Smut, Spice and everything nice

His to Fuck

Sarah

Its late evening and I texted Ryle about ten minutes ago, asking for a ride. To my surprise, he agreed without any smart-ass remarks or demands, which was unlike him. Normally, he'd make a big deal out of it, reminding me that every favor comes with a price. Back when we lived together after my mom married his dad, nothing came free. If I needed something from him, it wasn't about money or chores—it was about control, about me on my knees or bent over somewhere, paying him back with my body. Blowjobs, titfucks, whatever he wanted at the moment. And it wasn't just him taking; I made him work for it too. I would make him eat me out until my legs shook, until I was dripping, and then we'd fuck hard and fast, unable to stop ourselves once things got going.

Now that our parents are divorced, you'd think it would end. But no, we never stopped. Whenever one of us needs to blow off steam, it's like this unspoken agreement between us. We fuck—no questions, no regrets, just raw, carnal need. But it's been two weeks since our last hookup, and I'm aching for him. The craving for his hands on me, the way he grabs me like he can't get enough, the way he fucks me hard like he's trying to own me—it's all I've been able to think about. So today, I made sure to dress for it. I slip into a short, flirty tennis skirt that barely covers anything and a thong that's more of a tease than actual underwear. My shirt is tight, snug over my chest, the fabric straining with every breath. I know the moment he sees me, he won't be able to resist.

When his car horn honks outside, I feel a rush of anticipation flood through me. Grabbing my phone, I head out the door, my heart pounding a little faster knowing exactly where this is going to lead. His window's already down when I approach, and I deliberately bend low, leaning through the window. "Thanks so much for picking me up," I say sweetly, putting on my best innocent voice. But I know exactly what I'm doing—my tight t-shirt dips low enough to give him a full view of my cleavage. I can practically feel his eyes glued to my chest, and I smirk inwardly, knowing I've got his attention now.

I straighten up slowly, watching the way his eyes track every movement, and then open the door to slide into the passenger seat. I'm already pretending to be distracted, scrolling through my phone like this isn't all part of the game, but the tension between us is electric. I can feel the weight of his gaze, the heat building as he stares at me, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tight.

"Where are you heading, looking like that?" His voice is rough, low, almost a growl. It's possessive, as if I'm already his, as if just looking at me is making him remember all the times he's had me under him, screaming his name.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, letting a smirk tug at my lips. "Since you didn't call, I figured I'd go see someone else." My voice is light, teasing, but I know that'll hit a nerve. It always does. Ryle is possessive to a fault.

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking under his skin as his eyes narrow on me. Without another word, he pulls the car over to the side of the road, slamming it into park with a sharp jerk. The tension is thick, the air between us charged with a mix of anger and lust, and I can feel the shift happening before he even touches me. His hand moves fast, grabbing my tits through my shirt, squeezing them roughly.

"You're so desperate to get fucked," he growls, his voice low and commanding, leaving no room for argument. His hand grips me tighter, his fingers digging into my skin as he glares at me like he's daring me to say otherwise.

I bite my lip, suppressing a moan as his rough touch sends a wave of heat straight to my core. "You didn't want me," I manage to say, my voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced with something needier.

He squeezes harder, his other hand sliding down to pull me closer to him, dragging me by my waist. "You're only mine to fuck" he mutters, his eyes dark with lust. He isn't asking. He's claiming me, and it's making me wetter with every second that passes. His hands move greedily, kneading my breasts through the fabric of my shirt, the roughness of his touch sending jolts of pleasure through me.