Work Text:
Just listened to Rosenfeld constantly while writing this:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You meet the first one on purpose, but not exactly as planned.
He’s your blind date, and he apologizes profusely once he meets up with you at the afterparty. He’s at the bar, grimacing through a smile of greeting as he sees you approaching. “I’m so sorry, hun. She dragged me back there, I swear. I didn’t know everybody was gonna be so… uh. Naked.”
You’d been one tit out of a dress, Polina dragging him backstage and yelling out, “Boh! You back here yet?”
He had snapped his eyes shut immediately, the sweet guy, but the damage was done. He’d already seen you bent over, breast dangling down and out the side of $10,000 worth of gold lamé. At least your crotch had been covered. Thanks Calvin.
“It’s okay,” you tell him now, playing it cool. “That’s the industry. Naked in front of a dozen people a day.”
He laughs. “If you say so.” He’s very handsome. Dark hair, intense, thoughtful eyes, features he could get paid for. Does get paid for, in a way. Polina did good this time, you think. He focuses those intense eyes on you, asking, “So it’s… Bohdana? Right?”
You appreciate anybody who makes the effort to say your real name. It’s usually odd on American lips, but he pronounces it with an accent you can’t place—not Ukrainian. “Just Bo,” you demure.
“Bo,” he says. “That’s cute. I like it. So, how am I gonna make it up to you, Bobo?”
You bare your teeth and point your finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs. He’s gorgeous when he laughs. He swears he won’t use the ridiculous nickname of a nickname. “Just Bo,” he promises, smiling, leaning in just a bit. Showing that he’s interested. “But you still haven’t given me a way to make up for walking in on you naked,” he says, maintaining a level of eye contact that is, frankly, intimidating.
He’s not sorry at all that he saw you naked.
“Um. A–a drink?” you stammer, averting your eyes to the glass that’s been in his hand since you got there. “I mean… ah, you could buy me a drink. To make it up to me?” You sound like an insecure fool, but he grins and agrees and turns away so that you can be embarrassed at your awkward bumbling without him seeing.
You’ve always been terrible at flirting. Useless in most small-talk situations, actually. It’s not a fluency problem, just a personality one. The words in your head never seem to match the ones that come out of your mouth, and it’s a big part of why you haven’t made much progress in your career. You hadn’t thought your brain would matter so much in the industry. But ten years at your agency and you’re still here in New York, the girls you started with long since shipped out to Paris or Milan, Japan if they were tiny enough. Probably retiring by now.
“You’re lucky you have such a round face.”
That’s one you hear a lot. It means you photograph young. But you’re twenty-eight, four months shy of twenty-nine. And if the Calvin Klein people had known that, you’re halfway convinced you wouldn’t have booked the show at all. That’s why you haven’t been shrugging off Polina’s offers of blind dates as much these days.
“He’s kinda old, but you’re into that, right?”
Last month both the Tom Ford and Anna Sui casting directors had cited concerns over your “body line” when they passed you over. You barely eat, but aging is aging. You can’t stay nineteen forever, and you are so over cocaine and cotton balls.
“He’s an actor!” Polina had gushed when she talked you into this. “You know: all that Marvel stuff? He’s probably loaded.”
He returns with your drink—a copy of his own. Something fruity. “Hope you like pineapple,” he grins, handing it over.
You do. You make sure to let your eyes flick up at him as you wrap your lips around the straw and sip. Predictably, his eyes stay glued to your mouth for a few long seconds. You’ve been told by men before that you have great “Russian” lips. Nevermind that you’re not Russian. “Mm yum,” you say, giving your approval, amused when he seems to get a little bit stuck staring.
He seems to shake himself out of it and he smiles again. He’s got perfect teeth. “Want to find somewhere to sit?” he asks, glancing around. “Not the best first date venue, I guess. But the people watching can’t be beat.” You laugh genuinely at that one, and he seems proud to have gotten it from you. He reaches for your hand. “I saw some couches?”
You nod and let him lead you through the crowded afterparty. It’s Galliano. The theme that season is ‘nude’, and you appreciate that your date has made a decent attempt at dressing for the party. You like a man with style sense, but the rich dummies Polina usually tries to set you up with aren’t really that sort. Semi-overweight businessmen playing around with models. Money can’t buy taste.
But it can buy a lot.
“He’s got a house in NOHO. I googled it! And he was at this year’s MET gala and he—”
In Polina’s defense, the two of you grew up in a place where it was ingrained in you from girlhood that the smartest thing you could do in life was attach yourself to a wealthy man. Polina got hers years ago, now she’s trying to help you. Hence, your date.
But even after only exchanging a few words with him, you can tell he’s different. He’s real. He lacks the veneer of self-importance that everyone in fashion carries around in front of themselves. You just sense this, and it appeals to you wildly, has you sucking down your drink with purpose as you weave through the party with him. You’re always a better conversationalist once you’ve had a few.
He finds you a little velvet two-seater, tucked away in a less busy corner. “Perfect,” you beam at him, stepping around the big block of a coffee table that’s been placed there. There’s a couple necking on the opposite couch, but you ignore them and so does he. He holds your drink for you while you maneuver in your long dress. You pretend not to notice the way his gaze travels up and down your body. His eyes linger on your breasts, but eventually pull away. You have to give the poor guy credit for looking you in the face at all. The dress you’re wearing is a nude silk gauze, so thin and airy that it flows over your body like fog over water, your nipples and even the vee of your sex vaguely visible through the fabric (hey, when you dress to fit a theme, you dress to fit a theme).
You both sit, the little couch putting you at an intimate distance. He hands you your drink and does a cheers. “To a gorgeous woman.”
You chuckle and roll your eyes. “To fashion.”
“To fashion, on a gorgeous woman,” he corrects, winking at you from over his cup as he takes a sip.
The two of you fall into conversation easily, more due to his abilities than yours. He seems more than capable of accommodating your awkward pauses and stumbles, smiling and complimenting you just infrequently enough, just boldly enough. There’s something dark and faintly dirty beneath his eyes, but he contains whatever thoughts he has to his smiles and his smirks. He’s a gentleman towards you, even asks you questions about yourself and your life like he’s interested in more than getting laid.
You start to let your guard down a little bit. And by the end of the night you’re shocked because you think you might really like this guy.
He’s almost forty, has a dog, mentions family that he’s close with. New York isn’t just a workplace for him, it’s home. When he talks about his work he talks like an artist, and it’s endearing. He mentions smaller ‘projects’, favorite ‘films’, talks about directors he wants to work with and the characters he’s had the most fun exploring. He never once mentions the blockbuster movies you’ve never seen that Polina referenced. He doesn’t bring up money at all. He pays your bar tab with a black AmEx card and the two of you leave in his car. He drives a Jag, helps you into your seat with a gentlemanly hand and a calm sort of smirk. You feel yourself get a little breathless every time he looks at you like that, every time he finds a reason to touch your hand, your waist, the small of your back. He’s bold and comfortable in his skin. Confident but not cocky. He thinks his dirty thoughts and doesn’t try to hide that he's thinking them, but speaks to you like an utter gentleman. You like that. You like it a lot.
“Where to, Sweetheart?” he asks you when you’re both in the car, giving you the option of an out. He’ll take you home if you want.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Maybe this time will be different. He seems discerning, like he’d respect you more if you asked to go home. He also seems like he’d be really damn good in bed though. “Um, I don’t know,” you demure. You’d really like a second date with this guy. Not once has he made you feel like a doll he’s paid for, hasn’t even made any stupid jokes about what you do for a living. Maybe you should just tell him to take you home, say goodnight at the door. Make him want it. Make him want to pursue.
He seems to sense your dilemma, and gives your hand a squeeze from over the center console. “Why don’t I take you home?”
You exhale, disappointed. “Y-yeah. Okay.”
His knowing smile returns. “You’ve got to give me your number so I can take you out again. Soon.”
“Oh.” You squirm, overly happy and trying not to show it. But he can see. He seems like he can see everything about you with only a glance. He makes you feel more naked than the scandalously sheer dress you’re wearing. “I’d like that,” you manage to say as he puts the car in drive. “Sebastian.”
-
You meet the other one over a month later. Unplanned, under different circumstances, but also with another hearty apology coming at you from another unusually good looking man.
“Shit! Oh god. I am so sorry! Are you okay?”
You swipe the sweaty strands of your bangs out of your face. “No, no I’m fine. Fine. Sorry, it’s my fault. Should’a paid attention to where I was going.” You’d walked straight into him. In his haste to grab you to keep you from falling on your ass, he’d almost dropped his weights on your foot. You laugh shakily and roll your eyes. “Too much cardio I guess. Got lightheaded, jittery. Probably low blood sugar.”
You realize what a mistake that is to admit, because as soon as you say the words, his face gets all concerned and serious, and he insists on helping you over to a chair so that you can sit for a minute. It’s in front of the juice bar, so he says he’ll buy you a water and something to eat. You try to tell him you’re fine, but a girl can only refuse so many times before it starts to get awkward.
That’s what you’ll come to find out about him, in time: Chris is a carer.
He wrangles you into a chair and gets a granola bar in your hand and a water bottle opened on the table between you two, because of course he’s taken a seat as well. He apologizes about six more times, but at some point you stop worrying about how grossly sweaty you are and wind up talking, genuinely laughing along with him as the two of you joke about the parts of gym culture you hate the most. You’re one to talk; in your strategic ‘non-makeup’ and crop top. But Chris isn’t such a sweetheart that his male gaze doesn’t occasionally let you know that he finds gym-you to be attractive.
“Just call me Bo,” you wind up saying, and he smiles like he’s been given the keys to the kingdom.
He walks out of that gym with your number.
It’s only later, when you’re with the first one, that you realize who he was.
–
Sebastian is having you over for Date Number Six. It’s drinks and dinner at his place, and when he starts flipping through his watchlist you stop him on a mystery-comedy, pointing at the screen with a little sound of shock. Sebastian clicks on the movie title. “Oh, ha, yeah. Been meaning to watch that.”
“I met that guy!” you blurt, squinting at the television to double check. Starring: Daniel Craig, Ana de Armas, Chris Evans— “Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Yeah it was him. At the gym.”
Sebastian looks at you, surprised, then looks at the screen. His face splits in a disbelieving smile. “What? Chris?”
“You know him?”
Sebastian laughs. He seems inordinately amused. “Yeah. We, um… well we’ve worked together.” He’s really laughing at you, and you can’t for the life of you figure out what’s so funny. He tells you, “It’s just funny that you ran into him. I knew he was in town this month for a project, forgot it was this week.”
“You’re…friends?”
Sebastian nods, expression going soft. “Yeah. Yeah we’re really good friends, actually.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles at you and he takes your hand, running his thumb in circles over your palm. “You really didn’t run home and Google me after we met, did you?” He says it like it’s an impressive, endearing trick you’ve performed for him.
“No. …Is that a good thing?”
He looks very pleased, almost affectionate. “Yeah hun,” he says softly, pulling you against his side. You both recline into the sofa—Polina was correct: Sebastian does indeed have a (very comfy, very masculine and thoughtfully-decorated) condo in NOHO. He hands over your wine glass, then picks up the remote to start the movie. Knives Out flashes on the screen. He kisses the top of your head. “Chris is one of my closest friends,” he tells you. “I was actually thinking of seeing if he wanted to stay with me while he was in town.”
You squirm a little, thinking about how you’d flirted with Chris at the gym, and wondering if you should mention it to Sebastian. This is you guys’ sixth time getting together over the course of a little more than a month. Much longer and you’ll have to decide what it is you’re doing.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian asks, noticing your quietness.
“Mm? Oh, nothing.” You take a fortifying sip of your wine. “I just feel awkward I guess. I mean I literally bumped into him at the gym. Poor guy. He caught me, kept me from falling down. He got all worried when I mentioned I was lightheaded and made me sit down and eat a granola bar.”
Sebastian snorts. “Sounds like Chris.” His hand slides up your arm. You feel him fingering the boney edge of your shoulder. “You working out too much, honey?”
“Mm mn. Um, Seb…I feel like I should tell you… he and I were being kind of, flirty, with each other.” You say it with a wince. “He asked for my number and I gave it.” You feel so guilty as you say it, and you watch Sebastian’s reaction with dread welling in your gut.
He’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. For a long, horrible minute, he doesn’t do anything, just… looks at you. Right when you’re about to start apologizing, his arm curls around your waist, pulling you in tighter against him. He doesn’t look mad. “Okay,” he says quietly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” He tips your chin up and kisses you. “It’s Chris. It’s fine.”
He lets your chin go and you frown, unsatisfied by that. “Um, Seb? Can we talk for a minute?” The movie has started, the opening credits rolling across the screen to music. Sebastian pauses it. He’s totally relaxed as he looks at you. “Hm?”
It takes you a minute, and another big gulp of wine, but you force yourself to say, “Are we… what are we doing?”
He doesn’t seem surprised, or confused. Like always, he can see right into you. “Doing,” he repeats, his expression soft and unbothered.
“Yeah,” you breathe, already a little relieved because you can tell that he has an answer all ready to go. He’ll tell you. Sebastian is good at being in control like that, and you enjoy it. “What is this?” You gesture between him and you. You’re close right now, and he’s never shied away from putting his hands on you like he owns you. But he hasn’t made ‘the move’ yet. You bite your lip as you wait for him to guide you in the right direction.
“Well.” His hand remains at your waist, keeping you against him. “We’ve been seeing each other, going on dates.”
You nod, eyes fixed on how his thigh muscles fill out his pants so well. Sebastian had taken you out to a fancy restaurant for your second date, picnicked with you in Central Park for your third. Dates four and five had been at your apartment, then his condo. And the whole time he’s been the perfect gentleman. You’ve gotten kisses and dirty looks and nothing else. You haven’t wanted to complain, not for finally finding a man who actually talks to you.
“—been to each other’s places, gone to dinner. Now we’re talking about meeting the friends, huh?” He sounds so relaxed, so smooth, like he’s planned out what he’ll say and he’s not worried about what you’ll say back. You’re jealous of his confidence. His fingers play at your waist and he puts his lips to your temple and murmurs softly, “But I’ve wanted to make love to you, honey. You’ve gotta know that.”
You stiffen against him and turn in his arms, peeking up. “You have?”
He smiles and palms your jaw. “C’mere, let me look at you.” He doesn’t kiss you, just holds you close and lets his eyes flick over your face for a long time. That’s another thing about Sebastian. He stares. He doesn’t feel the need to fill silence with words, or stillness with action. Sometimes he just… takes his time, experiences things. It’s always unnerved you, but not necessarily in a bad way.
In a make-your-panties-damp way.
You shiver, feeling like you can see those heavier thoughts that he never voices. They’re in the grey of his eyes, swimming just beneath the blue. Sharks in the water. Your lips quirk as you think it, and he notices.
“Mm, no. Don’t think for a second, that I haven’t wanted to touch you, Babygirl,” he says, and you shudder under his hands. He feels it, you can see that he does. His mouth curls faintly. “I wanted to wait,” he tells you, tracing the side of your face with the backs of his fingertips, one side and then the other. He puts the pad of his thumb on your mouth and pulls it down, your bottom lip moving with it. He exhales a little shakily as he watches it, a tiny slip in his composure, which you savor. With a man as smooth as Sebastian, a simple shaky exhale can be downright erotic.
“Why?” you breathe, pulse thrumming underneath your skin. You don’t really care why, you just want to hear him purr at you some more. His murmured words are turning you on. “Why haven’t you?”
His arm curls in harder at your waist. “I wanted you to be comfortable with me first.”
“I am.” You always have been. He exudes not just control, but the willingness to take it. And you’re drawn to that like a moth to a flame. You’ve wanted to give it to him from the moment he took your hand that first night. You press yourself up against him, eager. You came prepared for this tonight. Prepared to be naked in front of him. Everything’s shaved and scrubbed and lotioned and perfumed, covered in a scrap of black lace underneath your clothes. Bravely, you set your wine glass aside and reach for his other hand that isn’t wrapped around your waist. He’s got such sexy hands. His fingers look so elegant and yet so thick, so… capable. You’ve thought about them all touching you, all over your body, inside of you. “I’ve wanted you so badly,” you admit, the words coming out in hardly more than a whisper. You swallow heavily and tell him, “I wanted you to say that I’m yours. Your girlfriend. I’ve wanted that, but I didn’t know how much you...” you flush. “Um, I didn’t know how you felt about it. Didn’t know how serious you wanted things to get between us, I guess.”
Sebastian hums. You see his eyes flick down to your mouth, then further down to your chest. You’re wearing a silk camisole tonight, no bra on underneath, so your breasts slope naturally. Right now your nipples are hard and peaked under the fabric. He licks his lower lip slowly and bites it as he stares. “Bo,” he murmurs, saying your name like it’s a soft, breakable thing. “Sweet girl. You want to know what I want?”
“Yeah. Sebastian…”
“I want you to be mine,” he says. He cups the back of your head and pulls you in close, close enough to kiss, even though he doesn’t. He just breathes there against you, and when you try to kiss him he grabs your hair and holds you back. “All mine,” he says softly. “I want to own you. I want to make you happy that I own you. And I want to make you feel good, Bo. So good that you realize things you never knew about yourself.”
Everything low in you clenches and you feel wetness seep into your panties. “Seb,” you whisper.
He hums knowingly. “That’s what I want.” Finally, finally he kisses you. Just a single kiss, but achingly slow. You moan at how long he keeps his mouth on yours. Right against you, he murmurs, “I want to take you back to my bedroom.”
“Sebastian,”
“Mmhm. You gonna let me do that, Sweetheart?” He kisses you again—firmly, his lips fitting to yours, moving, taking, slipping the tip of his tongue inside.
A moan breaks from your mouth and your hands fly up to grasp his shoulders. You wind up in his lap, straddling him, feeling his erection through his pants. You make out and he grunts when you start to rock your hips down against him. You don’t even realize you’re doing it at first, but then his hand slides up your thigh, up under the fabric of your skirt. He makes a hurt noise into the kiss when his fingers find your panties, curling over the band of lace that crosses your hip. He pulls on it a little.
“Want you in my bed,” he husks, and you nod against his face.
You’ve got his jaw cradled in both of your hands now. You pull back and look in his eyes. Fuck, he’s gorgeous when he’s turned on like this. “Okay,” you whisper, and that’s all the permission he needs. He stands, lifting you right up with him and starting a path towards his bedroom. You giggle at the heft of his hands under your ass and thighs as he carries you, and you gasp when he drops you down onto the bed and you bounce once.
He stands back and stares at you, licks his bottom lip into his mouth slowly. “Take your hair down,” he murmurs. You listen and your hair falls loose around your shoulders. “Perfect,” he says, eyes raking over your body.
The way he looks at you gets your heart beating so much faster, makes you press your thighs together and feel how your panties have gotten wet. “C’mere,” you say softly, lying back on your elbows. But he ignores you.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt, eyes still fixed on you with such intense intent. It’s sexual, resolute, taking you in. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. “Take your clothes off,” he says quietly. “Right there. Now.” His shirt is undone and he’s slipping it off, and you stare at his smooth chest, his toned body, all that naturally tanned skin. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
“Fuck. Sebastian...”
“Undress, Bo,” he murmurs to you again, confident that you’ll obey. It makes the lowest places in your belly tighten. He starts undoing his belt and you pull off your skirt distractedly, eyes glued to the way his deft fingers undo the buckle and pull it from the loops, pop his button and unzip his fly. He lets his pants fall, and when he takes a step closer to the bed, he’s naked except for a pair of sinfully small boxer briefs. Grey, tight, barely containing him. You can see everything through the fabric: the shape of him, how hard he is, his heavy balls.
You wet your lips, wanting to touch him so bad you can hardly stand it. “Seb…” you whisper.
“Yeah?” He palms himself as he comes a step closer. “Take your shirt off, honey,” he says. You whimper and hurry to obey. All you want is to do what he says, to please him, to be good for him. And it’s like he knows it, too. He’s always known it. His eyes fall to your breasts and he curses softly, fingers squeezing his dick a little harder from over his underwear. “...fuck, so perfect for me.”
You’re not sure he meant for you to hear it, the words are so quiet. You squirm on the bed, only in your panties now and needing him closer. “Sebastian, please,” you beg. “C’mere. Touch me, please.” You want him naked. Naked and over you, his weight pinning you to the bed. You lay down and arch your back for him, running your hands over your panties, hooking your thumbs in at the sides like you’ll pull them down.
“Hang on,” he says, kneeling up onto the bed. He moves your hands away and straddles your knees, watches the course of his own hands as he flattens them and smoothes them over your hips, up to your belly and back down, over to the lace at your hips. “Pretty,” he murmurs. “Did you wear these for me?”
“Yes.” You’re fighting not to squirm, fighting to hold still while he runs his hands all over you and looks. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about him these past weeks it’s that Sebastian is perfectly content to take things slow. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t waste. He likes to look his fill, take his time. He likes to savor. “Please,” you beg again, but he shushes you and doesn’t even look up to your face, so dismissive. You flush as you realize that that gets you just as wet as anything else.
His eyes are dragging over you like a physical touch, lingering longer in some places, dark and full of intent. He likes your breasts. A hurt little pinch forms between his brows as he runs his hands up and cups them underneath, holds their soft weight in his palms. He thumbs softly over your nipples, just enough to get them tightening into peaks again. “Christ,” he whispers, reverent. “Sweetheart, the things I wanna do to you…” He smooths his hands back down your ribcage, encircles your waist and squeezes, thumbs dipping in toward your belly button. “Baby, you got no idea.”
You bite your lip and fight so hard to stay still, only whispering, “Sebastian,” at him again, the unspoken please clearly heard. He still doesn’t look up though, doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He makes you feel like something so valuable, so priceless. There’s no shame in his gaze. Sebastian may have been careful with his words and his actions these past weeks, but he’s never tried to hide the way he looks at you.
Covetous, you think. It’s always been covetous.
It’s like he’s appreciating fine art, and just needs you to shut up and hold still for him so that he can do that. You do. It drives you crazy but you do, and you like that he makes you. You like that when you try to reach for him once or twice, he shushes you and presses your wrists back into the bedding. You like that he makes you feel like you have no other choice. “Sebastian,” you plead again, and this time he responds,
“I know it’s hard for you to wait, princess. You wanna feel good?” He slides one hand to the front of your panties and palms you there, smiling at your sharp gasp. You feel his thumb slot into place over your clit and start swiping slowly back and forth.
“Oh god…”
“Yeah.” He lays out along your side and kisses you, hand working between your legs. “That feel nice?”
“Mm. Mmhm,” you sigh, eyes fluttering. You tip your head towards him for another kiss but he avoids you with a smirk. When you try and grab his shoulders to get him to roll over top of you, he still denies you.
“Ah ah. Let me.” He keeps rolling his thumb over the fabric, slow and heavy, a rhythmic back and forth. Pressure. His leg hooks in over one of yours and pulls, forcing your legs to spread, holding you down when you struggle to push up against his hand. He chuckles lowly against your skin. “Where you trying to go, Bo?”
You whine, “Seb,”
“Shh,” he soothes. “Let me touch you, honey. Can’t give me something this nice and not let me play with it a little.” He pecks your cheek. “Just relax and enjoy how it feels.”
His words and his tone of voice only make your cunt throb more, and you toss your head. His thumb still swiping over your clit, he starts moving the rest of his fingers lower, rubbing little, teasing circles right over the soaked crotch of your panties. You squirm and fight to keep your eyes open, though it’s hard when it’s starting to feel this good. But you know he’s watching you, you know this, and you can’t look away from him for long. “Mmn—” you sigh, eyes fluttering open again.
He’s watching you while he does this; not the hand he has between your legs either, oh no. He’s watching your face. And you understand why, can see it on him, can see it every time he jerks back and refuses you a kiss with a smirk on his face. He wants to see what he’s doing to you, see how he’s affecting you, how he’s making your desperation grow.
It’s so arousing that you think you’ll dissolve into the sheets if it goes on much longer. “Fuck,” you whine, voice high and tight. You squirm against his leg holding yours down. You try to kiss him again but he stays just out of reach.
His eyes are bright every time he gets a chance to deny you. He’s getting off on it. “You’ve gotta learn to have some patience, Babygirl,” he murmurs.
And oh. You can’t help the sudden, loud moan that comes out of you at that word. Sebastian tenses and his eyes lock on yours. And it’s only a second before he’s grinning, figuring it out. “Seb,” you whimper, but he’s already gloating and cooing,
“Oh, honey. Is that it?” He dips down and kisses at your neck while you whine in protest. A wet suck over your pulse point shuts you up and his voice rumbles straight into your skin, “That’s what does it for you? Just want to be Daddy’s good girl?”
You make another high, ineloquent noise and gush into your panties. Sebastian must be able to feel it.
He chuckles and climbs over you, finally, kneeing into place between your legs like he knows they’ll spread for him. They do. He holds your face with both hands and smiles down at you. “You’re absolutely perfect, you know that, Bo?”
For some reason, the use of your name digs sharply into the same exact spot that ‘Babygirl’ does. You pant up at him, nodding, trying to kiss him, already rolling your hips up. “Sebastian,”
He surges down and kisses you, harshly and without warning. It takes your breath away, and all you can do is moan and take it and wait until he pulls back and allows you to breathe again. He does, and he grips your jaw and rolls his hips down, dragging his clothed erection over your sex. “I’m gonna fuck you, babygirl,” he breathes, somehow making the words reverent instead of lewd. “And when I make you cum, you’re gonna cry.” He drags his nose across your cheek, whispers into your ear, “You’re gonna cum and cry and you’re gonna thank your Daddy for making you feel so good.”
Your breath hitches in something like a sob and your hips buck up against him, seeking more. “P-please…”
He hushes you, kneeling back to remove his briefs and peel your panties down your legs. “Shh, Angel. I know. I know.” He’s so goddamn smug, but there’s fire in his eyes too, and all he makes you feel is wanted and like you’re something wonderful he’s going to get to play with and take care of. His voice is like his hand stroking between your legs—it gets you so worked up, makes you wet and needy.
Naked, he stays on his knees for a long few minutes and just stares between your legs. Despite what he’s told you, and despite the fact that he literally licks his lips as he stares at your cunt, having him focused right there for so long starts to make you squirm. He tuts at you when you try to close your legs a little. “Uh uh, baby.” He grabs your knees and pushes them up and apart. “You’re gonna let me look.” You’re soaked, you can feel it, and even if you couldn’t, the ravenous expression on his face would tell you. “Fuck, Bo,” he whispers, bringing a hand down to play along your folds. You squeak at the feeling of him dipping into you, so shallow it almost doesn’t even count, gathering your wetness and spreading it around, sliding those wet fingers up along your cunt, your clit.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper, your hips juddering toward his touch.
“Mm,” he breathes. “Oh Babygirl. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been dreaming about this pussy. S’gorgeous.” His fingers keep exploring, slipping against your folds, touching more for his own pleasure than yours. “So fucking juicy,” he mutters, staring, playing. He takes hold of his cock and strokes himself, and your eyes fall down to it.
He’s thick; maybe slightly longer than average, but so goddamn thick and meaty that the sight of it makes you clench down on nothing, wanting it in you so badly. “Oh,” you breathe, watching as he fists his erection, as you get to see exactly how he likes to touch himself. “...fuck.” He’s uncut, the foreskin thinning as he strokes, drawing up and down, giving glimpses of his cockhead. Your mouth waters as you finally get to see that delicate part of him. He’s wet, dick already weeping. Your fingers twitch against the bedsheets. You want to touch him, taste him.
But when you try to reach for it, he tuts at you again and smirks, pushes your hands away, enjoys the whines he gets from you for it. He holds his dick and runs the head all along your slit, spreading your lips apart with it, wetting himself up in you. “Bet you cum buckets, huh sweetheart?”
“Nnh,” you whine, pitifully nonverbal next to him and all the filthy things he’s said to you so far. And he hasn’t even gotten inside you yet. His cock slips against your folds, spreading your arousal around. Then he bumps it wetly against your clit and your eyes slam shut.“Daddy–” you whimper, the word cutting off on the last syllable as you try to hold it in, to not say it.
“That’s right, Angel.” He grabs your chin with his other hand and shakes you, gently but firm. “Hey, look at me.” You do, and he hums in approval. Between your legs, you feel it as he fits the head of his cock to your entrance. “Don’t hold it in, honey,” he says, voice so soft but words deadly coming from someone like him, from lips like his. He tilts his head, mouth open, watching your expression as he pushes in, just the barest bit, just the tip. Holy fuck. Your breath hitches at the feeling and he hums knowingly. “Call me Daddy whenever you need to,” he says, sliding in further, drawing out that first, overwhelming push for as long as he can. “I like it. A lot.”
You moan at his words, at the feeling of his cock bottoming out inside of you, at the permission he’s giving you to be that vulnerable. He wants you to be. “S-sebastian,” you gasp.
He sighs and lays down over you, finally pressing you into the sheets with his body the way you’ve been craving. He seals your mouths together in an achingly slow kiss. “That’s okay, Bo,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll get it outta you, one way or the other.”
And then he starts to fuck you, slow at first, then in shorter, smooth strokes, really arching his hips into it when your bodies are closest, grinding his pelvis against yours purposefully. You’re keening after only a few minutes of it as his cock drags against that spot inside, making you unfurl and pulse, pulling you deeper, and closer. “Sebastian,”
“Mmhm,” he goads, breathing down on you.
Your eyes keep fluttering closed from the mounting pleasure, but every time you manage to open them he’s there, staring down at you. “Uhn…ohfuck…” you whimper as the feeling inside coils tighter, sweeter with every thrust he gives you. “Oh, Sseb…”
He knows exactly what he’s doing, working your body, working out how you like to be fucked and adjusting, watching you come apart for him. “That’s it, Angel,” he purrs, kissing you. He growls encouragingly when your hips start trying to match him, when you start to get close and get tense, panting and whining loudly because it feels so good and god, you want it so bad. You strain to grind your clit against his stomach and he grabs onto your hips to help you, lifting and pulling you harder against him the way you need. “Come on,” he says, breath hot against your neck; kisses and sucks and scrapes of teeth you can barely feel as you rub against him.
“Fuck, fuck, ohplease–”
“Let it come. You’re so close aren’tcha?” –kiss– “So close” –kiss–
“Daddy,” you keen, unable to keep it in anymore. Unable to help any of the desperate noises you make as you teeter right on the edge, so close. Just a little more, you just need— “Oh, ohh god…”
“Mmhm, that’s right. Come on now. Let it happen, Babygirl.” He kisses you one last time, growls into your ear, “Let Daddy make you cum,”
And it happens. Everything ripples and unspools, the orgasm so sharp and deep inside you that you sob out in relief, clinging to him desperately as you ride out the pleasure. “Oh, oohghn-fuck,”
He curses, fucking hard against you, bringing you through it, groaning in satisfaction when he knows you’ve come. “Oh honey, baby, oh I felt that.” His hips lose their coordination and he pulls back with a growl, bracing up on his arms and fucking you harder. He’s looking you in the eyes again, fiercely pleased at what you’ve done. “Came all over my cock,” he grits, teeth bared, snapping his hips. “––fucking soaked, feel your pussy clenching–” You keen at the intense stimulation, sensitive from your climax. But he doesn’t slow down. He growls and sits back on his haunches and brings you along with him, using his grasp on your hips to pull you into each thrust. “Yeah,” he growls, fucking in hard, your skin slapping together, his balls against your ass. “So, fucking, good,” he grunts. He’s getting close, you can tell. He’s feeling so good and you love to see it, the harsh thrusts he’s giving you and the fierce look on his face making your cunt start to throb again, winding up in that telltale way—
“Fuck,” he gasps. “You gonna cum again, sweet thing?” When you whimper and nod and try to move against him, he moans and fucks into you even harder, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips so harshly that you know you’ll have bruises there tomorrow. “Fuck,” he grits. “Fuck, honey.” He puts a hand over your lower belly and pushes down, forcing your pelvis low and into it, so that every thrust inside has his cock rubbing hard against your front wall.
You make a humiliating noise of pleasure and absolutely wail, tears breaking from your eyes. “Oooh fu-uuck!”
“Come on, come on,” he growls, teeth clenched, body held taught as he fights to get you off again before he comes. He snaps his hips—hard, harder—and splays his hand out on your mons, pushing down, thumb notching over your clit and swiping back and forth. You scream and cum, your whole body shaking as the orgasm tears through you. You hear him coming, feel how his hips stutter and hump forward hard: one, two, three times. He falls over you, moaning in your ear as his hips pulse shallowly and his dick throbs his release inside you. You can feel it pulsing against your cunt, right where his body joins yours. “Oh, baby,” he gasps, coming down from it. “Oh, Goddamn.”
You’re still panting, still throbbing between your legs from the aftershocks. You nod and run your hands all over his back, still clenching onto him with your legs, feet hooked up high around his waist, keeping him inside you. “Oh,” you breathe, licking your lips. You’re so thirsty now. “Fuck, Seb.”
“Mmm.” He nuzzles your face, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a long sigh of satisfaction. You feel his body shiver as he gives a few post-coital thrusts, moving his softening dick through the mess inside you. It feels wet and filthy, luxuriously so, and because he’s so thick, he still manages to make you gasp a couple of times as he softens, his cock glancing across your already primed walls.
“Fuck,” you whisper, hips jumping. You resist the urge to start rubbing yourself off on him again. When he keeps moving his cock inside you in tiny little movements, you giggle and dig your nails into his back. “Ooh, s-stop. You’re gonna make me wanna… mmm.” You trail off, a smile on your face as you close your eyes. He finally pulls out all the way and you hum at the loss.
“What?” he says. You open your eyes. He’s sitting back on his heels, chest still heaving a bit as he recovers. His eyes are searching out your face. “ ‘I’m gonna make you wanna’ what?”
Fuck. You core throbs hopefully and you smile at him and shake your head, worn out. “Nothing. Just felt good.”
“You want to cum again?” he says, not even really asking, since he’s already yanking your hips down the bed, closer to him, swiping his fingers through the mess of your cunt.
“No, no I can’t,” you gasp. It’s a lie, the whines which follow a pitiful protest that he completely ignores.
“Oh no, I think you’ve got another one in you.” He pushes your legs apart and stares. “Aw, shit baby.” He reaches down and softly traces your outer lips with the pad of his thumb. “Mm, you’re all swollen n’ puffy.” You cry out mightily at that but he shushes you. “C’mon. Push it out now, honey. Lemme see you push it out.”
Even as you moan in protest, saying ‘nooo’, your cunt clenches anyway, and you feel it happen.
Sebastian groans as he watches his cum slide out of you. “Fuuucking hell.” You whine in mortification and turn your head away to try and scrub your overheated face against the sheets, but he doesn’t like that and he leans forward, puts a hand around your neck and squeezes just as he shoves two fingers into you.
“Oh!”
“Mmhm. Thought so,” he smirks, fingers curling. “Right there? Yeah I feel it. You got another.” He fucks you on his hand; fast, merciless jabs that get right at that spot inside of you. You wail at the intensity of it, at how your body reacts so fast and hard without your permission. He hums darkly as his arm works, his bicep bulging and all the smaller muscles of his forearm straining from the effort. The hand at your throat squeezes just hard enough, making your head go fuzzy as you gasp. “You need to cream yourself one more time, hm? Gonna squeal for Daddy?”
You can’t control anything as he fucks you on his hand, making you shake and squeal, tears leaking from your eyes and silent gasps of ‘Daddy!’ leaving your lips, just like he said they would. It takes less than a full minute and he gets it out of you, making you cum, your body clenching hard and splashing him with a gush of liquid. For a very split second, you think you’re peeing yourself, but the sound he makes when he sees it happen, and the look he gets on his face, quickly disabuses you of that notion. He’s delighted.
“Fu-huck, baby,” he gasps, jerking his hand into you hard, rocking your body with the force of it. He looks down at you with wide eyes. “Shit. Oh Bo... Bo, baby, you’re amazing.” He falls over you, hugging you to his body and flipping over to lay you on top. He smiles up at you, touching your waist, your neck, your hair. He’s dazzlingly handsome and he’s gleeful. “You didn’t tell me you were a squirter, sweetheart,” he coos, chuckling and running his hands all over you. “Fuck, you’re too good to be true.”
And even though you’re still out of it from the near-violent orgasm he’s just ripped from you, you still have the wherewithal to blink at him and think, dazedly, that whatever happens between the two of you now, you’re not going to be the same after.
-
Two weeks later, the first one invites the other one over for a night in with the two of you. "Just wear something comfortable," is all he says when you get angsty over having flirted with Chris at the gym, over what Chris might do when he finds out you're with Sebastian. "I guarantee you, babe; he's not going to mind."