Chapter Text
Garcia had been generous. Seated him for the reception dinner next to Walsh, his favorite person at PTMC if he had to pick one at gunpoint.
Or scalpel point, Walsh had told him once, blunt nails scratching sarcastically at his shoulders.
I have a fucking gun, Brendon had informed her before fucking her with his tongue. It was the considerate thing to do.
He recognizes everyone at the table, at least by sight. Santos’s invitees less so. There is a woman he doesn’t know opposite him at the table, but he assumes it’s someone’s plus-one. She’s chatting with Dana, the ED charge nurse. Maybe it’s one of Dana’s daughters. He’s heard her mention them. She’s cute.
He checks the Nuggets game between courses. Walsh pokes his arm each time.
“Jesus, pay attention to the wedding,” she says like he’s on the jury at Cannes. “It’s not even playoffs or anything.”
“I'm not a Christmas and Easter kind of guy,” he says.
Walsh snorts a laugh. “You don't fucking go to church.”
He glances up at the head table. Garcia and Santos are occupied. Kissing after someone clinked their glass, not checking if their two-hundredth most important guest was watching basketball on their phone. “How would you know, hmm?”
She leans in, heavily perfumed smirk. “You've fucked me on more than one Sunday morning,” she reminds him under her breath.
“Keeping track, Walsh?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, color coded calendar. You’re cyan blue.”
Brendon pockets his phone. “Good girl.”
Walsh sets down her fork with a clatter. “Jesus, Shark,” she hisses.
He huffs a laugh. “Relax, everyone’s paying attention to the wedding.”
He gives the sole exception a nod across the table. She whips her head away toward the brides. He thinks she might be blushing. Walsh notices as well and directs a pointed sigh at him.
“That’s just Dana’s kid,” he says, dismissive. “Your professional ice cunt reputation is safe.”
Walsh narrows her eyes. “No, that’s one of Dana’s fucking RN’s.”
“Hmm. Which one?”
“Emmy, Emma, something like that.”
Emma, he thinks. Her hair is usually in two good girl braids. It’s loose tonight. And it’s always harder to recognize people out of their scrubs. She’s wearing something one-shouldered, turquoise. She’s cuter when she’s not Dana’s daughter.
Walsh ignores him after that. That’s fine. He slots into her schedule as she sees fit, she'll come calling again sooner or later. He goes back to his basketball game through dessert and the first dance. He looks up when the chatter around him seems to have ceased.
Abbot and Mohan have fucked off somewhere. He can see Dana trying to breathe life into Robby on the dance floor. The kid doctor is dancing with his baby in his arms. It's admittedly a charming image until it’s obstructed by a small waist draped in turquoise. She’s reaching for her little purse on the table when he catches her eye.
“Hi, I'm Emma,” he thinks she says with a little wave. He has to read her lips over the music booming through lossy speakers. He already knows her name, so he nods.
“Brendon,” he says, in case she didn't spot his place card.
He watches with some interest as she circles the table to replace Walsh in the seat next to him. Sets her purse down on the table like she’s planning on staying.
“How long have you been at PTMC?” he asks.
She has a resting smile. It’s a rare sight in his field. “Since July,” she half-shouts.
Brendon casts around his mind for wedding small talk shit. It's an atrophied part of his brain. He hasn't needed to flex it in ages, most of his friends had gotten married ten years ago now. He's certain the only reason why he got an invite was the longevity of his professional relationship with Garcia. He is a little surprised that this new nurse is here, though. Garcia hasn't ever mentioned her.
“You've grown close to Dr. Santos, then?” he says. It seems like a decent icebreaker. He's almost impressed with himself. Christ, he's bored if he's grading his social interactions in real time like this.
Emma laughs as she responds. She has a bright smile, but her voice doesn't beam quite as far.
“I'm sorry?” he says. He leans in, and she mirrors him.
“Oh, I'm Dana's date,” she says into his ear. Christ, she's got a cartoon kitten sort of voice. Like she's seconds away from telling him, great job! for learning a new word in French.
“So you've grown close to Dana.”
She says something he can't catch again. He bows his head, and she raises her voice.
“Sorry—I just said ‘I hope so’. She's wonderful.”
“You can learn a lot from her,” he tells Emma. Dana was one of the few people he'd trust with his life in that godforsaken ED.
Emma keeps her head close to his this time. “I already am. I will.”
“Good.”
He's about to pull away when she says, “Do you dance?”
Brendon looks at her. “Fuck no.”
Her eyes widen. And then she presses her fist against her mouth as she clearly giggles. He can't hear it. He wonders what it sounds like, and then wonders why that fucking matters.
Emma leans forward on her elbows on the table. Draws him in again. He probably looks like he's bowing in goddamn prayer at this point, folding in half to hear her kitten voice. See, he went to fucking church.
“So I shouldn't bother asking you to dance?” she calls.
“No,” he says. It sounds a little short, so he tries again. “Go dance with your friends.”
“But then you'll be all alone.”
She sounds genuinely upset at the prospect. She's teaching me a lesson in friendship, he thinks, amused. Don't leave anyone behind. Reach out. Smile and participate.
“I'm going to get a coffee,” he tells her. “Go have fun.”
She says something small again. He’s already on his feet and would have to get on his knees to hear her at this point, so he just nods at her before he goes. It’s the same nod he gave her earlier. Did you fucking hear me? Yes? Fine. That’s fucking fine.
It's shit catering coffee. He takes gulps instead of sips. Just needs the caffeine to get home. They’re out in the boonies at some farm that Santos’s roommate owned or something.
He observes. It’s a slow song. People revealed a lot of themselves in ballads.
Emma’s dancing with Dana. Laughing as she rests her head on Dana's shoulder. She twirls Dana around, and he can tell she's trying to convince Dana to let her dip the woman. He laughs to himself. Goddamn sunshine. Makes sense that she’s only been working since July.
He checks the Nuggets score. A couple of minutes to go to halftime. Good, he’ll be home by the start of the fourth with a lead foot. He tosses back the last dregs of coffee, and looks at her again.
Her head is back on Dana's shoulder. Eyes closed, smiling. Fucking go, he tells himself. He's prowled long enough. He crushes the paper cup in his hand. And as if on cue, Emma's eyes open, meeting his.
It's a drawn-out note. Romantic vibrato, in the foggy lights. And for a brief moment she's smiling at him, but it's a leftover smile from her moment with Dana. The paper in his hand is warm, damp. Pushing between his fingers. And her smile shivers. Her eyes drop, lips pressing together like she's been caught. But he knows. It's him who's been caught in the headlights.
He tosses the unrecognizable crumple of paper into the nearest bin. This was as good a sign as any to leave.
The fall night air is a welcome reprieve. The starry sky is a brilliant goddamn custom creation out here in farmland. His dress shoes crunch the gravel driveway beneath his feet as he double checks his sports coat pockets. Phone, keys, wallet. He squints in the darkness at the haphazard makeshift parking lot. They needed a floodlight out here. Doesn't help that his car is black.
“You're leaving?” a sweet voice calls behind him.
Christ. He almost wishes he was nicer to Walsh earlier so he left with her instead. Or maybe less nice to Emma, to scare her off properly. He turns.
She's wearing the skinny sort of heels, the ones that are shit for your ankles. Slipping on the pebbles as she tries to make her way over to him with haste, like she needs to stop him from making a mistake. He can't stand watching an injury waiting to happen, so he goes to her. Offers an arm for her to steady herself.
“Thank you, Brendon.” She's breathless from dancing. Her curls sticking to her temple. Maybe that’s why she’s not too cold out here in her dress. “You're leaving so early.”
“I don't dance. Wedding’s over.”
“They haven't cut the cake.”
Brendon had seen the cake at the reception. It was a goddamn princess cake. Light, pistachio-colored marzipan, expertly crafted dome, a little figurine of a couple on top instead of the pink rose. He hadn't clocked Garcia as a snob in Swedish patisserie as well as surgical blades. He only knew what it was because Walsh liked to watch the Great British Bake Off after sex. Chill and Netflix, she called it.
“I don't care for cake,” he says.
Emma snorts a laugh. “What do you like, Brendon?”
It's teasing, sure, but it's not sneering. She says it like she wants to be invited in on the joke instead of telling it. She was a nice girl. Good and decent. He wonders how honest he should be. What kind of good girl she was.
“Sushi's good,” he says after a beat.
She smiles at him. This one is surely for him. “I agree. Is that where you're going?”
“I'm going to catch the end of the Nuggets game,” he says, unsure if that's interesting to her.
“Oh.” She lights up. “What's the score? They're playing the Rockets, right?”
“Mhmm.” Interesting. “We're up by four.”
“‘We’,” she repeats with a laugh. “You boys always act like you're a sixth man on the team.”
He's amused. “‘Boys’?”
She seems a little abashed. Looks somewhere to the left of his shoulder as she hugs her elbows. Maybe she’s getting cold feet. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be insulting."
“You weren't.” He thinks she's still in the early stages of enmeshing herself into a new workplace. Trying not to step on anyone's toes. “You can relax. You don't need to get on my good side.”
“Um.” Emma shrugs a shoulder. “I mean, I'd want to get on anyone's good side.”
“Don't worry about it, you're already there.” He means it broadly, and she seems to take it as such. Though she does look at him again; albeit briefly, before her eyes slide back to the middle distance.
He decides this means he can leave. She's cute and not draining to talk to, but he's had enough of this day and wants to go pull a decent espresso shot from his machine at home to get this shitty coffee taste from his mouth.
“I'm going to head out, but I'll walk you back in,” he says, offering his arm again.
Emma seems a little confused. “It's alright. I mean, I can see the door.”
Maybe she thought he was white knighting warding off danger. He supposes he's still white knighting in a way. “Don't want you twisting your ankle.”
“I'm not drunk.”
Christ, just let me. He gives her a pointed look, like he can threaten her into accepting his goddamn chivalry. And she does, placing a small hand at his elbow.
“Thank you, Brendon,” she says politely.
“Mhmm.”
They don't quite reach the eye line of the door before she grinds to a halt. He glances at her. She's biting her lip. Shivering a little now in the chill.
“It's just that I don't really know anyone in there,” she blurts out.
Brendon stops himself from pointing out that she doesn't know anyone out here either. He just wants to get on the road. “You seemed like you were having fun,” he says, to get her off the ramp.
“I guess so. So you were watching me, Brendon.”
Her voice is shaky, whether from cold or jangly nerves he couldn't say, but she says it. Christ.
“You're very cute,” he says, with more care and caution than usual. Withholding a curse or two. Being goddamn respectful, because she's a lot more delicate than his usual.
“‘Cute’?” she repeats. She sounds disappointed. He wasn't aware he was being graded. Fine, he'll lay out a rubric.
Brendon pushes with the contact she's still making to his arm. Angling her to catch the loud light streaming from the wedding reception to look at her properly; her mouth is open. Surprise that he'd manipulate her body like this. “Why, what do you want? You want to know if you're fucking pretty in your pretty little dress? If I'd fuck you, princess?”
“Oh.” It's an involuntary squeak. He thought so. Poor baby.
“You're very fucking pretty, Emma.” He'll let her absorb this knowledge overnight. “Have fun. I'll see you at work.”
“What about—” Christ, she's shivering. Tripping over her words. At least her ankles are okay. “Don't leave.”
She's going to need to be more verbal than this. “Why not? You think I'd fuck you here in this barn?”
Emma can't even look at him. Goose flesh peeking through the flimsy chiffon over her tits. “It's a wedding,” she mumbles.
He laughs. “You wanted a goddamn wedding hookup?”
“Isn't that a thing?”
“Christ, sure. Not for you.”
She finally turns to him. “Why not? What are you implying?”
“It's just not for you.” She's fucking sweet tea. “I can tell.”
“You don't know me,” she says, trembling and annoyed.
“Mhmm.”
“Would you fuck Dr. Walsh here?” Emma asks. Well, that's bolder than black tea, he'd give her that.
“Maybe. If she asked.”
“Okay.” Her fingers squeeze a little numbly on his elbow. “I'm asking.”
He smiles at her. She really is very cute. “I'm not fucking you here, princess.”
“Then what—” She blows out a breath of frustration. It mists in the air past her lips. She's pouting. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”
He's enjoying this. “Christ, you a spoiled brat or something? Is princess used to getting everything she wants?”
“I'm not—” Her hand leaves him. She even pushes him a little as she departs, even if he isn't moved. “Do you want me to go ask someone else?”
They're swallowed in darkness and everyone is still inside celebrating; but anyone could walk out to see them. Fuck it. If memory serves, he likes spoiling brats. If this is what she wants, she can get it.
He leans down. Cradles her jaw with both hands, tilts her face up, and kisses her.
To Emma's credit, it only takes a second for her to kiss back. She's eager and a little clumsy with it. Like she doesn't know what to do with her own tongue when he licks into her mouth.
Brendon pinches the outline of her nipple between his fingers when he pulls back. She gasps.
“I'll do you one better,” he says. She's blushing. What a sweetheart. “Come home with me.”
“I—I came here with Dana. I—I'd have to tell her.”
Emma's teeth are chattering. He considers giving her his jacket. It's got too many important things in it. And she can't march in wearing his coat. It'd be like she's wearing his clan colors. Telling everyone who she belonged to. Walsh would pitch a fit; she's a hypocrite when it comes to sharing, so he limits himself to her at PTMC. And he doesn't think he's ready to give up their easy mutual satisfaction yet, because that sort of thing is usually such a fucking chore to find.
“Hurry up,” he says instead. “Tell Dana you don't feel well. And I'm giving you a ride home since I have to go anyway.”
“Okay, Brendon.” She sounds giddy. Christ. “I'll be right back.”
She flounces away. Turquoise skirt flowing behind her. Well, shit. Maybe she was sweet tea, with a twist of fucking lemon.
Emma doesn't seem to hurry. Halftime is well underway by the time she walks out with a click click of her heels. She's holding a paper box in her hands.
“What's that?”
“They cut the cake, Dana made me take some.”
“Like an NYC slice to-go?” he says, amused. “Come on, princess cake.”
He turns on sports radio for the drive. He can tell she's listening. Following. “You a Rockets fan?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I grew up in the Bay Area with two older brothers and the Warriors.”
Brendon chuckles. “Do you even remember the ‘We Believe’ era? Or were you born in the fucking dynasty?”
Emma scoffs. “I'm not twelve years old, Brendon. I know who Jason Richardson is.”
“Well, shit.” Good girl. “Did you play?”
“Mhmm. Point guard.”
He laughs again. “Floor general? With that voice?”
“What do you mean?” she says, pure innocence.
He glances at her. Her teeth are gleaming in the car. Princess has irreverence.
“Let's be honest, it was high school,” she says. “The coach was yelling the plays. Did you play basketball?”
He remembers to ease off the pedal. It's nothingness all around them, but he's got someone else in the car. Someone with lots of goddamn life left in them. “Basketball, football, wrestling.”
“When did you have time to study?”
“Didn't need to,” he says honestly.
She giggles for some reason. Oh, that's what that shit sounded like. Christ, he's been missing out. He nearly turns down the volume of the car speakers to listen better, like he was looking for a goddamn house number on the street.
“Life just handed you brains and brawn and you call me spoiled?”
“Never said I wasn't spoiled,” Brendon says. “I am used to getting everything I want.”
Her hand slips onto his arm resting on the center console. Her small fingers are still a little cold, even though he's got the seats heating. “How long have you wanted me?"
He half-smiles. “Since you wouldn't leave me alone.”
“No one should be alone at a party,” Emma says, like she truly believes it.
“I've got goddamn Princess Diana in my car.”
She's running her fingers over the creases in the material of his shirt. He likes the absentminded sort of touch. He thinks she's listening to the game again until she speaks up.
“Are you going to ask how long I've wanted you?”
His hand drifts to her knee. He lifts the material of her dress aside so he can grasp her bare thigh. Soft skin over firm muscle. Perfect. “Go ahead.”
“Since my first day in July.”
This surprises him. “Really now.”
He remembers that day. Waterslide, computers down. He doesn't recall seeing Emma that day. He remembers her over time, because he knows Dana, and he can recognize fucking patterns. It didn't escape his notice that a new, pretty girl was hovering around Dana lately whenever he headed down to the Pitt.
“Tonight was the first time I had a real excuse to talk to you,” Emma says. Her voice is catching. He becomes aware that his hand has bunched up her dress high, very high. He's pushed that damn cake box out of her lap, hoping she's still hanging onto it somewhere and that it's not smeared all over the detailed interior of his Lucid. He stretches his hand, and his ring finger brushes along the seam of her slippery underwear at the crease of her thigh. “Oh gosh,” she says, like she fucking goes to church.
“And you took that opportunity, hmm, princess? Good girl.”
Her legs part at his words. Giving him access.
“Christ, you're a good girl,” he mutters. Where have you fucking been? He hadn't been looking for her, he supposes. His eyes are still on the road. He removes his hand, pulls the skirt of her dress back down to her knees. She makes a noise of protest.
“Can't fuck you if we're dead,” he reminds her.
“How much longer?” she says. A whine and a half.
That was up to her, really. He just turns up the radio. Drowning out the distractions. He wants the air of the cabin to be thick with the scent of her cunt, but there is a time and place for all wants. He wanted espresso first. A shot to the brain, viscera on the floor, and then he can indulge.
Brendon turns on the game. Damn near end of the fourth. She took some time. Whatever.
“Sit.”
Emma perches on his sofa. Reaches down to undo the straps of her heels, and then tucks her feet up like she’s nesting. He doesn’t mind. She has a little silver toe ring. He bends to kiss her again. Her lip gloss is fruit-sticky. Pushes at the strap of her dress so it slips down her shoulder. She giggles into his mouth.
“How do you like your espresso, pretty girl?” he murmurs, massaging her jawbone with his palm.
“Do you have oat milk?”
He laughs. Pushes her down with the same palm. “No, princess, I don't have oat milk.”
She falls back onto the cushions with a little humph. Tugs her dress back in place. “I guess just by itself?”
He leans over her. Likes how she has to sink back to look up at him. Kisses the tip of her nose for it. “How about I make you an Americano, and you can drink it with your dessert as a sweetener?"
“Mmm. Yes, please, Brendon.”
Fuck, he likes her. She's honey, not refined sugar. All natural, baby. He's had girls who put their whole back into trying to be this coquettish. And he made them cry their goddamn lashes off if they fluttered them at him instead of coming harder, uglier. Choked them to get their real voice out of their throats instead of fucking mews two octaves higher than what he just heard an hour ago at dinner. I'm not fucking a character, he's told them with a growl. Be whatever you goddamn want to be, but if I'm fucking you, I'm fucking you raw. It's why he's stuck with Walsh for so long. She's just as abrasive underneath him as she is in the OR. Goads him with scratches on his back, a fuck you cut to his jaw if he doesn't let her come, a gorgeous snarl when he did.
He lets out steam from the espresso machine.
“I like that they added coach's challenges, but it's dragging out the ends of games even longer, you know?” Emma says conversationally from the sofa.
“I do know.” Christ, he wouldn't mind just having her over to watch basketball games. This was a football, hockey, baseball town. And he's grown to like Bake Off fine, but maybe it was because he only watched it cunt-drunk. He pours her drink into a mug, pulls a small fork from the drawer to pair with her box of cake.
“Ooo, thank you, Brendon,” she says as she accepts her little delivery.
“Mhmm.” He fetches his own coffee, and finally sits down to relax next to her. He's long ripped off his tie, but he undoes another button on his shirt as yet another foul is called. He savors the first sip of coffee. Floral notes with this one. He'll need to get this bean again.
Emma pops open the container. He watches her first bite. Smiles to himself when her eyes close, and she almost goddamn moans.
“Good?” he says, imagining the cream spreading on her tongue, the roof of her mouth.
“So good. Do you want a bite?”
“It's yours. Enjoy it.”
She alternates a bite of sweetness, a drag of bitter, as the clock runs down. He strokes her thigh with his free hand. Fingering the chiffon of her dress. She's buzzing under his touch. From the espresso. Looks at him with pretty eyes as she licks the fork clean of cream.
“Good girl,” he says, and she glows.
He pulls the strap off her shoulder again when she sets the empty box on his coffee table. Feels for the zipper on her side, pulls it down her bare ribs. No bra. Christ, she had faith in this dress. He sets his coffee down as he curls an arm around her waist to haul her in his lap, get a nipple in his mouth.
“Let's fucking go,” he says suddenly as she gasps. Buzzer beater three.
Emma twists around, her dress puddled around her hips. “Foot on the line.”
“What?” He sits up, shifts her weight so he can see over her shoulder. She whimpers at the press of his cock between her legs.
“Oh, you're so hard already,” she says, almost in disbelief.
He snorts a quiet laugh. “What are you surprised about, princess?” He fills his palm with her tit, squeezing. Licks her nipple again. “You've seen yourself. You fucking know.”
“I haven't—” She draws a shuddering breath as he grinds her down onto his lap. “I haven't really touched you—you're watching the game—”
“Are you a goddamn virgin?”
She wraps her arms around his neck to hang on. “No.”
“What fucking boys have you been with,” he mutters, more to himself. Like she needed to fucking touch, when she can just tuck her body onto his couch like she's giggling in her goddamn house to make blood rush to his dick. He's lifting her hair from her neck to suck at the skin there when he notices a tip off jump ball on the screen. “Christ, overtime, really?”
“Told you,” she says. He smacks her ass, grabbing a fistful of smug fucking girl as she yelps.
“How’d you even see that? You’ve been looking at me.”
Her hands run down his shoulders, chest, to tackle the rest of the buttons of his shirt. “That guy’s foot is always on the line,” she says. “He'd probably have a thousand more career points if he just wore a smaller shoe size.”
He’s impressed probably to the point of misogyny, fuck. Or maybe it was his bias against Warriors fans, but they usually couldn't name shit past their own starting five. “Do you have League Pass or something?”
“Mhmm.” She pulls at his collared shirt and he obliges, leaning forward so they can free his arms. “I haven't really made friends yet since moving, so my nights are pretty much whatever's on League Pass."
Poor baby, he thinks again. She's probably never been bereft of friends in her life. He thinks he knows another way for her to fill her time.
“Lift up your arms,” Brendon says. She obeys, and the dress is gone. Pretty fucking girl. She's just in a thong. It looks a size too small. It's digging into her skin, rubbing it red. It can't be comfortable. He hooks a finger beneath the elastic to bring some relief. “What do you want, princess?”
“Um.” She looks at the ceiling, as if for inspiration. He's amused.
“Just name one thing,” he offers. “I can even take you home right now if you want.”
Her chin drops down. “You're serious?”
Christ, they're strangers. “I'm only serious.”
She has a hand at the collar of his undershirt, fingers curled around the neck. Probably stretching it out. He can admonish her for it later. “So you just…take girls here and make them coffee and then give them a ride home?”
He raises a brow. “If that's what they want.”
“So you give girls what they want.”
Brendon smiles. Snaps the elastic of her thong back so it stings the crease of her thigh and she shudders. “Princess gets it.”
She bites her lip as she thinks. He rubs his hands over her hips and thighs. Soothing, in case she's spooked. Maybe it's sunk in more now that her dress is off, her skin exposed. That he'd fuck her if she simply asked for it with some goddamn specificity. She takes a shallow breath.
“I want you inside me,” she mumbles.
“Speak up, the game’s on.”
“Get inside me,” Emma tells him. Louder, less patient. He smirks.
“Okay, baby, I'll get inside you.”
She finally lets go of his collar. Fumbles at his belt, and he takes care of his shirt for her. He thinks she likes the way he’s built from the way her eyes widen. He smiles at her. Swipes a finger over the seam of her cunt.
“Christ, you’ve soaked this through.” He rubs her clit through the gusset of her thong and she moans, her hands faltering a little at his slacks. “Can’t wait to taste you.”
Emma makes a little desperate noise in her throat at this promise. Threat, maybe, in her mind. She shifts her shaky weight from knee to knee so he can get her underwear off. He tucks it in his pocket before pushing off his slacks.
“Um,” she says, her eyes on the lace peeking out. “Am I getting that back?”
“No. Doesn't fit you anyway.”
She sighs. “That’s true.”
He chuckles. She seems more relaxed now that they’re in equal states of undress. Runs his hands all over her as she falls forward to kiss him, her tongue more sure now. He likes how squirmy she is. The ripple of fat and muscle under his touch. Sweetheart in the flesh. She whines as the wet seam of her cunt finds his cock. He grunts. Shoves a hand between them to angle his dick to catch on her entrance at the next little twitch of her hips. Grips her waist hard to keep her still as he crowds the head of his cock into her.
Emma yelps as she breaks off their kiss. “Fuck!” she hisses. She’s really shaking now. Her hands scrabbling a little at his shoulders, trying to push off, but he’s got a good hold on her. He wraps some of her hair around his fist.
“Princess wanted me inside her,” he reminds her. She feels fucking good. Tight and weeping.
“Fuck, Brendon,” she says with a whimper. She tries to shake her head, her cunt clenching, but he squeezes his hand to pull at her scalp. Her hand pushes weakly at his sternum one more time. “Wasn’t ready.”
“Hmm.” He lets go of her waist. She’s splayed out helplessly around him, she’s not going anywhere. Presses his thumb at her bottom lip. “Suck, baby.”
She’s looking at him with watery eyes like he’s betrayed her. He wants to laugh. Poor, pretty baby. As if she would have gotten all the leisurely foreplay in the world if she got the goddamn dirty barn wedding hookup she was begging for.
“Suck, Emma.” He flexes his hips. It is a threat. Her body jerks again with another little cry. And she obeys. “Good fucking girl. I’ll show you what’s good.”
He pulls his thumb from her mouth. She pinches her eyes shut and turns her face when he rubs at her swollen flesh above where they’re joined with his wet thumb. Lazy, exploratory touch. She’s worked up from the shock to her system. Nerve endings alight. She seems to like pressure to the side of her clit from the way little whimpering moans start seeping past her lips. She bears down when he finds a good rhythm, taking another inch of his cock inside her. He noses her cheek. She looks back at him. What? her little pout seems to ask. Turns out I do like it, so what? He grins.
“Mhmm. I knew you could take it.”
He keeps his thumb moving. Kisses her shoulder when her arms wrap around his neck again as she drops her hips.
“Christ, baby,” he says through gritted teeth. Looks over her shoulder at the TV to clear his head. She feels too good. Sounds too goddamn sweet as she works herself onto his cock until she's flush with his thighs. He extracts his hand from between her legs, brings her to lay on his chest. Pats her neck. “Stay there for me.”
Emma squirms. Tries to get an angle to rub her clit on him. He seizes her hips.
“I told you to stay. Fucking stay.”
“But—”
“What, you want to come? You said ‘get inside me’. It's in there, isn't it?”
Emma protests. Her thighs are trembling from strain. He loosens his hold on her hips, strokes her legs.
“Just relax, baby. Put your weight on me. There you go. Good girl. Just a minute left.”
“Of what?” she whispers.
Brendon laughs. Curls an arm around her. They can goddamn cuddle. “Overtime.”
She lifts her head. “I want to watch if you're watching,” she whines.
He slaps her ass with his free hand and she chokes out a moan in his ear. “You can listen, princess. Keep warming my cock.”
She rests her head back down on his shoulder. “What if I don't want to?” she mumbles.
“Then tell me, baby, I'll only give you what you want.”
Emma stays quiet. He smiles, nuzzling her hair during a timeout. Tells her she's being good, her cunt quietly clenching around him. A steady leak of her. He occasionally reaches down, smearing it around just to feel it. Brings his fingers back to suck them clean. She whimpers.
“What do I taste like?” Her voice is honey-thick, cock-drunk already.
“Better than princess fucking cake, I'm sure.” He groans as he strokes the bottom of his cock that she can't quite fit inside her. The delicious goddamn sound of her arousal. He'll need to fuck her soon. This game better not go to fucking double OT. “Want to try?”
“Mhmm.”
He taps her jaw. “Open.” Slides his fingers on her tongue when she does.
Emma hums. “It's alright. I'm glad you like it.”
There's something about her assessment that makes his shoulders shake in laughter. Maybe because it seemed like he was sharing a favorite dish and she was being polite about not enjoying it as much as he did. He likes her honesty. That's all he wants, he thinks. An earnest fuck, without airs. He can't help but thrust into her a little, and Emma curses. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. His restraint is cracking. They're up by four again. Four seconds left.
“Brendon.”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I want to come.”
“You will.”
Her hand sneaks into his hair. She gives it a rather experimental tug. Like she's trying to figure out what she can get away with. “Now, Brendon.”
“Two seconds. They're inbounding.”
“But Brendon—”
Christ. He slaps her ass again to quiet her. It's a goddamn mistake; it makes her clench, body shuddering as she moans his name instead of whining it. Fuck it. He hitches her legs around his waist, staying snugly inside her as he stands.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” She sounds mildly panicked as he starts walking them to his bed, nearly choking him with her arms as she clings to him like this was somehow unsafe. He'd roll his eyes if he weren't so wrecked. He thinks he curls with more weight than her.
Emma fully yelps when he does lift her off his cock. He deposits her on her back on the bed, and then slides himself back home before either of them could mourn the loss for too long.
“Christ, baby.” His vision is already blacking out. He's painfully hard. Pulls almost all the way out so he can properly fuck back into her. A sting in his scalp as she pulls his hair in retaliation, her sobbing moans echoing in his ears. “What do you want, baby, tell me. Talk to me.”
She's babbling. “Fuck me, please just fuck me, Brendon—”
“What do you think I'm fucking doing?” he snarls. He hauls up her hips, folds forward to push her knees to her chest. Her breath is ragged. The scent of her cunt stirred with every thrust, infecting his brain. “You want to come?”
“Oh gosh.” He'd examine this later, how she carefully avoids taking God’s name in vain in the breaths between her begging to be fucked. “Yes, I'm so close—”
He grabs her right wrist, shoves it between them. “Then do it.”
“Oh, oh, I—” Another high-pitched whine. “I only use a vibrator at home,” she says in a rush. “I don't—”
“Christ, princess.” He pulls out, and pitches her on her hands and knees. Piles his cock back inside her before she can complain too much. She collapses onto her elbows with a sob when he gets his fingers on each side of her clit. How was it that he knew how to touch her better than she knew how to touch herself?
Brendon decides this doesn't fucking bother him when she starts to come around his cock. Impossibly tight, hot, loudly wet and trembling. Christ, it's building. He watches it roll like thunder through her entire body, groaning as he fucks her through it.
“Going to fucking come,” he grits out.
She just cries harder in response. Shoves back with her hips to take him, her cunt sucking him in.
“Good fucking girl—fuck—”
His hands circle her waist as he fills her. He wants it deep inside her. He wants her to leak him for hours, long after the tears in her eyes have dried. He’s fucking sick with it. Maybe he can even get her to curse God one day.
He collapses next to her on the bed, sweat-slick and numb. Emma's making pathetic little sounds with every twitch of her body. Her hand flops onto his collarbone. He thinks he knows her better now. That's like her pressing the stop request button on a bus. He lifts her hair from where it's plastered to her face, stuck in her mouth. She squirms, rubbing her sticky thighs together.
“Does princess need to come again?” he says, hoarse.
“Yes,” she moans, her cheeks shining with tears.
“Relax, baby.” He rolls her onto her back, tucking this hand between her legs. “I'm right here.”
Her entire body recoils from his touch. She's oversensitive. He hushes her. Moves down the bed to use his mouth instead. Kitten licks to the spill.
“Please, Brendon.”
He eases a finger inside her twitching hole. “What are you still begging for? You're getting it. You've been getting it.”
“Because you like it,” she says, tossing her head back into his pillow. Inhales shakily as he crooks his finger inside her. It's soaked in his cum. Makes a wet, sucking sound. “You like it when I beg.”
“Christ.” Smart, altruistic. What else could the people want in a princess?
“And I want it. Fuck, Brendon, what do you taste like?” Her back arches off the bed. “Come in my mouth next time.”
“Beg,” he growls.
“Please come in my mouth next time.”
“Good girl.” He presses the flat of his tongue to her. Keeps it tender, ginger strokes of his finger inside her until he feels her tip over. It's not an ear-pounding, lightning-splitting affair this time. She tenses, crystalline, and then spreads out like caramel with a soft moan.
He gathers her limp, satisfied body to him after. Kisses the salt stain at the corner of her eye. She hums sleepily as he soothes circles into her back.
“‘Next time’ can be in a few minutes if you want, Emma.”
“Oh gosh.” Her shoulders slump. Her lips are smeared at his throat. “I want to—but I'm sore.”
He runs his hand from her back to the curve of her ass. The skin is reddened there from all the contact from his palm and fingers. He had a feeling from the start that she didn't have the stamina yet. The pliability from raw, repeated fucking. She probably had only been with boys.
“I don't need to be in your cunt. Just your mouth.”
“Can I—” She falters. He pulls back to look at her. She seems embarrassed.
“Go ahead, baby. Tell me what you want.”
“I was just gonna say…I wanted to sleep first.” She blinks, takes a breath. “But I don't want to presume.”
She didn't seem to have as much issue with presumptions earlier, though he supposes this was some line in the sand for her. He considers this. Walsh rarely slept over, she didn't like getting ready in the morning away from all her shit. But Walsh also didn't want to try so hard to please him. They already got what they needed out of each other without a thought behind it. Christ, this is the first time in a while that Brendon's thought about what he well and truly wants, and not just the base desires that he fulfills for others or are already granted to him.
“We can sleep first, Emma,” he says quietly. Tucks her hair back from her relieved, shining eyes. “Do you want a shirt?”
He goes to turn off the TV while she uses the bathroom. The post game show is still on, and goddamn it, they somehow lost in those two goddamn seconds he missed. He tosses the remote back on the coffee table. It lands next to her little beaded purse and open cake box. Empty, save for a little dollop of cream.
He's not sure what possesses him. Whether it's divine or not. But he scoops up the cream with his finger, brings it to his tongue, and yeah, he's fucking sure.
He picks up his slacks from the floor, her wet panties in the pocket.
His princess tastes fucking better.