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“Aaaand,” Barry drags out the word as he mists your face with finishing spray and turns you toward the bathroom mirror, “done! What do you think, darling?”
You study your face in the reflection with a sense of awe. Your brows are angled just right over a red and black cat eye, your cheekbones seem more prominent than normal, and your lips are a deep red edging in on brown that highlights the pleasing shape of your cupid's bow. Beaming, you make eye contact with the stylist in your reflection.
“Barry, I absolutely love it. I’m ordering us a new set of brushes for us tomorrow morning.”
Barry grins, eyes crinkling cutely, “You’re my favorite canvas, truly. And for a secret mission? He is going to be obsessed with you tonight. I mean, who wouldn’t be? You’re stunning.”
Your cheeks flush as Barry wiggles his eyebrows at you through the mirror. You peek at Amir, who stands on the other side of you with an approving look on his face.
“Azizam, you’re perfection personified. Just take a moment to believe it.”
“And thanks to me you smell incredible,” said a lilting voice from behind you.
You murmur a thanks to Bathsheba, and she beams at you.
You fidget with the locks of your hair framing your face. Barry had strategically curled them after spinning your hair into a chic but messy updo. It really was perfect.
You turn, minding your reflection in the mirror, and appreciate the exposed open back of the black halter dress you wear. It dips so low that the red lace of your underwear just peeks out. The front has a cutout, enough to show off your chest and the series of chain necklaces that Barry insisted you wear under the neck of the dress. Just for a bit of sparkle, he had said. Your earrings dangle dangerously low, just brushing your bare shoulders.
It’s been months since you’ve had a real reason to dress up and you smile, feeling just as confident as Amir always suggests that you be.
The first few times you made your way to the Breaker Box, you weren’t exactly dressed up. Given that you wander about your house with the Dateviators, it’s miraculous that you even had shoes on the first time you entered the club.
Even then, at most you would wear jeans and a crop top. It still never felt like enough for Volt and Eddie’s club with its lush velvets and moody lights.
This time, you’re prepared with a new dress and your favorite pair of pumps, in a dark red suede.
“He would be blind to not take you in his arms tonight, azizam,” Amir reassures you, “Be confident, you’re gorgeous.”
“Go, darling,” Barry gives your hip a nudge with one of his, “It’s almost time for the show.”
• • • • •
“Evenin’, love,” Dorian greets you just inside the door of the Breaker Box. He smirks knowingly, taking in your appearance, “Tryin’ to turn heads tonight?”
“Always,” you blow him a kiss and delight in his flushed cheeks, though his posture remains ever statuesque. You know you're beginning to break through his tough exterior.
“Don’t cause too much trouble, now,” he warns, but his smirk gives him away.
“Yes, sir,” the way his gaze heats at the title satisfies you. However, he isn’t your target for the night, so you leave him with a promising touch to the lapel of his jacket.
You make your way through the thickening crowd to the bar, searching for your favorite surly bartender.
Eddie has his sleeves rolled up, a towel tossed over one shoulder and a cocktail shaker in hand. You watch from down the bar as he finishes mixing the drink in the shaker and pours it expertly into a glass. The way he moves is effortless without all the flourish you’ve come to expect from Beverly. The way his forearm flexes as he pushes it across the bar catches your eye, sending a little thrill through you.
Under the buttons of his shirt and vest are planes of strong muscle, honed from doing all the maintenance for the club on his own. Ever since he caught you right in his arms all you can imagine is being held like that again, being pressed against him. In the weeks since you fixed his faulty wire, he’d been only slightly less reserved. A kiss here, brushing your cheek with his hand there. Occasionally, the touches burn with an intensity that you’re never prepared for but feels incredible.
You hoped the dress would serve to encourage him to take a step further.
Eddie takes the towel off his shoulder to wipe his hands idly while scanning the crowd for patrons in need of a drink.
His cool, removed expression melts when he sees you at the other end of the bar. His hands stop moving around the rag and you suppress a giggle when his lips part as he takes you in. You can almost feel the heat of his gaze as it studies your makeup, your bared shoulders, the keyhole in the front of your dress that brings the eye right to your cleavage.
You lean over the bar on your elbows and wave, smiling sweetly at him while knowing full well that it puts your body on display.
Eddie blinks hard, as if coming out of a daydream, and pockets his towel before making his way over to you. He places his hands on the surface of the bar, leaning forward, “Live wire, you…”
He trails off. Shaking his head, he stares at the wood grain of the bar, as if to keep himself in line.
“What, no sarcastic commentary? That’s so unlike you,” you grace him with a teasing smile.
He chuckles quietly, rolling his eyes at your jab before finally making eye contact with you from under his lashes. It only lasts for a moment before he tears his gaze away. He murmurs something that sounds incredible close to, “I guess I’m speechless,” but grabs a glass before you can ask him to repeat himself, “Drink?”
“Please.” You pull yourself into the nearest barstool to lean even closer to him, “Surprise me.”
He simply nods. This has become a sort of tradition for the two of you. Every time you come back to the Breaker Box, you ask him to surprise you. Every time, he gives you an entirely new drink to try. Last time, you drank three different kinds of martinis and had to stumble your way back to your bed.
Wordlessly, he gets to work—mixing whiskey, lemon juice, and fresh orange juice with a splash of grenadine in a shaker before pouring and topping it with a maraschino cherry.
With absolutely no theatrics, he sets it down in front of you. A proud smirk curls his lips in the exact way that makes your heart squeeze, “It’s called a Ward Eight.”
You sip it, the sweet citrus pairs incredibly with the woody whiskey. It burns just the right amount, and you adore it.
If you’re honest, you love every drink he makes for you. But there’s something special about the ones made with whiskey and bourbon. He’s even given you scotch straight up when you stay late to talk to him, sharing the bottle with you, “Perfect, as always.”
His smirk levels into a genuine smile, fleeting and just for you.
As you drink, he slides one of his hands to yours on the bar top, catching it and running a calloused thumb against the pulse point of your wrist. His grey eyes seem to burn into yours, capturing your gaze with a strength that’s so utterly Eddie. After a moment of contemplation, he quietly compliments you, “You…you look incredible, live wire.”
You murmur a thanks, trying to hide the heat creeping up your cheeks with another sip of the cocktail. Both of you are silent for a moment, looking at one another as if trying to share a secret that neither of you can find the words for. All the while, his hand stays on yours, caressing the inside of your wrist. Every touch sends a tingle through your arm. You wonder if it’s actual electricity or the man just has this great of an effect on you. As he stares at you, you watch his eyes flick to your lips, your chest, the space where your hands meet.
You make a mental note to thank Barry profusely for the makeover tomorrow morning.
After a long, quiet moment, he peeks over your shoulder and smirks, genuine fondness in his eyes despite the sarcasm in his tone, “Here he comes.”
A familiar voice breaks through the crowd, “Now here’s a sight for sore eyes! Live wire!”
You turn on the barstool towards the sound of Volt’s voice, a wide smile on your face. The host of the Breaker Box closes the distance between you swiftly and beckons for your hand with a sweep of his arm. You trade Eddie’s touch for Volt’s. He takes your palm and turns it, eyes never leaving yours as he lowers his head. Shocks of electricity run down your spine at the press of his lips against the very same space on your wrist that Eddie was just touching.
“Come now, give us a turn” he pulls you off the bar stool to stand before him and leads you into a twirl, sending you into a fit of giggles, “Eddie, look at her. Isn’t she just captivating?”
“You could say that…” Eddie clears his throat and tears his gaze from the exposed plane of your back to level a glare at Volt, “Don’t let her keep you from the show.”
You place a hand over your heart in mock-hurt, “Me? A distraction? I would never!”
“You’re a minx and a tease. Let him do his job,” even as he scolds you, he smirks.
Volt hands you your drink and winds an arm around your waist, “Come now, live wire, you get the best seat in the house.”
You allow Volt to lead you to your seat, loving the warm press of him at your side. The audience of Volt’s show has long since become accustomed to the sight of you on his arm but it still feels like all eyes are on you tonight. Is it the dress? The makeover?
Before you can even think of sitting down, he takes the glass from your hand and sets it down on the table. His hands then wind around you, one pressing you closer at your exposed lower back and one cradling you at the back of your head. He leans in, seeking permission. You meet his kiss with the same hunger that he gives you, communicating how—even if it was only a few days—you missed one another. You take the lapels of his jacket in your hand and tug him even closer to you. He hums, smiling against your mouth in appreciation.
When you part, the look he levels you with can only be described as utter rapture, a grin spreading across the lips that you’ve smudged with the deep red pigment of your lipstick.
When you giggle and let him know of the mess, he fixes the lipstick on his mouth into something presentable, choosing to wear your mark on stage.
“I’ll return soon, live wire. The audience calls and they are rather boisterous this evening.”
He kisses you one last time, pulling you close again before parting to take the stage.
You sit as Volt starts the show. Though the table wasn’t exactly reserved for you, the regulars at the Breaker Box knew where Volt liked to seat you. It was a small circular table accompanied by a lone chair—close enough to the stage and centered just so. You always have a perfect view of the performers.
You sip from your glass, setting it down and then skating your fingers along the dewy surface. The drink was a gift from Eddie, his way of showing you affection. Unlike Volt, who showers you with passionate touch and devoted words (all rather publicly), Eddie is more subdued. His touch across the bar, the hungry looks, those were as passionate as you’ve seen him thus far.
You quietly wished for more touch, hoping he would come across the bar and sweep you off your feet. Craving him was driving you mad.
As the second act takes the stage, you drain your glass. The warmth in your belly sent from the alcohol serves to distract you from visions of Edie’s hands, his mouth, his strong arms. Your thoughts turn amorous and you can’t help yourself from peeking at him at the bar.
A flash of grey tells you that he’s also looking.
His eyes, after being caught by yours, travel down the slope of your bared back and up once again to your face before turning away entirely to help a patron at the bar.
Halfway through the show, you feel a warm, calloused hand on your shoulder. You look up at the object of your desires as he places a fresh drink on the table in front of you, kisses the top of your head, and moves to swiftly walk away with your empty glass.
You catch his free hand and bring it to your lips, leaving a reddish kiss mark on the back of it. He blinks, stunned, before taking his hand back to caress your cheek. His gentle fingers raise goosebumps along the back your neck.
Too soon, he breaks the moment.
Eddie makes his way back to the bar while you watch him retreat, entirely taken in by the form of his back. Between the alcohol and the sweet attention, you feel a buzz in your chest. You wish he would stop working, if only for a moment, and come join you at your solitary seat. You wonder if he would let you caress his thigh under the cover of the table and the dim lighting of the club.
The show ends and you stand to bring your second empty glass to the bar. As you wind your way through the crowd, someone crashes into your shoulder, causing you to wobble on your stilettos. Before you hit the ground, there’s a painful tweak across one of your ankles. Your eyes tear from the pain and you can’t help the yelp that rises from your throat. You hit the ground, hard, and so does your glass. It shatters against the wood of the floor loudly and if feels as if the entire building goes silent.
“Watch it, bitch,” the object that send you tumbling is entirely unfamiliar to you but their glare is as sharp as their words.
You scoff, a scathing reply on your tongue, but are interrupted by the form of Volt stepping between you and the aggressive object. His back faces you, his arms slightly spread, almost to wall you off protectively from the rest of the club.
“Is there a problem, here?” Volt’s voice is smooth and gracious on the surface, but you swear there’s a hint of steel underneath the host’s words.
As the other object stutters a reply, you feel a calloused hand touch your arm, “Can you stand, live wire?”
You look to see Eddie kneeling beside you, a crease in his brow that takes you back weeks ago. He looked at you like this when you fell from the ladder. You take a moment to wonder at how quickly he came to your side before his words register.
The second you put weight on your foot to stand, your ankle throbs painfully. Your breath comes out in a hiss, “No, I don’t think I can…”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched and nostrils flared in anger. His eyes flick to the object that knocked you over, a protective burn in his gaze, “Put your arm around my neck.”
You obey and before you can question why he scoops you up, one arm supporting your back, the other tucked under your legs.
“But Volt—”
Eddie shakes his head, “He’s handling that asshole. I’ll handle you.”
He steps away from the gathering crowd. You look over his shoulder and behind him you catch a glimpse of Volt. Even with his back turned to you, you can see the set of his shoulders is hard and unyielding. His bright hair is practically crackling with agitated energy.
The other object seems to shrink before him, “W-what’s the problem? She’s the one who got in my way!”
“She is my personal guest. If you can’t be mindful, I’ll ask that you at least respect her,” you’ve only ever heard Volt’s tone like this once, when you were insistent about checking on Eddie the first time you came to the Breaker Box. Just like then, his voice is severe and without a hint of the flair and humor he usually speaks with. It was terrifying then. But now?
Now, you feel a bit smug that he’s leveraging his fearsomeness in your honor, especially when you feel a jolt from your injured ankle.
Eddie maneuvers you both out of the club, through a door, and up a flight of stairs. You marvel at the way he carries you as if you weigh all but nothing and are even more impressed when he manages to open a door while still holding you.
It swings forward to reveal a rather spacious studio apartment. Like the club, it’s full of dark wood; from the small dining table with four chairs, to the bed frame lofted up on a platform to separate it from the living room, to the structure of the couch and armchair that surrounded a low table and outdated television.
Unlike the club—which is full of lavish red velvet and shining gold accents—the wide apartment is decorated in a deep navy blue and cool grey.
Eddie places you gently on the center of the couch before sinking to his knees in front of you. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and almost tender, “Show me where it hurts, spark.”
The new pet name said in such a sweet tone—so unlike the usual Eddie—disarms you. Wordless, you lift your injured ankle towards him.
His rough hands are delicate as they slip your shoe off your foot. He runs his fingertips along your calf and ankle. You can’t help but shiver at his touch, so different from the quick kisses and small caresses from the past few weeks.
He stops, flicking his gaze up to you, worry set across his brow, “Am I hurting you?”
“N-no…” you avery your eyes, peering down at his hair, the collar of his shirt, the wires that decorate his sleeves, anything but his hands on your body. He usually keeps a bit of distance between you two and you find yourself suddenly afraid to push too far, you think you might scare him off, “No, not at all.”
He dips his head forward and captures your eyes with his grey ones, searching for the truth in your words. For a moment, the pain in your ankle is gone. Left is the nearly uncontrollable desire to close the distance between you and touch him. You imagine what it would be like to stroke his cheek, push your hands through his dark hair, undo the buttons of his vest.
He clears his throat and stands, breaking the spell of his gaze. When he speaks, his voice is gruff, “Every time I take my eyes off you, you’re getting into trouble.”
“Good thing you almost always have your eyes on me,” you tease, your voice a little breathless.
“I…yeah, you’re right,” you swear his cheeks color before he turns and walks to what you imagine is the bathroom.
You take a moment to look around the open area of the apartment. There’s books strewn across the coffee table, dishes in the sink, and the singular bed’s linens are slightly unmade. There’s a plush blanket carelessly draped across the back of the couch. On the walls are frames decorated with photos of the Breaker Box and diagrams of what you could only presume are electrical in nature. It’s homey in the sense that it is lived in, even warm despite the cool color palette.
Eddie comes back with a roll of cloth bandages and kneels on the floor in front of you again, “I’m pretty decent at this, but if you want me to call Farya—”
“No! No, no, no. That’s not necessary,” you loved Farya, she was just a bit too excitable when it came to your injuries. You make a silent promise that you would check in with her tomorrow.
He chuckles, wrapping your ankle with careful hands, only pausing when he hears your breath hiss out from between your teeth painfully. When he finishes, he slides a hand up the back of your calf. It comes to rest under the bend of your knee, the touch protective and even a bit possessive.
He opens his mouth to speak but seems to get momentarily distracted by the space where your thighs press together at the hem of your dress, “…how…does it feel?”
You study him, only for a second, before deciding to just go for it.
“A kiss would make it better,” you lean forward and tug gently at the wires that make up his necklace, beckoning him up towards you.
He obediently rises up on his knees—hand still locked under the bend of your leg—and presses his lips to yours. He kisses you with what you would describe as tenderness. Where Volt and you sought to devour one another, Eddie meets your lips with a gentle warmth that you feel spread from your head to your toes.
You expect him to pull away, his touches have been fleeting since the first time he held you, but he doesn’t. Daring yourself, you touch him more than you’ve had the opportunity to do thus far. As he softly learns your mouth, your fingers lightly trace his collarbone under the v of his shirt, the stubble along his jaw, the wires in his hair.
Your touch seems to light something in him. He makes a low sound in his throat and deepens the kiss, hungry for more yet somehow still disciplined. His free hand runs up your thigh and teases at the bottom of your dress before exploring the curve of your waist.
You open up for him, spreading your legs and carefully pulling him between them using the front of his vest. Your fingers ache to crush him to you, to show him how much you want him, but you strive to control your desire.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. You open your eyes, scared to find him once again pulling away from you. What you find stalls you completely.
Eddie looks at you with a single-mindedness that’s unmistakably his, a rapt attention that leaves you flushed, so aware of every point that your bodies touch. You suddenly feel the pull of his hands on your waist and thigh, the press of his chest against yours, the fullness of his waist between your legs.
“Are you hurting?”
It takes you a moment to understand his words, locked in that steely gaze of his. Hurting? You feel nothing but lust and pleasure being so close to him. When you realize he’s talking about your ankle, you almost laugh.
“I’m hurting,” before he moves to pull back and check on your ankle, you slip your uninjured foot out of your shoe and bend the leg around his back. Between your grasp on his vest and the cage of your lower body, he stills, “I need you.”
Eddie nearly shudders at your hushed words, brows coming together in both concern and barely controlled desire, “Where do you need me, spark?”
“Closer,” the word is nearly a plea, your hands sliding up to tangle fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, “I need you everywhere.”
He hesitates, clearly torn, and you take the opportunity to tilt your head to kiss along the side of his neck. You ache to bite, marking him as yours, but you hold back.
“Y-you’re sure?”
“Don’t make me beg, Eddie…”
Your words, whispered into his ear, send a shiver through him. You’re suddenly lifted from the couch, legs tangled around his hips, and brought to the bed. He lays you down against the messy blankets, so very mindful of your ankle, and kneels before you. He places hesitant hands against your exposed thighs, drawing patterns with his fingertips.
You become suddenly aware at how far the hem of your dress has slid up your legs, how your hair must be coming apart from its updo. His gaze takes on an almost reverent cast, his eyes raking across your barely-concealed form from his position above you. You squirm under his scrutiny, begging him wordlessly to say something.
When he finally does, he lights your body on fire, “You make it impossible to stay away from you.”
Before you can reply, he bends forward, caging you against the bed. His elbows come to rest at either side of your head and he leans in to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, to the exposed skin of your chest.
Letting out little sighs of pleasure, you busy yourself unbuttoning his vest and then his shirt. You move the open fabric out of your way to caress the planes of his chest and stomach, delighting in the throaty growl he lets out against your neck.
“Live wire,” he takes on a tone of warning, moving a hand to cradle your cheek as he murmurs his words against your neck, “if you keep touching me like that, I—”
He breathes out a curse as you gently scratch a line up his sides with your nails, “You’ll what?”
It was a blatant challenge. A challenge you only had moments to consider regretting before he’s reeling back to finish removing his shirt and vest. In a flash, he’s on you again, pulling at the fabric of your dress with a desperate fervor while kissing you hard and fast.
You help him with the buttons and zipper, gasping when he wrenches the garment up over your head. Before your eyes can refocus on him, he presses a hand to your hip, pushing you into the softness of the mattress.
His other hand winds slowly around your throat.
Both of you go utterly still, save for the rise and fall of your combined breath.
Eddie’s hand only applies the slightest of pressure to your neck, just enough to keep you still where you lay beneath him. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, taking in the emotions rolling through the face of your partner.
At first, he glares at you. Nostrils flaring in a frustration that turns playful at the sudden curl of his lips. Then, he’s utterly wolfish, a predator that’s pinned his prey and enjoys the frantic heartbeat in their chest. The angle of his brow is infinitely more intimidating with a smile. Finally, his eyes widen, his smile disappears. Horrified, he moves to remove his hand from your throat, “Spark, I’m so sorry. I—”
You grab his wrist, preventing him from letting you go.
He stares at you, aghast, as you tilt your chin up. You open yourself for his hand to return and sigh when his fingers close around your throat once more.
“Y-you like this?”
You nod, so very aware at the difference in your size. The hand capturing your throat winds further around than you would have imagined, the one pressing into your hip curls around your side. His knees, spread wide, have your legs splayed open for him to expose the red lace of your underwear.
“I…don’t want to hurt you,” he admits quietly, clearly conflicted.
As a response, you extend a hand and trace his lower lip with your thumb. He absently kisses the pad of it, sending a spark up your arm, “You won’t.”
He takes in a shuddering breath before leaning down and capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. The stark contrast between the slight squeeze of his hand on your throat and the soft press of his lips sends you reeling.
You bite down lightly on his lower lip and sigh in satisfaction when he groans into your mouth. The fingers around your throat tighten ever so slightly, a warning. You ignore it, biting down harder until he pulls back, the harsh smile back on his face.
“You’re really bad at behaving, you know that?”
Your answering giggle is cut short by a ruthless squeeze of your throat.
“If you don’t behave like a good girl, I’m going to punish you. Understand, little spark?”
Oh, you understood perfectly and it sends a little thrill right through you, “I’ll be good.”
“Perfect. Now stay still,” his hand moves from your hip to your chest, gently running his fingertips down the valley between your breasts. He searches your gaze and then it’s as if a bulb turns on in his mind, “You wanted this tonight?”
You nod, a self-satisfied smile on your lips.
“All I could think about tonight was finding some quiet corner to have you. Fuck the bar. Fuck the drunks.”
You shiver, trying your best to remain motionless under him, “Why didn’t you?”
“I…didn’t know how to ask,” he admits, palming one of your breasts and then the other.
“Just say, ‘Let me take you behind the bar while everyone watches—ah!”
Eddie pinches one of your nipples between his fingers, just hard enough to send a jolt through your body, “Behave, live wire.”
You moan as he starts teasing the tip of your nipple with a gentle hand, feeling the sensation curl through your body all the way down to your toes. When your hips start to move, grinding your panties against the front of his pants, he locks his hand down on your throat.
“I said stay still,” he growls, smiling all the while.
You whimper out a stuttered apology around his grip, steadying your hips. He loosens his fingers once you’re still, all the while playing with the bud of your nipple.
He teases you like this for what feels like an eternity, switching from one breast to the other, keeping you hopelessly still as heat builds up and starts throbbing between your legs. You can feel the warmth and hardness of his arousal press against your exposed underwear. It drives you wild, desperate to rock your hips against him, but you stay as still as you can.
Even so, you can help the sounds his touch coaxes from your mouth. You moan and sigh and whimper, wordlessly pleading and hopelessly praying that he’ll give you something, anything more to release the burning in your body.
Eventually, he relents. His hands leave your body, leaving you a panting, achy mess. The apex of your thighs feels like it’s throbbing in time with your racing heart. You can feel the ghost of his hand still around your throat.
Eddie’s hands curl around the waistband of your soaked underwear, pulling them down and tossing them off the side of the bed. He strokes your trembling thighs, moving down the bed and laying flat on his stomach.
“I’ve been imagining what you taste like for weeks, now,” his voice has you looking down. If you thought he was reverent before, now he’s downright devout. He’s gazing up at you from between your legs, a fervent and hungry look in his grey eyes. The intensity sends a wave of heat through your body.
“Eddie, I—fuck!”
He cuts you off by tasting you from bottom to top, taking care to swirl his tongue around your clit in an agonizingly slow motion. His eyes flutter closed, as if you're an incredible dessert that’s graced his tongue. You both moan: him from your taste, you from the sensation of being devoured.
His arms circle around your thighs as he tastes you, pulling you closer and knocking you back against the bed. You can’t tell if you’re moaning, swearing, or begging but you can feel your voice getting louder as his mouth takes you higher and higher towards the edge.
When you finally orgasm, it’s a crash of sensation. You very nearly see stars as you cry out his name over and over, begging him not to stop. He brings you down from your high with gentle strokes of his tongue, not coming up for air until he wrings every last moan and shudder from your body.
“Good girl,” he practically purrs against your inner thigh, nipping the flesh there and making you tremble.
Panting and shaking, you try to find the words to say to him. What comes out is a breathy, “More. Need you. Please.”
You feel him shift on the bed and watch raptly as he unzips his pants, sliding them and his underwear off his legs. He takes his cock in hand and crawls up the bed towards you, “More? You need me?”
“Yes, I need you.”
He lines the head of his dick up with your entrance, wetting it with your release and chuckles darkly when you squirm against him, “Beg for me, live wire.”
“Eddie, please,” you waste no time, the empty feeling in you growing insistent with every twitch of his cock against you. You whimper, begging for him, for his cock, for him to fuck you senseless. Shameless and needy, you reach for him.
He smirks down at you, listening to your cries patiently before stroking slowly into you, “Good girl, my good little spark. You’re so wet.”
Speechless, you tremble at his words and the feeling of his body in yours. He fills you to a satisfying point, pushing until his hips meet yours, and then stills.
Frustrated tears threaten to spill from your eyes, “Eddie, please…fuck me!”
He smiles, his ruthless chuckle making you squirm, “You’re so impatient, spark. That’s why you dressed up tonight, isn’t it? You couldn’t wait?”
As you answer, he pulls back slowly, agonizingly and then sinks back in, “Y-yes.”
“You wanted my attention?”
Again, he slides in and out of you with a languid speed, “I—fuck—I wanted you.”
“And now that you have me?”
He moves once more, almost lazily, “Please don’t stop…”
Eddie sets a gentle pace, hips rolling deliberately. He watches you grip the sheets in a fist, watches your other hand come up to cover your mouth as pretty sounds escape your lips. He tries to hold your gaze, but you turn away, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of his eyes.
“Look at me, spark,” he rumbles, voice thick with arousal, “You wanted me to look at you, didn’t you?”
When you look back, he leans forward to let one hand fall on either side of your face, “Good girl,” your hands flutter to his chest, his shoulders, around to his back leaving light red scratches along his skin everywhere you touched.
He shudders at the sensation, moving faster inside of you. In your lust-filled haze, you realize…he likes the scratching
As he moves, you wrap your arms around him and pull him even closer. Your bodies, flush, move in time with one another, heightening both of your pleasure.
When he comes forward to press sloppy kisses to your neck, you scratch a band up the line of his spine. He moans into your neck, bitting down on the space behind your ear, and his hips start to stutter. You scratch again, across the top of his back. The sensation blossoms goosebumps on his arms. The momentum of his thrusts take on a frantic speed, pushing into you with sudden desperation.
The motion sends you over the edge again, the feeling less intense than before but no less pleasurable. You whimper—or was it a scream—his name as you cum, raking your nails haphazardly across his lower back.
“Fuck, spark I—“
You feel his body tense, feel him throb inside of you when he crashes through his orgasm. The noises he makes in your ear are low, almost desperate. They send heat through your body. When he finishes, he comes to rest next to you, a hand cupping your cheek.
You’re positively floating, blissed-out and sated. Your whole body feels loose and limp, your head buzzing from your second orgasm.
“Music stopped.”
At Eddie’s comment, you roll over towards him, keeping his touch on your cheek with a gentle hand, “What?”
“The club. The music stopped…a while ago.”
Oh, oh. The club must be closed for the night. You reach towards him and tuck your head underneath his chin, “What, are you gonna kick me out again?”
“No. You’re not going anywhere after that,” he wraps you in his arms and you sigh, content not to move. He strokes your hair, your back, the touch adoring. His hand brushes the side of your throat, gentle even with the rough feelings of his callouses, “You’re…okay?”
A breathy laugh escapes you, “Eddie, I am so much more than okay.”
“Yes, but—”
“You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”
“Right…” he keeps soothing your throat, tender touches lulling you to sleep. His voice cuts through your haze, “Where’s Volt?”
“He’s probably waiting downstairs for us to finish,” you mumble.
“Waiting…” you can practically hear the gears in Eddie’s head turning, “He knew your plan?”
“Of course I did,” Volt’s easy voice cuts through the quiet of the room, “Our little live wire tells me everything.”
Both you and Eddie start, not having heard him enter the apartment. You move to pull a blanket towards you, but Volt’s hand catches your own. He moves it to his mouth, pressing heated kisses from your wrist to the crease of your elbow.
“Oh, don’t cover up on my account. Either of you. I’m quiet enjoying the view,” he takes your bare body in with a long, lazy look.
“Oh god…were you watching?” Eddie groans.
“Oh no, not at all. I wasn’t invited,” Volt tilts your chin up to whisper in your ear, “this time.”