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The TV’s glow flickers over the couch, the Colts game a dull hum in the background. Hopper’s sprawled out, one hand wrapped around a half-finished beer, the other resting heavy on your hip as you ride him. His cock’s buried deep inside you, thick and warm, and he’s too wrecked from his shift to do more than let you use him—lazy circles of his thumb against your skin the only hint he’s even awake.
You roll your hips slow, savoring the drag of him, the way his breath hitches when you clench around him. His fingers tighten just enough to guide you, his callouses rough against your skin. The coarse hair at the base of his cock brushes your clit on every downward grind, and you bite your lip to stifle the moan crawling up your throat.
“That’s it,” he mumbles, voice gravel-deep with exhaustion. His beer clinks against the coffee table as he sets it down, his free hand sliding up to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple. “Take what you need, sweetheart.”
You do. The game’s forgotten, the room reduced to the slick sound of your bodies moving together, the creak of the couch under your knees. His cock twitches inside you when you sink down hard, and his groan is low, satisfied. He’s not going anywhere, just letting you work yourself open on him, his tired smirk telling you he’s enjoying the show far more than whatever’s on TV.
You lean forward, pressing your palms flat against his chest, letting the angle shift just enough to make him groan. His cock drags against your walls, deeper now, and you grind down in slow, deliberate circles. His fingers dig into your hip, urging you faster, but you keep the pace lazy, drawing it out, making him feel every inch of you.
His thumb flicks over your nipple again, rougher this time, and you gasp, arching into his touch. The heat coils low in your belly, tightening with every roll of your hips. His breath comes ragged now, his grip tightening as you clench around him.
“Fuck,” he grits out, head tipping back against the couch. His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers brushing through your slick before finding your clit. The first rough circle has you shuddering, your thighs trembling as you ride him harder, chasing the friction.
The TV’s still on, some commentator droning, but neither of you hear it. The only sound that matters is the wet slap of skin, his muttered curses, the way your breath hitches when his fingers work you just right.
“Close,” you pant, nails scraping his chest.
He grunts, hips lifting to meet yours, driving deeper. “Yeah? Come on then.” His fingers press harder, and you unravel—back bowing, his name tearing from your throat as you clench around him. He follows with a groan, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills deep, his hand still working you through it until you’re both spent and shaking.
The game’s still playing. Neither of you care.
fin ———-