Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12781830.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Riverdale_(TV_2017)
  Relationship:
      Veronica_Lodge/Fred_Andrews, Fred_Andrews_&_Veronica_Lodge
  Character:
      Veronica_Lodge, Fred_Andrews, Archie_Andrews, squint_for_some_Betty
  Additional Tags:
      Minor_Betty_Cooper/Veronica_Lodge, Age_Difference, Convenient_storm,
      Older_Man/Younger_Woman
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-21 Words: 6821
****** Footloose Man ******
by bea_meupscotty
Summary
     Veronica goes to the Andrews' house to expose her mother's lies. She
     doesn't get what she wants, but she finds what she needs.
Notes
     au post S01 E06 (i've been writing this for a while guys). Title from
     You Can't Always Get What You Want, by the Rolling Stones.
     My very first published fic, and very first smut, so be kind and
     gentle and constructive! Thank you!
She’d thought she’d have a plan by the time she arrived at the door. She’d had
some half-formed thoughts—fuzzy images of her yelling, Mr. Andrews’ astonished
face, vague denunciations of her mother, Archie looking sheepish in a corner,
filled with regrets about his behavior towards her after seeing her bravery in
exposing her mother. It had all seemed straightforward in her mind, but as the
door swung open to reveal Mr. Andrews, framed by the shabby but well-kept
facade of their quaint house, bathed in the soft light seeping into the hallway
from the adjacent kitchen, everything slipped out of her head.
“Veronica,” Archie’s dad said, his tone clearly surprised but not unwelcoming,
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Archie’s not here, I think he’s out
celebrating with Val…” His words trailed off a little towards the end of
sentence, as if he had only just thought through the ramifications—girl on
doorstep for his son, son off with another girl. She hadn’t been here to see
each Archie, of course, but it didn’t stop the pang of
angerpainjealousyrighteousoutrage from bubbling up inside of her chest as she
thought of Archie kissing Valerie in the hallway after the variety show—after
everything she’d done to make that moment onstage happen for him, it was Val
who won. Her chin raised higher, almost imperceptibly, and she might not have
noticed she’d even done it had she not seen the glint of something very close
to pity in Mr. Andrews’ kind eyes.
She cleared her throat, buying herself time, because she hadn’t really thought
through how not to sound like a crazy person, ranting about her mother’s
involvement with the River Serpents and forged signatures. “Why aren’t you out
celebrating yourself?” Veronica asked, words half-curiosity and half-bravado.
“I know Riverdale isn’t much of a ‘popping bottles’ type of place but surely
this contract at least merits a slice of apple pie, or whatever your particular
brand of Little House wholesome celebration is.” She distinctly does not notice
the way the corners of Archie’s dad’s eyes crinkle when he laughs or how soft
and husky said laugh is, not at all, because he is Archie’s dad. He gestured
towards the kitchen, and her eyes gratefully followed his hand away from his
eyes to a sturdy-looking table covered in papers. “Unfortunately, celebrations
will have to wait; paperwork calls.” The light-hearted chuckle fell out of his
voice. “I don’t know how much your mom tells you—“ Veronica’s heart skipped a
beat, pulse quickening as she recalled the sight of her mother tangled up in
Fred Andrews’ arms, the anger surfacing again quickly at his sheer daring to
bring it up—“about the business, but… this contract is a big deal for us.
Things were… a little touch and go. I’m just grateful the mayor heard me out
and, clearly, said some good things to this mystery buyer. The sooner we get
things in order and ready to go, the better.”
Veronica astutely avoided thinking about the way her throat tightened as he
spoke, and turned her gaze back to him as he ran a hand through his hair, his
gaze somewhere far-off, before he cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m sure you
don’t care about an old man’s problems.” She cast her eyes guiltily back to the
kitchen table, realizing with a rush of cold through her veins just how
painfully childish her plan, even viewed in its most generous light, had been.
That she’d storm in, yell about how her mom had hurt her, had ruined her
perfect image of their family all together again, had betrayed her trust, and
Mr. Andrews was going to, even if he somehow believed her, fall all over
himself to jeopardize his business for the sake of what—Veronica’s feelings?
This wasn’t high school, and, even in Riverdale, outside of the world of
teenagers she wasn’t a queen. She was barely even a piece on the board. She bit
her lip and turned away, hoping the darkness hid her face flushed with shame
and frustration and impotence. “I guess I should leave you alone then.”
She hadn’t even turned all the way around when a sudden clap of thunder ripped
through the air around them, rattling the door and windows, and a whistling
gust of chill fall air made her pull her coat tighter around her. “Did you walk
here?” Archie’s dad was suddenly all… dad-like, in a way she associated more
with the dads she’d seen on wholesome TV sitcoms and read about in books for
preteens than her own father’s behavior. All concern, warm voice, a hand
resting gently on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t be out when this storm hits. Let
me drive you home.”
“No,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended, wincing inwardly as he
withdrew his hand from her shoulder as if she’d burned him. “I mean… no thank
you. You said you’re busy, and I’d hate to impose.” Truthfully, the thought of
being deposited on her mother’s doorstep like a lost puppy found away from
home, her plan laid bare before her mother’s knowing frown, the way Hermione
would feign concern in front of Mr. Andrews, the perfect mother, as if she
weren’t entangling all of them in her web of lies—all of it made her veins sing
with the sharp visceral anger that had brought her here in the first place.
Mr. Andrews still leaned in the doorway, looking at her with seemingly genuine
concern, as the wind picked up and howled its way down the street, tree limbs
creaking and leaves scattered in its wake. “Well I can’t let you go out in
this, your mom would kill me. At least wait the storm out here, if you won’t
let me drive you.” She pressed her lips together tightly as she looked out at
the swirling clouds of the sky behind her, and the disappointingly dark windows
of the Cooper home next door. The thought of waiting in Archie’s dark house,
reminded at every turn of her own impotence in the face of her mother’s schemes
and of Archie’s absence (with Val) made her want to turn tail and sprint home,
storm be damned, but as soon as the decision was within reach a bolt of
lightning split the sky in front of her and, mere seconds later, the door frame
rattled with another almighty clap of thunder. Mr. Andrews didn’t say anything,
didn’t pressure her or order her around for her own good like all of the other
parents she knew, but instead he just looked at her expectantly, one eyebrow
raised. She caved. “Alright. I suppose I’ll just have to impose, then.”
She followed Archie’s dad inside the house none too soon. As she shut the door
behind her she heard rain begin to pelt the windows fiercely. She hesitated
before continuing awkwardly behind Mr. Andrews as he strode towards the
kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” he said over his shoulder as he pulled two
glasses from a cabinet and began filling one with water. “Water’s fine,
please,” she said, detesting the deepening of this unsteady feeling she’d had
ever since she’d seen her mother at the drive-in; more than anything she wanted
to wake up back in New York, having never even heard of Riverdale. A blonde
ponytail flashed through her mind at that thought, but she quickly pushed it
out of her mind; even if that smile was the sunshine in her otherwise stormy
Riverdale existence, her life was undoubtedly simpler before any of this. She
crossed her arms and let her bored eyes travel around the shabby
kitchen—obviously no one had done any decorating since Archie’s mom had
left—before they lit on a bottle of Macallan resting unobtrusively on the
counter.
“Mr. Andrews, you’ve been holding out!” she said, walking over and running a
darkly manicured nail across the label. “You have this and you’re still not
celebrating your big contract?”
He turned to her from the sink, eyes widened in surprise and admiration. “I
guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’d know to appreciate a fine bottle like
that,” he said, smiling at her warmly. After a beat, they both spoke, words
overlapping in a jumble. “It was a gift from your mother”—“It was my father’s
favorite whisky.” Just like that the moment between them broke, and the
discomfort rushed back into Veronica’s chest like a cold wave. Mr. Andrews
dropped his eyes to the floor, and Veronica thought bitterly that at least he
had the decency to know to be ashamed. She almost felt bad for him—her mother
was so busy moving on from her father she couldn’t even be bothered to figure
out a new default gift. Something cold and sour was rising in Veronica’s throat
and she swallowed thickly, her eyes falling on the bottle.
“Let’s celebrate, Mr. Andrews. You deserve it.” She chose her words carefully,
spoke them sharply and clearly, as if she were in a class on elocution. She
cast one sharp glance over at him, still looking sheepish by his sink, as she
deftly uncapped the bottle and took two glasses from a drying rack. “Veronica
I—I don’t think this is a good idea. You’re not—you can’t yet—what would your
mother think?” Mr. Andrews, eyes still guilty, sputtered in the face of
Veronica’s cool self-prepossession, the way she poured them both two careful
fingers as if this were her house and he was the visitor. She cast an imperial
glance over at him, one corner of her mouth quirking upward in a smile that
didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her…
right, Mr. Andrews?” Archie’s dad made a few noises of protest, but took the
proffered glass of whiskey, looking appropriately bowled over by the force of
nature that was a Lodge woman.
“Cheers,” she said, stepping forward to clink her glass against Mr. Andrews’.
“To… winning.” She held his eyes with her own as she took a confident sip,
sighing contentedly at the smooth smoke and the pleasant fire that began
curling in the pit of her stomach. His brows knitted together in concern, but
he matched her sip and then sat down heavily at the kitchen table with nothing
but a sigh.
As another strong gust of wind sent the house creaking around them, Veronica
slipped out of her coat, reasoning that she might as well get comfortable if
she was going to be trapped here. She felt rather than heard the stifled intake
of breath as she unwrapped the trench coat and dropped it onto a waiting chair,
and looked up just in time to catch Mr. Andrews’ eyes flitting away from her
and her ridiculous Pussycat outfit, his face solemn and gaze fixed on a
particularly interesting linoleum tile. It was too bad she could see the slight
flush rising on his chest, right where the top button of his flannel shirt was
undone—just like Archie.
As she took another large sip of the Macallan, thought about the way that her
father had taught her to appreciate its complexities and savor it, gazed across
the table at Mr. Andrews and his kind eyes and the way the muscles in his arms
flexed as he shuffled his papers to clear them from the kitchen table, felt the
Macallan burn its way through her veins—her jumbled thoughts began to coalesce
into something that made even her faulty conscience’s alarm bells ring. She
quickly pushed the doubts to the back of her mind, taking another sip of
Macallan—Veronica Lodge did not let other people win, not Val, not Archie
Andrews, not even her own mother. What was it that she had said to Betty?
Revenge—“all dark, no stars”. The thought of Betty’s own all dark no stars sent
a shiver of fire down her spine, something darkly electric curling its way into
her chest, and, imagining the fruits of her plan, holding the images in her
mind’s eye, she suddenly felt alive and in control for the first time in a long
while. She understood now, she thought, why Betty had done what she’d done.
“Truth or truth, Mr. Andrews,” she said, raising an impeccably-shaped eyebrow
as she met his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Veronica, this is already more than a
little inappropriate that I’m letting you drink. I hardly think a drinking game
is a good addition.” His tone was firm but not sharp, brooking no argument but
not harsh. She tilted her head, wide dark eyes looking innocently up at him.
“Well, if you’d rather listen to the storm in awkward silence, be my guest. I
just thought that we should take this opportunity to get to know each other,
since I assume we’ll be seeing rather a lot of each other and it’s probably
better for both of us if this is more Brady Bunch than Parent Trap.” She
watched as his face fell, the defeat settling in as he realized he’d been
outmaneuvered. He took another sip of his Macallan, rough hands gripping the
glass tightly as he sighed. “Truth, I suppose.”
She grinned, then, a real grin, and appreciated that the look on his face
seemed to reflect that he knew he was in over his head. Soon she had learned
that his favorite color was red, that he’d built this house himself for he and
Archie’s mom, that when he was in high school he played football but he wasn’t
ever great at it and so he was prouder of Archie’s talent than he knew he had
any reasonable right to be, that he’d always wanted to climb a mountain (“which
mountain?” “I guess I’ve never thought that far. any mountain would do.” “dream
bigger, Mr. Andrews. my suggestion is Mt. Rainier. you already seem to have
that Pacific Northwest rugged aesthetic down.”), that his biggest fear was to
let down Archie and his crew, the people who relied on him, that when he was in
high school he had the biggest crush on her mom, but she had big plans to go to
New York and do something big and real with her life and no time for a boy who
liked the woods and building things with his hands and had roots in Riverdale
as deep as those reaching beneath the ancient oaks down by Sweetwater River.
She found herself telling him all the things she missed about New York
(“Barneys and Chelsea Market and fusion pizza with kimchi” “kimchi?” “fermented
vegetables—don’t you dare make that face until you try it!”) and all the things
she loved about Riverdale, despite herself (“the way you can get out somewhere
where it’s really, actually quiet to think, all the stars you can see at night,
the way the whole place comes together for things like Jason’s memorial and the
closing of the drive-in, even though the rest of the time you’re way more Twin
Peaks than Mayberry”), about Cheryl Blossom and her terrible parents and the
way that the mean girl had a heart beneath it all, about how she knew about
Cheryl’s heart because she’d been like Cheryl, about how she’d tried to
reinvent herself in Riverdale, about Chuck and sticky maples and the way she
still felt dirty when she saw boys from the football team looking at her in the
hallway or heard girls whispering behind her back. She noticed his hand
gripping his whisky glass so tightly he went white-knuckled—she knew, somehow,
that he was the type of father whose daughter no one would dare treat that way,
and the thought of Mr. Andrews, with his solid chest and construction-hardened
muscles, shoving Chuck away from her, defending her against the skeezy football
player, combined with the warm weight of his hand gently squeezing her arm in
comfort made something clench low in Veronica’s stomach.
She poured them each another glass, noting the rapidly dwindling bottle. “Ok,
Mr. Andrews,” she said, leaning forward with a hint of something dark and
mischievous in her eye, “What did you think of my Pussycats performance
tonight? Honestly.” He took a sip of whisky, nothing about the initial question
raising his guard. “It was great, Veronica, really. You’re a very talented
singer.” She bit her lip, looking back up at him and noting the places his eyes
lingered. “But the Pussycats aren’t just about singing. They have an… image, a
brand, and I wasn’t sure if I was enough.” She stood up, smoothing down
imaginary wrinkles in her leotard. “I mean, I look ridiculous, right? More like
a mouse than a cat.” she laughed, giving a smooth spin. She looked down to see
Mr. Andrews’ grip on his glass tighten, his eyes a few shades darker, his voice
a shade rougher than normal, as he spoke, hesitantly. “You look… great,
Veronica. Very, uh, feline.” She felt herself shiver as she met his eyes—she
may have started this evening in unfamiliar territory but that was a look that
she knew very well.
She sat back down, leaning forward with an eyebrow raised. “Your turn, Mr.
Andrews.” He took a large sip—more accurate to call it a gulp, really—of his
whisky before looking her squarely in eyes, and she suddenly felt much less in
control than she had thirty seconds ago. His eyes were dark, but they were
sharp and deadly serious, and the tone in his voice was deceptively calm as he
asked her, “Why did you come here, Veronica?” It was her turn to gulp down her
whisky, buying herself time to choose her words carefully, make her answer just
right. “To celebrate, Mr. Andrews.” Her voice was low and raspy, her eyes
flashing dark as she leaned over to top off his glass. As she started to pour
more into her own glass, she felt his rough fingers wrap around her wrist. “I
think that’s enough for you.” Her mouth fell open in protest, but he gave her
that look, the one reserved for when he was actually serious, and her lips
pressed together in protest as she sat the bottle back down. As she slipped her
hand out of his grip, she let her nails gently scrape against the soft skin of
his arm, and he jerked it back towards him as if she were fire.
She felt like she was on fire, between the smoky tang of whisky on her tongue
and the dark pounding of the rain and the guarded way Mr. Andrews was looking
at her; she felt powerful in a way she hadn’t since that night with her and
Betty at the pool. She scooted her chair closer to Mr. Andrews’, uncrossing her
legs and letting one long stockinged limb brush against his rough jeans. He
took a deep breath and an impressively impassive sip of whisky. “Do I look just
like my mom, when she was in high school?” She held her breath, watching his
eyes, but instead of tracing her curves they met her own, dark and pupils
dilated with the dim and the lust, but still kind and filled with pity, and
Veronica’s breath caught in her chest because that was not how this was
supposed to go. He was supposed to melt into her, and she would pull away,
laugh at the old man who couldn’t resist her charms, and crow in the knowledge
that at least she had this over her mother, over Archie—she could steal this
away from them, if she’d wanted to. Which she wasn’t supposed to want to, of
course. It was the principle of the thing. But instead of melting, he was
looking at her sadly, rough hand coming up to cup her face in a way that wasn’t
nearly as lust-crazed as she’d envisioned. “Not at all like your mother,” he
said, and—that wasn’t what she’d expected.
She surged forward, arms searching for leverage as she pressed her lips against
his fiercely—all emotion, no finesse—though, she wanted to note for the record,
she had finesse in spades. Her hands came to rest against his chest, curling
into the soft flannel and she felt his intake of breath as her nails scratched
lightly against the bit of exposed chest. No, this was certainly not how she
had planned it, but something about him and his answer had taken her breath
away (an unspoken question he’d known to answer), and she desperately needed to
steal it back from him.
She felt a gentle pressure, hands at her shoulders, and she leaned back, hands
still clasping desperately at the front of his shirt, eyes closed so that her
whole world narrowed to soft flannel and the haggard sound of their shallow,
panting breaths.
“Veronica…” She could hear that he intended his tone to be stern and strong,
but there was a desperate broken quality at the end of the way he said her name
that snapped her eyes open. He had her dark cherry lipstick smeared around his
lips, his collar mussed and tugged low from the way she clung to it, his eyes
wide, breathing shallow—he looked wrecked, and all they’d done was kiss.
Veronica felt another dark surge of electricity course through her body
(Betty’s heel on Chuck’s head the smell of maple syrup and chlorine). “Why did
you really come here, Veronica?”
She stood up from her chair and closed the gap between them, mere inches before
she was standing between his legs—she noted the way he grasped the armrests of
the small dining chair like he was drowning and it would keep him
afloat—looking down at him. She leaned over, draped herself over him until her
mouth was right next to his ear, and she could feel the way his chest rose and
fell quickly beneath her hands. “To… see you,” she whispered into his ear. She
meant it to be coquettish, but her tone came out just raw. It wasn’t the whole
truth, but it was closer than she’d ever meant to get. Veronica heard Mr.
Andrews’ breath catch beneath her, and then he turned his head to kiss her
again, and where last time had been fast and hot and desperate, this time he
kissed her slowly, sensually, deeply, had her falling into the kiss with a
whimper. Kissing Archie, she had felt butterflies in her stomach, tingling in
her limbs, warmth spread through her veins—but kissing Mr. Andrews felt like a
wildfire, felt like he was going to devour her body and soul and she would walk
into the flames quite willingly. She felt his hand flutter helplessly against
her waist, her hip, and back to her waist again, as if he were unsure if this
were still real and, if it were, how close to the edge he could (or should)
get. She reached back and took his rough hand in her own, sliding it down her
body to rest on the curve of her ass, and he groaned into her mouth.
“Veronica…” he said warningly when they paused to breathe, but one thumb traced
delicate circles around her hipbone while the other came up to tangle in her
hair. She kept her eyes on his as she pressed delicate kisses down his neck,
felt his pulse thumping beneath her tongue and bit—not hard, but not gentle
either. She felt him jerk beneath her, and wondered if she’d pushed it too far
(Chuck’s gurgles) but suddenly she was gasping as Mr. Andrews pulled her
roughly into his lap, fingers tightening against her hips, and she felt, rather
than heard, him growl beneath her. She looked up, a wicked grin stealing across
her face, and she watched as a flash of residual guilt in his eyes melted.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to break, Mr. Andrews.”
He began mouthing his way down her exposed neck, tongue tracing delicate
patterns against the creamy skin of her neck, and she pitched forward. Her
fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, despite getting distracted
every few buttons and running through the thicket of coarse hair on his chest,
across his warm, sturdy abs and chest. She brushed a nail against the side of
his nipple and he jerked upwards with a guttural groan, grip on her hips
tightening. She was suddenly, suddenly, very much aware of the bulge in his
jeans, pressing up against her, and she felt as if her skin were two sizes too
tight. She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him against her neck,
her chest, her lips, the scratch of his beard followed by the soothing heat of
his lips and tongue driving her insane. She writhed against him, grinding down
hard, suddenly insatiable, whimpering as she tried to get more—more friction,
more contact, more of everything. Almost without conscious intention, as if
they belonged more to the heat and lust thrumming through her veins than to
anyone named Veronica Lodge, her hands were at his waist, alternately fumbling
with his buckle and zipper and stroking his cock through the rough denim, as if
she couldn’t decide which she needed to do more urgently.Suddenly her frantic
movements were stilled—both of her hands pulled behind her back and held
together by one of Mr. Andrews’, the other of his hands pressing steadily
against her hip. The rushing of her pulse took a few moments to subside, and
then she realized he was shushing her, softly, eyes meeting hers. “Shh, it’s
okay, you’ll be okay… what do you want, Veronica?” “Don’t you have any ideas?”
she said, trying to sound flippant and coquettish, but the low whine in her
throat as she grew impatient and desperate spoke the truth of the matter. He
almost laughed at that, a rough chuckle and a glint in his eyes that she’d
almost call mischievous flashing across his face, before he shook his head. “I
need… I respect you… don’t want to do anything you wouldn’t… I need you to… to
tell me what you want,” he gasped out, his attempts at firmness interrupted by
the soft but rhythmic grinding of Veronica against him. His meaning penetrated
even her lust-filled haze, and she blinked, pausing in her rhythm, and leaned
forward to place one soft, delicate, almost chaste kiss against his chapped
lips.
“Undress me, Mr. Andrews,” she said, a little hesitant at first. Sure, she
preached feminine empowerment and, sure, she was pretty much the bossiest
person she knew, but the genuine way that Mr. Andrews had handed over control
to her (despite, she noted, his ragged breathing, eyes that followed every
breath she took as if it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and his
unflagging erection) felt somehow even more vulnerable than not having any
control at all. His hands came instantly to her shoulders, delicately peeling
the leotard off of her slick skin, until she was out of the sleeves, then her
breasts bared. She stood to let him continue his work, his construction-
roughened hands grabbing her tights with her leotard, pulling inexorably
further down, slowly but deliberately, until she was standing in front of him
in just a flimsy black lace bra and underwear set. He leaned back in the chair,
but the way his eyes drank in her naked form inflamed her as much as if he had
trailed his hands along her body. She stood for a moment, appreciating him
appreciating her, and deciding on a course of action, before she smiled softly.
“Not quite done,” she said, plucking one of his hands and placing it against
the rough lace on her hip. He let his head fall back with a curse as he spread
his fingers across her hip, the feeling of his calloused fingers and the
scratchy lace against her soft skin making Veronica shift, trying to rub the
tops of her legs together, alleviate the need that was growing to a fever pitch
again. His hands left her hip to make short work of her bra, strong fingers
tracing patterns against the delicate skin on the side of her breasts. She let
her eyes drop closed, exhaling shakily as she almost-unconsciously pressed
closer to him. He pulled her underwear down her long legs, hands running the
length of them reverently, and then she was standing in front of him,
completely nude.
He was looking at her with wildness in his eyes, barely controlled lust mixed
with reverence, and Veronica felt heady but exposed, somehow more than usual.
Instinctively an arm went up to cover her bare chest from his penetrating gaze,
but she remembered his gentleness, his control, and she reminded herself she
was only as exposed as she let herself feel, that she was the one in charge
here, after all, and she smoothly took the hand she’d intended to cover one
bare breast and instead palmed her breast with it, kneading and tweaking one of
her own nipples, watching for his reaction. He swore, his hips bucking up
almost imperceptibly, and she felt a rush of heat flash through her veins like
lightning.
“Stand up.” He obeyed immediately, letting his shirt fall the remainder of the
way off of his arms and join her clothes in a crumpled mess near their feet.
She took a long moment to appreciate construction as a career, tracing the
lean, defined lines of his muscles before she stepped forward to finish what
she’d started, her attention now laser-focused. She drew the rest of his zipper
down and removed both his jeans and boxers in one movement, bending down to
help him step out of them and kick them to the side, and then looked up to
realize she was face-to-face with his cock, hard, the tip weeping slightly.
Without warning, she leaned forward just slightly and licked a thick stripe up
the side, following the path of one drop of pre-cum back to its origin. Mr.
Andrews cursed loudly (fuck), stumbling slightly, and she chuckled, low and
throaty, before standing back up. He was still standing in front of her,
waiting patiently as she sized him up, not pushing or grabbing or taking—though
his eyes told her he was thinking about all of those things and more, and she
wondered what he would have done in other circumstances, had she not been so
young, had she not been drinking, had this not had to be the way it was. She
had a flash of a mental image of him bending her over his kitchen table, one
strong, sinewy arm pressing her torso down as he fucked her roughly, the other
wrapped around her body to rub his construction-roughened fingers against her
clit in perfect tiny circles, and she gasped a little at the force of the wave
of arousal that hit her.
She wanted that—wanted him to know that this wasn’t just about what she would
let him do to her, that she was as much a participant as him, that she felt as
desperately hungry for him as he looked for her—and she leaned up, one hand
wrapping around the back of his neck to pull him into her kiss. It began soft,
gentle, reassuring, but soon they were open-mouthed, hot and desperate kisses,
drowning in each other and gasping for air, and she found herself grinding
against his body, feeling his cock rubbing against her stomach, feeling the wet
sticky smear of leaked pre-cum on her, and she was almost dizzy with want. She
stepped backwards and leaned to grab the edge of the table, desperate for
something to balance herself against, legs spread wantonly. “Oh god, touch me,
please.”
He wasted no time in stepping forward, running his hands all over her body—the
thin column of her neck, palming her breasts, down her torso and to the tops of
her thighs, her inner thighs, and Veronica was whining slightly, waiting
desperately for those hands to find exactly where she wanted them, when he sunk
to his knees. She barely had a moment of appreciative comprehension before his
tongue was on her clit, and she was moaning, one hand gripping the table ever
more fiercely and the other tangling in his hair to press his mouth harder
against her. He alternated between long, slow licks that had her grinding
against his face with low moans and quick flicks against her clit that made her
blood sing, and she could only gasp for air. He slid one long, rough finger
into her, then, quickly behind that a second, and it was like her whole body
was falling in on itself, the sensations sliding together into one blinding
streak of pleasure, and then he was sucking her clit into his mouth and she was
drowning in her orgasm, her legs going weak underneath her.
Blinking, she realized that she unexpectedly not hit the floor, but that Mr.
Andrews’ arms were around her legs, pushing her up and onto the table, and he
was looking up at her with a mixture of worship and desperation. She pulled him
up towards her and kissed him again, not even bothering to begin with the
pretense of chastity—this was long, open-mouthed, sloppy, filthy with the taste
of her in his mouth and on her tongue, and he groaned into her mouth, sliding
two fingers into her soaked cunt again. She whimpered, hips riding his fingers,
grinding against the thumb that had come up to rub against her clit, and she
was already beginning to feel the flashes of lightning and low building
pressure, knew she would come apart again for him, but she summoned her self-
control and grabbed his wrist. He withdrew instantly, stepping away from her.
She felt instantly terrible as she watched regret and guilt flicker across his
face, misunderstanding her intention.
He’d already turned away from her by the time she had rearranged herself,
flipped over so that she was bent over, clinging to his kitchen table, her legs
spread wide, so that she had to call out to him, “Mr. Andrews, wait.” She was
looking back at him, head raised from the table, so she saw the way his cock
twitched and his hands clenched when he turned around and saw her spread out
for him. “I want you inside of me. I want you to fuck me.” He groaned, and she
didn’t think she’d ever seen another human being move as fast as he stepped
back to her. She heard his shaky exhale as he stepped behind her, could feel
the heat radiating off of his body, and as he ran a hand across the smooth
expanse of her flattened back she quivered, thinking she may die in this moment
of blissful anticipation. His hand paused in its exploration, and she heard
another deep, shaky breath.
“Veronica… are you sure…?” She pushed herself up on her forearms, turning her
head back to meet his eyes. She held them for a beat, a moment of comprehension
passing between them as she willed him to understand all of the things she
hoped her clear-eyed gaze conveyed—I want this, I want you, I want this and
more than this, thank you, I want you, yes, yes, yes. “Yes,” she finally said
aloud arching her back still further. “Please, Mr. Andrews.” He didn’t wait a
moment longer, and she finally felt the weight of him pressing against her. She
was so wet he slid in easily, and she let her head drop to the table with a
quiet “oh, fuck”. Behind her, she heard Mr. Andrews give what she could only
characterize as a low whine as he buried his entire length in her, and it took
a moment for the hazy white-hot heat of arousal to clear to the point where she
realized she was moaning softly. They paused for a moment, just their bodies
joined together with the sound of the ongoing storm outside to ground them to
the world that, impossibly, continued on outside of the Andrews’ kitchen.
But then Veronica shifted her weight slightly, gasping at the change in angle,
and the moment of stillness broke as Mr. Andrews jerked forward, one hand
digging into her hip so hard she knew she’d have bruises in the morning, the
other pressing down on her back, bracing himself as he began a sharp, steady
rhythm. Veronica felt like her blood was pulsing in time with his thrusts, her
mind and body pushing at the limits of overstimulation, lust pulled taut like a
bowstring. With her eyes closed, she could picture the two of them together and
they looked in her fantasy earlier, as they must look now—tangled, sweaty,
Veronica’s back arched impossibly high as she tried to take as much as Mr.
Andrews would give, sweat dripping down his muscled stomach, his large hands
splayed across her back, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.
Suddenly she was torn out of that pleasant erotic fever dream as Mr. Andrews
pulled out, swearing softly as he gripped the table and took a steadying
breath. Before her quick mouth could even begin to formulate the question, he’d
jerked her towards him and flipped her body over. He pulled her into a deep
kiss before he drove back into her, driving harder and faster than before.
“Needed to see you,” he said raspily, so low it was almost inaudible, but she
gasped at the sudden fire, her body clenching around his, and he began swearing
in earnest, his rhythm turned staccato as he murmured a steady string of filth
into her ear. “Fuck, Veronica, you’re so tight, god, you feel amazing, oh
goddamn, ah, I’m going to Hell but, fuck, Jesus, you’re like a dream, oh,
fucking Christ.” As his thrusts grew more erratic, he drew a shuddering breath
and dropped a hand between them to press gently at her clit, and between that
soft pressure and his cock and the whispered words in her ear, Veronica’s
orgasm rolled through her like the low, rumbling thunder outside, her body
contracting inwards before the white hot flash of lightning. She didn’t realize
she’d been making noise until Mr. Andrews clamped a hand over her mouth, and
her response was to sensually draw a finger into her mouth and suck. At that it
only took a few stuttering thrusts before she could feel him spill inside of
her, warmth filling her.
They stayed like that for a few long moments, Veronica still clutching to Mr.
Andrews’ shoulder, legs wrapped around his waist, until the cum dripping
thickly out of her caused her to shift, uncomfortable. Startled, Mr. Andrews
leaned back, disentangling them and gently dropping Veronica to the floor. She
wriggled her toes against the cold hardwood, unsure of what to do or say in
this situation; Mr. Andrews looked, if anything, even more uncomfortable,
raising a hand to run through his hair unsteadily.
“It’s still raining.” Veronica broke the silence, a slight grin tilting the
corners of her lips. Archie’s dad hadn’t looked up at her, gaze still focused
off to one side. “I’m sure the Coopers are home by now, if… if you’d prefer to…
wait there,” he said, hesitant and sounding pained. Veronica stepped forward,
gently resting her hand against his jaw and drawing his gaze towards her. “You
know, Mr. Andrews, I think I prefer to stay here.” He looked hesitant, but he
let his eyes meet hers, searching for something—anger, or absolution. Instead
she answered the question he wouldn’t ask, and stood on tiptoe to press her
lips chastely to his, other hand finding his and giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Have you ever played poker?”
He snorted, drawn out of his hesitation at the absurdity of it. “Have I ever
played poker? I won so much off my old construction team they made me play with
a handicap.”
She raised a brow at him. “Did I ever tell you about the time I ran an
underground poker league at my school in New York that got shut down after I
won a Lamborghini off of Greyson Scott and he ran crying to his dad?” He
laughed out loud, sounding more relaxed than he’d been since that first
electric moment between them. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me.”
She grinned. “Point me to the bathroom, and then we’ll have a champions’ game?”
He walked down a hallway to the left, grabbing a sensible t-shirt and shorts
for her to put on and pointing to the bathroom. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you
after you lose.” As she stepped toward the bathroom door, she turned around to
see him leaning against the doorframe with a crooked smile, and wondered how
she’d never noticed how his eyes crinkled when he smiled before.
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