☾ ✰

She ground her hips into yours in one motion, a small pleasure-filled sigh escaping her lips. The sound sent shivers down your back, pulse thrumming in your chest. Feeling her weight on top of you, noting that the only things separating your bodies consisted of couple large t-shirts and your underwear. You wiggled a hand free from her grasp to finally bring it under her shirt, the urge for skin to skin contact overtaking you, but she swiftly clasped your wrist and pinned your hand back above your head next to the other. Hands twisting frantically, attempting to remove them from her grasp just encouraged her to hold on tighter. You pouted, trying to thrust your hips under her as an attempt at any kind of stimulation.

“You came on so strong just to not let me touch you?” you groaned.

“But you’re hot when you act like this,” she said matter-of-factly, lips pursed and face hovering just above yours.

Eyebrows furrowing, you huffed. “I’m not acting! Let go of my hands, Wheein, before I make you.” You instantly regretted saying that and she knew it, judging by the mischievous smirk on her face.

“Is that a challenge?”

“No!” you rushed to say. “Wheein, let go of my hands.”

“Make me.”

Rolling your eyes at the situation you unintentionally created, you kissed her deeply. Open-mouthed kisses planted along her cheeks with a dedicated pause at her dimple. Moving up her jawline and arriving at her ear, you gently kneaded her earlobe between your teeth, starting to whisper all the things you could do to her… if she’d just let go of your hands. Her expression appeared unaffected, but the wetness soaking through her panties atop your thighs said otherwise. She rolled her hips on top of you again, vying for stimulation as you continued whispering into her ear. You found that weak spot long ago. She was a musician, after all. (Un)fortunately, you were the same way - Wheein trying to contain her moans right next to your ear made your desperation all the more pressing, feeling your own underwear starting to soak through. You flexed your thighs, attempting again to create some form of friction for yourself.

She noticed, of course. Transferring the task of holding your wrists to just one of her hands, she ghosted the tip of her finger over your underwear, gasping at the wetness. Your face screwed up in frustration, the need for her to press in harder ever-building.

“I’ve barely touched you,” she teased. You stuck her tongue out at her.

“Speak for yourself. You’re soaked and I haven’t even used my hands,” you shot back, gloating. Watching her expression change, busy thinking of a witty comeback, you seized the opportunity to free your wrists, swinging your arms in one motion to wrench them free from the singular hand that held them. In a rapid tousle and tangling of sheets, you managed to press a finger to her now thoroughly soaked underwear, garnering a strained moan and a distraction brief enough to flip each other over, your knees landing on the bed with her small body now below you.

Without pause, you found yourself pushing your hands into the bed above her shoulders to drag your own poorly-covered core across her thigh. An anguished moan left your throat— definitely not enough.

“Yyou…y…you’re wearing too many clothes,” she managed to stammer beneath you. You responded with a prideful smirk and pushed her shirt up to her armpits, exposing the milky skin beneath. She hummed impatiently, “I said you, not me.”

“You’re technically still wearing it,” you stated, gesturing to the bunched up shirt. She rolled her eyes. The exasperation quickly evaporated when you took her nipple into your mouth, feeling it harden under the swirl of your tongue.

After giving attention to both sides and keeping your fingers busy with her nipples, you lowered your face between her legs, nipping at her inner thighs. When your mouth finally made its way to her core, you gingerly poked your tongue past her folds, giving her clit a cursory pass. Wheein’s face scrunched in pleasure, your eyes darting to her hands grasping at the sheets beneath them. The farther your lips moved away from where she truly needed them to be, the whinier her pleas. Witnessing her unravel at the slightest touch was a sight to behold, but it’s exactly what she deserved after the wrist-holding stunt she tried to pull earlier. Who said she'd get to have all the fun?

Given enough teasing and begging, your tongue finally circling around her clit elicited all kinds of gasps, her hips constantly raising off the bed as if it would make you go deeper. Your hands splayed themselves across her stomach to press her back down into the bed, steadying her. Such lewd sounds filled the air, but her high-pitched whimpers signaled for more. Removing a hand from her stomach, you pressed two fingers into her core, hips rolling again at the push. Her breathing becoming evermore erratic, you increased the pace of your tongue and hands to match her. The climax eventually came with a loud hitch in her breathing that rang through the room, paired with her clench and release around your fingers. Slipping your now-covered fingers out of her, you lapped up a bit of the mess to the best of your abilities, a piercing yelp leaving her when brushing your tongue near her still-throbbing clit. Wandering over to the bathroom to grab a towel, you wiped the sheen off your chin and gently dabbed at her inner thighs, wiping up everything your tongue didn't catch.

Staring at her core to ensure a thorough clean-up job, "I made you let go of my hands." you said off-handedly with a smirk. Pausing the wiping to look for a response in her face, she met your eyes with a fiery determination without skipping a beat.

You roll over in bed, absentmindedly slapping your palm at the surface of the covers beside your body, hoping that you’ll hit something, or someone. Wishful thinking. Doesn’t stop you from trying every time, though.

It’s like this every time she sleeps over, whether it’s because she got too drunk and your apartment is close to the club she frequents, because she can’t sleep and claims to need a living, breathing being to help her feel less alone, or whatever astronomical excuse she can think of to come over. You’ve got to give her credit, some of them have been rather creative.

You’re not really sure what to call the arrangement. Maybe if you weren’t living the bachelor life, you’d have a sofa that she could crash on. You’d make her sleep on the floor if you owned more than one set of bedsheets. But none of these things are in your possession, so she ends up sharing your bed. Maybe you should ask her to buy herself a sleeping bag, at least.

Maybe the handholding and cuddling was supposed to be a one-time thing, particularly because the first time she asked to stay over was because she had partied too hard and was beyond gone. The feat of showing up at your door at all was some kind of marvel. You gave her water and a place to sleep, and she was gone before you woke up. This happened a couple more times, but it was an interesting turn of events when she called you up completely sober at 2am, asking if she could come over. Again, you let her. Not like you had anything better to do.

Last night was different.

“Are you asleep?” you whispered inquisitively. A guttural noise escaped her. So, barely. Your back lay pressed to her chest with her arm lazily draped over your front to keep you close. Not that the bed was of the size for either of you to go very far. Your ears grew warm when you asked rather meekly— “Why do you keep coming here?”

“Do you want me gone?” A fair amount more awake now.

“No, no,” you shot back. “I’m just wondering. You’re always welcome here, but I’m gonna need a little more explanation than the random ‘I can’t sleep’.”

“Don’t pretend that you don’t like it,” she said with an air of playfulness, squeezing you ever-so-slightly tighter.

“You’re swerving the question.”

She let out a sigh, warm breath whistling past your ear.

“We can talk about it in the morning, okay? You should get to sleep. Should be faster now that I’m here, anyway.” You couldn’t argue with that, especially the LED numbers on your alarm clock counting up to your impending morning alarm shining through the darkness.

As per usual, you don’t remember falling asleep. Nor do you remember her leaving. You never do. You tell yourself every time that you’ll catch her on the way out one of these days, but she somehow leaves you waking up in an empty bed.

A couple months of radio silence passes. You’re not sure if it was the way that you asked, or what. It wasn’t even an unreasonable question to ask. But she left you with no closure anyway. It’s not like she was a main character in your life, or that you were particularly close, so you don’t miss her much, at least not viscerally. But you’ll forever be left wondering if you were naive for assuming that it would always be this way, that she’d keep coming back.

Until your phone goes off— you know it’s her because you customized the vibration pattern after the second time.

Can we start over?