words : 14.6k
warnings : fluff and pining, golf talk and smut: shared dominance, protected sex, orgasm denial, oral (f. receiving)
note : heads-up! didn't want to keep referring to y/n as being "busy with work", so i added a particular kind of online activity. hope no one minds!
~ ⛳️ ~
Strike Two - i
Three weeks.
Three weeks all alone in a flat, either buried in work or sleeping because you hardly felt in the mood for anything else. Sometimes the boys would call home to check on you and everything else, sometimes you'd call them because it had simply been too many days, and of course sometimes you and Tom spoke in the middle of the night. More often than not, you'd have a hand on the phone and the other down your knickers, but on occasion you'd talk for hours in whispers as though anyone could hear you.
Three insufferable weeks that lasted close to three centuries. Moderately appeased when Tom finally called saying he was on his way from the airport. Yet only soothed completely by a thirty second fuck as soon as he got home.
It was rushed, yes, your eager body smashed between the wall and his hard muscles as you groped around the top of the shoe rack at your feet where you'd stashed a condom before you went downstairs to help him with his luggage. Your knees were sort of in the way and you pretty much scraped them on a metal shelf, but once Tom got the rubber on and slipped into you, it was as satisfying as taking off a pair of high heels after an excruciating day. The waves of pleasure rolled over you from your hand on your clit to his cock grazing your spot, to the frantic slap of his hips against yours. And it took only a few thrusts before you cried out in blissful pain and felt him collapsing against your back, too.
"Ugh," you groan now, rolling your head on your shoulders when Tom reappears on your left. You've been sitting on the hardwood floor, in front of the spot where he just fucked you, contemplating whether you want a second round right here, right now or later on a proper bed.
Tom is coming back from the kitchen, scratching his lower belly mindlessly, the obvious bulge in his briefs still hanging between the v of his zipper. He settles down on the floor next to you and offers you one of the two pieces of chocolate he's carrying. "Here."
"Thanks," you mumble through your first bite.
Tom only hums in response, clearly occupied with eating his own piece in one go. He looks satisfied, or at least partially, the same way you feel, and there's a beautiful red spot on the base of his neck where his collar is stretched to the side. You left it there on your way up in the elevator, by sucking so hard on the skin that Tom had serious trouble trying to get the key into the front door lock.
After he finishes chewing and before you get another bite into your mouth, you look at him and study the slope of his shoulders. He's got his knees pointing up, and his elbows rest on them while his hands are loosely clasped together somewhere in the middle. Feet straight on the floor, his head bowed as he sighs. Then he looks up as though he can feel your eyes on him.
He smiles and you smile back. Looking back to what just happened, you need something to break the silence, so you say, "Can't believe you lasted that long."
"Oh, go off, will you?"
"What was it, thirty seconds?" you tease him further.
He laughs, pushing you hard on the shoulder. "I came because you came, so you've got nothing to brag about."
You eat the last portion of chocolate in your hand, gazing him straight in the eye. "That... wasn't enough for you, was it?"
"Not really," he scoffs as though it's so obvious, "but I need a shower first." He grabs the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it over his nose. His voice all muffled when he adds, "Ugh, I smell like baby puke."
"You let a baby puke on you?" you ask around your mouthful.
"I didn't let them, but the little bastard did it anyway."
You laugh with him and get up first, extending a hand to help him up. "C'mon, I can help you scrub, then I'll suck you off for the trouble you went through."
"How kind of you," he spoke with effort as he held on to your hand and let you pull him up. "But I also want that six-nine on the couch while we watch Shameless that you promised me last week."
"Of course, champ," you say with a cheeky tilt of your hips as you grab one of his bags and drag it to his bedroom door. "And don't forget your little reward for that gorgeous pillow humping video you sent."
"Yessss." Tom grins, stopping next to you with a larger piece of luggage. He sets it on the floor and grabs you by the waist, pressing your back against the wall. "Love when you ride me like that, baby girl."
"Mhmm, I know," you retort, just as sassily, accepting his short kiss and smiling into it.
When he pulls away, there's this odd expression on his face, a cryptic smile and an equally unreadable arch of his eyebrows. "Aaaaand," he says, dragging the vowel at the same speed his hands drag down to your hips and bottom, "sex on the balcony, right?"
You tilt your head at him. "We've had this discussion before."
"What? Sex against the window when it's open is okay, but the balcony is so off limits?"
"It's not the same thing, Tom," you quip with an eye-roll before you kiss him again. "Let's get you in that shower before you get any more weird ideas."
"Like the washing machine?"
"That would be fine."
"And the kitchen table?" he inquires, and you know exactly where he's going with this, but decide to let him say it just the same. "You eat food on it."
"Yeah, but we don't eat food off of it, y'know?"
"You wanna do it in Harrison's room?" he blurts out when you pass by the door.
"No!"
"He's got this beautiful dressing table with a mirror..." he teases. "I could sit on the chair, and you could watch yourself as I rub your tits, pinch your nipples, kiss your shoulders..."
The image forms in your head in a second's inhale. You facing the mirror, riding Tom's cock from an unusual angle, watching yourself, watching his hands as they lead your pace and grab at your flesh. His moans— fuck, his moans in your ear like a secret not meant to be found out by your roommate.
You bite your lip and turn to Tom, stopping in your tracks. "We couldn't..."
"Says who?"
Giggling, you let Tom grab you by the waist again and kiss you straight on the lips. When he presses against you, it's pretty clear that his cock is getting hard again, so you open up your mouth and invite him in. All the while you keep stepping back and into the bathroom.
"We could have a quickie there, and he'd never know," Tom whispers against you, rutting his hips deliberately so that his middle slides right in between your thighs. Everything in you clenches at the feeling.
"I—" you try, but Tom shushes you with another peck, wiggling his eyebrows. "Okay, maybe—"
"Really?" he questions, quite judgingly, if you may add, pulling back to look at you. "You'd do it in Harrison's room, but not on the bloody balcony?"
"Not on the balcony!"
Tom tries to reach for your hand, but you move it away. "I dunno why you're so crazy about it anyway," you retort, getting a wicked idea before you let him do anything else. "You probably wouldn't last thirty seconds in there— oi!"
Tom chuckles and splays a hand over the patch of skin where he just pinched you before draping his arms around your back.
"You deserved that." He smiles against your mouth, leaning in closer and closer, and you're not strong enough not to melt into his eager kiss.
The next hours go by in a blur. Shower. Sex. Lunch. Sex. Shameless. Sex. Your body alight under Tom's methodical hands. Neither of you rests until you're breaking a sweat, you lying on your back on the couch that's been covered with the duvet from your bed, Tom sprawled out on top of you with his head nestled between your breasts. He's been lapping at your nipple for at least half of episode three, but it's starting to falter now.
You can also see his eyes drooping shut, so you move your hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck and say, "Maybe you should nap, Tom."
"I'm napping," he mumbles, mouthing your nipple in full afterwards. It's not sexy at the moment, you're still exhausted from the previous frolicking all over the house. It's mostly soothing, a tender caress of his tongue across the bud before he pulls away silently.
"You'll probably be more comfortable on the bed," you reason with him.
"You're comfy."
"Right, but you're smashing my boob right now, so..."
Tom lifts his head right away, tilting it so he can stare at you. "Sorry. You could've told me." His words are slurred and he sounds tired, so you insist.
"It's alright. I just think you'll feel better on the bed, stretched out properly," you trail off, watching Tom as he spreads a kiss here and there from your chest to your neck and face. Your hand moves automatically to the back of his head, rubbing his scalp through the thick strands of his hair. Every stretch of skin that he touches stays burning like embers before he moves to the next one, but this time it doesn't burn between your legs. It burns on the inside. Crackling up from the bottom of your gut to the middle of your chest, a sense of solace for all the days you spent without him until this morning.
The moment you moan a little less quietly, you snap out of it. You can't dwell on this feeling like this, not with how much it pangs every time he's gone, so you resort to a simple method.
A joke.
"Hopefully without your dick being cum-glued to my hip."
Tom chuckles onto the hollow between your collarbones and lifts his head to look down at where his crotch meets your hip. "Yeah, that felt weird at first, but I barely notice it now. And—" he drawls his words, "it's your fault, really. You always get stupidly wet when I finger you before we fuck, so it gets everywhere."
"It's your damn hands, Thomas," you taunt him, trickling your fingers over his where he has them splayed over your side. "They're too pretty. Bony. Crooked. Just perfect." You bat your eyes at him, watching his smile turn into a smirk. Then you whisper, "So who's fault is it, really?"
"I'll take the blame for that," he mutters back, craning his neck so he can hover over your mouth. "I love how you get so whiny over them, so alright. Maybe. I guess this is my fault, so I'll go wash up."
"Then nap."
"And then I'll nap, don't worry." He giggles, pecking your shoulder before he moves to sit by the farthest end of the couch. Your body runs cold immediately, goosebumps prickling your skin.
"Will you lay with me, though?" he asks, gazing at you. His ears redden after he finishes his question. "No shenanigans. I swear. Just, um," he gulps, "lying down together. You could, y'know, maybe bring your laptop and finish watching the episode there? And after I fall asleep, you're free to do whatever you want."
You blink at him, not expecting this suggestion at all. After three weeks on your own, you do crave human interaction. You just never thought that Tom would, too. But if he thinks he'll sleep better with you there, who are you to say no to that?
So you agree and minutes later, you slide into his spring-smelling sheets. Half of you wants to remind him that you've had naps here because his bedding always smells good, but you don't really want him to go on and on about his mother's homemade fabric softener and how it changed his perception of doing laundry by his own hands. Tom's journey to self-reliability isn't something worth discussing more than once a month.
Once you're settled in, lying on your back with Tom cuddled into your side, his face in the nook of your neck, you sigh. This is warm and peaceful, it always is. It's too bad that your mind always wanders through dangerous paths when you're just enjoying each other's company like this. You try to stop it, try to stop the flush of hormones that pools up in your belly, but Tom only enhances them when he starts kissing up to your mouth.
"You said you would nap," you giggle when he reaches your chin.
"And I will, but first," he starts, interrupting himself with a peck on the corner of your mouth. "Wanna make out with you." You pull away to gaze at him as he repeats in a husky tone, "Please make out with me."
He's grinning, cheekily as usual, but you don't feel cheeky at all. What you hear are the alarms going off in your head, the ones that set off your heart into a sprint every time. It doesn't help that he's nuzzling his face across your cheek and the tip of your nose. His breath is sauna-hot on your skin, and you want so badly to cave, you do. It's been three weeks since you got to do this. Well, you did it a few times today already, but it was always so furious and thoughtless, with the purpose of getting off and nothing else, and right now you're in bed. Cuddling. And it's ridiculous to even try to pretend that you don't want it too, not when Tom's mouth is right there and, yeah, you have waited too long not to be kissing him the whole day for the next week or so.
"I missed you," he says softly when he brushes his lips on yours. You're only human, so you peck him back and open up when the kiss intensifies.
You sort of just lie there and let yourself be kissed, eyes rolling back when his tongue brushes yours. He tastes like tea and butter cookies, mostly tea, though that could be from the mix of your own saliva, but it's perfect. It's him. And his mouth is slick and hot, preoccupied with counting the indents on both rows of your teeth, which is perfectly fine by you. Tom can do whatever he wants as long as he doesn't freaking stop.
Which, okay, eventually he does. His tongue retracts and for a little while, it's only lips on lips, little smacks and dreamy hums, but never less gentle. Tom is such an amazing kisser, attentive and focused, earnest in touching every part of you with nothing but his mouth. Right now, his hand grazes down your side and belly until it rests on your hip bone, softly. And yours is lost in his hair again, fingers splayed between the strands, sometimes rubbing his scalp, soothingly. Everything about this moment is so tender, you want to cry.
After a while, you can tell Tom's eyes aren't just drifting closed. They're heavy and his motions are gone, so you pull away and try to work around him so that he'll lay there comfortably. You remain on your back for a little while, not sure if the heartbeat you can hear in your ears is only yours or a race between the both of you. All you know is that it's strong and nearly painful, constricting your ribcage for a second or two.
The thoughts and feelings become dangerous soon, so you try to wriggle out of the bed without bothering him that much. Tom ends up curling up on himself and rolling over to the other side, so you climb out with as little of a jump as you can so as to not stir him up. It seems pretty safe when you get to the door and look back over your shoulder, finding him deep in sleep, breathing heavily. You watch him since your feet are glued to the floor, wallowing in the stretchy craving in your chest.
Then you flee out of there as fast as you can.
Nothing really leaves your mind as you go through what happened in that bed within only a few minutes. At least what went on through you, because that's the scary part. For now, you sit in the armchair in the living room, facing the big windows to the balcony, cradling a smoking cup of tea in both hands as you watch the light clouds glide across the sky.
Your head, however, is a whirlwind of questions and doubts. He missed you, he said, and he kissed you like he actually did. Despite being drowsy, the intent was all there. In his hands when they nursed your body with no sensual intentions at the time, perhaps just for the sake of holding you, of keeping close. It was in his chest where it was flush against your side, the pressure of his heart beating as though it was poking out of his chest the way you'd seen in old cartoons. And it was in his lips as they devoured yours. Softly, yes, sure, but that only heightened the other side of this coin.
He missed you, he said, but did he miss you the way you did him? It was disconcerting just to think about. The way you would hover your finger over his contact number whenever you had anything to share, multiple times a day, only to put your phone down after reasoning with yourself that he was busy with more important matters than his fuck buddy's issues. The way you would have wine nights on the rare occasion that he'd post on his social media, going down the rabbit's hole into the old videos of him, when things were more casual and less complicated. When he was just Tom Holland, Rising Actor and you were just a person looking for a flat to share.
This tea isn't strong enough to drown any memories, but it's too early in the day for anything stronger. And technically you had promised yourself you wouldn't drink anything away again, not feelings over Tom or anyone else. The problem is that this thing that has been haunting you for so long, this thing you have been trying to bury through layers and layers of keeping busy and forgetful, isn't as strange as it is unwelcome. It hurts at some points.
If only you had anything to work with from Tom's part, but you don't really see anything. When he's here, he tries to devour you at every chance he gets, be it with his kisses or his cuddles. And when he's not here, he calls to (pretend to?) check up on you just so he can ease in some more action over the phone. That's not enough to get you nurturing any feelings. You need something. Something definite. Certainly more than an 'I missed you'.
You curl up further in the seat, feet tucked in under you so they can't take you somewhere you don't want to go again. For a second, you wish you could just know how it would end if you spoke about this woe that's been tormenting you. It could be with anyone, but of course you'd prefer to talk it over with Tom. Because right now you're on a rollercoaster yet have no idea how you even got on it in the first place. You're right at the top, the car balancing off of wishful thinking, waiting for the right push to nosedive into the first curve.
As always, whenever you've found yourself thinking about Tom in these terms, you can't stop your mind from rewinding back to the last time something like this happened. It's not a good memory, but it's inevitable. The first time you had a serious crush on someone, who you used to hang out with for better and for worse, every single day for months on end. Then when you finally worked up the courage to try and kiss them, you were pushed away. You had to stand there and listen to some bullshit lecture about how the friend zone was a sacred place and that they had the biggest honor by having you in their life. As a friend. As though that was a line that could never, ever be crossed for them.
You could have gotten much better closure if they had even wanted to hang out with you afterwards, but it was like you had suddenly gained romantic cooties or whatever. Something contagious and unwanted.
That cannot happen again right now. Not with Tom. That would mean leaving this flat, leaving both him and Harrison, and you absolutely adore your life the way it is right now. A few days before they both left for work, they even talked about getting a bigger place so Tom's twin brothers, Harry and Sam, could come live with them as well. Their friend Tuwaine, too. And you.
That idea alone filled your eyes with tears when they said it because you want that. You go through ridiculous moments of laughter with all of them, and they all welcome you as though you've been in their life since you were born. That's a sort of connection you don't want to lose. Which is why you can't muster up the courage this time. Not considering the risks. No matter how many times you have to swallow down your feelings in the near future. You've been doing fine up to now, so why not hang in there a little longer? Eventually, hopefully, who knows, maybe it will all go away once you eat all those emotions until they're completely gone.
You have no idea if it will work. But you're willing to try.
With a groan, you get off the armchair and go scream silently into your pillow for a few minutes. The poor thing has been screamed into so many times in recent weeks that the shape of your teeth is visible in the fabric.
You have to get out of your head, desperately, so you get some food into you, prep another cup of tea — avoiding the flavor Tom has taught you how to like because it triggers too many memories of laughter while chasing each other around the kitchen table — and you grab your laptop to respond to recent comments in your channel dedicated to facial art. This platform you've been working on is relatively new. You've been posting content every two weeks and it's always fun, and anything to distract yourself is more than welcome.
Tom doesn't wake up from his nap, so you settle for the night with your comfort show rolling on your laptop until you fall asleep into the teeth-shaped shadow in your pillow.
*
The next morning, you wake up by yourself. You don't have commitments for any time soon, so you let your body do its process of burying everything under a mantle of sleep. It's healing to a certain extent.
When you get to the bathroom, you stop at the sight of a pair of socks thrown haphazardly to the ground, funnily enough right next to the laundry basket. You roll your eyes, leaving them exactly where they are so you can yell at Tom later. The problem is that this means he's already up, out there somewhere in the house for sure.
You find him in the kitchen, looking fresh and energized. He's still shirtless and in pajama bottoms, barefoot of course, humming and bouncing his head to a tune that you can't hear.
"Good morning, sock boy."
"Good morn—" He freezes and looks over his shoulder, turning around at the same time with a small pot in his hand. "Did I not put them in the basket?"
"No, you did not."
"Fuck," he curses and puts down the pot. "Sorry," he adds with a grimace, rubbing the back of his neck. "I could swear I thought about it..."
"Well, next time think a little harder," you say with a roll of your eyes and a dismissive hand gesture. You're done talking to him about it. It's pretty clear he's never going to listen, no matter how often you nag him about it.
"Don't be so condescending, y/n, I'm getting a lot better," he says, watching you as you walk to the table.
"I suppose leaving your socks closer to the laundry basket each time can be called progress." You nod and rest both hands on the back of a chair, asking, "What's going on here?"
"Making breakfast," he shrugs, "I'm still in a completely different time zone. Woke up when it was still dark out and I couldn't go back to sleep, did my morning workout and now we're here. So, waffle or pancakes?"
"Waffle."
"Coming right up, miss."
You chuckle at him and try to help, but he shushes you and pulls up a chair instead, offering it to you. "Milady."
"If you cook me breakfast every time you leave your socks on the floor, I won't be able to walk very soon," you joke, knowing how overboard he tends to get with cooking breakfast. For others, mostly, which you don't understand since currently he's on a diet because of work that limits a lot of what he can eat. Yet if he's happy doing this, who are you to stop him?
"Don't worry," he gives you a boyish grin over his shoulder. "I could carry you around."
You smile back at what he says. There's no way you can hold it back now. This dude is too corny for his own good. And the part of your brain that isn't focused on following the sweet scent that fills the kitchen is bubbling with nerves all over again. Everything you thought about yesterday while you were on your own comes back to you like a wave. Unavoidable, unstoppable.
As you watch the muscles on his back sway under the skin, unable to identify the song he's humming, you question yourself briefly about what Tom just said. It's a common thing to say to a friend, you think, carrying them around, literally or not, when there's something restricting them. But at the same time you've never heard him say anything of the sort when Harrison's home.
Tom is much more approachable, much more of a jokester with you when it's just two in the flat. When you're alone. This realization leaves you with more doubts, with a sort of wondering that resets the alarms in the back of your head. But they're overridden by the part of you that's freaking out, asking why and what does that fucking mean if it means anything at all.
"You alright?" Tom asks, interrupting your musings.
You look up and hum questioningly, seeing him use a skimmer to move a pile of asparagus from the frying pan in his other hand to a plate on the table.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you trail off, rubbing your temple to wish away your thoughts.
"C'moooon, it's me, your favorite sock boy," he smiles goofily, making you chuckle at him because how can you not? The man's freaking adorable without even trying. "You can tell me what's going on if you want."
"It's nothing," you say, "honestly. I'm just tired, went to bed at ass o'clock in the morning because I lost track of time—"
"Not checking on people on your channel again..."
"Well, they like my videos, and I like checking in on them. Don't you check on your fans?"
Tom purses his lips to the side, although he never stops stirring whatever he has in his pan, then says, "Hmmm, I really don't."
"Well, must be nice having millions of followers," you say with a teasing eye-roll, hand gesturing in the air patronizingly.
"And knowing they won't go away." Tom grins while parroting back to you something you used to say to him a lot, back when you first set up your channel.
Afterwards, you watch in silence as he mills about the kitchen in Tom's truest chaotic mode. The rumble in your head continues to swivel around, but thankfully the Chatty Cathy of the house starts babbling about some weird dream he had last night, probably induced by the extra hours he spent in bed, he says.
"Made your favorite," Tom says eventually, Adam's apple bobbing in his bare throat when you look up. With a gesture of his head, Tom pulls the plate closer, perfectly centered with the silverware you'll be using.
The waffle smells... like him. A recipe he once said he was trying out just for you. It's a flavor you'd never thought you would even like, but there's something about Tom's breakfast food that pulls you in. You didn't really question it until now.
Of course you can't upset him by not eating something he so carefully cooked for you, so you adjust the chair and get settled. "Let's eat then, Chef Holland. Thank you."
"I'm not a chef," he puts in with a chuckle, "that's my little brother Sam, but I have beat him several times at breakfast food. Since, y'know, I have more practice getting up early than he does." Tom smiles, taking his own food and going on and on about how his mum used to have a lot of trouble getting four boys down in the kitchen at a decent time every morning.
You grin at Tom and look down at your breakfast. You used to not think much of it because, like he said, he's always up at odd hours and breakfast is his favorite meal of the day. Although you don't really get where he does his research since he's always so busy, with you or otherwise, but his recipes have been nothing short of amazing. And today is no exception.
As you eat, Tom by your side with a poached egg on asparagus on an alarmingly small piece of toast topped by shaved cheese and pepper, he engages you in conversation and, as usual, it's so easy to chat with Tom about everything and nothing. He's naturally talkative and has an unending collection of stories to tell, to which you always listen closely, though this time you try not to laugh bites of waffle out of your nose.
The front door bangs in the background when you're smacking Tom's shoulder for laughing at nearly having broken his nose earlier while working out.
"Don't worry, love, my nose's used to it."
"It's still dangerous!"
Tom laughs open-mouthed at your objection, and then someone else enters the kitchen.
"Good morning, children," Harrison greets you, throwing a duffel bag at his feet.
"Good morning, sir."
"Lovely, look how coordinated you two are," he teases you and Tom for speaking at the same time, which throws you into another laughing fit. "I am surprised you're alone and sitting here looking so decent. Well, half decent, in Tom's case."
"Shut up, mate, it's just breakfast," Tom retaliates, throwing the remaining head of an asparagus from his plate at Harrison's face, before he gets up and strolls to the oven. You frown when he turns it on.
"Crunchy," Harrison mumbles as he chews, walking back to the doorway. "I'll go drop this in my room, and then I'll come join you. Unless there isn't anything left?"
"Got your baked asparagus and blueberries heating up in the oven," Tom replies. You widen your eyes at him and at how much he got done in a single morning. "And a perfect poached egg waiting for you in a lovely ice water bath."
"I'm so glad we're roommates even though you know I hate poached eggs," Harrison says, pointing his finger at Tom and adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder with the other hand.
"They're better than your greasy, fat, deceiving beans on toast!" Tom argues. Harrison ignores him with a scoff.
You're half aware of him leaving the room when you turn to Tom, still gaping at him, and say, "Wow, someone really likes their breakfast food."
"Can't help it," Tom shrugs, strolling to the fridge and retrieving a medium bowl of water with an egg in it. He puts it down on the counter next to the stove and turns around to you, sliding an arm over your shoulders. "I love you," he says, dropping a kiss on the top of your head. "Both of you. And, um, maybe I'm trying to fatten you up, so what?"
Suddenly unable to laugh at his joke, you hum a thanks and utter a meek, "Love you too". You then reach for your cup of tea to get rid of the knot in your throat. It's empty, so you stretch towards the kettle, but Tom interrupts you.
"I got you," he says, grabbing your hand and putting it down on the table. His thumb runs somewhat over the skin between your thumb and index finger, but it's too light and too fast for you to make anything of it.
By the time Tom is refilling your mug, and as you make sure to keep your eyes on the stream of water instead of him, Harrison comes back into the kitchen.
"I have a question."
When you look up, he's walking to the other side of the table, arms crossed over his chest as he stands there, tall and proud.
"What's... going on?" you ask warily.
"Did you, or did you not— and whatever you tell me, I promise I'll believe you—" Harrison gestures with both hands now, holding them flat in front of his chest before he crosses his arms again. You blink at him and ignore the stretch of his t-shirt around his biceps, gazing up at his eyes instead.
"What is it!" you insist, noticing how quiet Tom is right now.
"Did you have sex in my room?"
"Oh..." You spit into laughter, throwing a hand over your mouth so you don't spit anything else anywhere. Your mind goes through the small altercation you had with Tom about that very issue, but you really, really didn't do anything there. To be real, you've barely been able to look at Harrison's bedroom door ever since. "Why would you think that?"
"I just went in there, and my chair isn't where I usually leave it," Harrison clarifies, not uncrossing his arms right now. This position makes him look powerful, somewhat haughty too, but he does seem to have a reason to doubt.
"I don't know about you," you start to answer, looking at Tom with a shrug of your shoulder, "but I didn't."
"Then you know I didn't either, H," Tom excuses himself.
"Alright, look, I went there the other day when I was sorting the laundry, but that's it," you clarify, focused on Harrison but stealing glances from Tom as well to test his reaction. "I spent, like, less than thirty seconds in there, I swear."
You feel a pinch on your thigh, but you only pull your leg away, pretending it doesn't faze you that much.
"Alright, alright," Harrison trails off, squinting at the both of you, but accepting your response as he'd promised. It was the truth, anyway.
"We did talk about it tho—"
"Tom!"
"What?" He shrugs. "We did!"
"He didn't have to know," you retort, facing Tom but gesturing with your head towards Harrison, who's sitting across from you.
"She's not wrong."
"Well, so what, we talked about it, it was just a joke." Tom takes another sip of his tea, wiggling his eyebrows at you to make you laugh.
"Hmm." Harrison humphs through his nose, but he doesn't bring it up again and the topic dies down.
"What do you think happened to the chair then?" you question him, drinking your tea and casually waiting for the conversation to move forward about everything and nothing. As expected, you spend about an hour sitting in the kitchen, even sharing ghost stories from your childhood.
At some point, after Tom receives a text message, he asks, "Hey, are you both coming to dinner at my mum's tomorrow night? She's asking because she's going shopping later."
"Sure," Harrison says.
You take the last sip of your tea and study both of their expressions. First a smiling Harrison, then a curious Tom. He blinks at you and asks, "Are you?"
"I... didn't know I was invited," you say. It's true. You do remember Tom mentioning it over the phone, that usually there's a dinner at his parents' house whenever he comes back from a job. While you have been to their family gatherings before, when Tom was home during the summer and there were biweekly meetups in the Hollands' back garden, this one sounds a bit different to you.
"How come? I... called you about it, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but, I don't know," you start, putting down your empty mug. "I mean, I know I've been there before, but this dinner seems different somehow? You and your brothers have been away for weeks, so I figured it would be more... hm, restricted, so to speak. Family only."
"Nonsense," Tom scoffs, "Mum always says family and friends, and that includes you, so you're coming." He blinks for a second, then frowns a little. "You're coming, right?"
"Of course." You smile at him to try and soothe the arch of his brow. You like it a lot more when it's relaxed and you can see the stray hairs that angle up instead of growing smoothly along the length of his eyebrow. Sometimes you even find yourself wondering if Tom grooms it when he's getting ready every morning or if he leaves it alone in its irreverent slope.
"Perfect."
*
The rest of the day goes by uneventfully. For once, you're the busy one, not Tom or Harrison. You can hear them chatting in the background, but ignore their voices. You'd rather finish cutting this new video soon so you'll have more time with them later.
Two of Tom's brothers come over before lunch. Harry, with his messy head of curls that shine much redder today than you're used to, most likely from the strong sun outside, carries a couple of cases of beer in his arms. Sam, on the other hand, with a pair of sunglasses pushing his dark hair back, complains about his twin being in the way when he's carrying a heavy oven dish.
Afterwards, the boys disappear for the remainder of the afternoon while you wrap up work. As soon as you're free, you send Tom a text asking if you should join them or if they'll be home soon. You don't want to seem too eager, so you rewrite the message a bunch of times before you hit send. Then you regret it because it has a typo, but it's Tom so you figure you're safe. It would've been worse if it was Harrison, he's a lot pickier with his texting.
It takes less than a minute before your phone pings with a reply. And then another.
Coming home!
⛳!
You chuckle. Tom and his dumb golfing emoji. The man is obsessed. He uses it as an excitement emoji, whenever he's in a good mood or when something he really wants happens. You don't really understand it, but you've learned not to expect anything other than weird quirks from him. Not from a man who uses exclamation points for pretty much everything, at least.
After a while, and a lot of texting back and forth with him with a lot of ! and a lot of :D, you sit in the living room, in the armchair by the big window. You're enjoying the last bottle of beer with the stereo on in the background, a killer bass line whumping across the flat, when they all come back. Loud and laughing, as per usual, with Tuwaine in tow as well.
"Why are you drinking alone?" he practically shouts once he turns the corner and spots you.
"Trying to get ahead in the game," you reply, winking at him. "Knowing you all, you've been on a binge across town the whole day."
"Well, then you would be wrong," you hear Tom say as you greet Tuwaine with a hug. When you pull back, Tom's on the way to you sporting a wide grin on his lips. "We went mini golfing today."
"Pfft, that would've been my second guess," you chastise him, shrieking into his shoulder when he embraces you too tight in a similar joking manner.
It's safe to say the rest of the evening isn't as uneventful as your day. It ends with the six of you fighting for a spot on the couch versus the armchair versus the floor so you can watch a movie together. Then it progresses to yet another yelling contest over who gets to pick the film. When it comes down to you and Tom, you can hardly believe how easy it is to make him let you win. But finally, the beginning credits start playing and you glance around the room. The twins and Harrison on the couch, Tuwaine in the armchair, and you and Tom on the floor.
As the film rolls, beers and buckets of popcorn shared all around, you can't scratch away the feeling that Tom's watching you instead. Every time you glance at him, his eyes are glued to the screen or he's flicking the corner of the label on his beer bottle, but there's something about his silence that itches in the back of your brain.
There is one occasion when you do catch him looking at you, so you shrug and gesture with your head. "What?"
"Nothing, I'm watching the film," he says pointing ahead, then offers you some popcorn before popping a piece into his own mouth. He does turn to the screen after that. However, barely a second later, as an aerial image of a city landscape goes by, Tom's eyes are on you again.
You feel a rush of hormones go through you, but instead of shrugging it off, you face him and don't let him look away this time.
Tom gives you a smug smile in response and shuffles closer to you, draping his arm around your shoulders. "We've already seen this part," he whispers, "can't we make out instead?"
Giggling, you start shaking your head, but it's Harry who says, "...no?" When you look up at him, he's got the most judging look you've ever seen on a person. Even for him.
With a fed-up roll of his eyes, Tom throws some popcorn towards Harry, but settles back against the pillows pouting at you.
"Thanks," Harry says, and afterwards you hear someone say, "for fuck's sake, Tom," but you can't make out who it is.
You share a look with Tom and he's still pouting, but it turns into a small smile. He keeps his arm over your shoulders, making you fight so hard against the will to cuddle closer and lay your head on him. There's an itch in your gut craving a hidden kiss in the dark from him, begging you to cradle his chin and turn his mouth to you. You don't move, however, instead rearranging your arm so it'll fit better against his side.
Warm in his embrace, under his gentle gaze, you lay a hand on his leg, caressing the inward curve towards the back of his knee. When he sighs, you stop and glance up, eyelashes fluttering softly with a smile. His lips part in a small breath, and you want nothing more than to feel them on you again.
Tom is so close and the crisp aroma of his cologne infiltrates your every sense. It smells distinguished, expensive, sweet like him. Stronger now that you're turned to him, but barely a spritz if you look back at the screen.
A thought forms in your head as you watch the film. Tom, leaning your neck back with a gentle palm, kissing your forehead and down your temple, across your cheek until he finds your mouth. You want to be kissed, want to be wooed, want to be swept off your seat and laid over the pillows and adored.
Much to your dismay, however, Tom keeps gazing at you from the corner of his eye, and he wraps a hand around your shoulder, the other covering yours on his leg, but he doesn't try to kiss you again.
Later, you're all set to sleep, comfortable in your bed under a thin sheet because it's a warm night, when there's a knock on your door.
It's Tom, who peeks in and says, "Do you mind?" You nod only once and he steps inside, closing the door behind him.
"What?"
"Wanted to kiss you goodnight," he says with a smirk.
You smile back and sit up, beckoning him closer and grabbing him by the back of his neck for a short kiss. The way Tom embraces you has you getting up on your knees so you're more level with him, both your arms around him as your lips meet softly. With a few more pecks that Tom counts aloud, making you giggle, he finally pulls away when you don't even want him to.
"You wanna sleep here?" you suggest, sitting back on your heels. Fortunately, it doesn't take long for Tom to agree.
Nothing really happens tonight. You know he prefers to sleep on the left side of the bed, so you shift to the other one and lie down with your back to him, thinking of the many times he's sighed blissfully when he's had the chance to spoon you from behind. Tom stops you, however.
"Stay turned to me, darling," he says, shuffling around until your feet entangle with his.
You let him nestle closer into your chest and listen as he quiets down with a long sigh. 'Missed you,' you think he says, but the words are all muffled by the pillow. Resting an arm over his waist nonetheless, palm flat against his bare back, you fall asleep with your mind wrapped around the wish of spending a million more nights just like this.
*
The next day, Tom is glued to your freaking hip. You have work to do, but he keeps coming round with snacks and glasses of water and that silly, boyish grin of his. Sometimes he even only comes by to ask you if it's going alright. While you're used to him checking up on you, it is rather odd since you're in the same house. Inevitably, when he goes out house with Harrison in the afternoon, Tom keeps texting you in regular intervals.
⛳!
Im having a fresh drink, are you? :D!
Then an hour later:
Need a snack? 🥐 ☕️
Btw! We still need to finish our coffee vs tea emoji debacle young lady ☕️
Then after another while:
Do you also think that Harrison culd beat me at thumb wars? 😠
Lucky for you, you finish work in time to answer this text, but before you can, Tom sends another one:
Nevermind :(
You 'aww' audibly at his sad emoji and decide to send him a comforting voice message, telling him that this one doesn't count since you weren't there to verify Harrison's win.
Tom's reply is his trademark response:
⛳!
"His fucking exclamation points, mate," you smile to yourself.
From then on, you and Tom text back and forth. He's incredibly silly and random, but it's fun and it keeps you entertained while you get ready for tonight's dinner at Tom's parents' house. You're not going to dress up a lot, but you want to at least make a decent impression. Tom's family has always treated you with kindness and you've always had a good time with them, so this evening should be no different.
*
"Having fun?" Tom's voice comes up from behind you at the same time as his arm around your waist.
You've been at Tom's childhood home for a while now. Dinner went really well, better than any expectations you could have had. Tom's family was loud and messy as usual, but you fit right in with them, joining in on their jokes, letting them roast you for your hair style because, to be fair, it looks fancier than you probably had to, but you felt like it would compensate for wearing such a casual fit.
Right now, you're standing by the stairs to the second floor, holding an empty beer in front of Harry. You turn to the side and find Tom smiling at you, with a couple of bottles in his free hand, extending it towards you.
"We were having a private conversation, Tom," Harry deadpans, with his eyes half squinted.
"Just wanted to give her a beer... and a kiss," Tom excuses himself, stealing a peck from your lips when you lean closer.
"Gross."
"Shut up, bro." Tom kisses you a second time, definitely to provoke his younger brother. You giggle at their interaction and squeeze Tom's hand before it leaves your side.
Soon after, their dad invites everyone into the living room. It's a night of chatter and laughs and a feel-good time, lost in several different conversations about life and work and, of course, golf. Tom's dad tells a few anecdotes from his time in the green and also a story about Tom calling him in the middle of dinner one day to goad about a record round at the course.
"I shot 79," he mimics his dad with a haughty grin. You're not sure if that's a good score or not, but it seems like it was enough for Tom to flaunt it on the phone with his own father. His competitive side is always at its peak when it comes to golf.
"It was an easy course, but don't tell him," Tom admits into your ear, kissing it right after.
This moment right now feels very familiar. It reminds you of when you suggested to Tom a trip to the golf course in front of someone else. Back then, it was only Harrison, but as soon as he heard that you were going golfing with Tom, he immediately asked to tag along. So, you figure, if you mention it again in a room full of golfers, Tom will assume you're thinking about bringing his fantasy to life, but not knowing about it, someone else might want to come too.
It feels like a dangerous power game to you, but teasing Tom is one of your favorite pastimes, no doubt about that. The last time, he was clearly turned on during the whole round. You could feel it in the way he kept touching you, and afterwards in the way he kissed you outside the restrooms. Now here's your chance to do it again. To rile him up. To make him so frustrated by the thought that he could be golfing with you and living his fantasy and yet he might have to wait another day.
Decided to test this theory of yours, you turn to Tom before he pulls away from your ear. "Hey, you going golfing tomorrow?"
"It is Thursday," Tom replies out loud, grinning and taking a long sip of his beer with his eyes on you. "I didn't book tee time, but we can work around that."
"Can I come with?" you ask, lips around the edge of your bottle, not doing much to keep it a secret between the two of you.
"That was implied, darlin'." Tom winks and drapes his arm over the cushion behind your head.
You're sitting on the couch by the French windows into the back garden, next to the armchair that Tom's family dog, Tessa, is occupying for her evening nap. Your and Tom's thighs are pressed so close that you can feel the clench of his muscles when he shifts. Not only that, but there's about half a seating space between you and Harrison, who's sitting on your other side.
You turn your head at the sound of your name, only to find every pair of eyes in the room blinking at you. "Sorry?" Turning to Harrison, he shows you a half smile and wiggles his eyebrows once, drinking some more as you try to make sense of what's going on.
Tom's dad finally says, "I asked if you golfed, y/n."
"Oh, um," you trail off, gulping down for a second so you can compose yourself. "I— just started, really. Tom and Harrison took me golfing the other day, and it was..."
"It wasn't too bad," Tom says gracefully, making you turn your head to him.
"Thank you, coach," you muse, giving him a tight-lipped smile.
His dad laughs, then asks, "Is he a better coach than he is a golfer, then?"
"To y/n?" Harrison intervenes, chuckling gracefully. "Definitely a better coach. Not sure he'd be so lenient with anyone else."
"It was her first time, mate," Tom excuses himself, "so what if I gave her the benefit of the doubt."
"You gave her some benefits alright," Harrison mumbles. You elbow his side hard in return.
"Do you still play on Thursdays, Tom?" his dad asks quickly.
"Yes, but—" Tom tries, but his dad doesn't let him finish.
"Brilliant. Would you like another free lesson tomorrow, y/n?"
"Wait—"
"I would love to, Mr. Holland," you cut Tom off too, loud and clear.
Tom groans and when you look towards him, his head is leaned back on the couch and he's rubbing his face. He mumbles, "Why would you do that?" in a tone you're sure it's only meant for you to hear.
"Why not? He's your dad and it was a kind offer," you say for everyone to hear, grabbing his hand and pulling until he's sitting upright again. "Besides, he's been playing for much longer than you, so technically he might be a better coach..."
You stop talking the moment you see Tom's gaze darken with vexation, hiding a giggle behind your hand.
It's amazing to watch him as he realizes what you've just done. His mouth is a tight line, disapproval all over his face, and the furrow of his brow is indescribable, but it also feels... perfect. What just happened is perfect for what you had in mind, and it lines up with what you said when you first agreed to help Tom bring his sex fantasy to life. You warned him that night that you would do things by your own rules, and here you are.
"Oh, c'mon, Tom," you tease, patting his thigh with fake comfort, as you wipe your lips in preparation for your first ever golf pun. "Grow some pro v1s, will you?"
"Did you just—" Tom interjects, gaping at you while the rest of the room chuckles lightly.
"Harry taught me that one," you say with a head gesture and a grin towards Harry. He explained to you that 'pro v1' is an elite type of golf ball that not even Movie-Star-Tom-Holland has ever bought given their value and his bad luck with losing balls at the course.
Tom only shakes his head. "I'm gonna kill 'em."
*
You're about to wash your hands when someone knocks on the bathroom door.
"Just a minute please," you say as politely as you can. You're almost finished anyway, needing only to recheck your look, but there's a second knock.
"It's me."
Tom. You smile to yourself at the thought of what he could possibly be thinking of doing in his parents' bathroom. He's insane if he wants to try something too risky, but you open the door nonetheless.
His vicious expression is the first thing you notice. The twist of his brow. His sniff and the way his nose twitches. The twinkle in his eye as he closes the door again and leans back onto it.
"I know what you're doing, y/n."
"What am I doing, Tom?"
He puffs out a breath and when you look at him, he's got his head tilted to one side and is swiping his tongue shortly over his lips. You can also hear his nails scraping against the wood.
"One time, sure, it's an accident," he carries on, using his hands to propel himself in your direction. His movement makes you stand still in front of the mirror, face turned to him as you study the way he moves and the way he speaks. "Two times, though? Nah. I don't buy it."
"I... dunno what you're talking about."
"It's me, y/n," he says cryptically, "you owe me one."
Tom talks pausedly, measuring every word and how hard he should inflect it. You can tell so from the predator angle of his shoulders when he stops right next to you. He's close. Impossibly so. If he tipped forward a quarter of an inch, the tip of his nose would touch you.
You have to admit it's starting to turn you on a little. Or rather, a lot. When he gets in this mood — provoked by your own actions, you're perfectly aware — it's difficult to ignore the way he gets into this 'character', this animalistic side of him that you've come to know so well. Even so, the thrill of testing him is bigger than anything else, so you mutter, "Owe you one what?"
"A fantasy."
"Oh, right... that." You chuckle breathily, facing away from him to continue checking yourself in the mirror. Starting with something he's always liked to watch you do, you wipe your lips with the tip of your pinky, keeping your mouth ajar and your eyes on him through the reflection. The clench of his jaw is obvious, in particular when he sneaks behind you and turns.
"Listen to me, young lady," he says, using both arms to cage you against the counter. His metal watch clinks against the surface. When you glance downwards, it's resting carelessly around his wrist, glistening in the bathroom's bright lights.
You also notice Tom's fingers wrapped tight around the porcelain. His chest is on your back, his crotch pressed against your arse. He doesn't seem to have an erection, but he pushes you a little more and the edge of the basin sinks into your flesh so hard it makes you gasp.
Leaning closer, his breath in your sensitive ear drags a shiver down your whole body, head to toe, all the way down and back between your legs, pooling up right in your core.
"Play the fool as much as you want," he mutters, licking the shell of your ear and pulling it into his mouth for a short second. You feel your pussy clench around nothing, suddenly wishing you hadn't started this game.
"But when I get what I want," he adds in a broken voice as you gulp, "you'll be swinging a different tune."
The pun has the opposite effect of what you expect. Or it could be the way he's saying it, with his eyes on yours in the mirror and his elbows closing in around your torso. Every inch of his front is kissing every inch of your back, thighs included. You want him. You do. And the position is perfect. Tom would only need to pull down your bottoms and his, down to your thighs, nothing more, and he could take you and have you and consume you with all the hunger you see glinting in his eyes.
You know this is your own fault, it was you who fooled him into thinking you'd be going to the golf course alone with him.
"You owe me one," Tom rasps into your ear, tonguing at it obscenely.
And yeah, you do, but you intend to pay him back. Soon. Eventually. He'll know when.
You also know what you'll get if this teasing game drags for much longer. A long, purposeful punishment. That's been his style in the last months. Pretending to be provoked by your actions only to use it against you in a torturously satisfying way. But in the end, it should be so rewarding. Especially for him because you've tortured him enough and have decided, perhaps just now, influenced by the power of his body over yours, by the wet, hot bliss of his mouth nibbling on your ear, that you're going to cave next time.
Tom's words and tone of voice follow you around as you try to enjoy the rest of the evening. When you go back to the couch and sit comfortably in the middle, listening to Harrison and Harry's conversation about drone photography, the other side of you feels rather cold. Tom is not sitting with you, and as you first notice this, you frown. You scour the place looking for him and you do find him. On the other side of the room, sitting in a single armchair with his legs crossed tight. His ravenous tiger eyes on you and a beer hiding the sneer on his lips.
From then on, he stays clear of you at all times. The exception lies only when you're walking somewhere, be it to get drinks or to grab a snack from the dining table, and he appears right behind you as if out of thin air. Every time, his hand brushes against you, across the small of your back, the curve of your hip, the length of your spine. Always in silence. Always with that twinkling gaze of mischief.
It's exciting and scary at the same time. But you surely even up the score, staying focused on other conversations instead of chasing his attention. Making it seem like his game of cat and mouse isn't turning you on is the best and worst thing you could do to him, you know this so well. Tom loves control as much as you do, and he hates being teased as much as you do, so this... This should be interesting.
Since Tom is avoiding you, you stick to Harrison's side considering he's the person you know the best. And where Harrison is, Tom's brother Harry is, too. H squared, you like to call them. They hate it, but it's not your fault they're a two for the price of one pack. Cut from the same cloth, true brothers from different mothers. Both loud and expressive, smart and creative, always with a project brewing in their minds. It could be unnerving if it wasn't such a powerful epitome of friendship.
Here's the fun part. In the beginning, either from being an airhead or from rubbing off on the boys' chaos, most likely from the latter, you kept switching Harry and Harrison's name.
It all started as an honest mistake.
At the time, Tom, Harrison and Harry spent pretty much the whole day stuck together in one of the rooms. Since you barely came out of yours, as you were only starting to get used to the idea of sharing a flat, you didn't exactly know which of them left every night. Breakfast wasn't a clue either because you would walk into the kitchen and there would be three blokes, in three black t-shirts, blinking wearily at you with three superhero-themed mugs in hand.
Your head was littered with worries back then, so you never blamed yourself for not knowing who was who. You knew Tom as he'd been the one interviewing you when you answered their ad, but not the other two. It wasn't like they looked alike because one was a blonde and the other a redhead, but they were constantly together. And they had the same humor. They made the same snarky remarks. They literally finished each other's sentences at times. So for the first weeks after you moved in, you could not tell them apart.
Harry. Harrison. It's not that different anyway.
You remember one of the first days really well. You were trying to decipher their nonexistent set of rules for the laundry room and decided to reach out for help. Tom was nowhere to be seen, so you resorted to the only person that was home. He was chilling in the balcony, with his back turned to the window, so you couldn't see his face. That was the first problem. The second was that he wore a cap on his head, so you couldn't see his hair either. Just your luck. The one feature you could distinguish between the two of them was indiscernible at the moment.
With a resolute sigh, you stepped out onto the balcony and excused yourself. "Harry—"
"—son."
"Pardon?"
"Harrison." He tapped his chest, then waved a finger from the left to the right. "Not Harry." Then he pointed at himself again with his thumb. "I'm Harrison."
The fact that he used hand gestures to accentuate what he was saying was absolutely mortifying.
"Harrison," you parroted with a grimace, scratching an untraceable itch on the side of your neck. "Sorry."
He smiled politely. "It's alright, love. I'm only teasing. Can I help you with anything?"
That was only the first step. Day after day, as you became more and more confident around them, you stopped apologizing for that mistake. And soon after, you started using the name Harry to tease Harrison whenever he was being sassy with you, in good memory of the balcony scene. It was all fun and games, and even though neither one nor the other liked the fact that you used only one name to refer to them, they didn't make you feel any less welcomed.
It's actually with your arm looped around "Harry-son"'s forearm that you get back to the flat. Tom has lowered his preying game significantly over the course of the night, yapping happily on the ride home, but he's quiet now. Walking ahead of you with a bag in his hand that he refused to tell you or Harrison about, then unlocking the door and marching straight into the bathroom.
The silence that fills the flat is understandable. It's late, it's been a long night, and the tension between you and Tom is obvious. The bathroom door is closed and it stares at you as you walk past, the silence from the other side gathering goosebumps on the nape of your neck. You have no idea what Tom is doing in there, but you remember his poise very well. Hand clasped around an unidentifiable bag, strong, firm steps on his way in. The fact that he went quiet as soon as he stepped out of the car. It was like he entered another dimension.
On his way through the hallway towards his bedroom, Harrison wishes you goodnight and flees out of the way as you reach for the door handle of your own room. You step inside, leaving it open, and get ready for bed.
There's a shadow that walks by and pulls you out of your musings about tonight. It's Tom, and he's standing right at your door, already in his sleeping attire. Long pajama bottoms and no shirt. His chest glistens in the faltering light of your room. And his eyes— fuck, your skin feels warm just from the fire in them. His eyes are blown and hungry, taking you in from head to toe, not leaving a single inch unwatched.
"Kissing me goodnight, I presume?" you ask, almost innocently, leaning back against the chest of drawers in a way that highlights your curves. You're wearing an old, baggy jumper, your legs on full display.
Tom shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but that doesn't ease up his predator pose. He's about to pounce, you can tell that much, but you hold back your tongue just to test him.
"You don't really deserve it after that little stunt you pulled tonight," he says, wiping his bottom lip slowly with the tip of his tongue. He moves it sensually, looking you straight in the eye as though to disarm you. "But I didn't want you to think I'm mad at you, so I decided to come over."
"I didn't think you were mad at me," you reply, taking a step forward. Not towards Tom. Towards the bed. Then you dare him, "Are you coming to collect it then?"
He doesn't say anything. He only moves. He strides with a fury in his step, his hair in disarray, hands tightened into fists, but he relaxes them to grab you by the arms and reel you into a kiss. It's firm and not gentle at all, ravenous in every swipe of his tongue. Tom brings his teeth into play, nipping on your lips without warning. Making you gasp and arch into him from the desire that rises from the spearmint in his taste alone.
"Tom—" you try to warn him that the door is still open, but he shushes you instead.
"Shhh, you're gonna have to be quiet tonight," he purrs into the corner of your mouth, kissing it before he drags his lips in a single line down to your neck. "Hm? You think you can handle that? That the door stays open tonight while I have my way with you?"
"Fuck—" You nod, incapable of words right now. Tom's grip is firm on your arms, tight but also gentleman-like, rubbing his thumbs where they reach as though to soothe you. It works, it definitely works, because you forget the slight pain from his fingers and turn into putty in his arms.
"I, uh," Tom starts, licking a path up your neck that makes you shiver, "I was thinking we could try something tonight. If you want." You only gaze at him through your eyelashes, silently daring him to speak. "You ever heard about orgasm denial?"
You hum because you have.
"Well, I was thinking I'd like to try that," you smile at his suggestion, not expecting the next words that come out of his mouth. "On you."
"What?"
He chuckles with a devil's smirk dancing on his features. "Not so fond of the idea now, are you? Hm? Isn't that what you're doing to me, though? Keeping me on edge about the damn golf course?"
Trying to move forward is an impossible task. Tom's thighs are blocking you at every angle. He feels huge and hot and perfect, hands biting into your arms.
"Denying me my fantasy, you naughty girl..."
You suck in a breath as his lips drift from your neck to your collarbones and back to the underside of your chin. You try to urge him into more, try to touch him, but he elbows your hands as soon as they start to move.
"So I'd like to edge you right back. Teach you a little lesson. I mean, the moment you told me about your dream, I made it happen, and now you're pulling my leg on this? Not. Gonna. Happen. Again. Is it, darling?"
You shake your head. In fact, your whole body shakes in his arms at the velvet tone he's using. You have noticed that his voice never becomes angry, it's always smooth, docile, the kind that raises goosebumps on your skin and damps every piece of underwear you put on.
"Say it."
You gulp first, gasping when his chest presses so close that your nipples harden instantly, but then you comply. "It won't happen again."
"Good girl."
And if you'd ever thought you'd been compliant, now is the moment when you completely surrender. You let Tom take you in his arms and kiss you passionately, you let him walk you towards your closet and position you with your hands on the door. You even let him spread your legs with a tap of his foot and bend over your spine to an angle that suits him. Anything he wants, you're willing to give him. Even if at the end you don't even come. It's not the high that you crave right now. It's the intense pleasure you know he can give you on the way up.
Tom drops a loud kiss on your shoulder before he pulls away, moving his hands to the hem of your shirt, bundling up the fabric as he drags them slowly up your spine. He stops at the top of your back, leaving your clothes alone, draped over your shoulders and falling around your sides, your breasts pulling down in response to gravity.
You feel your nipples taut and tight, wishing he was kissing them instead, but you let him do as he pleases anyway. So you wait, in silence, for his next move or his first order. Your eyes are on the mirror in front of you, your face too close, his too out of sight. It will be impossible not to look at yourself as he works his devilish plan.
The thoughts stop when you hear and feel your knickers rip under his hands. You watch them fall between your legs, and right after them, Tom falls to his knees.
"Gonna kiss this pussy goodnight," he whispers. Before you can process what he said, he's got two handfuls of your arse and his face on your cunt.
"Oh fuck," you whisper, squeezing your eyes closed at the pressure. The next thing you know is his arms wrapping around your thighs as he holds you against his mouth and starts sucking hard on your folds. You moan, pressing your forehead into the cold surface. Eyes closed, refusing to look.
Tom alternates between suction and little flicks of his tongue until you're panting and shaking and grinding back against his face.
"You gotta stay still," he says in a mumble, tracing his tongue across your slit. "You gotta stay quiet, too. C'mon, you don't want Harrison to hear you, do you? Hm? Do you?"
You don't dare to reply, of course, clamping your lips tightly so nothing comes out. There's still a few hums that escape, too loud and too big for your throat. Tom tuts when he hears them, shaking his head which you can tell from the way his nose brushes your pussy.
"Tom," you keen, trying to keep your voice to a minimum though you can't stop your hips from chasing the heat from his mouth.
His hands tighten around your flesh and you hold still, understanding that's what he wants. You obey, moaning aloud but immediately shutting your mouth closed again.
With a single look to the right, you can see the open door. The hallway echoes despite being so small, so you try to be careful. You try your hardest, in fact, but Tom doesn't make it easy for you. He stops the teasing altogether, sliding one of his hands over the back of your thigh until he reaches the center.
"So fucking wet, baby girl," he praises. "How do you always taste so damn good?"
Tom takes one long, heavy lick upwards, his whole tongue collecting your fluids, before he shifts his hand and slips a thumb into you. You can feel its entire shape, the prominent knuckle, the scrape of his nail on your walls, his deliberate pumps in and out of you.
You clench around it mindlessly as a fog blinds your eyes. Sensation starts to build in your gut, spiraling upward and upward until your head is a mesh of colorful lights. It's so fucking intense. The culmination of a whole evening of teasing each other with watchful looks and featherlight touches. The memories and the current heat swirl inside you and threaten to blow.
"Fuck, Tom, I'm so close," you warn through a sigh, completely aware that he will want to know. That's the basics of orgasm denial as you know them. He'll drive you up to the peak of your high, but won't let you cross the finish line.
"Good girl," he mutters in response, placing a kiss on the apex of your thigh as a reward, but he doesn't pull away yet. He retreats his thumb and replaces it with two other fingers, thrusting in and out, crooking them persistently against your spot. When he presses his nose to the side of your entrance, the tip of his tongue starts toying with your clit back and forth, back and forth, light as a feather, before he sucks it into his mouth again.
"Ah—" you gasp, way too loud. But your mouth doesn't stay shut this time. Your lips touch the surface of the mirror, no longer cold from you breathing on it all this time. Your tongue traces the inside of your teeth in a last attempt for control, arms buckling weakly, legs just the same, as you start to tremble under Tom's doing.
You're close, you're dangerously close and right on the verge of coming. You can perceive the tension in your belly, the coil twisting and turning, your pussy clenching around his digits. So close to giving in to it. Wanting it desperately, toes curling and waiting for it to crash over you.
But then he stops.
He pulls away completely with a gasp. His fingers pull out, his nose and tongue and hands let you go. You almost collapse at his knees, legs shaking, too weak from the pleasure, but Tom's arms do come around you carefully. He's back on his feet now, holding you against his chest, caressing your hair and mumbling your name in soft whispers.
"I got you, I got you," he says in praise, "you did so well, baby. Took everything I gave you so well. Fuck, you looked so good too. Bloody stunning. Fuck. Almost made me come in my boxers. I love that."
As he talks, Tom guides you to the bed and lays you down slowly. When you look at him, he's got a gentle smile on his face as he continues to caress your head.
"Did so good for me," he goes on and on, telling you everything you like to hear. "Looked so gorgeous. Did you see yourself in the mirror, huh? Your face— god, your face was so beautiful. Fuck, how did I get this fucking lucky?"
When he stops, it's to kiss you. Not as softly anymore. There's hunger in his moves, his hands tugging on your shirt and crawling under it, across your skin, all the way to your breasts.
"Wanna go again? I'll let you come this time," he says with a chuckle. You can't imagine how fast you're gonna crumble if he touches you between the legs again. You're probably going to combust because the coil in your belly is still there, twisting, crying out desperately for release.
"I'd like that," you say nonetheless, spreading your feet until his body falls in between. "You were... so good," you compliment him within a mutter, grabbing his face and kissing him in full. Mouths and tongues crashing, reaching for the roof of his mouth as far as you can go.
"Oh fuck," you moan when his crotch ruts against yours. That's when you realize how hard he is, that he didn't touch himself while he was eating you out. And before you owe him anything other than a fantasy, you curl a leg around his and try to spin.
"Does your offer still stand?" you ask when Tom lands on his back gracefully. Immediately his tongue returns to its faithful spot against yours. He kisses like a maniac, with hunger. Chasing after your taste with passion and fire.
A fire that grows right in the center of your chest yet again, just from the swipe of his hands over your hips. He grabs your sides and sits you on top of him, keeping your core dangerously close to his cock. You're not sure how long you're gonna last if he does this, but he doesn't seem to mind. He only grabs a handful of your buttocks and pulls you forward.
"Ngh," you moan indistinctly, gritting your teeth so you aren't too loud.
"Gonna make me come, aren't you, baby girl?" Tom goads, helping you move back and forth over his erection.
Fortunately, it doesn't take him too long. He sits up and mouths one of your tits through the shirt, his tongue curling around the nipple as though there's no fabric at all. He gets it wet, and makes you wetter than ever. You grind down on him because it feels so good, your clit swollen and crying out for friction, the muscles inside tensing up around your pleasure.
One, two, three more thrusts of your hips and his arms clasp around you until you can't breathe. Tom collects your mouth into a frantic kiss, panting into the back of your throat, muffling his shout as he shakes beneath you.
"Fuck yeah, oh fuck," you can perceive a few curses as he rides it out, hands on your waist, keeping you down on him, driving you stupidly nuts from the heat that twirls up to your brain yet again. So you try to focus on him, placing little kisses on his face as his frown softens.
Tom breaks the kiss and pants against your lips, muttering your name and baby girl over and over again, "So good to me, holy fuck."
You do love when he's like this, head so wrapped up in his pleasure that his words come out like mewls.
As his torso falls down on the bed, his hands are still tight around you. He's moving you softly over him now, riding his own high out, but it's too dangerous. You try to warn him, try to tell him that there's a burning string of rope in your belly about to snap, but your tongue curls around your teeth. It's incapacitating, the mix of his pleasure and his control over you.
"Gonna come—" you manage to utter. And he grinds you down over his middle until your body starts to contort, hands squeezing his pecs, thighs closing in around his sides. The pleasure fogs your eyes and twists your belly, trembling down your legs and off of your feet as you collapse on top of him.
"Fuck." You breathe out. "Fuck."
"That was hot," he muses, turning you both on your sides to cuddle up into you.
Tom grins at you, brushing his chin against your breast before he kisses the nipple that's still poking through the shirt. You gasp and take a deep breath, twice, letting him play with your chest as he wishes.
"Love sucking your tits," he murmurs against your sternum.
"Love your mouth," you answer. Tom pinches one of your nipples gently, mouthing it right after to soothe it away. Touching and rubbing his palms over the both of them, too, as he crawls up to kiss your mouth.
Just once. Softly. A promise that the night's over for now.
As you clean up in the bathroom together a few minutes later, Tom is helping you dry your back when he gasps. "Oh, I almost forgot," he says, sounding rushed, "I got you something." Then he throws the towel into your hands and bolts out the door.
Not giving it much thought as you finish up, you don't wait for him to come back. You find him in your room when you walk in, fresh and smelling nicely, and he's got a paper bag in his hand. It's the same one he was carrying when you all got home a while ago, you can tell as much, you just don't know what it contains.
"What's that?" you ask as you close the door, retrieving it from his extended hand shortly after. "It'd better be a new pair of panties."
"It's not." Tom chuckles, and you can tell he's eyeing your chest. You're in your knickers and a clean, white t-shirt since the last one you wore had to be thrown into the laundry basket after he ruined it with his eager mouth.
"Alright, I didn't buy it myself, it was my mum," he explains. You still don't get it, but you listen to him because he sounds extremely excited. It's not common for him to give you any presents, though he is known for other types of small gestures, but his enthusiasm rubs off on you a little bit. "I told her your size—"
"Oh, so that's why you texted me about it the other day?"
"Yes!" Tom grins. "C'mon, open it. It's perfect for tomorrow."
"Hm. Tomorrow?" You hesitate now. Tomorrow you're going golfing with him, so you figure that this is related. Under his ecstatic gaze, you dive into the bag and pull out the black garment he hid inside. "What's this?"
"A golf skirt!"
"Uhh, these are skorts," you point out shrewdly as you examine what you're holding.
"What!" he exclaims, gaping at you and snatching the piece of clothing from your hands. "That bloody woman. I told her I wanted a skirt."
"Sorry?"
The skort is quite cute, actually, with a small pocket on the side and a thin belt wrapped around the waist that matches the small logo on the hem. It also looks like it would look good if you were to wear it. You're not sure how Tom's mother was able to buy something so on-point for you, but maybe she knows you better than you think from the few times you've hung out at her house.
"Ugh. How am I supposed to fuck you in this?" he groans, holding them by the crotch in front of his face.
"Did you tell your mum that's what you wanted this for?" you question him.
"Of course not," he huffs, annoyed at the way his own mother just cockblocked him.
"Then how was she supposed to know?"
"Argh. She's gonna hear about this..." he mumbles, shoving the skorts back into the bag. "Anyway, I'll send these back. But, the idea is that you'll have a proper golf skirt to cover your gorgeous thighs when I pound your hot, wet pussy at the golf course."
You grin at his filthy words, embracing him around the shoulders to offer your comfort.
"Did you not like the skirt I wore the other day?"
"No, I loved it," Tom clarifies, pecking your mouth. "But one of these feels more... professional. And you want to look the part, don't you?"
"Haha, sure," you muse, remembering something similar he said when he was helping you with your swing. "Did you get me a cap too?"
Tom laughs. "No, I didn't."
"Guess I'll have to wear one of yours, then."
"You'll look sexy in them," he says, setting the bag down at random and moving to push the bed covers.
You look at the bag where it lies at the foot of your dresser. You appreciate this gift Tom got for you. It may seem frivolous, but you can't help the tug that tips the corners of your mouth upwards.
"Thank you," you mutter to him when you're already in bed. "I'm really sorry it wasn't the skirt you wanted."
Tom curls up further on his side, his back to your chest tonight, and nuzzles closer to you as he hums. You wrap a hand around his waist and the stroke of his fingers interlocking with yours is the last thing you feel before you pass out.
~ ⛳️ ~