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STICKY

summary: Each time Tommy Miller calls you his girl, and the one time that it sticks.

pairing: possessive!Tommy Miller x maneater!f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, porn without much plot, age gap(10yrs), infidelity but not against tommy or reader, toxic relationship dynamics, club culture, one use of the word daddy said as a joke, possessiveness, tbh reader is straight up mean to tommy but he's down bad and into it, protected & unprotected piv, dacryphilia, phone sex, f!masturbation, facefucking, facesitting, degradation, praise, choking, public sex, lots of dirty talk, pussy pronouns, jealousy, tommy uses another girl to get your attention but it backfires, creampie, overstimulation, modern/no outbreak au, no beta

note: you know those couples that fight in the middle of the baking aisle and then fuck it out in the car before they leave the parking lot? yeah that's these two.

» alexa, play toxic by brittany spears

wc: 12.08k

[masterlist] [AO3]

The first time you meet Tommy Miller, you’re twenty five and full of life in the way that sticks.

Creating memories that you’ll talk about when you’re seventy, going to every bar and club within a hundred mile radius. Making such a reputation for yourself that even the bouncers know you by name. Smile big and sigh heavy every time they see you as if to say, ‘Ah, shit. There she is. Here we go again.’

It was at a nightclub in Dallas where you first bumped into Tommy. Well, bumped into would be putting it lightly.

He’s standing outside with a pretty blonde girl, sharing a Marlboro Red and whispering sweet nothings.

And you’re shouting. Laughing, too, slung over the shoulder of a security guard, being kicked out for being disruptive. Whatever the fuck that meant.

For what it’s worth, he sits you back on your feet gentler than you deserve. “Oh, so bitches don’t know how to say excuse me and somehow it’s my fault? It’s fuckin’ bullshit, Dennis, and you know it!”

“Not my call, kid,” Dennis explains with a shrug. “Sorry. See you next weekend.” And without another word, the suited man disappears back into the nightclub, leaving you, and the blonde, and one Tommy fucking Miller.

You’d be embarrassed, if it weren’t for the six shots coursing through your bloodstream.

They stare. Both of them, but in different ways. Her gaze is concerned, maybe a little frightened. But Tommy’s is dark. Excited. Filled with lust, but you hadn’t known that yet.

“What? You never seen someone get kicked out before?”

“Sorry,” the blonde says quickly. “You okay?”

Nice. She was nice. That’s about all you remember. She helps you fix your too-tight dress and goes back inside. Tommy promises to follow her in a minute, once he finishes his cigarette.

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he sweet talks you in the way he’s always been good at. Makes you feel real special. Puts his mouth to your ear and makes obscene jokes, the heat of his breath sending goosebumps down your spine.

He touches you softly at first. A simple brush of his knuckles across your cheekbone. He flashes that killer smile and his hand finds a home on your waist. Drifting lower and lower and before you realize it, he’s slipping it up the back of your dress.

In hindsight, that first night should’ve been the red flag to end all red flags. He’d been at the nightclub with someone else, and somehow you’d wound up in the back seat of his truck with his cock buried deep inside you.

No one had ever gotten you to the finish line before that night. A couple of boyfriends had tried, but mostly, you’d had to ignore their rhythm and circle your clit yourself just to get there.

But Tommy isn’t like that. Not even a little. Seems to know the way around your body better than you yourself do. Lifts you off of him and replaces his cock with his fingers halfway through, and moves them just right until you soak him, only to slide right back in with a deep groan and that prideful grin on his face.

He likes to talk real nasty in your ear. That much never changed. That first night, as the condom swells inside you, he looks right into your eyes and says, “Damn, baby. You’ve got the kinda pussy that’ll make a man go fuckin’ crazy.”

If his girlfriend hadn’t been the red flag, you think that should’ve been.

But you were young and dumb and Tommy was older and exciting and delicious.

So, you give him your number when he asks for it.

Rookie mistake.

Two weeks later, you get a text on Friday night.

Going to Club Orchid with some friends tonight. Could use a back seat girl.

Back seat girl.

It makes you so fucking mad, so irritated that you complain about it to your roommates all day. And they all agree that it was a shitty thing to say.

Sure, Tommy was attractive. Tall and broad and rugged with that big Texas belt buckle and that deep Texas drawl and those curls and the fucking mustache.

But he wasn’t God’s gift to Earth. And when you and your friends find your way to Club Orchid that night, you seek him out to tell him just that.

And you do. Give him a glare sharp enough to cut and call him an asshole in front of all his friends. You remind him that his access to you is a privilege because it is, and warn that you’ll end up in his dad’s backseat if he’s not careful.

But Tommy takes your insults and threats with ease. Smirks the whole time like you’re putting on his favorite show. Leans back with an elbow against the bar and a glass bottle in hand. Licks his lips when you’re done and says, “You’re fuckin’ sexy when you’re all worked up. You know that?”

You roll your eyes and blow him a kiss with your middle finger before setting out to find someone else to dance with.

And you do. Some pretty boy from out of town who’s all too happy to let you grind on him in the middle of the dance floor. He buys you and your friends drinks all night and runs his soft hands up your thighs with no fear in him. The kind of boy you’d normally take home. Closer to your age. Nice, but not too nice.

You can feel Tommy’s eyes on you from across the room, though. Catch his gaze every couple songs, hot and lingering. You like the way it felt to have his attention. Like that he could have any girl in the room but he stares only at you.

A little after midnight, you step outside for some fresh air. And you can see him leave the bar from the corner of your eye, fully aware he’s following you and trying to ignore the way your skin prickles in excitement.

You don’t even make it to the backseat that night. Tommy shoves your dress up and your panties down and takes you right on the hood of his truck. Presses your face to the black chrome paint and fucks you hard. Tangles his hand in your hair and says, “Pretty girl got her feelings hurt, did she? S’alright, baby. You got me back good. Lettin’ that little boy touch you all night right in front of me. But pussy this good needs a fuckin’ man, don’t it?”

No one on Earth has ever irritated you more. But no one else has made you feel that good, either.

Tommy likes it deep. Gives you those fast, punishing strokes that have your eyes watery and your head all fuzzy. He brushes his rough fingers over your clit with expert precision, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you with ease. Like it’s his fucking day job.

He kissed you afterwards. Rights your dress, squeezes your cheeks between his fingers and presses his lips to yours with such intensity it steals the breath from your lungs. He hadn’t done it the first time, and it leaves you a little confused.

Enough that you consult the group chat the next morning. Half of the responses conclude that you’ve gotten the man pussydrunk, while the other half insist on blocking his number.

But you don’t, of course. Just chang his contact name to Tommy Miller - DNI.

You ignore his messages for a while and avoid the clubs and bars you know he frequents.

But it does little to change the course you’re on.

The next time you see him is at your favorite takeout place. You’ve already ordered and are waiting on the other side of the counter, wearing your comfiest pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt. A far cry from your best look, but it didn’t seem to bother Tommy in the slightest.

He bypasses the woman behind the counter entirely, coming up to your side instead. He towers over you in a way that’s a whole lot clearer in the daylight. So tall you have to crane your head up to watch him speak. “Nice seein’ you here,” he says. “Best barbecue in Austin. Shame only the locals know about it.”

“I prefer it that way,” you admit, nose upturned, a cold edge in your voice. “Keeps away unwanted advances.”

He smirks at that. “Unwanted, huh? S’that what it was?” His eyes flicker down, right between your thighs. “Didn’t seem that way when she was cryin’ for me.”

You roll your eyes and bite your tongue, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave you be.

But Tommy only doubles down. Leans in close and says the most obscene thing you’ve ever heard in your life up until that point. “You know, some people would call it cruel, keepin’ a little girl from her daddy.”

“Jesus Christ,” you scoff. “You’re disgusting.”

Tommy smiles real wide. Presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head and says, “I’ll see you later, baby.”

He would not see you later, in fact. You’d make damn sure of it.

When he returns to the cashier, he tells her the name on his pickup order and you try to drown out the sound of his voice and the way he smiles at the girl behind the counter. Try to ignore the way she smiles back, and slides him a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it.

But when your order’s finished, and you pull out your debit card to pay, she informs you that it’s already paid for in full.

You try not to let it get to you. Try not to convince yourself paying for your food means anything. You didn’t ask for him to buy your dinner, and so you don’t owe him a thank you or the last thirty dollars in your account.

But you have a weird feeling he’ll try to hold it against you. Which is why you open that one sided text thread and send a message, half hoping he’ll leave you on read.

Thanks for buying my food. Didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it.

His response is immediate.

Yeah I did. I always take care of my girl.

His girl. It makes your stomach flip. Makes you feel equally nauseous and elated.

Not your girl.

Those typing bubbles pop up, disappear, and then pop up again. He’s hesitating.

Could be, though.

The hesitation is enough for you to make a decision. Tommy Miller doesn’t seem much the settling down type. You know guys like him. Take pride in seeing right through their facade and turning their own tricks back on them.

And, truthfully, you’re weren’t ready for anything exclusive or serious, anyway. You had no interest in being his girl. No interest in him at all.

You don’t respond.

But you see him. That weekend at Club Orchid, the following weekend at Frank’s Bar. It seems that no matter where you go, he’s always there. And you try to keep your distance.

Truly, you do. But it’s like Tommy Miller’s this beacon of light and you’re a brainless little moth. Sometimes he shows up in these too tight t-shirts that barely fit his strong biceps, sometimes he wears this cologne that’s sweet and musky and masculine and mouth watering, and you just can’t help yourself.

You always know he’s around when you walk in some place and you’re given a Jack and Coke before you even make it to the bar. It becomes a running joke between you and your friends. Like it’s his little way of saying ‘hey, baby. be seein’ you later.’

And god damnit, you do.

You christen every god forsaken inch of his truck, the backseat of your friend’s Camry, both the restrooms at Club Orchid, the alley behind Frank’s. He makes you feel like a horny teenager, never satisfied, always hungry.

And it goes on for months. Longer than any other casual hookup you’ve ever had before him.

Tommy has no problem keeping up with you. Even though you always poke fun at him for his age, sometimes offering a viagra when you share a cigarette and ask for round two before you even make it back inside to the thrall of the party.

He says, “I’m thirty five, girl. Not seventy five. Bend the fuck over.”

Each time it’s a little more dirty and a little more depraved. He gets to know you, to really know you. Can hear the difference between a moan that says, that’s good and one that says, Jesus Christ, right fucking there.

And you come to know him, too. Know just how hard to squeeze his cock to make his breath hitch, know when to suck and when to lick, know that if you look up at him with innocent eyes while he’s halfway down your throat it sends him careening off the precipice of release.

Tommy likes it when you’re sweet to him. He likes when you beg for it, likes when you say please. But you also know he likes the chase.

Convincing you is half the battle, and if you didn’t know any better you’d assume he enjoyed it more than the sex. He doesn’t embarrass easily, and you find that the meaner you are to him before he spreads your thighs, the harder he is when his cock finds home.

But on one particularly bad Friday, you find yourself at Frank’s alone. Your friends are busy and your roommates bailed last second. Not their fault—food poisoning happens to the best of us.

It’s not bad because you’re alone. It’s bad because you’d been laid off that afternoon and now were in a frantic search for a new job. Something temporary until you made it through the screening process at someplace that paid decently.

You’re drowning your sorrows when Tommy finds you. Ordering doubles all night and charging it to your credit card even knowing you shouldn’t.

He sits beside you at the bar. Doesn't say a word. Just exists with you in the silence and orders a drink for you both.

You hate to admit it, but you think it might just be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for you. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t offer to fix it, doesn’t urge you to sneak off to the back to have a quickie. He’s just…he’s just there.

And, after last call, he gently tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and says, “C’mon.”

You don’t know why, but you do as he says. End up sitting in the corner of the couch in his apartment, your dress in a pile on his bathroom floor, wearing a well loved Def Leppard t-shirt from his closet. He makes two cups of microwave noodles, sits beside you, and asks, “You like Pawn Stars?”

All you give is a shrug in response. Have never given a shit about reality television shows, really. But somehow, it’s exactly what you need.

Tommy sits there with you, arm draped around your shoulders, and watches reruns until you fall asleep. Doesn’t press you for answers or ask you for anything. He just…he takes care of you. In a way you’ve never been taken care of before. He’s kind and gentle and good.

He kisses your forehead when he turns the television off and retires to his bedroom alone. But, before he goes, your sleepy voice cuts through the silence. “Tommy?”

His heavy steps pause on the hardwood. “Yeah, baby?”

“Thank you.”

A soft smile curls at the corners of his lips. It’s the first time you see it; the love in his eyes. Not love in the typical way of the word. There’s no expectation tied to it, no hidden intention. It’s just good, simple, pure adoration. Given to you freely from a man who has a good heart but isn’t quite ready to give it away.

You wake up before the sun with a splitting headache and a clearer head. Even fully aware that it’s kind of a shitty thing to do, you slip out of Tommy’s apartment before he wakes. Send him a quick text that just says thanks again, and walk back to your car parked in Frank’s parking lot with your shoes in hand.

A little after you turn twenty six, James takes you by surprise. You meet him at a houseparty in Houston and hit it off quicker than you anticipate. He’s the sort of guy you’d bring home to your parents. And when he surprises you at your new office job with a dozen roses in hand just to ask you on a date, you can’t help but say yes.

He opens every door for you, gives you his jacket in the rain, walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Your friends like him, he’s funny, and he never once gives you any mixed signals. Even admits early on that he wants to take things slow because he’s dating not for fun but with the intent of eventual marriage.

James is a good guy. A really, really good guy. And you like him. Truly.

Which is why, several weeks into your relationship, you think it’ll be fine if you accompany your friends to Club Orchid on his arm.

You should’ve known better.

And you know it’ll be bad when that Jack and Coke is presented to you by a waiter before you’re four feet inside the door.

Your friends give you worried glances, but you try to shake it off. It’s just a drink. It doesn’t mean anything. And so you simply thank the waiter and sip slowly from the glass and go about your business.

The heavy weight of his stare prickles at the back of your neck. James asks to dance and you say yes, trying to convince yourself you’re not doing it just to get a good look around the room. To find him.

It takes a couple of songs. Club Orchid is busy, bustling with bodies and spilled liquor and the scent of cigarette smoke. But you do find him.

Sitting at a table near the back, feet extended, arms crossed over his chest and that fucking smirk on his face. He’s got on battered cowboy boots and an old pair of wranglers and that fucking Def Leppard t-shirt. The same one you’d slept in on his couch.

You’re not a cheater. Would never slip off to the parking lot while James waits for you inside, oblivious that you’re getting your back blown out thirty feet away.

And yet, the image in your brain gets stuck. Roots in deep. Makes a home inside.

But you’re not like that. You’re not.

When you tell James you’re going to run to the restroom for a second, he can sense your unease. He asks if everything’s okay, asks if there’s anything you need. His concern only makes the obscenities that haunt you feel that much more depraved.

You promise James that you’re okay, that you just need a second to yourself.

But you can feel Tommy’s familiar warmth at your back the moment you step through the door.

The restrooms are dimly lit, dark walls covered in graffiti. There’s a couple making out near the sinks and a young woman beside them fixing her lipstick in the mirror.

You don’t turn to face him. Not until you’re inside of the stall at the end, and he closes the door and latches it behind himself. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Could ask you the same thing, sweetheart,” he says. As if he has any right to.

“I already told you. I’m not your fucking girl.”

Tommy laughs. A deep rumble in his chest. “Mhm. Sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that.” He steps forward, crowding you. And when you take a step back to create much needed space, he just keeps coming until your back is pressed against the painted concrete wall. “You're his girl now, s’that it?”

“Yes,” you tell him. But your voice shakes when you say it.

Tommy catches it. Hears your hesitance. “Fine,” he says with a playful smirk. “I’ll bite. Just answer one question.”

A crease forms between your brows. You cross your arms over your chest and find that your heart is beating so fast you can feel it hammering against your sternum. “What?”

Tommy gently takes hold of your wrists, unfolding your arms. He stares you right in the eye, his gaze filled with so much intensity and darkness it chokes you. He takes your hand in his and presses it against the bulge in his jeans, and asks with a syrupy voice, “He fuck you like I do?”

Though you try not to react, your muscles deflate and a quiet whimper slips past your lips. You know if you lie he’ll taste it like smoke in the air. So, you say nothing instead. Keep your lips sealed firmly shut.

But your silence is answer enough. Tommy smiles wide and presses a kiss to your hairline. He rests his cheek against the top of your head—such a rare, affectionate caress that you almost don’t notice his free hand begin to gather the fabric of your dress at your hip.

He keeps the other held firmly against his cock, puppeteering your fingers, stroking the hardness there just how you know he likes.

“Don’t know why I asked. Already knew the answer,” he mutters, fingertips dancing over the elastic band of your panties. He slides them from your hip to that spot just below your navel—back and forth, back and forth, feeling the smooth fabric. “He know about that special spot, baby? Hm? He get as deep as I can? He keep up with you?”

No, no, and no. “It’s better with him.” Lie. “He’s nice to me.” True.

Tommy snorts. “You don’t like it nice,” he says. And then he slides his hand between your legs, middle finger pressed against your slit through the fabric of your panties. “Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want.”

His hand stays there, caressing you, sliding against your clit over and over and over. You can’t think like this. Can’t move, can’t breathe. Your hips tilt against his hand and you can feel his smile as he presses another loving kiss to the top of your head.

Corrupted.

You’re totally, completely corrupted.

Fucked in the head because you’re going to let him do whatever he wants to you in this dirty bathroom stall while your boyfriend’s alone on the dance floor.

And then Tommy steps away, leaving you cold and wanting and soaked.

Clarity comes trickling in and your stomach twists. But there’s a part of you, too, that wishes you’d been bolder. A part that regrets not saying yes faster.

“S’alright,” he says. “If you want to be with some fuckin’ asshole who doesn’t know his way around that sweet pussy of yours then fine. Be my guest. Suit yourself. But don’t let me see him touch you again, cause I’ll bash his fuckin’ head in.”

The words sound so unbelievable in your ears that you laugh. “You’re insane,” you say through your giggles. “Like, actually fucking crazy.”

He grabs your face, gentle enough not to hurt, firm enough that your laughter dies in your throat. “Do what you want, but I don’t want to fucking see it.”

It’s only then that it becomes clear to you. Behind his anger, there’s injury. You’re hurting him.

And you’d feel bad if you had a reason to. But Tommy’s not good to you. Doesn’t ask to take you on dates, doesn’t make the effort to get to know you, doesn’t even typically kiss you goodbye after he spreads your legs.

You deserve better and you know it. You deserve someone more like James.

He leaves you alone in that bathroom stall and you fight off the tears that well in the corners of your eyes.

When you regain your composure, you find James at the bar. He asks again if you’re okay and you admit that you’re not. Tell him you’re just not feeling it, that you’d rather spend the night tucked into bed with him.

And he’s all too happy to take you up on the offer. He makes you popcorn and rents that new romcom starring your celebrity crush. He gets ice cream delivered at midnight just because you say it sounds good.

You try not to think about Tommy. But that dull, thrumming ache between your thighs persists. As if your traitorous libido had been promised sweet, sweet relief, only to be let down.

And you try with James. Really, you do. You tell him what feels good and he goes down on you for half an hour with no complaints. But he’s…he’s kind. And you can only take so much trying before you’re just tired. You know faking it doesn’t benefit either one of you, but you don’t want to hurt his feelings, either. Because he’s so good in every other aspect and you’re terrified of scaring him off.

And it’s not that big of a deal, right? It’s not like the sex is bad. It’s just not what you’re used to. Different can be good, can’t it?

After he finishes he’s kissing you and saying goodnight and he’s dead asleep in ten minutes flat. It’s fine if you slink off to the bathroom after he’s started snoring to take care of the ache yourself.

It wouldn’t be the first time and you know it probably won’t be the last.

Except…it doesn’t happen.

You try every trick in the book. Even let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, but you just can’t get there.

Ten minutes go by. Fifteen. Twenty. Forty.

Your desire lingers, hot and heavy and suffocating. The entire night has got you so frustrated and worked up that you could cry.

And you won’t be able to sleep, not with the pent up arousal that demands attention. So, you make a decision.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard on your phone. Unsure and yet still determined. You type out the classic you up? text, only to delete it.

You settle on a different phrasing. Still no better, but at least it doesn’t make you cringe as hard.

Are you awake?

Tommy’s response is instant. Like it always is.

Call if you’re serious.

It makes you roll your eyes and sigh in frustration, but you do it anyway. Move to the couch in James’s living room instead, further away from the bedroom to ensure he won’t hear you.

And then you call Tommy Miller for the first time in your life.

He picks up on the second ring. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you had it in you, baby,” is his greeting. Voice dark and sultry as he taunts you, the word baby sliding through you all soft and sweet and buttery.

It has your stomach fluttering, warmth slithering through your center. But irritation follows it. “Shut the fuck up,” you bite back. Mean.

Tommy just laughs and you can hear the amusement in his voice when he speaks. “Don’t think you called to tell me that,” he says. “Can I guess?”

His voice. Just his fucking voice.

Your heart rate kicks up, that familiar pressure forms between your legs, painful at this point. And you know it’s wrong but you don’t care. You just need relief.

Tommy continues to speak, even though you offer nothing in the way of an answer. Says, “I think I was right on the nose, huh? He might be nice, but he can’t fuck you right. S’why you’re callin’ me, ain’t it? Got that uppity, rich asshole wrapped around your finger, though. An’ it’s no surprise, really. So goddamn pretty in those little dresses.”

You put him on speaker and lower the volume as low as it’ll go, placing your cellphone on the back of the couch. Freeing up your hands so you can lift your t-shirt with one and slide the other beneath the waist band of your pajama shorts.

He continues, oblivious. “Got those sweet, innocent eyes an’ that smart ass mouth that looks like it was made to fit a cock like mine.”

Your head falls back, sighing as you circle your clit with the perfect pressure, the perfect speed. Pleasure shoots through you, building low in your belly.

“You let him fuck your pretty mouth, baby? Hm? Tell me. You swallow him down easy? Or do you cry on it like mine? Get all teary eyed and messy?”

His voice is so dark, so deep. But he’s looking for an answer and you don’t have the patience for it, you just want to get there. So in the silence all you can think to say is, “Keep talking.”

Tommy hears it, the breathlessness in your words. The need, the desperation. “Oh, shit,” he hisses. But then he chuckles, low and quiet. “You touchin’ yourself right now, darlin’?”

You don’t answer, too ashamed. But you pick up the pace, press a little harder against the sensitive nerves, and you try to swallow a moan. It comes out as a breathy sound instead, stuck in the back of your throat.

Somehow, the cadence in which he speaks grows darker. Sinister, even. ”Dirty fuckin’ girl. Bet you just had him inside you, huh? He in the other room? Tell me.”

“No,” you say. But it’s so unconvincing that Tommy laughs.

“Ain’t gotta lie to me. S’okay, though. I know how you get with that little attitude of yours. Too bad your boyfriend don’t know that all it takes to fix it is to get all up in your guts. Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

“You’re so—hmm—so fucking annoying.” You don’t mean it. Not really.

It doesn’t phase him. “You got your fingers inside yet, baby? Or are you still touchin’ her all sweet and soft?”

“Not…God—not yet,” you breathe out, trying to ignore the way your voice sounds so desperate in your ears. The pleasure coiling around your spine is already better than it was before, heightened just because he’s there.

Tommy clicks his tongue. “Got two hands, don’t you? Go on, now. Just one, greedy girl. Gotta pace yourself. Make it last, make it good.”

Even though you know he can’t see you, you follow his instructions to the letter. Use your free hand to slide a single finger inside—the middle one, pressing hard in just the right spot.

Your breath stutters the moment it happens, and you can feel your walls clench and shiver around the digit at the sound of that liquid smooth laugh of his.

“Got no fuckin’ clue how hard I am,” he whispers, voice smokey. “Got my dick leakin’ just thinkin’ about ya. From hearin’ all those pretty noises you make.”

You roll your fingers over your clit faster, chasing relief. Somehow it’s both too much and not enough, and before long you find yourself begging. The way you always do when that thick Texas drawl floods your ears. “Oh—fuck. Fuck, please, Tommy—”

His breath hitches on the other side of the phone. There’s a long, shaky exhale—and you know you’re getting to him. Can feel the sudden shift, can hear the strain in his words. “Christ. Slutty little thing. Sayin’ my name while he’s in the other room.”

The shame of it all makes you whimper, but it only spurs him on.

“S’alright, pretty girl. Ain’t gonna tell. Slide another finger in, baby. Ya earned it. Let me hear you,” he says.

And though your immediate compliance stirs something angry and irritating inside, you do as he says. Tell yourself it’s not because you have to, but because you want to. Would do it right at this moment even without his words.

The stretch is sweet and aching, fingertips finding home with practiced ease, warmth pooling low in your belly. Quiet, breathy sounds leave your lips, refusing to remain behind your teeth.

“Ohh, that’s it, ain’t it? This all you needed? Wanted me to talk ya through it. You cum for him like you’re about to cum for me?”

It’s right there, right there—your eyes squeezed tight, thighs trembling, breath getting stuck at the top of your lungs.

And then he laughs. A low, baritone sound that sends shivers down your spine. He says, “Nah. ‘Course not. That pretty little pussy ain’t his, is it, baby? My fucking girl. Not his. Mine.”

The way he says it—possessive, controlling, certain—sends you over the edge, diving headfirst into bliss.

You have to turn your head and press your mouth against your shoulder, fighting back the noises threatening to spill out, trying to keep quiet but failing miserably.

“Sound so pretty right now,” Tommy mutters. “Wish I was there with you, watchin’ you make a mess of yourself. Fuck, baby. That’s it.”

The sensation sticks. Lasts and lasts and lasts until you’re fighting for air, until your thighs clamp down tight around your hands between them.

And even after, as your orgasm slowly fizzles out and your muscles loosen considerably, your skin still tingles. You let your head roll back, falling limp into the couch cushions, trying to catch your breath.

Tommy says nothing for several seconds, but you can still hear him on the other end of the line. Can feel him. The tension changes. Not awkward, exactly. Reluctant. As if he wants to speak but is afraid to.

You’re the one who decidedly ends the silence. “Uhm…thanks. By the way.”

Whatever Tommy had wanted to say gets lost. Tucked away someplace else for a different time. “Ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ my job, darlin’. Told you, I always take care of my girl.”

With a scoff, you roll your eyes and pick your phone back up. Press it to your ear and deny his words, even though something about the way you say them feels like a lie. “Not your girl, Miller. Goodnight.”

You don’t let him get another word in before ending the call. But just before you hang up you can hear him laughing.

Not long after, you break up with James. Give the classic, it’s not you, it’s me speech and pick up a box of your belongings from his rental a week later.

It surprises you how relieved you feel afterwards. How little you care about his absence. Because while, yes, James is kind and honest and good—you realize you’ve gotten bored. Have begun to miss the excitement without realizing it. The push and the pull and the heady desire in the middle of a dance floor.

That first weekend, your roommates insist on going out. Say it’s their way of getting you ‘back out on the playing field,’ which you know is just an excuse to drink too much.

Still, you go. Decide on one of those nightclubs in the college part of town. Too expensive and too crowded and too loud, but somehow it’s exactly what you need.

And it’s the first night in months you spend just for yourself. You dance with your friends and even though your roommate's boyfriend lingers, the energy is good. Youthful and relaxed and healing, the way all girls' nights are.

You don’t see Tommy’s text message that night until several hours after he sends it.

Hey. Can we talk?

It makes your stomach turn. Because it feels like one of those messages. The ones you receive right before you block a phone number, insisting they need more from you. More time, more attention, more.

And you’re not ready to give Tommy up before you even go back to him. Not just yet.

Don’t want to be tied down after just cutting yourself loose, but you don’t want to lose him at the price of freedom, either.

Because he might be annoying and frustrating and too damn full of himself, but you like him. Like the things he does to you, anyway.

You’d never admit that, though. Not to his face. At least not now.

So, you wait until morning to text him back. Hope that time has given him some clarity. He asks to take you out for breakfast, and it only stirs up that anxiety once again.

Because you’ve been here before. Already know exactly what the conversation will entail.

If it were anyone else—anyone at all—you would’ve cut your losses by now and added his number to the graveyard at the bottom of your contact list.

But…his dick curves upwards. He eats you like a man starved for it and grabs you by the jaw and looks you right in the eye while he whispers that perverse filth, all while buried deep inside you.

You agree to coffee. Not breakfast.

Tommy’s already at the local shop when you get there. Leaning against the brick wall outside the door, silver belt buckle catching the light of the morning sun, one brown leather boot crossed over the other, cigarette hanging loosely in his hand.

He smiles when he sees you. A big, toothy grin. Laughs when you’re close enough to hear and says, “Jesus. Would you fuckin’ relax? Stop lookin’ at me like I’m holdin’ a loaded gun in my back pocket.”

“Stop looking at me like you’d let me point one right between your eyes,” you chide, hoping to set the tone before it spirals.

But Tommy doesn’t care. He never has. Just holds open the door and lets himself shamelessly ogle you as you walk over the threshold.

You order first, listing off the specifics of your favorite drink. The one you use as both a hangover cure and a pick me up on those days that like to drag on. You say please and thank you when the interaction permits and try not to feel the way Tommy crowds you, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your jacket.

He orders a simple black coffee. No cream, no sugar. When the young woman with blue hair behind the counter asks if he’s sure, he says, “Definitely. I like ‘em when they bite back.”

Mortification comes fast. “Oh my god, ignore him,” you interrupt. “I’m so sorry. How much?”

Tommy pays. Insists on it. And even though he tips the barista on his card, you take the stray bills at the bottom of your purse and stick them in the tip jar on the counter, too.

Instead of sitting in the cafe, you decide to go on a drive. Tommy’s truck is clean and smells like old leather and the faint scent of pine coming from the tree shaped air freshener hung around the rearview mirror.

“You know, I don’t…” he shakes his head, eyes focused on the road ahead. There’s no traffic and the city is still wet with morning dew. “I don’t normally do stuff like this, so I’m gonna get right to the point.”

You sit there, silently sipping your latte from the passenger seat, feeling more awkward than you ever have in your life.

“I know we…we’ve got a good thing goin’, you an’ I. And I didn’t expect to want more but I like you. Think about you every damn day. Waitin’ by my phone, hopin’ you’ll text.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, completely oblivious to the way your insides begin to twist and turn uncomfortably.

He glances away from the road for a second, letting himself savor the sight of your profile and the way the rising sun paints the sky orange and pink behind you.

You watch his jaw feather, teeth clenched. He’s nervous, you realize.

“I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is I’d like to…I don’t know. Try somethin’ else, if you’re down for that. Take you out on a real date. See you more than just to get off. S’that…s’that somethin’ you’re interested in? With me?”

Even knowing it’s your turn to speak, the words refuse to form in your mouth. Get lodged in the back of your throat, sitting heavy like a stone. You find yourself wishing you would’ve called this off. Told him you were busy today and tonight and every day going forward for the rest of your life.

Tommy laughs. “Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “Assumin’ lookin’ like you’re about to hurl is the answer. I get it.”

You let out a long breath. “Tommy, I’m sorry. I like…” you stop. The word you doesn’t pass easily. Instead, you amend the phrase, saying, “I like what we have now. And I’m just not ready for anything serious so soon.”

“So you did break up with him, then?” He turns to you, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Looking less like he’d just gotten rejected and more like he’d just found out the most satisfying news of his life.

The smug look only serves to irritate you. With a scoff you ask, “Are you saying you thought I still had a boyfriend and asked me out anyway?”

“Wouldn’t exactly call him competition,” he says, eyes narrowed in amusement. “You only liked him ‘cause he was sweet to you. F’ya want flowers and love notes, I can make it happen. The difference between me an’ him is that I can do all that and fuck you right, too.”

“God. Do you hear yourself when you speak?”

“Only thing I wanna hear right now is you moanin’ my name,” Tommy says.

At first, you think he means it as a joke. Says it to get under your skin in the way he’s always been good at.

But then his eyes turn molten as he looks over at you, one hand clenched tight around the leather steering wheel, the other laying loosely on the center console that separates you. His gaze drags down your body; over your neck, lingering on the curve of your chest, over your soft thighs. “Why don’t you go’head an’ take those off for me.”

And god fucking damnit, you do. Try to quiet your breathing as he drives, speed increasing with each inch of skin you expose as you roll your leggings down.

He starts off slow. Calloused fingers kneading the inside of your thighs, creeping ever higher. By the time he presses his hand hard against your aching center, over the lace fabric of your panties (that you promise yourself you didn’t wear in anticipation for this very moment), you’re already so wet that he laughs as your slick soaks through.

Tommy teases you for so long that you’re breathless and whimpering before he even slides the fabric aside and dips his fingers through your sticky folds.

As much as you try to fight it off, he gets his wish. Has you moaning and crying out his name in minutes, fingers buried deep inside you, making a mess on his leather seat.

The worst part, you think, is that he doesn’t even ask for you to touch him back. Just gets you off while he drives in the fast lane, as if he’s satisfied with just that. You can see the bulge in his jeans, pressing hard against the denim, but he doesn’t acknowledge it in the slightest.

And once your head falls back against the headrest and you use a handful of napkins he’s got stored in the glove box to clean the wetness between your thighs, Tommy drops you off near your car in the cafe parking lot.

You don’t really know what to say. Goodbye feels weird and formal. See you feels like you’re promising to see him again, even knowing you need to cut him off entirely before this gets too complicated.

So instead, you say, “Thanks for the coffee,” and try to slip out of his truck without another word.

But Tommy doesn’t let it happen. Grabs you by the back of the neck, pulls you close until you can feel his breath against your cheeks. Smirks in that annoying, confident way of his and says, “Don’t let me see you step out with another man.”

The words are said quietly, like a threat. You curse your body for tightening up at the sound of them in his mouth, muscles tensing, needy in a way you try and fail to fight off. “Then I suggest you stay the fuck home.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. Attention fixed on the curve of your lips, your cupids bow, the glisten of your lipgloss.

But Tommy doesn’t kiss you. He rarely does. Instead, he licks the corner of your mouth and moans like it’s his favorite taste. “You try an’ get with someone else an’ I’ll ruin it,” he whispers. “Promise.”

The way he says it, like his unwanted possession is a form of devotion has you rolling your eyes and shoving his shoulder. “Go fuck yourself, Tommy.”

With an arrogant raise of his eyebrows, he leans over the center console as you climb out of his truck. “Oh, trust me, baby. I definitely will be. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ of you and that sweet fuckin’ pussy you’ve got the whole time.”

You slam the door in his face and return home both satisfied and angry with yourself.

And the worst part is that when you see him that weekend at Club Orchid, there’s a pretty girl sitting in his lap.

She’s got her arms around his neck and her mouth pressed up against his ear, miniskirt riding high on her thighs, his big hands tracing the cobalt colored edge.

You try not to react.

Really, you do.

But how is that fair? Promising to ruin every relationship for you just because he didn’t get his way, only to taunt you like this so soon after?

Your friends, God bless them, do their best to distract you. Buy shot after shot and pull you to the dancefloor. Tell you to ignore him, that you deserve better. Say that he’s an asshole and he’s always been. Encourage you to move on.

Tommy doesn’t look at you, and somehow it feels worse than if he had. Because if he touched the girl on his lap but gave you his attention, you’d know he was doing it on purpose. Goading for a reaction. You would know that he still cared.

But he doesn’t. Just tucks the girl’s hair behind her ear and kisses her knuckles and his hand sneaks higher and higher on her thigh.

It makes your stomach turn.

Even knowing you rejected him and you have no right to be…jealousy is rarely coupled with sensibility.

You try to convince yourself it’s better this way. Better that he find someone else to twist up. To confuse. Tell yourself you shouldn’t feel jealous, you should feel sorry for the girl.

When you slip away from your friends for some fresh air just before last call, you freeze when you see Tommy standing outside the front door. Cigarette held loosely between his fingers, smoke curling around his face.

Painfully handsome, even in the low light of the street lamp. He stares with his mouth curved at the corners, unmoving, like he’d been waiting for you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you. He just waits. To see who breaks first, to see who opens up the path to all that emotion you’ve both been fighting off. His posture is casual, relaxed, but his eyes are anything but. Sparkling with challenge, with temptation, with invitation.

It would be effortless, you know. To fly off the handle, to be mean the way you want to be. Call him easy, ask him if she could taste you on his tongue, to quote his previous taunts and say, ‘Does she swallow you down easy? Or does she choke on it like I do, crying for it just the way you like?’

But you don’t.

You look right fucking past him.

Find the group of guys just a little further from the door. Slide into their little circle with no resistance, give the tallest one your sweetest smile and ask if you can share a cigarette.

You’re not sure how long Tommy waits before leaving the club entirely to find his truck in the parking lot. Not sure if he hears you introduce yourself to all three men and giggle when they compliment you on your peach colored nail polish.

The next morning, you wake up to a lengthy text message.

An apology. An explanation.

Tommy admits he has feelings for you. Plain and true and honest. Says he was only trying to make you jealous, to make you want him the way he wants you, that he never even kissed her. Couldn’t fathom tasting anyone but you.

He recognizes that the way he went about it was wrong and says this whole thing is new to him, that he’s never wanted to hold on to someone like this. Even confesses that your apathy had hurt him.

With the anger still fresh in your mind, your response is cruel.

Yeah I’m not reading all that.

He doesn’t respond.

And for months, you stay clear of Tommy fucking Miller.

Focus on yourself. Your career, your health. You start taking vitamins and drinking less and cooking more at home. Get a promotion and a pay raise, and you’re doing good.

Until one fateful Friday night when you go to pick up your order at your favorite take out place.

He’s sitting there at one one of the tables, leaning back, arms folded over his chest, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. There’s a black suede cowboy hat on his head and he’s wearing a leather jacket with silver hardware that matches the pointed boots on his feet. Starched blue jeans and that belt buckle, looking all big and Texas and devastating.

Like always, he smiles when he sees you. It’s less playful this time, though. Feels more like genuine affection instead of that teasing smirk he always wears.

You try to ignore him.

But the brown paper bag sitting on the table in front of him has your name on it.

You try to grab for it, to be quick and get it from him so you can leave without speaking.

That doesn’t happen, though. Tommy’s hand flies out to grab your wrist. Not hard, just enough to give you pause. “Please,” he says, a desperation in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

A crease forms between your brows as you assess him, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

“I can’t get you out of my fucking head,” he says. “Please. Just…sit. Have lunch with me.”

You know you shouldn’t.

But you do.

Sink slowly down into the chair across from him and wait patiently as he pulls your food out of the bag. He sets it in front of you just as the woman behind the counter delivers him a separate order, as if he’d planned this.

And you think maybe he did, because his words are gentle when he speaks. Cautious. “Look, I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

“You mean how to treat a woman like she has feelings?”

You can see the smart remark on the tip of his tongue. But for what it’s worth, Tommy swallows it down. “I should have been better to you from the start,” he admits. “Should’ve done this whole thing the right way, but I didn’t know at the time that I would feel the way I do.”

Unsure of his intentions, you say nothing.

Tommy continues. “The last time we talked, I know you weren’t ready for anything serious. But I…I’ve never felt like this for anyone. And if you could try an’ give me another chance, I swear I’ll be better. Try to be what you deserve. An’ if you still don’t want anything serious, I’ll take whatever you wanna give me. Just friends, if you want. Or we can go back to the way things were before. Whatever you decide, I’ll take it. ‘Cause, Christ, sweetheart. I fuckin’ miss you somethin’ fierce.”

“You just miss the sex. You hardly know me, Tommy,” you say.

“But I want to,” he replies. “An’ you’re wrong. It’s about more than that. F’you want, give me a real chance. Take you out on a few dates. Walk you to your doorstep and bring you those flowers an’ love notes you want. Won’t even kiss you ‘til you say so. Promise.”

There’s so much conviction in his words. So much sincerity. But you know men like Tommy. Know they’re real good at saying exactly what you want to hear and even better at convincing you they’ve changed when really, they’ve just gotten better at lying.

Careful. You have to be so, so careful.

“Let’s just see how lunch goes,” you say.

And much to your surprise, it feels…good. You learn more about him in a single hour than you have in the almost two years that you’ve known him. Learn that his best friend is his brother and that he has a niece named Sarah who his entire life revolves around.

It’s sort of endearing, the way he talks about her and how proud he was when she won her soccer tournament last week.

But he asks about you, too. About your family and your friends and your job, listening intently as you speak.

By the time you finish your meal, he hasn’t got you convinced exactly, but there’s a little softness around the edges now. He asks if you’d like to go see a movie with him next weekend, and you agree.

Your roommate knows something’s up the moment you walk through the door. And when she pulls the information out of you and the word Tommy falls from your tongue, she’s groaning before the second syllable.

Still, you go see that movie. He takes you to dinner afterwards, too. And you return home with plans for coffee in the morning and a fresh bouquet of roses in your hands.

It starts to trickle in slowly; the want. The desire. The need for him to touch you.

He takes you to a baseball game and splays his big hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, keeping you safe, touch warm and inviting and possessive in the way that only he can be.

Tommy doesn’t make any moves. But sometimes you can see it in his eyes when you’re talking and he’s watching your mouth, breath hitching in his throat, gaze dark and wanting.

When he takes you out late one night for ice cream, he swipes vanilla cream from your bottom lip with his thumb and sucks the sugar off his finger. Moans quietly at the taste, but doesn’t make the dirty comment you can see swirling in his head.

He starts to text you more often. Sweet, short messages that say good morning, pretty girl and hope you’re having a good day and need anything from the store?

Once, he texts you in the afternoon.

Thinking of you.

And you don’t respond. Not right away. Instead, you wait until the sun sets. Wait until you’re tucked into bed beneath your sheets, thighs pressed tightly together, warmth gathering low in your belly in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

Thinking of you, too. Wanna come over?

He hesitates with his response, the typing bubbles disappearing three different times before an answer finally comes through.

I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning. Take care of her for me, my needy girl.

You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or satisfied with his response. The offer hadn’t been given with an expectation yet still, it softens you up just a little more.

You drag it out for weeks.

And not even once does Tommy complain.

Things change, though, the night you’re laying in the bed of his truck on top of a mountain of pillows and blankets, trying to see the supposed meteor shower that’s twenty minutes away. You turn on your side and ask, “Are you seeing anyone else? Be honest. I won’t be mad either way.”

You steel yourself in anticipation for his answer.

“Truth?”

You nod.

Tommy licks his lips. “I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you.”

It makes you laugh. You don’t mean to, but the amusement bubbles out of you anyway. “Jesus. You’re fucking lying to my face.”

“I’m not,” he insists. Doesn’t say it with any urgency or frustration, and the tone gives you pause.

You try to search his face. To see an ounce of dishonesty in his eyes. But you come up empty, and Tommy just stares at you. The energy between you turns heavy. Meaningful in a way you’re not used to. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says. “You’ve been stuck in my head since that first night. I think about it sometimes.” He chuckles, as if the information is amusing and not the most surprising thing you’ve ever heard.. “I remember that pretty dress you wore an’ the way you’d been screamin’ at the bouncer carryin’ you over his shoulder. Causin’ all kinds of trouble. Stole my heart right then and there.”

“Stole your heart, huh?” You say it with thick sarcasm, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face if you tried.

The realization hits you hard. Sharp and swift.

You want more, too.

More than these nights together. More than sweet gestures and breakfast in the morning and dinner on the weekends. You want to kiss him. You want to hold his hand and sleep in his bed.

You want to be his fucking girl.

Tommy laughs, shakes his head, and playfully shoves your shoulder. “Yeah, stole my damn heart. Fuckin’一thief…s’what you are. Don’t let it go to your pretty head. Forehead’s big enough already,” he teases.

But it’s too late. And you’re moving before you can think better of it, swinging your leg over him, straddling his hips, skin buzzing with anticipation. You take him by the jaw, delighting in the way his eyes darken and the air gets caught in his throat. “You love my big forehead,” you say.

An assumption. A risk.

One that pays off.

Tommy turns his head and presses an open mouthed kiss to your palm. “Fuck yeah I do,” he muses, lips curved at the corners in that way of his, the way that’s always made you weak. “Now c’mere. Let me taste you.”

You lean forward to kiss him, and the intensity skyrockets the moment your tongue touches his bottom lip.

Tommy rests his hand on your throat一not squeezing, just caressing. Feeling your pulse beneath his long fingers. He licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, not just tasting but savoring.

When you start to roll your hips over his, he moans against your lips and his fingers twitch around your neck. “Goddamn, baby. We gotta…fuck. Gotta stop. Wanna do this right. Rose一hm一rose petals an’ shit. Champagne and一”

“I hate champagne,” you whisper, kissing a trail down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. You slide your hands beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt and drag your nails gently down his skin, feeling the softness turn to hard muscle, flexing beneath your touch. “But I like you.”

You shove the fabric up, exposing his sunkissed skin, and your lips immediately find it. He tastes warm. Ambery and masculine, like sweat and soap. Your mouth waters, leaving a trail of wetness down his chest, over his belly. When you kiss the left side of his hip, you suck a purplish mark there.

Claiming, without the need for words.

Shifting lower, you settle between his spread thighs and look up at him through your lashes as you stick out your tongue and lick his bulge through his jeans.

Tommy’s hands fly to your head, twisting in your hair, pulling you back. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses, breathless. “Do you mean that? You fuckin’...you like me?”

“Truth?”

He nods.

You smile. Can’t help it. “Yeah,” you answer. “I mean it.”

Tommy’s answering grin is full of elation and has you giggling. “My fuckin’ girl,” he states, and you can see the smug look in his eye. Can’t even really be mad at him for it, because there’s satisfaction in the words, too. Happiness.

With practiced ease, you unbuckle his belt and pull the zipper of his jeans down with your teeth. His cock is already hard and aching when you reach beneath his boxers to pull it free.

You start slow一kissing the tip, sliding your tongue over the veins on the underside of his cock. He pulses beneath your touch, his hands in your hair gentler now. Stroking the side of your head softly.

But that softness ends the moment you take him in your mouth and suck. You take him down as far as you can, fighting the pressure at the back of your throat. Wrap your lips tightly around him and watch the way his head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Shit, baby,” he sighs. “Been dreamin’ about that sweet mouth.” His hand finds the back of your head, pushing you further down.

Your eyes water and you struggle to suck in oxygen, but stay right where he wants you.

“Look so fuckin’ pretty like that, mouth all full’a me.” With his free hand, he swipes away the stray tear that leaks down your cheek with his thumb. “Doin’ so fuckin good.”

When you start to choke, Tommy lets up. Pulls you off of him, hand still in your hair, smiling wide as thick stands of saliva keep you tethered together. Spit coats your chin and your eyes are bleary, but the moment you catch your breath he’s guiding your mouth back to him, his hips bucking, forcing his cock to reach just a little further down your throat.

“Yeah, there you go. That’s it. Slutty little thing. An’ all mine,” he says. “Cryin’ for it. Bet you’re real wet, too. Lettin’ me fuck your mouth like a whore. Takin’ it like one.” You can hear his breath stutter, his grip in your hair tightening. Know he’s close before he even pulls you away again. “Lift up your dress, baby.”

You do just as he says, like you always have. Grab the ends of the flowing fabric and pull it up over your head until you’re sitting there in his truck bed, wearing nothing but honey colored panties, your favorite black bra, and the tears on your cheeks.

This time, you hadn’t anticipated it. Hadn’t anticipated him.

Tommy reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra with deft fingers, pulling the straps down your shoulders. When he traces the elastic band over your waist, he murmurs, “Cute. These, too, pretty girl.”

As soon as you shimmy your panties down your legs and toss them to the side, Tommy’s tugging you up his torso, hands firm on your hips.

“Bring that ass here,” he orders, sinking further down into the blankets beneath you. He pulls you up until your thighs bracket his head, hovering over him. Tommy stares up at you like you’re the most magnificent thing he’s ever laid eyes on, the intensity of it sending a shiver down your spine.

And he doesn’t break stride; holding that eye contact even when his tongue splits you open, flicking over your clit. “Oh, God.”

You can feel him smile against you, stubble scratching lightly against the inside of your thighs. He licks and sucks and leaves no inch of you untouched, tongue circling, your nerve endings spit slick and pulsing beneath his ministrations.

Though you try to hover, to give him room to breathe, Tommy won’t have it. His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you down, pressing you against his face, moaning when you shift your hips and grind yourself against the flat of his tongue. Hot and wet and desperate. “Just like that,” you tell him, your own voice foreign in your ears. “Fuck, yes, Tommy, please一”

He groans and you can feel the rumble vibrate between your legs. His tongue makes obscene sounds beneath you, soft and delicate against your most sensitive parts. He takes your clit gently between his lips and sucks, and you can feel that familiar warmth begin to quickly build.

Tommy’s always known just how to touch you. Has your pleasure down to a science. So it’s not surprising when you thread your hands through his dark hair, silky between your fingers, and your head falls back. “I’m gonna cum一fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m一ohmygod一”

It hits you hard. Your thighs shake around his head and your vision gets all spotty. Your spine bends, arching against his mouth, seeking the friction that Tommy’s all too happy to give. He just sucks your clit harder, tongue swirling, until the overstimulation becomes too much to bear and you’re pushing yourself up on your knees.

He chases you. Leaning forward to press one last open mouthed kiss to your wet heat. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, lips glossy with your arousal. “Look so goddamn pretty when you cum for me.”

And even though you can still feel the aftershocks of your orgasm, thighs still twitching, you find yourself insatiable for him. “Tommy,” you breathe. “Please, I need…”

“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me what you need an’ I'll give it to you.”

“Want you inside me,” you say. “Please.”

You can see the flicker of disquiet as it crosses his face. Not disappointment, exactly, but…something despairing. “M’sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think we were doin’ this tonight. I didn’t bring anything with me. Here一why don’t you lay back. I’ll fill her up with my fingers, baby. Give that pretty little pussy what it needs.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I’m…I’m on birth control. If you want we can…” You’re not sure why the suggestion makes you feel shy all of a sudden. You’ve never done this, not with anyone. But you want it with him. With Tommy fucking Miller.

That smug smirk finds its way back to his lips. “You want me to fuck you raw, baby?”

When you nod in response, you swear you can see something shift inside him. As if he wasn’t head over heels for you already, he certainly is now.

“‘Course you do,” he says, tone full of adoration. “Christ, girl. C’mere.”

You straddle him again, sliding his cock through your slick folds, the head nudging your clit in a way that has you panting. You roll yourself over him once, twice一and then you’re tilting your hips at a different angle and he slips right in.

He lets out a groan and pulls you forward, arms wrapped tightly around your middle, chests pressed together. Tommy kisses you hard and begins to move underneath you, cock splitting you open, thick and punishing. “Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had, squeezin’ tight like it wants more. Greedy thing, just like you,” he mutters between kisses, fucking up into you. “So wet for me. No one else can fuck you like this, baby. Can they? Huh? Speak, girl.”

The words don’t come easy, all sense emptied from your brain and replaced with the way he makes you feel. Smothering, everywhere all at once. His heavy hands on your waist, his tongue against your skin, licking up the salty tears on your cheeks, his cock buried so deep inside you you can feel him in your belly.

You shake your head, dragging up the energy to cry out, “No, no one else一just you, Tommy just you一God一!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he says. “Pussy fuckin’ belongs to me. Not even yours anymore, is it? S’all mine. Gonna fill her up, pretty girl. Fuck you full’a my cum till she’s all cute and sticky.”

That warmth builds again. Slower this time, but searing. Burning like a red-hot coil, curling up your spine. The perversion he speaks only heightens your desire, lewd sounds emitting from between your legs.

His thrusts grow sloppy. Harder, bruising. “S’like you were made to take my cock,” Tommy says. “Shit, baby. M’so close. You’re doin’ so good.”

Tommy doesn’t slow, even though you’re a moaning, writhing mess on top of him. His hold on you stays firm and his pace stays steady.

He grabs you by the throat, forcing you to look at him, squeezing just enough to make your head all fuzzy. “Say it. Tell me what I wanna hear. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I am,” you whimper, the truth burning like hot coals in your mouth. You think maybe you have been for some time, but only now are you able to admit it. “M’yours—fuck, feels so—so good. Your girl, Tommy—I’m your girl—” Your words are clipped, forced out in your haze, panting.

You can feel him pulse inside you, can feel the sudden increase in pressure as he empties himself with his cock buried to the hilt. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he praises, pressing his mouth to yours, moaning against your tongue, capturing your lips in an all consuming kiss that makes you feel robbed.

When you begin to pull away, trying to shift off of him, Tommy stops you with a firm hand at your hip.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “Not finished ‘til you cum again. Wanna fuckin’ feel it.”

“But you—”

“Still hard, isn’t it?”

You blink, a little startled.

But Tommy just moves his hand around your neck down your chest, pushing lightly, giving him access to slide his fingers between your legs to press them gently against your clit. “Go on,” he urges. “Take it. S’all yours. Fuck yourself on my cock, baby.”

His words are filthy and depraved and make your clit pulse beneath his thumb. One tentative, experimental roll of your hips has him tensing—but Tommy moans low and thrusts up in tandem, giving you what you need, giving you everything.

It’s euphoric—the way he opens himself up to you, letting you take and take and take, letting you be selfish. Encouraging it.

All yours.

You find a good rhythm, his cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, buried deep. And with his fingers working between your legs it doesn’t take long before shocks of bliss shoot through you.

Short bursts at first, chasing it, chasing release—

And then he looks you in the eye and says, “Cum for me, baby.”

It barrels into you without warning—unrelenting, strong, intense the way Tommy has always been. The way you’ve always needed.

He fucks you through it, hips slamming against the back of your trembling thighs, thumb continuing to circle your clit. The breath leaves your lungs completely and the only sounds you’re able to form are helpless whimpers.

Tommy takes it in stride. Holds you upright when you fall forward, muttering all the while with his lips against your ear. “Yeah, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, pretty girl. Shit—she’s squeezin’ me so tight. You like that? Hm? Cummin’ on my cock like the good girl you are. So damn cute when you get fucked all stupid.”

When you begin to come down, he slows his pace until he’s barely moving—just reverent, rocking movements beneath you. Tommy holds you close, arms wrapped around your waist, his embrace warm and safe and good.

He kisses your cheek, your temple, the top of your head. The touches are careful, gentle, a stark contrast to the way he was only seconds ago. You find just enough energy to roll off of him, but Tommy doesn’t let you get far. Helps you tug your dress back over your head, tucks himself back into his jeans, and then pulls you back to his side.

The silence feels weighted, but not uncomfortable. Just…different. You lay your head on his chest, heaving with every breath, and his fingers gently trail over the curve of your spine, pressing into the tender muscle and tracing soothing patterns

And then quietly, he admits, “You’re stuck with me now. You know that, right? Gonna piss you off forever.”

It makes you smile. A wide spread grin, paired with a sudden flush that creeps up your cheeks. And even though no one has ever been able to get under your skin quite the way Tommy has, you find yourself with only one thought at the idea of being well and truly stuck with him.

You tilt your head up, press a chaste kiss to his stubbled jaw and say, “Good.”

#tw degradation

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#tw degradation