Deep Conditioning || Bang Chan
Summary: Chris has become a spoiled brat when it comes to washing his hair.Ever since you did it for him that one time after commenting about how dry and fried it looked, he’d made you his personal hairdresser. He’s grateful really, his curls have never looked better and he even now appreciates his curly hair more. However, what he really appreciates more, are your tetas all up in his face whenever you take care of his hair.
Warnings: bang chan x f.reader, friends to ???, smut! mdni!, kissing, oral(m&f.rec), sex on the bathroom counter, unprotected sex(this is fiction,don’t be stupid in real life), Chris calls you nena like it’s your government name, slightly questionable hair care routine, lowkey munch/perv!Chris, Chris has a slick mouth,some dirty talk and teasing,some hair pulling, there’s some plot somewhere in there, curly haired Chris supremacy because I refuse to shut up about it, may have missed something as usual
W.C: 7.1k
Chris had never been particularly fond of his curly hair, often opting to straighten it since it was easier to manage and deal with. The constant heat styling and bleaching had become routine; a small price to pay for the convenience of low-maintenance mornings and predictable styling. That changed, however, when he met you.
You took genuine pride in your curls and your hair care routine, no matter how long or expensive it was. He’d watch in fascination as you worked through each step with the precision of a scientist and the care of an artist—leave-in conditioner(not always), curl creams and moisturizers,defining brushes, defining gels, diffusing, oils amongst other things he definitely forgot. You spoke about porosity and protein moisture balance like they were actually important and somehow, you made him believe they were.
He remembers the first time he’d let you wash and style his hair. He’d been at your place, running your fingers through it absently while you watched a movie together, when you’d suddenly sat up and declared that his hair felt “absolutely fried” from all the bleaching and straightening. Before he could protest, you’d already pulled him into the bathroom, armed with an arsenal of products and unwavering determination.
That first experience had been revelatory. The way your fingers had massaged his scalp, the careful attention you’d paid to every strand, the genuine excitement in your eyes when his natural curl pattern started to emerge—it had been intoxicating. Needless to say, Chris had become thoroughly spoiled after that.
Now, whenever his hair needed a breather or some pampering, you’d become his personal hairdresser. He’d show up at your door with that boyish smile and puppy-dog eyes, asking if you had time for a “quick wash,” though you both knew there was nothing quick about your process.
Not that you were complaining. You hadn’t paid for your own hair care products in the longest time and that was entirely because Chris insisted on covering the costs. “If I’m benefiting from them too, I should pay,” he’d argued, waving away your protests as he added yet another expensive curl cream to the online cart. The arrangement had quickly evolved into him replacing your products before you even ran out, his bathroom slowly accumulating its own collection that mirrored yours.
It’s what has you in your current situation; standing in his bathroom with his head leaned back over the sink as you work shampoo through his dark curls. Water runs through your fingers as you massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles, working the product into a luxurious lather. His hair is longer now than when you first met, the curls springy and healthy after months of proper care.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you chide, catching his gaze fixed upward. “I told you to close your eyes because you always get soap in them.”
“I’m looking at your tiddies if I’m being honest.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in an unapologetic smirk, his eyes still very much open and not at all focused on anything resembling your face. “You don’t really expect me to keep my eyes closed for long when they’re all up in my face, do you?”
Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize the somewhat compromising position; you leaned over him, the neckline of your shirt offering a view you hadn’t considered when you’d started this whole operation. You flick water at his face in retaliation.
“Christopher!” you gasp, trying to sound scandalized despite the laugh threatening to escape. “You’re impossible. Close your eyes or I’m going to get soap in them on purpose.”
“Worth it,” he declares shamelessly, though he does finally let his eyes flutter closed, that self-satisfied grin still playing on his lips. “But for the record, this is my favorite part of wash day.”
“Getting your hair washed?”
“Having you take care of me,” he corrects, his voice softer now, more sincere. “Though the view doesn’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it but you can’t quite suppress your smile as you continue working the shampoo through his curls, your touch perhaps a bit more tender than before. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“And that I pay for your products,” he adds helpfully.
“That too,” you agree and his quiet laughter vibrates through your fingertips where they rest against his scalp, warm and familiar and entirely too comfortable with making your heart skip beats.
“You’re still staring, Christopher.”
The use of his full name makes his grin widen rather than diminish. He doesn’t even pretend to look apologetic.
“You’re pretty.”
The simple statement, delivered with such casual sincerity, makes your breath catch for just a moment. You try to recover quickly, focusing intently on working the shampoo through a particularly stubborn section of curls near his temple.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, betraying the effect his words have on you.
“Are your lips as soft as they look?”
Your fingers pause in his hair as you look down at him, soap suds forgotten. His eyes are already on you; not wandering anymore but fixed with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. There’s something different in his gaze now, something that transforms the playful banter into something heavier, more charged. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, warmer, the sound of running water fading into background noise.
“You’re teasing me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slowly start back massaging but it’s almost automatic now, your mind entirely focused on the way he’s looking at you.
But he’s still staring; not at your chest anymore but at your lips with an attention that feels almost tangible. His tongue darts out to wet his own lips unconsciously, and you track the movement despite yourself.
“I’m really not,” Chris replies, his voice lower now, rougher. There’s no trace of his earlier playfulness. “I’ve been wanting to know for a while now, actually.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face but neither of you move to wipe it away. Your hands are still buried in his curls, his head still tilted back over the sink but the position that seemed so innocent moments ago now feels intimate in an entirely different way.
“Chris…” you start, though you’re not sure what you’re planning to say—a warning, an encouragement, something to break the tension or maybe give in to it.
“Can I?” he asks and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes your heart stutter. “Kiss you, I mean. I’ve been thinking about it every time you do this. Every time you touch my hair, every time you get close, every time you smile at me when my curls turn out good.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “Actually, I think about it pretty much all the time.”
Your breath hitches. The bathroom feels impossibly warm now, steam from the running water curling around you both, or maybe that’s just the heat of the moment. His eyes search yours, patient despite the wanting written clearly across his features.
“You still have shampoo in your hair,” you point out weakly, even as your hands slide down from his curls to cup his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.
His smile is soft, hopeful. “I don’t care.”
“It’s going to get everywhere…”
“I really don’t care,” he repeats and there’s such certainty in his voice that you can’t help but believe him.
You lean down slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, to laugh it off as a joke. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his head slightly from the sink, meeting you halfway with an eagerness that makes you smile against his lips just before they touch.
The kiss is soft, tentative—a question and an answer all at once. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, moving with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your neck and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the mess.
When you pull back, it’s only barely, your forehead resting against his as you both breathe unevenly. His eyes flutter open, dark and warm and full of something that looks a lot like wonder.
“Softer,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “Definitely softer than they look.”
You laugh, the sound breathy and a little unsteady. “You’re going to get soap in your eyes after all.”
“Worth it,”
Somehow you’ve moved—or been moved—from standing over the sink to straddling him on the computer chair he’d dragged in from his bedroom earlier, claiming he wanted to be comfortable during the “long process.” Your fingers are still buried in his shampoo-lathered hair, working through the curls more on instinct than conscious thought now, while his hands have found their home on the curve of your ass, holding you firmly against him.
The kiss starts slow, almost sweet—a gentle exploration of lips and breath but it doesn’t stay that way. Chris’ fingers flex against you, pulling you closer and you respond by pressing down into his lap, feeling the growing evidence of his interest beneath you. The small noise he makes against your mouth sends heat pooling low in your belly.
His tongue traces the seam of your lips, requesting entry and you grant it without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans; whether from the scalp massage or the kiss or the way you’re grinding down against him now, you’re not sure. Probably all three.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth when you pull back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen and wet. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Show me,” you challenge and his eyes darken further.
He kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding you to rock against him in a rhythm that has you both panting. You can feel him hard and thick beneath you, the friction even through layers of clothing making your head spin.
Your hands slide from his hair down his neck, his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he holds you. Soap suds transfer onto his shirt, onto your arms, neither of you caring about the mess. His mouth leaves yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch into him.
“Chris,” you whimper and the sound of his name seems to undo something in him.
He sucks a mark into your neck, his teeth grazing the skin before his tongue soothes the sting. Your hips roll against him with more urgency now, chasing friction and his grip tightens almost to the point of pain—grounding and possessive and perfect.
“You feel so good,” he groans against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking good and we’re not even—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, this one filthy and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes you clench around nothing.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it, nails dragging up his abs, feeling them contract under your touch. He hisses against your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily and the pressure against your core makes you moan.
“Want you,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Been wanting you so fucking bad.”
You grind down harder, deliberate and his control visibly frays. His hands slide to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, encouraging the movement. The chair creaks beneath you with the motion and some distant part of your brain registers that you’re making a complete mess; soap dripping from his hair onto both of you, water spots on your shirt, the whole situation absolutely ridiculous.
But then Chris’ mouth finds yours again, his tongue sliding deep and you forget to care about anything else. One of his hands moves between your bodies, palming himself through his sweats before his fingers find the button of your jeans—
“Wait,” you gasp, pulling back with what feels like superhuman effort. You’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils dilated. His hand freezes where it is. “Your hair.”
He blinks at you, looking dazed and thoroughly debauched. “What?”
“The shampoo,” you manage, your voice wrecked. “I need to rinse it out before it dries. And we haven’t even done conditioner yet.”
For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve spoken another language. Then he laughs, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. “You’re thinking about my hair care routine right now?”
“I’m always thinking about hair care,” you counter, though you make no move to get off his lap just yet. “And you dragged me in here to wash your hair, so we’re finishing what we started.”
His hands slide up your back, still under your shirt, his touch possessive even as his expression turns playful again. “We can finish other things after?” He nips at your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already sensitized from his earlier attention.
The promise in his voice makes heat flare through you again. “After,” you agree, finally climbing off his lap on unsteady legs. “Now lean back over the sink before I have to clarify your hair all over again.”
He groans but complies, adjusting himself obviously in his sweats before leaning back over the sink. The outline of him is impossible to miss and you watch his hand linger there for just a moment, applying pressure before he forces himself to grip the arm of the chair instead. “You’re cruel,” he informs you, tilting his head back under the running water.
“And you’re about to have the best conditioned curls of your life,” you reply, trying to ignore how your hands shake slightly as you begin rinsing the shampoo away, white suds swirling down the drain. Your fingers work through his hair methodically, making sure to get every trace of product out. “So stop complaining and maybe I’ll show you what else my mouth can do.”
The words hang in the steamy air between you and you feel rather than see the way his entire body goes taut. His hands grip the armrest of the chair so hard his knuckles go white and when he speaks, his voice is strained.
“You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to stay still.”
“I expect you to stay still because you want your hair to look good,” you counter, your fingers working through his curls with practiced efficiency, even as your heart races. “And because you know good things come to those who wait.”
“I’ve been waiting,” he grumbles, but there’s heat in his voice rather than real complaint. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”
The water runs clear, all traces of shampoo finally gone but you keep rinsing, taking your time, making him wait just a little bit longer. Your fingers massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles and you’re rewarded with a low groan that he doesn’t quite manage to suppress.
“That’s not fair,” he mutters, his eyes still closed, though whether it’s to keep water out or because he’s trying to maintain his composure, you’re not sure.
“What’s not fair?”
“You know what you’re doing to me.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration and want. “You’re dragging this out on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” you reply innocently, even as your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly. “I’m just being thorough.”
His hips shift against the chair and you know he’s seeking friction, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The knowledge that you’re affecting him this much sends a thrill through you.
When you finally—finally—reach for the conditioner, your movements are deliberately slow. You pump the product into your palm, the soft scent of shea butter and coconut filling the bathroom and take your time warming it between your hands.
“Are you serious right now?” His eyes open, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You’re really going to make me sit through the entire routine?”
“You asked me to wash your hair,” you remind him, beginning to work the conditioner through his curls, starting at the ends like you always do. “And I’m going to do it properly.”
“I’m starting to regret that decision,” he says, but his eyes flutter closed again when your fingers reach his scalp, working the product in with the same methodical care you always use.
“Liar,” you murmur, leaning closer. Your breath ghosts across his ear and you feel him shiver. “You love this.”
“I love you touching me,” he corrects, his voice dropping lower. “I love your hands in my hair. I love the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to devour me but you’re making yourself wait.”
Your hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. “And what if I do want to devour you?”
His eyes snap open, dark and heated. “Then stop torturing me with hair care and do it already.”
“Patience,” you chide, though your own voice has gone breathy. You work the conditioner through another section of curls, your movements perhaps a bit less steady than before. “Good curls require time and attention.”
“So do I,” he counters and there’s a hint of a whine in his voice that makes you smile despite the heat pooling in your belly.
You let the conditioner sit, your fingers playing idly with his curls, no longer pretending there’s a technical reason for the touch. His eyes track your every movement, watching the way your hands move through his hair, the way your teeth catch your lower lip in concentration.
“You’re killing me,” he says quietly and this time there’s no humor in it, just raw honesty. “Standing there looking like that, touching me like this, saying things that make me want to throw you over my shoulder and—”
“And what?” you prompt, your fingers stilling in his hair.
He holds your gaze, something challenging flickering in his expression. “And make good on every promise in that pretty mouth of yours.”
Heat floods through you at his words, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing exactly that. The air between you feels charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.
“Let me rinse this out,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “And then we’ll see about those promises.”
“How long does it need to sit?” he asks, and there’s definitely a whine in his voice now.
You glance at the bottle, then back at him with a smile that you know is pure wickedness. “Five to seven minutes.”
The groan he lets out is so pained, so genuinely frustrated, that you almost take pity on him. Almost.
Instead, you lean down, bringing your face close to his, your lips barely an inch from his own. “Tick tock, Christopher,” you whisper, and then you pull back, leaving him staring after you with an expression caught somewhere between agony and anticipation.
You make a show of washing your hands, of checking your phone for the time, of doing absolutely anything except acknowledging the way his eyes bore into you. Every second stretches out, thick and heavy with tension, and you can practically feel the restraint it’s taking for him to stay still.
“Time’s up,” you finally announce and the speed with which he tilts his head back over the sink is almost comical.
Your fingers return to his hair, working out the conditioner with the same care and attention you’ve shown throughout the entire process. But this time, there’s an urgency underlying your movements, a barely contained anticipation that matches the tension radiating from him.
The conditioner rinses away, leaving his curls soft and perfectly defined beneath your fingertips. You run your hands through one more time, making absolutely sure there’s no product left, before reaching for a towel.
“Done?” he asks and his voice is so hopeful, so desperate, that you can’t help but laugh.
“Almost.” You wrap the towel around his hair, gently squeezing out excess water. “Just need to—”
But before you can finish the sentence, he’s standing, turning, backing you against the bathroom counter. His hair is still wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down his neck and he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now; thoroughly disheveled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“Hair’s done,” he says, his voice rough. “Now, about those promises…”
“Chris, I still need to add products and dry—”
“Turn around.”
His voice has dropped to something darker, more commanding and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the bathroom. You hesitate, your hand still holding the towel wrapped around his head.
“Chris—”
“What’d I just say, nena?”
The endearment rolls off his tongue with an edge that makes your knees weak. His hands find your hips, firm and insistent, and suddenly you’re being guided to turn, to face the mirror above the sink. Your breath catches as you meet his eyes in the reflection—dark, heated, filled with intent.
“Your hair—” you try again but your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
“Will still be there in ten minutes,” he finishes for you, stepping closer until his chest is pressed against your back, until you can feel every line of him against you. His hands slide from your hips to splay across your stomach, holding you in place. “Right now, I need you to stop talking about my hair and start making good on what you promised me.”
His lips find the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat and your head tilts back automatically, giving him better access. In the mirror, you watch his hands move up your body, watch the way your own breath quickens, the way your pupils dilate.
“I didn’t promise anything,” you manage, though your voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.
“No?” His teeth graze your earlobe, and one hand slides higher, fingers ghosting just beneath the swell of your breast. “So you weren’t suggesting that your mouth could do other things? Because I’ve been thinking about that—about you on your knees for me—for a while now.”
Heat floods through you, pooling low and insistent. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your ear, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite the command in his voice, despite the way his hands are mapping your body like he’s memorizing it, there’s a question there. Consent wrapped in dominance. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”
You hold his gaze in the reflection, see the want and the restraint warring in his expression. The towel is still wrapped around his hair, slightly askew now and there’s something absurdly endearing about it; this moment of raw desire interrupted by hair care, now resuming with even more intensity.
“I want you,” you breathe and watch the way his eyes darken further, the way his grip on you tightens. “I want this.”
“Good,” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. “Because I’m done waiting.”
When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His thumb traces your lower lip, his eyes following the movement with rapt attention.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, “get on your knees for me, nena. Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”
The command sends liquid heat straight through you. Your legs feel unsteady as you turn to face him fully, his hand falling away from your jaw but his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you; like he’s been starving and you’re the first meal he’s seen in days.
Slowly, deliberately, you sink down to your knees on the bathroom mat. The tile is cool through the fabric but you barely notice, too focused on the way his breath stutters, the way his hand reaches out to brace against the counter like he needs the support.
From this angle, he’s overwhelming. You’re eye-level with the very obvious bulge straining against his grey sweats, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected he is. Your mouth waters at the sight and when you look up at him through your lashes, you find him staring down at you with an expression that’s pure hunger.
“Fuck,” he breathes and the rawness in his voice makes you clench. His free hand comes up to pull the towel from his hair, tossing it carelessly aside. Damp curls fall around his face, messy and perfect and he’s never looked better. “You look so good like this. Been dreaming about this.”
“Yeah?” You lean forward, pressing your palms against his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. “Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about.”
His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing but holding a promise of control. “You really want to know?”
“Every detail,” you say, your hands sliding higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.
He groans, hips shifting forward involuntarily. “I think about this every time you touch my hair. Every time you lean over me, every time your fingers massage my scalp…I imagine them somewhere else. I imagine your mouth on me, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock while I watch in the mirror.”
Your breath catches at his words, at the explicit honesty of them. You look up at him, finding his eyes blazing, his jaw tight with restraint.
“I think about how good you’d look with tears in your eyes because I’m too deep but you take it anyway because you want to make me feel good,” he continues, his voice getting rougher with each word. “I think about how sweet you’d sound choking on it, how pretty you’d be when I come down your throat.”
“Chris,” you breathe and you’re not sure if it’s a protest or encouragement or just his name torn from you by the sheer want his words inspire.
“Too much?” he asks and despite the dominance in his voice, there’s genuine concern there too.
You shake your head, your fingers tightening on his waistband. “Not enough. I want it all.”
Something in him breaks at that, what little restraint he’d been clinging to snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His hand tightens in your hair, not painful but firm, guiding.
“Then take them off,” he commands, his voice steady despite the way you can see his chest heaving. “And show me how good you can be for me.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at his sweats, dragging them down his hips along with his boxers. He springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. He’s bigger than you expected, flushed and pretty, and you can’t help but lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower, teasing.
“Don’t tease,” he warns, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “You’ve made me wait long enough.”
You look up at him, holding his gaze as you finally—finally—wrap your hand around him. He’s hot and heavy in your palm and the sound he makes when you stroke him once, twice, is absolutely obscene.
“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, his free hand bracing harder against the counter. “Just like that.”
But you want more than that. You want to see him fall apart, want to reduce him to nothing but sensation and need. So you lean forward, maintaining eye contact and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, base to tip, feeling him pulse against your lips.
“Holy shit,” he gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Your mouth—”
You cut him off by taking him in, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongue—salt and skin and pure Chris—and you moan around him, the vibration making him curse again.
“Look at you,” he groans and you realize he’s angled himself so he can see in the mirror; can watch you on your knees for him, can watch the way your lips stretch around him. “So fucking perfect. Taking me so well.”
Encouraged by his words, you take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using every trick you know. Your hand works what you can’t fit and you set a rhythm that has him panting above you, his fingers flexing in your hair.
“That’s it, nena,” he praises, his voice strained. “Just like that. So good for me, so fucking good—”
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and his control visibly wavers. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts that you encourage by relaxing further, letting him take what he needs.
“Can I—” he starts, then groans when you take him particularly deep. “Can I fuck your mouth? Please, I need—”
You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, use me,” before taking him back in and the sound he makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.
His grip in your hair becomes purposeful now, holding you steady as he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, careful but when you look up at him with watering eyes and moan around him, his restraint cracks further.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, moving faster now, deeper. “Feel so good, so perfect, fuck—”
Tears are streaming down your face now, your jaw aching in the best way and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do in this moment; on your knees but completely in control of his pleasure, reducing him to desperate sounds and broken praise.
“Close,” he warns, his movements becoming erratic. “I’m so close, where—”
You double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper, making your intentions clear.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckkk—” His words dissolve into a groan as he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow around him, working him through it until he’s shaking, until his hand in your hair goes gentle, almost reverent.
When you finally pull off, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving and he looks thoroughly wrecked. You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and the way he’s staring at you—like you’ve just given him religion—makes every second worth it.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes finally, reaching down to help you to your feet. Your knees protest the movement but then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re incredible. That was…you’re—”
“Good?” you supply with a smile, your voice rough.
“Transcendent,” he corrects, pulling back to look at you properly. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears there with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. “But now we have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
His eyes darken again, heat already building anew despite what just happened. “I need to return the favor. Need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. And then—” his hand slides down your body, cupping between your legs and even through your jeans the pressure makes you gasp, “I need to fuck you properly. Think you can handle that?”
Your breath catches at the promise in his voice. “What about your hair?”
He laughs, the sound bright and genuine, before kissing you again. “Fuck my hair. It can air dry. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting you out of these clothes and making you scream my name.”
And with the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands are already working at your button, you’re inclined to let him do exactly that.
“Lemme at least put some moisturizer in it.”
“Do it with my head between your legs ‘cause I’m not waiting.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s moving, hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto the bathroom counter in one fluid motion before pulling up his chair and dropping onto it.
“Chris—”
“Reach for your products,” he interrupts, already working at the button of your jeans with practiced efficiency. “You wanted to do your hair routine? Fine but like this.”
Heat floods through you as he yanks your jeans down your legs, taking your underwear with them. The cool air of the bathroom hits your overheated skin, making you shiver but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, resting them on the armrests of the chair and suddenly you can’t think about anything else.
“Chris, oh my god—” Your hand fumbles behind you for the moisturizer bottle on the counter, nearly knocking it over in your haste.
“That’s it,” he encourages, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. “Get what you need but don’t you dare ask me to stop.”
You manage to grab the bottle, your hands shaking as you pump product into your palm but the moment you reach for his hair, the moment your fingers make contact with his damp curls, he leans forward and licks a stripe right through your center and you nearly drop the entire bottle.
“Fuck!” The word tears from you, your free hand immediately flying to grip the edge of the counter for stability.
“Keep going,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “Work it through my hair like you always do. Nice and slow. Thorough.”
“You can’t—I can’t—” Your protest dissolves into a moan as his tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.
“You can,” he counters, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. “You’re good at multitasking, remember? All those lectures about proper technique?”
Your fingers thread through his curls, trembling as you try to work the product through like you normally would—sectioning, smoothing, scrunching to define—but it’s nearly impossible when his mouth is doing sinful things to you, when his tongue is alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has your thighs shaking.
“Baby, please—” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. For him to stop so you can concentrate? For him to never stop? Both seem equally urgent.
“Please what, nena?” His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you gasp. “You wanted to finish the routine. So finish it.”
There’s a challenge in his voice, even muffled as it is, and something in you rises to meet it. Your hands move with more purpose now, working through another section of his hair, smoothing the product from root to tip, combing the defining brush through then scrunching to encourage his curl pattern; all while he’s eating you out like a man starving.
“That’s my girl,” he praises when you manage to complete a section and the words combined with a particularly wicked flick of his tongue has you crying out. “Doing so good for me. Keep going.”
Your head falls back against the mirror, your free hand fisting in his hair; less for styling purposes now and more to hold on, to ground yourself. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything it spurs him on—his hands gripping your thighs harder, holding you open for him.
“Almost done,” you gasp out, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds hot and insistent in your core. “Just need to—ay dio, right there—”
He hums in acknowledgment, focusing his attention exactly where you need it and your hands are shaking so badly now you can barely hold the bottle. You manage to pump out more product, manage to work it through the final section of his hair with movements that are more instinct than technique.
“There,” you breathe, dropping the bottle carelessly. “Done, I’m done—”
“Good,” he growls against you and then both his hands are on you, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside. “Now you can stop thinking about my hair and focus on this. On me. On how good I’m making you feel.”
And god, he is. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with relentless precision. The combination is overwhelming, devastating and you can feel yourself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly fast.
“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my tongue, wanna taste you—”
His words, combined with the addition of another finger, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, send you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the mirror, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction.
He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. When you finally open your eyes, still panting, you find him looking up at you with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.
“How’s my hair look?” he asks and you can’t help but laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical.
“Like you just got fucked,” you manage, taking in his thoroughly mussed curls, some sections clearly more defined than others, the whole thing slightly chaotic. “But honestly? It works for you.”
“Yeah?” He rises from the chair, settling between your legs and you can see he’s already hard again, heavy and flushed against his stomach. “Well, it’s gonna look even worse in a few minutes.”
“Oh?” You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length—after you wash it—and revel in the way his breath stutters. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you, “I’m about to fuck you right here on this counter and I have a feeling you’re gonna pull it pretty hard.”
The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through you. “Bold of you to assume I’m a hair puller.”
“Nena,” he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing through your wetness, making you both gasp, “after what we just did? I know exactly what you are.”
And then he’s pushing inside, slow and steady and so perfectly filling that you do exactly what he predicted; your hands fly to his hair, gripping those carefully moisturized curls, and pull.
The sound he makes is absolutely worth ruining your styling work.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he sinks deeper. “Do that again.”
You oblige, tugging at his hair as he bottoms out and his forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged. “You feel so good,” he mutters, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder this time. “So fucking perfect around me.”
Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster. The counter is hard and cold against your ass but you barely notice, too focused on the delicious drag of him inside you, the way he’s hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
“More,” you gasp, your nails scraping against his scalp and he responds immediately, his pace becoming punishing, desperate. One hand braces against the mirror beside your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise and the slight pain only adds to the pleasure.
“This what you wanted?” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Wanted me to fuck you like this? Ruin you on this counter?”
“Yes,” you moan, your head falling back against the mirror with a dull thunk. “God, yes, Chris—”
His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s messy, desperate, perfect—all teeth and tongue and shared breath.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “Want to feel you come around my cock.”
Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the added stimulation combined with the angle of his thrusts has you trembling, teetering on the edge already.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained. “Can feel you getting tighter. Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it.”
A few more circles of your fingers, a few more perfectly angled thrusts and you’re shattering around him, crying out his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically and the sensation pulls him over the edge with you.
“Fuck, fuck—” His hips stutter, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes, spilling hot inside you. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his lips forming words against your skin; a mixture of your name and curses and praise that makes your chest tight.
You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath, hearts pounding in sync. Eventually, he lifts his head and the look on his face—sated and soft and a little awed—makes you smile.
“So,” you say, your voice rough and thoroughly used, “how’s the hair?”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours and reaches up to run his fingers through his curls. They spring back, perfectly defined despite—or maybe because of—your rough handling.
“Actually looks pretty good,” he admits, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Might need to incorporate this into the routine.”
“What, the sex or the multitasking?”
“Both,” he says with that devastating grin.“Definitely both.”
You shake your head, still smiling but when he leans in to kiss you again—soft and sweet this time, a contrast to everything that just happened—you melt into it, already looking forward to the next wash day.
