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Clarke remembers the bet as soon as she wakes up, slightly hungover and pride a little wounded.
It would worse if she didn’t know that Bellamy was a worthy opponent, but as it is, she knew what she was getting into at the bar last night, when, after a few rounds of drinks and the escalating banter between their friends, the drunken assertions of who among them had the most game became competitive. Between Clarke and Bellamy only, of course, because nobody else could care quite as much as they did. Stakes were raised, qualitative measures of game decided, and they made it official with the shake of their hands.
Whoever could get a phone number the quickest won, and whoever lost had to do the winner’s bidding for the entirety of the next day.
It had been a risk, statistically speaking, for Clarke to set her eyes on the hot redhead who’d been looking her way from across the bar, but a calculated one. She’d recognised the interest in the woman’s eyes, the way she kept looking in Clarke’s direction, and it was enough to give her the confidence she needed to approach, flirt, win the bet, and of course, taunt Bellamy about her superior game.
As it was, the woman wasn’t interested in Clarke so much as where she got her dress, and unfortunately after twenty minutes of conversation, that was the only piece of information exchanged — outside of the fact that the woman was tragically straight.
Bellamy, meanwhile, of course managed a number in half that, and after the expected teasing he reminded her in no uncertain words, that as the loser, she’d be under his orders today.
Now, Clarke groans, squinting at the light that filters in from behind the bedroom’s blinds. The hangover’s not so bad, thankfully, probably due to the water Bellamy forced her to drink before she went to bed last night, but there’s still a dull ache in her head, an overall grossness settled over her body. Nothing a shower and another tonne of water can’t fix, hopefully.
It’s only ten or so, but she hears movement in the kitchen, so drags herself out of bed for the required ribbing. Just because the circumstances of her loss were totally not her fault, doesn’t mean she’ll allow herself to be a sore loser. Bellamy would only find more reason to taunt her if she was.
He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist when she makes her way out of her room, his bare chest still wet from the shower, which is just entirely unfair. While it’s a sight she’s become somewhat used to of her friend-turned-roommate-turned-object-of-not-entirely-platonic-feelings, right now she’s a little hungover and a little wound up from last night’s complete lack of action — she doesn’t need Bellamy looking like that.
Especially when he shoots her a crooked smile that brightens his entire stupid face.
“Morning,” she says, padding into the kitchen to find some aspirin and their largest glass. She skulls the water without gagging, which is at least something. “Can you do me a favour and wait until I’ve had a shower before exercising your absolute power over me?”
Bellamy laughs, that smile turning into a rather smug smirk. “That’s okay, happy to let you off the hook for this one. Bragging rights are more than enough for me. Knowing that I’ve bested the princess in this particular art-form.”
Clarke huffs, unable to keep her competitiveness in check in the face of such blatant provocation. “First of all,” she says, stealing one of the orange slices he’s cut up for himself. “They were hardly rigorous experimental practices. For more accuracy, we’d need someone to first determine sexuality so we’d be starting on more even ground.”
“Heard it all last night, princess. Argument didn’t hold with the gang then, and it won’t with me now.”
“Fine. Secondly, why would you back out now that you can reap the rewards of your supposed ‘game’?”
“Are the air quotes necessary considering I won?”
Ignoring him, she folds her arms across her chest. “What, don’t think I can hack it?”
This laugh is fond, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Only you would be indignant when I’m trying to be nice.” He offers another orange slice, arches a pointed brow until she accepts. “Fine. Go have your shower and I’ll have a think.”
She does, staying under the soothing stream of water until every inch of her is clean, not a hint of smoke or booze under the smell of her coconut shampoo and conditioner. Her hand almost inches down between her thighs to take off the slight edge that Bellamy’s mere existence always seems to put her on, but she hasn’t quite yet managed not to feel somewhat skeevy getting off to the thought of him — outside of the times it’s late at night, her vibrator in hand, and Horny Clarke has taken over, at least.
She’s not responsible for Horny Clarke’s skeeviness.
The shower does a world of good, and as she pulls on the usual ensemble for a warm, lazy Sunday — oversized tee, bike shorts, no bra — she’s feeling human, and somewhat ready for whatever Bellamy’s got coming her way. Given he wasn’t even planning on holding her to account, she doubts it’ll be anything too taxing, probably something like a relaxing massage or foot rub.
An image of Bellamy’s bare back — so fucking broad, golden skin pulled deliciously over taut muscle — flashes in her mind, and Clarke reconsiders.
Okay, maybe that would be taxing. The mental effort to remain passably sane whilst smoothing her hands over his body might be a bit much.
As it is, Bellamy lets her start small, requesting — or ordering, she supposes — her go-to hangover breakfast, like she wouldn’t have made it regardless. And thankfully, he’s feeling kind, having used her time in the shower to get dressed himself, though he’s put in about the same effort as she has, in a worn tee and gym shorts.
The Bloody Mary and carb-filled toasties go down a treat, and Bellamy insists on enough refills that when he asks what she’d make him do if their positions were reversed, Clarke’s slightly buzzed, tongue slipping.
“I’d force you to finally pose for me,” she says, without much input from her brain. Given she’s mostly doing nudes at the moment, the implications of the statement are a touch more revealing than she’d like.
She grows still when registering the words, and the responding beat of silence from Bellamy is deafening.
He clears his throat. She meets his eyes for barely a second before busying herself with the important task of rearranging the fruit in their fruit bowl. “Well, you know I’m not exactly an artist myself,” he says after a long moment, of course letting her off the hook again. “You know, outside of my game.”
Forcing a laugh, Clarke takes a banana, then decides it’s best for her stupid brain to stay away from phallic objects, and takes an apple instead. Only after the third bite can she meet his gaze again, that warm fondness etched into every feature of his handsome face doing annoying things to her far too longing heart.
“Well, you asked. And I’ve got others. I’d make you shave off your beard, and let me get a rescue dog, and drive me to that gelati place I love.”
“The one two hours away?”
“It wouldn’t require forcing if it wasn’t inconvenient, Bell!”
Bellamy chuckles, a nod to concede the point. He brings a hand up to his jaw, feels the scruff of his beard. “Didn’t realise you didn’t like the beard.”
It’s not that she doesn’t, more so than she misses the sharp line of his jaw, but obviously she can’t tell him that. Clarke shrugs. “It’s fine, you just look better without it.”
“Objectively speaking?”
“Of course.” Clarke clears her throat, ignores the contemplative look that crosses Bellamy’s face, like her preferences regarding his appearance actually matters. “Anyway, not that all that matters. Have you come up with your next task, or are you just going to steal mine?”
Sliding out of the kitchen stool, Bellamy stretches, flashing her a peak of his stomach — a little soft, dark hair trailing low. He nods to the lounge room. “Nah, I’ve got my own ideas. We’re going to watch a history doco together,” he says, settling on the couch and starting up their TV. Clarke joins with a raised brow, waiting for the catch. She always watches this shit with him. “And,” he continues, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not allowed to make any of your usual commentary throughout.”
Clarke groans, slumping back onto the couch dramatically. It’s not that she finds documentaries completely boring, but teasing Bellamy about them is just so much fun. If she doesn’t get to call him a nerd at least once every ten minutes, she won’t get the responding eye-roll and rant, which, while he’s focused on the TV, is what keeps her mostly entertained.
But it’s his day, so she mimes zipping her mouth and throwing away the key.
And five minute later realises it’s a far more difficult exercise of control than it should be.
It’s not just that she’s an asshole who enjoys teasing him so much — although she definitely is — but without their usual banter to distract her, Clarke’s acutely aware of Bellamy beside her. Just how close he likes to sit — seemingly without realising — the arm he casually drapes behind her, over the back of the couch. An easy sort of domesticity that’s not at all helping the thrum longing in her chest, one that extends beyond the attraction she’s grown used to ever since becoming friends with Bellamy.
Add to that the defined muscle of his bare arms, the heat of his body warming her own, and the fresh, almost woody scent that’s apparently been formulated to drive her fucking nuts, and her mind is most definitely not on the documentary, but instead solidly in the gutter.
“God, imagine getting fucked like that.”
That certainly doesn’t help. Clarke startles, looking up at Bellamy with slight panic. Surely if he could read her thoughts, he’d have revealed the fact before this moment. “What?”
He raises a brow, shooting her a wry smile. “You’re not even paying attention, are you, princess?”
At least that’s the extent of what he’s caught onto. Clarke clears her throat, heart slowing after its stupid fright. “Well,” she says, gathering her wits as best she can. She realises now he was likely referring to the dead author the presenter is talking about, who was apparently fucked over during their life. He could’ve phrased that better, for her sake. “My paying attention wasn’t something explicitly stated as being required, was it?”
He rolls his eyes, but concedes a laugh. “Brat. But fine, I’ll be more explicit for the next one.”
“You do that.”
And unsurprisingly, they’re words she eats barely three minutes after the doco ends, because while he’s not taking advantage of the situation in the way Clarke would, he’s still finding ways to amuse himself.
She looks over her — admittedly, very messy — bedroom, the weeks’ worth of clothes littering her floor, the array of art supplies that have magically found themselves outside of her designated desk space, and frowns. That tidying is something he has to order her to do is maybe a little bad, but it’s just one of those ongoing tasks she can absolutely never be bothered with. Apparently it’s childish enough behaviour that Bellamy’s actually excited to witness her facing the consequences.
“Here, I’ll even help,” he says, walking to the end of her bed — of course, unmade. He rights the blanket quickly — a pointed look to Clarke like see, it’s that easy — moves the pillows back to the standard position at the head, and then makes himself far too comfortable. Stretching out rather enticingly, hands behind his head, a crooked grin tugging at his stupid mouth. “Now you.”
“This is a violation of my rights,” she says, glaring at him, half out of annoyance-half to cover up the other feeling now swelling in her chest, sparked by the sight of Bellamy on her fucking bed.
“Uh huh. Remember I gave you an out, princess. You didn’t want to take it.”
“Yeah, but I thought you’d make me shout fancy takeaway, or give back that jumper you claim I stole—”
“The jumper you did steal.”
“—not this.”
Bellamy laughs, making a sweeping gesture around the room. “Enough complaining, princess. Get to it.”
She does, but reluctantly. Bellamy kept his promise to be explicit this time — stating that she can’t complain, or drag out the process unreasonably — but Clarke still tests the limits of those rules, because she is a bit of a brat, and it’s fun to press Bellamy’s buttons. With the stakes so low, and in the better position of the two of them, he doesn’t seem to mind, watching with amusement as she starts picking up her clothes as slow as she thinks she can get away with, laughing whenever she makes a particularly dramatic sigh. They fall into their usual easy banter quickly, and Bellamy even takes a video of her cleaning as evidence to their friends — though it’s of course one where she’s flipping him off.
All the while Clarke’s trying not to think about how fucking good he looks on her bed. A place she now realises that for all their comfort with one another, he’s never casually hung out on. The flex of the thick arm muscles the position his hands have behind his head provides, or the unmistakable bulge of his dick in his gym shorts.
It’s not at all a helpful image, but then again there aren’t many of Bellamy that are. He’s stupidly attractive no matter what, and it’s a fact that’s slowly but surely fucking with her mind.
That’s her only excuse for the next slip up, when after ten long minutes she’s finally done with the clothes from her bedroom floor, and declares she needs a break to rest and recuperate, falling back onto the bed beside him.
Bellamy huffs a laugh, shaking his head, fond but seemingly bewildered by just how ridiculous she’s proving herself to be. “Oh, fuck me.”
Clarke’s brain short-circuits with the word fuck, and their overwhelming proximity in the context of her bed. “Is that another order?”
The tension that forms between them the second the words have left her mouth is far thicker than the earlier tongue slip. Admitting she wanted to draw him like one of her french girls really fucking pales in comparison to this. This, her brattish challenge, far less easy to brush over.
And, when Bellamy pushes himself up in her bed, and Clarke manages to find the courage to meet his suddenly serious, darkened gaze, she decides she doesn’t want to.
“It could be,” he offers after a long moment, his voice roughened, dropped low.
Her breath catches in her throat, her heart beginning a quick, hopeful pace within her chest. This is a moment pulled right from her fantasies, Bellamy in her bed, offering to fuck her. Only, in her fantasies, she never could’ve imagined the sheer intensity of his blown focus, the way it licks hot at her skin, has arousal swelling through her body, pooling slick at her pussy.
She blinks up at him, hands itching to touch him, but some unknown part of her suddenly aches to play with this dynamic the bet has inadvertently created between them. “Then tell me what to do.”
“Clarke, you’re not…”
“I know. But pretend I am, anyway.”
He watches her for another long moment, and Clarke tries not to squirm under the continued intensity of his gaze. Only once he seems to find whatever he’s looking for does his expression relax, a crooked smirk forming, a wickedness in the curve that promises so fucking much.
Her eyes are trained on him as he gets off the bed, a certain authority to his presence when he moves to stand at the end of it.
“Come here, princess,” he says, that same authority threaded into the command, one seeking her to obey.
She does, heady thrill sparking in her chest as her cunt pulses with utter want. Fuck, she didn’t realise this was something that would have such a visceral effect, being ordered around in this way. Still gentle, but an undercurrent to the words that tugs at something deep within her core.
Bellamy brings a hand up to run his thumb over the curve of her cheek, down the column of her throat, the contact — however soft and brief — sending a shiver down her spine. It’s nice that, for once, it’s a reaction she doesn’t have to hide from him. Instead one that, from the darkening of his gaze, he appreciates.
“Arms up, princess,” he says, and again, she does as told, gratification swelling in her chest when Bellamy uses the position to pull her top off and reveal her bare tits, muttering a rough curse. “Fuck, sweetheart. Such pretty tits. I knew they would be, but fuck they’re gorgeous.”
Clarke blinks up at him, preening under the praise, with the unexpected pet-name — one she could get far too attached to. “You’ve thought about this?”
Chuckling, he reaches out to take her tits in hand — such stupidly big hands — eyes blowing with hunger as her nipples stiffen to hard peaks under his gentle, circling touch. Only her responding whine draws his gaze back to her, expression flashing with satisfaction. “Are you fucking kidding me, princess? Living with you has been one long exercise of self-control.”
Fuck. They’re words that exhilarate her, validating every filthy thought she’s had about him over the past months. She wasn’t alone in this horny, downward spiral. “Well,” she says, biting back a coy smile. “You don’t have to control yourself anymore.”
Bellamy smirks, shifting a hand to her chest and pushing her back down onto the bed. It’s a move that makes her squeak — though, as he follows, eagerly pressing his mouth to her neck, it’s quick to become a low whine.
His lips are impossibly soft, breath hot on her skin as he trails his mouth down her throat and to her chest, and when he adds his tongue, Clarke’s mind grows hazy, heady arousal flooding her. He gives her tits a slow, careful attention that doesn’t at all surprise her — he’s always treated her with a certain indulgence, and of course sex would be no exception — attuned to every sound she makes, each way her body responds to him. Learning her with an earnestness that has tension pooling so deliciously at her core — especially when he recognises the effect that sucking each of her nipples into his mouth has, her hips jerking in search of some friction.
“You need something, sweetheart?” He asks, amusement darkening his voice as he looks up at her, the hunger in his expression sending another shiver through her. Fuck, how has she gone years of knowing Bellamy without witnessing the intensity of this look?
“Bellamy,” she whines, which is really not at all helpful, but her mind is still cloudy with want, an undercurrent of disbelief that this is happening at all. “I want…” She shakes her head, and much to her body’s protests, tries to find the words she knows she should, ones that’ll honour their bet. Can’t have him accusing her of not holding up her end of the deal. “But shouldn’t you be making me go down on you, not the other way around?”
He chuckles, gaze flashing as he looks down at her. “If you think this isn’t exactly what I’ve wanted to do ever since I met you, princess, you’re dead fucking wrong. I got you.”
It’s a rough promise that has anticipation thrumming hot and aching through her veins. With his hands on her hips, he tugs her to the edge of the bed, before again pressing his mouth to her sternum, though this time trailing down — his destination obvious as he drops to his knees on the ground.
Finding the band of her bike shorts and panties, he slowly drags them down her thighs. Frees them from her body and spreads her legs to create a cradle of space for himself, to expose her bare cunt, now throbbing with need.
Clarke whines, eyes fluttering shut as, instead of pressing directly into her, his lips brush over her inner knee, soft kisses running slowly, teasingly up her thighs. So soft, the scruff over his jaw tickles just so, sharpening the thrum of hunger at her pussy.
Okay, maybe the beard isn’t so bad.
Her breath is caught in her chest, her body drawn with heated anticipation as he slowly trails his mouth closer and closer to the apex of her thighs. By the time he finally makes contact — fingers surprising her by spreading the lips of her cunt — Clarke’s sure she’ll fall apart in barely two minutes under his attention.
“I’m going to treat your cunt so fucking well, sweetheart,” Bellamy says, which only adds to that sureness, the confidence threaded though the words all the more alluring. Then, as she readies herself for the release she’s been fantasising about for months now, under Bellamy’s touch, another order: “But you can’t come, princess. Not until I say so.”
He issues it barely a second before pressing in to finally taste her, and Clarke cries out in a combination of indignation and pleasure, the latter winning out as heady warmth unfurls at her cunt. The first swipe of his tongue, the first teasing circle around her clit, already making it clear that this order won’t be so simple to obey.
Because if she thought Bellamy enjoyed torturing her with his earlier ones, now, forbidding her from surrendering completely to the pleasure he so keenly draws, he finds a whole new level of it.
As he did with her tits, he takes his time, exploring her pussy with a lavish attention that seeks to discover exactly what makes her cunt thrum with tension. Licking up and down her slit with a teasing slide, sucking at her clit until she’s whimpering, dipping his tongue into her pussy to fuck her. The sounds she begins to make, the way her body responds to his touch, guiding the attention he gives, showing him exactly how to drive her towards release.
She’s there in barely five minutes, with his tongue pressed deep and his fingers circling her aching clit — breaths coming quick, tension curling at her core, the only thing holding her off Bellamy’s words.
The desire to not disappoint him.
He lets her hang at that precipice for several long seconds that require more mental effort than she’s sure she used through the entirety of her undergrad degree, before shifting his mouth to instead press at her hip bone.
A shaky breath rushes out of her. Clarke’s not sure whether to consider it a relief.
“Bellamy,” she whines, arching her hips up against him, though she knows it won’t do anything to help with the actual issue here. She’s always been described as something of a brat when it comes to sex, always impatient, always wanting more, and given now it’s with Bellamy — the man she’s got not so platonic feelings for, who she’s been fantasising about for fucking months — that tendency isn’t easy to resist. “Please.”
Because she wants to come.
Kind of wants to be a brat, too.
Maybe so that he can put her in her place, as she’s sure he would.
Chuckling, Bellamy strokes a soothing thumb over her thigh, his teeth grazing softly over her stomach. “I should’ve known you’d be like this, princess. Come on, you can hold off.” He pinches her clit, chuckling again when she squeaks in response. “And if not, you won’t get any more for the rest of the day.”
Pouting, Clarke looks up at him. Settled between her thighs, his mouth slick with her arousal, his eyes blown with absolute hunger, he’s the hottest person she’s ever fucking seen. Maybe the cruellest, too. “You’d do that?”
“I don’t want to, sweetheart. But a bet’s a bet, and I’ve given you your orders. I can’t reward bad behaviour.”
She’s not sure his punishment would be all that bad, either, but that’s maybe her horny brain making itself known again. Arousal eased, but still a warm presence through her body, pussy still thrumming with a base tension so easy to build on, it’s not exactly surprising.
After a warning look, Bellamy settles back in, and with his mouth he draws the pleasure that had ebbed back into sharp focus. Beginning a torturous cycle of pushing Clarke to the very brink of release — unable to give in — before again easing off to kiss at her thighs, her stomach, starting the whole process all over again. Forcing her to hold off a little longer each time, to endure new heights of tension the edging has provided, his lips and tongue eating her pussy like it’s the best fucking meal he’s ever had.
Licking and sucking and fucking her cunt until her mind is so cloudy with need that tears prickle at her eyes, her body drawn with such hot, aching tension that it’s sheer determination that keeps her from surrendering to the treatment.
The single desire anchoring her that to make Bellamy proud.
And, when he finally gives her the permission she needs, after so many long minutes testing her control, it’s pride she hears in his voice, its warmth making her preen. “Did so good, princess,” he murmurs, low and rough, his fingers continuing their work while his mouth is briefly out of action, this time fucking her to cunt to hit that perfect spot. “So fucking good. You let go whenever you want, now.”
He latches his mouth back over her clit, sucking with the keen pressure he’s learnt she fucking loves, and Clarke almost feels as though she’s going to sob, given how wound up she is. Her pussy so hot and tight with tension, her mind and body exhausted from this exercise, that when she finally does give in, she fucking breaks.
Hot, heady release crashing over her, Clarke cries out as her body shakes with its intensity, fingers curling tight in Bellamy’s hair, back arching off the bed.
“Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy,” she hears herself chant, his name half moan-half prayer through her hazed mind, as waves of pleasure roll through her. Urged on by the talented mouth he keeps buried in her pussy, working her through the high.
It’s a few long, perfect minutes in that intoxicating, blissed state — one that’s only intensified by the knowledge that she earned it — before Clarke feels the pleasure ease to a warm, content thrum through her body. Bellamy presses a soft kiss to her sensitive clit, gently slides his fingers from her pussy, and when she manages to find the energy to open her eyes and lift her head enough to see him, he’s wearing an incredibly smug smirk as he drinks her in.
Not that it’s not well-deserved.
Fuck, how has she gone years without knowing he could do that?
“Was it worth it, princess?” He asks, amusement clear in his roughened voice, so low it seems to reverberate through her.
Clarke breathes a fucked-out laugh, watching as he gets to his feet, looming over her with such fucking hot authority. Hunger dark and wolfish where it’s etched into his expression, shoulders ridiculously broad, his cock so clearly hard beneath his gym shorts. “Shut up,” she says, but the words don’t quite land given they’re slightly slurred. “Take you clothes off.”
Bellamy arches a brow, bending down only so far as to get his hands under her ass. When he practically throws her up the bed, she’s too turned on by the display of strength to even pretend to be indignant by the treatment.
“You think you can tell me what to do, princess?” He asks, pointed, and despite Clarke’s inclination to engage with this banter, she holds her tongue. Shakes her head, blinking up at him with suddenly innocent eyes, because what if he really did punish her? Didn’t give her his cock like she’s hoping he now will.
Without being dramatic, she might actually die.
Bellamy chuckles darkly, apparently recognising her desperation — which, given how observant he’s proven himself to be this past hour, isn’t at all surprising. Feeling kind, he does at least tug off his top. Revealing all that golden, bare skin, his firm chest and softer stomach, the dark happy trail that leads to his obviously hard cock, still hidden, but so fucking promising.
“First, answer me, sweetheart. Was it worth it?”
The question seems to be about more than just his command and subsequent edging, and as Clarke blinks up at him, her heart quickening in her chest, so is her response: “You know it was, Bell.”
A different intensity charges between them, still thick with arousal, but now, the deeper feelings she’s tried not to overthink in this moment swelling too. With it, hope that this means more to him than just a fuck he’s been aching for for months. As his blown gaze drinks her in almost reverently, she thinks it does.
“I’m gonna fuck you so fucking good, princess,” Bellamy promises, only now tugging his shorts and briefs down and off, allowing his cock to spring up, and fuck, again, it’s better than her fantasies had her hoping for. His cock fucking gorgeous, thick and huge, with perfect veins running up the hard length. Her pussy clenches at the sight. “Condom?”
She shakes her head. No way she’s not experiencing that bare. “I don’t want one.”
“Princess, you sure?”
She’s glad he doesn’t have to ask if she’s clean, or on the pill — he trusts that she wouldn’t offer this if she weren’t, just like she trusts he’d insist if he needed to. “I’m sure, Bell,” Clarke says, anticipation again stretching hot through her veins, arousal warm and slick where it rushes to her pussy. The first was incredible, but she’s now aching to be filled by him properly. “How do you want me?”
Bellamy blows out a slow breath, climbing onto the bed while his eyes run over her. “I want to see you, sweetheart,” he says, again moving to the cradle of her thighs.
This time, though, it’s a position that allows him to lean over her, settling his hands either side of her shoulders. Clarke’s breath hitches, his proximity all at once overwhelming. While he fucked her with his tongue only a few minutes ago, it somehow feels more intimate now, having him settle right over her — his breath a warm tickle against her skin, his full lips barely a few inches from her own, his cock hot and thick where it brushes against her stomach, so close to…
Before she can even finish the thought, he’s leaning down the remainder of the way, mouth catching hers in a kiss far softer than it should be, given what he was just doing to her.
Clarke still whimpers into it, though, and it’s ten long seconds before he slides his tongue into her mouth, everything quickly spiralling from there. With the tang of her own arousal greeting her, the groan that Bellamy presses against her lips, the kiss turns hungry, heated, fucking dirty. She’s sure she’s never been kissed like this, so thoroughly, so fucking greedily, like her mouth is sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted before, like he could spend the rest of his life just like this, just kissing her.
It’s her own need that has her reaching between them, wrapping her hand around his thick cock and stroking its perfect length, her pussy clenching with greedy anticipation.
With a groan, Bellamy breaks away from the kiss, breaths heavy as he stills her movements, draws himself up onto his knees between her spread thighs. “Wait, princess,” he says, his voice rough, strained with desire, his mouth worked red from her own. It’s a combination she could easily get used to. “Let me. Still wanna take care of you, okay? I’m gonna take such good care of you.”
Grabbing a pillow from beside her, he eases her up with impossible ease, sliding it beneath her ass to give her the height to match his up on his spread knees.
Clarke’s heart hammers in her chest as he positions her from there, intoxicating heat licking at her skin from the feeling of being so firmly handled. One leg bent by his hips, the other drawn straight up in front of him, his hand wrapped around it as support, opening her bare pussy to line so perfectly with his cock, the head brushing against her slick cunt.
“Eyes up, sweetheart,” Bellamy says, thumb stroking softly against her ankle, and it’s only when she meets the dark hunger of his gaze — one that’s deeper than this individual moment — that he presses his hips forward, the position allowing one smooth, slow stroke that buries himself inside of her. “Christ, princess.”
“Bellamy,” she whines, the sweet sting of her pussy as it stretches around his huge cock running into the need that thrums throughout her body, sharpening it so fucking deliciously. If she had some leverage, she might’ve urged him on, but as it is, Bellamy’s chosen a position that puts him firmly in control.
“You good, sweetheart?”
His concern makes her heart ache with fondness, but it’s an ache that pales in comparison to that of her cunt, so desperate for the treatment he’s promised her. “I’m good. Fuck me, Bell.”
Dark amusement flashes across his expression, his free hand moving to the base of her stomach, a steadying touch that bodes well for the hard, rough fuck her pussy’s craving. “One order I’ll let you give me today, princess,” he says, and then he’s drawing out and fucking back into her, nice and deep, settling into a measured rhythm that’s not too fast yet, one that instead allows for a heady build. The control and patience that he displayed earlier — first with his mouth on her tits, and then with it buried keenly in her cunt, the intent to edge — unsurprisingly extending to fucking, too.
Like he wants to savour this — savour her — learn exactly what she loves, what has her body thrumming with pleasure, so he can do it again, and again, and again.
Now, he fucks into her with deep, achingly perfect strokes, ones that have that familiar, early hum of tension pooling so easily at her core. His dark, hungry gaze is a branding weight on her bare skin, and gratification again swells within Clarke’s chest when it lingers on her tits, bouncing slightly from the drive of his hips. The hand he’s got on her stomach is quick to slide up to them, and Clarke whimpers with the first flick of her nipples, the way it sends a sharp spark straight to her clit.
“Like that, princess?” Bellamy asks, so low, the question brimming with desire. She nods, the assurance getting a wolfish grin to tug at his mouth. “That’s right. Look so good, sweetheart. Wanted to fuck you for so goddamn long.”
Fuck, another admission that has renewed heat crashing over her. “How long?”
“First time I ever met you. Maybe because I wanted to shut you up.”
Her smile feels as fucked-out as her body does. Clarke remembers that night well, the terse introduction to Octavia’s brother, which was followed by hours of tension and bickering. How, by the end of the night, she was absolutely aching for release, largely in the form of rough hate-sex. “You should’ve made a move. We could’ve had a lot of fun, Bell.”
Chuckling, Bellamy lets his gaze run languidly, pointedly, over her form, down to where they’re joined together. He picks up his pace, cock pounding into her a touch faster, making a low, growling sound when Clarke whines in response. “Don’t worry, princess. I think we can make up for any time lost.”
It’s a promise for more that settles deliciously in her mind, clouding it as pleasure continues to spark deep in her cunt, curling into a growing tension as he fucks her harder, faster. Her body aching to give in to it, but now, with this new dynamic thick between them, it’s a desire that hinges on his permission.
“Do I need to wait this time, Bell?”
Bellamy looks so fucking proud that she asked, and it’s a sight that has her preening. Fuck, she just wants to be good for him. “Not this time, sweetheart,” he says, a kindness he adds to by shifting his hand again, now to resume that circling motion on her clit he learned she loved earlier. “Let go whenever you want.”
It’s all the assurance she needs to let her eyes fall closed, her body relax into this position, which, both physically and metaphorically, doesn’t allow her any control. Instead the heady opportunity to simply let go. Take what he's giving her and enjoy the intoxicating build.
And fuck, does she.
Bellamy treats her pussy like he’s never felt anything better, muttering all sorts of praise as he continues to quicken his pace, thrusts growing harder, rougher. His cock fucking magical, so thick and hot as it pounds into her greedy cunt over and over, his fingers showing their quick expertise — keeping a matching rhythm on her clit that sharpens the deeper thrum of pleasure at her core. Allows the tension building to curl tighter, tighter, her breaths growing quick and her pussy hot with anticipation, until —
One, two, three more deep, perfect thrusts, and she falls apart.
Not from the prolonged build up, but just as satisfying now, with his huge cock stretching her, anchoring her. Clarke shakes with the force of her white-hot release, stretching to each aching point of her body, her greedy cunt clenching down on him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs.
“Bellamy, Bellamy,” she cries out, words she only half comprehends with the fucked-out slur. “Come inside of me. Please come in me.”
Through a blissfully clouded mind, she hears him growl, the control he held onto for so long finally wavering as his thrusts grow jerky — fucking incredible to feel, to witness, when she manages to lift her heavy eyelids and drink him in. Unravelling because of her, his head thrown back, his body pulling tight, before finally, with a low grunt, he spills into her bare and still-pulsing cunt.
Staying pressed nice and deep for a long minute that lets her fully appreciate the sensation, in the midst of coming, filled with both his cock and his come. God, she can’t wait to feel it, again and again.
He continues a gentle rock until she’s completely spent, and when he does finally pull out, she tries not to whimper too pathetically. But with her body still warm with release, her mind still hazy, she can’t care too much about him recognising she’s somewhat pathetic when it comes to him and his apparently magical cock.
Bellamy eases her leg back onto the bed with only a pleased smile to tell her he noticed, then comes to lie down beside her, burying his face into her crook of her neck. The scruff of his beard tickling at her skin, the soft kiss he gives her sending an achingly warm shiver down her spine.
“Fuck, princess,” he murmurs, pulling back only so far that he can take her in, a slight loss of proximity that he quickly makes up for by rolling her over to lay half on top of him. God, she loves being handled by him, loves how warm and firm his body is beneath her own. “You are just…That was fucking incredible.”
His voice is rough with release, his eyes so fucking deep and warm as he looks at her. A certain intimacy swelling between them that has hope again sparking in Clarke’s chest. “Yeah?” She asks, her own voice not quite so fucked-out now, though still husky, still threaded with release.
He chuckles, hand coming up to gently tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “You need to ask?”
Lips twitching to a smile, she concedes the point. “Okay, it was fucking incredible. How did I go so long not knowing how good you were with your mouth?”
“Careful, princess. You’re going to give me a big head.”
“Like your ego isn’t already as big as it could be. Wasn’t it only two hours ago that you were bragging about your game?”
Bellamy smirks. “Hey, worked well on you, didn’t it?” He doesn’t force an answer this time, leaning in to brush his lips over hers before she can even respond. “Wanna keep doing that, princess?”
Swallowing, Clarke looks up at him, heart quickening in her chest. Where her hand is settled just above his on his chest, she can feel a matching beat. “For the rest of the day?”
His smile is soft, almost longing. “I had something longer in mind.”
It’s an offer spoken earnestly, what she recognises now as hope shining through his eyes as they search her own. Clarke’s smile grows, happiness and relief and excitement and nerves all running together to stretch through her sated body, replacing that earlier warmth with a giddiness she’s not felt for fucking years. Maybe, ever since she met Bellamy, and her heart decided it was gone.
Pressing forward, she catches his mouth in a slow, smiling kiss that he moans so wonderfully into. “That sounds perfect, Bell.”
“Good.” With a new softness to his expression, he pulls away, though only so far as to reach for the box of tissues she’s got on her bedside table. “Can’t pick up your goddamn clothes to save your life, but at least you’ve got these,” he teases, grabbing a few and pressing them gently between her thighs, where his come is now beginning to leak.
Such an intimate, thoughtful gesture, it takes her a moment to meet the familiar banter once he’s finished cleaning her up. “Don’t tell me you’re going to make me tidy the rest of my room today?”
Bellamy laughs, shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be that cruel, princess.”
“And no other orders? Outside of sex, of course.”
“I think we can agree that outside of sex, the bet’s settled.”
“Good,” she says, snuggling back into his side, pressing her ridiculous smile into the warmth of his chest, one that only grows when she feels his lips brush over the top of her head, his hand start a slow, soothing path over the expanse of her back. “I think it’s served its purpose.”