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The sickening crack of pool balls scattering aches inside Irie’s skull.
Sebastian’s doing this on purpose. Why else would he be playing a game of pool by himself at this hour, other than to fuck with her?
It’s like he can sense her pressing need to talk to Abigail, and is subsequently sticking around so she doesn’t get the privacy. Staking his claim, asserting his dominance, whatever territorial masculine shit he’s up to.
Irie’s half a mind to loudly start saying things that would make him uncomfortable, teach him a lesson for a change. Or maybe do she could be petty–go knock his balls into the return to fuck up his stupid game.
Her teeth grit, hands fisting against the fabric of her sweats tightly. The low, lazy drone of music from the juke box buzzes at an obnoxious frequency. The smell of alcohol and wood polish and cigarette smoke burn in her nostrils. Even her water tastes off, and all of it is Sebastian’s fault. If he weren’t putting her on edge, everything wouldn’t feel so distinctly uncomfortable.
He looks infuriatingly self-satisfied as he bends over the table, rings glinting in the yellowed light as his fingers wrap around his pool cue. His cigarette hangs tauntingly from his plush lips, smoke hazing his otherwise sharp features. Sebastian’s the only person in town who smokes, and he’s intent on not letting anyone forget it. Lest his too-cool, don’t-give-a-fuck reputation be tarnished.
“I’ll be right back,” Abby titters, cheeks flushed, as she smiles down at Irie. “Behave.”
Before she can even respond, Abby stumbles towards the back hallway for the bathroom. Irie should just call it quits, give up on the whole idea—Abby’s so drunk at this point she’d probably blurt out whatever came to mind at an unreasonable volume.
Somehow, Irie wants to blame Sebastian for that, too.
If he weren’t hanging around, playing his little passive-aggressive game, Irie could’ve asked Abby her question well before she’d gotten so drunk. Is it so wrong, such a terrible crime, to want to know who delivers the mail?
She’s probably being too overly-cautious, but she’d die before chancing things only to find out that Lewis is the one who puts the packages on her doorstep. In a town so small, even a whiff of gossip is enough to start the rumor mill, and Lewis is as bad as the rest of them.
Irie sighs, venting a bit of her frustration. All she wants is a fucking vibrator, why does that have to be such a pain in the ass? Does she really have to drive all the way out to the city and face an actual person to buy one? This shouldn’t be so difficult.
“Harshing your vibe?” Sebastian sneers as another ball connects and goes rolling into the pocket.
“What?” The question snaps out of her chest, spring-loaded. His audacity truly knows no bounds, because out of everything she’s blamed Sebastian for, her sexual frustration is the one thing that is absolutely his fault.
Sebastian narrows his eyes at her, biting back a scowl before moving to get a better shot. “Don’t sigh so dramatically if you don’t want me to say something.”
Irie’s hands curl in on themselves tighter, to the point where she can see the tops of her knuckles whitening. How can he equally demean and patronize her with such practiced ease? Is it a skill he’s developed, or is being such a son of a bitch a natural talent?
Another clack, and he glances over at her, as smug as ever. It’s the look of a man who thinks he’s both hot and always right. Irie will give him the first one, but the second couldn’t be farther off.
If there’s one thing she’s learned about Sebastian, it’s that he’s almost always wrong. He’s based every interaction they’ve had on his shitty, good for nothing opinions about her. Irie knows what they say about assuming, but Sebastian must’ve never learned that lesson, because he does it like it’s his job.
“I thought you were more into the silent treatment, or is that just your way of acting too good for me in front of your friends?” Venom seeps into her tone unbidden, and she spits the words petulantly at Sebastian’s feet. She should stop here—her whole life she’s been the bigger person.
But where has that ever gotten her?
Irie watches as he eclipses a pool ball under his large palm, curling his fingers around the smooth surface. He doesn’t say a word as he balances his cue atop it, careful not to jostle its position as he gets a particularly tricky angle. She watches the way his forearms flex as he takes his shot.
Even when he’s picking a fucking fight, he refuses to give her his full attention. It makes her feel small, inconsequential, and she thinks that’s his goal. Can’t let her get too far under his skin. After all, he’s too cool to see her as anything more than a vague annoyance.
“Have you ever considered,” he draws up to his full height, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “that I don’t speak to you because I don’t have anything to say? Do you really think I care so much that I have to hold myself back from talking to you? Get a grip.”
The ground is hard and unforgiving under Irie’s feet. After sitting so long, and being so tense, her muscles ache with the expedience from which she stands up.
Sebastian just chuckles mirthlessly, and circles the pool table with a shake of his head and a click of his tongue. Irie knows that move all too well, that’s the ‘my job is done, I’ve gotten a rise out of you’ posture. Because, obviously, he’s finished with the conversation so that’s the end of it.
In a single-minded focus, Irie strides across the room and shoots out a hand, grabbing his pool stick with enough force to still his movements. She will not be dismissed at his say-so.
Half a second of surprise flickers across his face before it settles back into the unbothered smirk he always has. Irie feels herself boil, and it’s an effort not to yank the cue out of his stupid fucking hands.
“Where do you get off being such a rude son of a bitch to me?” She hisses, not backing down even though he tugs the stick in an effort to back away. He sneers, but she just tightens her grip. Sebastian’s enjoyed having control over their interactions for far too long.
“I don’t know,” he says, finally looking at her dead on. This close, she can see the spark of anger beginning to build behind his eyes. Good, about fucking time. “Where do you get off being in my fucking business all the time?”
His gaze flicks to her mouth, quick, brief, and Irie realizes how close she is to him. She can smell the smoke from his cigarette, the earthy notes of his cologne. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she feels her brain liquify into something stupid and useless as she inspects every dark fleck in his gray eyes.
When Sebastian lets go of the pool cue, she almost loses her balance. Irie’s left to spin around dumbly and watch as he stalks to the holder on the wall and picks out a new stick. The satisfied grin on his face tells her that he’d seen everything that she thought on her face, and she burns with embarrassment.
Of course he knows the effect he has on her. He just fucking used it against her—another tactic to shut her the fuck up. And she’d walked right into it. Played into his hand, yet again.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” she forces her tone to be level, to keep staring at his face despite the need to tear her eyes away and run from the room. “It’s a small fucking town. Being in people’s business is an inevitability.”
Sebastian arches an eyebrow as he stubs out his cigarette, flicking his eyes over her in annoyance. It’s clear to her that he’s already convinced himself he’s won this argument. She’s back to being an irritant, an inconvenience.
“Right, because you jog past my smoking spot every day by accident. And because you spend all your time with my friends by accident. And because you sit on my couch every Friday by accident. Let’s quit playing pretend: you don’t like it because no matter how much time you spend around me, I won’t give you the light of day. You can’t stand not being the specialist girl in the room.”
Sebastian takes her utterly stunned silence as her confessing, and his smirk pulls so broad she can see the glint of his teeth. Irie doesn’t think she’s ever met anybody who’s so fucking full of themselves.
It’s a losing battle, but Irie refuses to let things lie there. He won’t listen, she can already tell, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking she agrees with him. “I can’t believe how fucking presumptuous you are. I run the whole mountain path in the mornings. Sam and Abby are my fucking friends now too. They’re the ones who want me in here on Friday. Just because you can’t share doesn’t mean I have some fucking obsession with you.”
Irie racks the cue in her hand with more force than necessary, and sees Abigail in her periphery. Abby shakes her head, drunkenly amused at however much she’s heard. “I’m out,” she says simply, disappearing quickly.
“No, Abby, wait—“ she still had her question, she realizes with a huff. “Damn it, damn it, fuck.”
Sebastian looks at her with cool, contained malice, and Irie feels like she’s on the edge of a meltdown. She can feel her blood crashing and pulsing in her veins, can hear her heartbeat rushing in her ears. Everything is Sebastian’s fucking fault, and he doesn’t even have the decency to stop playing his fucking game.
“Why’d you need Abby so bad?” Sebastian chuckles— fucking chuckles —as he snicks another ball into the return.
A scowl sets hard on her features, and Irie drags a hand through her hair, tugging the ends in pure frustration. “As if I would fucking tell you. Who’s in who’s business now?”
To her surprise, Sebastian makes his way towards the rack again, not shying away from her personal space as he places his cue back. She realizes too late that he’d finished his game.
Rising to his challenge, she doesn’t move, and he looks down on her with a smothering gaze.
“So,” he’s practically purring at this point, he’s so pleased with himself, “am I supposed to put you out of your misery and leave? Or are we still pretending you’re going to storm out of here now that Abby’s gone.”
For once, Irie’s at a loss for words. She can only guess what he’s getting at, and a whole wave of incredulity washes over her. Sebastian presses that much closer into her space, an intimidation tactic, and she can help but stumble back. He’s eclipsing her, dark hair and dark eyes and dark grin rendering her nearly inert.
Irie digs deep—despite the fact that her back hits the wall, she can’t let him win like this. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Please,” he smirks, tilting his chin so he’s looking down his nose at her. Suddenly, she knows exactly what it feels like to be an animal of prey, cornered by a predator.
And worse, some sick wave of excitement shocks down her spine at the prospect. Her biology can’t help but react to him. A hot man, this close, with her adrenaline pumping, she feels herself getting wet. No matter how insufferable Sebastian is, she’s uselessly attracted to him.
“Don’t know what I’m talking about?” He mocks, voice low and rumbling through her skin. Arousal pools in her stomach. Sebastian looks like he wants to take a bite out of her, and God help her, she would let him. “It’s almost embarrassing how much you’re into me. Do you get off on this shit? Is it hot that I don’t fucking like you?”
Yes , she thinks, it is.
“As if,” she says, “you must be fucking projecting.”
Irie would rather be burned with a hot poker than tell him he’s right. There’s a breathless moment of consideration as Sebastian thinks about her response. Then, that smirk fixes itself back on his face.
The feeling of ice cold fingertips on Irie’s hot skin makes her shiver, sends goosebumps racing down her arms. Unfortunately for her, there’s no way he can’t see—can’t feel—the way she swallows as he takes her pulse.
In contrast to his hand, his breath is hot against her ear. “You’re a terrible liar, you know,” he breezes, and Irie has to fight a huff. “Your heart is as quick as a jackrabbits, and your pupils are the size of quarters. Don’t pretend you aren’t fucking wet for me Irie.”
Her jaw clenches, and despite herself her whole body shudders at the sound of her name passing his lips. Irie’s never wanted someone so badly, and never hated someone so much.
Sebastian’s playing dirty, but he’s not wrong.
With every ounce of self control she has, Irie shoves him away from her. “Fuck you,” she snarls, forcing her clumsy feet to move. She doesn’t know where she’s going, and she doesn’t care. As long as it’s away from him.
Once she’s safely in the privacy of the back storage room, Irie slams her fist onto the nearest surface. Why did she come back here? Why didn’t she just storm out, go the fuck home?
Light pours in briefly as the door to the storage room opens and shuts. She knows why she didn’t leave. The twisted, self-sabotaging part of her brain hoped he would follow her, and he did.
She wants, no, needs him. So desperately it tingles her fingertips and courses through her veins.
“The fuck are you doing back here?” Irie asks anyway, still trying to convince Sebastian and herself that she isn’t so into this that her cunt is throbbing.
“The same thing as you,” Sebastian’s voice makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, right in her ear as he presses up behind her. He sounds so absolutely certain of himself it makes her sick.
Irie hates him.
She holds her self control so tightly it shatters between her fingers, cutting her skin and drawing blood. Irie spins around quick enough to knock him slightly off balance, but it doesn’t matter because she balls the fabric of his shirt in her fists as she drags his mouth to hers.
Sebastian meets her with equal enthusiasm, digging his fingers into her hips and bruising her lips with the force of his return. It’s dizzying, hot and rolling through Irie’s body as Sebastian impatiently fields his tongue into her mouth. Irie petulantly licks the roof of his mouth.
They’re half kissing, half one-upping each other as Irie twines a hand into his hair and yanks, forcing his head back and standing on her toes to deepen the kiss. It’s not enough, the fire in her bones roaring with displeasure because they still have their fucking clothes on.
“You’re so goddamn annoying,” Sebastian groans as he bites her throat, sucking her skin hard.
Irie chokes back a moan as she tugs at his belt, too impatient to care that she’s this needy. She feels like a monster, because she wants to make him feel better than anyone ever has before. She wants him whining, grunting and moaning, saying her name like a prayer.
She wants him to beg for her, to feel utterly undone and know that it’s Irie who’s doing it to him. She wants Sebastian to fucking hate himself for how much he loves this.
“The feeling’s mutual,” she says, taking her turn to lathe her tongue against his skin, finding a spot he likes just below his ear. Sebastian’s hands are still cold as he pushes her sweatpants down her hips, and she continues to dumbly pull his button and zipper, trying to keep her cognitive abilities and get his pants off.
“Turn around,” he directs, voice gruff, and Irie’s half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself. When she doesn’t comply, he takes her by the shoulders and turns her himself, pushing her down against an old table. His palm sits between her shoulder blades, pressing her flat, while one hand grips her hip hard enough to bruise. She moans raggedly before she can stop herself.
Irie’s bent to his will, and when he presses into her he can feel how hard he is through the fabric of their underwear. “For the love of God, listen for two fucking seconds,” he spits, grinding against her core and making her see stars.
“Tell me you want this,” Sebastian’s body engulfs hers as he leans over her, chest heavy against her back. Heat washes out against her skin, the gravel in his voice sparking that much more arousal in her stomach.
“Don’t be stupid,” she snipes, forcing her hips back into his as much as they’ll go. “Obviously I fucking want this.”
Finally, finally, Sebastian groans, breath rushing against the nape of her neck. Irie feels satisfaction washing up her throat and trying to force out a giddy laugh, but she bites it down when he stands back up.
She hears rustling behind her, and waits on bated breath as she listens to him rip open a condom. If she were more with it, she’d ask where it came from, but right now all she can do is thank fuck he has it.
Her panties inch off her ass so slowly it’s painful, and Irie digs her fingers into the tabletop in an effort to hold still. She knows what he’s doing—taking his sweet time so she’ll eagerly beg him to speed the fuck up. Irie isn’t sure how strong her patients truly are, but she’ll hold out as long as she can.
Once the fabric finally slips down her legs, she can hear Sebastian take in a breath, sharp and quiet like he didn’t intend for her to hear. Irie grins. “Never seen a pussy before?”
In lieu of a response, Sebastian drags a finger through her folds, teasing at her swollen clit.
“I knew you were fucking wet for me,” he growls, and Irie feels the muscles in her stomach flex. Sebastian’s going to fucking kill her, drive her straight to the looney bin, and it’s her own fault.
Her nails scratch into the wood in effort not to buck her hips as he teases against her slit.
“What the fuck are you—“ her words die on her tongue as Sebastian shoves a finger inside her cunt carelessly. The sudden drag of friction has her shivering, shoulders bowing together.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps, tone the closest thing to reverence she’s ever heard as he pumps his finger in and out of her. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“What, is this your—“ Sebastian adds a second finger, and her words warp, twisting into a low moan. He is unfairly good with his hands, scissoring and crooking his fingers against her G-spot with ease.
“Just shut the fuck up already.”
By the time he’s three fingers deep she forgets to talk back, too focused on the heat dragging through her center. Her forehead thunks against the table in agitation when he removes his hand, throbbing around the sudden emptiness. “Sebastian,” she warns, tone betrayed by the needy, breathless sigh that follows.
The head of his cock pushes against her entrance, and she can feel her wetness drip down her thighs. Everything about this is disgusting, dirty, vulgar. She feels depraved being splayed out under him. Wanting, willing, desperate.
He presses into her slowly, forcing her to cope with having every inch of him buried inside of her. Without a word, she knows he’s mocking her, dragging her out and making her remember who’s fucking her.
“What would everyone say,” he rasps into her ear, holding her fast by the hips as he grinds as deep as he can against her, the pressure of being full sparking and fizzing in her spine. “If they saw you like this? Drooling and stupid with my cock in you.”
Irie moans brokenly. She’s helpless, shivering and adjusting to him as he pulls out an inch and shoves himself back inside, drawing a too-loud sound out of her throat.
“F-fuck off— ah,” she stammers as he repeats the movement, telling her that he’s in complete control. It’s unclear if this is sex or psychological warfare.
She doesn’t fucking care.
“Still want to act like a fucking brat?”
The question weighs too heavy in her lust-addled mind. Part of her wants to say yes, make some biting remarks, but she doesn’t have a coherent thought. Sebastian takes her silence as his answer.
“That’s what I thought.”
His statement is punctuated by him pulling almost all the way out and thrusting back in, Irie’s body being pulled to and fro on the tabletop as he strikes up a relentless pace. Every hit is impossibly deeper, drawing tears to the corners of her eyes because it feels so fucking good.
Nobodies ever fucked her like this. Reckless, harsh, demeaning. She’s never had sex with someone who so obviously can’t stand her, who holds her like she doesn’t mean a thing to them because she doesn’t. Irie feels like a rag doll, like a conduit for Sebastian’s pleasure and nothing else.
She fucking loves it.
With each slam of his hips against hers, she feels shockwaves of arousal down to her toes. Irie’s never understood the prospect of getting railed before now. She thinks she might be obsessed with it. The heat and friction begin to converge, making her thighs shake and her stomach tighten, and she realizes she’s whining beneath him.
Irie’s close to her orgasm, so close she can feel it infringing the edges of her body, and she disengages one hand from the table to move to her clit.
Sebastian catches her wrist and holds her arm behind her back, slamming to a stop and seating himself inside of her. “No,” he says plainly, forcing her still.
“W-wha—“ Irie stutters, stupid and frustrated, “I was going to—“
“You can come when I fucking say so,” Sebastian digs his fingertips that much harder into her hip, grinding against the deepest part of her again and drawing a rasping sigh from her chest. “Or is that a problem?”
Irie’s well aware of the power play. Making her hand over the control willingly. She needs him to move so badly she’s on the verge of crying, cunt aching around his length.
She can hate herself for this in the morning. Right now she’ll do anything to feel him fucking her again. “No,” she pants, begging, “it’s not a problem. Please, Sebastian.”
The response is immediate as he again begins to fuck her senseless. Irie can hear the wet sloshing of her pleasure as he punishes her with his dick. When he shifts his hips, he hits her G-spot that much more directly, and Irie whimpers.
Sebastian swears sharply, breath shaky, and Irie tightens around him. It’s so hot, so unbearable, hearing the sounds of Sebastian’s arousal. He’s always so calculated, so in charge, so infuriatingly aloof, Irie feels drunk knowing she’s the reason his resolve is wavering.
The pressure in her abdomen is nearly too much. Irie’s back on the edge of coming, but she can’t from just his thrusts. She needs Sebastian to rub her clit, needs it so badly she’s about to go out of her mind.
“Fuck, fuck,” Sebastian swears again as his hips begin to stutter, pounding her ruthlessly and out of rhythm as he starts to lose control. He releases her arm to run his palm down her stomach towards her center.
His finger teases the barest pressure on her, and she stutters and bucks her hips back against his in a plea for more. For some reason, she gathers all of her mental power to not come yet, doing as she’s told and waiting for permission.
Sebastian rubs her in tight circles and Irie feels herself move in slow motion, tears streaming down her face as she gasps and chokes on the need to hold out.
“Come for me,” he grunts, and she does, clamping down on his cock as she orgasms. Every beat of her heart is in time with the downright vicious waves of pleasure, and Irie can hear Sebastian’s litany of curses as he buries himself deep inside her, cock twitching.
It takes a long time for Irie’s soul to rejoin her body, slumped against the table top and breathing shallow.
Sebastian’s already pulled out of her, leaving her to lay stupid and exposed while he begins to rearrange his clothes. Mustering all her strength, Irie supports herself on her feet and stoops to pull up her sweats and underwear.
Heat overtakes her face, horrified as she sees the pool of her come on the floor. She’d fucking squirted on him. Her chest feels tight.
This is it. The most embarrassing day of Irie’s life. She’s going to die, right here in the Saloon back room, after having been fucked to hell and back.
Setting her jaw, she looks around and grabs a cleaning rag before wiping up the mess. Sebastian’s pulled out another cigarette and lit it, standing back and leaning on a shelf as he watches her clean.
Smug prick.
“Don’t ever talk to me again,” Irie spits, eyes narrowed. “This never happened.”
“Sure,” he responds, raising a shoulder before turning and leaving through the back door. “Like I’d wanna talk to you anyway.”
With his parting words, Irie tries to set herself in order, adjusting her shirt and pants and flattening her hair as much as she can.
She waits until she’s sure she won’t see Sebastian as she leaves, and makes her way home with her thoughts roiling and her legs shaking.
Irie never fucking figured out who delivers the mail. She’s going to need that vibrator now more than ever—her sexual frustration just got a lot worse.