A thundering crash is not the best way to be woken up in the middle of the night. You sit straight up in bed, heart pounding, ears straining and then flinching as another thundering crash echoes up the stairs. You fling the covers back and rush to the door, peering down the long dark hallway. Of all the nights for your boyfriend to go out with his boys, he had to pick the one that some maniac was seemingly demolishing the first floor of his house. Padding carefully down the hall, another crash reaches your ears and the words “MOTHER FUCK!!!!” ring off the rafters. Your muscles relax at the sound of his voice and your relief quickly fades to annoyance as you see from the clock on the wall that it’s 4:15 in the morning. You turn to go back to the bedroom when another crash and a “SONNUVAH BITCH” echoes up the stairs.

Sighing in frustration you clamor down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen. What you find is mortifying and hilarious all at the same time. Pots and pans litter the floor and counter; eggs, milk, and butter are slathered on the stove and cabinets. Your boyfriend is sitting on the floor, hat sitting crooked on his head, a frying pan clutched to his chest. It takes him a beat to look at you and when he does he grins goofily, hazily. He’s completely shitfaced. You’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so damn adorable.

“Hey baby!” he exclaims brightly, trying to get to his feet without letting go of his pan; he fails.

“Hey,” you say slowly, walking forward and surveying the damage; it’s epic. “What are you doing there sweetie?”

“Makin’ breakfast!” he holds the pan out to you with both hands. “I falled.”

You giggle. He only starts talking like a little boy when he’s completely gone. “I can see that. You need some help there partner?”

“Nah I’m fine,” he says, sitting the pan back in his lap and pulling his legs beneath him to sit Indian style. He rests an elbow on his knee, propping his chin on his hand as he gazes at the pan. “Do you know how to make eggs?”

“Yes I do,” you say, smiling at him. “But it’s four o’clock in the morning and I have to be at work in about four hours, so why don’t you come on up to bed?”

He looks at you, his eyes growing big and he gasps, patting his chest, seemingly looking for something. He grins as he pulls a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his over shirt and waves it at you. You roll your eyes and come toward him, taking his offering.

You look down at the polaroid in your hands and see him, grinning, snapping his fingers. Because you know him, you know that he’s mid dance move and the thought makes you shiver a little, remembering all the times you’ve been out together, dancing close, his dick pressed against your ass, his breath against your neck.

“It’s meeeeeeeeee,” he sings, grinning up at you and you laugh.

“Very nice,” you say setting the picture on the counter, careful to avoid the egg whites running down the front of the cabinets. “Come on babe, let’s get you upstairs.”

You take the pan from him and set it on the counter, holding out a hand to him. He grasps it and you pull him to his feet. He wobbles and falls forward into you, hands going to the counter on either side of your hips, trapping his body against yours, the smell of whiskey and cologne invading your senses.

“Whoops,” he says laughing, the alcohol on his breath almost gagging you.

“Jesus Justin,” you sigh. “How much did you have.”

“Not much,” he breathes, the scent of whiskey making your head swim as he dips his head to suck on your neck.

“You lying to me?” you sigh, as his tongue traces wet patterns on your skin. You can feel him hardening against your thigh.

He giggles. “Yeah.” You laugh to as he pulls back to look you in the face. “I’m wasted.”

“You really are,” you sigh as he grinds his hips harder into yours.

“You know how I get when I’m wasted.” His voice is low, gravely as his lips find yours. He tastes like Jack Daniels but you’re sure that it’s him that’s making you drunk and not the alcohol.

“Mmmm do I?” you ask, your eyes sinking shut as his lips tug your earring into his mouth, sucking slightly before nibbling gently, as the pad of his thumb circles your nipple through your nightshirt.

“It makes me so fuckin horny.”

A crash that is loud enough to break your eardrums explodes into the kitchen as he sweeps everything from the counter and deftly hoists you up onto it. The swiftness of his motions dizzies you and he’s got your panties off before you even realize it. He licks his lips, eyeing you.

“Hey that’s my shirt,” he says suddenly and you can’t help but roll your eyes and smile.

“Yeah, it is,” you grin as he fingers the hem that’s skimming across your naked thighs.

“Well I want it back,” he replies smarmily and you smile, bringing the shirt over your head.

His eyes are glued to your chest, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. You press the shirt into his hands and he looks at it before making a “pft” sound as he tosses it over his shoulder.

Your laugh melts into a moan as his tongue flicks against your left nipple as one of his large hands massages your other breast roughly. You flinch a little as he bites down and then soothes it with his tongue. You reach to grab his hair and finding the hat you scoff quietly and fling it off into the room. He laughs against your chest, and you ruffle his hair as he comes back up to kiss you sloppily.

“I know what you want,” he sings as a finger traces in your wetness.

“Do you now?” you ask.

“You want me to lick your pussy.”

You gasp at his candor while he grins at you and gets to his knees. His tongue probes your folds, sliding into you as he presses the tip of his nose against your clit. You sigh, your fingers delving into his hair as his large hands cup your thighs. You moan deep when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking sweetly, sending sparks down to your toes. His hands stay on your thighs and you wish he would use his fingers, because while you really are enjoying this you feel empty. You want him inside you.

“Justin,” you whine, tugging on his hair and he resurfaces, licking his lips, before wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“What?” he asks nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just have his head between your legs.

You pout as you reach out to push his over shirt off his shoulders and giggle as he struggles to remove it the rest of the way, his hands stuck in the sleeves.

“What’s so funny,” he pouts as he finally gets the material off his hands.

You shake your head and tug his t-shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor so you can run your hands over his chest.

“I asked you what was funny.”

The gruffness of his voice startles you and you look up at his face. He looks angry, but the lust in his eyes is potent enough to make you not care. You love it when he gets like this. Usually he’s so careful and gentle. When he’s had a few drinks he doesn’t mind getting a little rough. And frankly you don’t mind it much either.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stutter.

“Sorry?” he asks, his hands going to his belt, undoing it roughly. “You’re sorry? I’ll give you sorry.”

He drops his pants as he grabs your ankle roughly, pulling you closer to him. He bites hard on your neck as he positions himself against you, coating the head in your wetness before slamming into you in one thrust that’s hard enough to make your teeth rattle. He’s buried so deep inside you that it aches and you struggle against him to relieve the pressure.

“Whats’a matter babe?” he taunts, holding your hips steady. “You’re not trying to pull away from me are ya?”

“No,” you say breathlessly.

“My dick’s not too much for you is it?” he questions, his lips sliding along your collarbone, teeth digging in every inch or so.

“No,” you moan, struggling to get some semblance of friction.

“Good,” he says as he pulls out almost completely before slamming roughly back in again.

He’s working you hard and fast, pulling out so that just the very tip of him is pressing against your entrance before pounding back into you again, stretching you in a gloriously pleasurable way.

He’s leaning back watching himself plunge in and out of you, his bottom lip captured between his teeth as his pace quickens to an almost frenzied level. You wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him closer to you and he drops his head to your shoulder, grunting into your hair in a way that sets your skin on fire. You slid your hands down his back, the thin sheen of sweat making his smooth skin slippery. You pull your hand back and bring it down on his ass and he yelps, pulling back to look you in the face.

Growling, he pushes you back so that you are lying flat against the counter, and he pulls your legs up to his shoulders, his hands reaching out to grip your breasts, pressing them together, kneading them almost painfully. The change in position causes him to press into you in such a way that makes you scream, and combined with his hands on your breasts, your orgasm is building quickly. One large hand skims down your stomach and his thumb finds your clit and you’re gone, screaming his name, bucking your hips wildly against him. The spasms of your body are enough to send him over the edge and he comes hard, hips slamming into yours hard enough to bruise.

You are both a pile of entangled limbs and heavy breathing as you come down. He has collapsed against you, his cheek resting against your breastbone, your hands threading through his hair.

“This place is a mess,” he says suddenly, lifting his head to look around and you can’t help but laugh.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” he says grinning, leaning in to kiss you softly on the lips.

“We should probably clean it up,” you muse, lifting yourself up on your elbows.

“Eh, we’ll do it tomorrow,” he shrugs.

And with that he lifts you powerfully off the counter and into his arms, both of you giggling as he carries you up the stairs.