It was shyly, softly spoken. "I have a strap on," Bridget husks, the heat of her skin hot against yours as she buries her face between the pillow and your neck. "Should I get it?" she continues, grinding down harder against your pelvis.
Your eyelids slipped closed.
She's a top.
You've never been with a top.
Ever.
Tonight, you've made her come three times and she's brought you to orgasm twice. First you'd used your mouth, then you'd fucked her, hard, with your fingers. Then, she'd slipped a pillow beneath your hips and gone down on you so thoroughly, so deeply, so fucking well, that you thought you'd never even look at a younger woman again.
But now she wants this.
No woman has ever fucked you the way she wants to. With a toy. With her hips like…that.
But you're so fucking wet and burning that you can't even bring yourself to care. Not for a fucking second.
And there's that other thing, too.
That thing where you want her to fuck you.
You want her inside you.
"Franky," she murmurs, and splays her parted lips over your jawline. She drags an open-mouthed kiss over your lips. Your tongue flutters against hers.
Her hips press your ass further into her mattress.
You open your eyes.
"Okay," you whisper.
She's off you in a second, and she's back above you even sooner, black straps settled around her hips. You look between her legs as she settles against you again. It's averagely sized but her eyes are dark, like she knows exactly what to do with it.
She kisses your breasts. You reach down, running your hands over her sides, her back, up to toy with her nipples.
Her mouth widens, and she sucks at you. You run a hand through her blonde hair, and make a fist. Gently, you remind yourself, but she's already letting you pull her back up.
Her blue eyes bore down into yours.
You think you might be in love.
She slips inside you, and your eyes rolls back into your head.
"Yeah?" she asks inarticulately.
"Mmhmm," you hum, too fucked up to form a proper answer.
She fucks you slowly, grinding down against you to relieve some of her own building pressure.
You shift to raise a leg against her hips, and she lowers her chest against yours.
You close your eyes. It feels so good, so right and perfect and warm (why is it so warm?) that you think you might cry.
Then, you fucking whimper.
"Shhh," she breathes against your throat, pressing a hot, wet kiss there.
Your foot twitches against the bunched up sheets at the end of the bed.
"Oh god, Franky," she keens.
"Bridget," you hear yourself say.
You run a hand up across her shoulder blades and up, up into her hair.
She moves against you less artfully.
In circles.
She groans.
One of her hands finds your side. Her thumb passes over a cigarette burn.
She presses her lips to yours.
You clench around the length of her inside of you.
You reach down and grip her rounded flesh, pulling her further inside of you.
You're going to come.
Hard.
…
…
…
That is exactly what you do.
.
As she takes it off and throws it to the floor, you wonder if you might tell her that, in that way at least, she was your first.
You don't.
"Have you ever been with an older woman?" she asks, propping herself up on one elbow to stare down at you.
You grin up at the ceiling. "Uhuh."
"Never your psychiatrist, I hope."
"I've never had a therapist before," you tease, loving the way you stress 'had'.
You're both quiet for a moment. The rainfall is light against the window, the darkening night sky almost disguising it. You want Bridget to get up and turn a light on, but you also don't. You just want to lay here for a while. She makes you feel safe.
"I hope you don't feel pressured," she starts. "Picking you up…bringing you here. It wasn't my intention for this to happen."
She looks down at you in that faux confident way that you recognise so well. It's the same way she looked up at you between the library shelves. Sheepish. Shy. Secretly needy.
Needy has never looked so good to you.
"What were your intentions?" you play.
She looks at you blankly. "That I don't know."
She bends down and kisses you chastely.
When she pulls away, the corners of her lips twitch with a smile.
"I want you to know that you don't have to feel obligated—
You raise an eyebrow. "Obligated?"
"Perhaps 'obligated' is not the right word."
You wait.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to stay…here…with me," she states simply, clinically, "just because I signed off your parole and drove you out of the gates."
As you take in her words and try to come off as though you're ignoring her at the same time, your mind registers that you're lying in the wet patch.
"I'm lying in the wet patch," you crudely say.
She blinks twice at the bluntness.
You shift on the bed, closer to her. She moves to make room for you, but your hand at her back stops her from moving any further away on the queen-sized bed. Your stomach presses against hers. You slip a leg between hers.
You look down at her lips, traces of smeared lipstick.
You catch one of her earlobes between your teeth and bite down.
She presses her chest more fully against yours.
"My ass was just pressed against a nice little wet patch you made when you came the first time..." you drawl.
The skin of her neck flushes red. "Franky," she admonishes shyly, looking away.
"…in my mouth," you say, breathing hotly against her jawline.
She bites her lip, forcing herself to drag her gaze to meet yours.
"I want to stay, Gidge. If you'll have me."
She nods, a smile tugging at her lips.
"Is this a crush?" you whisper against her lips.
She's quiet.
"'Cause for me," you continue, your heart beating wildly, "I think it might be a bit more."
Her eyes glimmer.
You fucking knew it.
You smile cockily. "Is that okay?" you ask.
She quickly nods her yes, and raking one hand into your hair, kisses you, hard.