Naked and starving, he steps into the blackness, cloaked by the soft purr of her snores. Waits, eyes adjusting to the sanctity of the dark bedroom until faint shapes form in the monochrome moonlight that bleeds around the drawn curtains. In the corner on its stand, her acoustic guitar. Opposite the bed, her dressing table. And five feet away, her.
His cock begins to firm, no longer dangling against his thigh. He swallows and steals towards her.
When the mattress shifts, she stirs, her heartbeat quickening. The covers momentarily ruffle, then still. Someone has climbed into her bed. Not just someone—him. The patchouli heart note of his aftershave gives him away.
Neither move. Her pulse thumps in anticipation, which he has to feel through the bedsprings, let alone hear. She knows it’s wrong to want him so badly. It could all go so terribly wrong, so she comes to a decision; don’t open your eyes.
Without a single touch, the heat emanating from his body warms her bare backside like a blanket. It seeps into her pores and electrifies every nerve, pulse ratcheting further.
Arousal’s sweat dapples his skin. Yet, not seeing her face causes him to pause, to doubt. Does she want me? Have I misread the signals? He doesn’t move. It’s her decision. His heart flutters.
She imagines his eyes, dark and burning with desire for her, just like they did when he and his girlfriend kissed in the shared kitchen up the hall. Rooted to the spot in the doorway, she watched as they shared the intimate moment. Yet his eyes were open, staring beyond the head of her best friend, and brimming with intent. She felt it then, and feels it now. So close. So sinful. She takes a breath. Pushes her ass back until it butts up against something hard and flexing.
Whispering into the shadowless space between their spooned bodies, his voice has an edge to it. “You’re so sexy. I need you.”
She responds by ever-so-subtly grinding her ass against the pulse in his growing shaft. Portia briefly enters her mind, asleep two rooms away. Oblivious to the fact her boyfriend is sharing body heat with someone else. It’s so illicit, she knows it. Yet the heat building between her legs, the moistening of her pussy lips, eclipses morality.
His breath reaches her ear, tongue flicking. Probing. With a turn of her head, she could slit her lids and make out her reflection in his eyes. Then it would all become undeniable. Absolute. Complicated.
She keeps them closed—not yet ready for reality and dreams to collide.
When he sweeps her mane of hair aside and kisses the back of her neck, her breath hitches. His hand finds her hip, and his fingertips trace lines down to a slender thigh, then back up again. It’s torture, these slow touches. Is he enjoying my suffering? The mind can play tricks on what the eyes cannot see.
Seductive moans percolate up from her throat. She applies pressure with her ass and twists, half-rolling onto him, her upper leg swinging back to plant her foot behind his knees. Her pussy lips part stickily in the silence, forming a picture in his mind of what the darkness shrouds. She smiles. I can torture you, too.
His hand slips forward into the soft curls of her mound. A finger dips lower, tapping her clit until she squirms against him despite her best efforts to remain still.
Keep your eyes closed. She wonders if his are. Perhaps they are both not ready to admit what’s between them. Eye contact is such a powerful communicator; it would mean they are not only acknowledging their desire but committing to all it would encompass—even the consequences. And so… her eyes remain shut.
“Fuck,” he whispers holding her leg tight over his muscular thigh, his stiff cock afforded access to her pussy. He hesitates. They’ve never talked about this—whatever this is. Never shared more than a handful of knowing glances. Both are so good at hiding. Masking.
She slithers her fingers between her legs until they stroke his cock, his tip hovering at her opening. That’s all he needs to deliver the confidence to plunge deep. She rolls up the edge of the pillow and mashes her face into it to smother a cry. He holds his position, allowing her tenderness to absorb his power and girth. Her fingers leave the warmth between her legs to clutch the covers tighter.
Their hips buck to a beat only they can hear, the mattress silently swallowing their motions. She opens wider for him, almost sitting in his lap but still with one hip in contact with the bed, not wanting the tiniest of spaces between them. The friction’s heavenly.
They are tightly bound, twisting and grinding into her depths. Without words, they share one thought—this feels right. Yet it isn’t. Nowhere near. Maybe the immoral nature of their union clouds common sense. Portia could wake and go looking for her man. The rhythmic creak of the headboard might give them away. A stray moan could end it. But if her eyes remain closed, it isn’t happening. It must be a dream. It’s too good.
The urgency of his thrusts mount. He’s so thick inside her. Deep. He cradles her hip, irregular breath condensing on her neck. She snakes the hand gripping the covers down between her legs, grazing his shaft soaked in her wetness between strokes. Her palm finds her clit. Presses. Rocks. Her mouth drops open in a silent scream.
So close.
They buck in the darkness, her eyes squeezed tightly. Flashes of heat ignite the bud beneath her grinding palm and rocket up to her chest. She claps her free hand to a breast in an effort to contain the inferno. Roughly squeezes, alternating from peak to peak, clawing and pinching the flesh as her climax builds. And builds.
The graze of his stubble in the crook of her shoulder, and the power of his thrusts nudging the bundle of nerve endings beneath the rhythmic heel of her hand, serve to propel her orgasm to the surface. But it doesn’t break. It eddies, threatening to engulf her, and she backs off the pressure to prolong the excitement, gasping as each stroke ravages her insides.
Heat swirls in pulses from the depths of her pussy outward. Hoops of fire match the beat of his penetrations, rippling across her skin and flushing her chest. Her mouth drops open and she aches to groan, fighting the inevitable bursting dam of orgasm, lengthening the self-imposed tease a few more moments.
With a shudder, she stiffens and allows the end to take her. It wells from the pit of her stomach and spreads, skin prickling in its wake. Her stomach arches upward, his cock sliding almost free, captured only by the fluttering entrance of her sex until she slams back and buries him inside. He groans and she chokes back her screams that keep coming as jets of spunk fill her.
They lie unmoving, joined and pulsing, the energy flowing endlessly between them, seeking equilibrium before he resumes rocking his hips, grinding in and out of her dripping folds. After the last thrust, he rests his chin between her shoulder and jaw, and his hips gently slow, knowing she wants every last drop of his cum.
Then something unexpected—he lingers after withdrawing his cock. At some point between his thrusts, she’d told herself this was just a fuck to him.
Why is he still here?
He wriggles from under her, swings his leg and is on top of her before she realises. One hand brushes her bangs from her forehead. A thumb traces her lips. The icy mint of his toothpaste intensifies.
Oh my goodness, his face is inches from mine.
His breath plays across her upper lip, urgent words chasing. “Open your eyes. Please.”
