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“Issei—”
Though it’s partially muffled by the pillow, the whiny, pleading tone of your voice doesn’t escape Matsukawa.
Tongue clicking against the back of his teeth, he traces his thumb in a circle against the side of your kneecap. “You’re cheating.”
You turn your head to the side, though it does you little good to see the dark look in his eyes as he sits kneeling on the mattress between your legs, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. His tie sits discarded somewhere on the floor, and his slacks hang open thanks to the quick work of your nimble fingers before you found yourself face down on the mattress.
“How am I cheating?”
He huffs, fingers toying with the hem of your dress, which now sits rucked up just below the swell of your ass.
“You can’t call me that.”
“What else am I supposed to call you?”
Matsukawa pinches the inside of your thigh, his free hand sinking down into the ditch of the opposite knee to hold you still as you start to squirm. “Something that makes me want to fuck you less.”
He has a point, given that you’re currently in a hotel room following the rehearsal dinner for your older brother’s wedding. A wedding in which Matsukawa is the best man, because he’s your brother’s best friend. And you’re in the bridal party.
The thing is, Matsukawa’s been the talk of the bridal party’s single crowd for months, so you may have made some choice decisions in the dress you chose to wear tonight. Especially considering you’ve been living abroad for five years.
Now you’re back.
And Matsukawa Issei is still every bit the wet dream that you’ve never forgotten.
It’s a pretty, olive green dress that says I know this is your favorite color and do you remember that time we almost kissed before I left and my brother doesn’t need to know and we’ve been dancing around this for years —
Maybe it’s immature to say you feel like you have some sort of claim on Issei over the rest of the girls who have been hoping to catch his attention during the wedding weekend. The bride’s best friend, in particular. But you’ve been more than a little in love with him since fourteen-year-old you saw a then-sixteen-year-old him walk into your kitchen with your brother for the first time almost a decade ago.
But the way he looked at you when you walked in tonight—
The way his shoulder kept brushing against yours as he walked you back to your room, which is three floors above his own.
The flex of his jaw when you brushed a rogue curl off of his forehead.
The press of his fingertips to your waist.
The ghost of his lips on your cheek.
The warm, disbelieving huff of a laugh when you turned into the kiss, bold and hopeful, your mouth meeting his.
(The click of the lock and the press of his tongue at the seam of your lips and your fingers in his hair and the feeling of your shoulderblades pressed to the door and your legs wrapped around his waist and the cool metal of his rings clutching your thighs and the press of his erection and his teeth sinking, sinking, sinking into your bottom lip—)
“What if I want you to fuck me?”
Matsukawa stiffens, the warmth of his body sinking into your back as he leans over you, fingers gently stroking your chin. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear. “No.”
And maybe you’re still feeling insecure after seeing him laughing while talking to the bride’s best friend earlier. Her fingers curled around his tie, shameless and flirtatious.
Maybe you just want to be a brat, because getting a rise out of Mattsun has always been at the top of your priority list.
“Saving that for one of the other bridesmaids this weekend?” you ask.
“No, I’m just not fucking you for the first time in a hotel room.” Mattsun exhales, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw. “But it’s cute that you’re jealous.”
Reaching up, you bury your fingers in his hair. And there’s something exhilarating about the small action, something you’ve thought about doing time and time again (there’s something exhilarating about the way he seems to lean into it). “I’m not jealous.”
He shifts, mouth finding a new home at the nape of your neck. You try not to shiver, though it’s a lost cause when his tongue meets your skin. “Do you know how glad I was when your brother said you weren’t bringing your boyfriend to the wedding?”
Satisfaction blooms in your gut, unfurling to the tips of your toes. “We broke up.”
Mattsun presses a kiss to the curve between your shoulder and neck, hot and open-mouthed and unapologetic. “Good.”
He slides down your back, pushing up the skirt of your dress and hooking a finger in your underwear.
“You said we’re not having sex.”
Nodding, he tugs your panties down your legs, over your knees, and makes no attempt to hide the fact that he slips them into his pocket. Hands sliding up the inside of your thighs, he spreads your legs back open. “We’re not.”
“Then what—” you cut yourself off with a soft, surprised moan at the feeling of him dragging a single finger down the length of your slit.
“I get jealous, too,” he says, thumb tracing a slick circle around your swollen, fluttering entrance. “Do you want to know what some of the other groomsmen were saying when you walked in tonight before they realized you’re his little sister?”
Heat flares in your gut, and you exhale sharply against the pillowcase. “What, are you staking a claim right now then?”
Mattsun laughs, low and syrupy, and the sound reverberates at the base of your spine as he caresses the globes of your ass. The ring on his pointer finger is cold as he deliberately drags it against your cunt, and you gasp at the sensation. “Something like that. Now roll over for me.”
It’s almost embarrassing—how hard you feel yourself clench down on nothing at the sight of Matsukawa hovering over top of you, dark waves falling in his face, pupils blown wide with a shade of lust that you think might haunt your dreams until the end of time. Your pussy aches as he slowly teases your swollen clit with his thumb, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward like he’s well aware.
You’ve never cared this much about being fingered before, never felt yourself on the verge of begging for it.
But when Matsukawa grasps your bare hip, the rings on his left hand cooling your overheated skin, it’s all you can do not to buck into his touch as his other fingers continue to toy with the sticky arousal that now coats your inner thighs and slides down onto the sheets below.
(You’d be lying if you said you haven’t fantasized about Mattsun’s hands, about the sheer size of them. About how his fingers would feel in your mouth, the digits pressing down on your tongue while you suck, while you drool all over them. About the taste of those rings he always wears. About how the prominent veins on the back of them would flex as he palms your breasts and pinches your nipples.)
“What about you?” you ask, eyes dropping to the prominent bulge between his legs.
Mattsun brings his hand to his mouth, tongue sliding against the slick that coats his ring finger. His teeth scrape over the tip of the digit.
“The only thing I care about right now,” he murmurs, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger and running the former along your bottom lip, “is you coming for me.”
(You’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t let him devour you whole.)
One day, you’ll learn what a generous lover Matsukawa Issei is.
He’ll show you all the things he’s ever wanted to do to you, all the ways he can make you fall apart.
He’ll rewrite everything your brain knows about pleasure, about foreplay, about being fucked, about making love and being loved and what it is to burn with need (what it is to finally feel sated).
But for now, Issei’s a gentleman—(that, and he knows that if he lets himself sink into you and fuck you into the mattress in your pretty little dress that he’s well aware you wore just for him, there’s little chance of either of you getting any sleep tonight).
For now, it’s Issei’s fingers that have you gasping and whimpering when he finally slides one into your tight, quivering hole.
It’s overwhelming, the pleasure that floods your veins as Mattsun fucks a finger into your cunt. One finger and your slick, dripping walls are already trembling around the stretch, hips rocking forward to take him to the last knuckle. Saliva pools on the back of your tongue as you whimper his name, thighs spreading even wider, the mattress giving way beneath the firm press of your palms.
“Issei, please—”
He groans, a second finger joining the first, and your pussy spasms, thighs shaking as a fresh gush of pleasure fills you. You moan as he pumps them in and out, desperate and keening, the sound nearly as filthy as the soaking wet squelches that accompany each thrust. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you stifle the noise when you find you can’t stop.
Your pussy aches like nothing you’ve ever felt before, throbbing and burning with a sensation that has your vision ebbing as your heart pounds and your muscles clench.
His thumb strokes your clit as he curls his fingers inside of you, and he leans in, mouth brushing over yours, tongue sliding against the seam of your lips to pry your mouth back open. “Let me hear you come.”
Your climax hits you like a truck, clear liquid squirting out of you and spraying all over Matsukawa and the sheets while he finger fucks you through it, swallowing down every messy moan of pleasure that you sob into his mouth.
(You come again while he’s wiping you clean with a warm rag, unable to stop yourself from rocking into the friction of it.)
(And the next day, at the wedding, when Issei looks directly at you while he deliberately licks cake frosting off of one of the fingers that was buried in your cunt, it’s all you can do not to drag him by the tie to the nearest bathroom.)