Hey Jade!!! I was just wondering if you could do a soulmate au with Spencer please? Maybe something along the lines of those cheesy ones like the first words are tattooed on or they have the same tattoo idk, whatever you u feel like 😊
—Spencer meets his soulmate. You’re as lovely as he’s always pictured. fem, 1.3k
Someone will love me one day.
Spencer must think it a thousand times. When he has to put his mom in the sanitarium and he feels more alone than he ever has in his life, he knows one day someone will love him anyways. When he gets called ugly, too skinny, nerd, dork, and a handful of words that are even worse, he knows one day someone will say the opposite. He won’t be alone forever.
He was two when they appeared, dark black cursive words tucked against his pulse. Spencer felt ugly nearly every day of his life, wrong and weird, but the words on his wrist have never changed, ‘You’re so handsome I can’t believe it’s you.’
One day someone’s gonna look at him and see handsome.
Today, he feels pretty good. He’s back home in Washington, D.C., the grocery store he loves is open again after a long reconstruction, and they had a bunch of fruit from South America that he’s never tried before. He carries a white plastic bag full of fruit, bread and cheese back to his apartment, each step in the sunshine, the kiss of it warming his cheeks. A busker plays music near the mouth of the subway station. Nobody has yet to scowl at him for being in the way.
He’s wondering what he forgot when he sees you. You’re smiling, the sun on your face and arms, which are strangely full. Books slide against your chest, but besides a little huff and a shift of your elbow, you don’t seem to notice the slim paperback working its way through the crowd in your arms. It drops down onto the sidewalk but you keep walking. You must be in a hurry.
Spencer darts forward to your dropped book, thumb under the title. Charlotte’s Web by E. B White. The spine is flaking and soft from use.
He should call out for you. You’re already getting too far away.
Spencer crosses the road and dives deeper into the city with you. Washington, D.C. isn’t without grandeur —it’s the capital of the USA— and so he finds himself surrounded by potted trees and stretches of well tended grass. School’s broken for the day, children weaving around on bikes and scooters or holding hands with their parents taking up altogether too much space. He loses you in the crowd.
Spencer stops in defeat.
Maybe if he puts the book back in your path you’ll see it on the way back.
He’s not sure why he doesn’t. Spencer keeps your book and starts to walk home. This isn’t how he’d usually get there, but he can manoeuvre around the park.
He keeps an eye out for you. Ridiculously, he’d thought about giving the book back to you and making you smile. He hasn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t a cashier in two days.
“Hi.”
Spencer looks down. “Hi,” he says, spooked by the little girl in front of him.
“Is that for the library?”
He shakes his head regretfully. “No, I– I found it. I’m trying to give it back.”
“Okie dokie. I never read that one before.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not my book to give away… Where’s your mom?”
The little girl points at a mom and a younger child playing on the grass near a circle of benches. There’s a huge dark cabinet with its doors skewed open in the middle, and when he squints he realises it’s full of books. “Oh, is that the library?” he asks.
“Yes!” the little girl insists.
“Okay, well, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, looking desperately for you, disappointed when he can’t see a sign of your nice blue shirt or your sunny smile, “let me go see if I can find the lady who dropped this book, and if she says it’s okay, I’ll keep it for you to have. But you can’t run off from your mom again. Deal?”
The girl grins, thick hair shiny in the sun. “Deal!” she says, running in a burst toward her mother, who startles when she realises she’d left in the first place.
Spencer creeps toward the library. He can’t leave the book here now, he’s promised he’ll try to find you.
You come around the back of the library cabinet with a smile. Free Library, the sign says. Take one if you want, leave one if you can.
You stop in your path when you see him. You smile again, you’re prettier for it, lovely with the sun on half your face, your slight squint. You open your mouth to speak.
Spencer beats you to it. “Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you,” he says, raising your copy of Charlotte’s Web to his chest. “You dropped one of your books.”
You take a half step back.
Spencer grimaces. “I promised a little girl I’d ask if she can have it, I’m so sorry. I get stuck and I don’t know how to say no.”
Your eyes flash down to your hands. “You’re so handsome,” you say, and Spencer’s heart stops dead in his chest, your lips shaping each word without measure and somehow the prettiest anyone’s ever looked as they move, “I can’t believe it’s you.”
His shoulders sag with a deep breath.
You raise your arm to show him the contrasting font laid against your pulse. Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you.
Spencer shows you his. You’re so handsome, I can’t believe it’s you.
“It’s you,” he says.
You press your hand to your mouth. “I was walking too fast, right? When I was a kid I thought if I made everybody chase me that eventually somebody would have to say it, but then it stuck, and I rush everywhere I go.” Your voice turns breathless. “But you’re the person who was supposed to catch up to me.”
He smiles softly. “I think so.”
“And I just told you you’re handsome. I’m sorry, I bet that was embarrassing to… carry around, all this time.”
“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” he says honestly.
“I didn’t think you’d be so pretty,” you explain.
“I knew you would be.”
You hold your hand out. He’s about to tell you he doesn’t shake but he finds he really wants to, and you’re not shaking his hand anyways, you’re holding it, looking at the cursive on his arm with a disbelief he echoes in his own smile. You rub the tip of your thumb over the word handsome.
“Do you like books?” he asks.
You nod distractedly. “I love them,” you murmur, looking up.
His entire arm is alive with tingles.
“Do you read much?” you ask.
Every word you trade with one another has this shy longing he’s never felt, like you’re desperate to know about one another but worried you aren’t allowed to ask. Spencer’s about to tell you all about it, how he’s always reading, how books have been with him through everything, but there’s a tug on his shirt that stops him.
“Hi,” the little girl says.
Spencer laughs. “Hi.”
“What did she say?” the little girl whispers.
Spencer looks to you for guidance.
“Of course you can have it. It’s an amazing book,” you say.
“Thank you!” she says, holding out her hands.
Spencer doesn’t mind handing it over. If she didn’t ask him for it earlier, he might’ve never had the courage to look for you. He could’ve left the book in the cabinet and turned around, but he didn’t. And now he’s met you.
You step into his side. “Did you– do you want to get coffee?” You peer down at the bag now slipped from his elbow down to his wrist. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Do you want to have a picnic with me?” he asks.
You nod for so long he has to laugh. “I’d love to,” you say, offering your open hand.
Spencer threads your fingers together. That one day he always dreamed of seems a lot closer than it did before.
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— drive me crazy
[part ii of trouble will find me] | [masterlist]
bodyguard!logan x mobster’s daughter!reader
rated e - 4.6k
tags: 70s era, dofp/bonedaddy!logan, bodyguard!logan, reader is the daughter of a mobster, multiple pov, flirting, forbidden relationship, masturbation, light panty kink, poor professional relationships, making out, car oral (m) sex, come swallowing
It’s a bad idea to get involved with your bodyguard, you both know that. But you certainly don’t care, not after knowing how he feels inside you. Leaving you wanting more.
And with the way he watches you, you think Logan must feel the same. So when an opportunity arises where you’re left alone in the limo - you can’t help nudging at him, once more.
It’s worth the extra ten minutes of discomfort to see the shocked look on your face when he leaves you at your door.
The held breath that turns into a pout when he leans close, only to open the handle behind you. A tilt of his head - a silent command that you enter.
You move past the threshold - only for your frown to deepen, when he lingers in the doorway.
“Aren’t you going to come in?” It’s soft, and he ignores the way it makes his cock twitch.
Logan’s arms cross over his chest, a lift of his brow.
“Got what you wanted, didn’t you?” He points out, “Said you’d listen.”
Your mouth drops open in indignation and for a brief moment, he imagines what you offered him.
Imagines slipping his fingers against your tongue again - the warm and wet suck, the press of lips that he now knows are so fucking soft.
“I wanted you.”
He almost expects you to stamp your foot.
“Already told you, sweetheart.” Logan steps back, fingers curling around the knob. The door swinging shut, with the murmur of his voice, “‘s not a good idea.”
Not looking back, as he takes the path to his room.
Not about to admit that you’ve always had him.
Logan’s barely kicked off his boots, flopped down onto the bed before the goddamn phone is ringing.
He debates not answering it - something far more pressing on his mind. But he knows it will only end with a knock on his door, and an even greater inconvenience.
“Yes?” It’s barked into the receiver.
Cradled against his ear, as a hand snakes down to palm himself. Fingers yanking at the silver buckle, loosening his belt.
A sharp voice answers, not bothering with a greeting.
They both know who it is.
“Late night. Shouldn’t you be back already?”
Logan fucking hates the check-ins. Another notch tightening in the collar, already wound around his throat.
“She felt like staying out.” It’s gritted out - just barely managing to filter out the heavy edge of annoyance.
“It’s your job to keep an eye on her-”
Bodyguard. Not a babysitter.
It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. His hand fishing into his pocket instead - tugging out the lace as your father rambles on about the importance of an early morning for whatever bullshit breakfast you’re getting dragged off to tomorrow.
An inhale, as he presses your panties against his nose. His groan near-silent, mind wandering back to the feeling of you coming around his fingers.
“-Logan. You listening?”
He bites back the growl, “Yes, sir. Early start tomorrow.”
The honorific is acid on his tongue - but if it gets your pathetic excuse of a father off the phone, he’ll endure it.
Only needs a thousand more bucks to get his bike out of the impound. A couple more to make the repairs and settle his debt - and then he is out of there.
Logan slams the receiver down the second he’s dismissed. A lift of his hips, shoving down his jeans. Not bothering to fully kick them off - he’ll do that later.
Too focused on the ache. A rumbled-out groan when his hand wraps around his cock, a rough thumb smearing the precum across the tip.
Inhaling you again, as he starts to stroke. It surrounds him, the soft musk that clings to the fabric. To his palm, where to you leaked against his skin - a low jolt in his belly, as he finally takes care of himself.
A sweep of his tongue against the gusset. It’s fucking filthy - how he laps at your arousal like a dog, but no one has to fucking know but him.
Hips rocking up to match the jerk of his fist. It’s all too dry. Impossible to imagine the soft clutch of your cunt when all he has is the calloused texture of his palm.
How wet you were, and he barely had even touched you. How you practically begged for him to fuck you, offered to get on your pretty little knees for him.
Logan’s breath hitches, air inhaled through clenched teeth. Only a heartbeat passing before he’s wrapping the scrap of lace around his cock.
Smearing himself with spit and your slick. Teeth bared as his fist curls around the head - on another night, he’d be annoyed about how fucking close he is already.
That it’s a little bit pathetic, what he’s doing.
But right now, he’s only thinking about you.
Picturing the way he’d fit in your mouth, how your lips would wrap around him. The pinch of your eyes as you struggle to take him - he knows you’d try.
That you love a challenge, and it only makes his cock jump in his hand.
Doing this so he doesn’t stomp right down the hall, shoulder your door open. Fuck you into the mattress, hard enough that he’d see your legs wobbling the next day.
Doesn’t need the mess in his life, shit is complicated enough as is. Just needs to keep his dick in his pants long enough to get his bike fixed, and get out of here.
Doesn’t need to stir things up by fucking the bosses daughter, either. He’d endure what was thrown at him, he always had, but to take on a mob family just for a girl-
The pressure mounts, coiling tight. His eyes half-lidded, lips parted as the air hissed between his teeth.
Again, and again. His mind fixed on You, you, you - and then he’s there - something ragged caught in his throat as he spills with a grunt against the lace. Soaking the fabric with each pump of his fist, wringing out his orgasm as it scorches through him.
Just barely able to hold back the sharp poke of bones between his knuckles, threatening to tear through skin.
Leaving him panting, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. His conviction leaches from him, because Logan is now certain of one thing - as his chest heaves.
Your underwear is a mess - the fabric stained dark, where he’s already soaking in.
He’s fucked.
It’s been four days of Logan doing everything to avoid being alone with you - all while being closer than he’s ever been.
Conversations are short. Gritted out, all while the familiar weight of his gaze still settles on you. Logan’s constant steady presence as the days pass, hip cocked as he watches from the corner of a room.
That mark between his brow deepening, as if he’s trying to settle something in his mind.
It’s maddening.
How he’s trying to convince himself of what he told you. Betrayed by the moments when you come together. A hand at your back to guide you through the door in front of him, his palm dipping low.
The jolt that rocks through you, an inhale that surely he must hear, when he passes you something in the dining room that you couldn’t quite reach - fingers brushing.
Orbiting around each other, neither one quite daring to move first.
The hunger that simmers, when his eyes are not hidden away.
Even now you can feel them.
Dark eyes behind gold-tinted sunglasses. A lean as he waits - the buttons on his dress shirt popped, thighs spread as he fills the corner of the bench in the foyer.
Could swear you see them narrow, when you glance his way. Half-way across the room, a distance that’s become familiar when the house is quiet.
Unable to let your eyes dip, for just a second. Down to linger at the dark shadow of hair at his chest, and then to the tight pull of his trousers.
The edges of his lips curl, when he catches you. A lift of his hips, as his thighs inch wider.
Impossible.
A sniff, as you pivot - facing away from him.
It’s not that he turned you down. Or that he seems set on taunting you.
And you’re not pouting - just licking your wounds.
You know it’s a bad idea. Just for once - you find yourself not caring. Stuck in a loop, as you try to figure out if he thinks the same.
What this game he’s playing means.
A little shake of your head to clear your thoughts - there’s Better things to think about, after all.
Things definitely more important than the way his mouth felt on yours. The way his fingers stretched you out - how full he made you feel.
How you haven’t been able to come close, with your own. Working between your thighs, only to feel a weak echo compared to tremor that wracked through your core at his touch.
It’s definitely not what you’re thinking about now - eyes drifting over the program for tonight’s dinner. Another charity event, where you’ll be paraded in front of countless socialites and politicians.
All in the pocket of your family. In your father’s.
The apple of his eye. Another reminder of a good daughter you are, to support him like this.
A leg jiggling as you wait, one crossed over the other. Waiting for your driver, but as time ticks by, it becomes evident that Johnny seems nowhere to be found.
The jiggle becomes a tap of your foot. Impatience lacing through you, adding to the keyed-up feelings you’ve carried since the club.
A hallway door opens - there’s a hushed murmur, as one of your father’s men greets Logan.
You let yourself look, while he’s distracted. A brief reprieve, letting yourself want.
He looks good. The shirt pulls tight across his chest. A jacket laid out on the bench beside him, a tie jammed into the pocket. Cleans up nice, and you have to remind yourself that he’s not doing this for you.
Just part of the job.
Quick to bury yourself in your notes again, when he stretches - crossing the room.
“Come on.” His head tilts, expression hidden behind the glasses, “I’m driving you.”
You stand, but your feet stay rooted in place, “Where’s Johnny?”
Logan sighs, hands on his hips, “Listen, kid. Do you want a ride or what?”
That gets you moving. Crossing the last few steps in front of him, your hands mirroring Logan’s as you peer up at him.
“Kid? What happened to honey?” You coo, as your head tilts, “Or baby?”
His jaw works, tongue trapped between the sharp edge of his teeth. A scowl that’s visible even through the frame of his glasses.
“Just get in the fucking car.”
The ride is short, when Logan’s driving. A short temper and a lead foot do a lot in the busy New York traffic.
You end up early, the limo idling in the parking garage beneath the hotel. Tucked away in a back corner as Logan argues with one of the attendants - or you assume, with the way his lips pull back over his teeth.
The sharp gesture of his hands, one lifting to rake through his hair, messing up the tufts.
Before he opens the door, leaning against it.
It’s unfair the way it frames him - shins to chest, your head turning so you don’t stare.
“They’re still getting set up.” Logan growls, “Guess we’re early. Said they need another thirty minutes, at least. Maybe an hour.”
He leans then, a lift of his brow as he waits for your call.
You can think of a lot of ways to pass the time. But you’re not about to voice any to him.
Going elsewhere - a cafe, even back home - feels pointless. Not enough time to do anything meaningful, not with how you’re already dressed so nicely for the dinner - an elegant dress, heeled shoes. Makeup and hair done just the way you like it.
Your shoulder lifts. “I’m fine waiting.”
Logan fixes you with a long look, as you drag out your bag - root through it for your planner. Making notes as the door closes.
Muffled conversation, before he’s climbing back into the driver’s seat.
Your eyes meet twice in the rearview mirror, as the radio plays, winding through sounds. Stevie Nicks, The Stones, Elton John.
The drum of his fingers against the steering wheel, to a tune that only he can hear. Logan’s cigar and lighter are still tucked in the back console, from the last time you were in the limo.
If he wants it, he can come get it himself.
But he has more willpower than you, even if his patience wears thin. The music bumped up, when one of your legs crossed over the other.
Inches of fabric tugged up at your thigh, baring skin.
That weight settles over you again, though his head does not turn your way.
Eventually - you cannot help but to voice the question you’ve been carrying. To slice through the silence and tension, thick in the air.
“Are you going to give them back?”
That gets his attention - the slightest turn of his head. The flicker of an eye that dips across your legs, so quickly you almost miss it.
“Give what back?” He rasps, and your eyes roll.
“You know what, Logan.”
There’s the slight narrowing of his eyes, the barest hint of a smirk, “Mm. Don’t think I do, princess.”
The teasing nickname sinks into your skin, curling in your belly. He’s going to make you say it - spell it out for him.
You don’t have the same level of bravado bolstered by soft hum of alcohol in your veins, but you still know that something changed, that night in the club.
Your teeth grit, but you hold his gaze, “My panties.”
“That’s what you call those?” His eyebrow arches - a hint of a dimple, “Wasn’t much there, sweetheart.”
The low husk of his voice weaves through you, sending your nerves alight. Encouraged by the back-and-forth volley - how he shifts, granting you his full profile.
“Well, they’re my favorite,” You push - arms crossing just beneath your chest, and you swear his eyes dip again, “What do you need them for, anyways?”
His laugh fills the space - rough and low as it drifts back to you.
“Your favorite, huh?” The peek of his tongue between his teeth - avoiding your question, “You’re telling me that’s what you wear under all those pretty dresses?”
For a long moment, you hold his gaze.
A shift of your hips, as your legs uncross. Letting your knees spread - thighs falling open for the briefest second.
Letting him have a peek at the red silk beneath, before you primly cross your ankles, tucking them against the seat. Your voice pitching low, sweet as honey.
“Come back here and find out.”
His jaw ticks.
For a moment, you think you’ve pushed too far. A lead weight left behind, as the embers in your belly start to snuff out.
But then, there’s the gritted out “fuck it”, as he moves.
The car goes silent, as his keys slip from the ignition. The creak of the car door - it feels like it takes him an age to cross the steps from the driver’s seat, back to you.
Anticipation palpable, as the door opens. As he folds himself into the backseat - so different than the times before.
Now, he crowds your space - caging you in. Making up for the days he’s spent apart.
Despite the seats in front you of the space feels small with him in it, your pulse spiking as the door is tugged shut behind him.
A heartbeat passes, before you’re meeting him - closing the space. His back pressed against the blue velvet as his hands find your waist, guiding you to him.
Your own tugging at the fabric of your dress - rucking it up to your thighs so you can straddle him. Shins pressing into the seat, as you press down flush against him.
There’s the click of the door lock, before his mouth tips to yours. A rough sound in his throat as you pick up where you left off - your hands smoothing over the soft fabric of his dress shirt, up to his shoulders.
His slipping from your waist down to your ass. Palming you, tugging you closer until your core rocks against the front of his jeans.
A hand slipping to cup the back of your head. Keeping you close as a tongue licks across your lower lip, then further when you part. Swallowing your moan as heat floods through you, as you let him deepen the kiss.
As you feel how he stiffens beneath you, trousers pulling tight as your core nudges against the thick curve.
“You need it that bad, baby?” Logan rasps, as you inhale a breath, “Makin’ it really fucking hard to do my job.”
Chasing your mouth, bringing it back to his. It makes you smile, the way he groans when you grind down.
“Supposed to be keeping an eye on me,” You coo, “Doesn’t this make it easier?”
There’s an inhaled breath between clenched teeth, “Not when I’m too busy looking at you. Driving me crazy, sweetheart.”
Fingers trace against your bare thighs. Beneath the hem of your dress as you moan. The pad of his thumb ghosting against your slit again, low hum as you whine his name.
Letting your hands wander. Tracing over the bulge in his pants. Your palm flattening against him, fingers mapping the curves.
He growls out a soft warning, “Don’t start what you can’t finish, princess.”
The rough tone of his voice makes you shiver, your fingers flexing, “Should be saying that to you.”
There’s the peek of his teeth as he grins, voice pitching lower.
“Just trying to warn you, honey.” He croons, “I'm the best there is at what I do, and what I do best isn't very nice.”
Your mouth finds his jaw, as your fingernails tap against the silver buckle, “I know. Why do you think my father hired you?”
He makes a rough noise in his throat, when you tug at his shirt, fingers skating against the bare skin beneath.
“That what this about?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice now, as your eyes flick back up, “You tryin’ to get back at daddy?”
That makes you scowl. Fingers stilling as your eyebrow arches - pushing yourself back so you can fix him with a look, “What do you think?”
His lips are parted, breath heavy. Those hazel eyes darkened with lust, as he traces the edge of your panties. Slipping beneath soaked-through fabric, tracing against your slick folds.
“No,” He rasps, “She’s beggin’ for it. Isn’t that right?”
A smirk that turns sharp, as your lips press to his. Mumbled against your mouth, “Know this is all for me.”
“For you.” You agree, as he circles your clit. A slow pressure of his fingers, as your hips cant into his touch.
Need pulses inside you, low in your belly. That urge to taste him battling with the desire to rut against his fingers. See if he’ll give you more, like last time.
All too aware of the minutes that tick down. That you’re running on borrowed time, not enough left to do everything you want.
“Don’t tease, Logan.” You whine, when he keeps up the slow swipe against your skin.
“Tease?” He laughs, tongue peeking out against his lips, “You were the one trying to take someone home. Did you already forget?”
“S not how it went',” You pant, “I remember telling you I didn’t want him.”
He hums, eyes flicking down to the wet peek of your pussy, “Mm, and I remember how sweet you felt coming around my fingers.”
“That, too,” Your breath hitches, “And I remember saying I’d get on my knees for you.”
“Is that what you want?” Logan’s eyes darken, “Still want a taste, baby?”
There’s a whine caught between your teeth. Nodding, as you carefully slip off of his lap and down to the floor, arranging your skirts around you - settling between thighs that inch wider.
Watching the way his hand drops to palms himself, the rough “fuck” that slips from him that sends your heart racing.
Logan’s always been a big man, but he looks massive when you’re on your knees. The carpet scratches against your shins as you shift - eyes already greedy, fixed on the thick curve you had rubbed yourself on.
Watching the slow flex of his fingers - the glint of silver on his belt buckle.
The slow unzipping of his trousers, and you swear your mouth waters as all that skin comes into view. Nothing beneath but the dark trail of hair.
And for the briefest second your eyes flicker out the tinted windows. An unconscious check towards the door set into the parking garage wall, checking before you allow yourself this.
“Hey. You’ve got time, baby.” He coos - bringing you back, “I’ll keep watch. Keep your eyes right here for me.”
And they do - dropping back down without thought.
His cock still trapped beneath the fabric, but you can see the vein that travels down from his abdomen, the heavy curve that finally springs free when he lifts his hips.
You can barely bite back the moan of want, your eyes widening. He felt thick beneath your palm but it’s nothing compared to now. The heavy bob of his cock - velvet soft skin that flushes at the glossy tip.
How his fingers curl around, the lazy flick of his wrist as you shift in front of him. The slight sway as your head follows, a deep flutter in your thoughts as you wonder just how much you’ll be able to take.
Underestimating, in your daydreams. Your lips eagerly parting, as you lean forward.
His tongue clicks.
“Greedy girl.” Logan coos, “Hold on. Thought you said you wanted me to show you.”
At your moan he shifts, thighs spreading. Voice pitching low.
“Open.”
Your head tilts - offering your mouth, letting your tongue rest against your teeth.
Letting him feed his cock to you - tasting the salt that leaks from the head, when it taps against your lip. The low groan that shoots right through you, as he inches into your mouth.
“That’s it.” He husks, “You can take it.”
Your eyes are fixed on his as your jaw opens wider, as he sinks further inside. Fingernails biting into your palms as you try to listen.
“Pretty fuckin’ mouth,” Logan pants, “Good girl.”
A stifled groan, as your head bobs. The eye contact breaking as yours flutter shut, lips closing around him as you start to suck.
You can hear each of his breaths like this, in the quiet car. Rough murmurs of something sweet, held back between clenched teeth.
“Keep going, sweetheart.” He coaxes, thick fingers leaving marks in the velvet - grooves that your own will trace later, on the way home.
Resisting the urge to bury them in your hair, to urge you down the rest of the way. To palm at your tits, wrinkling the pretty fabric.
Letting you explore on your own. Letting him slip down your throat until tears prick in your eyes.
That thin sense of the outside world still keeps you tethered. The mutual knowledge that he can’t use you like you’d both like - until spit drips down your chin, messy and slick, from where it pools on your tongue.
You’re content to trace each vein, instead. To feel the weight as you suck - eyes opening to gauge his expression when your hands finally slip up.
Once bracing on a thigh, the other curling around his base. Stroking what doesn’t quite fit, as he sucks air in through his teeth.
He’s handsome, always. Beautiful like this - eyes burning in the beam of vapor lamp light that streaks through. The pinch of his furrowed brow, but so unlike you’ve seen before.
Looks like he wants to devour you. To tug you up to his lap, bury himself in your wet cunt instead.
You wish he would - another squirm as your thighs press together.
“Feels so good, baby.” Logan rasps. There’s a shallow lift of his hips now. Chasing the rhythm of your hand, the soft suck of your mouth.
The muscles in his thigh flexing beneath your palm, filth slipping from him as he chases the building pressure in his belly.
“God, I want to fuck you,” It’s growled out, and you whine with want, “Been dreaming about tasting you again.”
Again. The taste of your slick on his fingers, pressing against your tongue as he kissed you. An image of his face between your thighs sends a dull throb of need, as you moan around him.
Logan inhales, as you start to speed up, “Know you need it, honey. Bet you’re soaked through, aren’t you?”
Another whine buzzes around his cock, as he groans, “Take care of you tonight. I’ll, fuck-”
His fingers nudge yours out of the way, fisting around his cock. The other catching your chin, easing you off him. A string of spit connecting you, until it breaks.
“Shit.” He hisses out, as the tip bobs against your parted lips, “Keep just like that, princess.”
Logan’s thumb presses at your chin, as if there’s anything that would make your move.
Too focused on the way his eyes glint. Honey-gold in the stream of artificial light. The hiss of breath when your tongue peeks out further.
“Gonna take it all, won’t you?” He husks. Tone almost desperate, “Nice and wide now, don’t wanna mess you up.”
You know he’s thinking about it, you’ve thinking about it as well. Running mascara and a lipstick-smeared mouth.
There’s a rough groan that almost passes as your name, as his hips hitch. Muscles flexing as he spills white ropes across your tongue, with a ragged moan.
“Good fucking girl.”
Your eyes keep on his, as he jerks himself empty. Letting his release pools on your tongue - a soft groan as he shifts, slipping his cock deeper into your mouth.
Eyes finally closing as you suck, his thumb leaving your chin to catch the start of a drop, smearing it across your lip and back between them.
Feeling how you swallow around him. Tongue teasing at his slit, until you’ve taken every drop.
“Fuck, baby.” He breathes.
The tension weighs heavy, as your mouth slides from his.
Logan’s mouth is just beginning to tip towards yours - when there’s the slam of the side door.
A mutually shared expression, as you begin to scramble.
Your time is up.
He stalls for you.
Grilling the head of security for as long as he can - lip curled as he runs through a list of questions, the picture of professional concern.
It’s all bullshit - they don’t know what they’re doing. Not that it matters - he won’t be more than an arms-length away from you for the rest of the night.
His fingers tugging at his tie, knotted quickly and too tightly for comfort. The puff of smoke through his cigar, snatched as he slipped from the backseat.
Unable to help the tilt of his head when you slip from the backseat of the limo - his hand already extended to help you out.
A low throb behind his ribs at the smile you flash his way.
Never would have guessed that his cock was just down your throat, if he hadn’t known better. That you’d taste like him.
All the evidence neatly tucked away. Hair tidied, your dress tugged back into place.
But there’s little things he catches.
A fresh swipe of gloss over your slightly-puffy lips. The color matching the sticky ring around the base of his cock, one that will linger for hours.
Pupils that still are blown wide and dark. The arousal that clings to you like perfume, heady and sweet.
The way your eyes flick over him, hungry. A fleeting second before you’re pulled back into your world - a practiced smile curving your lips.
“Showtime.” You mutter as you take his arm. Following, as he leads you inside, “How do I look?”
The edges of his lips pull up, his voice a low murmur - something just for you to hear.
“Beautiful.”
thank you so much for reading! I keep getting little ideas for them, so I think this is going to be another mini-series (with 4 currently planned parts in total) 💖
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