Your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, breath caught in your throat, Jimmy‘s body already pressing into yours like he belongs there.

The trailer smells like liquor and sweat and heat. Clothes are scattered on the floor his shirt, your dress, a mess of shoes kicked somewhere near the door. Neither of you meant for this to happen. But drinks blurred the lines. And now his mouth is on your chest, his fingers inside you, and there’s no going back.

You’re drunk. He is too. But you both know exactly what you’re doing.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin. “You feel so good already.”

You moan, arching into him, your hips rolling in time with his hand. His eyes are dark, hungry not a trace of the usual playfulness. Just want. Pure and sharp.

He climbs over you, grabbing a condom from the nightstand like it’s second nature, sliding it on with practiced ease. Then he’s lining himself up one slow drag of his length through your wetness before pushing in, inch by inch, deep and perfect.

Your nails claw at his back, gasping his name.

“Jimmy”

“Shh,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Just feel.”

He thrusts again, hard this time, and you break a moan so loud he grins against your mouth.

“Louder,” he groans. “Let them fucking hear you.”

His pace builds fast, rough, relentless. You meet every movement with your own, legs wrapped around his waist, bodies slick and messy and desperate.

He hits that spot, again and again, until your voice is nothing but gasps and curses.

“You’re so tight,” he pants, hips snapping. “So fucking perfect.”

You lose it then legs shaking, back arching, crying out his name like it’s the only word you remember. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck, groaning into your skin as he spills into you, shaking from the force of it.