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Ashley is his, even if Andrew won’t admit it with words - with acts, though, it’s not as hard. He doesn’t like seeing her bat her eyes innocently, as if not aware of the weight every word she speaks has. He can only take so much Andy, Andy, Andy, before blood rushes to his brain, and he forces himself on her.
She doesn’t mind; she loves him. Ashley complains when Andrew, incensed in ways only she can tell, drags her into the nearest, closest spot with convenient darkness and cover, but he ceases her voice with his mouth, kissing her with maybe too much teeth.
Iron coats their tongues as Andrew hastily undresses her, letting her tits fall out of her bra. Ashley always, always gasps, pink eyes unnerved as she looks towards the street.
She’s not very vocal outside - the fear of being caught, despite her pretense of bravado, always makes her silent -, but that’s okay.
Andrew can deal with the stop stop stop it hurts!! better at home, because at home, he can just stuff her panties into her mouth and call it a day. Those were fun, too: Andrew and Ashley, her against the closest, nearest flat surface, ass up, face down. Ashley always kind of retracted into herself if they did it in a room of their own, though, so it was kind of a special treat for him, reserved for those nights the Leyley inside his brain fucked him up by forcing him to revive every displeasing event he’d ever lived through.
But in an alleyway, where Andrew just wanted a quick fuck to remind Ashley who she belonged to, such finesse had to be bypassed in favor of her fear of being caught. Somehow, that only made things more exciting for him, his cock hardening against his jeans, begging for release from its confines.
Unbuttoning her shorts was done with one hand, Andrew humping her leg like a dog, one hand sticking itself under her panties. She was dry, but Andrew knew Ashley’s body, knew where to press, what to do, how to get her wet and begging for him. It was a bodily reaction, something he inflicted on Ashley rather than a genuine desire, but it didn’t matter.
She wanted it, begged for it, and how could he refuse? Andrew fucked her against some nasty wall, digging his fingers into her hips so hard it bruised, his lips against the curve of Ashley’s neck, drawing blood from her like water. Ashley barely cried during it, too - always good. Andrew hated to see how red her eyes got after.
He did love, though, seeing the bites on her lips when he dismounted her, Ashley’s futile attempts at keeping quiet. It made her look almost cute.
The worst part - after fixing her clothes, when Ashley’s eyes did not meet his just yet -, is that those quick fucks, dirty and fast, were never enough. Andrew so dearly wanted more, wanted romance, wanted slow and easy, drawing her orgasms out rather than forcing them out of her.
But Andrew, in his heart of hearts, was nothing more than a coward; it was easier to force himself on Ashley than do anything else.