Work Text:
Andrew calls you while you’re walking out of the diner.
The night air smells like fryer oil, cigarette smoke, sour trash and hot pavement. Your shoes ache from standing through the late shift. Your skirt clings to the backs of your thighs, and your button-up is soft from too many washes, the cuffs rolled to your elbows because the kitchen always runs too hot.
You tuck your phone between your shoulder and ear while you dig through your purse for your keys.
Andrew says nothing. He called you a few minutes ago and has barely spoken since. He does this sometimes. Calls, listens, lets the line sit open like hearing you breathe on the other end is enough to get him through whatever job he’s trapped in with his brothers.
A car door shuts on his end. Male voices move around him.
Craig says, “Tell him he’s being a dick.”
Baz answers, smooth and bored, “He knows.”
Deran mutters, “Can we not do this shit right now?”
You smile tiredly, pushing the door shut behind you with your hip. “Sounds fun over there.”
Andrew’s voice comes in low. “Where are you, baby?”
“Leaving work.”
“Alone?”
“Andrew.”
“Answer me,” he says.
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. He gets like this when he’s restless, when something with the family has him wound too tight and his head starts building exits and threats out of every ordinary thing.
“Yes, alone. I’m walking to my car. I’ve got my keys in my hand. You want me to check under it too?”
“No.”
“You sure? Could give you a full security report.”
“Get in the car.”
“I’m almost there.”
“Stay on the phone,” Andrew says.
Your car waits near the far end of the lot, half under a tired streetlight with a bad flicker. “You miss me or something, baby?”
Craig laughs on the other end, too loud and too close. “Oh, he fuckin’ misses you.”
The phone shifts with a rough scrape.
“Fuck off, Craig,” Andrew mutters.
Craig laughs harder somewhere farther away. You’re tired, but he still gets half a smile out of you.
Then Andrew says, “Yeah.” One word. Quiet. No joke in it.
Your hand tightens around your keys, the tiredness in your body shifting into something warmer, heavier, lower.
“Andrew,” you say, softer now.
You reach the edge of the lot when something moves near the dumpster. Your smile fades.
A man steps out from beside it, cap pulled low, shoulders hunched like he’s been waiting too long. Another is near your car, leaning against the passenger door with one hand in his jacket.
Your feet slow and Andrew hears the change in your breathing immediately.
“What?” he asks.
You look from one man to the other, keys sliding between your fingers. “Nothing.”
“Baby.”
The man near your car smiles, and the look of it sends something cold through your stomach before you even understand why.
“Andrew,” you say.
The first man grabs you from behind.
You twist hard before he can lock his arm around you. Your elbow drives back into his ribs, and he swears, grip slipping. You swing your keys at his face and feel metal drag across skin.
“Fuck!” the man yells.
The phone drops to the pavement. Andrew’s voice cuts through the speaker near your foot. “Baby?”
You kick back, catching the man’s shin. He stumbles, and you almost get low enough to grab the phone, but another hand catches your hair and yanks hard enough to make your scalp burn.
“Get her hands!” one of them shouts.
You bite the closest hand hard enough to taste skin and salt and something metallic, and the man screams as he rips himself away from you. You spit, swing again, and drag your nails down another man’s cheek when he tries to get in close.
“Jesus Christ, Marco said she’d be easy!”
“Then Marco’s a fuckin’ idiot,” you snap, and drive your knee up.
The man folds with a choked sound.
You run, getting two steps and then a third before a hand catches the back of your shirt and jerks you off balance. You slam into the side of your car, shoulder first, pain flashing hot down your arm, but you shove backward anyway, heel scraping pavement until you catch someone in the knee.
The phone is still on. Andrew is still calling your name. You hear it through the scrape of shoes and your own breathing.
“Baby!”
You reach blindly for anything. Your keys. Your purse. A loose chunk of gravel near the curb. Your fingers close around nothing useful.
Then the slap cracks across your face.
Your head whips sideways. Pain blooms sharp and bright across your cheek, spreading fast into your eye. The lot tilts, but you stay on your feet. You spit blood and lunge again.
“You stupid bitch!” one of them spits.
Something hard clips the side of your head, and your knees finally go out.
Andrew’s voice is the last thing you hear.
“Baby!”
Then the pavement disappears.
You wake up angry.
The pain comes after. Head first, pounding behind your eyes. Then your cheek. Your mouth. Your wrists. Your shoulders.
You blink against the low light and find yourself tied to a chair in the middle of an old garage.
Concrete floor. Oil stains. Workbenches against the walls. A rusted car frame under a blue tarp. The garage door is shut, but it doesn’t quite meet the floor. Warm air slips in underneath, carrying the smell of asphalt and oil.
Your wrists are tied behind the chair, rope pulled tight enough to make your fingers feel thick. Your ankles are tied to the legs. Your purse sits dumped out on a table nearby. Lip gloss, cigarettes, loose change, your keys, your cracked phone.
One of the men stands near the table with a towel wrapped around his hand.
You move your tongue over your split lip and smile. “That from me?”
He glares.
Another guy leans against a workbench, scratches dragged red down one side of his face. He keeps touching them like he can’t believe you managed it.
You hope they scar.
Marco steps into view. You’ve seen him twice before. Once outside a warehouse where Andrew told you to stay in the car. Once from across a room while Baz handled the talking and Craig looked bored enough to start a fight for entertainment.
Marco isn’t big enough to be careless, but he carries himself like he wants people to think he is. Thick shoulders, dark hair, gold chain at his throat, gun tucked into the front of his jeans. There’s a bruise blooming along his jaw.
Good.
Marco stops in front of you, then crouches. “You always this much trouble?”
You pull against the rope again. It bites into raw skin. “Only when men grab me in parking lots.”
His mouth lifts. “You’re funny.”
“No. I’m pissed off.”
The man with the scratched face says, “Should’ve gagged her.”
Marco keeps his eyes on you. “Nah. Pope’ll wanna hear her.”
“His name is Andrew.”
The man with the towel around his hand looks at Marco. Marco studies you closer, and whatever he finds makes his smile come back slower.
“Andrew,” Marco repeats.
You don’t answer.
Marco stands and walks to the table with your phone. “You know what he does, your Andrew?”
“Yeah.”
“He ever tell you about me?”
You stare at him.
He laughs without humour. “Course not. They never tell their girls anything useful.”
“You don’t seem useful.”
His hand cracks across your mouth so fast you barely see it coming.
Your head snaps to the side. Pain bursts through your lip again, wet and hot. You breathe through it until the room steadies.
Marco’s shoes step into your line of sight.
“You boys all hear that?” Marco says. “She’s loyal.”
You spit blood on the floor near his feet. Marco’s smile disappears.
He grabs your jaw, thumb digging near the swelling. “I set up part of a score for your boyfriend and his brothers. My guy got them through the back. My place held the cash overnight. I got paid, sure.”
“Sounds like you should’ve saved it.”
His fingers tighten. “But then I hear the take was bigger than Baz said.”
“Take it up with Baz.”
“I am.” Marco lets go of your face and holds up your phone. “Baz’ll talk me in circles. Pope won’t.”
Your phone lights up in his hand. Andrew’s name fills the cracked screen. Your stomach pulls tight.
Marco answers and puts it on speaker.
Andrew’s voice comes through low and flat. “Put her on.”
Marco paces slowly in front of you, phone in one hand. “You listening now, Pope?”
“Put her on,” Andrew says again.
Baz’s voice comes through faintly behind him. “Marco, man. You got what we agreed on.”
“I got what you said I was getting.”
“It was your share,” Baz says.
“Bullshit.”
Craig cuts in, closer now. “You took her over fuckin’ money?”
Marco smiles at you. “I took the only thing Pope Cody gives a shit about.”
The line stays quiet. You stare at the phone.
Marco keeps going, too pleased with himself to know when to stop. “I want the rest of my cut. He comes alone, brings the money, and maybe she walks out breathing.”
Baz says, “You’re not getting him alone.”
“Then she dies here.”
Andrew speaks again, same voice, lower now. “Put her on.”
Marco crouches beside you and holds the phone near your mouth.
You swallow around blood and dryness. “Andrew?”
The line goes quiet enough that you hear the faint sound of him breathing.
“Baby,” Andrew says.
Your eyes burn and you hate it.
“I bit one.”
Andrew’s voice drops. “Yeah?”
“Hard.”
“Good.”
Marco pulls the phone away.
Andrew says, “Put her back on.”
Marco laughs. “No. You’re listening now.”
He points the phone at you. “Tell him what happens if he doesn’t bring my money.”
You breathe in through your nose. “Don’t come alone.”
Marco’s face hardens.
Andrew says your name.
You keep your eyes on Marco. “He’s got more guys than he said.”
Marco grabs your hair and yanks your head back. Andrew hears the sound you try not to make.
Marco lifts the phone to his mouth. “Fifteen minutes, Pope.”
He ends the call.
Marco lowers his face near yours. “Think you’re tough?”
“No.”
He smiles.
“I think you’re stupid.”
The smile leaves him slowly.
You brace for another strike, but Marco only straightens and looks toward the men by the door.
“Watch the front.”
Time starts dragging. You count through pain instead. The man with the bitten hand keeps pacing, scratched-face keeps glancing at the garage door, and Marco checks his gun twice, then his phone, then the door near the back.
You keep pulling at the rope when no one is looking. The skin around your wrists is wet now, and the chair creaks under you, but nothing gives.
Outside, a car passes. Everyone stops.
It keeps going.
Marco swears under his breath. You smile before you can stop yourself.
“What?” Marco asks.
You lean back against the chair, pulse hammering. “You’re scared.”
The first shot cracks outside, and everyone in the garage reacts at once. Marco ducks behind the workbench, shouting toward the front while the guy with the bitten hand runs for the garage door and drops before he gets close. The guy with the scratches fires through the gap near the floor, cursing so hard his voice breaks.
You work your wrists lower while they’re looking away. Pain rips up your arms, hot and sharp, but the knot slips enough for one hand to move.
The lights flicker as more gunfire pounds against the walls. Craig yells from outside, close enough now that you know the Codys are at the door.
“Move!” Craig shouts.
The lights cut out. Gunfire lights the garage in broken flashes — Marco behind the bench, the gun in his hand, the side door opening behind one of his men.
Deran steps through and fires, and the man drops.
“Fuck,” Deran says, crossing to you fast. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
He gets his knife under the rope at your wrists and starts cutting through it, keeping low while another shot cracks near the front. Craig yells a string of curses from somewhere outside. Baz’s voice cuts through after, sharp and pissed off.
Deran gets the rope loose, and your hands fall forward, numb and burning.
“Feet,” you say.
“I’m doing it,” Deran says, already crouching lower.
The side door slams wider.
Andrew steps in with blood on his shirt and a gun in his hand, his face empty in a way that makes your stomach pull tight.
“Andrew,” you say.
A man comes at him from the side. Andrew turns, fires, and keeps moving toward you like the man was barely worth looking at.
Deran slices through the rope around your ankles. “She’s loose!”
You stand too fast. Your knees buckle, and Andrew catches your arm before you hit the floor. His grip is hard through your sleeve, his eyes moving over your face, your mouth, your wrists, your throat, the side of your head.
“Baby,” Andrew says.
“I’m okay.”
His hand comes up to your face but stops before he touches your swollen cheek.
“They hit you,” he says.
“I hit them first.”
“I heard.” The pride in his voice is buried under fury, but it’s there.
Then Marco moves behind you. You hear him before anyone else does.
Marco yanks you back, one arm locked hard across your chest. Cold metal presses to your temple, and everyone stops.
Craig shouts from the front. “Fuck!”
Baz snaps, “Pope!”
Marco breathes hard against your ear, blood wet in his voice. “Nobody fuckin’ move!”
Deran’s gun is up, but the angle is bad. Craig is half-hidden near the front, weapon ready. Baz stands behind a rusted car frame, face hard, eyes flicking between Marco’s gun and Andrew’s hands.
Andrew only looks at Marco. “Let her go.”
Marco’s arm tightens around you. “Back up.”
The gun presses harder to your head. You wince, and Andrew’s expression goes blank. Marco feels it. His breathing turns shaky.
“You move, she’s dead!” Marco shouts.
Andrew says, “Baby.”
You know what he wants. You know what he needs. He can’t get a clean shot. Not with Marco behind you. Not with the gun at your head.
Marco shifts his weight behind you.
You slam the back of your head into his face.
Pain explodes through your skull. Marco yells, grip breaking, and the gun jerks away from your temple. Andrew moves before your legs can hold you. Your vision blurs white at the edges as Marco is ripped away from you, and when your knees give out, Andrew catches you around the waist before you hit the concrete.
Gunfire cracks again. Once. Twice.
Then the garage goes quiet except for breathing, the ringing in your ears, and Craig swearing under his breath.
Andrew holds you against him, one hand cupping the back of your head.
“You hurt yourself,” Andrew says.
“He had a gun to my head.”
Craig steps closer. “We gotta go.”
Baz steps in close and takes the gun from Andrew’s hand.
Andrew lets it go without looking at him.
Then he bends and lifts you before you can argue.
You grab at his shirt. “I can walk.”
“No.”
His arm hooks under your knees, the other behind your back, and then you’re off the floor.
You press your face against his shoulder because the lights are gone and the garage smells like gunpowder and blood.
Andrew carries you out. He doesn’t look down at Marco.
You keep your face against his neck.
The ride to Andrew’s house is quiet at first.
You’re in Andrew’s lap in the back seat because he won’t put you anywhere else. Deran drives. Craig sits in front with one hand braced on the dash, breathing like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. Baz is in another car behind you.
The highway moves dark outside the window, streetlights sliding over Andrew’s face and disappearing just as fast. His hand stays at the back of your head, careful where you struck Marco, while his other arm stays locked around your waist.
“You can loosen up,” you murmur.
“No.”
“I can breathe.”
“Good.”
Craig turns his head. “She hit him with her head.”
Deran says, “I was there.”
Craig looks back at you, still breathing hard. “That was kinda badass.”
You manage, “Thank you.”
Deran’s eyes flick up in the rearview mirror. “Don’t encourage her.”
Deran’s gaze cuts to your face again before he looks back at the road. “You need ice. Water too.”
Andrew’s arm tightens around you.
Deran catches it in the mirror and softens his voice without making a thing of it. “We’re almost there.”
Andrew’s mouth brushes your hair.
“Stay awake,” he says.
“I am.”
“Talk.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
Your eyes close, and his hand shifts carefully at the back of your head.
“Baby.”
You open them again. “I heard you.”
Andrew’s eyes stay fixed ahead through the windshield.
“On the phone,” you say. “I heard you.”
His throat works. “You stopped talking.”
“I tried.”
“I heard them hit you.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I tried to get back to the phone.”
Craig looks back from the front seat, quieter now. “You fought hard.”
Deran’s gaze flicks up in the mirror. “Yeah. She did.”
Andrew doesn’t answer.
“They shouldn’t have touched you,” Andrew says.
“No.”
His voice drops. “Shouldn’t have taken you.”
You rest your forehead against his neck. “You got me back.”
He doesn’t answer, but his hold on you says he’s still somewhere between the garage and the back seat.
Andrew carries you into the house.
You don’t fight him. Your body has started shaking, delayed and useless, little tremors in your hands and legs that get worse the more you try to stop them.
Craig hovers near the entry while Deran shuts the door behind him. Andrew doesn’t set you down.
“I’ve got her,” Andrew says.
Craig looks at you, then at Andrew. He nods and steps back toward the door.
Deran tosses the keys onto the small table near the entry. “We’ll handle the cars.”
Andrew doesn’t look away from you. “Go.”
Deran opens the door again. Craig is already halfway out.
“Call if you need anything,” Deran says.
Andrew’s jaw shifts, and that’s the only answer Deran gets before the door shuts behind them.
The house goes quiet.
There are no brothers, no voices through the walls. Just the faint hum of the fridge down the hall and Andrew’s breathing against your cheek.
He carries you down the hallway to the bedroom and sets you on the edge of the bed. The lamp clicks on with a rough twist of his wrist, warm light spilling over the sheets, the dresser, your bare knees, and the blood dried near your mouth.
Andrew kneels in front of you. His hands close around your wrists, and you hiss before you can hide it.
His face changes. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
His thumbs hover beside the rope marks. The skin is red and raw, rubbed open in places. Your fingers still feel wrong, pins and needles moving under your skin.
His jaw flexes.
You touch his cheek before he can say anything else. “Andrew.”
He leans into it, then turns his face enough to kiss your palm. His mouth stays there, hot and dry, against the centre of your hand.
You curl your fingers lightly against his cheek.
Then he stands. You hear him in the bathroom. Water running. Cabinets opening. He comes back with a wet cloth, gauze, a towel, and an ice pack wrapped in a shirt.
He wipes your face first. The cloth touches your lip, and you flinch.
Andrew freezes.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep lying.”
You almost smile, but your lip hurts too much.
He cleans around the cut with careful focus. Blood comes away on the cloth. His hand steadies your chin, but his fingers don’t press into the bruised side. He remembers every sore place after seeing it once.
Andrew’s eyes drop to your mouth again. He folds the cloth, exposing a clean side, and drags it gently along your lower lip.
Then he presses the wrapped ice pack into your hand.
“Hold this.”
Your fingers close around it, cold biting through the fabric as he lowers his attention to your wrists.
He wraps them next.
Not perfectly. But carefully, with gauze over the worst of the rope burn and tape pressed down with his thumb instead of his fingers. He turns each wrist like it might break if he moves too fast. The towel sits beside his knee, already marked with blood and water, and his eyes keep going back to the bruises on your face.
You set the ice pack beside you on the bed and reach for the hem of his shirt.
His eyes snap to yours. “What are you doing?”
“You’re covered in blood.”
“None of it’s mine.”
“I still want it off.”
Your fingers curl in the fabric and tug. He lets you pull the shirt up, but he’s the one who takes over after that, dragging it over his head and dropping it to the floor. His chest is bare under the lamplight, marked with old scars, fresh streaks of blood, and the hard rise and fall of breathing he can’t slow down.
You touch him, just your fingertips at first, over the centre of his chest. His muscles tighten beneath your hand.
“You’re shaking,” you say.
“So are you.”
“Mine makes sense.”
His eyes lift. You slide your hand lower, over his stomach, and his breathing changes.
“Baby.”
The warning is there. So is the want.
Andrew catches your wrist and brings your hand to his mouth. He doesn’t kiss the bandage. He kisses beneath it, where your pulse is still beating hard under your skin. His lips stay there too long, hot and still, and when his eyes lift to yours, your stomach pulls tight.
His thumb moves carefully beside the raw mark from the rope.
“They had you,” he says.
His other hand slides to your thigh, possessive enough to make your body react before you can stop it. “Had you tied up. Hurt you.”
“They don’t now.”
“No.”
His hand presses harder into your thigh. His eyes move over the gauze, the bruises, the blood cleaned from your mouth.
You’re here. On his bed. Under his hand. Alive.
He leans in before you do. The kiss starts at the corner of your mouth, careful of the split in your lip, but it doesn’t stay soft. His hand cups the back of your neck, and the sound he makes against you is low and rough, like he’s been swallowing it since the parking lot.
You say his name against his mouth, rough and quiet.
Andrew pulls back only enough to look at you.
“I need to touch you,” he says.
Your fingers tighten against his chest.
His mouth tightens like he wants to pull the words back. He doesn’t.
“I need—” His jaw works. “Need to know you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
His eyes drop to your mouth again, then lower to his hand spread over your thigh.
You slide your hand down his stomach, over the place his breathing keeps pulling tight.
“I want your hands on me,” you say. “Your mouth. I want you inside me, Andrew.”
His grip digs in once at your thigh.
“I want you to fuck me like you need me.”
His mouth is back on yours before you finish saying it, rougher this time, still careful enough not to split your lip worse but hungry enough to make your body lean into him. His hand slides under your skirt, fingers spreading over your thigh, and he drags you closer to the edge of the bed.
“Andrew…”
His mouth drags to your jaw, then your neck, restless and rough, like he can’t keep himself in one place long enough. Teeth at your throat. Tongue over your pulse. His palms move up your ribs, down your waist, over your hips, then back to your thighs, pulling you closer even though there’s nowhere left for you to go.
“Can’t stop touching you,” Andrew says against your skin, almost angry with it. “Can’t—baby, I can’t.”
His hands move up to the buttons of your shirt. He gets the first one open, then the second, then the third. His patience disappears before he gets any farther. His fingers curl into the fabric, and he rips the rest open hard enough to send buttons scattering across the floor.
Andrew looks at the torn shirt hanging open over your bra, then at you.
He drags the shirt off your shoulders, careful where your arms ache, then shoves your bra down until your breasts spill free. His mouth lowers over the newly exposed skin, lips pressing to your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. His hand covers the other one, rougher now, thumb dragging over your nipple until your back arches.
“Need this,” he mutters.
His mouth closes around your nipple, and your fingers twist in his hair as his breath breaks hot against your skin, tongue working over the peak, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips lift. His cock presses hard against you through his jeans, his hips grinding once before he catches himself.
A rough little gasp gets out before you can stop it. Andrew’s whole body goes tight.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your breast. “That sound…”
His fingers dig into your thigh. “Need you to sound like that. For me. Please, baby… lemme hear you.”
You pull his hair, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are dark and fixed on you.
“Again,” he says, voice rough. “Do that again, baby.”
You pull harder.
His mouth goes back to you, rough and hungry, moving from one breast to the other. He sucks your nipple until your body bows into him, then opens his mouth over the curve of your breast and the spot beneath your throat where your pulse keeps giving you away. His hand slides between your thighs, dragging your underwear aside, fingers moving through how wet you are, and his hips press hard against the edge of the bed.
“Gotta taste you,” Andrew says against your skin.
His fingers press in a little harder as his voice goes thin.
“Gotta have you. So fuckin’ bad.”
His fingers move through you again, slower this time, slicking over your clit until your hips lift into his hand. His mouth returns to yours, swallowing the sound that leaves you when his fingers press harder, and he kisses you deep while his hand works between your legs with steady pressure.
“So wet,” he breathes against your mouth. “Baby…”
His fingers push inside you, and your mouth falls open. Andrew watches you take them, jaw tight. Then he curls them, and your hips lift sharply against his hand.
“There,” Andrew says. “Take ’em. Fuck… you’re right there. I feel you.”
You clench around him.
His fingers curl again, and your back arches. His mouth goes back to your breast, sucking your nipple while his fingers fuck you, and you start coming apart before you can fight it.
“Andrew, fuck…”
“Gotta feel you.” His mouth drags up to your neck. “Wanna feel—baby. Wanna feel you come.”
“I’m gonna—”
“Good.” His fingers move harder. “Lemme feel it. Please… lemme feel it.”
You break around his fingers, thighs shaking, one hand fisted in his hair. Andrew moans against your throat, still touching, dragging it out until your body won’t stop clenching around him. The pleasure keeps rolling through you in sharp little pulls, too much and not enough, and when you try to close your legs, his hands keep them open.
“Andrew!”
“Again.”
“I can’t!”
“Please, baby.”
The words are rough, almost ruined, and your body answers before you can. You’re still sensitive, still shaking, but his fingers curl again and the pleasure catches hard enough to make your back arch.
His eyes darken.
“One more. Gimme—fuck, gimme another.”
He slides down your body, pushing your skirt higher as he goes. Your underwear is still hooked to one side, soaked and twisted against your thigh, and Andrew’s hand tightens there before his mouth follows. He moves over your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh.
“Gotta taste you…” His mouth drags over your inner thigh. “Lemme taste you.”
His mouth moves between your thighs.
The first touch of his tongue makes your knees pull around his shoulders. He groans into you like he’s the one being touched, hands gripping your thighs, holding you open while he licks you deep and slow, then harder, rougher, until your hips start chasing his mouth.
“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he says against you.
His tongue drags through you again, and your hand tightens in his hair. His hips move against the mattress when you pull, like he can’t help it. His mouth goes back to your clit, tongue working you while his fingers slide back inside, and your breathing turns thin and useless.
“Andrew—please…”
He doesn’t lift his head. He grips your thighs harder and keeps going, rougher now, pulling pleasure out of you until you’re shaking under his mouth. It breaks through you with a cry, messy and overwhelming, your thighs locking around his head as he groans into you.
He doesn’t stop right away. That’s what makes it too much. His mouth stays on you while your hips move weakly against him, and every lick drags another pulse through your body before the last one has faded.
“Andrew—fuck, wait…”
He lifts his head enough to look at you. His lips are wet. His face is wrecked.
“Need more,” he says.
Your chest rises hard. “You have more.”
His hand presses your thigh wider. “Not enough.”
He lowers his mouth again before you can answer, tongue dragging through you slower now, rougher, like he wants every bit of what he already pulled out of you. You gasp, legs shaking, one heel digging into the mattress when his tongue presses flat against your clit.
Your legs spread wider for him, shaking under his mouth while he works you again. You’re already too sensitive, already wet enough that every movement sounds like proof, and when his fingers press deeper, your body gives hard.
“Andrew—fuck—”
He moans into you as you soak his mouth, his chin, his fingers. His hands lock on your thighs, keeping you open when your hips try to pull away.
“Yeah,” he says, rough against your clit. “Like that. Give it to me again.”
“I can’t—”
“You are.”
His voice breaks against you. “Fuck, baby… you are.”
You can’t stop it. That’s what makes your head turn against the sheets, what makes your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to pull him closer and push him away at the same time. It feels so fucking good it hurts, and your body keeps giving him more, shaking open under his mouth while he holds you through it.
“For me,” Andrew says, almost buried against you. “Please, baby.”
You come again before you can fight it, harder this time, a cry tearing out of you as your fingers twist in his hair. Andrew keeps his mouth on you through every pulse, like he can feel each one, his hands firm on your thighs until you’re trembling under him and saying his name like it’s the only thing you still know.
When he finally lifts his head, his breathing is uneven, his mouth wet, his eyes fixed on you like he still isn’t satisfied.
You barely get his name out before he’s climbing over you, pushing you back from the edge of the bed until your shoulders hit the sheets, one hand already working his jeans open.
He shoves them down only as far as he needs to, too impatient for more. Your skirt is pushed up around your hips, your underwear still shoved aside and soaked against your thigh.
He looks down at you spread beneath him, bruised and shaking and reaching for him anyway.
He takes his cock in his hand and drags the head of it through how soaked you are, once, twice, every pass catching on your clit until your hips lift.
“Can’t wait,” he says, voice rough. “Fuck—open your legs wider for me.”
You spread your thighs wider.
“Need to be inside you,” Andrew says, voice breaking at the edge. “Need you full of my cock.”
He pushes inside slow enough to make you feel every single inch. His head drops near yours, his body going tight over you as he fills you.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Baby…”
You wrap your legs around him.
He doesn’t move right away. He stays buried deep, hips pressed hard to yours, breathing rough against your mouth like being inside you is the first thing that’s reached him since the phone cut out.
It feels too good, having him this deep. The thick pressure of his cock inside you, the heat of him, the weight of his body holding yours down. You’re sore already, open and shaking under him, but every part of you still wants more.
Then his hands find your hips. His fingers dig in.
“Need you full,” Andrew says. “Need my hands on you. My mouth. My cock. Need—fuck, baby…”
His hips pull back and drive in hard enough to push you up the mattress.
You cry out before you can stop it.
Andrew does it again.
The headboard knocks the wall, and his hand slides behind your head before you can hit it. Even like this, even rough and desperate and half gone, he protects the places that hurt.
“You have me,” you say.
His hips snap harder as your nails drag down his back.
He fucks you harder, thumb finding your clit while his mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, the top of your breast. His body covers yours, heavy and hot, his cock dragging deep every time he pushes back in, and it feels so fucking good you can’t get a full word out. Just his name. A curse. Your nails digging in when he finds the right place and keeps going like he can feel exactly what it does to you.
His hips slow only enough to make you feel the next thrust all the way in.
“Your pussy’s so wet for me.”
Your body clenches around him.
He does it again, grinding deep, thumb pressing harder to your clit until your mouth falls open against his shoulder.
“Andrew, fuck…” you breathe. “Feels so fucking good.”
“Yeah.” His voice breaks around it. “That’s it. Right there.”
Your body gives under him.
You come around his cock with a broken cry, hips lifting into him, clenching hard enough to make his rhythm falter. Andrew keeps fucking you through it, jaw tight, eyes on your face like he needs every bit of it.
“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his mouth. “Don’t—fuck, Andrew, don’t stop.”
He shifts your thigh higher over his hip while you’re still pulsing around him, changing the angle until he’s deeper than before. The next thrust drags another wave through you so hard your hands grab at his shoulders, nails biting in.
His grip tightens at your thigh, and his hips drive deep again.
“Take it,” he says, voice rough against your mouth. “Fuck, baby… I’ve got you.”
You want him to stop. You want him closer. You want his weight, his mouth, his cock deeper, even while your body shakes like it can’t take another one. He slows only enough to make each thrust heavier, more devastating, every drag of him sending aftershocks through you until you’re past words, with nothing left but his name, half curses, the wet sound of him fucking you and the rough scrape of his breathing near your mouth.
His mouth drags down your throat.
“Gotta make you feel me after,” he says. “Want you to walk around tomorrow with me still inside you.”
Your body clenches hard as his rhythm stutters.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “You want that.”
You can barely speak. Your hand slides into his hair.
He presses his thumb harder to your clit, and your hips lift against him.
“Want you feeling me tomorrow,” he says against your throat. “Want this pussy sore from me.”
Your whole body tightens under him as his mouth drags over your throat, open and hot.
“Good girl.”
He fucks you rougher, one hand gripping your thigh, the other braced beside your head. His mouth finds yours, careful of your lip even now, then drops back to your throat when he can’t hold back the sounds coming out of him.
“Gonna fill you,” he says against your skin. “Fuck, baby… need to come deep inside you. Need it.”
“Andrew…”
“Need it,” he says, almost through his teeth. “Need my come in you. Need you full of me.”
Your nails drag over his back.
He drives in harder, thumb working your clit with the same rough focus, and the pleasure starts building again too fast. Too sharp. It hasn’t even left your body all the way, and he’s already dragging it back up.
Your thighs shake around his hips, and Andrew feels the way your body goes tight around him.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“I’m gonna—”
“I know.” His hips grind deep. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
“I can’t stop—”
His mouth opens against your throat. “Don’t.”
You come again, harder and messier, your body clenching around him in hot pulses while your mouth opens against his shoulder. Andrew groans, almost losing it, his thrusts going uneven before he forces himself through it.
“Fuck. Fuck, baby…”
His eyes drop between you again, and his rhythm nearly breaks.
“You’re taking all of it,” Andrew breathes. “Fuck… your pussy’s taking all of me.”
Your face burns, but you can’t look away from him. His control is slipping now, shoulders tight, mouth parted around every rough breath, and when he drives in again, the pressure of his cock deep inside you makes your nails dig harder into his back.
Andrew feels you tighten. His hips drive deep, and this time he doesn’t pull back right away. He grinds into you, cock buried as far as your body will take him, his thumb still moving against your clit.
“Need one more,” he says.
Your head turns against the sheets. “Andrew—”
“One more. Then I’ll come inside you.”
The words make your thighs tighten around him.
He fucks you harder again, rough and uneven now, chasing it from you and fighting his own body at the same time. You’re already open, already shaking, already too sensitive, but your body still lifts for him when his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, your breast. His teeth graze your nipple and his cock drives deep at the same time.
You come around him with a sharp cry, your body locking under his, tight around his cock in a way that drags a groan out of him.
Andrew buries his face against your neck.
“Fuck—baby…”
His hips stutter.
You drag your hands up his back and hold onto him. “Come inside me.”
His whole body goes tight.
“I want it,” you breathe. “Fuck, Andrew… I want it.”
His forehead presses to yours, his breathing rough and uneven.
“Need your pussy full of me,” he says, voice ruined. “Need you full.”
You nod against him, barely breathing.
“Andrew…”
“Fuck, baby…” His voice breaks. “I’m gonna—”
Andrew buries himself inside you with a rough, wrecked sound against your throat.
The bed knocks the wall again, harder this time, and his mouth closes over your throat while his body shakes above you.
The first hot pulse of him spilling inside you makes your thighs tighten around his waist, and then there’s more, deep and wet and overwhelming enough that your mouth opens against his shoulder. Andrew groans like he feels you answering it, his hips grinding down as he fills you until there’s nowhere for it to go but around him.
It feels so fucking good you can’t get a full breath in. His cock is still inside you, his come warm and thick, and every small movement makes your body tighten around him again.
He thrusts in deeper, slow and rough, and his come spills out around his cock. Your nails drag over his back while he holds himself there, your body tightening around him again.
Andrew’s hand grips your hip.
His eyes drop between you, just long enough to take in the mess between your thighs, and his rhythm breaks into one more slow, deep thrust.
More of him slips out, warm between your thighs, and Andrew’s mouth presses hard to your throat as he pushes in again, like he can’t stand it and still can’t stop himself.
He stays inside you after that, heavy over you, breathing hard, one hand sliding under your back to pull you closer.
He kisses your neck, then your jaw, careful when he gets near your mouth. He presses his forehead to yours instead, eyes still open.
You touch his chest, fingers slipping over warm skin.
When your thighs loosen around his waist, his gaze drops between you.
Then he pulls out slowly.
Your mouth opens on a sharp inhale. His come slips out of you almost right away and Andrew’s jaw tightens at the sight. His hand stays on your hip, thumb pressing once into your skin like he has to stop himself from reaching between your legs again.
He reaches for the blanket and pulls it over your hips before he moves away from you. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he sits beside you, one hand still on your thigh while the other reaches for your wrist.
“Lemme see,” Andrew says.
You give him your hand.
He checks the gauze he wrapped before, thumb careful along the edge of it. The tape has shifted, but the worst of the rope burn is still covered. He fixes it with two short presses, then turns your other wrist and does the same there.
“Hurts?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
His fingers stay careful on the edge of the gauze.
“I’m okay,” you say.
Andrew’s eyes lift to yours.
You hold his gaze. “I am.”
He doesn’t argue. He just reaches past you, shuts off the lamp, and gets into bed beside you. His arm goes around your waist, pulling you back against his chest carefully, his hand spreading over your stomach once you’re settled.
Your body aches everywhere. Your wrists. Your cheek. Your thighs. Between your legs.
Still, you press closer.
Andrew’s mouth brushes the back of your neck. “Sleep,” he says.
You cover his hand with yours. “You gonna?”
“No.”
His fingers rest near your pulse.
“You’re still checking,” you murmur.
“Yeah.”
You turn your hand over and lace your fingers through his. “You still look like you’re waiting for someone to take me.”
His arm draws you closer, and his mouth presses to the back of your neck.
“You’re mine,” Andrew says.
You swallow. “Yours?”
His fingers spread slightly over your stomach. “Mine,” he says again, lower now.
“Yours,” you whisper.
This time, his body finally loosens behind yours. His hand stays on you until you fall asleep.