BAYOU

sexy thug

There were one thousand and one different ways Angel could've woken up that morning but if anyone had told him that he'd have his own gun pointed to his head, he would've called bullshit.

Yet there he was with the red sunrise, Mr. Pistol at his forehead and Sugarplum straddling his lap as if it were a saddle. Sadly, he was extremely invested in the latter.

Last night, she didn't want him to leave as reluctant as she was to voice it, so he stayed with her in the estate. It wasn't long before she dozed off in his arms with this sadness evident in her expression, the crinkle in her forehead and the small frown. He carried her up to the master bedroom and tucked her in, then later found what he assumed was the guest room only after raiding her lingerie drawer- g-strings galore, matching sets, role play costumes. Apparently Luke was a man of good taste.

Once in the guest room, Angel inspected the sheets, (which were as good as new,) then kicked off his clothes except his tank top and silk boxers before plopping back on the bed with his face to the ceiling. Nice, firm mattress. Expensive comforter. He wasn't complaining.

He had barely rested for a full five minutes before Sugarplum barged in to his designated room in an oversized shirt, stating that the purpose of him staying wasn't so they could sleep in separate spaces and well, he wasn't about to argue with her. Especially not when she crawled into bed beside him.

Everything went well, he thought. He kept it down, behaved himself, even stopped the explicit jokes, just put his arms around her like any big spoon gentleman would and now here he was the next morning with his own weapon formed against him.

Of course his blood was rushing south right now, but it had every reason to. After all, it was his crush in his lap. Braless. And the thin tank top she wore did nothing at all to help. The cotton underwear, equally thin, made him all too aware of her anatomy. Her soft, warm anatomy. His boxers were growing by the minute.

"Fuck. Am I dreaming?"

He's certain in that dream he had, she looked just like this on top of him, the insults she'd save for a regular day were turned into compliments. In his ear, musings of adoration about how good he felt inside of her, how she wanted long, hard strokes that'd make her toes curl.

She put the tip of the gun in his mouth to shut him up. "No, you're having a nightmare."

Good lord.

Her eyes widened, probably feeling the poke right to her center. It threw her off so much, she pointed the pistol at his heart. "You should be ashamed."

"It's that cameltoe of yours. Apparently it feels as good as it looks,"

"I have a gun at your chest and you're still thinking about sex?"

"If you could feel how you feel on top of me, you wouldn't even question it. T-shirt and panties on like I won't try you. Funny, I could've sworn you were drowning in a Tweetybird shirt last night.." He rested his hands on her waist which made her fidget. "Try not to move too much, princess, we're in a compromising position and you don't have clothes on."

"You talk too much." She removed the safety, tucked the gun right under his chin.

"Is that why you wanna kill me?"

Sugarplum decided not to answer, just kept her aim.

He stared her down to locate any note of pressure and he found several; where her hands didn't falter, her eye contact did. Despite her poker face being pretty convincing, he could still sense this nervousness that seemed to be buzzing around her- and no matter the fact that she acted like she wanted him dead, he felt it important to soothe her.