oral agreement ~ a dribble drabble
you make a bet with conor o'neil... nsfw, it's a little naughty 🤭 disclaimer: i kno v little about le sports... enjoy! 😂😈
You’d never admit it out loud, but it might be true that you’ve always had a soft spot for Conor O’Neil. He’s kind of a shithead sometimes, but sometimes? He’s not so bad. You've been bartending at his favorite watering hole for what feels like an eternity now, like you’ve both become just part of the fixtures.
You used to hookup, occasionally, when he was the last one drinking, closing down the bar because he didn't want to go home, brought low over losing a bet with money he didn’t really have. It was always fast, and not terribly sweet, but that was just life and you were used to it by now. Hoping for more from a man these days was just asking to get yourself hurt one way or another.
So what, if he fried your last brain cell, that one time he came strutting into the bar, bellowing the lyrics to Big Poppa like the gospel, grabbing you up as he crooned the last line of the chorus and planting one on you. “Cause I see some ladies tonight that should be havin’ my baby! Baby…”
“You wish, O’Neil,” you’d groused, pushing him off with a roll of eyes, even if his soft lips on yours made you tingle all over. He was so annoying, with those sparkling dark eyes, and that trickster’s grin. A baby is the last thing you need right now, (you can barely take care of yourself), but you never forget what it felt like to be held in that man’s big hands, even if he only meant it as a joke.
Ha fucking ha.
You’d watched from afar as coaching those kids healed something inside him. Gave him something to care about, besides the next score. You were happy for him, even if he didn’t come in as frequently. It was good that he stopped putting down ruinous bets with your boss. Sometimes he brought that pretty teacher around too. She was like a ray of pure sunshine–not a creature of the night like you. You pretended that you weren’t jealous, but fuck. It kinda hurt.
When he starts drinking more because they obviously broke up, you try not to be smug about it.
One night you’re cleaning glasses, and he’s watching the Bull’s game with a bit more interest than his usual of late.
“You got money on them?” you ask, trying to keep the note of worry from your tone. Maybe you’re glad to have him back, but you don’t want to see him totally backslide. “Nah, I don’t do that anymore. Unless…” Damn him for that one-hundred percent Irish glitter of mischief in his eyes. “You want to?” You scoff, turning your attention back down to the tumbler in your hand. “I work too hard for my money to gamble it away.” He smirks at you, a hint of the old sly fox returned. “We could bet something else?” There’s that gleam in his eye again, and you don’t think it has anything to do with you. Gambling was this man’s first love; the excitement of it still clearly turns him up. Maybe it’s not about the money, really, but the rush in the winning. You hate to admit that there’s something alluring in the way he suggests it. “Like what?” you bite. He lifts his eyebrows at you playfully. You keep your cool, but fuck you if a spear of heat does not shoot straight to your loins. This fucking guy. You lean on the bar, (knowing he has a clear view of your cleavage, you know how to make your tips), tilting your head. “You want to make an oral agreement, Conor?” He smiles at you the way wolves smile at sheep. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll take that bet. Bulls will win, 6 up.” “Hmm. Alright. I think the Hornets are going to wipe the floor with them. By eight.” Conor whistles at your bravado. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” “Yeah, definitely.” “You got an insider tip or somethin’?” You shrug, reaching for another glass. “I like their colors.” Maybe you work at a sports bar, but you’re not really into sports, and you say things that are obviously wrong all the time just to elbow your customers, and you get away with it too. (see above reference to cleavage). He snorts at you, though you know he thinks you’re cute. And then he watches with disbelief as Charlotte cleans Chicago’s clock. You watch the game end with a smug little smile, leaning on the bar across from him. “Well. Looks like it’s your lucky night,” he says with a heat in his eyes that curls your toes. “I guess we’ll find out if that mouth’s good for anything besides talking shit.” He throws his head back, barking with mirth. “I guess so.” His gaze strays down to your mouth, and your clit throbs with immediate and remorseless betrayal. Treacherous cunt.
He stays until closing, helping you stack the chairs so the night janitor can clean the floors. You can feel his eyes on you from across the room, and when your chores are done he catches you up with one of those massive hands engulfing your hip, pulling you against him. “So what’s your pleasure, pretty lady?” he teases you, grinning as your fingers curl in the lapels of his leather jacket.
“Step into my office,” you say, tugging him towards the back of the bar. You’re not sure why it surprises you so much, when he gathers you into his arms and kisses you along the way. Maybe because last time you hooked up was all business, a desperate and almost clinical pursuit of release executed together against the bathroom wall. It hadn't been disappointing, per se, but nowhere near romantic. He’s downright kissing you like he likes you–who even is this guy, and what did he do with the Conor O’Neil you’ve known for years? And goddamn if he doesn’t keep kissing you, walking you backwards with those large hands on your ribcage, catching you around the waist when you trip over your own feet. “Mmm. Easy there,” he teases you in a low rumble, his lips on your neck. “Someone’s excited.” “Oh, fuck you.” He takes zero offense, chuckling darkly in a way that sends shivers across your skin. “I wish. But that wasn’t in the stakes.” As you cross the threshold of the tiny office his nimble hands are working the button of your jeans, those long fingers sliding into your panties to check the score. He finds you wet, and the groan in your ear while he strums at your slit makes you weak in the knees. “A little eager here, sweetheart?” “Just looking forward to shutting you up.” He laughs, that open burst of mirth that lights up his whole face. He’s beautiful, and you find yourself staring at him like an idiot for a few moments too long. He doesn’t tease you though. His expression softens, his other hand cupping your cheek. “Sorry I’m such an asshole.” He says this, of course, while dipping a finger inside you, making you whine. “Conor…” “Alright, alright.” He walks you backwards to the tiny desk covered in paperwork, pitching you on top of it like you weigh nothing. He strips you of your pants, only temporarily stymied when he remembers he has to take off your shoes first. Maybe you should be embarrassed, butt ass naked on your boss’s desk, but you can’t stop yourself from giggling. (You haven't had nearly as much to drink as he has, and you should know better…but here you are.) “Very funny.” He swallows whatever smart retort you might have made with another kiss that lights you up like an atom bomb, his thumb circling your clit while he leans over you. He moans in your mouth every time he swipes your entrance for more slick. “So wet for me, my pretty girl, bet you taste as sweet as you look.” So what, if his deep voice in your ear makes your thighs clench and your legs shake? So what, if you make a sound that’s barely human, when he sits in the office chair and slings your knees over his broad shoulders, kissing the insides of your thighs before putting his mouth there. And maybe there’s something to be said, for a man who never shuts up. Maybe he’s been training for this, because that devilish tongue is heaven on your clit and jesus fucking christ when he slides two of those long, thick fingers inside you, you’ve never come undone so quickly for a man. It’s mortifying, really, the way you shout and bow and squeeze him with your thighs like you intend to milk every little last drop of pleasure from his touch. By the time he’s done with you you’re both spent, you lying across the desk with papers strewn everywhere, and him resting with his cheek on your thigh.
He would be the first one to break the silence. “How bout them Hornets?”
You giggle in reply, too spent to form actual words. “The Pistons vs the Lakers are on tomorrow. Care to make things interesting?” Finally you’re able to sit up on your elbows, looking down your body at this man with the mischievous glitter in his eyes. “I dunno. I’m pretty happy with my winnings.” He sticks out his lip in a pout that should be ridiculous on a grown-ass man. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a chance to win something back.” “Hmm. You could just…ask me out to dinner?” You regret it the moment it leaves your lips, and you’ve never known such dread as in in the few long seconds of silence before he smiles up at you, pressing a sweet kiss to your thigh. “Alright. Are you off tomorrow?” “Yeah.” “It’s a date.”
He stands, offering your inside-out jeans back, but you can’t help but sit there swinging your bare legs, admiring the impressive tent in his trousers. “Conor?”
“Yeah baby?” “Take off your pants.” His grin is so bright it’s blinding in this dingy little closet of an office, and you can’t help but squirm, suddenly feeling like your heart doesn’t quite fit in your chest anymore. “Yes ma’am.”
