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DRAWN TO YOU - e.prentiss x female reader

PREMISE: You, a younger artist, surprise your older girlfriend Emily Prentiss with a secret portrait you’ve spent weeks creating, capturing her as you truly see her — tender, strong, and completely loved. The vulnerability in that moment leads to a deep, intimate confession of feelings between you both. The emotional high turns physical, with Emily taking you to bed.

WARNINGS: established relationship, possessive dominance, cockwarming, face-fucking/deepthroating, intense size kink, pussy worship, filthy dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (reader receiving), rough, messy sex, heavy breeding kink (explicit talk of filling, cumming inside, and owning reader’s pussy), intense orgasm descriptions, soft possessiveness/obsessive language (“mine,” “so tight for me,” “gonna breed you”), mild degradation (filthy teasing and verbal ownership), breast play (squeezing, biting, bouncing), cumplay (inside reader, on cock, implied cum dripping), explicit aftercare including bath-running, cleaning each other, dressing, and emotional tenderness post-scene, confessions of love, soft sleepy cuddling, and hints of deepening emotional intimacy.

WORD COUNT: 5.6K

A/N: requested ; hope this is what you had in mind ?! emily deserves to be cherished, istg

NAVIGATION

The morning light poured lazily through the half-open curtains, casting a warm, amber glow across the bedroom and catching in the threads of dust that hung suspended in the still air. It was one of those rare mornings where the world outside felt like it had forgotten about the two of you.

No buzzing phones, no early briefings, no calls to action. Just the quiet hush of an empty house and the steady, soothing rise and fall of Emily’s chest beneath your cheek.

You lay curled against her, head pillowed on her bare shoulder, the familiar scent of her skin wrapping around you like a blanket. It was a mixture of clean cotton, remnants of last night’s perfume, and something inherently Emily: warm, grounding, intoxicating in a way no bottled fragrance could ever hope to mimic. The steady beat of her heart thudded beneath your ear, and you closed your eyes for a moment, soaking in the simple, overwhelming rightness of it.

God, you loved her. Not in the careless, flippant way you’d loved people before, not in fleeting crushes or easy, uncomplicated flings.

No.

Loving Emily was a visceral, bone-deep thing. It lived in the spaces between heartbeats, in the brush of her fingers down your back, in the gruff tenderness she tried so hard to disguise with teasing and sarcasm. She wasn’t always easy to love; sharp-edged, guarded, fiercely independent, but she was yours. And you were hers. It was the only thing in your life you were ever truly, utterly certain of.

You lifted your head, watching the way the sunlight caught in the strands of her dark hair, the occasional streak of soft silver gleaming like threads of silk. Her face was softened in sleep, those usually intense, calculating eyes closed, lips parted just slightly.

You reached out, fingertips brushing lightly along the line of her jaw, and your chest ached with how much you adored her. Every hard-earned smile, every protective glance, every moment she let her guard down just for you.

And this morning, you’d finally get to show her.

For weeks now, you’d been working in secret. Stealing late-night hours in your studio, slipping away while she was at work or still asleep, pouring every inch of your love for her onto the canvas. You’d tried to capture her the way you saw her ... Not just as the commanding, intimidating Unit Chief with her tailored suits and her don’t-fuck-with-me stare, but as the woman who held you close in the dark, who made coffee for you half-dressed in the morning, who looked at you sometimes like you were the only thing anchoring her to this goddamn world.

You’d painted the curve of her mouth, the thoughtful crease of her brow, the warmth in those dark, unreadable eyes when she let you see it. Every stroke of the brush had been an act of devotion, a thousand unsaid confessions you didn’t always know how to articulate out loud. And now it was finished — waiting just downstairs in your studio, propped against the wall, wrapped in brown paper because you’d been too nervous to frame it before she saw it.

Your stomach fluttered, a mixture of nerves and excitement. You’d never felt this vulnerable before. Not with any of your work, and certainly not with anyone else. But this was Emily. If anyone deserved to be seen the way you saw them, it was her.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then another to the curve of her throat. She stirred with a soft, gravelly hum, her arm tightening around you instinctively.

“Mornin’, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, and you smiled against her skin.

“Morning,” you whispered. “I… I have something for you.”

Emily cracked one eye open, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah? And here I thought you were the present.”

You snorted, shoving lightly at her shoulder. “I’m serious.”

That got her attention. Both eyes opened now, still heavy-lidded but alert. She searched your face, reading you the way only she could, her teasing slipping into something softer. “What’s going on?”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure she could feel it. You took a breath. “Just… come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

Emily stretched, her hand sliding down your back to palm your ass in a way that made you roll your eyes despite yourself. “Only if I get to fuck you after.”

“Deal,” you grinned, and she laughed, the sound low and easy.

You tugged the sheet around yourself and led her down to the studio, your fingers laced tightly with hers. The room still smelled like turpentine and oils, the canvas waiting against the far wall, the brown paper hiding it from view. You hesitated a moment, nerves making your stomach flutter.

Emily stepped closer, her hand cradling the back of your neck. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Whatever this is, I already love it.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I’ve been working on it for weeks. I… I wanted to give you something that showed how I see you. How much I—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Just… look.”

You peeled the paper away, letting it fall to the floor. The portrait stared back at the both of you. It was of Emily caught in a moment of stillness, her eyes so impossibly soft, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips. The colours were warm, the light catching in her hair, the shadows wrapping around her like an embrace. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Real.

Emily didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the painting, jaw tight. Then she let out a breath, almost a laugh, and pulled you hard against her, burying her face in your hair.

“Jesus, baby,” she murmured, voice rough. “Nobody’s ever… fuck.” She cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were shining, the intensity of her emotions barely contained. “I love you so goddamn much.”

Your breath caught, and you kissed her. Hard, desperate, every unspoken thing passing between your mouths. When you pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots.

“I just… wanted you to know,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Emily murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “But this… fuck, sweetheart. This means more than you’ll ever understand.”

And in that sun-drenched studio, with the scent of oil paint hanging in the air and her arms around you, you felt it. That rare, precious, unshakeable kind of love. The kind people spend their whole lives chasing.

And it was yours.

Emily didn’t let you go for a long time.

Her hands were firm, palms broad and a little rough against your skin as she held your face, eyes locked onto yours like she couldn’t bear to look away. The kind of stare that made your stomach swoop, like the floor had just dropped out from beneath you, even though you knew damn well you were safe in her arms.

She’d always had that effect on you — even after all this time, still making your heart race like a teenage crush.

She thumbed softly at your cheek, her touch so tender it made your throat go tight.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” Emily said, voice quiet, a little hoarse. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You smiled, tears threatening at the edges of your eyes, and you leaned into her touch, kissing the heel of her hand. “I think I do,” you whispered. “I feel it every time you look at me.”

Emily let out a soft, shaky breath, her mouth tugging into that half-smile you’d fallen headfirst for — crooked, a little self-conscious in moments like this when she wasn’t hiding behind her usual bravado. She glanced back at the painting, and her fingers curled a little tighter against your waist.

“I’ve had people try to capture me before,” she murmured. “Photographers. Sketch artists. Press at the Bureau. Nobody’s ever… fuck, baby, you made me look like someone you could love.”

Your heart twisted at that. How could she not see it? How could she not know that every inch of her, every sharp line and scar and shadow, was beautiful to you? That you’d never loved anything or anyone so completely in your life?

You reached up, cupping her jaw, making her meet your gaze again. “I do love you. Every version of you. The one you show the world, the one you hide from them, the one you only let out when it’s just us. I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”

That made her laugh, soft and almost wet around the edges. She ducked her head, resting her forehead against yours, and for a moment you just stood there in the quiet of the studio — the morning light turning the room gold around you, dust motes hanging in the air, the scent of oil paint and old wood thick between you. It was a small, perfect moment you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

Emily’s hands slid down your sides, settling at your hips. Her thumbs rubbed slow, lazy circles against the thin cotton of the sheet you still had wrapped around yourself.

“I don’t deserve you,” she said after a long pause, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.

You frowned, pulling back just enough to catch her expression. There was no teasing there now, no flirtatious smirk. Just Emily — a little raw, a little uncertain, that guarded part of her cracking open in a way it only ever did when it was just the two of you.

“You deserve every goddamn thing I give you,” you told her, firm. “And you always will.”

A beat passed, and then she kissed you.

Not like earlier. Not teasing or playful. Not like a good morning or a promise for later. This kiss was deep, slow, a little desperate. The kind of kiss that said a thousand things neither of you were entirely brave enough to speak out loud. You let yourself sink into it, fingers curling into her hair, the familiar scrape of her jaw against your skin sending shivers down your spine.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Jesus,” she muttered, brushing her thumb over your swollen lower lip. “You ruin me.”

You smiled, dizzy and a little breathless, heart hammering behind your ribs. “Good.”

Emily grinned, then hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you easily, making you squeal in surprise. The sheet slipped from your shoulders as she carried you out of the studio, her mouth pressed hotly to your neck.

“I’m taking you back to bed,” she murmured against your skin, her voice rough and low. “You gave me a fucking portrait, baby. I’m gonna give you the kind of thank you that makes you forget your own name.”

Your stomach flipped, arousal coiling low in your belly at her tone, but even as desire lit up your nerves, you knew, knew without a doubt, that it wasn’t just about sex. That with Emily, it never was. Every kiss, every touch, every teasing threat was another way she told you she loved you. Another way she let herself be known.

And you would give her everything. Always.

Because she was yours. And you were hers.

Emily carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing, one strong arm under your thighs, the other cradling your back. Her mouth never stopped working against your skin.

Soft, wet kisses scattered along your jaw and neck, her teeth occasionally scraping just enough to make you shiver. Your body was already aching for her, your cunt slick and throbbing between your thighs, the air cool against the mess she was about to claim.

By the time she laid you out across the bed, you were trembling, your skin flushed, nipples tight and aching, your pussy already sticky and glistening with arousal.

You lay there naked for her, legs slightly parted, the slick between your folds catching the light. The sensitive, flushed lips of your pussy were so wet it felt obscene, your clit peeking out, swollen and desperate for attention.

Emily’s gaze dragged over you, hungry and possessive. The way her eyes settled between your legs made you burn. She reached down, palming the hard length of her cock through her briefs — the thick outline impossible to miss. You knew how it felt, how it filled you, stretched you so deep you could feel it for hours after. She was big, thick enough to make your throat tighten and your pussy ache in anticipation.

“Goddamn, look at you,” Emily rasped, tugging her briefs down. Her cock sprang free — long, veined, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered there. She stroked a hand along it lazily, watching you watch her.

Your mouth watered at the sight. You reached for her without thinking, wrapping your hand around the base, feeling the weight of it, the heat of her skin. She let out a low groan, her hips twitching against your grip.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” she muttered, leaning down to kiss you.

And fuck, she kissed you like she meant it. Deep and messy, teeth catching on your bottom lip, tongues tangling, a filthy, desperate kiss that left your head spinning.

Her hand slid up your body, calloused palm skimming over your breast, fingers pinching at your nipple until you whimpered into her mouth. She loved your tits, loved the way they filled her hands, loved the way your nipples peaked at the rough drag of her fingertips.

“God, these perfect fucking tits,” she groaned, leaning down to suck one into her mouth. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive bud before her teeth scraped against it, and your back arched off the bed.

“Emily,” you gasped, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, pulling back. “Keep those legs open for me, baby.”

Your cunt clenched at the order. She moved her hand between your thighs, parting your folds with practiced ease, two fingers gathering the slick coating your pussy.

She spread it up to your clit, circling slow, watching your face the whole time. The sensation was electric, the firm pressure against your swollen bud making you buck against her hand.

“So fucking wet for me,” she murmured. “This pretty little pussy’s drooling, baby.”

She slid two thick fingers inside you without warning, your cunt stretching around them, the wet, obscene sound filling the room. Your walls clenched down around her fingers, your arousal dripping down to coat your thighs. Emily worked them in deep, curling just right to brush against that spot that made you whimper.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” she growled. “Always so fucking good for me.”

Your hand found her cock again, stroking it slow and firm, your thumb swiping over the slick head. She hissed through her teeth, her hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, baby. You wanna taste it?”

You grinned up at her, biting your lip. “Yeah, Em. Let me suck your cock.”

Her eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at her mouth. She pulled her fingers from your cunt, making you moan at the sudden emptiness, and stroked them over your lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

You did, licking her fingers clean, tasting yourself on her skin. Emily groaned, her cock twitching in your hand.

“Get on your knees, baby.”

You slid off the bed, sinking to your knees on the floor as she stood at the edge, her cock heavy and flushed in front of your face. You leaned in, pressing soft kisses along the shaft, licking a long stripe from base to tip. She let out a low, wrecked sound, one hand threading into your hair.

“That’s it. Look at you,” she muttered, her voice rough, her gaze locked on yours. “Such a good girl for me.”

You wrapped your lips around the thick head, the taste of her making your pussy throb. You took her deeper, your mouth stretching around the girth, your throat working to take more. Emily groaned, her hand tightening in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, just like that. Gonna fuck this pretty little throat.”

You moaned around her, the vibration making her curse, and she started to rock her hips, fucking her cock into your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. Your throat stretched around the thick length, your eyes watering as you took her deeper, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

The burn, the fullness, the way she filled your mouth — it was everything. You gripped her hips, nails digging in, letting her use you, your pussy dripping onto the floor as she fucked your mouth. The obscene sounds of wet sucking and her low groans filled the room.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” Emily panted, sweat beading at her temple. “You take it so fucking good. Bet your pussy’s fucking gushing for me right now.”

It was. Slick was dripping down your thighs, your clit throbbing, your cunt clenching on nothing as you let her fuck your throat. And you loved it. Loved the possessiveness in her voice, the rough grip in your hair, the way her cock stretched your throat so deep you swore you could feel it in your chest.

You looked up at her, tears streaking your cheeks, and she groaned.

“Fucking perfect.”

Emily pulled her cock from your throat with a wet, obscene sound, a thick string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to her flushed, aching length. You gasped in a ragged breath, chest heaving, tears streaking your face, your pussy throbbing so hard it hurt. She looked down at you, dark eyes blown wide with lust, her hand still tangled in your hair.

“Could’ve fucking came down your throat,” Emily growled, her voice hoarse, her cock twitching in her grip, thick and veined and so heavy it made your mouth water all over again. “But I want this cock in your pussy, baby. I need to feel you when I fill you up.”

Your cunt clenched at the words, a hot gush of slick spilling out of you onto your thighs. You scrambled up onto the bed, spread your legs wide for her without hesitation, your soaked pussy glistening in the light.

The lips were puffy and flushed, your clit swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. You could feel how messy you were, how open and ready, and the look on Emily’s face when she climbed onto the bed between your thighs made you whimper.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she rasped, stroking her cock slowly, the thick head leaking precum. “Look at this perfect little pussy, baby. Begging for me.”

She leaned down to kiss you, sloppy and desperate, teeth catching on your lips. Her hand cupped your tit, squeezing roughly, her calloused thumb flicking over your stiff nipple. Your back arched into her touch, a moan tearing from your throat.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, Emily,” you gasped against her mouth, your fingers clawing at her back. “So fucking perfect… can’t believe you’re mine. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Emily groaned, pressing her cockhead against your entrance, and the stretch as she started to push in made your breath catch. She was big — impossibly thick, every inch dragging against your walls, your pussy stretching so wide you swore you could feel every vein, every throb of her cock as she filled you.

“Fuck, baby,” she panted. “Tightest, sweetest cunt I’ve ever had. Always takes me so good.”

Your tits bounced with every inch she fed into you, your nipples flushed and sensitive from earlier. Emily’s own breasts moved with her, heavier and firm, the soft weight of them brushing your chest as she fucked into you. Her nipples were stiff, pebbled, the curves of her tits catching in the light as she rolled her hips deep.

When she was finally seated all the way inside you, the stretch making your stomach bulge slightly, you whimpered, overwhelmed, your hands flying to her back.

“Em… oh my god, fuck… you feel so good,” you moaned, tears stinging your eyes again. “You’re so big, it’s so fucking good.”

She started to move, slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that made your pussy clutch at her, your clit grinding against the base of her cock. The wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing her up filled the room, your tits bouncing wildly with every thrust.

Emily’s grip tightened on your hips, and she fucked you harder, faster, the slap of her hips against yours sharp, her cock punching deep enough to brush your cervix. You sobbed out her name, your whole body trembling, your pussy clenching so tight around her she cursed.

“Fucking take it, baby,” she growled, sweat dampening her hairline, the muscles in her arms and shoulders flexing as she pinned you down and worked her cock deep inside you. Her tits bounced with every thrust, the full weight of them moving with the force of her body. “This perfect little pussy’s mine.”

You came with a sharp cry, your pussy spasming around her, slick gushing out to coat her cock, your body jerking beneath her. Emily groaned, not slowing for a second, fucking you through it.

“That’s it, baby,” she rasped, leaning down to bite your neck. “Give it to me. Fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

Your orgasm left you dazed and dizzy, but Emily didn’t stop. She reached between you, her thumb finding your clit, circling it fast and rough. The stimulation made you sob, your legs kicking weakly.

“Em, I—oh fuck—”

“You can give me another,” she panted, watching your face. “I know you can, baby. Come on.”

The pressure built fast, unbearable, your whole body slick with sweat. Her cock was so deep, the thick head battering your sweet spot, your clit a raw bundle of nerves under her touch.

“I’m gonna cum again,” you sobbed, clawing at her arms. “Fucking—so good, Emily, you make me feel so good. Love you so much.”

Emily groaned, her hips stuttering, and you shattered around her for the second time, your cunt clenching so violently around her cock it made her curse. A gush of slick soaked the sheets beneath you, your body going boneless.

“Holy fuck, baby, holy shit,” Emily gasped, her pace rough now, desperate.

She grabbed your legs, throwing them over her shoulders, folding you in half, her cock driving impossibly deep. Her tits bounced with the brutal rhythm of her thrusts, sweat rolling down the valley between them, her hair sticking to her temple.

“I’m gonna fill you up, baby,” she growled. “Gonna fucking breed you. Stretch this pretty pussy out, make sure you’re dripping with me.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, barely coherent. “Fuck, yes. Please, Em. I need it, I need you to cum in me.”

Emily’s hips slammed against yours one last time, burying herself deep, and then she was cumming, cock pulsing hard inside you as thick, hot ropes of cum filled your cunt. Her face twisted in pleasure, her body shuddering, and she pressed her mouth to your ear.

“Te amo, mi vida,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Te amo, te amo… tan buena… mi amorcito… solo mía.”

You whimpered at the words, your cunt fluttering around her as you felt the thick warmth flooding your pussy, her cock twitching with each pulse.

She stayed buried inside you, her forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless and wrecked, the room thick with sweat, sex, and the sharp, raw scent of your orgasms.

And in that moment, with your pussy stretched, stuffed, and dripping around her, your bodies tangled and trembling, you’d never felt more loved, more desired, and more hers.

The sheets beneath you were damp, twisted, streaked with slick and streaks of Emily’s cum slowly seeping from your still-sensitive cunt. Your skin was tacky with sweat, the ache between your legs a steady, delicious throb that made you clench down weakly around the emptiness she’d left inside you.

Emily lay half on top of you, her face pressed to your neck, her breathing still uneven, her skin hot and flushed. Her cock was softening against your thigh, streaked with your release and the mess she’d filled you with, and you felt the familiar tenderness creep into your chest — that overwhelming, aching love that always came in the aftermath of nights like this.

You pressed a soft kiss to her temple, threading your fingers through the sweat-damp strands of her hair. She sighed, the sound rough and content, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling her down.

“I got you, Em,” you murmured quietly, your voice low and tender. “Just stay here, baby.”

Emily made a soft noise of protest as you slipped out from beneath her, your legs shaky, your thighs sticky with slick and cum, but you didn’t let it stop you.

You grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the en suite bathroom and returned to her, kneeling on the bed beside her languid, sated body. You wiped her down first, starting with her chest, where sweat clung between the soft curves of her breasts, her nipples still flushed from where your mouth had worked over them.

She groaned softly when the warm cloth skimmed over her cock, tender now but still so beautiful, her release drying thick against her skin. You cleaned her carefully, gently, reverently. The way she let you — loose-limbed and quiet, her dark eyes heavy with emotion when they met yours — made your heart squeeze.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered.

She didn’t argue.

Once she was clean, you turned to yourself, running the cloth over your thighs, between your legs, flinching a little at the oversensitive drag over your puffy, swollen cunt. You could still feel her inside you, the heat of her cum leaking out with every shift of your hips. It made you ache, made you clench around nothing.

Afterward, you stripped the ruined sheets from the bed, the scent of sex lifting with them, leaving the room smelling faintly of lavender detergent and fresh air again. You moved quietly, efficiently, glancing over at Emily every so often where she lay, watching you with that soft, fond look in her eyes. The kind she only ever let you see.

You set clean sheets on the bed, fluffing the pillows, smoothing everything down. Then you padded back into the bathroom and started the bath — hot, just shy of scalding, with a generous pour of that lavender bath oil she liked even though she’d never admit it. The scent filled the room, steam curling up from the surface of the water.

You came back for her, tugging gently at her hand. “Come on, Em. Bath’s ready.”

She grumbled under her breath but let you lead her, and you helped her undress the rest of the way, the last of the sweat-damp hair tie from her wrist, her watch, the chain she always wore around her neck.

You kissed the inside of her wrist, her knuckles, the line of her jaw as you guided her into the water. She sank down with a groan, her eyes fluttering shut, the tension bleeding from her muscles.

“Christ, baby,” she muttered. “You’re spoiling me.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss her lips. “You deserve it.”

You slipped in behind her, your legs bracketing hers, pulling her back against your chest. The hot water soothed the ache in your muscles, the scent of lavender settling in your lungs. Emily relaxed fully then, her head falling back to your shoulder, her hand finding yours beneath the water.

You stayed like that for a while, the world soft and quiet around you. Your fingers stroked over the curve of her stomach, up to her breasts, skimming the slope of her throat. She hummed at the touch, pressing lazy, damp kisses to your wrist.

When the water cooled, you helped her out, wrapping her in a thick, warm towel, drying her hair with another. She let you fuss, let you move her around, her usual stubborn independence quieted in the hazy afterglow.

You grabbed clean clothes. One of her old, soft cotton T-shirts for yourself, a pair of boxers and a worn, loose tank for her, and helped her dress. She smiled at you then, something soft and almost shy in her eyes.

“I fucking love you, you know that?” Emily murmured, her voice rough and warm.

“I know,” you said, kissing her slow, savouring the taste of her.

And in that quiet, tender, lavender-scented room, you felt it. Not just the aftermath of sex, but the kind of love people spend lifetimes chasing. The kind that settled deep in your bones. The kind that lingered.

You both climbed back into the freshly made bed, the clean, cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. The air in the room still smelled faintly of lavender from the bath, mingling with the softer notes of the detergent and the lingering, pleasant musk of sex beneath it all.

Emily let out a contented groan as she settled onto her back, one arm automatically lifting to make space for you, and you wasted no time curling into her side, your head resting over the steady, comforting beat of her heart.

The warmth of her skin beneath your cheek was soothing, grounding. You let your hand drift over her stomach, fingertips tracing lazy, aimless shapes across the smooth plane of muscle and soft skin.

Little loops and spirals, following the curve of her ribs, the faint ridges of her scars, the tender dip of her navel. She was beautiful like this — bare and real and completely yours.

“I love you,” you murmured, the words quiet but steady in the hush of the dim room. Your fingertips drew a heart on her stomach before your hand stilled. “All of you. Not just the good, easy parts, either. The messy shit, the sharp edges. Every last inch of you, Em.”

Emily’s hand came up, threading through your hair, her fingers combing slow, rhythmic strokes against your scalp. She didn’t say anything at first — just breathed, steady and deep, the weight of her touch speaking louder than words.

When she did speak, her voice was soft and rough around the edges, like gravel softened by water. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” she said, and you could hear how genuine it was in the way her words caught slightly on the tail end of the sentence.

You lifted your head just enough to look at her, your fingers still resting against the warm skin of her stomach. The lines of her face were softer now, her dark eyes gleaming faintly in the low light.

You could still see traces of everything you’d done to each other written there — the faint flush on her cheeks, the sleepy weight in her gaze, the satisfied curve of her mouth.

“You deserve everything, Emily,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to her jaw, then one to the corner of her mouth. “And you’ll have it. As long as you’ll let me give it to you.”

She gave a soft, almost broken laugh, turning her head to kiss you fully, slow and lingering. It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one tasted like warmth, like home, like every promise you’d ever made to each other wrapped up in one quiet touch.

“I still can’t believe you painted that,” she murmured against your lips when you finally pulled apart, her hand brushing a strand of damp hair back from your face. “Nobody’s ever… no one’s ever seen me like that before. The way you do.”

Your throat tightened, and you smiled, brushing your thumb along the curve of her mouth. “That’s because no one’s ever taken the time to look.”

Emily let out a breath like she was trying to ease something tight out of her chest. “I swear, baby, that painting… it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me. Not just because of how it looks. But because you see me — all the shit I try to hide, all the stuff I don’t say out loud — and you still look at me like that.”

“I always will,” you promised.

She pulled you in closer, tucking you against her chest, your cheek resting once more over her heartbeat. Her arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of her embrace, the clean sheets soft against your skin, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had finally been put back in their rightful place.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft sigh as one of you shifted slightly. You kept tracing absent-minded shapes against her stomach, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall beneath your hand, and Emily kept her fingers in your hair, the repetitive motion enough to lull you toward sleep.

“I love you,” she whispered after a while, the words rough and worn, like something she’d been carrying around in her mouth for hours, days, maybe years. “More than I know how to say.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “I already know.”

Emily hummed, a soft, contented sound. The bed dipped slightly as she pressed a final kiss to the top of your head.

And then the world faded.

Your limbs heavy and warm, the rhythm of her heartbeat steady in your ear, the press of her skin against yours, the scent of lavender and clean cotton all around you. Sleep pulled you under like a tide, and you let it take you, safe in the knowledge that come morning, Emily would still be here, holding you just as tightly.

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jareaufiles · 2 days ago

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THE SPARE ROOM || r.calhoun x female reader

PREMISE: You’re renting a spare room from Rita Calhoun, a sharp, confident woman who’s as intimidating as she is irresistible. When mock trial week forces you to prepare together, distractions quickly turn into something much more charged — and complicated. With unspoken tension simmering beneath every glance and touch, the lines between mentorship and desire blur in ways neither of you expect.

WARNINGS: explicit, consensual sexual content featuring possessive dominance and soft ownership language (“baby,” “sweetheart,” “good girl”). Detailed, explicit cunnilingus and fingering with prolonged oral sex focus, including licking, sucking, and fingering leading to multiple intense orgasms. Scenes include overstimulation, wetness, slick descriptions, and slow, deliberate undressing. Contains marking through kisses, bite marks, and praise whispered during intimate body worship. Dirty talk and teasing interplay with mutual desire and explicit expressions of lust. Depicts straddling, grinding, and pussy-to-pussy contact with vivid descriptions of slickness, arousal, and orgasmic release. Includes aftercare moments with bathing, cleaning, cuddling, and tender flirtation, highlighting emotional intimacy and developing connection

WORD COUNT: 7.4K

NAVIGATION

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, catching in your sleep-tousled hair as you padded barefoot into the room. The cotton of your oversized T-shirt clung lazily to one shoulder, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs, and a pair of flimsy pajama shorts peeked out beneath. The scent of fresh coffee drifted through the air, warm and rich, wrapping around you like a familiar touch.

And there she was.

Rita Calhoun, sitting perfectly composed at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, one leg crossed over the other. The sunlight hit the sharp angles of her face, catching in the pale blonde of her hair where it framed her face.

She was, maddeningly, already dressed — fitted black slacks, a soft grey blouse with the top two buttons undone, sleeves pushed to her elbows, and a pair of delicate reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she eyed the newspaper spread open in front of her. Not a phone in sight.

You grinned at the sight of her, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy stretch that made your shirt ride up a little higher. “Jesus, Calhoun,” you teased, voice rough with sleep. “You look like a character from a noir movie. Who the hell still reads an actual paper? You know they have apps for that now, right? You’re one pair of suspenders away from full grandpa chic.”

Without missing a beat, Rita glanced up over the rim of her glasses, arching one perfectly manicured brow. The corners of her mouth tugged in that wry little smirk you were already starting to live for. “Some of us still appreciate tangible media, sweetheart,” she drawled, her voice smooth like aged bourbon, dark and rich and laced with dry humor. She gave the paper a shake for emphasis. “It’s called culture. I wouldn’t expect your TikTok-addled generation to understand.”

You snorted, crossing the room to pour yourself a cup of coffee, half for the caffeine and half because you wanted an excuse to be near her. The coffee pot was still warm, and you felt her eyes on you as you reached for a mug, the hem of your T-shirt lifting just enough to flash the curve of your lower back. You threw her a smirk over your shoulder. “Culture, huh? You mean like those articles about what celebrity’s dog wore a diamond collar last week?”

Rita laughed — a low, throaty sound that made something tighten low in your belly. She leaned back in her chair, tapping one elegant finger against the paper. “For your information, it’s the crossword, not tabloid trash. Keeps the mind sharp. You might try it sometime, in between posting thirst traps and whatever else it is you kids do.”

You howled at that, the sound echoing through the kitchen as you nearly spilled your coffee. “Thirst traps?! Oh my god, Calhoun, you did not just say that.”

“Thirst traps,” she confirmed, deadpan, lifting her mug to her lips. The smirk lingered around the rim as she drank, eyes glittering with the satisfaction of landing the perfect jab.

You collapsed into the chair opposite her, grinning so wide your cheeks ached. It’d only been a couple of weeks since you answered her ad for the spare bedroom — a decision born from desperation and a last-minute change in your housing situation. Law school was bleeding you dry, and finding a place close to campus that didn’t cost half your soul was a goddamn miracle. You hadn’t known what to expect when you met Rita, but from the moment you told her you were in law school, something had clicked. She’d offered you the room before you even finished your second cup of coffee during that first meeting.

And now, mornings like this had become… a thing. Easy, sharp-witted banter. The occasional lingering look you tried not to overthink. The sound of her laugh filling the house. You couldn’t explain why it felt so good, just that it did. That sitting in her kitchen in your pajamas, hair a mess, teasing a woman twice your age while the scent of coffee and sunlight filled the air — it felt like something you didn’t even know you’d been needing.

You took a long sip of your coffee and sighed, letting the warmth bloom in your chest as you gave her a lazy grin. “Alright, fine. You win. You keep your dusty crossword, old woman. But just so you know, if you start yelling at kids to get off your lawn, I’m moving out.”

Rita smirked over the top of her paper. “If I wanted a roommate who respected her elders, I’d have rented to a cat.”

The kitchen settled into a comfortable kind of quiet after that — the kind where you didn’t feel the need to fill the space with small talk. The only sounds were the soft rustle of Rita’s paper as she turned a page and the occasional clink of your spoon against your mug as you stirred the last of your coffee. The sunlight had shifted, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny flecks of gold, and outside the faint city noise hummed like white noise against the glass.

You sighed into your cup, mind already racing ahead to tomorrow. Mock trial week. The biggest stretch of your semester so far. Five days of opening statements, objections, and cross-examinations in front of professors and actual working attorneys who’d volunteered to judge, half of whom had reputations for being ruthless. Your stomach twisted just thinking about it.

You were halfway through mentally outlining your cross-examination strategy when Rita spoke, not looking up from her paper. “You know,” she said, casual as anything, “I’ve got the day off.”

You glanced up, catching the way her eyes flicked toward you over the rim of her glasses before returning to the crossword. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” She jotted something down in the margin with a fountain pen because of course Rita Calhoun still used a goddamn fountain pen. “And seeing as you’ve got a trial to prep for, I’m feeling charitable. I could be persuaded to give you a hand… provided you can do a little something for me first.”

You narrowed your eyes, wary but intrigued. “What kind of something?”

Rita set the pen down, folded the paper in half with precise, practiced movements, and fixed you with that smug little smirk you were quickly learning meant trouble. “You’re good with cars, right?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “How the hell do you know that?”

She shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Word gets around. Well, word and your intake paperwork. You wrote it down under ‘other skills.’”

Your jaw dropped. “You actually read that thing?”

“Of course I did,” she scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t rent out a room in my house without knowing who the hell I’m letting in. And it turns out, my car’s got a flat spare and it’s about due for a tire change. So...” she gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning back in her chair, “...you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

You snorted, finishing the last of your coffee and setting the mug down with a clink. “You’re such a goddamn lawyer, you know that?”

“I prefer opportunist,” she said sweetly.

But there was a glint in her eye you couldn’t quite place, somewhere between amused and impressed, and it made a warmth bloom low in your belly, despite the stress still gnawing at your edges. The idea of spending the day with her, even elbows-deep in grease and mock trial prep, was a hell of a lot better than drowning in legal briefs alone.

“Alright, Calhoun,” you sighed, shoving your chair back and standing. “Deal. But you’re buying lunch.”

She grinned, satisfied. “Done. And none of that takeout garbage you kids live on either. Real food. Grown-up food.”

You grabbed your mug, hiding your smile behind it. “Yeah, yeah, grandma.”

As you left the room, you could still hear her laughing behind you.

You headed upstairs with the warmth of that teasing banter still lingering under your skin, a crooked little smile playing at your lips as you peeled off your pajamas. The bathroom tiles were cool under your feet, the water hissing to life in the shower. The hot spray loosened the sleep from your muscles, and you stood under it a little longer than you meant to, letting the steam ease the tension in your shoulders. Tomorrow might’ve been mock trial week, but for now… for now you had Rita Calhoun's goddamn car to deal with.

You dressed in old, oil-stained jeans and a faded black tank top, one you kept buried at the bottom of your drawer for jobs like this. Your hair went up in a messy bun, a few strands already escaping, and you grabbed an elastic to tie it back again as you made your way outside. The sun was warm on your bare arms, the faint scent of freshly cut grass and city pavement mingling in the air.

Rita’s car was parked in the driveway. A sleek, cherry red BMW that she treated like a goddamn accessory. It was spotless, of course, not a smudge on the paint, but the moment you crouched down by the rear tire, you spotted the issue. Flat as hell. You shook your head, muttering under your breath, “What kind of lawyer drives a car like this and lets her spare rot?”

As if summoned by the commentary, Rita appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a mug in one hand and her paper tucked under her arm. She’d swapped her slacks for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a loose white blouse, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She looked maddeningly good for someone supposedly having a day off.

“Well?” she called, lifting a brow.

You gave her a crooked grin, wiping your hands on a rag you’d snagged from the garage. “Flat as a pancake. Lucky for you, I’m feeling charitable.”

“Must be my lucky day.”

You shot her a look and got to work, grabbing the jack and wrench from the trunk. The tools were pristine, barely touched — of course they were — and it took a little coaxing to get the old tire off. You worked methodically, hands streaked with grease, hair clinging to your temple in the sun. Rita stayed nearby, pretending to be invested in her crossword but watching you out of the corner of her eye the whole time.

Once the new tire was on, you wiped your hands again and popped the hood, curiosity getting the better of you. The engine was in decent shape, but you gave it a quick once-over anyway — checked the oil, topped off the wiper fluid, and made a note about the brake pads needing attention sooner rather than later.

You straightened up, stretching out the kink in your back and catching Rita watching you openly now, her head tilted slightly, an unreadable look on her face.

“Didn’t realize I was getting the full-service treatment,” she said, voice low and a little smug.

You smirked, shutting the hood with a solid thud. “Consider it a bonus. You’re lucky I don’t bill by the hour.”

She laughed, a rich, genuine sound that sent a ridiculous little pulse of heat through your chest. “I’ll make it worth your while. Lunch’s on me, remember?”

“Damn right it is.” You tossed the rag into the garage and wiped your hands on your jeans. “You’re good to go, Calhoun. Try not to blow a tire on your next midlife crisis joyride.”

She grinned, leaning against the car now, arms crossed. “You keep mouthing off like that, you’re gonna owe me more than a tire change, kid.”

Something about the way she said it made your stomach flip, a sharp flicker of heat curling low and lazy through you. You bit back a grin, feeling it anyway.

“Careful,” you shot back, voice light but edged with something neither of you named. “You might like it.”

Her mouth quirked in that maddening half-smile, and for a second the air felt heavier, thick with the unspoken. Then she stepped back, gesturing toward the house. “C’mon, grease monkey. Let’s see what you’ve got for this trial of yours.”

And just like that, it snapped back to easy. Comfortable. But you couldn’t help the grin as you followed her inside, already dreading and savoring the rest of the day in equal measure.

You sprawled out at the dining table with your laptop, case notes, and a tangle of highlighters in every color you could find. The mock trial packet sat open between you and Rita, legal briefs and annotated statutes scattered across the wood surface. Sunlight slanted through the blinds now, painting lazy stripes across the table and catching in the golden strands of Rita’s hair as she leaned in to read one of your notes.

And god, it was a problem.

You were supposed to be focusing on your opening statement, on jury strategy and phrasing objections, but it was becoming nearly impossible. Because every time she spoke — every time those smooth, perfectly glossed lips moved around words like objection sustained and inadmissible hearsay — your attention slipped. Those lips looked way too soft. Way too distracting.

And worse, your brain refused to stop wandering into dangerous territory. Like how those lips would feel brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. Or ghosting along your neck, down your stomach. Or wrapped around—

“Earth to law student.”

You jolted a little, realizing too late you’d been full-on staring, chin in your hand, eyes locked on her mouth like a lovesick idiot. Rita was smirking at you, smug and knowing, the kind of expression that made you want to crawl under the table and/or pin her against it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, clearing your throat and dragging your gaze down to your notes.

But Rita wasn’t letting it go.

She reached out, waving a perfectly manicured hand in front of your face. “You’ve been eye-fucking my mouth for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart. I’m flattered, really, but if you’re gonna keep undressing me with your eyes you might as well buy me a drink first.”

You felt your cheeks burn, a flush creeping up your neck. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you definitely were,” she cut in smoothly, leaning back in her chair like she owned the entire room. And she probably did. “Don’t get all shy now. You’ve got that look, you know.” She gestured lazily, a crooked grin on her lips. “The ‘I’d climb you like a tree if I wasn’t so busy pretending to be professional’ look.”

You laughed, partly from sheer embarrassment and partly because it was so unfair how easily she read you. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what they tell me,” she teased, and then, maddeningly, she made it worse. She dragged the tip of her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, a barely-there, unconscious little flicker that made your stomach twist and your pulse spike.

Rita caught your reaction, eyes narrowing just a little, like a predator who’d finally cornered her prey. “Alright, here’s the deal,” she murmured, voice dipping into something lower, silkier. “We finish prepping this case. No distractions, no daydreaming about my mouth, no undressing me with your eyes. You give me one solid hour of your full attention…”

She leaned in, close enough that you could smell the warm hint of her perfume and coffee on her breath. “And maybe — maybe — I’ll let you kiss me when we’re done.”

Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time, heat crawling up your spine. You swallowed hard, meeting her gaze with a stubborn smirk you barely managed to muster. “And if I’m an overachiever and finish in forty-five?”

Her grin went sharp, wicked. “Then you’ll have to get creative, sweetheart.”

You let out a breathless laugh, heart hammering, and forced yourself to look down at your notes. “Alright, deal. But you better not back out.”

Rita chuckled, leaning back in her chair and picking up a highlighter. “Honey, when have you ever known me to back out of a bet?”

You had a feeling you were in so, so much trouble.

The next hour was, hands down, the most excruciating test of willpower you’d endured since starting law school. And not because of the mock trial materials sprawled out in front of you. Not because of the dense pages of precedent or the notes scrawled in your barely-legible handwriting. But because of her.

Rita sat across from you, one leg crossed over the other, reading through your opening statement draft with that maddening little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Every so often, she’d hum softly under her breath in approval, or let out a dry, amused chuckle when she found something she didn’t agree with. And you — god, you tried. You really did. You forced yourself to focus on strategy, evidence lists, witness prep, and crafting clean, sharp objections.

You reviewed your opening argument aloud while she made notes in the margin. You debated whether it was better to call your character witness first or let the opposition cross the medical expert before you put your witness on the stand. You went over phrasing for objections. Leading, hearsay, relevance — and Rita grilled you on them like a goddamn judge, which she somehow made infuriatingly hot.

And yet… even while you rattled off the standard for admitting business records, your eyes kept drifting to the curve of her mouth, the way her lips formed around the word admissibility. The delicate hollow of her throat when she tipped her head back to laugh at one of your snarky remarks. The flash of her tongue against her bottom lip as she read. Every so often, she’d catch you staring — and she’d smirk, like she knew exactly what kind of thoughts were skimming through your head.

“Focus, sweetheart,” she murmured at one point, tapping her pen against your notes without even looking up. “We had a deal, remember?”

You groaned, scrubbing a hand over your face. “You’re not making it easy.”

“Life’s not easy,” she quipped, glancing up with a knowing look in her eye. “And neither am I.”

You almost choked.

What you didn’t know — what you couldn’t have known — was that Rita was battling her own brand of distraction. Because for all her smug little comments and confident posturing, she’d been watching you just as closely.

The way your brow furrowed when you got deep into your notes. The flush of pink that crept up your neck every time she teased you. The lazy stretch of your limbs when you reached for another highlighter, the way your shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.

Rita wasn’t blind. And god, if she was being honest with herself, there’d been more than a few nights since you moved in where she’d caught herself thinking about you in ways she absolutely shouldn’t.

About how those sharp little remarks would sound in a bedroom instead of a courtroom. About what kind of sounds you’d make with her mouth between your legs, coaxing every last needy little whimper out of you. She’d imagined you on your knees for her more than once , and if her own fingers had found their way between her thighs afterward, well, that was nobody’s business.

But today? Today you’d been making it very hard to behave.

By some miracle of sheer determination and the promise of that kiss hanging over your head, you powered through. You finished drafting your direct examination questions. You practiced your objections until Rita stopped finding ways to trip you up. You debated evidentiary issues, worked out a strategy for dealing with the opposition’s bullshit surprise witness, and fine-tuned your closing statement.

And when you finally glanced at your phone, you heart heart pounding, it had been an hour and three minutes.

You let out a heavy breath, leaning back in your chair and tossing your pen onto the table. “Done,” you announced, a smug grin curling your lips. “I lasted an hour. Pay up, Calhoun.”

Rita arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a grin. She closed the case packet and set it aside, leaning back in her chair with a languid stretch that made your stomach flip.

“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look at you. Stamina and self-control. Colour me impressed.”

“I believe you owe me something,” you reminded her, unable to keep the heat out of your voice.

“Mmm,” she hummed, eyes glittering. “I suppose I do.”

And for a moment, the air thickened between you. Every teasing remark, every lingering look, every imagined what-if hanging heavy in the space as she slowly uncrossed her legs and stood, the sleek lines of her body moving with predatory grace as she circled the table.

You turned in your chair, pulse skittering, as Rita came to a stop in front of you, gaze dark and unreadable. She reached out, fingertips brushing lightly under your chin to tilt your face up to hers.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see if you’re as good at following directions as you are at cross-examination.”

And fuck, you were so ready.

The moment Rita’s lips touched yours, the rest of the world dropped out of focus.

Soft. Warm. So much softer than you imagined; plush and slow at first, like she wanted to savor it, like she wanted to make you feel how long she'd been waiting to do this. You kept your eyes shut like she’d told you to, and it only heightened everything. The taste of her mouth, the light scent of her perfume—some subtle floral layered with spice—and the heat of her breath as she shifted closer.

You couldn’t help it, you moved without thinking, arms instinctively wrapping around her waist and pulling her in. She followed easily, effortlessly, like her body was always meant to fit against yours.

Rita moved to straddle your lap, smooth denim gliding over your thighs as she settled into place, one hand slipping behind your neck while the other braced herself on the table.

“Open your eyes,” she whispered, lips brushing yours, breath warm.

You did.

And fuck.

Her eyes burned with hunger—sharp, dark, devouring. Gone was the smirking lawyer across the table or the landlord reading the morning paper. This was Rita undone, Rita wanting. And it hit you like a goddamn freight train—she wanted you just as badly.

You couldn’t stop yourself. You guided her hips, hands gripping her tight as you rolled her against you, the pressure delicious. She gasped softly into your mouth, her thighs tightening around your lap, hips responding immediately with another slow, grinding roll that sent heat pulsing straight through your core.

You moaned, helpless to hold it back, and she smiled against your mouth—smug, pleased, soaked with power.

But you felt how wet she was. Even through layers of clothes, you could feel the heat between her legs, soaking into your thigh as she ground down again. And you were soaked. Your panties clung to you, slick and hot, every shift of her body against yours making you want to tear your clothes off and press your cunt directly against hers.

“Fuck,” you whispered against her lips. “You feel so good.”

She chuckled low, breath catching as you shifted under her. “You have no idea what you do to me,” she murmured, voice all gravel and sin. “I’ve thought about this. About you. In my bed. On your knees. Making you beg.”

Your whole body trembled.

You couldn’t take it anymore—you fisted the hem of her blouse and started tugging it up. She moved with you, helping you pull it off, and tossed it somewhere behind you without a glance. You stared, dazed, at the lace of her bra, the flush across her chest, the way her nipples were already hard under the fabric.

Rita made quick work of your shirt in return, tugging it over your head, fingers skimming down your spine as you arched into her. Her mouth found your neck, then your collarbone, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that made your head spin.

Clothes came off in a feverish blur. Pants unzipped. Bras unhooked. Panties peeled down with shaking hands. You fumbled and laughed, mouths meeting between kisses and moans and swearing under your breath when zippers caught or buttons refused to cooperate. But every touch, every inch of exposed skin, only made you both needier.

You kissed down her shoulder, hands sliding along her waist as you stood, Rita still clinging to you as you walked—half-stumbling, half-guided—toward her bedroom. She kissed your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again, breathless and panting by the time your backs hit her doorway.

She pulled back, just enough to look at you, her chest rising and falling, lips kiss-swollen and eyes gleaming like she wanted to devour you.

“On the bed,” she breathed. “Now.”

And you didn’t even hesitate.

The mattress dipped beneath you as you settled in the middle, body already thrumming with anticipation, every inch of you flushed and aching. You leaned back on your elbows and spread your legs shamelessly, baring yourself to her in the dim glow of the afternoon light slanting through the curtains.

Your pussy was soaked — glistening, pink, lips plush and swollen, your clit already stiff and begging for attention. You reached down with one hand, two fingers sliding through your slick folds, parting yourself as you rubbed soft circles over your clit. A broken gasp tumbled out of you at the contact, back arching slightly. The sensation was so sharp after all that teasing, and knowing Rita was watching you — that sharp gaze fixed on the way your fingers moved over your dripping pussy — only made it hotter.

Rita groaned low in her throat, the sound absolutely wrecked. “Fuck, look at you,” she breathed, running a hand through her hair like she didn’t know what to do with herself for a second. Her eyes dragged up and down your body, lingering on your bare tits, your parted thighs, your fingers playing with yourself. “You’re so goddamn pretty like this.”

You bit your lip to keep from whining, and she was on you in the next breath, straddling your hips again. The heat of her body pressed against you, the delicious friction of her bare pussy against your stomach as she leaned in and kissed you hard. It wasn’t careful or tentative — it was filthy, desperate, her tongue sliding deep into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip in a way that made you moan.

Her hand slid over yours, her palm warm as she guided your fingers lower, pressing them inside you, her own fingers joining yours in teasing your clit. Your cunt clenched around your fingers, wet and needy, the obscene, slick sounds of it filling the room as you both touched yourself under her hand.

“God, you’re fucking soaked,” Rita growled against your mouth. “I’ve been thinking about this — about how you’d taste — ever since you moved in.”

You whimpered, the admission making your head spin, your pussy clenching tighter.

Then she slid down your body, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses along your collarbone, between your breasts, pausing to suck your nipple into her mouth with a filthy little moan that made your hips jerk. Her hand didn’t leave you though — fingers still gliding through your soaked folds, teasing your clit just enough to keep you on the edge.

By the time her mouth reached your stomach, you were trembling, legs falling wider apart as she settled between them like she belonged there.

“Rita—fuck, please—”

She glanced up, eyes dark and wild, a smug little smirk curling her lips. “God, you beg so sweet.”

And then she buried her mouth between your thighs.

Her tongue found your clit instantly, hot and slick, swirling over it in tight, relentless circles that made you cry out. At the same time, two fingers slid deep inside you, thick and perfectly curved, pressing against your walls in a way that made your toes curl. The stretch was perfect — her fingers filling you, the drag of her knuckles against your soaked, fluttering cunt so good it was almost unbearable.

You moaned, high and desperate, hands fisting in her hair as you rocked against her mouth. Rita groaned into you like she was the one getting off, the vibration of it shooting straight through your core. She fucked you with those long, practiced fingers, curling them with every thrust, her mouth never leaving your clit.

Your orgasm hit you hard and fast, a sharp, electric snap of pleasure that made your vision white out. Your whole body tensed, thighs clamping around her head as you cried out her name, your cunt spasming around her fingers, gushing wetness over her hand and mouth.

“Oh my fucking god,” she groaned against you, licking you through it, dragging every last aftershock out of you. “You taste so fucking good — I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea.”

You whimpered at the words, tugging her up by her hair, crashing your mouth against hers, moaning when you tasted yourself on her lips — hot, slick, and so fucking filthy.

“I want you,” you panted against her mouth, cupping her face. “God, Rita, sit on my face. Now.”

The look she gave you — equal parts lust, hunger, and smug satisfaction — made your pussy throb all over again.

Rita’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk, her breath hot against your cheek. “You want this mouth so bad, sweetheart?” she teased, voice husky and ragged from moaning into your cunt. “Then you’re gonna get it.”

She slid back down your body with the kind of effortless, predatory grace she carried everywhere — but now, stripped bare, you could see the flush across her chest, the rise and fall of her breathless tits, the way her nipples were dark and tight from how turned on she was. And then there it was — between her thighs, glistening and swollen, her pussy so fucking gorgeous it made your throat go dry.

She was soaked. Slick coated the insides of her thighs, her folds puffy and flushed a deep pink, her clit stiff and peeking out from between them. The lips of her pussy were plush and soft, glistening in the dim light, and you could see how wet she was — her slit glimmering with it, a slow bead of slick teasing down toward her ass as she crawled up the bed.

“Holy fuck, Rita,” you groaned, your hands grabbing at her hips without thinking, thumbs brushing over her slick skin as she swung one toned thigh over your face.

She settled onto you slow, teasing, her wet heat hovering just above your mouth. You could smell her — rich, heady, sinful. The mix of her slick and arousal made your head spin, and your tongue darted out, desperate for a taste.

Rita smirked down at you, reaching to grab the headboard, bracing herself. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

And when you met her gaze, dark and heavy-lidded with pure want, she finally lowered herself onto your waiting mouth.

You moaned the second your tongue made contact with her slick pussy, the taste of her heady and addicting. She was salty and sweet, the warm, clean musk of her coating your lips and chin as you flattened your tongue against her folds. You licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her dripping entrance up to her clit, swirling around it before closing your lips around the swollen bud and sucking.

“Ohh fuck yes,” Rita gasped, her hips jerking against your mouth, one hand tightening around the headboard, the other burying into your hair. “God, you’ve got a filthy little mouth on you.”

You moaned against her, the praise making your pussy clench, your own slick soaking the sheets beneath you. You gripped her thighs, holding her steady, flicking your tongue rapidly against her clit before dipping down to fuck your tongue inside her. She was so warm, so tight and soaked, her walls fluttering around the slick slide of your tongue.

Rita’s moans were shameless now — breathless, broken, swearing under her breath as she rocked against your mouth, grinding her pussy against your tongue like she’d been starving for it. “Goddamn it, baby—fuck—you eat pussy like you’ve been waiting your whole goddamn life for this.”

You couldn’t even answer, too busy devouring her, tongue and lips and teeth working her over. You flattened your tongue against her clit and hummed, and Rita’s thighs trembled around your head.

“Fuck—fuck—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—” she gasped, her entire body tensing.

You didn’t. You latched your lips around her clit and sucked harder, flicking it rapidly as her hips ground down against you. Her slick coated your chin, your lips shiny with it, the obscene, wet sounds of your tongue working her filling the room.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her whole body jerked, a raw, desperate cry tearing from her throat as her pussy pulsed against your mouth, soaking you. “Jesus fucking Christ—” she moaned, thighs trembling, her grip on your hair tightening as she rode it out, hips rolling against your mouth in short, frantic little movements.

You moaned into her as she came, tasting every drop, not stopping until her gasps softened into whimpers and her thighs quivered against your ears.

When she finally eased off your mouth, her chest was heaving, sweat clinging to her skin, hair a wild, gorgeous mess. She dropped down beside you, her hand finding your face, thumb swiping your wet chin as she kissed you deep, tasting herself on your tongue.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” she rasped against your lips, her voice wrecked and satisfied, “you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

You weren’t done with her — not even close.

Rita collapsed back against the sheets, chest rising and falling, skin flushed and glistening in the low light. But even wrecked like this, she looked fucking incredible. Hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen, the sharp, powerful attorney turned into something softer, needier, spread out beneath you.

And you wanted to worship every inch of her.

You moved slow, savoring the way her breath hitched when you pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, tasting the salt of her skin. You dragged your tongue down to the curve of her breast, nipping lightly before soothing the sting with your mouth. Her nipple was still hard, begging for attention, and you sucked it between your lips, moaning softly when her fingers fisted in your hair again.

“God… baby,” she breathed, her voice wrecked and gorgeous.

“I wanna worship you,” you whispered against her skin, kissing your way lower, lips brushing the underside of her breast. “Wanna mark you up, make you feel good everywhere. You deserve it.”

She shuddered at the words, letting her head fall back, completely at your mercy.

You trailed lower, leaving little love bites along her stomach, across her ribs, down her hips — marks she’d find in the mirror tomorrow and remember exactly how you’d put them there. You muttered praise between every kiss, your lips ghosting over the skin just above her mound. “So fucking beautiful,” you whispered. “Taste so good. Could spend all night with my face between your legs.”

When you reached her pussy again, still slick, flushed, and glistening from her last orgasm, you blew a slow stream of cool air against it, watching the way her thighs twitched, her hips giving a little helpless jerk.

“Fuck—” Rita whimpered, her hand flying down to fist the sheets. “You’re a fucking menace.”

You smirked up at her, savoring how wrecked she looked, before deciding to take it even filthier.

Shifting up, you positioned yourself so your breast brushed against her pussy, your hardened nipple grazing over her slick, swollen clit. The contact made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound that made your cunt ache all over again.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, her hips lifting.

You teased her with it at first — slow, lazy little circles, your nipple dragging over her clit, slick making everything messy and obscene. Your own breath was ragged, the sight of her pussy glistening against your skin, the way her slick smeared over your tit, so fucking filthy you almost came from it alone.

Rita’s thighs trembled, her whole body arching as you kept going, adding a little more pressure, watching the way her clit throbbed under every stroke. She was already oversensitive, you could see it in the way she bit her lip, eyes fluttering, moans ragged and desperate.

“Come for me again,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the side of her breast. “Want you to soak me.”

She did. With a sharp cry, her whole body jerked, thighs quivering as her pussy spasmed against your breast, slick gushing out, coating your tit and nipple. The sound she made — half gasp, half moan — was fucking beautiful.

You didn’t give her time to catch her breath.

You dragged your tits up her body, straddling her chest so your soaked nipples hovered over her flushed face. “Clean me up, baby,” you teased, your voice low, fucked-out. “You made this mess, you get to taste it.”

Rita groaned, absolutely wrecked but still hungry, and took one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking hard, licking her own slick from your skin like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. Her tongue was hot and greedy, flicking and circling as you moaned, your hips grinding down against her stomach, your soaked cunt leaving wet streaks over her skin.

Your pussy throbbed, dripping wet, aching for more.

And you knew what you wanted next.

Pulling back, you panted, cupping her face and tilting it up. “I know you’re sensitive,” you whispered, voice dark and filthy, “but I need to feel you against me. Want your pussy rubbing against mine, baby. Wanna cum with you.”

Rita’s breath caught, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “Fuck,” she groaned, licking her lips. “Do it.”

You wasted no time. Sliding down her body, you settled between her legs, lining your dripping cunt up with hers. The first contact made you both moan, your slick folds pressing together, clits nudging against each other, the heat of it almost unbearable.

You started grinding — slow, steady rolls of your hips, your soaked pussies sliding against each other in the most obscene, wet, perfect friction. The sounds were filthy, slick and messy, your moans and gasps mingling as you moved together.

Rita was so sensitive, every little drag of your clit against hers making her hips jerk, her hands gripping your ass, pulling you down harder, chasing the friction.

“Oh god… fuck yes, just like that,” you gasped, feeling your orgasm build again, the pressure sharp and desperate.

Your tits bounced between you as you rode her, her nails digging into your skin, her slick mixing with yours as your clits rubbed together, so wet and perfect you both lost control, hips grinding frantically.

And when you both came — loud, shaking, cursing each other’s names — it was like your whole bodies seized together, your cunt pulsing against hers, your juices slicking your thighs, your clits throbbing as you gasped and cried out.

You collapsed against her, panting, trembling, your face buried in her neck, tasting her skin, and neither of you moved for a long, long time.

The room was thick with the heady scent of sex and sweat, bodies tangled, hearts still hammering from the way you’d both utterly wrecked each other. You lay there for a moment, limbs draped over one another, neither of you speaking — just breathing, letting the quiet settle over the room like a blanket. Rita’s fingers lazily traced the curve of your hip, her touch featherlight now, nothing like the sharp, filthy grasp she’d had on you minutes before.

Eventually, she hummed, lips brushing your temple. “C’mere,” she murmured, rolling out from under you with a soft groan and sitting up, stretching in a way that made you almost want to crawl right back on top of her. “We need to clean up before I fall asleep and glue us both to these sheets.”

You laughed, breathless and blissed-out, but agreed. Your thighs ached, your body sticky and tender in the best possible way. Rita stripped the sheets with practiced efficiency, balling them up and tossing them toward the hamper before grabbing a fresh set from the closet. You watched her move — graceful even in exhaustion, her hair a wild, dark halo, the curve of her ass catching the light.

“Quit staring at me like that,” she teased, smirking as she caught your gaze.

“Can’t help it,” you grinned. “I’ve got a thing for smug older women who fuck me stupid.”

Rita barked a laugh at that, shaking her head as she threw the clean sheet over the mattress. “Smartass.”

When she disappeared into the bathroom to start the bath, you moved on instinct, padding over to her dresser. You rifled through the top drawer until you found one of her old T-shirts — soft, worn, probably one she used for sleeping — and tugged it on. It hung loose on your body, brushing your thighs, the fabric carrying the faint, lingering scent of her perfume.

By the time she came back, hair damp, carrying a couple of towels, you were standing there with a smug little smirk, tugging at the hem of the shirt like you’d just gotten away with something.

“Well, well,” Rita drawled, one brow arching high as she set the towels down. “Look at you. Stealing my clothes already?”

“Claiming my spoils,” you shot back, grinning.

She rolled her eyes, but there was unmistakable affection in it. “You’re lucky you look so goddamn cute.”

The bath was heaven — hot, fragrant, and exactly what your sore bodies needed. You both sank into the water, legs tangled, Rita’s head tipped back against the edge as you lazily ran your fingers up and down her thigh. She returned the favor, washing you slow and gentle, so different from the ruthless way she’d handled you in bed. She made sure you drank water, peppered soft kisses over your shoulder, and let out content little sighs as the tension slowly ebbed from your muscles.

Afterward, back in her room with clean sheets and flushed skin, you hesitated at the edge of her bed.

Because this was the part you never knew how to handle. The come-down. The aftermath. You didn’t know if you were supposed to grab your clothes and head back to the guest room, or if this was the kind of situation where you curled up and stayed until morning. The last thing you wanted was to overstay your welcome.

Rita noticed immediately.

Her brow furrowed as she saw you standing there, gnawing your lip, uncertain. And then, without a word, she patted the mattress beside her, a crooked little smile playing at her lips.

“C’mon, baby,” she murmured, voice soft, eyes tender in a way that made your chest ache. “This is more than a one-time thing.”

God. You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear it until the words landed, sinking into your bones and making your throat tighten. You climbed into the bed without hesitation, curling into her side as she tugged you against her chest. Her arm looped around your waist, her hand splaying over your stomach like she wanted to anchor you there.

You felt safe. Wanted.

It was quiet for a long while, the soft hum of the city through the window, the warmth of her body, the steady rise and fall of her breath under your cheek.

Then you smirked against her skin. “You know,” you murmured, half-drunk on exhaustion and afterglow, “if you ever need another tire changed, I work for kisses and orgasms.”

Rita let out a low, sleepy laugh, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, lips brushing your temple. “After tonight, you can have anything you fucking want.”

You grinned, eyes fluttering shut, and drifted off in her arms, feeling for the first time in a long time like you were exactly where you belonged.

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