LMK: Thirsty Thursday (TGIT pt. 2)
- Part 1
- Minors DNI or I will personally tattle on you to ur mommy & daddy
Pairing: still down bad! Mark Lee x fem reader, college au
Genre: smut, fluff, crack
Summary: Thursday is still Mark’s favorite day of the week, especially when you invite him over to chill a week later. He isn’t quite sure what the modern woman means by “chill,” or if this is going to be a new weekly ritual, or if you even like him like that. But he’s certain that there's a lingering itch in his throat only you'll be able to quench.
Warnings: protected sex, soft vanilla sex, mark loves boobies, cursing, hella praise, a healthy amount of spit, they're both switches
A/N: drink up bitches!! happy to introduce you to TGIT's slutty little sister. Please keep in mind that this is my first attempt at smut and try to go easy on me. Thank you for all the support on the last fic!!!
♡
Mark Lee decides he hates Fridays–abhors them, really, because he doesn’t hear from you all day. After your PG-13 living room tryst, he expected some sort of contact from you, even if it was just to tell him he’s a pussy-whipped freak and he should stay far, far away.
He hates Saturday even more when you post a Snapchat story at some frat with Johnny Fucking Suh–the campus heart throb–hanging off your shoulder like a parakeet singing sweet nothings in your ear (Mark can’t blame you too much, though. Even he would hit that if given the opportunity).
He hates Monday because–well, really just because he misses you. And he hates Tuesday because you have the audacity to send Donghyuck some cursed cat-doubloons meme while offering him, your spit-swapping sidekick, radio fucking silence. (Again, he can’t be too mad considering that your special delivery sent Donghyuck into cat-doubloon bankruptcy. He even begged Mark for a cat-doubloon loan, which he obviously declined out of stringent cat-doubloon ethics, certainly not pettiness).
Don’t be fooled, though; Mark loves Wednesday–and not just because Jenna Ortega is hot as fuck. No, per the Standard Mark Lee Gregorian Calendar Adaptation, Wednesday has become a federal day of rejoice, a holiday rivaling Christmas, April Fools’ Day, and even the many holy nights of Halloweekend. Because it’s on a sacred Wednesday evening that you finally message Mark while he watches Netflix with his roommate.
Holy. Fuck. Mark has never witnessed a more well-spoken woman–so concise, yet so effective. Your articulation is nothing short of poetic. God, how could he ever live up to the precedent you’ve set?
Hell yeah, that sounds eloquent as shit.
y/n: so does the whole “i want to be anywhere you are” thing still hold true?
Mark was sort of hoping you’d forget about that–or at least not begin the conversation by recounting his biggest bag fumbled to date.
Mark: i have no idea what you’re talking about dude you must be imagining things
y/n: come on just play along you might actually get something out of it
Mark: ok fine i’m still very much at your beck and call
on a completely unrelated note, what are you doing tmrw night??
Fuck. He’s actually going to get to see you again. It takes every last whim of his self control to refrain from declaring anywhere you want me to be. Play it cool, Mark.
i sorta thought you were gonna chill w me :(
but that’s cool too have fun ig
Shit. Women are so fucking complicated.
nuthin except for chilling w you haha
sorry i thought that was kinda obvious
classic miscommunication am i right
y/n: that’s what i like to hear
Mark has achieved Nirvana. He is zen personified. There is truly nothing that could plague his ever-anxious brain when he knows that in 24 short hours you two are finally going to… chill. Chill? What exactly does “chill” consist of? A hook up? A date? When Mark “chills” with his friends, they typically play Overwatch, or a tipsy game of mafia, or–a fan favorite–Guess How Long Until Renjun Instigates a Physical Altercation with Donghyuck. Is that what you mean? Were you cordially inviting him to play some live-action Among Us after a couple shots with you and your friends? That actually sounds really fun, and you two did start making out when you told him to swing by a party with your friends some time. Ok, maybe he’s overthinking again. Let’s consult the resident man-whore expert for some sage wisdom.
“Hey, Hyuck, what does it mean when a girl invites you over to chill?”
“It means you’re getting your dick wet.”
The next day, Mark arrives at your dorm at 6:45, lurking in your lobby and probably appearing concerningly ominous to any unfortunate onlookers until 7:01–you know, so he can be fashionably and mysteriously late. Because everyone knows that Mark Lee is nothing if not brooding and mysterious.
At 7:02, after a nerve-wracking elevator ride consisting of a hushed chorus of “Come on, man, you got this” and some self-assuring fist pumps, Marks takes a deep breath to knock on your door.
“You’re late,” you mutter in a matter-of-fact tone, opening the door just barely enough for your words to slither through. Marks jumps like a lion cub that’s been snagged by the teeth of a really pretty hyena. He didn’t expect to hear you before he could see you.
“Sorry, I was, uh, busy being cool and mysterious,” he repents to the omniscient voice of reason looming behind your door. And it seems like he’s been forgiven when you open the portal to his daydream come true, revealing your figure in all its crewneck-clad glory. He really can’t catch a break from your cuteness.
“So you’d rather be cool and mysterious than with me?”
“Good answer. You’ve been granted entry.” Your choice of words always places Mark on the edge of a two-sided coin of fear and helpless attraction. But the beaming, deceivingly sweet grin decorating your face spins him on his head until he falls onto the latter.
His first thought is that your apartment is so, well, you. Tacky, tongue-in-cheek sayings decorate the kitchen walls, assuring that “Love lives here” with a subtle ironic undertone. Plants sprawl all the way into the living room–his favorite is the Obama chia pet–where your roommate sits on her phone. So you are hanging out with your friends?
“You can go in my room. I’ll be there in a second–just let me get my water bottle.” Nevermind. Wait, where’s your room, again?
“First door on the left.”
Mark thinks your room is the closest he’s ever gotten to really knowing you. You’ve become sort of infamous for your sarcastic glaze, oozing with buttery confidence and wit. Your room tells a different story. Lit with delicate fairy lights and home to a baby pink tulle canopy, it hints at an underlying softness he hopes to know intimately one day. Eventually he realizes he shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the room, deducing possible personality traits from your room decor when you return. But where oh where should he put himself?
On your bed? You said you were getting your water. That probably alludes to some sort of physical activity.
Then again, you said it right in front of your roommate. And you didn’t seem like the type of person to plan out your sex life in front of an innocent bystander. Not the bed, then.
When you return, Mark has expertly sat himself in your desk chair: the perfectly calculated neutral–the Switzerland of seating options, if you will.
“The fuck are you doing?” Or not.
“I’m obviously chilling?”
“Do you make a habit of chilling at girls’ desks?” When will he learn that you’ll always see right through him?
He doesn’t answer, offering you a silent bow of you win. Offhandedly, you gesture towards your bed. And Mark follows suit, lofting himself onto the mattress while you walk across the room. As you put your water bottle down by your window, Mark thinks that maybe Donghyuck led him astray with his whorish advice. You’ve been acting so casual, so amicable since he arrived that he decides he’d probably be lucky just to kiss you again–not that that isn’t a victory in itself or–
Mark is untangled from his daisy-chain of anxieties when you settle coyly into his lap, straddling him with all the allure of–to put it bluntly–a really hot girl. Yeah, that would make sense. So maybe he would get to do more than kiss you.
“Hi,” you whisper, like this is the most natural position you could conjure up in that meddling mind.
“Um, hey.” Kind of a mid response, he knows. But you try forming an intelligible sentence with your heart drilling into your chest like a fucking cowbell on SNL.
“So what do you want to do?” Of course you’re trying to maintain an actual conversation with him from atop his dick, because what the fuck else would you do for fun?
Mark’s too focused on quelling his percussive heartbeat to formulate a response. Shit, what was he thinking about earlier when he wasn’t sure what your plans would be? “Among Us?” Fuck.
Play it cool, Mark. “What?”
“Let me get this straight: I’m sitting in your lap, and your first instinct is to play Among Us?”
You got this. “I mean, to be fair, it’s a very intellectually demanding game with–”
Your lips are on his, dripping with a fervor and saccharine obsession that’s been treading the murky waters of his subconscious for six long days. “You’re so fucking stupid,” you giggle into the desperate beginnings of a particularly long kiss. Mark has never considered himself an avid fan of degradation before, but he could be into this.
Your lips migrate to just below his ear, and then his Adam’s apple, and then his clavicle, stamping hot emblems of your affection onto his flesh. When you begin to suck the skin of his collar bone between your lips, a part of him wants to warn you not to leave any marks. But the satiated sigh he rewards you with tells a different story. After all, who is he trying to hide from? He’s already yours whether you know it or not.
His hands have been resting above your shirt, finding purchase in the delicate slope of your waist while yours knit into the grown-out hair at the nape of his neck. Now, though, you cradle his hands in yours as your noses meet in palpable contentment. Mark thinks there’s a sweetness to your symmetry. He can think of few things more intimate than the perfect mirror your bodies create. But his thoughts on the vulnerable balance you two have struck are suspended when you place his hand softly on your breast, kissing him with newfound gentleness and patience.
“Is this all okay?” you ask, shrunken into yourself in a way Mark has never seen before. Having entered some sort of sensory overload, he hopes a shallow nod will suffice. And you can’t help the light-hearted titter that escapes you, because only Mark Lee would short-circuit from reaching second base. “Are you sure? We can stop here.” Sincerity looks so good on you.
The idea of losing your feather-light touch is enough for Mark to regain his hold over the English language, affirming a quick “Please don’t stop. It’s just…” How does he put it?
“Just what?” you encourage with an assuring kiss to his cupid’s bow.
“I’m a little rusty,” he murmurs, as if the statement is a little less true the quieter it rings.
And you let out that breathy, honey-dipped laugh again, whispering into his cheek, “I can kinda tell.” He really can’t discern if you’re an angel or devil sometimes.
“No.” Your nose chisels the underside of his oh-so defined cheekbone, as if you’re sculptor, carving him into a form of pure desire and delight. “I think it’s cute.”
“Not really a word I’m used to being called in bed,” he muses.
“Then get used to it. You’re adorable, Mark Lee.”
As much as Mark loves basking in your banter, he thinks he prefers the subtle roll of your hips against his just a touch more. So he boldly takes the initiative of shutting you both up, using his free hand to clutch your chin, guiding your lips to their rightful place against his. You kiss him with more demand, now, clutching tightly at his shirt until he knows it’ll wake tomorrow with a deep set of creases. Quickly, though, he decides he’d prefer your grip on his bare skin, so he detaches himself from you just long enough to take off the shirt.
Then you kiss him again, fingertips tracing deftly past his shoulders, to his sternum, to his stomach. As a shiver cascades through him, he hopes you can’t read braille, because the goosebumps surfacing on his flesh certainly spell out something along the lines of please never stop. He decides distraction is probably his best tactic at the moment. So he indulges you by subtly kneading your breast, thumbing lightly at where he guesses your nipple to be. Judging by the positively addictive whine he earns, he guesses he struck the right spot.
He goes chasing after your lips again when you pull back all too quickly. As you push him back with a pointer finger to the forehead, you let out another airy laugh, and Mark thinks he’s fine with whatever plans you have in store. Slowly, you peel the plush crewneck from your torso. As much as Mark dreams of taking his time with you, etching each of your sweet spots onto a map he hopes to know by heart one day, he’s also only a man. He’s a man overcome by a need to please you, so he unbuttons your jeans and waits for you to get up and toss them into oblivion.
Then you saunter back to his bedside, tugging bashfully at the drawstring of his sweats until he takes them off. He grabs your waist, pulling you to perch on his lap with ease. But then he doesn’t do anything. Here he is, the girl of his dreams sitting on top of him in nothing save for a baby blue lace set, and he can do nothing but gawk.
“What is it?” you wonder, insecurity bubbling to the surface under his suddenly scrutinizing gaze.
“Sorry–it’s just–I think you’re perfect.”
Maybe Mark performs best when he doesn’t give himself time to think, because the curious rise of your cheeks is a sight plucked straight from his fantasies. He begins to kiss down the expanse of your neck and grope at your breast again, encouraged by each sweet moan he earns. “You think?”
“Well, I have to see all of you to make sure.” On cue, his hand snakes up your spine with surprisingly adept skill to unclip your bra. And if you think Mark was in shock at your beauty before, you should see how he marvels now, jaw hung but a centimeter in sheer adoration.
He hugs you so close that there’s nowhere to go but bury his face in your chest, not that he minds. Your arms wind round his shoulders, burying a hand in his hair in soothing appreciation. With your nails digging deftly into his scalp, he lets out a groan that ricochets past your ribs. In thanks, he sears velvety kisses to your breasts.
He seems to send a tide of pleasure through you when your hips roll against his cock in waves. His clothed tip snags on your clit again, again, and again, sending you both keening in on one another. Mark needs to keep himself occupied if he has any hope of lasting beyond the foreplay, so he latches softly onto your nipple. He savors you like you’re powdered in a fine dust of sugar, lolling you into euphoria with each pass of his tongue on your bud. If the way you grind into him isn’t encouragement enough, the candied moans you release certainly are.
Switching to the other side, he’s met with a gratified “Shit, Mark. Just like that.” He blooms under your praise and touch, and before he can stop himself, he’s whining in desperation around your breast. “Yeah? That feels good?”
“Shit, so good.” You pet his hair as an offer of comfort.
“You’re doing so good for me, Mark.” Despite your words, your tone is so soft that Mark can’t quite qualify it as dominating. Still, he’d do anything to earn your approval. He begins to grow weary of the unsettling texture of his briefs rubbing against him, though, and he whines in need with a squeeze to your breast. “It’s okay, baby. What do you need?”
“More… please. Just need more of you.” Mark doesn’t know if his answer is quite good enough for you. Shit, he isn’t even sure what he means.
But you’re so understanding, so patient and sweet. You cradle his strong jawline in your grasp, stroking his cheek with your thumb and your forehead pressed in tandem to his. “It’s alright. I got you,” you promise. And Mark knows you mean it.
One of your hands settles just under his chin, expectant and open. Intuitively, Mark lets the fluid in his mouth drip into your palm, and you absolutely preen at his obedience. Your hand slips into his briefs, testing the waters with a careful squeeze to his base. Mark internally congratulates himself for not cumming on the spot.
You begin a set of fluid strokes. The pressure is just enough for his eyes to flutter shut in bliss while keeping just a little of his need at bay. And the aid of his saliva makes the glide all the more satiating. “Shiiiiiit,” he seethes in high-pitched rapture, the crown of his head dipping back to skim your headboard.
Your thumb runs across the divet of his slit, and he swears he sees a shooting star obscure whatever vision he has left. A kiss to the tip of his nose is his sole reminder that he’s in fact still on Earth.
“How is it, sweet?” God, even your voice is euphoric.
“Fuck–” Mark has already ascended far past the plane of language, but he’s determined to string together some semblance of a sentence if it means pleasing you. “So fucking good. Thank you.” But Mark knows he can only last so much longer, and he’d be greatly remiss to reach his end before he gets to really have you. So he reluctantly plucks your hand out from his underwear, lacing your fingers in reassurance. “Your turn,” he whispers with a blithe press of his lips to yours.
Wrapping one arm around your waist, his other hand trails to the damp seat of your underwear. He gently strokes you with the pads of his fingers, paying special attention to the areas where your breath hitches in anticipation. Slipping your panties to the side, his thumb finds your bud with attentive ease.
“Shit, Mark, so fucking good. Please don’t stop.” And who is he to deny a sight as pretty as you? He circles your clit in languid precision, and you swear his touch must be electric from how every square inch of your body surges to life. Your head falls back in delight, but you're too far away for Mark. Gently, he guides you to rest your forehead back against his.
“So good for me, Mark. Please, just need your fingers. Need to be full,” you murmur. Mark’s never heard you so close to begging before. But he thinks he could push you closer.
“Anything you want,” he promises before joining your lips in covenant. He’ll never get tired of kissing you. His fingers slip inside you with the help of your slick, and you gasp all too heavenly when they bend toward your sweet spot. Again and again, he inches you toward a state of unbridled bliss, the tips of his fingers coaxing you into delirium as he simultaneously circles your clit and your g-spot.
“Mark,” you sigh in beauty akin to a melody. Mark may be prone to over exaggeration, but he thinks he’s pretty spot-on when he concludes that knowing your touch is the highest form of affection available to mankind. But as much as Mark adores the whimpering mess sitting atop him, he needs to see how far he can push you both.
“Need to be inside you,” he begs, as if it were the most dire, obvious instinct he’s ever encountered. How could he not want you in your entirety? And you appear to share the sentiment, rising just enough for his hand to fall so you can remove your last item of clothing. Mark does the same.
You fish a condom out of a drawer on your nightstand, seated on your haunches to let him put it on. As he does, you take the opportunity to appreciate his size. You’d never guess by his perpetual self-doubt, but Mark Lee’s chronic small-dick energy is certainly not a testament to his actual size.
Marks looks up to see you completely bare for the first time. Needless to say, stunned is an understatement. Whatever idea of beauty Mark could have conjured in preparation for tonight–not that he’s ever imagined you naked or anything gross like that–had nothing on the real thing. Each mole adorning you, each scar etched into your skin makes you so much more real. As much as Mark thinks you belong on a pedestal, he’s so much more enraptured by your true form–riddled with fascinating imperfections and details he’ll trace into the deepest archives of his memory. “Yeah, you’re definitely perfect,” he declares.
At that, you pull him into a kiss that floods him with a crashing wave of thirst. Mark wants to drink down every ounce of your touch until his head is full of nothing but you, you, you. Until he floats back to the surface of his consciousness, wading calmly in a pool of your affections with his face meeting the sun rays. And when you line him up with your entrance, letting the head rest between your lips, he thinks he’s just about there.
You drop back down into his lap, slowly but surely proving to Mark that having you only gets better with time. Your soft, warm grip on him leaves him overwhelmed and gasping for air, but if being with you means drowning along the way, then Mark is more than willing to swallow a final gulp of his pride and sink into your care.
His face drops to the slope of your neck, groaning something akin to Simlish when you decide to check in on him before moving. “All good?” How can you remain so delicate in a time like this?
“Never better,” he reassures you. You thread your fingers through his hair again, using the other hand to soothe his back. Then you’re rolling your hips into his with fervor, and as much as he wants to beg please keep going or that feels so good, all his water-boarded brain can muster is a desperate cry of your name.
So you go faster for him, but your movements still ripple with a gentleness Mark has come to know well–that is, until you stop. Slowly, as your legs shake and your breath quickens in labor, your gears grind to a steady halt. Mark looks up to see if something’s wrong, only to be met with a sobering “I’m sorry,” with your panicking eyes fixed on his.
Mark’s never considered himself to be a dom or a sub before. He’s never understood Jaemin calling himself daddy in pre-booty-call pep talks, and he doesn’t get the taboo, collar-and-puppy-ear-filled bin lurking in the shadows of Jeno’s closet. But when he sees your eyes gloss over with a film of sheer desperation, some carnal duty hacks into the controls of his nervous system. All he’s ever wanted is to take care of you—to be anything you need. And if what you need right now is someone to gratify every last unspoken plea floating in those pretty, fucked-out eyes, then he’ll do everything in his power to leave you the blushing, stuttering mess he typically is.
Before he can even plan a course of action, he’s laying you on your back, hovering above you with a returned promise of “It’s okay. I got you.” As Mark comes to your rescue, you melt into the bedsheets. You reach for him again, never wanting his lips too far from your own.
He slips one arm beneath your back, and you're fully encased in his adoration. The other weaves his fingers with yours, pinning your hand to the bed. He strokes into you slowly at first, because he’s not going to miss a chance to fully appreciate your reactions each time he hits your sweet spot.
Sometimes it’s a whine he wishes you wouldn’t try so hard to hide. Or a “fuck” he didn’t know could be spoken so sweetly. But his favorite is when you cry his name. He thinks he might write a symphony of just you begging “Mark… Mark… Mark”
“Yeah, does that feel good, baby?” Mark doesn’t know what comes over him, really. Confident had never been a very apt description of him before right now. But something inside him strives to take care of you in every facet of the phrase, and for once, he’s going to let his jumbled thoughts pour out of him with no restraint.
“So, good, Mark.” And he really appreciates the encouragement.
“Yeah? I bet it must feel so good being all filled up like this. Isn’t that right, pretty?” He offers a particularly strong thrust, sending you lurching up into him in demand of an answer.
“Shit, so fucking full, Mark. I can feel you everywhere.” Mark rather prefers this side of you to your typically cocky counterpart. He’s always known that you’re so much softer than what meets the eye, and if it takes fucking you into ecstacy to finally crack that shell, then so be it.
“That’s it, baby. You’re taking me so well.” Credit where credit is due. After all, he’s never before felt an all-enveloping high quite like being inside you. “You’re so fucking sweet, shit. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”
You take his word for it, keening in on him with a particularly drawn-out “Maaaaark” as you wrap your arms around his neck. With the hand that was holding yours, he reaches for your breast, alternating between gentle, pulsing squeezes, and rolling your nipple between his fingers. Both methods seem almost equally effective though, with your sugar-coated whimpers ringing out at each and every exhale.
His thrusts quicken, determined to see just how much of a mess he can make you. “Everything about you, pretty. Your lips, those eyes–shit–the fucking moans. You’re so fucking sweet. Everywhere.”
As Mark drills into you harder, and harder still, for the first time in a while, you attempt to communicate something other than his name: “Shit, I’m–I’m–”
It’s pretty obvious what you’re getting at, with your walls hugging him in the evident beginnings of release. “I got you, baby. You can let go.”
At his permission, you allow yourself to throw your head back in content, groaning muted murmurs of his name. You squeeze rapidly around him, choking out saccharine whimpers in what Mark guesses to be a very rewarding orgasm.
And he doesn’t wait to follow your lead, because if the way you clench around him isn’t already enough to send him spiraling, then the teary-eyed image of pure peace resting before him surely is. Tucking his face back into your neck, he comes completely undone in your grasp.
After pulling out and throwing away the condom, he decides to lay in wait for a while. You’ve come back to Earth, eyes heavy-lidded in a solace he’s scared to disturb. But he should probably say something, right? Then again, how do you start a conversation with a girl you just fucked your soul into?
Luckily, you’ve always had a way with words. “So, same time next week?” You whisper in bliss. So the sarcasm’s back. You turn on your side to face him, linking your hands back together and pressing your nose to his.
Mark doesn’t quite know how to respond. Of course he wants this to happen again next week, and the one after that, and the one after that, and definitely the one after that. But he also doesn’t want this to just be a hookup or fuck-buddy type of arrangement. He wants all of you.
“What’s wrong?” you wonder with genuine concern. You seem to have developed a type of sixth sense for his anxieties by now. But he still can’t just tell you that he’s wholeheartedly, moronically enamored with everything about you.
“Don’t play dumb now. You already used your dick as a vessel to tell me whatever’s going on up there. Might as well use your words.” Touche. Perhaps Mark did just inadvertently make love to you. And perhaps you seemed to reciprocate the enjoyment. So perhaps airing out his feelings for you wouldn’t actually propel the second coming of Christ.
“It’s just, I sorta kinda maybe have a fucking massive crush on you, which I completely understand is probably unreciprocated. I just—”
“Yeah it’s when you like someone, but they don’t feel—”
“I fucking know what the word means. I’m just not sure where you pulled it from.”
Huh? In what world would someone like you actually like someone like him back–and not out of pity? “Because I’m obviously completely whipped for you, and you’ve always been so unbothered by–”
“God you’re stupid.” Your hand moves up to stroke at his cheek bone, giggling once again at your own antics.
He really needs to talk to you about this whole constantly-interrupting-him thing sometime. But he’ll digress for now. After all, he agrees that he is very, very stupid. But why in this instance? “Do elaborate.”
“I sorta kinda definitely have a fucking massive crush on you, too.”
Mark’s world turns upside down. Donghyuck is suddenly a genius. Renjun has taken an oath of non-violence. Fish are flying in the clouds and Jenna Ortega isn’t hot. “Respectfully, there’s no fucking way you like me back.”
He has evidence, of course, but it’s very embarrassing evidence. “It’s just–”
“Fine! It’s just that you ghosted me for like the entire week while you were sending Donghyuck cat-doubloon memes.” A low blow, but a valid one nonetheless.
And then you have the audacity to laugh at him–even if it is the most adorable laugh he’s ever heard. “Mark, why the fuck would I send someone I like into cat-doubloon debt.” Fair.
“Okay, but you still could’ve said something.”
“Have you never heard of playing hard to get, Mark Lee?”
It’s clear he’s getting nowhere with the cat-doubloon argument. Time to pull out the big guns. “Okay, then if you like me, then why were you posting pictures with Johnny?”
“Well, psychology is the study of–”
“I was making you jealous.” And successfully so. Maybe your reasoning checks out, but Mark still doesn’t think he can take another week of attempting to decode your riddles–like a voyager begging a really hot troll to cross a bridge.
“Well, can you become a psychological pacifist? I don’t like the games.”
“Aww, but you're my new favorite toy.”
That was kind of hot, but Mark tucks the thought away for the right time and place. “Fine, but at least balance it out by letting me actually get to know you.”
“Funny coming from a guy who's never asked me about myself.”
“Okay, I’ll start small.” Hmmm, what’s a good icebreaker for the girl you just fucked? Rate my stroke game. What’s with your aversion to Among Us? Wait, he’s got it. “What’s your favorite day of the week?”
You contemplate for a moment, taking the question more seriously than Mark had anticipated. And then your eyes flicker toward him in alluring mischief. Oh God. “Depends. What day is it today?”
“Then Thursday’s my favorite.”
♡
