I've been on a Carly Rae Jepsen bender since she dropped "Cut to the Feeling" - enjoy this fic inspired by "Favourite Colour" and stay tuned because I know more of these fucking fics (lol) are on the horizon.
There's no plot - this is literally just smut. I'm not even remotely sorry.
They're just kissing.
They've been here before, have done this before - the way that they're lying on the couch, James pressed down into the cushions, glasses long cast off, Lily on top of him, her skirt gathered around her waist, hips sliding over his as she moves, running her hands up underneath his school jumper - it's all so familiar.
They're just kissing, just fucking kissing, but holy. Fucking. Shit.
The way he trails his fingers along the backs of her thighs, just underneath the hem of her skirt, the way his stomach muscles tense under her hands as they move to his chest, the way his hand feels as it skims over her hip, the side of her breast, her neck, buries itself into her hair, the way he fits so perfectly against every single part of her is driving her out of her head, making her heart hammer in her chest, her fingers shake.
He bites down lightly on her bottom lip and she gasps, presses her fingers into his chest, shifts so one of her legs comes down between his, presses her hips closer against him. He groans into her mouth as her thigh rubs against him, and she smiles, runs her tongue along his bottom lip.
She shifts against him and he moans, his mouth falling away from hers. She kisses his jaw, down his neck, his hands grasp at the hem of her jumper, 'This has to come off.'
He's panting, his voice is rough, and she smirks against his skin, skims her teeth along his neck, 'So do something about it.'
He pulls back, his eyes on hers, wraps his fingers around the hem, pulls, lets his hands slide over her skin, bringing the jumper with them. She lifts herself up a bit, and it makes it easier, but they both still laugh at how awkward it is to pull it off while she's on lying on top of him like that. His eyes are bright, kaleidoscopes of amber, honey, fire, gold, whispers of green reminiscent of hers - his laughter ignites them, the colours shifting as his chest hums underneath her, and she's never been more in love with him than she is in that moment (though she says that all the time and every time it's true).
Somewhere in the laughter, his jumper joins hers on the floor.
And his skin on hers lights fires across her, sparking into life every place that his body touches hers, building the tension in her stomach, making her frantic. But the faster she gets, the slower he moves, taking time to run his fingers over every bit of her, fiddling with the clasp on her bra before she's practically begging him to take it off and he's laughing into her neck at her desperation. Every touch, of any part of him against any part of her, hits her like a cannonball to the stomach, fast and deep and explosive, and she can barely breathe from want. And still he takes his time, the bastard always takes his time, even when she's sighing, moaning, pressing into him, he always takes his time because he loves it when she's desperate for him.
But she has the upper hand, the leverage, and she buries her hands in his hair, rolls her hips against his, trying to coax him into something resembling speed - he wraps his arm firmly around her waist, presses her to him, and though she can feel him, already hard against her thigh, he moves to kiss her neck, whispers 'Patience,' in her ear. She can't decide if she wants to smack him or ravish him, but then he smiles against her neck, and she decides smacking, definitely smacking, but then he grazes his teeth against her skin and she loses the thread entirely, pulls his mouth back to hers.
She finally implodes (or explodes, she can't quite tell, and, honestly, it's a mixture of both, the way her body explodes outward while her mind melts down), can't take it - she slides off of him, stands and slips her skirt and knickers down over her hips, pulls him to standing, repeats. She's crouched in front of him, smirks wickedly, presses a kiss to the top of his thigh, and he huffs, grabs her shoulders, pulls her to standing and bends her over the couch, all slow and steady and patience lost from his demeanour now, and she's breathless because she loves (needs, wants, craves) it when he's like this. She barely braces her hands against the back of the sofa, her shins bumping against the front, when James nudges her feet apart a few centimetres and pushes into her.
Her head falls down between her arms and they both swear because it's too much, but then he's moving, slow, smooth strokes that hit deep inside her, make her head spin, and if it was too much before, it's barely bearable now, and she's not sure how she's going to keep it together. He's got one hand on her hip, fingers pressing into her, one hand on her breast, his palm firm against her skin, and when he bends forward, trails hot kisses down her spine, she pushes her hips back into him, rests her forehead on her shaking upper arm, pulls in a sharp breath that cuts the air around them, triggers something in him.
He moves his hand from her breast, grasps her hips, stills her, moves slower than before, deeper, and any coherent thought she might have had evaporates, and she lets out a moan instead. She hates it, loves it, and he knows it - he moves his hand from her hip, rolls his fingers over her clit, and she nearly comes undone right there.
'Fuck,' she straightens up just a bit, her hair falling back down around her shoulders, and the movement changes the angle, he hits something new, something brilliant, and she swears again, louder this time, barely distinguishable through the moan that escapes in the same moment. James leans forward and his mouth finds that spot on her neck just under her ear and it's like her whole brain goes blank, there's nothing else in the whole world, just James, his mouth, his hands, and her knees are trembling and she should be concerned that she's going to fall over, make an arse of herself, but she can't fucking think for feeling, and she just lets go.
James groans, keeps moving at the same slow, steady, measured pace, and as soon as she can actually form words again, she presses her hips hard back into his and moans, 'Harder, James, fuck.'
She groans in irritation as he slides out of her, but falls silent, anticipation building in her stomach again, as he pushes her back onto the couch, chest down, and falls on top of her, moves his hips hard and fast against hers, making her breathless. The angle is absolutely fucking divine, one of her favourites, and she clutches the cushions beneath her head, presses her hips back into him, moans falling out of her, out of both of them, getting louder all the time.
She angles her hips a bit and he hits a particularly sensitive spot, she freezes, groans, and she can hear the smile in his voice when he says, 'There?'
He slams back into her again and her 'Yes, harder,' is barely intelligible, but he gets the message, increases the tempo. She's already dangling on the edge of a cliff and it doesn't take much, just a few more thrusts and she's melting into the sofa, becoming putty underneath him. Every time she comes is a great time as far as she's concerned, but this time, this time, it's wholly different, like she's exploding, like every single cell in her body has tensed and released all at once, and it washes over her in waves, more intense than anything she can remember. A few more quick, erratic strokes, and James is gone, his legs shaking against hers, his rhythm unsteady, before he lets most of his weight drop, pressing her even further into the couch.
He's always afraid he's going to crush her, but it doesn't seem like he's up for moving now, and she doesn't mind, likes having his weight there because it feels like he's keeping her tethered to the planet, pressing her body back together until it's stopped trembling enough to keep itself in one piece. After a moment, she feels his weight lift off of her just a bit, he kisses her softly along the column of her neck.
She laughs, still a bit breathless, "As nice as that is, I'd like something to," she wiggles her hand awkwardly in the air by her side, and he chuckles against her skin, his chest rumbling against her back before he slides off of her, grabs his jumper from the floor and hands it to her. She flips over onto her back and scowls, "You could have summoned a towel or something, your wand is right there," she nods at it with her head, and he just grins, "What can I say, I like it when you chastise me, Evans."
She rolls her eyes, throws his jumper back onto the floor, and turns so that her back is pressed up against the back of the couch, pats the cushions in front of her. He smiles, lays down beside her, one arm underneath his head, the other around her waist, his fingers trailing slowly up and down her spine, and lets his eyes move over her, taking in her flushed cheeks, the freckles blooming across her nose.
She can't help but smile, watching him watch her - he always looks at her like he's trying to memorise her, to save every detail in his mind so he never forgets them, like he's savouring the little bits of her that she swears only he could love.
He grins back, presses his hand into her spine, pulls her against him, "What?"
His chest rumbles against hers when he speaks, and she hums quietly, "I love you."
He dips his head, presses his lips lightly to hers, once, twice, before he pulls back, eyes brighter than she's ever seen them, "I'm never going to get tired of hearing you say that."
She grins, kisses him again, "Good, because I'm never going to stop saying it."