Chapter Text
You have been on Baz all day. Your hands are on him, your body is on him, all your attention. Is. On. Him. It's not because you have a single ounce of attraction for him. It's not because of his ring on your finger. It's not even because you haven't been fucked in far too long.
It's because of Andrew Cody.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Andrew was released from prison, following his three year sentence.
Less than twenty-four hours, and you're already horny as a motherfucker.
When Andrew was in prison, it was easy to deny him. There was no other option, he was in prison! Behind bars, locked away from you and your cunt. And you weren't even allowed to visit him— Smurf made sure of that. It was easy. But now, he is … so close, and so within reach.
Yet, you still try to keep the urges from bubbling up.
The sun is just beginning to set, and the whole Cody family is at the beach— in other words, the backyard. This is routine. For them, at least. Your routine is watching some reality show to drown out the annoying laughter and conversation from outside. But tonight you came. You came because it's Andrew’s return party.
J and Deran toss sticks into a pile, the bones of what would become a small bonfire, and Craig tosses Baz a beer. From where you sit in his lap, the can lands against your thigh— still cold from the cooler and wet from the ice. Baz picks it up and cracks it open. You turn your head away when the spray of beer-foam lands on your cheek, and your eyes find Andrew again. Same spot, same posture, same dark stare at the ocean like it personally offends him.
You're not sure why you're denying him, and not sure why you even should. When it comes to him, nothing is coherent. Hell, maybe that's why— to keep a hold of your sanity. Whenever you've come close to breaking — all sixty times so far today — you remind yourself that fucking him— again— would open a can worms— a can of very bad, sick worms.
But … easier said than done.
It doesn't help that you know he would be down to go down on you— know it because every time your eyes accidentally slip to him — without your mind even agreeing— he'd be staring right back.
Just like now.
Your eyes widen and you turn away.
Quickly, you plant your lips on Baz's neck. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck!
Baz takes it happily. His fingers slide down your ribs and dig into the fabric of your bathing suit bottoms.
You circle your tongue on a patch of his skin, you even nip a little bit.
“What'd I do to deserve this?" He's being real serious about that too— the closest he's gotten to touching you like this in the past few years was when you threw up after taking some spiked pills and he held your hair back. Knowing that, Baz is probably having the time of his life, thinking he's gonna get laid by his wife tonight for the first time in forever.
You pull back, looking at him with hooded eyes. “You wanna talk or you want me to kiss you?”
He chuckles, eyebrows raised— still in a bit of shock. “Oh, I wanna kiss.” And apparently he thinks you mean literally kiss— like, on the mouth. He wedges his beer in the sand and grabs your chin with his thumb and fore-finger, drawing you in—
And that's where you draw the line— swiftly, your left hand tightens in his hair and you yank, tilting his head back and resuming your ministrations on his neck.
You'll nibble on him a bit, but letting his bodily fluids inside of you is off-limits— Baz has taken residence inside every brunette this side of the ocean. You'll act a little rough to dodge potential STDs.
His fingers dig into your ass.
Your breath hitches— not in a good way. You adjust in his hold. You try to enjoy it— hell, you even try to pretend it's Andrew. But it's too different. You can't explain how. It's just a feeling. It's not the same, it's not Andrew, it's not right.
The night carries on like any other. Except your back burns from the gaze of the one you try so desperately to ignore.
After a far too long period of grinding on Baz, you're not sure how much dignity you have left in store. You stop when Baz is so many beers deep you're certain he won't remember anything past this point.
Your lips are buzzing from use and your knees are weak and your legs are cramped. You use Baz's shoulder to push yourself up, toes finding purchase in the sand.
His hand wraps around your calf. “Where you goin’, baby?” He slurs.
You stare down. To get off with my rose toy and the thought of your brother, is the real answer. Instead, you say, “Bathroom.” Even though you have no intention of returning tonight.
“I can come.” He may be drunk, but he's thinking up a plan quite clearly now.
“No,” you mumble, suppressing the urge to rub the headache away from your temples. “I'll be right back.”
He says something else, but you're already tuning him out.
He grabs your ankle. Like a toddler, refusing to let you go.
You attempt to tug your foot away, but you obviously can't really compete with the strength of a grown ass man— albeit a drunken one, so you bend over and pry his fingers from your ankle, one by one.
That's when he pulls at your bottoms— his fingers wind in the fabric, and he gets just far enough to expose your pubic bone, and a little bit of pubic hair.
You gasp in surprise, grabbing his wrist. Last thing you were expecting there, but you probably should have. “Andre—” The name slips out. Why wouldn't it? It's been the one thing echoing in your mind for hours.
And though you catch yourself, it's a little late.
Your eyes, wide and searching, dart to your husband's face. Your neck heats up. How the fuck would you talk your way out of this?
And then it's a miracle— Baz is too fucking plastered to notice.
You laugh. It comes out like you're laughing at his antics— like he's being so silly. But really you're laughing at his fucking stupidity. “No, baby,” you scold playfully, pushing his hand away. “Later.”
He sends you a look that you're sure he thinks is so sexy.
It is not.
Your thumbs hook into the hem of your bottoms. You readjust them and turn away. You feel him pat your ass— your husband's version of goodbye, but you don't look back, you just walk out of reach.
—that right there was like a miniature version of pulling off a bank robbery. The adrenaline, the fear of being caught, and then the stupid relief after you make a clean break.
In the midst of it, you forget, if only for a moment, that Andrew has been watching you this entire night. The heat of his stare is camouflaged with distraction and cold breeze. And moments after you leave, he announces to the group, “I’m gonna take a piss” and follows.
You roll the slider door open, the sound echoes in the empty house. The lights are all off, and you leave them that way.
You stop briefly at the kitchen counter, fishing your travel-sized vibrator out of your purse, and then going into the bathroom.
The scent of chemically-created floral hits you and you cough quietly. Daren definitely used the bathroom then fabreezed the fuck out of it. You set the vibrator on the ledge and crack open the bathroom window, then turn on the shower and begin to peel the damp bathing suit from your clammy skin.
You step into the corner of the shower first, waiting for the temperature to be ‘just right’, and when you step into the rush of water, you wet your hair, fingers running through the now clumpy strands.
You turn to face the showerhead, the water runs you on your face and then your neck and then your chest, taking tiny granules of sand with the stream.
You go to turn again. This time, something in the dark room catches your eye— a body, definitely male body. Familiar, but you can't quite place it. You reflexibly flinch away, back smacking against the cold shower wall.
And then you recognize it— that new fucked up buzz cut.
“Jesus, Pope,” you curse. You don't bother shying away— he can't see anything beyond the outline of your naked body, and hell, he's already seen way more than that.
He stays still, and no matter how foggy the glass is, you feel him watching you.
Your head pulses from the impact. “What do you want?” You ask over the spray of the shower.
“I wanted to talk,” he says.
“And you think right now is the best time for that?”
He says it so simply, “It's as good as any.”
You turn to face the shower head again and rinse as much of your body as you can, ring out your hair. Oh— you left your vibrator out there. If Pope sees it, he probably won't know what he's looking at. You never used vibrators when you were together— it was a recent installment, something you had to use to cope with the loss of his cock.
You turn the shower off and crack the slider open just a tad and reach your hand through.
Without needing to be asked, he grabs a towel off the rack and hands it to you.
“Thank you.” You tie it around yourself and step out. Your feet make small puddles on the bathroom floor as you walk past him to stand in front of the sink.
You watch him through the mirror as he walks behind you, and keeps going till he's standing on your left rather than your right.
You turn on the sink, and then turn it off because you have no need for it. His presence is spinning you out, making you do stupid shit. “What do you want to talk about?”
He doesn't answer, though you know it's coming. Sometimes he just needs an extra moment.
You reach forward and pump some lotion into the palm of your hand. You start with your face, rubbing it into your cheekbones, then beneath your chin, and then your forehead.
“You happy with him?” He asks
You sigh. “I'm as happy as I've always been with him,” you reply.
He can take that however he wants, and you can't make yourself look at him to see how he does.
“You didn't … visit.”
There's a brief pang of guilt when he says that, but you push it away, telling yourself it's not your fault. Because it's not. “Smurf wouldn't let me. You know how possessive she is over her boys.” Your eyes narrow, can't help it. The topic of his mother just has that effect on you.
He believes it, but he probably already knew it too. “Did you think of me?” Andrew never sounds nervous, but you can always tell by the volume of his voice. The quieter he is, the more insecure he is.
What a stupid question. “Of course I thought of you.” You untucked your towel. “Turn around.”
He does, facing the windows. He stands with that weird posture he's had his entire life.
It does make you smile— if only softly.
You drop the towel in the hamper and grab the robe hanging by the door. You fasten it shut and stand behind him. Taking in every inch of his back. You wonder if he can feel your gaze like you can feel his.
He slowly turns to face you, giving you plenty of time to stop him.
“Is that all?” You ask as you exhale.
Facing you fully now, he steps forward and closes the little distance there had been between you.
You mentally strengthen yourself. The way you're looking at him is a little similar to the way he looks at you, only up instead of down.
“How did you think of me?” He asks. You feel the warmth of his breath touch your face.
Your fucking ovaries take that as a sign to start prepping “What do you mean?”
He leans in.
You lean away, but your feet stay planted in the same spot.
“In what —” His head tilts slightly. “— way did you think of me?”
“Pope,” you scold. Clearly you weren't the only one going horny crazy.
“Don't call me that,” he says, like it pains him. “You never call me that, don't start now.” His nose brushes yours.
Your lips part, your eyes shut, your cunt does a backflip—
Ah! No! No! No! Red! Alert!
“Andrew,” you say slowly.
“Yes,” he breathes out— acting like you just told him you want to fuck.
Your eyes flash open. “No!” You take several steps away before you can hurl yourself at him. Where is your fucking self control around this man?
His head snaps to the right. His chest rises and then falls. And then he turns towards you again, and oh boy, that is some serious determination in his eyes— “I’m back,” he explains like it's the answer to everything.
“That is not good enough reason to fuck my husbands brother.”
“Isn't it?” He steps closer, and you step back, and he steps closer. He's about to cave you against the wall in here, and you're about to let him fuck you against it. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You scoff. “Mature.”
Another step closer. “It was always supposed to be me and you. It wasn't supposed to be him. I'm here now.”
You hold your ground and manage to force out some sarcasm, “So we can live happily ever after?”
He looks at you like you're the one being immature. “Yes,” he huffs.
“You're not delusional, Andrew, stop acting like it.”
And like a child, he comes back with, “You stop acting like Baz isn't fucking every chick he sees.”
You just stare. Unimpressed. The words have no effect on you. You're just peachy —
Until he says, “I've been back less than a day and your husband already took me to a strip club—”
Whether he was finished with that sentence or not, you interrupt with an abrupt, “He what?”
Andrew pauses.
You see the look in his eye when he sees the look in your eye—
— and you know that he knows he just hit a nerve.
It's jealousy, and he knows it's not for Baz.
“Yeah,” he says, knowingly. “Paid this chick a thousand dollars to have sex with me.”
You breathe through your mouth. Your tongue traces the inside of your bottom teeth. You refuse to be emotional about this, right now, in front of him. You refuse. Instead, you focus on plans to ring your husband's fucking neck.
Andrew steps closer.
“Don't,” you mutter.
Your husband fucking every woman to cross his path was one thing, but your husband arranging for Andrew — your Andrew— to fuck another woman? Not okay.
“I didn’t,” he says quietly, and that's why you don't move when he leans in this time. His hand runs up the side of your neck, thumb pushes into the bottom of your chin. Your eyes lock with his. “I didn't,” he repeats. “You know why? Because there's only one girl I want.”
You don't have a reply.
He continues, slow and quiet, “And I know she wants me too, because that right there, that reaction? You can't tell me … You don't love me.”
You swallow. “It's not about love,” you mumble. “It's about the family. It's about the mess that we can't make.”
He scoffs. “I have been cleaning up my family's messes since before I knew how to tie my shoes.” You know it's true, and it's also why you and him will never work out. He does everything for his family, no matter what. He's … too loyal to them, and you're about to say exactly that, but he continues— “And three years,” he says, “Three years, I waited to see you again. Three years I went to prison to protect them.”
You remember that day— you relive that day every damn day. Sixteen seconds. The exact amount of time Andrew fell behind on that day. Sixteen seconds was the difference between Andrew and Baz.
And only Baz came home.
And then Andrew says something you don't expect— something you wouldn't have ever expected, “I deserve you.”
Your eyes lock onto his. You breathe slowly, and think even slower. “I guess you had a lot of time to think about this, huh?”
He nods once, smirking but not at the same time — a bittersweet ghost of a ghost. “Three years.”
You huff softly and drop your head. “Right.” You bring your eyes back up. “Three years,” you repeat, “And the entire time you've wanted me?”
His hand falls away from your neck, only to now take place on your cheek. “You're the only thing I've ever wanted.”
You're not sure if you believe it— not sure how long he'll feel that way, and you can't risk your marriage with Baz— the financial stability of it. You can't jump from one ship to the other and hope it won't sink.
“It's been a long time.” You shake your head. “I’m probably different. You probably don't know me anymore.”
“I'm different too.” He doesn't say it in the same way you do. He says it like a vow.
He looks at you with that stare— that familiar stare.
It lasts for what feels like forever, and then he begins to lean in.
You don't close the distance, but you don't make any more between you.
No, you think. No, you think again. No, no, no— it loops in your mind, but the words never pass your lips.
When his mouth closes over yours, the chance to object disappears. His kiss is warm, and it's soft, and it feels different than you remember.
This stopped being a habit three years ago, and now it's something you're relearning.
First, his hand wraps loosely around your neck. He uses it to guide you deeper and deeper. Then his palm slides down your chest. His other hand goes to your hip, and they both meet at your thighs, fingers digging into the plush.
The next move— this, you see coming—
Your mouths break apart as he pulls you into his hold. Your legs find their way around his hips, your arms hook behind his neck. Your bush is flush against his stomach, and you wonder if he can tell.
You look down on him. He looks up at you.
Your fingers slide into his hair and you lower your mouth to his. You lead the kiss now. It feels better that way— you were always meant to be in control, not him.
The pads of his fingertips drag across the plush fabric covering your back, across your spine, and he tugs at the ends of your wet hair. Your head falls back. You release one of your hands and reach back to pull your hair to the side. With the other behind his neck, you guide him to the crook of your neck. He obeys immediately, mouth working on your neck, and it feels like heaven.
Here comes the first moan— it's yours.
He pulls the robe away from your shoulder, inch by inch. It's still tied in the middle, but he's not exactly thinking straight. His feet began to move, and he's taking you somewhere— hopefully towards a surface you can brace yourself on. Instead, he backs you into a closed door.
“Ow,” you mumble when your back collides with the hard wood. You glance behind you. The door leads to one of the small porches that overlook the ocean.
“I'm sorry,” he apologizes, hand going to the back of your head.
“What, are you trying to fuck me on the balcony?” You look back at him, and—
— oh, this explains it. Andrew had managed to work your robe off just enough to where he got a good view of the goods.
You can't blame him for being a little distracted.
“I …” His eyes dart over your chest.
You lean back in, scratching down the back of his head. “Bed,” you murmur into his mouth.
“Right … Okay.” He nods and twists the other way, rerouting his path out of the bathroom.
You rest your chin on his shoulder— finding it wise as to not distract him as he walks. Your fingertips dance in his short hair— maybe you can get used to the new style.
The cold breeze hits you as he steps outside.
You perk up as you realize he is definitely bringing you to his bedroom. “Andrew,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“We can't go to your bedroom.”
He pauses on the patio, furrow between his brows. “Why not?”
You huff and look down at him. “Because two of the walls there are windows. And you have a twin-size bed.”
“We can make it work.” His adams apple bobs as he swallows.
You trace his throat. “No,” you say softly. “Let's go to my room.”
He stares up at you for a moment— a look on his face that you can't quite figure out, then he takes you back inside.
Your head tilts. Before you can ask, the likely answer hits you ;
It's not just your room … it's your room, and it's Baz's room. It obviously makes sense, Andrew not wanting to have sex with you in your marriage bed to his brother. Well, shit. How can you fix this one? The other beds are not really an option. Daren and Craig are whores so their beds are STD-riddled. Then again, Baz sleeps in your bed, so that one is also probably STD-riddled.
You kiss Andrew's neck as you think, eyes wide open and spaced out.
There really isn't a choice. It's either do it in your bed or on the floor. Maybe over a desk …
And you arrive.
He reaches for the light switch—
“Leave it,” you tell him.
You don't need the light, all you need is the glare of the moon and your memory of the room. Besides, you don't want Andrew to see any of Baz's things— you don't want him to see the stupid socks on the floor nor the gym bag leaning against the dresser. You just want him to be in the moment, utterly yours.
You untwist your legs from around his hips, hanging from his neck like a monkey before letting your feet hit the floor. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and you lead him to the bed.
He follows dutifully.
You trip over a few sneakers, kicking them out of your path at the speed out light, then settle on the ledge of the bed.
You take the moment to admire him in the dark.
You bring one leg up on the bed, heel pressing against your other thigh, and pull his hands down to rest on your knees.
You don't say anything for a while. Neither does he. Maybe you're waiting for him to speak, or maybe you're just waiting for the right words to pop into your head.
You soon realize there are none.
You reach for the strap of your robe and untie it as you lean back. Your body acts on its own accord and reclines all the way, elbows propping you up just enough. The fabric falls away from your chest.
He takes it all in with help from the shining moon. And then he leans down to cover your body with his own.
Your fingers find his hair, because of course they do, that's their favorite place to rest. Your legs part wide despite him still wearing shorts, your hips thrust upwards once.
He kisses your neck. They're chaste kisses, on a journey down, down, down. His mouth opens when he arrives at his destination, taking your nipple into his hot mouth.
“Ah,” you whimper in approval, eyes wide open and pointed at the black ceiling that you'll soon see tiny white specs dance on.
His hand dips down, gliding through your bush. His middle finger— you think it's his middle finger, has to be, touches down on your clit.
“Oh fuck yeah.” Your eyes snap shut. “Mm.”
He groans softly, the sound rolls right into your ear, followed by his warm breath.
Your hands slide away from his hair and dig into his t-shirt. You start to drag, bunching the soft cotton into your palms. Wasn't fair, you being the only one naked. With every inch of his skin exposed, your fingers cover it. That body— yours, yours, yours. Once you get the fabric up to his shoulderblades, he handles the rest and tosses the balled up fabric into the dark. It lands on something and takes it down to the floor with a clatter— who the fuck cares what it is? You don't!
He stops stimulating your clit to stretch you out. He inserts one finger, and then two.
You whine in complaint.
“Fuck.” Some of his weight comes off you. “You can barely take my fingers.” He grabs your thigh and spreads you further. “You're really tense.”
You seize his wrist, holding onto it with an unnecessary amount of force. “Then do something about it.”
Three fucking years too long.
His digits work inside of you for a few minutes. The entire time, you squirm, hips thrashing, head hitting the mattress several times
“I'm— I'm ready,” you claim for the fourth time.
He doesn't believe you, that much is obvious. And it's hard to blame him when the evidence that you are very not ready is wrapped tighter than a noose around his fingers. “I don't know, baby.” He pulls out and rubs the place between your cunt and thigh.
“Andrew.” You reach down, fingers tipping his chin up, and then you pull him until you're face to face. “I am, I swear.” Your knees bend and you try to toe his shorts off— literally, with your toes.
He grabs one of your legs, forcing you to stop.
“No— Andrew. I am, I swear.” You grab his face, palms squish against his cheeks, making him look in you the eyes. “I’m really ready.”
“I'm not,” he says. It's not a tease, it's far too literal. His eyes flash with vulnerability.
Your haze of horniness vanishes, mood scratching to a halt like a record coming off the player. “What?” Is all you manage.
He swallows, and his adams apple bobs once again. He pulls away, sitting back on his knees.
You follow and grab his wrist, to ground yourself, if anything, to reassure yourself that he's not going anywhere. Your breath comes out in quick pants, but your gaze remains steady on him. “What do you mean … You're not ready?”
“I can't … I can't remember the last time I've gotten it up.”
Your gaze drops down, and you now notice the absence of a tent in his shorts. Your eyebrows furrow. “I … thought boners happened as easy as breathing. And erectile dysfunction isn't until you're sixty.”
He huffs. “They used to. Around you.”
Your eyebrows shoot back up. “So you haven't been hard since me?” You echo in disbelief. “Not even to touch yourself?”
He looks down. You're not sure if it's shame, or embarrassment, or whatever the fuck.
But part of you is glad. Hell, not a single part of you isn't glad. The last time he had a hard-on was thanks to you? Fuck yeah.
You crawl closer, fingertips grazing his outer-thigh. “Well, you're around me now.”
“I—I don't know if I can.”
You grab his shoulder and settle yourself in his lap, one knee pressing into his crotch and one bracing the pressure you put against him. You make small circles on the back of his neck with your fingertip and softly tell him, “I haven't had an orgasm via cock since you.”
His eyes dart to yours, wide and puppy-like. “You haven't?” He practically whimpers.
You not-so-subtly glance down to see if that gets his engine stuttering. Disappointingly, it does not. Though it undoubtedly has a mental effect on him.
His fingers slide higher on your thighs and dig into your skin. “Not …” He swallows, looking from your eyes to your mouth. “Even with Baz?”
You shake your head and repeat, “Not since you.”
To you, this is a simple fix. He doesn't have something physically wrong with him, so whatever is mentally affecting his dick, you can fix it easily.
You push him down.
He doesn't fight it, dropping to lay flat on his back.
You adjust so your cunt is hovering right over his limp dick, and then you settle on top. Your fingers splay across the middle of his chest. “What's gonna do it for you? What do I need to do, baby? Tell me what I need to do.”
He exhales through parted lips, looking at your breast as they hang down. “Tell me you love me.”
A hint of a smirk pulls at the corner of your mouth. That's easy. You lean down, pressing your front against his. Draw your lips down his jaw line. ”I love you,” you whisper into his ear.
His hand drags up the fabric covering you back. “Again.”
Your cheek presses flush against his neck. His carotid pulses fast against your face. He's so hot, so warm, so, so …
You nip the vein of his neck before pulling away.
“I do, I love you.” You rut against his crotch as you sit up and begin to remove your robe— fully, this time, pulling your arms from the sleeves. When you toss it carelessly, it lands half on, half off the bed. “I love you.” You kiss the center of his throat. Your hand bypasses the hem of his shorts with your fingertips and come into contact with a good amount of pre-cum. It makes for a nice surprise.
He groans and twists beneath you. His head turns away, and his neck flexes.
“Well you may not be hard, but you sure are dripping.” You gather his cock in your hand and swipe your thumb over his glossy tip.
His hips buck, taking you an inch away from the mattress, and you push them back down.
The elastic makes it difficult, but you give it a few good pumps, trying to put some life in it. Eventually jerking off him against your pussy— the fabric of his shorts act as a border. But alas, still remains squishy.
His throat bobs, and his eyes meet yours with vulnerability. You see it clearly— the worry and shame that he might not get it up.
Your eyebrows furrow, lips purse into a pout. You retract your hand from his shorts and shush him softly. “It's okay, baby.” You shuffle off his lap before sliding off the bed, settling your feet on the cold floor. Your fingers clench around the fabric of his shorts and you pull, inch by inch revealing more of his skin— hip bones, untamed bush, pale thighs, and a limp dick.
You focus on that.
You bend down and swirl your tongue around the tip, only once.
You get a beautiful noise as reward.
You smile, eyes flickering up to him—
His eyes shut for just a moment. His back arches faintly, and he's brought his hand up, mouth pressing to his knuckles.
You use your whole hand to smear the precum around his shaft, then you begin to pump.
You do it until your wrist aches.
With each jerk, his eyes flutter and roll.
Despite all your very gallant attempts, his cock stays soft. That's not to say he isn't turned on— he definitely is. That's also not to say you couldn't still get him off just like this; soft and limp. The only problem is that what you're really craving is his stiff fucking cock to fill you up.
You lean into the mattress edge, hip against his thigh, and repeatedly thrust the tip into your stomach. “Come on,” you mutter, repeatedly rubbing up his shaft, lubricated with his own sperm. “Baby,” you whine.
His fingers run through your hair in soft repetitive strokes. “I know,” he whispers, I'm sorry …”
“Please …” You ask, even though it's out of his control. As a last attempt, you say once more, “I love you.” And then you give in, planting your face in the crook of his neck.“What's gonna make it happen, baby?” You whine, rasp in your voice.
“I don't know if I can …”
“Bullshit, you're a guy, hard-ons are second nature for you whores. Come on …” You suck against his neck. “There's gotta be something …”
Like he flips through a mental catalog of things that turn him on, he says, “Touch yourself.”
You lift your head. “What?”
“I think it would help … seeing you touch yourself.”
Your eyebrows raise. You huff in amusement. “I mean, I can, but it's not gonna actually do anything to me.”
This troubles him. His eyebrows furrow. His fingertips readjust on your hips. “Why not?”
Your index and middle finger dance up his chest and stop at his shoulder. “It's not as easy for me as it is for you.” Your eyes flick down, then up. “Or, was for you.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. Then looks up at you— pretty eyes. “Then how did you …”
You tilt your head, waiting.
“Cum,” he says, “Without a cock.”
Your lips part, and you slowly smile. In your mind, you picture that tiny tool that you left in the bathroom windowsill. You bite your knuckle before saying, “Wait here.”
You hop out of bed, pull and tuck the robe closed again before darting out of the room. You make good time down the hallway, and then you turn for the bathroom—
And you come face to face with J.
You're not sure who looks more like they just got caught with their pants down.
Him, with his dick out.
Or you, wearing nothing beneath the haphazardly tied robe.
Probably him with the way he flinches and gets a bit of piss on the floor.
What a first impression— you hardly know this kid. Similar to Andrew, J had shown up less than forty-eight hours ago.
You avert your eyes. “Jesus, close the door,” you mutter. Despite … that, you walk in anyways, swiftly crossing behind him and grabbing your toy from the window. You high-tail it out of there, only to then run right into Andrew—
A very naked Andrew.
How did he even get here that fast? And you told him to stay put!
Your hand covers your eyes. “Fucking— what is with the men in this house? Dicks out, everywhere.”
“What's going on here?” Andrew asks, his arms crossed. He leans against the doorway and stares at J.
J, who has thankfully zipped up his jeans, stares right back at him. Thoroughly traumatized, if you have to guess.
“Andrew.” You grab his arm and attempt to lead him back into the hall. You whip around and tell J, “You didn't see anything.”
Meanwhile, Andrew sends that typical stare towards J. “Piss on the beach like a real man.”
You drag Andrew out, though he goes pretty willingly, and push him ahead of you. Your bare feet slap against the hallway floor, and your laughter echoes off the walls.
You push him back into the room he was never supposed to leave in the first place.
“You fucking asshole,” you say through the laughter. You turn him so that you're guiding him towards the bed with your hands on his chest. Then you push him down. “I told you to stay here.”
He pouts with his face, though his eyes are dark and amused. “I got lonely.”
You bite your lip, forcing away any sign of a smile. You have one hand firmly planted on his shoulder, like he's gonna try to escape again. “I left you for two seconds.” You hold up the toy. “I had to get this.”
“What is it?”
Your hand falls away from him and you hold up the toy with the other— hold it like a rare gemstone. “If me getting turned on gets you hard, then this is your new best friend.”
He squeezes your hips “I like it already.”
You push his hands down and angle yourself to rest on the edge of the bed. “You think he's gonna talk?”
“Who, J? Not if he knows what's good for him.”
“Your fault, I told you to stay.”
“I heard you talking to someone. I got curious.”
“Mhm.” You push the bottom of the robe away, exposing your pussy. “So, you turn it on—” It takes a few seconds of holding pressure on the power button for the toy to buzz to life. “And, then—” You demonstrate first— your hand cups around the toy and you slowly rub it up-and-down your slit. Then you hand it to him.
He twists his wrist slowly, inspecting the toy from all angles
You smile and let out a small huff. “It's basically a mechanical tongue— or a sucking-type-device,” you explain, “You just put it on the clit like—”
Andrew, ever the devout soldier, places his hand on your stomach, pushes you back, and does exactly that—
“Oh—” You're not sure whether your mind or body reacts first. “Oh, fuck!” You yelp and arch. Your fingers clench his hair, but there's hardly anything to hold onto. His curls shaved down to that shitty prison haircut. The lack of having something to ground yourself with only overwhelms you more.
He pulls away and inspects it again, this time with raised brows. “Handy little thing.”
Your fingers release the short strands, arms fall back onto the bed. Feeling like you just got shot. “Not directly on the clit,” you whine. “Too powerful for direct contact.”
He looks up, smirks softly. “I don't know, I kinda like it like that.”
You mock glare. “Well, I don't like it like that.”
He shrugs and looks back at your toy. “Didn’t seem like you didn't like it.”
“Okay. Well, let's just say, I like it way too much, so much that it's quite overwhelming, so please try to avoid direct contact.”
“Yes, ma'am.” With his other hand, he grabs your thigh and pulls you to lay more diagonal across the mattress, and then lays your inner-knee over his shoulder. When he dives back in, he starts a little south of your clit. For that, you are grateful.
At the stimulation, your body cringes away— because it doesn't know what's good for it. But your ankle hooks behind his neck, keeping him right where you want him. Your lips part and your eyes shut.
God, it feels so much better having someone else hold the toy.
He's got a good rhythm going, and you've got a good ratio of moans to curses spilling from your mouth. Then he gets a little bold— doing exactly what you told him not to do, and settling the sucking-gaget right onto your clit.
You gasp, air filling your lungs fast. The sudden stimulation sends a sharp strike of pain mixed with pleasure right into your pea-sized receptor. Your body then sends a specific message to your brain that roughly translates to ; I'm gonna die, but I'm gonna die good. “Andrew—” You warn, lifting your head.
He doesn't stop, he just stares— locks his gaze with yours and kisses up the inside of your thigh.
Your head falls back down, hitting the mattress when you realize you're so fucked. Escaping your mouth is a mewl— something between a whine and a cry for help. But no matter how much it hurts, you don't attempt to stop him. Your hands dig into the comfort, nails cutting so deep you pull up threads.
It's hardly a good feeling, but it's far from a bad feeling. It feels like someone's stabbing the fuck out of your clit and yet simultaneously fucking you into oblivion.
Spasms akin to lightning strikes in your chest. All you can do is scream, all you can do is beg for nothing coherent, and all you can do is cry.
The assault lasts for only thirty seconds— longest thirty seconds of your life, and it's accompanied by a repetition of “fuck”, “shit”, and “Andy!” Between those three words, you pant like a dog.
When you cum— at least that's what you think happens. It's sudden and harsh. Without the build-up you're used to. The scream that escapes you can definitely be heard through the walls, just hopefully not as far as the beach.
Your chest deflates and your eyes fall shut.
The vibrator loses contact with your pussy, but you can still hear it buzzing. Andrew’s palm presses against your stomach, fingers splay on your ribs, and he draws a circle around your bellybutton with his mouth.
Things are fine, until they're not.
Liquid slowly spills across your thighs— it's warm, and it's coming from you. Your eyes shoot open. By the time you realize what's happening, it's too late.
Did you just—
You sit up fast and push Andrew off with strength you didn't know you had. You scramble for your discarded robe and pull over your lap.
You're not sure who is more confused.
Andrew says your name and sits back up from where you fucking flung him to the other side of the bed. “What's the matter? What— what happened?”
Your eyes are wide and your blinking comes in intervals of three. “Uhm … Nothing, I just need a minute.” You tuck the robe closer and avoid his gaze.
He's still for a moment, but you can feel his eyes on your face. “Did I …” His hand comes to rest on your robe-covered knee. “Do something?”
That touch is far too close to the pool of liquid you just created, so you push his hand away.
“I'm sorry,” he tells you, “I thought you liked it.”
“ … It's not that.”
You go through the options ;
Deny
Lie
Uhm … Kick him out and pretend nothing happened?
None of the above are really applicable.
“Baby,” he says quietly. He grabs your jaw and turns you to him. His eyes are rich with concern and a search for the answer.
Your eyes are wide and brimming with a lot of things. Embarrassment, uhm … embarrassment. What else? Oh, embarrassment!
It doesn't help that Andrew is one of the most germaphobic people you know. Hell, he's the only germaphobe you know, and you just fucking pissed during sex with him!
“It's not you. I think … uhm … I think I just pissed.” Think, is disingenuous. You just say it to soften the blow. You definitely pissed.
He pulls his face away an inch. “What?”
“I just pissed myself,” you repeat.
His eyes flick down at your robe-covered lap. “Why?” He asks—
Did he serious just ask why?
“Why?” You push him at his shoulder. “Because of you— I told you to avoid direct contact, and that's exactly what you did— you opened the floodgates of my urethra, you're to blame.”
“I … didn't know that could happen.”
“Neither did I, but apparently it can.” You turn your head away, spacing out of this hell.
“Do you … want to wash up?”
You slowly turn your head right back.
Andrew is oblivious to most social cues, but this one hits him square in the face, he backtracks, “You— you don't have to if you don't want to.”
“Are you never gonna wanna fuck me again?” You ask very genuinely, and with a little panic.
He huffs softly. “I don't think that's possible.”
“I don't know, piss is a new test on our relationship.”
“Baby, I've been to prison— I've dealt with a lot worse things than urine.”
Your eyebrows furrow at the thought.
“And Darin used to piss in the pool all the time. Hell, I think he still does. Never bothered me. This doesn't either.”
“It doesn't?”
“I mean, I don't prefer to have you … piss … but I'm not upset.”
This is the weirdest conversation you've ever had. With anyone.
And the cherry on fucking top—
You glance down—
Andrew has got a raging fucking hard-on!
Your eyes widen, your eyebrows raise. And after that, your face just freezes in place, stuck with this reaction. Your face might forever be stuck with this reaction. “Andrew,” you say slowly.
His eyes drift down, and then they lock back onto yours. It seems he is realizing around the same time as you.
You blurt— almost accusatory, “Me pissing myself makes you hard?”
“No— well— it might have been before the piss. I'm not sure.”
You'd say ew, but that's just hypocritical. Instead your face crunches and you mumble a, “Fucking freak.” You take a deep breath and expel it loudly. “Should we still … fuck, or … Do you want me to shower first?”
His eyes go from his cock to your crotch and then to yours. “I don't think we should risk the moment passing.”
Your eyes dart around, your tongue swipes over your bottom lip. “Fine, but we shower right after.”