The Adventures of BFF!Bill and tiger

Part 4

You almost wished he'd hurry up, be just a little more rushed in his movements. Not because you wanted the whole thing over with, not because you wanted something a little rougher, but because something fast and unbalanced on the pleasure scale was a lot more familiar to you. Too many men had poked and prodded at you a little too roughly and a little too soon, and while it had always been consensual, there was nothing that was pleasurable about the jackhammer, hurried pace that dominated the majority of your experiences. Men who skipped foreplay altogether, had little to no knowledge of female anatomy, men who were so scared you'd change your mind that they went fast, came first, and left right after.

The way Bill was savouring you, though, was driving you insane. You had never quite been with a man who made your pleasure his sole focus, who seemed to be enjoying giving you pleasure as much as you were enjoying receiving it. He took his time, and nothing in his movements was tentative. Every touch, every kiss, was something you could feel. It was confident, it was sure. It was gentle and kind but definitive in letting you know that he was exactly where he wanted to be right then. Everything he did lacked hesitation of any kind. His sole focus was on you, on making sure you were enjoying what he was doing. On making sure that you were finally getting the pleasure that, in his mind, you deserved every time.

But the pace, and his undivided attention, also made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn't anticipated. You had been vulnerable with each other before on so many occasions, sure. You weren't afraid to be emotional, to be raw with one another. You were the one who put Bill back on his feet after his girlfriend–the first girl he fell so, so hard for–broke his heart and left very suddenly. He had been a mess for weeks, not eating, not sleeping, spending days in bed in a catatonic state. You had set up camp at his place, coaxing him to shower, to eat a little something, to talk through it or just cry his heart out. Bill had been the one your friends called when a girl's night out went south, after a jerk at the bar slipped something into your drink. Your friends had noticed your strange behaviour and followed you into the bathroom, where the last thing you remembered was throwing up neon orange and passing out. Your friends, they later told you, had called him in the wee hours of the morning. He left the set he was on immediately, ran through the bar and had busted the door down of the women's bathroom to find you on the floor, bleeding from a gash in your forehead where you smacked the toilet on the way down. He wrapped you in his jacket, tucking you into his chest as he carried you out. Bill never mentioned anything, but that night he ordered Uber rides for all of your friends, tracked their routes and requested that they text him when they arrived home safely. He was the one to drive you to the hospital, propping you against him as he held his scarf to your bleeding head. You had thrown up, both in his expensive car and directly on him, but he held your hand while the doctors connected you to an IV and stroked your cheek while they stitched you up. He slept with you at the hospital that night, contorting his large frame into an uncomfortable chair and keeping a solid hold of your hand. Afterward, he had donated half of his earnings from his latest movie into the patent that was pending for a nailpolish that could detect the drug in someone's drink.

Everything about Bill, about your friendship with him, had been about comfort. About safety. And now, it was that same comfort you felt in every kiss, every move he made against you and to you. It was reassurance that you were safe, that he wanted you to feel good.

And you did feel good, so good. As he ground his hips into yours, kissing you until you were lightheaded while you were still trembling slightly from your earlier release, the only thing you could think of was chasing that high again but making sure he was right there with you this time.

You threaded your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and he moaned into the kiss as he placed his forearms by your head, giving him better leverage to grind against you. You reached your other hand down between your bodies and palmed firmly at the large bulge prominent in his jeans, and his hips surged forth. He broke the kiss with a grunt, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to control his urge to drive you into the mattress. You removed the hand you had buried in his hair to lightly trace his cheek instead, down his jaw, and finally tugging his lip free from his teeth. His mouth was on yours again in an instant, the intensity matching the way his pelvis was grinding into your palm with much more urgency. Popping open the button on his jeans, you danced your fingertips along his happy trail, scratching ever so lightly with your nails. He moaned loudly against your lips, hips jutting forward again of their own volition.