we were on the couch watching some movie neither of us cared about. his hand had been on my thigh since the opening credits, thumb going up and down the inseam of my shorts, higher every time, like if he did it slow enough i wouldn’t notice. i noticed. i’d noticed for forty minutes.
then on screen some couple finds out they’re having a baby and she cries and he picks her up and spins her, and marcus snorts and goes, to the tv, “ha. try and get me pregnant.”
and laughs.
i didn’t.
because i know him. he says the filthiest thing in the room with a laugh stuck on the end so it doesn’t count. and the whole time his thumb was still going, right up at the edge of my shorts now, and he looked at me sideways for half a second to see what i’d do.
so i took his hand and put it the rest of the way up, flat against me, so he could feel exactly how hard i was under the cotton, and i said, “say it again.”
his thumb stopped.
“say it without laughing,” i said.
he looked at me for a long time. the tv was still going. the baby couple was still crying.
“try and get you pregnant,” he said. no laugh. his voice had dropped like a whole octave.
“you can’t,” i said. “i’m not built for it.”
“i know.”
“so what are you gonna do about it.”
he didn’t answer. he grabbed me by the hips and dragged me down the couch onto my back so fast my head bounced off the armrest, and he was on top of me, heavy, his knee pushing my thighs open, and he yanked my shorts down and off and threw them somewhere behind the tv.
“gonna try anyway,” he said into my neck. “gonna keep trying.”
oh my god.
he bit my throat and ground his jeans against my bare cock and i wrapped my legs around him and pulled him in. i could feel how hard he was through the denim. he’d been hard, i realized, for a while. maybe since the credits. maybe he’d been sitting there with his hand on my thigh thinking about this exact thing, about breeding me on his couch, and the joke was the only way he could get it out of his mouth.
i got his belt open. he shoved his jeans down just past his ass, didn’t even take them off, and his cock slapped hot and heavy against my stomach, already wet at the tip.
“you want it?” he said. “say you want it.”
“i want it.”
“want what.”
god he was going to make me say it. fine. “i want you to breed me,” i said, and my face went hot all the way to my ears, and his cock jumped against my belly like i’d hit it.
he spat in his hand and slicked himself and lined up and pushed in, slow but not careful, one long thick push all the way to the base, and i arched up off the couch with my mouth open and no sound coming out. he held there. buried. his whole weight on me.
“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, luna, you’re so—”
“move.”
he moved. long deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in, the couch creaking under us, his jeans scraping the backs of my thighs. he got his forearm under my knee and folded me up so he could go deeper and i swear i felt him in my stomach. i was grabbing at his back, at his shirt, at the cushions, anything.
and he talked. marcus never talks. marcus says like four words during sex, normally, and two of them are “oh” and “god.” but now he had his mouth right against my ear and he would not shut up.
“gonna fill you up.”
“gonna keep you full.”
“gonna fuck a baby into you, i don’t care, i don’t care that you can’t—”
i was whimpering. i didn’t know i could make that sound. every time he said it his hips slammed harder, like the words were doing it to him too, and my cock was leaking all over my own stomach without either of us touching it.
“tell me,” he said. “tell me you want my load.”
“i want your load. please. please, inside, i want it inside—”
he grabbed my jaw and kissed me so hard our teeth knocked and fucked me through it, fast now, sloppy, the couch actually scooting on the floor. the movie had ended. the menu screen was looping the same ten seconds of music over and over and i could hear it under the slap of his hips.
he came first. he shoved in deep and stopped and ground there, groaning into my mouth, and i felt it, i actually felt him pulse inside me over and over, and he kept pushing in like he was trying to get it deeper, like it mattered, like there was somewhere for it to go.
he hadn’t even touched me. just him, holding himself deep inside me, trying to breed something that couldn’t take. i came untouched all over my stomach and his shirt, clenching on him so hard he swore.
he didn’t pull out.
he stayed. heavy on top of me, breathing like he’d run a mile, still half hard inside me.
“don’t,” he said, when i shifted. “don’t move. keep it in.”
“marcus.”
“keep it in,” he said again, and he sounded almost embarrassed but he didn’t take it back.
so i stayed. we lay there like that while the menu music looped. after a while he started moving again, slow, lazy, barely pulling out, and i felt his cock getting hard again inside me, inside his own come, and i laughed into his shoulder.
“what,” he said.
“you’re doing it again.”
“i said i was gonna keep trying.”
the second time took forever. he did it slow, on his side behind me with his arm across my chest and his hand over my mouth when i got loud, whispering it into my hair the whole time. good girl. take it. keep it. and when he came the second time he held my hips back against him so tight there were marks in the morning.
when he finally pulled out it ran down my thighs onto his couch and he watched it, propped up on one elbow, with this look on his face like he’d just found out something about himself and didn’t totally hate it. i was sore in a way i would feel on the walk to the kitchen, and sticky, and there were finger marks on my hips that would be purple by tuesday.
“we’re gonna need a towel,” i said.
“in a minute,” he said, and put two fingers in me and pushed it back.
i made the sound again.
“it was a joke,” he said, very quietly, against the back of my neck. “earlier.”
“sure it was.”
“it was.”
“you’re still doing it, marcus.”
he didn’t stop.
