Finch
The alcove is sort of private, but not really.
There’s a low leather bench built into the wall, a curtain pulled halfway over, and just enough shadow that you feel hidden, even though you’re not.
Anyone walking by can see everything. The gallery upstairs has a perfect view.
The bass is quieter here, kind of muffled, but you can still hear everything from the floor—moans, skin slapping, someone crying out in the middle of the room. My whole body tightens up at the sound.
He sits down on the bench and pulls me into his lap.
I don’t even think about it, just straddle him, my knees digging into the leather on either side of his legs.
I’m naked. He’s still got his jeans on, and I can feel him, hard and thick under the denim, pressing right up against my ass.
I can’t help it—I grind down, chasing that pressure like I need it to breathe.
“Easy.” His hands settle on my hips. Thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hip bones. “We’re going to take our time.”
“I don’t want to take our time.” My voice sounds rough, like I’ve been yelling all night.
I can feel the heat building again, like I’m about to get knocked flat by it, and the two orgasms I’ve already had haven’t helped at all.
If anything, they’ve just made it worse.
My body got a taste and now it wants everything—his cock, his knot, all of him, just like I’ve been remembering for five months.
“I know.” His thumbs stroke my hip bones. “But I’ve been sitting at that bar for seven weeks imagining this and I’m going to enjoy it.”
He slides his hands up my sides, slow as hell.
He’s feeling out every inch—my ribs, my waist, then up to my chest. His thumbs drag over my nipples and I jerk in his lap.
He does it again, even slower, rubbing in a circle, and it shoots straight to my cock.
I’m already hard again, my cock pressed between us, leaking all over his abs.
Seeing my precome on his skin does something to me, makes my stomach twist up hot.
“Look at you.” His voice drops, rougher, and his hands spread across my chest possessively.
“Five months I’ve been thinking about this body.
Whether you’d feel the same. Whether you’d taste the same.
” He pinches my nipple, light, and I gasp.
“Better. Everything’s better. You’ve been holding out on me. ”
“I haven’t been holding out, I’ve been avoiding you,” I say, and it comes out breathless and argumentative, the only register I have left.
He laughs, low, and drops his hands to my ass.
He grabs both cheeks and spreads them, and the stretch makes me whine.
I’m so wet and open, and the air on my hole feels filthy.
His fingers slide through the slick between my cheeks, easy, and he traces my rim with one finger. My hips jerk forward on their own.
“Same thing.” He pushes two fingers inside me and I drop my forehead against his shoulder.
He’s still wet from before, from having his mouth on me, and his fingers slide in without resistance.
I’m so open for him. So ready. My body has been ready since the car, since the parking lot, since the shower five months ago when I couldn’t scrub him off my skin.
“Your body’s been waiting for me whether you were or not. ”
He works his fingers in me, slow and deep, while his other hand holds the back of my neck.
I’m grinding in his lap, rolling my hips in tight circles, fucking myself on his fingers while my cock slides against his stomach and leaves wet streaks on his skin.
The sounds are obscene — the slick squelch of his fingers, my panting, the leather creaking under my knees.
“Please,” I say against his shoulder. “Please, I need —”
“Need what?” His fingers curl inside me and I clench down hard around them. “Say it.”
“Your cock.” The words come out gritty and small and I feel my face burn behind the mask. “I need your cock, please.”
“Mmm.” He pulls his fingers out slow, dragging them along my walls, and I whimper at the loss.
I hear his belt clink, the rasp of a zipper, the shift of fabric.
Then his hands are on my hips lifting me and I feel him — hot and thick, the head pressing against my hole, and my whole body clenches in anticipation.
“Wait.” His grip tightens on my hips. Holds me there, hovering, the head just barely notched inside me. “I want to look at you.”
I don’t know what he can see through the mask.
My body, yes — the flush spreading down my chest, my nipples hard, my cock straining between us, my thighs shaking with the effort of holding still.
My stomach taut and trembling. The mess of slick on my inner thighs catching the blue light.
But my face is hidden and maybe that’s what he’s looking at — the mask, the anonymity, the outline of a person he’s been obsessing over without ever seeing.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen on this floor,” he says, and the word hits me like a slap.
Pretty. He called me that last time too.
Pretty omega. Pretty when you’re wrecked.
Pretty when you beg. The word shouldn’t do what it does to me but my cock jerks and precome drips onto his stomach and he sees it, he sees my body’s reaction to one word, and I can hear his smile.
“There it is.” He eases me down onto him.
The first inch splits me open, and I grab his shoulders and hold on.
He’s thick. I knew that, I remember that, but knowing and feeling are so far apart that the reality makes my mouth fall open behind the mask.
The stretch burns, and I can feel my body working to accommodate him, my walls pulsing around the intrusion, slick easing the way but not enough to make it easy.
He feeds me his cock inch by inch, and I take it because my body won’t let me do anything else.
Every inch fills a space that’s been empty for months, and the relief is so intense my eyes sting.
He bottoms out. His hips flush against my ass, his cock buried to the root inside me, and I’m so full my breath stutters.
I can feel him everywhere — the thickness, the heat, the pulse of him against my walls.
My body grips him like it’s afraid he’ll leave, and the involuntary clench makes us both groan.
“There.” His voice has gone rough. The composure is cracking, just at the edges, and hearing it sends a spike of heat through me. “Fuck, there you are. That’s what I’ve been missing.”
I’m breathing hard. My thighs are trembling.
His hands are on my hips but he’s not moving, not thrusting, just letting me sit with the fullness of him while my body adjusts and my heat screams for more.
I can feel the wave building, the next crest, and when it hits, I’m going to need him to move so badly I’ll lose whatever’s left of my mind.
“Move,” I say. “Fuck, please, move.”
“Not yet.” His hands slide from my hips to my ass, spreading me wider, and I feel his cock shift inside me and my whole body shudders. “Tell me something first.”
“I can’t — I don’t want to talk—”
“Tell me you thought about this.” His hips roll, one slow grind that drags his cock against every nerve inside me, and I choke on a moan. “All those months. Alone in your bed. Tell me you thought about my cock.”
“You know I did.” It comes out desperate, angry, honest.
“Tell me what you thought about.” Another slow grind and I’m seeing stars, my head falling back, my cock leaking steadily onto his abs. “The knotting? The way it felt when I filled you up? Or was it the other part — the things I said to you?”
My body goes rigid. He feels it. Of course he feels it — he’s inside me; he can feel every micro-reaction, every clench and flutter.
“Both,” he murmurs, answering for me. His hand comes up and wraps around the back of my neck, pulling me close so his mouth is at my ear.
“You thought about all of it. The cock and the knot and the words. The way I told you I was going to breed you. The way I called you pretty. The way you begged me not to stop.”
“Shut up.” My voice cracks. My hips are moving on their own, tiny rocking motions that drag his cock against my walls. “Shut up and fuck me.”
“I’m going to.” He lifts me by the hips — up, until just the head is inside me — and pulls me back down. Hard. The full length of him in one stroke that punches the air out of my lungs. “But you’re going to hear every word while I do.”
He starts fucking me. Lifting me and pulling me down onto him, setting a pace that’s deep and relentless, each stroke bottoming out.
I grab his shoulders and hold on and stop pretending I’m doing anything except taking what he gives me.
My cock is trapped between our stomachs, grinding with every thrust, and the friction is making me crazy, my precome slicking the space between us.
“So pretty,” he says, and I moan. I moan at the word like a fucking Pavlovian response, and I hate myself for it. “So wet for me. Look at the mess you’re making in my lap, baby. Slick everywhere. All over my cock, all over my thighs. You’re dripping like you were made for this.”
He thrusts up hard, and I cry out. My cock jerks against his stomach, and he looks down at it and makes a sound in his throat.
“Your little cock is so hard. Dripping all over yourself while you ride me.” He wraps a hand around it, and I gasp because the grip is firm and possessive.
The word little is doing something to me that I will take to my grave.
“Bouncing in my lap with your pretty cock leaking and your hole stuffed full and you’re the best thing I’ve ever seen on this floor. The best thing I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t—” I start, but my hips are slamming down to meet his thrusts. My cock is throbbing in his fist, and the word don’t sounds a lot like don’t stop.