whisperedsecrets97

[whisperedsecrets97]

Not Even a Little

The mid-afternoon heat clings to Hawkins like a second skin, sticky and thick with gasoline and testosterone. Billy’s halfway under the hood of a Mustang when he hears the whistle—one of the new guys, Bryce or Brad or something just as punchable.

He straightens up, wiping sweat from his brow, and then he sees you.

His girl.

Wearing a short, low-cut sundress that clings to your curves like it was painted on. The straps are thin. The hem is sinful. And when the breeze catches just right, he sees a flash of thigh that makes his jaw clench.

Your hair is twisted up, sunglasses perched on your head, and a look on your face that screams I know exactly what I’m doing.

The entire shop stills. Someone drops a wrench.

“Jesus,” someone mutters.

Billy’s already moving, heavy boots hitting the concrete floor like thunder.

“You lose your fuckin’ mind?” he growls the second he reaches you, hands finding your waist, pulling you in hard.

You smile up at him, all sweet and syrupy. “You busy?”

“Don’t play with me.”

Your fingers trail down the open collar of his greasy coveralls. “Didn’t think you’d mind a visit. You said you missed me.”

“Yeah, I said that.” His voice is low, rough with want. “Didn’t say you should come dressed like that.”

“Like what?” You purr, glancing down at yourself, feigning innocence. “It’s hot out.”

“You didn’t notice every fuckin’ guy in here looking at you?” His grip tightens on your hips, possessive. “You think I’m gonna let that shit slide?”

You lean in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear. “Thought you might like a reason to remind them I’m yours.”

And fuck if that doesn’t break something in him.

Billy growls, deep and dangerous, and grabs your wrist. “Let’s go.”

He drags you through the garage, ignoring the smirks and looks, shoves open the door to the break room and slams it shut behind. The second it clicks shut, he’s on you—pinning you against the wall, kissing you like he’s starving.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he snarls against your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “Walking in here like that. Lookin’ like that.”

A strangled noise escapes your mouth.

“I missed you all fucking day,” he admits, lips roaming your chest. “You looked so damn good last night I can’t think straight.”

You swallow, breath hitching. “That was the idea.”

His lips ghost over yours, close enough to taste the heat between you. “Think you can behave now?”

“Absolutely not,” you whisper—and then you kiss him, deep and slow and wicked, like a promise.

His hands are already on you, rough and urgent, dragging your dress up, grinding his body into yours like it’s been days, not hours.

“You’re not gonna pull that shit again, are you?” he growls against your throat, dragging his mouth along the skin there like he wants to leave marks.

You gasp, twisting your fingers in his curls. “I think you like it when I’m bad.”

He makes a sound—low, dangerous—and then?

You smile. Soft. Lethal. Dangerous in a way he can’t handle.

“Please, Daddy.”

He goes still.

Freezes like you just hit some switch deep inside him. His breath stutters. His whole body tenses like he’s barely holding on.

“…fuck,” he breathes.

And then you’re being lifted—thrown over his shoulder with a grunt.

You’re laughing. Drunk on the way he touches you. On the way he wants you.

He tosses you onto the battered old couch like he owns the place—like he owns you—and then he’s on you, tearing your clothes off like they’re in his way, pinning your wrists above your head with one big, calloused hand.

“You wanna be ruined, don’t you?” he rasps, grinding down against you with a force that steals your breath. “You want me feral for you.”

Your dress is bunched around your waist. Your panties are gone. You’re bare and flushed and panting beneath him, and you nod—slow and sure, offering yourself up like a goddamn prayer.

His jaw clenches. His whole body trembles like he’s on the edge of something sharp.

“You love being my good girl,” he mutters against your neck, “but not too good, huh? Not when I’ve got you like this.”

You spread your legs wider, shameless.

He shifts between them, one hand trailing down to your throat—not squeezing, just claiming, just enough to make you arch up and feel him.

“You like it when I lose control,” he snarls. “You want me wrecked.”

“I do,” you whisper, filthy and raw. “I fucking love it.”

“You little tease,” he breathes, nose brushing your cheek. “That dress—your mouth—those goddamn eyes. You came here lookin’ like a wet dream and didn’t even pretend to be sorry.”

You moan, hips lifting toward his. “Wasn’t sorry.”

“Say it again.”

You meet his eyes. Smile. “I’m not sorry.”

“No,” he grits out, rocking his hips harder. “The other thing.”

You bite your lip, half-laughing, half-destroyed—and say it again, wrecked and breathless:

“Please, Daddy.”

He loses it.

Growls your name like it’s a curse and a confession all at once, kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin. He hooks your leg over his shoulder and slams into you in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream.

Arch.

Shatter.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He fucks you like he’s trying to ruin every man that came before him. Like he wants to make sure you never forget how this felt.

“You take it so fuckin’ good,” he groans, pounding into you. “So perfect. All mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right you are.”

His hands are everywhere—your hips, your throat, your thighs—and then he’s deeper, somehow, slamming into the spot that makes you see stars.

You cry out. Beg. Break.

And then you come, hard and fast and shaking, body locking around him like you’ll never let him go.

He follows, groaning into your skin, coming undone with a sound that’s half-ecstasy, half-damnation.

Later, when you’re limp and gasping in his arms, skin sticky with sweat, he nuzzles into your neck and mutters:

“…still not sorry?”

You smile, wrecked and sated, and kiss his jaw.

“Not even a little.”

[whisperedsecrets97]

Next Door Trouble

Little plot, lots of smut. xoxo

It’s too hot to sleep, too quiet to ignore the way your skin feels under the weight of being back here. You’ve been back in your dad’s house less than twenty-four hours and already the walls feel smaller, tighter, like they remember who you used to be. But you’re not that little girl anymore. Not the one who snuck in past curfew, heartbeat in her throat, mascara smudged and breath still tasting like tequila. Not the girl who peeked through blinds just to catch a glimpse of the man next door smoking on his porch in the dead of night.

That was a long time ago.

But Eddie Munson? Still the same.

You hear the knock before you see him. Two slow raps against the door, like he knows exactly how to drag something out. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he says, stepping in before you invite him. Like he always has.

“Didn’t think you’d still be prowling around the neighborhood.” You raise your wine glass and lean against the frame, one hip cocked, a satisfied smirk curling at your mouth. 

His eyes drag over you. Bare legs. Loose tank top, no bra. Heat rises in his jaw—tension, not embarrassment. You watch him try not to look. Try not to stare. You’d grown into yourself since you left for college, he’d noticed. 

You drink it in.

“Just came by to check on the place. Your dad asked me to look out while he’s gone.”

You cock your head. “Think I need looking after?”

He huffs a quiet laugh and scratches the back of his neck. “Not sure that’s the word I’d use.”

You step back and let him in. He hesitates just a beat before following.

Same living room. Same couch. But the air feels heavier now. Like something waiting to snap.

He stays standing. You stay watching.

“Funny,” you say slowly, dragging your finger around the rim of your glass, “I always wondered if you knew.”

He looks at you, brow ticking up. “Knew what?”

“That I used to sneak out,” you say. “Late. Summer nights. Same time every weekend.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. Something unspoken.

Then he lets out a low breath and says, “I knew.”

You blink, caught for half a second.

“I saw you,” he adds, voice rougher now. “Climbing back through that window, barefoot. Makeup smudged. Thought you were real slick.”

You let out a slow laugh, stepping closer. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Eddie’s mouth twists, but it’s not a smile. “Because I had no business looking at you then.”

You take another step.

“And now?” you ask, voice softer, throat tighter. “You still think that?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t have to.

His eyes say it all. The way they rest on your mouth too long, then flick away like they’re not supposed to. The way his shoulders tense when you close the space between you just enough for the hem of your tank to brush his knuckles.

He swallows. His voice drops.

“You really wanna play with fire, sweetheart?”

You tilt your head. Smile slow. “Only if you’re gonna burn with me.”

There’s a beat—just one, stretched thin and trembling.

Then he steps back, barely, like it costs him. “You’re trouble.”

You sip your wine. “I know.”

He exhales, looks toward the door. But his feet don’t move.

And neither do yours.

You don’t say anything when he doesn’t move.

You just watch him—casual, like you’re not throwing gasoline on something that’s already smoldering. He looks like a man trying to convince himself he’s still in control. Hands flexing at his sides. Jaw working. Eyes dark like he’s trying real hard not to look at your chest when you shift your weight and the hem of your tank rides up a little more.

“You should be careful,” he says, voice thick, strained. “Your dad might still trust me.”

You grin. “Should he?”

He stares at you like he’s daring you to back down. You don’t. You lean into it—closing the space again, slow, deliberate. You feel the heat between your bodies before you even touch. A magnetic pull. Dangerous. Thrilling.

“You always liked control,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t you?”

That hits something. He stiffens, nostrils flaring just slightly, like the words physically touched him. You keep going, soft and deadly.

“Even when I was younger. You’d look at me like I was a problem you didn’t wanna solve.”

His eyes snap to yours. “Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.” It comes out hoarse. Almost a warning. But his voice doesn’t scare you—it excites you.

You press a palm flat against his chest, just above his heart. His skin is hot through the fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat is fast. Faster than he wants you to notice.

“I think about you,” you whisper. “When I’m alone. When I can’t sleep. You ever do that, Eddie?”

His eyes close. Just for a second. Just long enough for the image to sear itself into your memory. That is the moment. That’s when you know.

He wants you.

Not just in passing. Not in some abstract, forbidden sense. He wants you in a way that’s going to ruin him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, still not stepping back, still not stopping you. “You don’t get to play innocent and bratty in the same breath, sweetheart.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you murmur, fingers curling in his shirt. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I want you to take it. Whatever you’ve been holding back.”

He breathes hard through his nose.

You lean in, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw, lips not quite touching, voice a ghost of a promise.

“Use me, Eddie.”

His hand catches your wrist, firm, not rough. His eyes blaze. There’s a split second where the old rules might still win.

But then he says it—low, guttural, half-cursed through clenched teeth.

“Don’t beg unless you mean it.”

And you smile.

Because you do.

His lips crash into yours so quickly you don’t see him moving, but when your back crashes into the wall you groan into his mouth, one hand quickly moving into his hair, pulling at the roots to pull him closer. And to your disappointment he pulls back, just to move down your neck to your throat. A laugh escapes your lips as your head falls back. 

Eddie grabs your leg and hoists them up around him as he slowly rolls into you, just enough to tease and make a pathetic whimper fall from your mouth. He pulls back to meet your eyes, like you’re something out of his dreams. 

He growled low in his throat, hand reaching out to take your jaw and squish your cheeks together slightly, “Are you going to be good for me?”

The smile on your face is lazy and filled with a challenge, “Not without convincing.” 

Eddie's hand stays firm on your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like he’s deciding whether to kiss you again or wreck you where you stand. 

“Convincing,” he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief and desire. “Jesus, you don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

You shift your hips against him, slow and deliberate, a wicked tilt to your mouth when he hisses between his teeth. “Then maybe you should show me.”

That does it.

His mouth crashes back into yours, all tongue and teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to erase the years you spent pretending not to look at each other. You feel it in the way he groans when your nails rake down his back, in the way his hands grip your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

He carries you through the dark like he already knows the house better than he should. Like maybe he’s imagined this too. Fantasized about pressing you up against these old walls, dragging his mouth over every inch of the girl he wasn’t supposed to want.

He drops you onto the couch like it’s some kind of offering, then stands over you, chest heaving, jaw tight.

“You really want this?” he asks, like he’s giving you a final out. Like he’s still pretending he’s the responsible one here.

You stretch beneath him, tank top riding up to expose bare skin, your thighs still parted where he left them. “I want you, Eddie. No more pretending.”

His restraint shatters.

He drops to his knees between your legs, mouth finding your thigh, your hip, the edge of your tank. His fingers tug at the hem, dragging it slowly up your stomach, over your ribs, until it’s bunched beneath your arms. He watches your face the whole time, looking for hesitation, for fear.

There is none.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his mouth up your stomach, pressing open-mouthed kisses like a prayer turned sin. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You sit up just enough to grab his shirt and yank it over his head, the sight of him undoing something deep and hungry in you. His scars. His ink. His goddamn smirk when he sees your eyes rake over him.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he growls, “and I’m not gonna be gentle.”

Your answer is a breathless, “Good.”

He lunges back into you like he’s done waiting. Like he’s already lost the battle with himself and now he’s just hell-bent on dragging you down with him.

Your tank top goes flying. Your wine glass hits the floor with a muted thud. And the sound you make when he mouths over your nipple, hand spreading your legs wider like he owns the space now—

It’s not a sound you’ve ever made for anyone else.

He groans into your chest, voice wrecked and low. “You still want me to use you?”

You arch into him, already shaking. “Please.”

He looks up at you like a man possessed. And then he kisses you like he plans to ruin you for anyone else. Like he’s waited years for this—you—and now that he’s got you, he’s never letting go.

He doesn’t take you to a bedroom.

He takes you here—right in the dim-lit living room, the same couch you used to throw yourself across in high school, sulking over boys who never knew how to touch you like this. Like they meant it. Like you were a need, not a conquest.

Eddie mouths at your skin like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to learn, tongue dragging between your breasts, down your ribs, teeth nipping just enough to make you jolt. You gasp when he bites your hip, one hand spreading your thigh open wider while the other pins your wrist into the cushion above your head.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice dark with command. “You said you wanted me to take it.”

Your pulse jumps. “I did.”

“Then let me.”

He doesn’t undress you—he drags the cotton of your panties aside with two fingers and stares. Like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting a decade to get his mouth on you and doesn’t want to rush a single second now that he has permission.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re already soaked. That for me?”

You nod, breath shuddering. “Been for you.”

His mouth replaces his fingers in a heartbeat. One slow, devastating lick that makes your hips jerk, and then he growls, deep in his chest, like you just confirmed something he’s been trying not to believe. His hands spread your thighs wider, holding you in place while he devours you.

You’re writhing in seconds. Not soft and sweet—wrecked. He licks you like he’s trying to fuck you with his tongue, relentless and filthy, a man on his knees who has absolutely no interest in mercy.

When he sucks your clit between his lips, your whole body goes taut, and you nearly sob. “Eddie—fuck, I—”

“Not yet,” he says roughly, pulling back just long enough to give your inner thigh a sharp bite. “I’m not done.”

You gasp his name, helpless now, grinding against his face because your body has stopped listening to anything else. You’re too close. Too fast. And then—

His fingers push inside you.

Two, deep and thick, curling just right as his mouth seals back over you, tongue pressing where you need it most. Your back arches off the couch as the orgasm hits, sharp and sudden, tearing through you like a dam breaking loose.

“Oh, good fucking girl,” He groans into you. 

You cry out, hand tangled in his hair, legs shaking as he keeps going, coaxing every last tremor out of you with maddening precision. When he finally pulls back, his chin’s wet, his pupils blown, and the look he gives you—feral. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

“God, you’re ruined,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You should see yourself.”

You can barely catch your breath before he’s yanking his belt loose, shoving his jeans down just enough to free himself. He’s hard. So hard. Thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip, and your mouth waters just looking at him.

But he’s already crawling over you, lining himself up with a low hiss as the head of his cock catches on your entrance.

“This what you wanted?” he growls, teeth gritted. “You wanted me to fuck you on your dad’s goddamn couch?”

You drag your nails down his back. “I want you to ruin me.”

That’s the final thread gone.

He thrusts into you with one brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt, and the sound you make—sharp and needy—goes straight to his head.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—shit—so tight.”

You clutch at him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder, more. He fucks you like he means to leave something behind. Like he’s branding you with every thrust, punishing you for all the years you spent looking at each other like this and pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Every slap of skin is filthy. Loud. The kind of sound you’ll hear in your head every time you try to sleep.

He pulls your wrists above your head, pins them there with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “You still gonna be a brat now?” he snarls.

You grin up at him, breathless. “Make me sorry.”

He slams into you deeper, harder, and fucks, you feel it in your throat. Your whole body lights up—overstimulated and aching, nerves burning where he touches you. You feel like you could shatter.

And then he growls in your ear, low and brutal and wrecked:

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You gasp, hips bucking. “Yours, Eddie—fuck, I’m yours.”

That does it.

His thrusts go wild, erratic, like he’s falling apart, and you realize too late he’s about to take you with him again. You come with his name broken on your tongue, muscles clenching around him as he buries himself deep and comes with a raw, guttural groan against your neck.

It’s not quiet. It’s not careful. It’s not even remotely decent.

And you don’t care.

You stay tangled like that—his weight over yours, his breath hot on your skin, his cock still pulsing inside you. A slow, heavy silence settles in the aftermath, broken only by the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant creak of the old ceiling fan above.

He finally lifts his head. Looks at you.

And fuck—he smiles.

“Guess your dad was right,” he says, still breathless. “You did need someone watching out for you.”

You grin lazily, brushing your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “Too bad he picked you.”