Featuring: CM Punk x Fem Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: 18, NSFW, smut with a hint of messy ex plot, and Punk bein' a sexy, lil shit but he's a good time you don't complain (much).
"Just a little."
His voice was slightly coarse with sleep still settled in it, but the bass of it still vibrated right through you, feeling good.
Because it was good. A little would be good. It would be enough. Something to ease the lingering ache, the temper that was still hot and tingling with nerves under your skin. The same skin he flitted over with hands soft and calloused in the grooves between his long, tatted fingers and thumb, those hands just as hot as the nerves he worked up, the blood he stirred up beneath it. Teasing son of a bitch.
"Stop bein' a brat and open up for me."
"I have to go t'work soon," you reminded him amid a suck of your teeth and then a sharp, short breath breezing past your lips. He was quick to inhale the moan with a kiss to shut you up and remind you that work wasn't important right now. Nothing was more important than the next twenty minutes or so. A little would have to be enough.
Too many days in between the last time and this time left no time at all, really, the early hours of the morning disappearing with the rising sun and impending responsibilities. Your alarm clock on your phone abandoned on his kitchen counter would go off at any moment. Another reminder that your time here, in his bed, was all too brief-even though you'd spent the night. But, unfortunately, infuriatingly, one night with him was never enough.
"You gonna make me beg? 'Cause I won't."
He was the brat, to be honest. Pesty and snarky and smirking as he knew how to get his way. His hands massaged the mounds of your breasts, working over your waist, down your hip, and kneaded into your thighs beneath his sheets, still fragrant with his and your cologne and perfume and sweat, those strong fingers curling into your flesh with enough grip that it kinda hurt but felt damn good. It felt good when he handled you like that.
Gripping and prying your thighs apart and pulling your left one onto his lap. Your pussy was still wet and tender from last night, feeling exposed and needy for his fingers that inched closer to it. His fingertips whispered at the entrance of such a wet, tender, and needy little thing. Because he was going to get his way. Even if it was just a little. His lips on yours smirked a bit with another kiss and flick of tongue to taste that pretty moan you rang with for him. Because he knew he didn't have to beg for shit when you wanted it, too. When he knew you liked this shit.
"I'll be quick. Promise," he rang, too, a hushed breath that flirted with a moan to feel how easy you opened up for him (even though you tried to fuss at him-pssh, for what?), how soft and hot you were with nerves strung tight from the anticipation of his touch, softening and purring and clenching tight around his lone finger when he pushed in. Just a tiny push to test the waters and he resisted the urge to drown in it. He'd be "quick" but that didn't mean he wouldn't take his time. Punk was a teasing son of a bitch, after all. He took a slow dip, sinking in with each crook of his middle finger to slip along each hotspot, and there was more than one that made you flinch like this, made you moan like that.
"Mmnh…deeper."
"Say please." He kissed your throat with that snarky, adorable smirk on his lips.
"Phil." You rolled your eyes at him and then squeezed them shut because ooh. Your warning was rendered useless as he used the pad of his fingertip to caress little circles on the hotspot that set your nerves ablaze with a pulse he could feel with his touch…but your lack of obedience made his touch retreat. "Oh my fucking god," you huffed with exasperation (he wouldn't beg but you had to?) and need, of course. "Please. Right there…mm, baby."
"Ah. There's my sweet girl…done bein' brat, yeah?"
Another huff but you were too close to fuss this time. "Yess."
But he still took his sweet ass time, teasing the spot until he just now nestled deep like you asked minutes ago, the soft and calloused grooves of his palm nestled to your swollen, little clit. The dip of his finger turned into a stroke. In and out, still slow, slipping on your spots and his palm nudging with somehow firm and light presses. A dizzying rhythm and you rang with whimpering moans he silently sang back to you, your thigh splayed on his lap trapping his hardening dick so that it could only rub up on it.
Your moans lifted, still quite quiet, however, in the delicate morning hours. Your voice, your body, your brain barely awake but buzzing, hot and tingling, as he woke it up, little strokes and soft pumps into the wet warmth of your pussy until you rang with a single cry, followed by dozens of heavy breaths that would be mistaken as sobbing if anyone but you two were in his apartment. The walls were mercifully thick, perks of a solid build in a good neighborhood—and good neighbors who minded their business even when they saw you tiptoe through Punk's door yesterday after likely seeing you rush out last week. Some stupid yelling match that neither of you won and that happened too often (the price you pay for good dick from your ex) and one that they (hopefully) couldn't hear.
Yet (hopefully) they hadn't heard you yelling again but with sobs and moans last night, that makeup conversation short-lived before he lived between your legs, where he belonged, your hands in his hair, where they belonged. Together where you both belonged…for a brief encounter. Because a little was good. A little sex and even a little verbal tussling was refreshing, a little escape from the real world where dull work, long phone calls, gnawing headaches (that sometimes included him when you bothered to answer his calls), and other bullshit that awaited you was always good.
"You feel s'good," Punk chimed in your ear. His lips grazed the skin there before finding their place below your jaw, making you shudder. Something like a kiss with lips puckered but more like a place to hide his breath that hitched as he rutted his hips, just so, into your thigh. A heated, needy press that smeared a mess on your skin from his drip and drool at the thick head of his dick. A familiar and beautiful sensation, one that made you moan from it as well as his finger and palm pressed in you and to you, vulgar and beautiful sounds from your pussy as it fluttered and dripped and drooled. "Fuck, baby. You needa cum on my cock like this."
"Wha–mmm, wait…unhh, Phil."
The litany of protest got lost in that sweet ringing of moans as he was already on his knees between your thighs, finger slipping out to slip up on your clit and make room for that thick head to give you another heated, needy press. Little by little, until you felt hot and lush and full. Your eyes could barely focus through the blur of such a delicious head rush and his head appeared as some annoyingly handsome shadow in the darkness of his bedroom that the sun unhurriedly illuminated as it revealed itself from behind the clouds beyond his window. It was when he leaned down, tugging your thighs up to rest on his shoulders, that his eyes swam into view perfectly. Green and glimmering and hooded like the mere sight of you under him was a head rush to him, too.
And yet he didn't succumb to such a heady spell, opting to drag this shit out and drag his hips back as you gasped and drive them forward as you moaned. Over and over. His hand gripped down into your hip as the other gripped the sheets. Tighter and tighter. You felt your legs quiver with last night's ache blooming anew as he rutted into you. Harder and harder. Like you didn't need your legs to walk into work in an hour. Like he didn't promise it would just be a little something, a quick something.
"Liar." You hissed the word along his neck where you draped your arms before you let your teeth nip at his skin. He hissed back with a moan or laugh or both and you bit him harder because screw him. "I'm goin' to—mm, god—I'm gonna be late 'cause of you."
Punk's nose skimming the length of your jaw let out a sigh, another laugh and moan, hips suddenly pressing in and going still so you felt him too deep, so your breath got caught in your throat, and so you couldn't do anything but look up at him as he looked down at you with that snarky, charming, mean, warm glimmer in his eyes as the sun finally shone in full. "Wouldn't be the first time, sweetheart…but bite me like that again and I'll make your ass miss work altogether."
A threat that sounded more like a good time. His hips stirred back to life with thrusts that threatened to send your sobs through the trembling wall behind his headboard and let his neighbors know nooo, you're not a brat but yesss, papa, you were his sweet girl and fuuuck, you were cumming.
Only then did Punk allow himself the pleasure of falling under the spell of your pussy dripping and fluttering for him, head hung low and tendrils of silken hair over his bewitched gaze that watched you watching him, studying how the two of you made such an enormous and exquisite mess from such a luscious, stubborn, little action.
Because a little was good. But a lot was better.