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rebelfell · 1 month

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Soooo still not done with thoughts of Eddie and an older!fem!Harrington!reader…3k

18+, MDNI cont’d from here

That first night goes on forever.

You don’t think you’ll forget it as long as you live. On your deathbed, you’re sure your last thoughts will be of Eddie Munson and the night he fucked you into oblivion and beyond.

There’s no stopping either one of you. There’s no way to tire of one another. It’s all a blur of tangled sheets and writhing bodies streaked in sweat, of filthy words and ragged breaths, of desperate cries of pleasure you can’t suppress.

The party still going on is enough to drown out your sounds as you fall into your bed, having just enough wherewithal to shut off your light so no one sees your shadows in the window.

Everyone downstairs is too plastered by now to notice anyway. But still.

Eddie is insatiable—drawing out your every orgasm, barely letting one taper off before he’s working you back up towards the next. You nearly want to cry from the overstimulation, but you’ll be damned if you’re tapping out anytime soon.

He takes you apart over and over and over, his fingers, his tongue, his cock all taking their turns with you in an endless fucking cycle.

Literally.

He’s like a goddamn energizer bunny. It’s the kind of sex like you haven’t had since college when you would fuck anything that moved just because you could. It makes you feel chosen and wanted and desired in a way you haven’t felt in years.

Being with Eddie is like indulging in the sweetest, most exquisite dessert—like pure decadence and freedom and fucking bliss.

Again, literally.

At one point, you’re going at it so hard, so vigorously, that you slide right off the bed and tumble together to the floor. But Eddie doesn’t miss a beat. He merely drives himself inside you with all the more determination, the wet clap of his thighs hitting yours bouncing off the walls to mix with your eager and wanton moans.

Yes, Eddie, ohhh god, yes—fuck, that’s it, right there, HARDER—

You lose track of how many times he makes you come, too swept up in the storm of his affections, his rough voice in your ear and his teeth nipping any place he can leave a mark where it won’t be seen. It’s fast, and hot, and dirty—yet somehow he’s still taking his time with you. He’s taking note of what makes you throw your head back into the pillow, or slap your hand over your mouth to stifle a wail, or grip his ass to push him in deeper.

And Eddie is…in heaven.

For weeks, he’s thought of nothing but this. He’s never felt this way before. So free.

There’s no need to hold himself back or disguise his deepest desires anymore. He can finally show you exactly how much he wants you. He’s allowed to be greedy with you and touch you in every way he’s imagined. Except that now it’s so much better, because it’s real.

His mind could never conjure a fantasy as detailed as this—the warmth of your skin under his hands, the shivers that ripple down your back when he kisses behind your ear, the soft hairs that tickle his nose as he buries his face in your neck and inhales your heavenly scent.

And he feels you letting go, too.

You kiss him back zealously, fervently, hungrily. Your hands are voracious as you explore his body, running over his chest and arms, relishing in every twitch of his muscles, nails digging in his skin to leave hot red streaks in their wake as you drag them down the length of his back.

The party ends eventually, but sleep is the furthest thing from your minds.

Steve never even makes it upstairs. He passes out on a pool lounger with the tip of his nose blacked out and some whiskers drawn on his cheeks in Sharpie, courtesy of Robin.

When Eddie slips on his boxers to go downstairs for sustenance, he lays a Gatorade in his friend’s lap, sets a wastebasket by his head, and places a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

In his sleep, the birthday boy mumbles something that sounded like mashed potato soup and Eddie would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a twinge of guilt deep down in his stomach. But the thought of you waiting for him upstairs, and the memory of your body wrapped around his, and the sound of your voice moaning his name so sweetly, promptly snuffs the feeling out.

Between rounds, it’s all soft and gentle touches in stark contrast to the ravenous way you devoured one another. You take the opportunity to examine every tattoo, every faint freckle, every scar. You ask for the stories about them, which he’s quick to tell—all except the one about the gash on his index finger he got trying to feed a cupcake to a raccoon that lived in the trailer park.

You fight back your giggles as he describes his Uncle Wayne scuffing him like a cat by the back of his shirt and hauling him into his truck, ranting and raving about rabies the whole time as he raced across town to urgent care.

“And you were how old?” you ask, imagining him to be six or seven, max, only for him to sheepishly admit he was nineteen at the time.

You keep expecting him to make some excuse to slip away, to slink back across the hall to the other guest room, maybe even to leave altogether now that he’s gotten what he wants. But he’s resistant. He asks if he can stay with you, if he can hold you until you fall asleep, and swears he’ll sneak out in the morning before Steve has woken up.

And you know that it’s too risky. You know it’s stupid for you to agree. But you do.

Because it’s impossible to deny him when he looks at you like that. When he smiles at you all soft and tender. When he kisses you and pulls you into his arms again and again, like he truly cannot get enough of you. Like in all the places you see flaws, all he sees is perfection.

If you thought Eddie hung around the house a lot before, it was nothing compared to now.

He’s there just about every day, especially every night. And the Harrington lawn has never looked so good. He’s tending to it constantly, mowing grass and pruning the trees, planting fucking perennials like his life depends on it.

Any excuse to see you.

And if it happens to be a day when Steve is away, you even let yourself indulge a little. Laying out by the pool to watch Eddie work, coyly offering him sunscreen—which he almost declines until he sees the suggestive arch of your brow and clumsily starts stripping off his shirt.

His head rolls on his shoulders and he groans loudly in relief as your hands run over him, taking special care of his tattoos as the tropical smelling cream glides across his slippery skin. Then he snatches the bottle himself and smirks as he motions for you to turn.

In spite of the heat, you shiver as he runs his fingers up and down your spine, toying with the strings that tie your suit at the nape of your neck. His hands slide forward, squeezing at your waist and tugging you back against him to feel just how hard he is in his shorts.

He presses his hot lips to your ear and begs you to let him have you right there, right now, but you are firm in your refusal. The fence and trees that surround the yard are tall, but there are eyes everywhere and you can’t stomach the risk.

This is dangerous enough as it is.

So you retreat inside, where he takes you apart for the rest of the afternoon, the stainless steel of the fridge cold against your burning body when he pins you up against it and sinks down to his knees to bury his face between your legs.

And it’s all a bad decision. A bad, bad decision. But it’s one you can’t seem to stop making.

You make it over and over and over again.

In your bedroom, late at night. In the early morning, when he has you bent over the kitchen island. When you’re bouncing up and down in his lap on the leather sofa in the den, or in the giant jacuzzi tub in your sister’s bathroom.

You just keep making it.

You know you should feel guilty. You know eventually it has to end. You know you can’t keep this up forever. And yet somehow, none of that knowledge is enough to stop you.

Because all things considered…it’s going well.

Eddie is sweet to you. He dotes on you. He fucks you like an animal in heat and then tucks folded up notes in your hand while you sleep before he slips out of your room with the dawn. He puts you first—before himself, before anything. He ignites something in you, something you haven’t felt for years, a flame you thought had burnt out long ago into a pile of ash.

It’s like you’ve been trapped underwater so long you forgot what it felt like to breathe real air. And you fill your lungs with him to the brim again and again—certain you’ll never get enough.

His hands touch every part of you with pure devotion and his lips kiss yours like it’s an act of worship. Like you’re the only deity he’s ever sought. The only one he’ll ever serve.

But every day the calendar counts you another step closer to your sister’s return, the thick and humid haze of summer having reached its peak and starting to bleed at the edges. Danger lurks on the horizon like a storm cloud, lying in wait for the chance to blot out your sun.

Then the rain comes.

You come home one day to find Eddie and Steve in the middle of an argument. From the looks of it this conversation has been going on for a while and neither seems pleased to be having it.

“Come on, man!” Steve whines, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It’s one night. Bailey can’t go unless she can bring her cousin. Please?”

“I just don’t feel like going out,” Eddie counters weakly. He rubs a ringed hand across the back of his neck, his face full of guilt like he knows exactly how shitty of an excuse it is.

“Why? Because you wanna sit around the house all night? Again?” Steve scoffs. “What’s up with you? You’ve been like a monk all summer.”

Eddie’s cheeks tinge pink and his jaw clenches as he frowns, muttering something under his breath as he stares at his feet. If he’s defending himself, it’s not all that convincing. Luckily, Steve is too entrenched in his own agenda to call him out.

“Look, she’s from New York. She’ll probably love your whole edgy…thing.”

He smiles fondly as he gestures to his friend’s shredded jeans and loose-hanging Dio tank top, but all it elicits from Eddie is a distasteful sound from the back of his throat. His eyes nearly roll to the back of his head, but stop short when they land on you standing in the entry way.

“Um…hi,” he whispers, staring like your eyes are the high beams on a freight truck.

“Hey,” you reply, slipping off your sandals at the door. “What are you guys up to?”

“Oh, you know,” Steve sighs dramatically. “The hottest girl in town finally agreed to go out with me, but I can’t go because Eddie’s the worst wing-man in the history of the planet.”

Eddie’s head drops in shame again and you know those big, pleading eyes of his are dying to look at you. You feel like you can almost see him fighting the urge to turn his head right up until the moment he loses the uphill battle.

“You should go,” you tell him when his eyes find yours. “It sounds like fun.”

The words are like bile in your throat as you hurry past them to the kitchen, pausing at the door to look back at them over your shoulder.

Eddie’s eyes bulge with hope.

“Don’t, um…don’t forget about curfew,” you warn before you disappear.

Neither of them follows.

They keep arguing, the words muffled by the wood paneling you collapse against as you listen through the wall and wait…wait for what, exactly, you aren’t sure. But Steve must finally convince Eddie to go, because the next thing you hear is them shuffling through the door and tires that screech as Steve’s Beemer speeds away.

The silence that descends is oppressive. It makes the empty house feel cavernous and gaping like a wound. You scramble to put on a record, needing something to drown out your racing thoughts.

A lot of good it does, though.

You pace the rooms like a racetrack, certain you can see the furrows you leave in the carpet as you make your tenth or eleventh pass. All the while telling yourself you have no right to be upset.

Because Eddie should go on dates. He should be able to walk through Starcourt Mall with someone special, to lace his fingers with theirs as he asks if they want to share a box of Red Vines.

He shouldn’t have to hide, reduced to skulking in the shadows like some filthy and shameful secret. Even with the way he cloaked himself in mystery and attitude, it wasn’t enough to disguise the brightness that bubbled underneath.

It’s these thoughts and a hundred others that have you pacing right up until the moment you hear Steve’s car pulling into the driveway and the sound of laughter as four pairs of footsteps make their way up the front walk. And before you can think better—or think at all—you sprint to the top of the staircase and listen from the dark recess of the hall as they all stumble inside together.

Steve suggests having some beers by the pool and Bailey agrees. But the other girl—Eddie’s girl, you think, a bit more bitterly than you have any right to—is ready to call it a night.

“Hey, Eddie?” she asks in her high, cutesy voice. “Think I can get a ride home?”

“Ahh…I was actually gonna crash here toni—”

“Dude. Don’t be a dick,” Steve scolds playfully.

And that’s that, apparently.

It’s long past midnight by the time he’s knocking at your door. And before you can even whisper a greeting, he’s pulling you into his arms, almost crushing you he’s holding on so tight.

He goes slower than you’re used with him. He makes no move to tug off your clothes or slip his hand between your thighs. He doesn’t grind into you all rough and desperate, just presses himself close against you and whispers soft and sweet between long and languid kisses.

“Thought about you all night,” he murmurs, his lips skimming your temple. “She tried to kiss me and I felt sick to my stomach.”

“You don’t have to say that, Eddie,” you mutter back. “It’s okay if you like her.”

It makes his eyes flash with disgust, horrified you would even suggest such a thing, but the thought flies straight out his head as your hand begins to wander freely down his body, wrapping around his hardness through his jeans.

He groans at your touch, biting down into the pillow next to your head to muffle the sound, he’s so achingly hard in your delicate grasp.

You undress without a glimmer of haste to your movements. It feels like a dance to an old, old song. The kind that played from a gramophone in an empty gymnasium with crepe paper flowers hung from the ceiling. And when he fills you up, sliding easily inside to the hilt, you’ve never felt as close to another person as you do to him right now. His thrusts are steady and deep, reaching your most uncharted depths. And it seems so absurd to think it’s possible there is any part of you he hasn’t yet reached, but you’re sure he’s never been as deep as he is now.

His face stays close to yours, your breaths mixing as you pant and gasp into one another’s mouths, and he loses himself in you—in the way your heels hit the backs of his thighs, your legs tightening around him as you match his thrusts with rolls of your hips; how the weight of him and the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubs against your clit like two flint stones striking sparks to make a bonfire; how your hands grapple for purchase on his sweaty back, needing to hold onto him for dear life as you rush towards your release.

His necklace dangles around his neck and his guitar pick lays flat against your chest, the ball chain clinking softly in time with his thrusts. It’s almost like you’re wearing it instead of him and just that thought—the idea of it hanging around your neck, of everyone knowing you were his and only his—has him careening over the edge.

You start to come apart around him and he lets himself go with you, releasing a long and guttural groan as he empties into the condom faster and harder than he ever has before. Your hand grasps at the back of his neck under the warm curtain of his curls, nails digging in so deep that it makes you both whimper as you press trembling kisses to each other's lips.

It’s quiet as you bask together in the aftermath, the receding tides of your gratification lapping around your ankles, hearing only the sound of your labored breaths expelling. It dwarves you, almost. It’s so serene, so peaceful, you worry anything you say next will only spoil it.

Eddie pulls back to look at you, his eyes shiny either with tears or from the moonlight reflecting in them, sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead, his softening cock still buried in your warmth.

“I wanna take you somewhere,” he whispers.

And in what feels like an instant, you have snuck out of the house and are sitting with him in the back of his van, rear doors thrown wide open so you can look out at the vast expanse of Lover’s Lake. He’s got his back up against one side with you resting against him, curled up in his arms with an old blanket draped around you both.

He found his way to this secluded spot on the gravelly bank so easily, you’re sure he’s parked here many times before. And you can’t say you’re entirely surprised. Boundless stars overhead and below, reflecting in the perfectly still water. Full moon glowing like a spotlight, a sultry rock song drifting out of his speakers instead of his usual thundering metal fare.

Pretty much impossible to resist, you think as you lay against his chest and chuckle, “This where you bring all the girls?”

“Used to be,” he murmurs, stroking your arm.

“Not anymore, hm?”

You’re teasing, but he’s turned solemn. His face is set wth seriousness as he tips your chin to look at him, eyes plundering into your soul and fingers tracing featherlight along your jaw.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

And there’s something different in his gaze as he says it. Something that makes your spine go rigid and your shoulders tense as you flex away from him. Something that makes your skin turn clammy and cold.

“Eddie,” you start, “Don’t say anything stupi—”

“I’m in love with you.”

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rebelfell · 3 months

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Yeah, they won't leave my brain... 18+, MDNI

older!fem!Harrington!reader x eddie munson

cont’d from here

So it turns out he's not the gardener.

He is, technically, in the sense that he's your nephew's best friend who mows the lawn and does other yard work during the summer in exchange for extra cash and pool access.

Fine. Whatever. Good to know.

Far more importantly—he's an asshole.

Because he easily could have told you who he was when you were running him off like a stray dog. And he does, eventually, admit to that and apologize…later, when he comes into the kitchen and you two exchange a few terse words, hissed under your breath so Steve won't overhear. Until you finally mellow into a civil, albeit begrudging, tolerance. He's just a kid, after all.

Except he doesn't seem like a kid, though, when you’re stretched up on your tip-toes trying to get down a mixing bowl. And before you’ve asked, or before you tell him not to bother, he's at your side. He slots into place behind you, his hips just shy of grinding into your ass as he brings the bowl down and holds it in front of you, his arms circling your body as he waits for you to take hold.

Of the bowl, that is.

A shiver actually runs up your spine you as you cup the bottom, hands resting under his, your thumbs grazing his pinkies, static buzzing. And when he steps away, you can see how his reach made the hem of his shirt ride up to reveal the deep cut of a v-muscle and a faint patch of hair that swirls just below his navel and trails down underneath the band of his boxers.

And your neck nearly snaps from the force with which you jerk your head up when you realize way too late that you're basically staring directly at his crotch. And you're so, so sure you're going to find him making that shit-eating grin of his when you look up. But you don't. Because he hasn't even noticed. Because he is (just as blatantly, if not moreso) looking down your shirt.

His eyes and yours meet on pure instinct, and you're closer to him than you've ever been before, trapped staring into his eyes that feel as dark and vast as space. As though they could swallow you up and you would just drift off in them forever.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You clear your throat and turn away, carrying the bowl to the stove. "Dinner in twenty," you tell him.

Flat. Passive. No emotion. Not so much as a waver in your voice to be up for misinterpretation. And he just stands there staring at you, studying your back, the imperceptible rise and fall of your shoulders. Searching, wondering...

Did you feel that too?

But you keep your head down. You keep your eyes glued to the salad you're making. You keep your breathing even, feeling like it’s performance art, until you hear the steady tink of the chain on his wallet with every step he takes out of the kitchen to relay your message to Steve.

Stupid, you call yourself. Stupid, silly, absurd—

There’s no end to the disparaging words that fill your head. Because you've done a lot of dumb things in your life (too many to even count) but there's no way you're adding this to that list.

It doesn't matter if he's twenty-four. It doesn’t matter if he’s the one who keeps showing up and smiling at you and looking at you like that. And it doesn’t matter if you’re separated and that your ring has been off for so long now there’s not even an impression of it on your skin anymore.

And aside from all that, this is all just a joke anyway. Isn’t it? Because why else would he be talking like to you like he did or smiling at you like he did if it wasn’t for a gag?

Except...suddenly, he's just hanging around the house all the time.

He starts showing up in the mornings asking for Steve, even though he knows Steve sleeps in until at least ten—eleven or noon if he had a date the night before. No problem, he smirks. I’ll wait.

And he breezes through the door, walking past you like he owns the place and parking himself at the kitchen table while you make your breakfast. And he just...stares at you. Until his staring turns to talk. It’s mostly innocent, occasionally toeing the line into impropriety. But you’re quick to correct the course if it does.

You talk about music because you’ve always got some playing. And that leads in to talk about his band, and him asking if you’ve ever been to the Hideout. Which makes you laugh, because you’ve probably been thrown out of the Hideout more times than he’s even been in it.

But he doesn’t need to know all that.

And he sleeps over an awful lot. Steve says it’s because his uncle works nights and Eddie would never admit this, but he gets lonely. Plus, they’ve got nothing but spare rooms, so who does it hurt?But that doesn’t explain why he feels the need to strut around the house in nothing but a pair of his sweatpants slung low on his narrow hips, or stand in the kitchen drinking milk from the carton with such fervor it dribbles down his tattooed chest.

And when you clear your throat behind him, your foot tapping on the tiled floor as your eyes burn a hole in the side of his face, he just lazily turns his head and offers it to you with a cheeky smile.

And it just keeps going on like that for weeks. You keep thinking he has to get bored soon, he has to be ready to move on, he has to be getting tired of acting like he's actually…

You can't even finish that thought.

It's one that’s too ludicrous to entertain, the idea someone like him would actually waste a moment of his summer on you. And yet…he’s still there.

He’s there in the mornings when you two have breakfast and listen to records. And he’s there in the afternoons when he mows the lawn or takes a dip in the pool, always winking at you and asking if you wanna cool off. And he’s there after dinner in the evening, sitting right next to you on the couch as you, he and Steve watch a movie.

And one time, he’s there in the middle of the night. When you can’t sleep and you slip outside to get some air only to find him sitting with his feet propped up on the patio table and a joint between his lips that he’s just lit.

And you do probably the last thing either of you expect when you pull out the chair next to him and hold our your fingers in a silent request.

He passes it to you, a ribbon of smoke curling in the air as it leaves his lips. You both puff on it a few times, listening to the crickets and the chh chh chh of neighboring sprinklers going off.

You talk the way you always do, the way that now feels almost natural. You ask him about Hawkins High, and lament about how little has changed when he tells you which teachers were still kicking around when he graduated.

“What were you like back then?” he asks you, sounding somehow like he really, truly wants to know. Like he cares.

"I was a lot like you, actually," you tell him with a wry and knowing smile as you bring the joint to your lips. "A little stubborn, a little headstrong...a little bit of a shit head."

Eddie chuckles darkly as he leans in.

He's close now. Close enough you can smell the pack of Camels in his pocket and the little spritz of cologne he’s wearing that dances in your nose. Close enough you can hear the wet sound his lips make as he pulls the bottom one behind his teeth before he answers you with a wicked grin.

“Trust me, sweetheart…there's nothing shitty about my head.”

The words make your breath catch. His eyes shine and even in the darkness there’s no way to mistake what he’s thinking about. You shake your head, trying to clear the fog that filled it. And you mutter to yourself as you stub out the joint and place it in the ashtray, avoiding his gaze.

“I should get to bed.”

You stand abruptly, unsteady on legs that shake. And you nearly stumble until Eddie jumps to his feet and catches you, cradling you against him. His nose touches yours, slippery with sweat from the balmy summer air. His breath hits your lips, hot and heavy as you pant into one another.

His eyes start to flutter closed…

“Eddie, you’ve got to stop,” you gasp, no longer in control of your heart rate. “I—we can’t do this.”

He blinks back at you, his doe eyes as big as the full moon overhead. And you half expect him to laugh in your face: Do what? you imagine him cackling. You think I really want some crypt-keeper who can’t even keep her marriage together? You think I would want you?

Except he doesn’t say anything of the sort. He just shakes his head, his face filled with concern, the tiniest little pinch in his brow appearing as he whispers, softer than the crickets.

“Why not?”

And there’s no answer you can give him.

All you can do is slip out of his arms, avoiding his gaze as you retreat, heading back to your room to try and sleep—practically impossible with his words spinning in your head and your skin burning everywhere he touched you.

For almost a week after, you don’t see him.

A few times, you catch sight of his van sitting in the driveway as Steve runs out the door, calling out to you that he’s headed to the lake or the movies or the mall. But that’s it.

Good, you tell yourself. This is what you wanted. This is the best way to stay out of trouble. This is how you should have handled it from the start.

When he does return, it’s only as moral support for Steve when he comes to ask you for a favor. Because it’s gonna be his birthday soon and he wants to throw a party. And he swears, swears, swears it won’t get out of control. So you think, avoiding Eddie’s gaze as much as he’s avoiding yours as he hovers beside his friend, his hands behind his back as he cranes his neck to look anywhere but at you. Finally, you nod.

“Everyone has a DD. No one underage. Nobody comes upstairs and if anyone vomits you two—”You motion at him and Eddie, “clean it up.”

Steve and you shake on it. Done and done.

The night of the party, you spend the evening upstairs as promised. Steve keeps his word and only a select group of friends are invited. Enough to make it a good turnout, but not so many that it’s a rager. They keep the music at a moderate level and the loudest thing you hear up in your room is Steve and his best friend Robin, who cheer every time they win a round of pong.

Still, you pass the time as best you can and your curiosity only gets the better of you once. Once, you stand at your window that overlooks the backyard. Once, you allow yourself to peek through the blinds and scan the party.

Once and only once, do you look for Eddie.

You find him at the fire pit, talking to a girl who’s sidled up next to him, pushing her perky tits in his face. She’s pretty in that way all girls his age are—with everything on them pointing up and nothing that sags. No bags under their eyes or extra flab on their arms. No silver slivers in their hair.

He seems distant as he talks to her, barely taking his eyes off the flames that flicker before him. She drapes a lithe arm across his shoulder and leans in close to whisper something in his ear.

Whatever it is she says, Eddie seems un-phased. Or maybe that’s just you trying to make yourself feel better with your gut twisted into knots. You flee from the window, mad at yourself for even looking, and bury yourself back in your book.

Then, no more than ten minutes later, a soft creak of footsteps on the stairs has you tossing it to the side and climbing out of bed.

"Upstairs is off limits—"

The hallway is dark except for the light that comes from your room as you crack open your bedroom door. The gash of amber casts directly across Eddie's face as he pauses and drops his hand that was already raised to knock.

"Hey," he says.

And you never knew three letters could sound so loaded. You pull your robe closed a little tighter.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

His head bobs, all non-committal as he takes a careful step nearer. Missed you, he wants to say.

"Just...got bored,” he says instead. You snort.

"You didn't look all that bored to me."

That smirk creeps across his lips at that and you can practically see how his ego inflates, his chest puffing up with pride, eyes sparking with intrigue.

"You checking up on me?"

He asks and the smirk turns into a full-on grin, one that flashes his teeth, bared like an animal’s. Which one of you is the predator again?

"No," you bite back, the word sharp and barbed. Also a lie. "I was just making sure you guys aren't completely wrecking my sister's house."

"You sure?" he asks lowly, taking another step closer. "You don't wish you were down there with me? Keeping me in line?”

He leans against the wall, tilting his head towards you. You can smell the fire pit on him. It’s stronger and more potent than anything else. The beer on his breath. His cologne. The body spray of that girl who was hanging all over him.

"Positive," you say, forcing yourself to control your trembling and yet unable to stop the audible gulp that leaves your throat.

“Ohhh,” Eddie smiles. “So you just wanted me up here with you, then? Is that it?”

You wish it wasn't so easy for him to draw you in. You wish you had enough self-control to send him away. You wish you weren’t wondering what his lips taste like or what you’d actually do if he leaned in to kiss you right now…

And like he can read your mind, he’s moving in. His lips catch the corner of your mouth like he’s daring you to turn your chin the mere millimeters required to really kiss him. There’s stubble on his jaw, too short for you to see, but you can feel how it rasps against your cheek.

Your hand comes up and it lands in the center of his chest, but you're not stopping him or pushing him away. If anything, you're leaning on it as your body is swaying towards him.

"You shouldn't be up here," you groan softly, the words meant to remind yourself as much as him. "You should go back downstairs."

His hair rustles as he shakes his head. "No," he says firmly. "I don't give a shit about anybody downstairs. I wanna be right here."

The calloused pads of his fingers tug at the silk tie of your robe. He pulls it open and you let it hang, making no attempt to hide your sleep clothes.

He sinks to his knees right there in the hallway, his gaze never leaving yours as his mouth meets your breast. His lips surround your nipple, his wet tongue swirling and sliding over the stiffening bud until his spit has soaked through the thin material of your camisole. The very same one you had on the first day you saw him.

"Please," he says over and over, with his eyes rounded and his voice hushed, "Please, please, please." And your thoughts are just an echo of his words, almost begging with yourself the same way he’s begging with you.

Please give in. Please let him hold you...touch you...taste you. Please have him show you how you deserve to be pleased.

Fuck it.

His curls twisted in your grasp, you drag him to his feet and bring his lips to yours to feast on his mouth. Both of you moaning, pawing at the other as you stumble backwards, bringing him with you into the bedroom—finally taking what you want.

Because if you’re going to hell, it might as well be in first class.

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