The One-Shots | D.O'B.

Getting Caught Is Much More Fun* | Dylan

"Quiet—hey. Quiet. All right? Be my good girl and be fucking quiet."

His palm, cemented firmly to your lips, tightens as he dips down, forcing your eyes on him and him only.

You do your best, truly. Your back taut to the wall he has you up against, your hands secured by the tie you tore off his neck, and your thighs absolutely soaked and dripping in anticipation.

Still, his resolve prevails, showcasing his profile now as he glances toward the hallway where the voices were first heard.

"Easy," he murmurs, other hand finding its way back to your leg as he begins to find his way back up. "Yeah? You'll be good, won't you?"

Not really a question. An order. One that you're not quite sure you can agree to given the circumstances.

His compulsive need to have you at the worst possible times is typically one of your favorite things about him but now?

Now you're gonna fucking kill him.

He's been teasing you all damn day. In the car on the way to dinner. At the table. With his parents. His fingers underneath the napkin on your lap, pushing your dress higher until you were crossing your legs and sending him a very pointed look.

And even now, keeping you firmly against the small coat closet door as he does his very best to ruin you just with his words alone before he even thinks about fucking you.

Asshole.

You aren't surprised, truly. How can you be? After all, you can't really be anything right now except needy and desperate as the hours and hours of anticipation come to a point.

The same point where his fingers now meet. Where they press and smooth. Where they flick and curl. And fuck—he's way too proud of himself right now.

And for some reason...you love it.

He shifts, cocky grin widening as he nods his chin at you. "Fucking look at you."

As if encouraged to do just that, you let your head drop, eyes following the movement of his wrist as he feels you out, the sounds like sinful music to your ears, forcing you to exhale deeply against his hand.

You swallow another throaty groan, the gentle but practiced pressure he applies almost too overpowering to think straight. To stand.

You can feel the way you're drawn to the high. Yanked. Forced to take every ounce of pleasure as he curses through gritted teeth.

"Shit." His forehead meets yours, eyes focused on the way you drip for him. The way his fingers look when they disappear inside. When they come out, coated in you. "Fuck, angel—"

His chest is heaving, much like yours, and you whimper against the skin of his hand as he pulls you closer to the edge.

The pressure of his thumb against your clit is almost unbearable. The precision of rubbing and flicking as if he knows your body better than you do, and honestly, you don't doubt he does.

You are, however, curious about his sadistic need to drag this out when there clearly isn't enough time. His parents will be curious to know where you've both gone and you're not sure you'll be able to look them in the eye when you return.

You attempt to mumble a plea, although it becomes lost in a whine as he begins to smirk.

"I know, angel, I know," he coos, the dangerous cadence of his voice luring you closer. "S'good, yeah? Shit, feel so fucking good for me—"