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“Did you just fucking spit on me?” Ben seethes, the look in his eyes practically homicidal. His booming voice echoes endlessly in the empty garage, nearly drowning out the sound of the street traffic that drifts in from above them.
“Give me a damn break, Solo. I spat near you, not on you, so don’t be so dramatic about it. Always exaggerating about everything!”
It’s a little after 8 p.m. on a Friday night, and Rey really should be getting home to slip off her heels, put on a kettle and pet BB. Instead, she’s arguing with the incarnation of everything she loathes, in the stupidly perfect form of Ben Organa Solo.
He’d been waiting for her when she got down to the garage, already fuming, and accused her of scratching his ridiculous Aston Martin. The fact that he even drives an Aston Martin, like he’s James fucking Bond, is only one of many things that’s sets her teeth on edge. In any case, the space between their assigned parking spaces is narrow, but she knows for damn sure she didn’t scratch his precious dick enhancement.
She really doesn’t know what possessed her to spit in the presence of Ben Solo—actually she does know: he’s been a complete and utter dick to her every workday for the last eight months. Cornering her tonight and making baseless accusations just snapped the last tether Rey had to her composure.
“I wasn’t trying before, but come a little closer, Solo, and I’ll see if my aim is better.”
He steps in then, and Rey gasps at the movement, her arms dropping from their angry perch across her chest and falling to her sides. Sure, she’d said it, but she didn’t expect him to actually close the space between them. He’s always gone out of his way to maintain his distance. Every meeting, every elevator ride, every mandatory workplace function; as soon as Rey enters the room his face morphs into something resembling revulsion and he immediately looks for an exit. If he can’t find one, and there are others around, any interaction between them invariably devolves into hushed insults. If they are alone, well, she’s surprised fists haven’t flown yet.
But, he’s close to her now. So close. The closest he’s ever been, Rey knows. Rey knows because she has emblazoned in her memory every single time Ben Solo has been within touching distance—every time she could have lifted an arm or taken a step and brushed against him. There have been twelve such occasions before tonight. This is thirteen. An unlucky number.
She can smell his cologne, undoubtedly something unnecessarily expensive, and she can feel the heat radiating off him.
He lowers his voice and then says the most unexpected thing, “You know, Niima, there’s something else you could do with that disgusting mouth of yours.”
The words, the tone, the way his jaw works the same as it does when he’s dealing with a difficult client, the way his narrowed eyes cut right through her—all of it—makes Rey’s cunt throb with need, incessantly clenching and unclenching, just thinking about how the head of his cock would feel on her tongue—soft. How it would feel pressing inside her—hard.
She shakes her head, willing herself to focus. He’s trying to throw her off. It’s a game to him, she’s sure, and he’s just trying to trick her—to best her.
“Just fucking try it, Solo, and I’ll bite your little pecker off.”
He scoffs and comes in even closer, forcing her backwards toward the sliver of the garage wall that sits between the two parking spaces. Her feet keep taking steps back, all while her brain tells her she doesn’t have to, and she really shouldn’t.
“Little?” he says. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”
Rey can take no more steps. Her ass hits the wall and—and, god, he smells so fucking good. She fists her hands to keep from reaching out—from grabbing him and burying her face in the crook of his thick, muscular neck in order to breathe him all in. To take a bit of him inside her.
Instead, she says, “Oh, I’m sure.” Her voice wavers a bit, not quite as strong or cutting as it was just moments ago. She hopes he doesn’t notice. Her heart beats in an unusual rhythm at his nearness. “I bet it’s just another one of your exaggerations, Solo. A man with a big dick doesn’t need to act the way you do, and he certainly doesn’t need to drive a car like that,” Rey says, nodding her head in the direction of the Aston Martin.
“I can assure you, I’m not compensating for anything. I act the way I do because I’m an asshole, and I drive that car, not because I need to, but because I want to. I get the things I want, Niima.”
She’s pressed against the wall and the entire length of his body is mere inches away from hers, and she should push him, scream at him and wipe that smug look off his stupid, beautiful face.
Rey doesn’t do that. Instead—she licks her lips. She doesn’t think before she does it. Not really. It’s just her lips are dry from her soft panting. Why is she panting?
It’s like time slows. His eyes follow the tip of her tongue as it slides across her bottom lip. He swallows thickly, and his Adam’s apple bobs, and she wants to bite it. Just a nip. Just a little pinch of her teeth. She’d soothe it with a lick. A kiss, maybe. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she wants it to sting.
“You don’t get everything you want, Solo.”
“Oh yeah? What have I wanted that I haven’t gotten yet, Niima?” he asks as he leans in just a bit closer. If he tilted his head down just a little more, maybe his hair would fall in front of his face like it always does, and she could feel it brush against her. She knows what he wants her to do. He wants her to be the one to break. She won’t. She steels herself instead.
“The promotion, for one.”
It’s a low blow. The lowest, really. A perfectly executed strike that during any one of their other innumerable fights, Rey would have relished. She finds this time, however, the victory feels hollow. This isn’t really what she wanted, but taking what she really wants would make him think he won—although she’s not even sure if it’s a game they’re playing anymore.
He growls like an injured animal at her words and rears back, the loss of his warmth makes her shiver. She doesn’t know why she’s inciting him like this. Doesn’t understand why she can’t stop. She’s pressing her luck. She knows it, and she likes it. Anger is better. Easier. Much less complicated.
“You know that was bullshit!” He points at her before running his hand through his hair—twice. It’s a tell. Rey has studied him enough to know he does it most often when he’s annoyed. “I’m half convinced Dameron is fucking that purple-haired ballbuster.”
“It doesn’t matter, Solo. You wanted it, and you didn’t get it,” she mocks.
Her tone must set him off because he gets that look in his eyes. The one from before—“something else you could do with that disgusting mouth of yours.” The one she thinks might mean he feels it too.
“And what do you want, Rey?” Her first name practically slithers from his mouth and it sounds strange in her ears.
With the way her body is already betraying her, she doesn’t have the time or the required mental capacity to think about all the things she wants from Ben Solo, so she says the thing she feels she should at the moment. “I want you to stop being such an asshole all the time!”
He moves in again. Eating up all the space in between them with his quick steps. “That is a lie,” he snarls. “You don’t want me to stop. You’re constantly pushing my buttons. You know what I think? I think you get off on me being an asshole. Your panties are probably wet every day under those distracting pencil skirts of yours. I think you fucking love to hate me!”
The sound of his words lingers in the sliver of space left between them. Rey is surprised she could even hear them over the way her heartbeat rings in her ears.
“Get fucked, Solo!” she bellows directly in his face. He’s so close that her neck aches from how it bows to look at him, and just the act of yelling expands her lungs enough that her chest presses against his, and for the briefest moment she feels as if there’s a direct line between the tight buds of her hardened nipples and her cunt.
Despite the volume of her scream, he doesn’t even flinch. Rey thinks he probably really is a sociopath. How else could he possibly be so cold. Instead of moving, he just levels a shit-eating grin at her. “Interesting choice of words, Rey. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me to get in my car and get the fuck out of here… or don’t.” He’s looking at her, his eyes expectant.
Rey doesn’t say a word.
It’s akin to an out of body experience when she realizes she’s sinking her hands into Ben Solo’s hair. Her fingers don’t comb through the tresses. No, as soon as her hands make their way back to the nape of his neck, she pulls his face toward her. Hard. She knows it hurts him and she also knows he could stop her with no effort at all. Knows his broad shoulders and muscular arms have the power to fling her off him. To toss her over his shoulders and carry her off somewhere like a predator hauls off quarry before he devours it. Instead, he submits, and when she drags his face to her waiting lips, she can’t hide how desperately she wants to taste his filthy mouth despite every horrible thing that has come out of it.
The kiss is bruising. Another one of their constant battles for dominance. His advantage is leverage. He’s placed his hands on either side of her head, and with every slide of their tongues and every nip of their teeth, they each try to stake their claim on the upper hand. He breaks the stalemate when he pulls his mouth away and grabs her wrists. She has no choice but to loosen her grip on his hair when he pushes both her arms up over her head. He pins them there with just one of his enormous hands while the other begins a leisurely route down Rey’s body.
Just like the way he let her pull him in for a kiss, Rey lets him start running his hand over the soft parts of her body. She could break free, but lord and the devil know she doesn’t want to.
His hand softly cups her cheek, and there’s anxiousness rising in her from the tenderness of his touch and the earnestness in his eyes. This is not what this is. “Come on, Solo,” she pleads, as her body stiffens.
He must understand because what her lust-addled brain imagines could be hurt crosses over his face and then, just like that, his demeanor changes, and when he moves his hand next, it’s straight down to reach between her legs. Rey knows what he’s going to find there. She’s been wet and thinking of him in this way since the two o’clock staff meeting when he made that insufferable bastard, Armitage, cry.
“I fucking knew it,” he says, hard eyes boring into her. His fingers push aside the lace of her underwear, and he parts her crease with a thick finger. The pressure on her clit is divine. She keens, grateful for the wall behind her and the body in front of her. He presses the tip of his finger against her slick entrance, but doesn’t push in, and Rey is livid at his hesitance. “We’ve been fighting all day and yet, here you are just drenched, Rey.” He removes his hand then, and Rey makes to protest, but he brings it up and places his finger in the hollow of her neck. She can feel the wetness of her arousal on it, and just the sensation of it is enough to still her. He brings the finger down hard and fast and pops right through the first few buttons of her blouse. They clatter on the concrete floor.
“Hey!” she begins, but isn’t able to finish because he brings his hand up to her jaw—clenching it hard and stopping her speech. His eyes never leave hers and he leans in and nips her bottom lip.
“I will buy you a new one, Rey. I will buy you a dozen new ones. I want to see your fucking tits. I’ve been thinking about what color your nipples are for eight damn months! So let me see them, and taste them.”
Rey’s mind reels. His words make no sense. She doesn’t have long to think about it though, because his head dips down and oh, his tongue darts out and traces the line of her collarbone. And then he bites. The sharp sensation making Rey heady. Her legs shake, but there’s nowhere for her to fall with how he presses her against the wall. He brings his free hand to her hip, holding her still. His fingertips digging into the curve of her as he lowers his head even further and mouths her hard nipples through the lace of her red bra. He yanks both cups down to finally get a look at them. “God, they’re perfect,” he says before pulling a pebbled peak into his mouth—licking and sucking it, then letting it go to do the same to the other. “Exquisite. Just like I knew they’d be. I want to fuck these tits, Rey. Will you let me one day?”
Yes. Please.
Rey’s cunt stages a protest at its vacantness and she has no choice but to get this show on the road. “Are you taking so long to fuck me because I was right about the car thing, Solo?” It’s exactly the right thing to say to get things back on track.
He finally drops her wrists as he fumes. “Are you kidding me, Rey? Does this feel like a small dick to you?” he asks as he presses his hips against hers. It doesn’t. “I was taking my time as a service to you. I didn’t want to wreck your pretty little cunt.” His hands are now a flurry of activity. He lifts her skirt over her hips roughly and tears her underwear at the sides. He unbuckles his belt and lowers his zipper. As soon as he releases the button, his pants fall to the floor from the weight of what is probably a $500 strap of Italian leather.
And this—this is the first moment in eight months where Rey wishes she wasn’t so good at pushing Ben Solo’s buttons. She can see from the obscene tent in his boxer briefs that she was most certainly wrong about the car, and he was absolutely right about possibly wrecking her cunt. A little more prep was probably in order.
She spends a bit longer than would be considered polite, staring at the clothed cock in front of her, and it hasn’t escaped a certain someone’s attention.
“Don’t look so scared, Rey. You’ve taken everything else I’ve thrown at you, I’m sure you can take this, too.”
Fucking smart ass.
He tucks his thumbs into the band of his underwear and pulls down just enough to free his cock. Rey has her eyes glued to the action, and when his cock springs free, huge and hard and perfect—just like the rest of him—Rey tries to feign nonchalance. He’s already incorrigible enough as it is, she doesn’t need to make it even worse for herself when things are back to normal come Monday.
He leans in again and crushes his lips to hers. The force of the kiss knocks her head into the wall behind her, but his giant paws reaching down and squeezing her ass are an adequate balm for any ache. He slides his hands down further until he hoists her up by the back of her thighs like she weighs nothing.
She wraps her legs around his waist, shoes falling to the ground, and grabs hold of his lapels—instantly regretting not having had the opportunity to get him naked. She wants to know what his arms look like under this Oxford. She wants to admire the muscles of his shoulders flexing to hold her up. She is about to be fucked by Ben Organa Solo and won’t even get to see him naked. A travesty.
She can feel the head of his cock slide against her cunt and it doesn’t quite catch with how anxious he is and how slick she is, but it slides across her clit, and the moan she releases is low and long and shameless.
“Fuck, Rey. You sound—” His words are choked off by the groan he makes when his cock slides all the way into her in one languorous push.
Rey forgets how to breathe for more than a few seconds. The stretch of him more than she bargained for. When she finally finds air again, she gasps, “Fuck, Ben.”
“Is it Ben, now?” he asks, a slightly bitter tone in his voice, as he thrusts again, not really allowing enough time for her brain and her body to acclimate to the situation. “All it took for you to call me Ben was for me to put my cock in you, Rey? To split you open?” His pace quickens, and his grip on her thighs tightens. He starts to raise and lower her faster and harder on his cock. In and out—over and over—skin against skin. Practically impaling her. Rey can feel every slide of him into her hitting someplace new, someplace deeper, someplace she’s sure only his cock has ever been. The pleasure of it is almost unbearable.
“Shut up,” she moans. “Just fuck me. I’m so fucking close, Ben.”
The sounds that reverberate off the garage walls every time his cock slides out of her and slams back in, are bringing her even closer to the edge. It’s a cacophony of moans, and skin on skin, and wet and sex.
“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he pants.
The fact that she does it without arguing is a testament to the blinding pleasure she’s feeling at the moment. When she readjusts and wraps her arms around his neck, she can feel one of Ben’s hands leave her thighs and it takes less than two seconds for him to snake his hand between their bodies and press a couple fingers hard over her clit—it’s imprecise with the way their bodies move, and his fingers can’t quite find purchase as they slip through the warm wetness of her, but it’s enough. “Oh, god. Oh, god. Ben. Don’t fucking stop,” Rey cries. The slow build she felt earlier now cresting.
“God, Rey, you feel so fucking good inside. You have no idea. So tight and so wet. Please. Come for me. I need to feel it. I’m close, but I need you to—please.”
Maybe it’s the desperation of his plea, the supplicating tone of it, that really does it, but the next swipe of his fingers and rock of his cock send Rey tumbling over the edge. Her thighs shake and her grip loosens. “Oh God, Ben,” she gasps, as her cunt spasms. He’s so big, and she’s so full of him that despite the quivering inside there’s simply no space to tighten further.
“Oh, fuck yes.” She can tell Ben is nearly there, he moves the hand from between their bodies back down under her thigh, and hoists her up even farther. Her body is still boneless and her mind is addled and he’s just using her now. Fucking up into her with wild abandon. “I’m going to fill you up, Rey. Every fucking inch. Can I?”
“Yes.”
He moans his appreciation of her answer into her hair. “God, you take it so good. So perfect.” It doesn’t take too many thrusts before he chokes out a groan, and she can feel the warmth of him fill her, his cock twitching inside her.
He holds her there for a few moments. Leaning her back against the wall and pressing his head to her shoulder while they catch their breaths.
Rey is the first one to move to untangle herself. He sets her down gingerly and moves to help her cover herself up. His hands smooth down her skirt while she adjusts her bra and holds closed her ruined shirt. He slips down and puts her shoes back on and then pulls up his own pants as he stands.
An awkward silence hangs in the air. The lack of noise made all the more apparent by the memory of the sounds that had just filled it. And when Rey meets his eyes again, there’s not the same hint of malice that there usually is in them, just something a little mischievous, and maybe even a shared sense of relief, that forces her to bite back what could have actually been a smile.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” Rey says, pointing toward her car.”
“Oh, right,” he says, moving quickly out of her way.
She makes her way to the driver side of her car, while he rounds his.
“Goodnight, Ben,” she says.
“Yeah. Uh, Goodnight, Rey.”
She hears the beep of his car door and before he can open it, she asks, still facing her car—not daring to look back, “Hey Ben, where are my underwear?”
She can hear the smile in his voice when he says the words, “Oh, don’t worry about those. They were torn anyway. I’ll bring their replacement by your office on Monday evening.” And, oh, how she wishes she could turn around and look at him. What does Ben Solo look like when he smiles? But she doesn’t dare. Not wanting to tip this delicate balance.
“That sounds reasonable,” she says as she opens her car door. “I’m usually there until around seven.”
“I know, Rey.”
“Oh, well, okay. I guess I’ll see you Monday evening.”
“Right.”
She hears his car door open as she climbs into her car. She starts the engine and realizes; this is the first time in eight months that she’s looking forward to a Monday at the office, and she has a sneaking suspicion she’s not the only one.