Pretty

She's on top of him, saddled neatly over his hips and grinning down at him, her mouth an uneven shade of pink where her lipstick used to be. Her hair has come loose from its glittering pins, and when she leans down for him to take a nipple into his mouth, it brushes his jaw, his ear, the bones of his shoulders. He's inside of her all the way, deepdeepdeep, and Penelope is squeezing and rocking and ssss-ing and ohhhh-ing, calling him Doctor, telling him yes and more and saying please, and this -- this -- is exactly how he wants to die. He wants to go out in a blinding flash of orgasm, bang! like a bullet, only quicker, harder; bang! -- his heart exploding and her ecstatic smile the last thing that he sees.

"God," she mutters, "oh, God," then she reaches forward to cup his chin and runs her thumb over his parted, panting lips. "God, you're pretty."

He's just at that place where he can still make words -- just -- and he can't help himself, even now, so he shakes his head and gasps out a no, you.

Then she stops. Her body goes still, and she stops rocking, and she stops squeezing, and her eyes open wide, something sharp glinting in them, and Spencer knows that he's in trouble. They've been here before, over and around and through it, and she's told him he's just supposed to say thank you and move on. It's hard, though. Arguing is what he's always done best, and he isn't pretty, and he isn't sexy. He's a pipecleaner with eyes. He's the last one picked in phys ed. He's the scrawny thing tied to the goalpost, skin and bones and ridicule. He's the one passed over at the bar; the one who can't get a date; the one who makes jokes that no one understands.

Well. No one but Penelope, anyway.

But she insists, and when Penelope insists, she becomes the unstoppable force to his immovable object. Or, rather, at the moment, he supposes, she's the immovable object, pinning down the unstoppable force of his thrusts with her mischievous disapproval and position of authority.

"What did I tell you?" she asks, pushing his lower lip into a pout with the pad of her thumb. Then she starts squeezing again, making herself so tight around him that he shudders beneath her.

"That I should... learn to... take a compliment," he manages, the pressure getting unbearable, and in his head, he remembers that she also told him never argue with a woman who's riding you, and he thinks that's probably the wisest advice he's ever been given.

"Right," she says, her smile broadening across her face. "Now I'm going to punish you." Spencer groans, hard and loud, and Penelope laughs, and her laughter makes it even better, and suddenly he's got that sensation in his belly and his muscles are taut, and if she laughs again he's just going to come. She feels the change ripple through his body and shakes her head, and she stills herself atop him. "No way, Doctor," she says. "I am withholding your orgasm until further notice."

"What?! No, you... that's not fair!"

"All's fair in love and...." Penelope's head tips back and she bites her lip, her words dying in her throat as Spencer presses back into the mattress and angles himself to hit the spot inside of her that renders her incoheret and incapable of sound. She's tough, though -- probably the toughest woman he's ever known -- and she recovers quickly, tightening her thighs against his hips and pressing one hand into the center of his chest, breathing hard. "No. That's cheating. You know you only get a cheating pass in Poker."

His pulse is everywhere, and his last ditch effort to distract her has only made it worse, and everything inside of him is throbbing and insisting and needing, and she is beautiful and glowing and his, and all he wants to do is come for her. He is, essentially now, putty. And he knows it. And so does she.

"Unless..." Her face lights up, and she shifts a little, and he can feel her muscles trembling, and he knows that she's probably as close as he is. The thought is consoling and a little endearing -- that she is withholding her own pleasure at the same time -- so Spencer nods at her from his prone position to continue. "Tell me five things you love about your body, Dr. Sex, and I'll make you come so hard you forget your own name."

"Five?" he says, and it comes out of his mouth in a strangled groan, and she smiles wider. "I don't... I can't even think right now!"

"Oh, dear. What a shame. I guess..."

"My scar," he says suddenly, spitting out the first thought that runs through his consciousness. "On my knee. It make me look tough."

He can see Penelope biting down on her mouth, trying not to laugh him into an orgasm before she's ready for it, and he smiles up at her sheepishly. "One," she counts, and drags her nails down his chest.

Spencer gasps and grabs two handfuls of bedsheet, and for a moment he forgets what he's supposed to be doing. She pinches his nipple and cocks her head impatiently.

"Hands," he says. "I like my hands. Magic!"

Penelope leans forward, pressing her lips into his sweaty forehead. "I like them, too. They do all sorts of magic. And?"

"My brain!"

"Doesn't count."

"It's an organ!" he says. "It's a body part! It counts."

"You can't see it."

"You never said..."

"Do you want to come or not?" she teases, sliding her lips sideways and taking his earlobe into her mouth. She sucks, hard, and he wriggles against her, involuntarily now, his whole body buzzing.

"Yes," he says. "Fine. My... cheekbones," he stammers, and Penelope almost laughs at him again, but licks his ear instead.

"Good choice," she whispers, and the heat of her breath against the spot where she's licked makes him shiver. She grins and licks again, swirling her tongue around, and he bucks up against her, slipping in deeper. It's just a centimeter or so, but she bites down and makes a noise that makes Spencer's heart leap into his mouth. "Three," she says, her voice higher, breathier, almost desperate, and neither one of them wants to wait for five anymore. "Okay, one more," she concedes, and he feels her grinding down against him, getting friction. "You're getting off easy."

Spencer feels her smile against his skin at her own double entendre, and suddenly, the need to hear her noise, that breathless thing she does just before she falls apart, is so strong that he says, "My cock."

She rewards his boldness and gives him what he wants, a sharp gasp right against his ear, an oh fuuuuck, a roll of her hips, and a resounding four.

"Me, too," she moans, sitting up straight and squeezing him so tight he sees things explode behind his eyes, and then she's riding him again hard, her head thrown back and her eyes closed, and he's keeping pace, and it's over in a matter of seconds. The sensations stack up along his spine, cresting over themselves like waves, and he comes with a shout, clutching Penelope's fingers so hard he hears her knuckles crack.

He blinks up to find her watching him, intent and fascinated and adoring, and he realizes in that moment how utterly beautiful she really does find him, and he lets go and gives her everything.

She waits until his grip on her hands relaxes and his gaze is hooded and satisfied, and then she brings his hand between her legs. He slides his thumb over her clit, slick with his come and with how wet she is for him, and she lets him watch.

Spencer thinks, as Penelope arches and moans and calls him by his name, that his no, you was absolutely correct; that there is no way on earth that he will ever be as pretty as she is -- never even approach it. But then, neither will anyone else. And he intends to let her know that.