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“Octavia’s bachelorette party is coming up.”
All Bellamy can see is Clarke’s hair, messily piled at the top of her head as she leans over a frying pan. He suspects her back is turned to him for a reason.
“Oh yeah?”
He places his hands on her hips, squeezing. The stir-fry she’s preparing for dinner sizzles in the pan, the scent of the spices overwhelming him for a moment.
“She wants to go to a strip club, obviously.”
“Of course.”
“It’s just some dumb thing we said we’d do after we watched Magic Mike a while back. She chose it.”
“ She chose it?” he teases mildly, pulling at the end of one of her curls, dangling loosely over the nape of her neck.
“So as a bridesmaid, I have to go too.”
It’s not really a question. It doesn’t have to be. They both know this. It’s just something posed between them.
And he is quiet for a minute. She continues to stir, and he stands behind her, his breath against her neck. The silence is not an answer. She can feel his breath, heavy and warm, against her already sweaty skin. He is giving her his silence, not as a refusal, but just to see what she does with it.
Her lips are pursed as she waits him out, pulling on the silence, tangling it around her hand, trying to find out how to play with it.
He slides the strap of her tank top down her shoulder, thumb gliding the bared skin.
She suppresses a shudder, stirring the pan with purpose.
“So can you get change for some singles on the way home from work tomorrow?”
His lips find the soft skin under her ear, but even as he moves to her he can’t help but chuckle.
“Of course. Have fun.”
Clarke stumbles back into the apartment, tippy and colt-limbed on her strappy heels, a heady flush over her cheeks.
Bellamy glances up from the documentary he’s watching, trying not to crack a grin at her obvious altered state.
“Babe,” she drawls, dragging the word out longer than she ever would while sober, “you didn’t have to wait up for me.”
Her voice isn’t tipsy-pitched, high and light. It’s scratchy. She’s clearly had a few, but he can practically feel the hormones radiating off of her.
It’s very late. So late it’s early.
But she was at a strip club with his baby sister, with kohl smudged eyes and tight leather pants that made her legs look miles long. Tempting to him because he know what lies underneath, he can’t imagine what it’s like for someone who wanted to see more for the first time. She could expect him to be fine with her going, but he wasn’t exactly going to sleep peacefully with that.
“Have fun?”
She stumbles a little, hitting the side table with a giggle, and tries to find his eyes from behind the television reflection on his glasses.
“Octavia got doused in champagne and may have molested a man with a magnificent six pack.”
“That’s all?”
She shakes her head, shucking her leather jacket onto the floor. On instinct, his hand reaches out to scoop it up by the collar to hang it up. She catches his flinching hand, squeezing it tight.
She straddles his lap, resting her forehead on his cheek. She’s giggling breathily.
“I got a lapdance. They pulled me onstage. Maid of honor thing.”
“What did they do?”
“Just a lot of humping the air around me. They picked me up a little. It was very well choreographed. I think they depend on how weird it is that a stranger is touching you to keep you holding back any pervy stuff.”
She plucks at the collar of his button-down.
“You didn’t even get out of your work clothes,” she chides, her fingers spider-crawling across his exposed neck.
“I had some stuff I had to get done for class tomorrow and just kind of stayed on the couch all night.”
“Are you mad at me?” she whines mournfully.
“It’s a little weird. I mean I’m not jealous, I just…”
He’s not sure how he feels. And Clarke is drunk, and squirming in his lap, and he’s clearly killing her pretty infectious high by making her feel guilty for no reason.
“Baby,” she growls out, voice hoarse from catcalling and affected from what had to have been some shrieks, “None of those guys are you. Can’t I pretend it’s you dancing like that for me? That’s all I want to see.”
He pulls her closer, cracking an easy smile.
“Easy princess. I’m not mad. I’m glad you had fun.”
“Mmm,” she grinds down on his lap, seeming excited to be just there, “and I want you now. Want you so bad,” she slurs. She touches the folded-up paper in his pocket, right where she’d slipped it before she went out for the night.
“Did you read my note?”
The orders were to hold on to it until she got home.
He obeys, fingers plucking it out and unfolding it.
“For later,” she’d said.
Bell-
I’m getting wasted tonight. This we already knew.
But I’m also going to a stripclub and will be horny as hell,
So for both our sakes, don’t be delicate about how drunk I am.
If I ask you to, fuck the shit out of me.
-Sober Clarke
He’d read it. Maybe jerked off to it. Maybe stopped just short of cumming to honor her plans for him.
Maybe it’s the only thing that’s kept him calm this whole evening.
Clarke is home. Clarke wants him to fuck her.
His hands slide around and cup her ass, squeezing tightly. He grinds up against her spread legs. She mewls, uninhibited and a little, a lot , on the adorable side from the booze.
“It was just a body, Bell. A body teasing at doing the things I want you to do. That’s what made watching so fun.”
“You are so fucking turned on,” he whispers, in awe, her body liquid in his arms, so ready for him to just take from her. So warm and soft and languid.
“Are you mad?” she whispers in his ear, breath in his hair.
She knows he’s not. He knows she’s baiting.
“Don’t you think I like to know my girl is this hot over someone dancing for her, and I’m the one who gets to take care of her?”
He reaches a hand under her tank top, palming a breast. Her neck arches and she moans. His hand slips down to work open the fly of those skin tight pants.
“If it’s for your pleasure, Clarke, and I get to see you all sexy and turned on and…” his fingers dip into her underwear, “fuck, so wet , how could I be mad?”
She lifts herself off the couch to shimmy out of her pants, mounting him again now that she’s bare.
“Please,” she whispers softly, as his fingers work her already desperate cunt, soaking his fingers. He groans.
“You’re all ready. I don’t even need to touch you.”
“They touched my inner thighs,” she admits, clumsily falling against his upper body, “any time there’s any contact on my inner thighs, I want your waist between them. That’s what I think about. Just holding you between my legs. It’s such a safe place.”
Guidance eagerly taken, Bellamy drags his hands around the backs of her thighs, holding her steady so she can grip his waist. Having made the contact she craved, Clarke grows wild. She fumbles her thong out of the way and doesn’t give him the space to unzip his fly until he has to force her to relent it. She just grinds down, so ready, squeezing like a python with her legs.
“Good?” she whispers breathily, her kisses without finesse.
“Yes,” he breathes back, his mouth open to hers.
He kisses her fiercely, lifting her off his lap to lower his jeans. She growls again, taking him, hard and warm, in her hand, and rolling her hips so he touched the wet parting of her thighs.
Her thighs must be getting a workout as their rubbing cycles from shallow to more and more friction. He tries to shove her down onto his cock, but she wiggles away.
“Bellamy,” she whines softly, “I got my lapdance tonight. You deserve a turn.”
“Another time,” he breathes, head thrown back. He will take her up on that.
She nods, sliding him inside her. Which is easy, she must have been this wet for hours and is only now getting him inside her. Which they both deserve, at this point.
“Love you,” she mumbles, threading her hands in his hair and she rolls her hips.
He slides his lips along her neck, sucking the sweat off of her. God, she feels so filthy - the good way - and in the settled months since they’d started living together, they could only feel so adventurous fucking in the bed they shared every night. Not that he had a problem with that. He liked their nest, their safety. They could have any kind of sex in their safe place.
This feels entirely different.
This isn’t a game, the image of Clarke with her leather-clad legs open for another buff guy teasing her. It isn’t a good or bad thing. It isn’t something that made him angry or happy. It just is.
Clarke is moaning in his ear, crying out for her release. Begging him to cum inside her, she just needs to feel more inside her.
“Clarke, is this what you want us to try? Do you want to play?”
Her nails dig into his shoulders.
His fingers are bruising into her hips, and she rides him so wild and unhinged for that long-denied orgasm, the one she could only get from him. That was what made tonight okay.
He slides his hand between them, teasing the wetness in gentle circles around her clit. He angles his hips in a sharp upward motion, rubbing against all the good spots inside her. She’s already so boneless, that she’s eventually limp enough to be dragged up and down his dick by his thrusts, and whimpering from the pleasure of it.
“Do you want me to be jealous?”
His fingers are rougher on her clit.
She whimpers, tucking her face in his shoulder.
“I...yes,” she admits.
“Good.”
He’s less firm but still fast, and her hips jerk desperately. Her cunt is tightening up around him. She’s so close.
“I was jealous. Does that make you happy to hear?”
“Yes,” she whispers, head tipped back, euphoria washing over her as her orgasm hits. Her cunt ripples around him in a vicegrip. He groans and cums inside her, so relieved, finally relieved, even more so than when she’d returned just twenty minutes ago.
They’re both breathless, Clarke barely able to move as she slumps against him.
“Bellamy,” she cuddles him, pleased, nuzzling, satisfied.
This is all he needs. The soft aftermath. Her muddled words and sleepy tongue. The kisses that melt together her lazy mouth presses to his exposed skin.
He breathes evenly through his nose, reminding himself.
He’s the loved one. He’s wanted.
She’s half asleep against him, so trusting that they don’t need to talk this out just yet. They don’t. They just need sleep.
He scoops her up, barely able to carry her to their bedroom.
Even in the dark, she knows his ears flush red when she whispers something only to be forgotten in sleep; “You should give me a lapdance sometime.”