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There's an anvil on your chest.
Might as well be, considering Simon's bulk and how little effort he's putting into keeping his weight off you.
You're drenched in sweat but he doesn't seem to mind. The opposite, actually. Like he prefers it that way, with your skin glueing itself to his—inseparable, stuck until you can't tell where you start and he begins.
He's forcing your eyes on him. Or at least, your face. Doesn't really care whether you keep them open or roll them back—he seems more interested in watching you morph for him. How your face changes shape the more he thrusts in. A hand around your jaw, switching sometimes to wrap around your neck until your breath stutters and coughs.
You don't know how many orgasms he wants to take from you. Hell, before he pinned you to this bed, you didn't even know you could have this many orgasms. Instead here you are, with Simon's dick ploughing inside you and snatching your breath away, losing count at your third. You're so wet each movement causes a squelch that only gets louder when you cum—again.
Fourth, or fifth.
It starts to hurt sometimes, but as soon as your eyes twitch in discomfort, Simon changes tactics and it isn't painful anymore. He pulls out, stuffs his fingers inside of you instead and pumps a few times until the line between your brows smooths over. Rubs the pruny pads of his fingers over your clit until you're fluttering around nothing and your grimace turns into awe.
And then he slams back inside again. His hand returns to your jaw and his nose is brushing with yours. Simon leans closer, if even possible, and you can feel his heavy panting in your ear.
"Tired?" He purrs.
"Y-yeah," you croak. "Need a break."
His thrusts come to a slow rhythm, but he doesn't pull out. You can feel yourself flutter around the length of him and your heart pounding madly in your throat—same frequency as his, plastered to your chest. He shifts above you, planting a hand next to your head, his other one cradling your cheek. His face levels with yours, eye to eye.
"A break?" He cocks his head. "Reckon we barely started."
You snort. "You're insane. We're past started. We're past done."
He hums. "Dunno. Are we?"
"I'm pretty fucking knackered."
His lips twitch. "Are you now."
He's infuriating like that. When he takes control of you, your mind and your body, and changes your perception of things. You haven't barely started—you reckon you're pretty fucking over and done, and you'd like to reiterate that.
But he has that look on him now. Those eyes narrowed into two cheeky slits, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips like he knows he's about to change your mind, if he hasn't already.
You mimic him. A game of stubborn stares between two people who ultimately want the same thing: for this to stop and yet never end at the same time. Feels too good to give up and too much to continue, ecstasy and fatigue clinging together like heavy chains wrapped around your chests and keeping you bound to one another.
It’s what you wanted, what you pleaded with your eyes as soon as you got home. Dark circles around them, etched by the longest of work days, and lashes fluttering as you asked if he could take care of you tonight.
And with a man like Simon Riley, what you ask is what he delivers.
He keeps rolling his hips in a comfortable, slow fashion that is soothing more than intense, like he's scratching the parts of you that you couldn't possibly reach by yourself.
"Did you even cum?" You ask in between breaths, brushing your lips with his.
He grunts. "Nah. Not yet."
Fucking hell. Might be torture at this point—for him, naturally. Bit for you as well, though.
But to be frank you couldn't give two shits about discomfort and those zaps of overstimulation that make your eyelids twitch and your toes curl. This is anything but torment for you. You've never felt this boneless in your entire life, and honestly, you'd have paid good fucking money to experience this sooner; if only you knew it was a possibility, to have your overworked brains fucked into a soup of nothing coherent.
At this point you don't even need to cum anymore—you've done that plenty. You just need him where he is, doing this magic trick with his hips that has your insides churn and melt like hot syrup at the base of you.
He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your nails dig in, leaving what you’re guessing are going to be awfully deep scratches on his shoulder blades.
Simon falls still.
"F-fancy doing that any time soon?" You stutter.
And he rolls his hips deep, continuously, stretching out the moan that had already left your lips.
"Why the rush?" He asks.
The husk in his voice hints, however, that he might be in a rush as well. Greedy as always. Fill you up or paint you with it. Watch his cum ooze out of you, or witness it roll in droplets from the valley of your breasts down to your heaving belly.
"I need to pee," you breathe. "There's the rush."
Simon is unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is leave your cheek and travel downwards, squeezing your breast in his hand as he passes by. He finds your clit and rolls idle circles that mimic the movement of his hips.
You throw your head back, muscles slack in your neck.
"Fuck," you choke. Your eyes fall closed. The pressure builds and you can't quite tell if it's going to feel incredibly good or incredibly embarrassing. Or both.
Your voice rises in pitch. "Don't—"
He interjects. "Mhmh?"
You feel his hum vibrate with every inch of smugness down to your core. Your chest reverberates with it, and the enjoyment radiating from him seeps into you, effortless as osmosis.
"Why." He pulls back.
"The." And thrusts in.
"Rush?"
Your groan is feral.
It scratches at your throat, dry and tasting of iron. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard and contracted to stave off release.
"Fucking hell, Sim—"
"Come on, pet." He thunders above you.
"This isn't gonna end well—"
He chuckles and never falters with his fingers or his cock. Steady and precise, hitting right where you love it and touching exactly where you're tight.
"Nah it ain't," he agrees—to an extent. "It's gonna end fucking perfect."
Your belly burns, coils, rattles—you can feel your legs shake around the thickness of his waist and your eyes tear up.
You whine. "Simon—"
"I know baby, I know." He whispers, voice low yet still thick like liquor. "Feels good, aye? Can feel it too."
You can feel it. Fucking hell you can.
His voice is soft, drawing out the vowels. "S’alrigh’. Breathe through it.”
You can feel it coming right up and it's gonna be a fucking disaster. It's in the sudden wetness rushing at the base of your belly, in the increasingly louder squelches echoing in the bedroom the more he thrusts in.
"Cum for me, love," he purrs. You recognize the feeble stutter in his voice that hints at his own release, but he's stubborn like that and he'd rather have the most unsatisfying orgasm in the world than lose the battle he's started.
Competitive bastard even where there's no competition at hand.
"I can't—I'll—"
He predicts you. Switches his fingers so that his thumb is now rolling over your clit and the heel of his hand can press above your pubic bone.
"Make a fuckin' mess, then," he groans. "Let go, pet. Let go."
You see stars there. A shaky mess of colours shifting into unrecognizable shapes behind your eyelids, wired shut in your futile attempt to regain control of your body. You don't want it to happen and yet you do, you don't want to let go and yet you're just about to.
You try it all. Squirm away, but it only makes him drill in harder. Push at his chest, but he grabs your hands and anchors them above your head in a white-knuckled grip.
Plead, if you like, and he'll drink your prayers with a kiss.
But it's useless. You surrendered your control to him: it's what you wanted, to be used until worn out, to feel good beyond repair, and without putting any effort into it.
He's delivering what you asked.
You whine again. "Please—oh fuck—I'll—"
"Fuckin' do it." He curses.
His thrusts turn erratic, but the sudden switch in pace doesn't deter your orgasm from approaching. If you hadn't been so focused on tightening your abdomen, you would've noticed you were on the verge of cumming already.
"Cum all over me."
It's like a switch. Your body turns jello. You can feel your throat closing in as your mouth opens wide in a scream that doesn't quite make it through.
Simon's voice breaks in a groan that sounds like it’s coming out of the most delighted of grins.
Your orgasm is strong and gut wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame, as a warm stream rushes out of you unbidden. It splashes down your ass and your thighs, wets Simon's legs and his pelvis. He makes it even messier by rapidly stroking his fingers over your clit, prolonging both ecstasy and embarrassment.
Wet sounds are dotted by his grunts growing louder and huskier, rough to the touch if you could brush your fingers over them.
"Fuck—" He groans. "Fuckin' perfect. That's my girl—My fuckin' girl."
He cums as well, but it's lost in the mess happening between your bodies, and your head is not quite there yet to witness it happening. You can only feel it, barely, as he twitches inside you and the grip on your wrists tightens a fraction—but the rest is as lost as you are.
Simon unceremoniously collapses above you as your breaths heave and pitch upwards, until your voice doesn't even sound like yours anymore.
His kisses, left unhurried and open on your collarbones, are what brings you back. You blink yourself back inside your body, back beneath his own—heavy and thick and sweaty. The air is pungent and smells of sex, with his breath tickling your neck and the droplets perspiring from your skin.
And even though you're feeling on cloud nine, your mind betrays the laxity of your body. You can feel embarrassment run hot through you, scorching you worse than any fire could.
"I fucking hate you," you breathe to the ceiling.
Simon chuckles against your chest. "Aye. Get in line."
"Not the time."
"Perfect time."
You frown. It's hard to breathe with him crushing your chest and you almost want to push him away, but that would mean to witness the mess you made on the bedsheets, so you decide that choking on air is a better fate.
You huff. You can feel your skin burn hot, so you use your hand to cover your face as much as you can, rubbing nervously at your cheek.
"I didn't mean to do that."
"Glad you did," he huffs. "Cross my heart. Hottest thing y’ve ever done, pet.”
You grimace. "Eh, I don't think so."
He kisses your chest. Rises upwards until his lips meet the space beneath your lobe, and there he leaves a plain kiss that clicks softly in your ear.
"I do." He whispers. You can feel his mouth twitch in a smile. "Bloody perfect when you relax. Should've taken a picture right there. Keep it in my wallet."
Blood warms up your chest and coils around your neck, touching your cheeks. Honest to God, this man is charming once a year and that single event always unfolds with the worst possible timing.
"Not the time to be a sap." You bite on your cheek to prevent a smile from blooming. "I just wet the fucking bed."
He snorts. "Not only the bed."
"Simon!"
He sinks his teeth in your neck softly, as his whole body shakes with laughter. He's laughing at his own joke, and suddenly his single, charming moment of the year is over just as quickly as it began. Shame for you, that his laugh is also a rare event, and it’s as infectious as they come.
You laugh too.
"Not—" you playfully slap his shoulder. "The fucking time!"
But he's relentless, and his lips journey from your neck to your cheek. He lifts himself just enough to make you breathe, and just enough to kiss your lips.
He sighs in your mouth when you reciprocate. "Perfect time."