Chapter 9 #4
"God, you’re tight when you’re pissed," he groans, voice strained but still amused. "You feel that? How wet you are for the guy you hate?"
I slap a hand over his mouth and keep riding, cunt slick and gripping him tight.
My clit drags against him with every roll of my hips as he watches me through half-lidded eyes, that smug little smirk still visible around my fingers.
His shoulders shift under me, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he pushes up to meet each slam of my hips.
"Christ, listen to you," he says when my hand slips, voice low and taunting. "Soaking my cock like you can’t help yourself. You hate me this much and still can’t stop fucking dripping all over me.
" His tone stays casual, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of how my cunt clenches around him.
"I bet you’ll think about this every time you sit on this couch."
I grind down harder, zoning him out, chasing the edge, and he just watches me with that same lazy amusement, hips rolling up to meet mine in a steady rhythm.
"That’s the face you make when you’re about to cum on the guy you can’t fucking stand," he murmurs, voice rough.
Johnny’s hands move. One slides up my stomach, fingers wrapping around my throat—not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to hold me still while he speaks.
"We’re not so different, you and me," he says, voice low and rough. "You’re mad at my little brother. You know this is going to hurt him. That’s why you’re doing it.
That’s why you’re riding his big brother’s cock like a fucking pro right now—getting back at him by letting me stretch this tight little cunt open. "
His thumb strokes over my pulse point as he talks, hips still rolling up to meet every slam of my body.
"You look so pretty when you take what you want," he praises, voice almost gentle even as his fingers flex around my throat. "So fucking pretty riding my cock like you own it. Like you know exactly what you’re doing to him by letting me fill you up."
He leans forward and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh above my nipple, biting down hard enough to make me gasp.
The sharp sting blends with the ache between my legs, and I ride him harder, cunt clenching around his thick cock with every brutal drop of my hips.
His free hand grips my ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he helps guide my movements, though he lets me stay in control.
His fingers slide down from my throat, rough palm dragging over my stomach until his thumb finds my swollen clit. He presses down hard, circling tight and fast while his other hand shoots up, fingers twisting into my hair at the roots.
He yanks my head back sharply, exposing my throat, forcing my spine to arch as my hips keep slamming down onto his cock.
His thumb grinds harder against my swollen clit, relentless circles that make my hips jerk.
The grip in my hair tightens, yanking my head back until my throat is stretched bare and my spine bows.
"That’s it, ride it," he snarls, voice thick and low. "Use that angry little cunt to cum all over the cock you’re fucking to spite him. Show my little brother how much better his toy gets off on his brother's dick.”
The filthy words slam into me right as the orgasm hits.
My thighs seize, cunt clenching around his thick shaft while his thumb keeps working my clit in tight, brutal strokes.
His fist stays locked in my hair, holding me arched and exposed as his cock throbs inside me. Hot, thick spurts flood me, each pulse matched with another filthy taunt.
"Ah fuck. That’s it. Such a pretty Cutter cum whore."
I keep riding through it, cunt pulsing and dripping around him, thighs shaking as his thumb drags the last tremors out of my clit.
His cum leaks out around his cock with every brutal drop of my hips, and he just laughs low and mean against my skin, still holding me by the hair like he owns the moment.
Then I move off him and drop onto the other end of the couch, grabbing the blanket from the back and pulling it over myself like that fixes anything.
It doesn’t.
My body still feels wrecked. My mouth tastes like him. My skin feels marked in places I don’t want to look at yet.
Johnny stays sprawled where he is, completely comfortable, one arm stretched along the back of my couch like he belongs there.
Like this is normal.
Like he didn’t just walk into my apartment and make himself part of the furniture.
I stare at the ceiling and try to catch my breath.
He laughs softly beside me, all smug and lazy.
Way too pleased with himself.
I fucking hate him.
I hate myself for letting him stay.
And the worst part is, for one stupid second, I don’t know if I hate him, or Jagger more.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute, I’m curled on the couch with the blanket pulled over me, naked underneath it, trying not to think about Johnny still being in my apartment. The next, I’m waking up slow and sore with my cheek pressed into the cushion and the smell of butter, garlic, and heat drifting through the room.
At first, I’m just confused.
Then I hear a pan scrape across my stove.
I sit up, clutching the blanket to my chest, and stare toward the kitchen because there is no fucking way my life has gotten weird enough for Johnny Cutter to be cooking in my apartment.
But there he is.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Humming under his breath like some fucked-up version of domestic while he moves around my kitchen like he belongs there.
“What the fuck?” I say.
He looks over his shoulder, smile already waiting. “Morning.”
“Are you cooking?”
“Try not to sound so fucking horrified, pretty thing. I have feelings.”