8. Buzz #2
My other hand found her hair. I grabbed a fistful of those auburn waves, thick and tangled, and I pulled just enough to make her gasp, to tilt her head back and expose the long line of her throat.
Her hands came up, not to push me away, but to grip my thighs, nails digging into the denim, and I felt the tremor in her fingers.
I guided her forward, and she didn't resist. Her mouth opened as her face neared my cock, and I watched her breathe me in with a shuddering inhale that made her chest press against my knees.
Then her lips parted around the head, warm and wet and so fucking perfect that my hips bucked involuntarily, a sound tearing out of my throat I'd never heard myself make.
She took me deeper, and the world narrowed to the wet seal of her mouth, the drag of her tongue finding the underside, tracing that vein like she was memorizing it.
I felt her adjust, felt her throat relax and yield as she worked me into her heat, and the sound she made—a low, greedy hum—vibrated through my cock, through my thighs, through the marrow of my bones.
Her grip on my legs tightened, nails biting into the denim, and I looked down at her—at the flush crawling up her neck and flooding her cheeks, at the way her glasses had slipped down her nose, at the way her eyes were squeezed shut now, like she was savoring the taste of me, like she was starving for it.
The sound of her, wet and slick and rhythmic, broken by those tiny, desperate breaths through her nose, filled the room.
I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel the scorching heat of her mouth and the curl of her tongue and the way she was giving me exactly what I'd been aching for without knowing the shape of the ache.
My hips twitched, a shallow thrust I couldn't stop, and she took it, took more, her throat working around me as she swallowed me deeper.
A sound tore out of my chest, half groan, half her name, mangled and raw.
I felt her respond, a hum that rippled through her lips, through my cock, through every nerve ending I had, until I was nothing but sensation, nothing but the wet heat of her mouth and the tremble in her fingers and the way she was unraveling me, one slow, perfect pull of her tongue at a time.
"Fuck, Lucy." The name came out strangled, rough. My grip in her hair tightened, and I held her there, let her feel the weight of my need, the pulse I knew she could feel against her tongue.
She opened her eyes, looked up at me, and there was something in them I hadn't seen in years—something raw and unguarded and terrifyingly familiar.
I pulled her off gently, a slow drag that left her lips swollen and slick, a thin thread of saliva and pre-cum connecting her mouth to the head of my cock.
Her chin was wet, her glasses smudged, her auburn hair wild from my fingers, and I had never seen anything so beautiful in my entire goddamn life.
I drew her up by her arms, hauled her to her feet, and the momentum pressed her bare body against my half-dressed one, her breasts flattening against my chest, the heat of her cunt against the rough denim of my open jeans.
My hand slid down her stomach, fingers trailing through the soft hair between her legs, and I found her wet—so fucking wet, slick and hot and ready—and the sound she made when I pressed two fingers inside her was the one I'd been dreaming about for years.
Her forehead dropped to my shoulder, her breath hot against my neck, and she whispered something I couldn't hear, something I didn't need to hear.
Her hips rolled against my hand, and I watched her come apart against my fingers, watched the tension in her shoulders, the way her mouth fell open, the way she said my name—broken, desperate, like it was the only word she remembered.
Her hand grabbed my shoulder, shoved hard.
The bed caught me before I understood what was happening—my back hit the mattress, the springs groaning under the sudden weight.
I blinked up at her, and she was already moving, climbing over me on hands and knees, her auburn hair swinging forward to brush against my bare chest. The lamp light painted her in gold and shadow, and I watched her settle her thighs on either side of my hips, her bare cunt pressing against the rough denim I was still half-trapped in.
She was looking down at me with those dark brown eyes, her glasses slightly askew, and there was a stillness to her that hadn't been there before—a quiet control that made my breath catch.
She reached down, fingers closing around my cock still slick from her mouth, and guided the head to her entrance.
Just rested it there, the tip barely touching her wet heat, not pushing. Waiting.
"If we're doing this, we do it my way." Her voice was low, steady, stripped of the tremor from a moment ago. "Don’t make this soft."
And before I could answer, before I could even breathe, she grabbed my wrists and pinned them against the pillow above my head. Her grip was surprisingly strong—the same hands that held my hair, that dug into my thighs—and she squeezed, a warning, a claim.
"Lucy?" I didn't know what I was asking—permission, explanation, mercy. The name came out raw, scraped of all the easy charm I'd carried since I was a kid. She didn't answer. She just adjusted her grip on my wrists, dug her knees into the mattress, and lowered herself onto me.
The head of my cock pushed into her, slow, deliberate, and I felt every millimeter of the stretch, the heat, the way her body opened around me like it remembered.
Her jaw tightened. Her breath hissed through her teeth.
She didn't close her eyes—she kept them fixed on mine, watching me watch her take me inside her, and the control in her gaze was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.
She sank lower. My hips tried to buck against her, to drive deeper, but I was pinned, helpless under her weight and her grip.
She took me inch by inch, her cunt clenching around me, her thighs trembling with the effort of control.
When she was fully seated, when her hips pressed against mine and I was buried inside her to the hilt, she held there.
Her chest rose and fell fast. The only sound was our breathing, ragged and loud in the quiet room.
"Don't move." The command was quiet, almost a whisper, but it cut through me like a blade.
She held my gaze, her brown eyes dark and unreadable behind the smudged lenses.
Her grip on my wrists tightened, and I felt her adjust, felt the tiny shift of her hips that sent a shock of pleasure through my whole body.
Her lips parted, a barely controlled exhale.
She was testing herself, testing me, seeing how long she could hold this moment before she broke.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. My cock throbbed inside her, her heat wrapped around me, and I felt the pulse of her blood, the slick grip of her walls.
She was so wet I could feel it leaking down my shaft, pooling against her thighs.
Her glasses had slipped further down her nose, and I wanted to push them up, wanted to touch her face, but my wrists were in her hands and her command was a wall I couldn't climb.
She leaned forward, just a fraction, and her forehead touched mine.
Her breath ghosted across my lips, and I saw the crack in her composure—the tiny tremble at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes had gone glassy.
She held me trapped beneath her, inside her, and she didn't say a word.
The silence was louder than any sound we'd made tonight, and I knew, with a certainty that settled in my bones, that nothing would ever be the same after this.