.
Big hands, rough from years of handles, crossovers, midrange shots that got her here, but gentle where they need to be—slipping between your thighs, spreading you open like she already knows what she’s gonna find.
Her fingers are slipping through the mess you’ve already made for her, slow at first, just to get you going, because she knows how much you want it, because she likes making you wait. But then you whimper, and it hypnotizes her to do exactly what you wanted her to do.
Paige is fast, but she’s precise despite being intoxicated, two fingers sinking inside you like your pussy was made for her. Your breath catches, body jerking forward, head tipping back against the seat, but she keeps you secure, pressing down on your stomach. “That’s it,” she urges, free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for her. “Lemme hear it, baby.”
“Mfmph, there.” Your fingers wrap around her wrist while hers curl just right, pressing against that spot that has your thighs shaking, your back arching from her chest. The blonde watches you intently, her pupils blown, lips slick and kiss swollen, owning every reaction like it’s another trophy for her collection. “Right there, P” you drag out.
The music gets louder, and you can’t even make out the lyrics, just the beat of something that never falls low. You’re sure you’d have some remorse for the driver if you weren’t about three drinks in and a little fucked out, but you can’t find it, because Paige wants all of it. Every sound, every plea, every desperate, breathless, “Paige, please.”
And, oh, do you give it to her.
Paige groans at the way you say her name, like she can feel it straight between her legs, like it’s fueling her. Her fingers keep working you open, hitting every spot like she knows your body better than her own, because truthfully, she does. She’s mapped you out a hundred times before, but never like this, never this drunk, never with the high of being number one mixing with the high of you.
“That’s my girl,” she praises, watching the way her fingers disappear in and out with half-lidded eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Look so pretty takin’ it, baby. Knew you would.”
You tremble, a moan breaking past your lips, and Paige just grins, like she’s putting on another show, something like the one she just left from. But this one? This one is just for her.
“Almost there?”
You nod frantically, nails digging at her wrist, trying to keep yourself together—but fuck is it hard when she’s all over you like this. She speeds up just a little, the wet sounds of her digits working you over and making your cheeks burn, but Paige loves it. She leans in, licks up the side of your neck, tasting the wreckage.
“Paige,” you pant, eyes fluttering.
“Say it again,” she rasps, her forehead pressed to the side of yours now, her fingers still moving, hips subtly grinding against nothing, like she’s as desperate as you are.
“Paige,” you whimper, and you wish you could say it was voluntary. “I—”
You don’t even get the chance to finish, because Paige presses down on your stomach again, just right, and your whole body reacts—clenching around her fingers, thighs twitching like she just stole every bit of your sanity. You really think she might’ve. Maybe she’s been taking from you this entire night—the air in your lungs, the thoughts from your head, the control you thought you had.
“Yeah, I know,” she talks you through it, lips brushing against your temple, her fingers still working, still curling inside you, playing you like a highlight reel. “Go ‘head, ma. Give it to me.”
Your release crashes into you, body locking up before breaking apart, your moan swallowed by Paige’s mouth as she kisses all of it out of you, eating up every last sound like she needs it, like she wants it dripping down her chin. Her fingers never stop moving, making sure you know she did this to you.
She pulls away with a bite of your lip, savoring the remnants of her own name on your tongue, and for a second, you think she’ll let you breathe, let you come down from the high she just sent you to.
But then she shifts against you the same way she’d been doing all night, grinds her hips up into nothing, and you feel it.
Paige Bueckers, all six feet of her, usually so composed, the one who calls the shots in bed and most of the time out of it—is crumbling for you now, fists gripping at the leather seat like she’s barely holding on.
Your fingers slide down slowly at the realization, popping open her belt, then her slacks, pushing them down just enough to expose the waistband of her boxers.
All you need is five minutes.
So you move. Drop to your knees right between hers, push her legs wider as you settle between them, dragging your palms up her thighs when she breathes out your name in her gravelly Minnesota accent. You let your nails creep up under her shirt, scratching lightly against her lower stomach. Too much teasing for the blonde, not enough mouth.
Paige growls, actually growls, and before you can blink, she grabs your wrist, pressing your hand right over her, rolling her hips into your palm. “Ain’t in the mood for allat,” she mumbles, jaw clenched, pupils dilated. “You know what the fuck I want, baby. Stop stallin’.”
You listen.
Partly because she’s just had the biggest night of her life, the kind of night people dream about. Winning a National Championship just a few weeks prior to getting your name called first for the draft, becoming the face of a franchise, name solidified in history. She worked her ass off for it too, and tonight? Tonight, she made it.
So you listen. You don’t stall, and you swear you hear the music get louder again—like the driver knows exactly what’s about to happen.
The minute you start mouthing at her, you can feel her muscles jump under your lips. Paige inhales, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, rubbing at your skin. The limo rocks slightly, the bass from the speakers rattling through your ribcage, but none of that matters. The only thing you care about is the way Paige is falling apart in your mouth.
She tries to hold out, tries to keep it together, but the way her thighs twitch when your tongue moves just right? The way she shudders when you suck?
“Fuck,” she groans finally, head tipping back, body lunging upward on instinct.
And she loses it.
Because Paige has never been one to sit back and just take it.
Her hips start moving, rolling into your mouth, and you let her, let her use you, let her chase what she needs because you need it too—the way she sounds, the way she tastes, the way her legs start to tremble, thighs pressing against your cheeks and smudging your makeup because she can’t help it.
She’s ruined and a little helpless, mumbling half formed curses and praises that don’t even make sense. You swear you could come again just by listening. “Been needin’ you all night. Keep doin’ that.”
She rides it out while your tongue works in circles, fingers digging into her thighs to keep her there even though she can’t be still, her body shaking along with her hands that can’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.
You flatten your tongue, holding her down a little rougher when she bucks up against your mouth. She’s so close, right there, her body trying to outrun her own orgasm, but you don’t stop.
“Please—please, baby—feels s’good,” she whines, her fingers tugging at your hair just the way she knows you love, hips stuttering, moans guttural. “Just like that—don’t stop, don’t—”
She chokes on her next breath, her body breaking just like yours did, just like she’s so deserving of.
And when she finally slumps back against the seat, spent, her chest still heaving, her thumb lazily stroking over your cheek, she grins down at you, tired, satisfied, definitely not ready for the whatever afterparty diorama is waiting for her like a coronation.
“Yeah,” she breathes, licking her lips as she pulls you back up into her lap, kissing you like she could go another round, tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste herself.
“Number one pick, baby,” she slurs. “How that sound?”
Like trouble. Like a whole dynasty in the making. Like she’s already on top of the world, and somehow, that ain’t high enough.
You giggle, pressing her cheeks between your fingers as you peck at her lips. “Fucking great. How’s it feel?”
“Feel like I could do this all night,” she mumbles, hips rocking up into you, her need reigniting just like that. She masks it as a slight shift, but you know better. “What about you? Think you got another one in you?”
Like she even needs to ask.