You awoke with a jerk, fingers digging into his calf in your disorientation. Then you jerked again.
"Sorry," you sputtered, dropping your hand quickly. Panic ran through your veins—until a large hand ran through your hair.
He said nothing, simply pulled you back against his leg. He set the datapad down.
"How long was I asleep?" You swallowed, waiting for a response. "Sir," you added quickly.
You swore you heard a soft chuckle above you before fingers from his other hand ran down the side of your face.
"Not long," he reassured. "Maybe a half hour."
You nodded sleepily, letting your head dip down to his thigh again. Your cheek pressed against something wet, and horror paralyzed you: you'd drooled on him. Embarrassment swept across your face, cheeks burning as you brought your thumb up to rub the spot.
"Sorry."
This time he chuckled openly, hand still tangling itself in your hair.
"It won't be the last time you drool on me."
You froze; there was a definite suggestive edge to his voice now. Your eyes flickered to his, and his lips curled into a small smile. It wasn't quite a smirk—it didn't have the same mocking edge. Instead, there was something almost warm; playful. In another life, you would've sworn he was flirting with you.
Strong arms looped under yours just then, pulling you up and against his chest. A small noise of surprise slipped out of your lips, which he ignored, backing you into the bed. Your knees caught at the end, and he pushed you gently so you fell back on it. Your mind raced, imagining him pushing up his cowl and spreading your legs—which, a moment later, is exactly what he did. But the familiar zip of his pants didn't follow; instead, he was the one dropping to his knees.
The first half of your gasp was out of surprise—the second was from pleasure. His mouth had clamped down on your clit, tongue licking over your nub in flat strokes. Your hand had almost made it to his hair before one of his closed around it instead, holding your wrist down.
"I'm in charge," he reminded, tongue flicking over your clit in teasing strokes. A moan escaped your lips—traitorous—and he smirked against your cunt, tonguing lightly at your entrance.
"You know," he murmured, pulling away from you slightly, "some cultures have dessert before dinner. I never understood that; I think now I might."
You panted as he spoke, amusement dancing on his features. Your hips shifted up, accompanied by a soft whine, frustration building with every second he withheld his touch.
"The next time I suck your cock I'm going to give a long preamble in between," you spat. But you blanched just as quickly, bravery fading faster than it came.
He simply laughed between your legs, nuzzling one of your thighs.
"No, you won't," he murmured, planting a kiss on your clit. "I'll shove myself down your throat long before you can finish a speech."
You opened your mouth to wish all kinds of terrible things on him, but he clamped his mouth down again, silencing you. Your lips formed a soft o as he sucked on your clit, grazing it very slightly with his teeth; not enough to hurt, but enough to force you to shiver in his arms.
You felt him smile against you, strong hands grasping your waist and pulling you towards him. Your hips bucked up as his tongue threatened your entrance, but he pulled away.
"Such a greedy little thing."
You shot him daggers. His smile grew, and you felt a strange brushing sensation in your head. "You will keep your hips still for me," he murmured, every word as factual as the last.
"I will keep my hips still for you," you felt yourself saying, your own voice sounding somehow disembodied and foreign. He nodded between your legs, tongue digging between your folds again, the pad of one large thumb rubbing your clit.
"You filthy little slut," he surfaced after a moment, no contempt in his voice despite the harshness of the words. "You greet me on your knees, talk about sucking my cock." He flicked your clit with his forefinger. "You want this, don't you?"
You nodded quickly out of desperation for his mouth.
But he didn't go back to your clit; instead, he let you suffer, hooking your knees over his shoulders, teasing you with his breath. You heard this zip of his pants, and a moment later the familiar jerking of his arm confirmed that he was stroking himself.
"Tell me how desperate you are for me," he moaned at you, licking the inside of a thigh.
You whined, biting a lip in protest.
"Come on," he panted breathily, the slick sounds of him pleasuring himself cutting through the tension, "I know you want this."
You blinked back tears of frustration, drawing a ragged breath. "Please," you managed to say, feeling the heat of his breath near your cunt. "Please don't stop," you begged, voice cracking on the last word.
"Don't stop what?" he asked, dipping his mouth again. It felt like a new kind of cruelty, the way he teased you. "Don't stop this?" He licked over your clit, drawing out firm patterns, making you squirm.
"Please," you moaned, hands fisting in his sheets.
"That's a good girl," he murmured, tongue returning to your clit. You felt his thumbs spread you open as he stimulated you, a large finger pressing into your entrance.
You groaned loudly as it pushed into you, which only seemed to encourage him. He worked it in and out of you quickly, your juices slicking him up, making indecent sounds. He worked your clit faster, finding a quick rhythm that made you wriggle under him.
"Please," you moaned, eyes filling with tears as heat pooled in your belly.
"Please what?" he asked, a second finger filling you.
"Please." You could only repeat the word; it was all you knew how to say now as he stroked inside you, tongue working you to orgasm.
"Do you want to cum, little whore?" He planted a kiss on your mound.
You nodded breathlessly, eyes pleading with him. His brown ones stared back—almost like they were looking for something—and he latched his mouth back onto your clit a moment later.
"You may."
He had given his permission; you sighed in relief, a moan escaping your lips as he twisted his fingers inside you, hitting something deep.
The world seemed to explode around you, clouding your vision; you vaguely heard yourself yell something, felt him prying your legs apart wider to keep you from pulling them together. And his mouth—it was still there, tonguing hard patterns around your clit, working its way inside your entrance a moment later.
"You're sick," you muttered, jaw going a little slack as you came down from your orgasm. He smirked, pulling his fingers out with a soft pop. He stood, wiping his face with his sleeve; then he leaned over your body and pressed his fingers into your mouth.
You gagged around them at the thought of tasting yourself—but he was insistent, rubbing along your tongue. He forced you to swallow, a sweet musky taste filling your mouth, warm and thick between your lips. It wasn't bad, but you twisted your face regardless.
He rolled his eyes, tugging off his belt.
"You're dramatic. And a liar." He slapped the sides of your ass lightly. "Not even a good one."
His pants dropped, and he crossed his arms, tugging off his tunic and undershirt as one. He grasped you by the waist and pushed you up the bed, following with one knee, then the other, until he was leaning over you. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, and you took a deep breath. He'd fucked you before, but this felt different somehow. Intimate. Personal.
Brown eyes found yours, and he almost seemed to wink. "Don't be afraid," he murmured, spreading your legs, "I feel it too."
The head of his cock found your entrance, and his hands grasped yours; he laced his fingers between yours, holding your hands down by the sides of your head. You felt a pressure between your legs, and he slipped into you with a mutual groan.
"You know what I think about all day?" he breathed down at you, pressing his hips deeper. "What I think about when I'm on the bridge, listening to Hux and Phasma drone on?"
It sounded like he was just spouting gibberish words now.
"I think about this," he grunted through thrusts, face twisting in a primal sort of way. "Coming home, fucking your tight little cunt."
Home.
It echoed in your head, his thrusts rocking your body. Somehow, it seemed to rock you into him. You started to burn where your bodies met, a soreness growing between your legs—but then he'd fill it a second later, eliminating it for a moment and replacing it with fullness.
He was pounding hard now, goal transparent. His breathing became labored, and you panted up at him, meeting his thrusts.
"I think about you—" he was cut off by the twitching of his cock inside you; he came, hard, his body weight pressing you into the bed as you gasped for breath beneath him.
Your mind raced as he filled you with cum.
I think about you.
It had been the first part of a sentence—right? But he thought about you.
He seemed to press you into the bed forever. As the seconds ticked by, a feeling crept up into your belly, radiating into your shoulders. You flinched; something felt strange. Awkward.
He seemed to feel it too, pulling out unceremoniously a moment later and striding to the refresher without a word. You lay crumpled and messy on his bed, palming the silky sheets underneath you. They felt smooth and comforting on your skin, and you decided to soak in the moment, stretching your legs out. You yawned, opening your eyes again only when you sensed him walking back into the room. He tossed a small hand towel onto your stomach as he walked past, not pausing to glance at you.
You scowled slightly, wiping his cum from between your legs before using the refresher yourself. When you emerged, he continued paying you no attention; he sat at the dining table, sipping a cup of water and staring at his datapad. He had gotten dressed, a pair of boxers and an undershirt framing his body.
You cracked your jaw bravely and leaned against the wall dividing the bedroom from the kitchen area. He looked up with a tired expression, almost as if challenging you to step out of line.
The edges of your lips twitched, threatening you with a frown. You shoved the feeling back, looking away for a brief second.
"Can I have clothes?" you asked, voice smaller than you would've liked, eyes downcast. You crossed your arms without noticing.
"Why?" he asked, crossing his own arms—probably not subconsciously—and leaning back in his chair.
You stared at your toes, wiggling them once. "I feel…" Exposed. Indecent. Humiliated. "…like it would be nice."
"Nice," he repeated, voice hollow.
You nodded, stealing a glance at him before diverting your eyes quickly.
He sighed, stomping over to his dresser, rifling through it angrily. "Here," he said, shoving the green sweater from before into your hands. "You can wear this tonight. I don't like it anyway."
He took his seat at the table again, seemingly eager to shrug you off.
You tugged the sweater over your head quickly, basking in the warmth it generated as it fell to your thighs. When you looked up, the anger hadn't faded from his face. You forced yourself to swallow, mouth going dry, and bit the corner of your lip.
"Did I do something wrong, back there?" you asked, gesturing to the bed—you made sure to keep your voice level, respectful.
He glanced up at you, setting the pad down again. His eyes bored into yours, and you flinched; heat radiated across your face, and suddenly you weren't sure you remembered how to breathe.
"I don't think so," he said cryptically, turning back to his work.
"You 'don't think so'?" you echoed, confusion tingeing your voice.
"I don't think so."
He offered no further explanation, and you weren't stupid enough to insist on it.