NABC Chapter 270 - Sugar Getting Deflowered
Chapter 270 - Sugar Getting Deflowered
His hand moved.
Not to her head first.
To the hem of her pencil skirt.
His fingers finding the fabric at the edge of her thigh while her mouth was still working him — slow, deliberate, the descent of a hand that had already made a decision and was simply executing it.
The pencil skirt was fitted. Conservative. The kind of garment that communicated professional containment.
He pulled it up.
Her hand flew down immediately.
Grabbed his wrist.
"Don’t—"
His other hand moved to the back of her head.
Pressed.
Her face drove forward onto his cock, her protest dissolving into the muffled, wet sound of a throat suddenly occupied, her hand still on his wrist but the grip loosening as her body redirected its attention to the more immediate problem.
"Hgkk~—" "Mmph~—"
He pulled the skirt up.
Past the back of her thighs.
Past the curve of her ass.
Bunched at her waist.
Her panties.
Plain cotton. Not the deliberate choice of a woman who planned to end up in this position — the fabric of someone who had dressed for a professional operation and had not included certain contingencies in the logistics.
His hand moved down.
Following the line of her spine.
Down the small of her back.
Into the valley between her cheeks, the back of his fingers trailing the crease slowly, finding the elastic of the panties and following it inward.
His finger pressed against the fabric at the center.
Her hips moved.
The involuntary shift of a body registering contact somewhere it wasn’t expecting contact, the small, reflexive press-and-retreat of a woman whose lower half has just received information her upper half is still processing.
He pressed his finger against the fabric.
Slowly rubbed.
And felt, through the thin cotton, what he had not anticipated.
The hair.
Fine. Present. The unplanned texture of a woman who had dressed this morning with no intention of having anyone’s hand in this location.
The corner of his mouth moved.
’She didn’t plan this.’
The thought arrived with a warmth adjacent to something he didn’t have an immediate label for.
His finger rubbed in a slow circle.
The fabric dampened under it immediately — the heat of her seeping through the cotton at the light press of his fingertip, the specific evidence of a body that had been building toward this since approximately the moment she sat beside him in the back seat.
"Mmph~—" "Nngh~—"
Her head was still moving.
Her mouth still working his cock on autopilot while her lower body dealt with what his hand was doing.
He pushed the fabric aside.
His finger pressed directly against her entrance.
Her pussy fluttered.
The specific, involuntary clench of a woman’s entrance at direct contact — not the trained response of someone accustomed to being touched here, but something rawer than that.
His finger moved.
Not inside. Just over the surface. Circling the entrance in slow, deliberate revolutions, pressing gently against the wet heat of her outer lips, dragging the slick of her upward toward the clit and back down.
She twitched.
Her hips pressed backward against his hand.
"Hgkk~—" "MMPH~—"
Her head bobbed faster, as if she was trying to outpace what his hand was doing by giving his cock more to work with.
He let her work.
His finger kept its slow, thorough circuit.
Up and back. Up and back. Gathering the wet of her and spreading it, her body growing slicker under his touch with every pass.
He pulled her head back.
She came off his cock in a long, wet drag, gasping, saliva connecting her lower lip to his tip in a thin thread before it broke.
She coughed.
Once. The productive cough of a throat that has been at capacity and has just been given air.
"What are you—"
She turned her head.
His hand was still between her thighs.
His finger still moving in its slow circle.
She looked at his face.
"You already know," he said.
A beat.
His finger pressed slightly deeper against her entrance. Not inside. Just present.
Her breath caught.
"Once I go inside," he said, "I’m not coming out." The words arrived flat and honest. "Tartarus. That’s what it is, isn’t it."
She looked at him.
The wet tracks of earlier still on her cheeks. The mascara lines. The flush at her throat.
"That’s what it is," she said.
Her voice was thin.
"It doesn’t matter." She looked away. "I was just doing a favour."
His finger stilled against her entrance.
"Let me fuck you once."
"Mind your—"
He moved forward and kissed her.
Not careful. Not gradual.
His mouth sealed over hers before the sentence finished, his tongue pressing in past her teeth with the unhurried certainty of a man who has kissed this mouth before in a life she technically hadn’t lived in this iteration.
She froze.
For one second.
Her eyes went wide — the specific, stunned wide of a woman receiving something she had prepared for intellectually and been hit by physically anyway.
He kissed her deeper.
His hand still between her thighs. His finger pressing gently at her entrance. His other hand finding both her wrists and pressing them above her head against the seat, her back arching with the push.
Her body tipped sideways.
The back seat received her — both of them going horizontal, the door against her temple, his weight settling over her with the practiced efficiency of someone who has navigated the back seat of an SUV before.
She looked up at him.
Her wrists pressed into the leather above her head by his hand.
Her eyes moved to her wrists.
Then widened.
The handcuffs.
He wasn’t wearing them.
The empty cuffs sat on the seat beside them, and his hands were free, both of them, the one at her wrists and the one between her thighs operating without restriction.
She opened her mouth.
He sucked her tongue.
His lips closing over hers and pulling her tongue forward between them, the French kiss going deeper than the first, his body pressing into hers across the back seat while her tongue moved in his mouth with the involuntary response of a woman whose body has apparently voted without consulting its owner.
Her eyes rolled.
Not fully.
But the irises shifted upward, a half-roll, the specific involuntary register of a nervous system receiving more simultaneous input than it had prepared for.
Between her legs.
His cock.
Not inside. Not yet.
Just the shaft lying against the front of her panties, the length of him pressing along the center seam, the heat of his cock through the thin cotton making the fabric wet from the outside as well as from within.
He ground forward.
Once.
The cockhead dragging upward across the damp fabric, pressing against her entrance from outside, the outline of her through the cotton.
"AAHHH~— Mmph~—"
The sound was swallowed by the kiss.
They separated.
She looked up at him.
Both of them breathing.
Her wrists still above her head. Her skirt bunched at her waist. His cock pressing against her panties from above, the wet stain spreading across the cotton from both directions now.
"Just once," he said.
Very quiet.
"Let me be inside you."
Sugar looked at him.
Her lower lip caught between her teeth.
She turned her face sideways.
Away from his eyes.
"Just do whatever you want."
A pause.
"Either way." Her voice was thin and carried something underneath it she wasn’t going to name. "It’ll be your last day outside."
He looked at her profile.
The line of her jaw. The mascara track. The turned-away set of her face that meant she had made a decision and was embarrassed about having made it.
He leaned down.
His mouth found her collarbone first.
Then the edge of her jacket. His teeth finding the top button of her shirt beneath it — not tearing, just pulling the button through its hole with the deliberate efficiency of someone who has decided to do this correctly.
One button.
Two.
The shirt fell open.
Her bra — simple, white, conservative, entirely in keeping with the rest of her non-planning for this situation — visible beneath it.
He pressed his mouth against the cup of it.
His breath hot through the fabric against her nipple.
She gasped.
His hand found the other side.
Two fingers and a thumb closing around her right nipple through the bra cup, rolling it slowly between them with the specific pressure he knew from a memory she didn’t have access to but that his hands apparently retained.
She arched.
"AAHHH~— HNGH~—"
Her hand came up from nowhere — she had forgotten it was free — and grabbed his hair.
Not to pull him away.
The grip of someone who is trying to hold onto something.
He reached behind her.
The bra clasp giving with a single motion, the fabric going loose, and he pulled the cups aside with the same efficiency.
Her breasts fell free.
His mouth closed over her left nipple immediately.
The full suction of it — lips sealed, tongue pressing flat against the peaked tip, drawing it inward with a pull that dragged a sound out of her that had no composure left in it.
"AAANGHH~— HIIEEK~— Oungh~—"
His fingers twisted the right.
Not cruelly. The rolling, deliberate pressure of a man who knows the difference between pain and overload.
Her back came off the seat.
Her free hand gripped his hair tighter.
’His mouth.’ ’Why does he know exactly—’ ’The pressure is exactly—’ ’I cannot—’ ’I want to leave.’ ’I cannot make myself leave.’
His hand moved to the waistband of her panties.
His fingers hooked in.
Pulled them aside.
Not off. Just moved. The fabric stretching to the left, her entrance fully exposed, the dark hair visible above it exactly as his finger had already found.
He looked down at her for one moment.
His cock resting against her inner thigh.
The cockhead pressed at her entrance from outside, not pushing — just present, just positioned, just the warm, thick pressure of it against the wet of her.
"I’m going to deflower you again, Sugar."