ҽɱɱα

His hair was sweaty the first time you met him, and it was sweaty every single time after that. Even in the cold, when the wind bit through your coat and left you shivering, his dark strands still clung damp to his forehead like he’d just run a marathon. He wasn’t a runner. You were sure of that — he was slow, always trailing behind like he had nowhere urgent to be. You’d once joked about it, something about snails moving faster than him, and he’d just grinned lazily, all soft lips and cockiness, like he knew something you didn’t.

Still, the sweat lingered. It made no sense, but you didn’t mind. It was the kind of detail you’d come to think of as uniquely his. Something only you knew because you were the one who reached for him. Always. Your hands threading through his hair, the damp strands slipping between your fingers as you pulled him closer — close enough to kiss, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like he’d been out in the sun all day.  

Sometimes, you’d do it just to see what he’d do. Just to watch that stupid grin break across his face like it couldn’t be helped, like he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into the touch no matter how hard he tried to pull away. “Stop that.” he’d mumble, though his voice never carried any real weight, his hands always ghosting at your waist or curling around your wrists like he wanted you to keep going.  

You always did. It was impossible not to.  

And maybe you should’ve teased him more about it. His perpetually sweaty hair, his inability to keep from leaning into you — but you never did. Because when you pulled him closer, when his grin faltered just a little and his breath hitched, you felt it. That shift. Like the world had stilled, leaving only the two of you in its quiet aftermath. His hair was damp, yes, but it was real, and it was his, and you could never resist tangling your fingers into it just to feel something so alive beneath your touch. 

Now you’re in his lap, his hands splayed warm across your thighs, and your fingers are tangled in his hair like they always are. It’s still damp. Of course it is. But now you can blame it on the heater turned up to the max, the radiator rattling like it might burst, the heat heavy in the air and curling around you like smoke. It’s stifling, almost unbearable, and you swear you can feel it searing into you from across the room.  

You don’t care.  

Because you’re kissing him, and you’ve been kissing him for so long that you’ve forgotten where you are, forgotten the way the rest of the world feels. You’ve kissed him until your lips feel raw, tender and buzzing like a spark waiting to catch. Until your chest aches from holding your breath for him, like breathing was a luxury you’d trade just to stay close.  

And then you’re forced to pull away, gasping, your head swimming.  

His lips are red and slick, his hair more disheveled than it ever was before, and he’s looking at you with that expression like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He licks his lips and it makes you want to kiss him all over again, the pull of it deep and restless in your chest.  

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he murmurs, low and rough, words pressed out like he’s trying to catch his breath too.  

You huff a laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the invisible stubble that’s just starting to show. “Yeah. Your fault, though.”  

His grin is slow and lazy, the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s got you figured out, even when he hasn’t. “The heater?”  

“You.” you correct, nudging his forehead with yours.  

And you’re still so close you can feel his breath fan against your lips when he laughs. “I’m the problem?”  

“Always.”  

It’s teasing. You don’t mean it. Not really. Because there’s something about him that’s always been so easy, so natural, like you’ve known him your whole life, even if you hadn’t. It’s in the way he lets you pull at his hair, in the way he leans into you like you’re the only thing he needs. It’s in the way he’s looking at you now. 

You press your palms against his cheeks because you feel like you might float away without something holding you there. “You’re sweaty again.” you murmur.  

He groans, his head falling back with a dramatic thud. “It’s hot in here. Not my fault.”  

You roll your eyes, though you’re smiling. “I don’t mind.”  

“No?”  

“No.” you say, threading your fingers through his hair again, pulling just slightly so he tilts his head back to meet you. “Not if it’s you.”  

And maybe you’ve been kissing him all afternoon, maybe your lips are already swollen and your body is buzzing from the heat of him, but you kiss him again anyway. Slower this time. Like you’ve got all the time in the world. Because you do. You’re still young, and his room feels like the only place on earth that matters, and this is enough for you to live off of.  

His hair is damp, and his lips are soft, and his arms curl around you like he couldn’t hold you close enough if he tried. And for once, you don’t feel like teasing him about it. You just kiss him. 

When you break apart again his hands rest on your thighs, just barely there, and when you look at him, he’s grinning again — that slow, lopsided smile that’s all teeth and something else that makes your stomach flip. You roll your eyes at him, pressing your hands to his chest to steady yourself as you climb off, and he lets out this little whine of protest, though he doesn’t stop you.  

It’s later, and the heat of the room has settled into something quieter. You’re perched at the edge of his bed, rummaging through your bag with a growing sense of dread because, of course, you didn’t pack pyjamas. It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight thing. You were just supposed to hang out, maybe grab dinner, and then leave, but plans like that never stick when you’re with him. He’s too good at convincing you to stay longer, to forget the time.  

So now you’re stuck, turning your bag inside out like maybe a pair of shorts will appear, but nothing does. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” you mutter, looking over at him where he’s sprawled on his back, flipping a pen between his fingers.  

“What?” he asks, looking up with that innocent tilt of his head, like he hasn’t been watching you the whole time.  

You hesitate for a second before deciding not to care. “Nothing.” you mumble. You grab one of his shirts from the drawer — soft and a little worn, smelling like him — and strip off your jeans and sweater. You change with your back to him, just enough skin showing to get a reaction if he’s looking, but still leaving enough covered for modesty’s sake. His shirt hangs loose over your frame, brushing against the tops of your thighs, and you tug at the hem to make sure it’s long enough. You glance over your shoulder just in time to catch him biting his bottom lip, trying to look nonchalant about it.  

The corner of your mouth lifts. “What?”  

“Nothing.” he says, too quickly.  

You smile to yourself as you climb back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged near the pillows. “I forgot pyjamas.” you explain, tugging at the hem of his shirt again. “Totally not intentional, by the way.”  

He snorts, rolling onto his side to look at you properly, his hand propping up his head. “Sure it wasn’t.”  

“It wasn’t.” you insist. “Staying the night wasn’t the plan, remember?” You pause, biting your lip. “Is it okay? If I stay, uh, with your…”  

“Me parents?” he finishes for you.  

“Yeah.” 

His expression softens. “’Course it’s okay. They like you.”  

“Yeah?” you ask, glancing at him.  

“Yeah.” he says simply, his smile warm and a little boyish, and you know he doesn’t give it to just anyone.  

That quiet admission makes your chest ache in the best way. You watch him as he rolls out of bed, muttering something about needing to change too, and he starts pacing toward the corner where a pile of clothes sits precariously on his desk chair. You curl up beneath the blanket, watching as he picks through the heap, holding up shirts and tossing them aside.  

He’s smiling to himself as he sifts through the mess, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin. You can’t look away, even when you try to, and when he pulls his shirt off over his head, you stare. It’s instinctual, automatic. Even from a distance, you can see the little mole on the side of his ribs, and something about it makes you want to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of him with your fingertips, to kiss him there just to see if he’ll shiver.  

You want to hold him. You want to kiss him until you can’t feel your lips again. You want to press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in.  

Oh, god. You’re really, terribly in love, aren’t you?  

“Eh, stop staring, you perv.” he says suddenly, teasing but his ears turn a little red as he tosses a shirt over his shoulder.  

You snap your gaze up to his face, cheeks flushing. “I’m not-”  

“Yes, you are.” he interrupts, grinning as he finally finds something that looks halfway clean. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”  

“I wasn’t staring.” you protest weakly, though you both know it’s a lie.  

He’s unbuttoning his jeans now, and you realise you hadn’t even noticed, too distracted by the more sensible top half of him. The more sensitive half, too, if you’re being honest. Ugh.  

He shimmies out of his jeans, and you bury your face in the pillow, groaning. But you don’t bury your face for long. Curiosity — or something far more dangerous — gets the better of you, and you glance up just in time to see him standing there in his boxers. The lamplight in the corner of his room catches on the soft angles of him, the long stretch of his legs, the slight dip of his hips, the way the waistband clings low. He’s lean but solid, just enough muscle to make him look effortlessly strong, the kind of strength that doesn’t demand to be noticed but somehow always is. His skin is pale in places where the sun hasn’t kissed it, and you swear there’s a faint flush climbing up his chest like maybe he knows you’re still watching.  

Then he turns, his back to you, just like you’d done when you changed earlier. He’s not subtle about it. He bends slightly as he peels off his boxers, and you don’t mean to stare — well, not really — but his butt is right there, perfectly shaped and smooth, and for a second you think about biting it, just to see what he’d do. If the bed weren’t so comfortable, if you weren’t tucked in just so, you might’ve actually gone for it.  

He knows. Of course he knows.  

“Enjoying the view?” he calls over his shoulder.  

“Shut up.” you mumble. You don’t look away.  

He’s tugging on a clean pair of boxers now. When he turns back around, he’s grinning — softly this time. He’s caught you red-handed but doesn’t mind one bit.  

You roll onto your side, pressing your face half into the pillow to hide the warmth in your cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  

He laughs, that low, throaty sound that always makes you smile. He crosses the room and climbs back into bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in beside you. 

“You stared, though.” he teases, turning his head to look at you.  

“You undressed in front of me.” you counter, narrowing your eyes at him even though you’re smiling.  

He shrugs, all nonchalance. “You started it.”  

You huff, turning to face him properly, and he’s close now, close enough that you can see the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks. You want to kiss him again, but you’re too tired, too comfortable, too full of something soft and sweet that makes your chest ache.  

“What?” he murmurs, voice softer now.  

“Nothing.” you say, shaking your head.  

You’re still curled up, his shirt falling loosely around you, and when you peek at him, he’s looking at you too. 

“What?” you whisper, barely audible.  

“Nothing.” he murmurs back, shaking his head. But he’s still looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know how to put into words. 

And you think, maybe, you’re looking at him the exact same way. 

“Your hair’s a mess.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that? Yours.” he says immediately, propping himself up on his elbow. “You’re the one who kept running your hands through it.”  

“Because it’s always sweaty.” you shoot back, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.  

He groans, flopping onto his back beside you. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”  

“Because it’s true.”  

“It’s endearing.” he mumbles, like he’s convincing himself.  

“It is.” you agree, and his head turns toward you, surprised. You look over at him, your expression softening. “It’s gross, but it’s cute. Like you.”  

He stares at you for a second, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile, and then he laughs. “You’re so mean.” he says, but his voice is fond, and he’s still smiling when he turns his head back toward the ceiling.  

“You like it.” you say. “Masochist.”

“Yeah.” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I do.”  

It’s quiet for a while after that. His arm brushes against yours as he shifts, and you think about reaching for his hand but decide against it.  

“What time is it?” you ask eventually, your voice cutting through the stillness.  

He twists to glance at the clock on his nightstand, squinting. “Half past midnight.”  

You groan, pressing your hands to your face. “I have class tomorrow.”  

“Skip it.” he says, so casual it makes you laugh.  

“You skip too much already.” you say, nudging him with your elbow.  

“Yeah, but I’m not you. You’re responsible. You’ve got, like…notes and shit.”  

“Notes and shit.” you echo, grinning.  

He shrugs, turning onto his side to face you. “It’s a compliment. You’re smart. Like, scary smart. Sometimes I think you’re gonna realise you’re too good for me and leave.”  

You blink at him, surprised by the sudden turn, and then you shake your head, rolling onto your side to face him too. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”  

“It’s true, though.” 

“Alex.” you say, reaching out to brush your fingers over his knuckles where his hand rests between you. “You’re, like, my favorite person. Ever. I’m not going anywhere.”  

He stares at you, trying to find the words, but then he just nods. “Good.” he murmurs.  

“Good.” you repeat, smiling.  

And for a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, the space between you warm and buzzing, and when you close your eyes, you think you could stay like this forever.

It’s quiet, the hum of the heater filling the room, and the faint rhythm of Alex’s breathing beside you is already slowing. His right arm is tucked under your waist, holding you close, while your left hand rests just beneath the curve of his chest. You can feel the rise and fall of his breaths and it’s grounding in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut.  

He’s the first to doze, just like always. It’s something you’ve come to expect from him — how his tired eyes will eventually drift shut, his breathing will even out, and the little tension in his body will melt away. Sometimes, you wonder if he fakes it, just to escape the nerves that still creep up on him when you’re this close. But not tonight. Tonight, it’s all real, all soft breaths and tiny, quiet snores that have that same nasally tone as his voice.  

You shift, feeling his arm tighten instinctively around you even in sleep, like his body knows to keep you near. He doesn’t move much when he sleeps — always calm, always still—but you’re restless. You can’t help it.  

It starts small, just a subtle roll of your hips as you try to find a better position, but it never stops there. Halfway through the night, you turn over, your arm slipping from under his chest. Then you turn again, pulling the blanket with you, and then once more until you’re on your stomach, tangled in the sheets.  

He doesn’t stir, not even when your movements tug at the arm he has slung over you. But somehow, by the time dawn starts to creep through the window, you manage to end up back where you started. It’s always a guessing game — whether you’ll wake up as you fell asleep or in some entirely different arrangement.  

This time you’ve got it and you open your eyes to his face pressed into the pillow, and his hair’s a mess, sticking up in all directions. The first light of morning spills across him, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw.  

You sigh quietly, turning away from him because the proximity is too much. If you had easy access to his lips for a second longer, you’d cave, and you know it. But you can’t — not now, not with your morning breath making itself known. You cringe a little at the thought, pressing your face into the pillow.  

Oh fuck. Do you even have a toothbrush here?

The thought nags at you for a moment, but you shove it aside. Later. You’ll figure it out later.

You settle into the sheets again, your back to him, hoping to drift off for just a little longer. But then he stirs, his arm tightening around your waist as his chest presses closer to your back. His nose nudges against the back of your neck, warm and soft, and you almost melt into the touch.  

And then you feel it.  

Your body goes completely still, frozen as the unmistakable pressure of him presses against you, firm and insistent. What the fuck.

Okay, yes, you’ve slept together before — slept. As in, shared a bed, tangled limbs, whispered secrets into the night. But this? This is new.  

You’re no stranger to intimacy with him. You’ve done things — things that have left you breathless, aching, satisfied. You’ve seen him naked, and he’s seen you. You’ve taken him in your mouth, made him groan your name. He’s touched you, too, kissed you there, made you come undone with his tongue and fingers in ways you didn’t know were possible. Equally mutual satisfactory fulfilment. 

But you haven’t done it together. Not yet. Not because you don’t want to, but because time has never been on your side. It’s always been a stolen moment here, a rushed goodbye there. Too much tension and not enough space to let it all unravel.  

You bite your lip, your mind racing. He’s so close, too close, and the heat pooling between your thighs is impossible to ignore. You’re…oh, God, you’re dripping just thinking about it. But now isn’t the time — not with his parents in the room down the hall, not with him lost in his dreams, innocent in his state of unintentional desire.  

You shift slightly, trying to ease the tension without waking him, but it only makes things worse. The movement causes him to press against you more firmly, and you have to bite back a whimper.  

Okay, okay, breathe. Think unsexy thoughts. Math equations. Old textbooks. Your friend’s crush on her weird philosophy professor.

But none of it works when his hand tightens on your hip and his body is so warm against yours.  

“Alex.” you whisper, barely audible, hoping he doesn’t wake up but also kind of hoping he does because then maybe-

No. No, not now. Later. Later, when you have more time and privacy and not the looming threat of his parents overhearing something they definitely shouldn’t.  

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to calm down, and after a few agonizing minutes, you feel his grip slacken, his body relaxing again. His breathing evens out and he’s still fast asleep. You exhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, and then close your eyes again, determined to fall back into some semblance of rest.  

Later, you tell yourself again. And God, you hope later comes soon. 

But later seems to be now because before you can settle yourself, you feel it — him, again. His hips shift behind you, pressing insistently against you, the heat and firmness of him unmistakable. He’s…rutting into you.  

Your breath catches, heart racing, and you think, No. He has to still be asleep. Right?

The soft, steady rhythm of his snores continues, only confirming it. And then they falter, turning into a deep, rough cough that rattles through his chest. He stirs, pulling back from you just enough to stretch, his arm leaving your waist. You can hear his joints pop as he yawns, long and loud.  

You don’t dare move, still frozen, thighs pressed tightly together in an effort to keep your body from betraying you.  

He turns toward you, his eyes heavy-lidded and his hair sticking up in every direction, but there’s no mistaking it: he’s awake now. And yet, the duvet is still covering him from the waist down, doing nothing to hide the outline of him. Oh, he’s very much awake.  

“Morning.” he whispers, his voice deep and scratchy, rough from sleep.  

“Morning.” you manage, though it comes out quieter, tighter.  

He doesn’t seem to notice, instead rolling onto his back and stretching again. You take the opportunity to lean over, pressing your face into the spot between his arm and chest. The crook of his armpit, warm and soft, the place where his skin smells the most like him. You inhale deeply, savoring the scent of him, that mix of sweat and soap and something you can’t describe but is so unmistakably Alex.  

He huffs a laugh, looking down at you as you nuzzle into him like a cat. “You weirdo.” he murmurs, his hand lazily brushing over your back.  

You’re too caught up in the warmth of him, in the way your nose fits perfectly there, in how his skin feels against yours even through the thin fabric of his shirt to respond. 

He shifts again, turning onto his side and pulling you with him, his arm draping over your waist. His thigh hitches over your hip, pulling you closer, and it’s only then that you feel him again.  

Pressed against you, hard and obvious, and he doesn’t even realise it. You hold your breath as he rubs against you, slow and absentminded, his body moving on instinct alone. It’s clear his brain hasn’t caught up yet. He’s still in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where dreams and reality blur together.  

But you are fully aware. Too aware. Every nerve in your body is alight, and the ache between your thighs is impossible to ignore.  

“Alex.” you whisper, your voice trembling just enough to give you away.  

He hums in response, his nose brushing against your shoulder as he pulls you even closer. His hand rests on your hip, his thumb stroking idly over the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and he presses against you again.  

Your resolve is hanging by a thread, your body screaming for you to move, to push back, to let this moment become what it so desperately wants to be.  

But his breathing evens out again, and his lips brush your shoulder in a subconscious kiss, soft and lazy.  

“Alex.” you say again, a little louder this time, and his eyes finally flutter open, the hazy warmth in them clearing as his mind catches up to his body.  

“Oh, fuck.” he mutters, his cheeks flushing as he freezes, his hand still on your hip. “Oh, fuck.” he mutters again, louder this time, his face going beet red as he pulls back the covers to confirm what he already knows.  

And yep, there it is. His hard-on, unapologetic and obvious, tenting his boxers in a way that would’ve been funny if he weren’t so mortified.  

“Shit.” he hisses, scrambling to cover himself again. He turns away from you in his panic, rolling onto his stomach like that’ll fix it.

It doesn’t.  

As soon as his hips hit the mattress, he lets out a strangled noise, his face scrunching in pain.  

“Fuck- ow-” He twists awkwardly, trying to lift his hips off the bed, his voice breaking into a groan as he clutches the duvet beneath him.  

You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s not a mean laugh, more like a surprised, delighted giggle that bubbles out before you can stop it. “Alex.” you manage, caught somewhere between concern and amusement.  

He’s still half-buried in the mattress, his arms bracing against the bed, trying to hold himself up without putting pressure on his…situation. “Don’t.” he grumbles, his voice muffled. “Don’t laugh at me.”  

“I’m not.” you lie, even as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “Come here, you idiot.”  

He groans again but finally relents, pushing himself off the mattress and turning back to you, his face still flushed. He flops into your arms like he’s seeking refuge, burying his head in your neck and mumbling something unintelligible against your skin.  

“What was that?” you ask, still grinning as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close.  

“I said, I’m never waking up again.” 

“Oh, sure.” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “That’ll fix everything.”  

He groans again, his hand resting on your waist as he tries to melt into you. Maybe if he stays there long enough he’ll just disappear.  

You lean back slightly, tilting your head to look at him, and you can’t help but smile at the way his eyes are squeezed shut, his nose scrunched in embarrassment. “Good morning.” 

He finally cracks one eye open. “Good morning.” he mutters back, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile of his own. “Sorry,” he whispers, “didn’t- didn’t mean to-”  

“It’s fine.” you cut him off. And it is. Fine. More than fine, actually. But you don’t say that part.  

He hangs awkwardly next to you, hovering just far enough away that it doesn’t touch you, his arm still draped over your waist but with a noticeable gap now. You can feel the tension, the way he’s holding himself stiffly to keep his hips from brushing against yours like that’ll make the situation less obvious.  

“Were you dreaming?” you ask.  

He shakes his head, face still tucked into your neck. “Nah.”  

“Then?”  

There’s a pause, and then he giggles, this soft, boyish sound and it makes your heart flip. “Think the knowledge of you half-naked in my bed was enough.”  

You laugh softly, your chest warming at his honesty. “Dirty boy.”  

He grins, his confidence peeking through despite the blush still dusting his cheeks. “Yeah, well, you’re the one wearing my shirt and no pants, so…”  

You can feel his gaze on you, lingering where the hem of his shirt just barely skims the tops of your thighs as you press them together, suddenly hyper-aware of the dampness pooling between them. “It’s comfortable.” you mumble.  

He hums, his hand brushing over your hip. “Yeah.” he says, almost distractedly. “Looks good on you, though.”  

Your leg brushes against his. He tenses. He’s still trying so hard to keep his distance, and it’s endearing in a way that makes you want to push him just a little. “You’re really embarrassed, huh?” 

You glance up at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours before darting back down again. He’s trying so hard not to stare, not to make it obvious how much he wants you right now, but the flush creeping up his neck and the way he’s nervously biting the inside of his cheek gives him away.  

“Maybe.” he mutters, his voice muffled. “It’s a little hard to be suave when you wake up like this.”  

“Who said anything about suave?” You drag your fingers lightly down the back of his neck, feeling the slight shiver that runs through him. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”  

“Don’t.” he groans.  

“Don’t what?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers trail lower, grazing his back.  

“Don’t- ugh- don’t mess with me.”  

“I’m not messing with you.” you say softly, your hand sliding lower until it rests on his hip, dangerously close to the duvet-covered evidence of exactly how not fine he is. “You’re the one who woke up like this.”  

“Yeah, well…” He trails off, biting his lip as he glances down. “Thought you said it was fine.” 

“It is.” Your hand moves just a little higher, brushing against his stomach, and he exhales sharply.  

“You’re playing with fire.” he warns, though it’s half-hearted at best, his hips twitching involuntarily toward your touch.  

You shift closer, your lips brushing his jaw as your hand moves lower, skimming over the waistband of his boxers. “Maybe I want to get burned.”  

His breath stutters and he doesn’t move, just staring at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious. Then his hand moves, sliding down your side and over your hip, his fingers brushing the edge of your panties.  

“Al…” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, and he looks up at you, his lips parting like he’s about to respond. But he doesn’t get the chance.  

Your hand trails down.  

“Wait-” he stammers, his own flying to catch yours, though he doesn’t actually stop you.  

“Wait for what?” 

His breath catches again, and his hips shift, pressing against your hand. You can feel him, hard and insistent beneath the thin fabric, and it sends a thrill through you.  

His hand moves too, hesitant, his fingers brushing over your thigh before creeping higher. They hover between your legs, just barely grazing. You can feel his breath against your neck, shaky and shallow, before his fingers dip lower.

When he touches you — just barely, a featherlight graze over the damp fabric — you shudder, your thighs twitching.

“Shit.” he breathes, his voice low and strained.

And then he freezes.

“Oh, my God.” he mutters, his eyes snapping open as his hand flies back to your hip.  

“What?” 

“You’re…” He trails off, his eyes flickering down, and you realise what he means. He felt it — the wet patch on your panties where they’ve been soaked through. “You’re so wet.” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud. 

You shrug, your cheeks burning even as you try to play it off. “Well, you’re hard.” 

“Don’t say that.” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your skin.  

“Why not?” you tease, your hand trailing back up to rest on his chest. “It’s true.”  

He doesn’t respond, just lets out a low, frustrated laugh before finally meeting your eyes again. Pupils dark and blown wide, and there’s a quiet, unspoken question in them.  

“Alex.” you say softly, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek.  

“Yeah?” 

“Stop overthinking.”  

And with that, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and just a little bit desperate. Your hands splay against his chest as you settle over him, his erection pressing against you in a way that makes your whole body flush.  

“Still embarrassed?” It comes out breathier than you intended.  

His hands find your thighs, sliding up and under the hem of his shirt that you’re still wearing. “Shut up.” he mutters. 

“Make me.” 

“I can do that.” he says, and then he dips forward, capturing your lips with his.  

A tender slide of mouths that sends butterflies spiraling through your chest, all teeth and tongues and the kind of frantic energy that makes your heart pound so hard it’s all you can hear. But when you press down — accidentally, just slightly — and brush against him just so, you both gasp into it.  

It’s instinctive, the way you press into him, your body seeking friction and finding it. The pressure so delicious. A steady drag of him against you. His hands tighten on your waist, guiding you as you move, and when your lips break apart, it’s only because you need air.  

When you’re not kissing him, you’re biting his lip, tugging at it just enough to make him gasp. And when you’re not biting his lip, you’re biting your own, trying to keep quiet because you’re all too aware of the thin walls.  

But it’s hard to stay quiet when every roll of your hips sends a new wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and the sound of his breathing makes you want to give in completely.  

“Fuck.” he mutters, and the way he looks at you — lips swollen, hair messy, cheeks flushed — makes you want to ruin him.  

You lean down, capturing his lips again. And then you press down just a little harder, the angle shifting just enough to hit just right.  

It’s game over.  

“Can I?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His hand hovers at your hip, thumb grazing the edge of your panties. The intention is clear: more, baby, give me more, I need more.

You nod. That’s all he needs.  

His hand trembles slightly as he moves it lower, brushing over the curve of your thigh before tugging at the fabric, fumbling as he tries to pull it down. You lift your hips to help him, the movement brushing you against him again, and he groans low in his throat, his breath shaky as he finally gets the panties down far enough to push them aside.  

Then he pauses. “You’re sure?” he asks, his voice cracking just a little.  

You nod again, more emphatically this time. “Yes,” you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest, under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. “Yes, Alex.”  

It’s enough.  

He fumbles again as he reaches for himself, pushing his boxers down with a little too much force, and his dick springs free, flushed and hard and — oh god — so close. It would almost be funny, the way he struggles to get the fabric out of the way, but it’s not. It’s really, really not, because all you can think about is how much you want him.  

So bad.  

His breath catches as he looks down at you, his hand wrapping around himself almost instinctively, and you feel your whole body tighten at the sight.  

“You’re so-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like he can’t even find the words, his free hand sliding up to cup your face. “I want you.” he says, his voice raw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “So much.”  

You press your forehead to his, your hands gripping his shoulders as you whisper, “Then take me.”  

“Okay.” His breath stutters, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he shifts, guiding himself to you. He hesitates, just for a second, lips brushing yours as he whispers, “Tell me if-”  

“I will.” 

And then he pushes forward, just barely, and you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of hurting you.  

“Oh, fuck.” he breathes, his voice trembling, holding himself back, trying to stay in control. He groans as he sinks deeper.  

And then he’s finally there, fully there, and you both pause, your breaths mingling as you adjust to the feeling, the weight, the sheer intimacy of it all.  

It’s everything. It’s too much. It’s not enough.  

And then he moves.

“Fuck, that feels so good.” he whispers, the words spilling out of him unguarded, and you can’t help the quiet sound that escapes your throat, a soft, needy confirmation that yes — yes, it feels so good.  

You shift your hips against him, slow and deliberate, so slow that anyone watching wouldn’t even know you’re moving. But inside, he’s shifting with every tiny motion, and the stretch, the fullness — it’s overwhelming. He’s so big, and every inch of him feels like it was made to fit you, and you’re not sure how you’ve gone this long without knowing this feeling.  

“Wait.” he says suddenly, his hands gripping your hips to still you.  

You stop immediately, your lips parted, your teeth catching on your bottom lip as you remember how undone you must look. Your hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction from the night before, and you’re sure there are still traces of sleep in the corners of your eyes. It hits like a bucket of cold water, and you want to disappear, to bury your face in his pillow and hide from the thought that he might see you like this and regret everything. But he doesn’t pull away. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, an apology written in the tenderness of it.  

“Don’t.” he murmurs, and it’s like he can see the insecurity blooming in your mind. And then it hits you — he’s inside you. His body is wrapped around yours, his hands holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. It’s far too late for him to find you repulsive.  

You exhale shakily, relaxing into his touch just as he says, “We didn’t- I didn’t put on a- a…” He stumbles over the words, his face flushing as he looks up at you.  

“A rubber?” you offer. 

“Yeah. Fuck.” he mutters, his hand running through his already-messy hair.  

You know you should care. You should be concerned, should pull away and figure it out. But the thought barely registers, drowned out by the heat pooling low and the way he’s looking at you, all flushed cheeks and wide eyes and breathless uncertainty.  

“Alex.” you whisper, and he looks up at you like you’ve just spoken the most important word in the world. You lean down, your lips brushing his, and kiss him softly, slowly, until you feel the tension melt from his body, his lips moving against yours like he’s already forgotten the interruption.  

“Fuck it.” he breathes against your mouth, low and desperate, and you can feel the smile tugging at his lips as you press your forehead to his.  

“Fuck it.” you agree, and the moment you start moving again, the rest of the world disappears.

It’s soft. It’s lazy. Not so lazy that it doesn’t feel good — because it does. It feels too good. Like, you-know-will-ruin-you kinda good. The kind of good that turns your world upside down and leaves you wondering how you’ll ever survive without it again. And it’s not just the way he’s touching you or the way he fits inside you. It’s the way he looks at you. It’s dangerous, this feeling. You can already sense it sinking into your bones, settling deep in your veins, and you fear you’ll never get it out. How are you supposed to pull away from him when it feels like this? 

“God,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, “you’re perfect.” He laughs softly before he says “Can’t believe we waited this long.” 

“Worth it.” 

“Yeah.” he agrees, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “Yeah, you’re worth it.”  

So honest, so sure that it has you pressing closer, your body trembling as the pleasure builds slowly, steadily, until it feels like it’s wrapping around you, pulling you under.  

“Alex.” you whisper, and his eyes lock onto yours, dark and full of something that feels so much bigger than the two of you.  

“I’ve got you.” he says, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “I’ve got you, babe.”  

It’s so much. There’s so much of him — his length, his heat, the way his hip bones graze yours with every thrust. Each motion feels impossibly intimate, like he’s carving himself into you, piece by piece, and you can’t help the way your fingers dig into his chest, searching for something to hold onto.  

“Takin’ me so well.” he whispers, a secret meant only for you.  

The words make you whimper, a soft, broken sound that you wish could say everything you’re feeling. But it’s not enough, and you almost feel bad that you can’t muster anything more coherent in return. You hope he understands. You hope the way you’re falling apart over him — every little gasp, every shudder, every desperate press of your hips — tells him he’s doing good. Tells him he’s doing everything right.  

“God, love.” he breathes. His movements are still slow, but there’s more purpose now, more urgency, like he’s teetering on the edge and holding back just for you. “Feel so good. So fuckin’ good.”  

He’s hitting that perfect spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your body’s giving in. He’s pulling you down so your chest is flush with his, and his lips find your neck, brushing kisses along your skin that make you shiver. You can feel him twitching inside you, every little pulse. He’s losing control, you can tell, and it’s making you lose it right along with him.  

“Fuck-” he groans, his voice breaking, “I’m- I’m close. So close. Really close.” His head tilts back against the pillow, his mouth open as he gasps for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He’s a mess beneath you, and it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “I- how do I- tell me what to-”  

You know what he’s asking. He wants to make you fall apart, just like he is, but his brain is too scrambled to figure out how. Your hand moves instinctively, grabbing his wrist and guiding it between your legs.  

“Here.” you whisper, pressing his fingers where you need them. “Just- like this.”  

He gets it. He gets it so right. The circles he’s drawing are perfect, the pressure just enough to have you keening softly as your thighs begin to tremble.  

“That’s it.” he says. 

You’re shaking now, your body so tense you feel like you might break apart. His hand keeps working between you, his cock throbbing inside you with every desperate thrust, and you’re so gone. There’s no other way to describe it. You’re gone for him, gone because of him, gone with him. White-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamp down around him, and he chokes out a curse, his hips faltering as he tries to keep moving through the vice grip.  

“Fuck- fuck.” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut, his face scrunching up like he’s in pain. “You’re- oh, my god, love, I’m- I’m gonna-” 

He’s fighting it. But you’re still pulsing around him, your body shaking with the aftershocks, and it’s too much for him. “I need to-” he stammers, his breath catching as he pulls out. 

The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, and you glance down just in time to see him. He’s slick and flushed, his cock impossibly hard and glistening from you, and the moment the cool air touches him, he gasps. He strokes tightly, quickly, his fist sliding over the slickness you’ve left behind. 

“Oh-” His free hand clutches at the sheets, his hips bucking up into his own grip. You’re transfixed.  

It only takes a few strokes before he’s gone, a choked moan spilling from his lips as his body tenses. His cock jerks in his hand, and he comes hard, painting his covered chest with thick, messy ropes that glisten in the soft morning light. He keeps stroking himself through it, his thighs trembling beneath you. You can’t help but reach out, your fingers brushing over the sticky mess he’s made. He groans at the touch, his hand falling away as he finally collapses against the bed, utterly spent.  

“Holy fuck.” he whispers. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his chest is still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You collapse against him, your face buried in his neck, and he’s still gasping.  

“Yeah.” you giggle, and he laughs too.  

It’s messy, it’s clumsy, it’s perfect.

You stay draped over him, your cheek pressed against his collarbone as his arms lazily wrap around you. You just want to stay like this — floating in the quiet of the morning, the hum of his breath against your temple.  

After a few moments, he huffs a soft laugh, his chest rising beneath you.  

“What?” you ask, your voice muffled against his skin.  

“Just…y’know. That.” he says. “Wasn’t exactly how I imagined it’d go, but-”  

“Oh, shut up.” you say, swatting at his chest, and he winces dramatically.  

“Careful.” he teases. “Still recovering here. You wore me out.”  

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Neither of you mentions the obvious — what just happened, the closeness of it, how real it all feels. It’s not awkward, though. Just…warm.  

“God, you’re heavy.” he murmurs, teasing, his voice still soft with the afterglow.  

“Shut up.” you mutter, lips brushing against the curve of his neck. “You’re sticky.”  

There’s a comfortable silence for a beat, the two of you just basking in each other. It’s peaceful, or it would be if Alex weren’t incapable of keeping still for longer than thirty seconds. He shifts, testing the waters, and then — suddenly — he’s twisting you both around, flipping you onto your back as he props himself up on his elbows above you.  

“Alex!” you squeak. “What the hell-”  

His laugh is bright, filling the room as he nuzzles his face into your shoulder. “Oh my God.” he says, dragging the words out as if he’s just had the greatest epiphany of his life. “You’re mine. I’ve got you. Right here. In. My. Bed.”  

“Alex.” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down as you squirm under him. “Shut up! What if-”  

He cuts you off with a kiss to your forehead, his grin so wide it’s getting infectious. “What if my parents hear?” he finishes for you.

“Yes, exactly!”  

“They won’t.” He pulls back, still grinning like a madman. “They’re not even here. They leave for work early, remember?”  

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “Oh.”  

“Oh.” he mimics, laughing again. “We’re free, baby. Just you, me, and this very comfortable bed.”  

You groan, slapping his arm. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”  

“Before what?” 

“You know what.” you huff, trying to look annoyed but failing miserably because he’s looking at you like that.  

He props his chin on your chest, right between that valley of breasts. “Not talking about it, are we?” 

“Talking about what?” You blink, all mock innocence, and you roll your eyes.  

“You know what.” His grin widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something ridiculous but he stays quiet. 

“Maybe later.” you murmur, and he hums in agreement.  

“Relax, love.” he says, his voice dropping to something softer, gentler. “We’re good. Promise.”  

You narrow your eyes at him, but his smile is too infectious, and eventually, you find yourself smiling back.  

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” you grumble, and he laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of your nose.  

“I know.” 

A notification with message appears on his phone. Alex noticed it only because he was monitoring the phone all day. Usually, he doesn’t give a shit about the phone in general, it’s always somewhere and he doesn’t know where and he’s fine with it. But today she must have come back. Finally.

She is away in Paris with one of her colleagues. It is about work. Alex didn’t show it back then, when she said about that trip, but he wasn’t excited, considering that there’s some man colleague with her. He was respectful about it, and he had no choice anyway. His grouchiness became more evident though. He has that habit of mumbling something under his nose, that habit is a common thing for him like other ones – overthinking or trying to keep everything bottled up.

“They say it’s snowing hard in London. No way we fly today. Flight is delayed.”

The message made him groan quietly. He runs hand over his face slightly shaking his head in disappointment. It is showing hard. Alex glances at the window. He can see blurry buildings and streetlights, rushing people and lots of show. He thought about it even in the morning while he had a cup of coffee. He wasn’t a fan of snow or rain. He was a simple man at this point. He liked the sun. It just shines and doesn’t try to make any trouble for you.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to come back today.” Another message.

He just puts the phone away. Tired sigh sounds all over the room. He gets up from the stool in the kitchen and moves to the bedroom with bitterness inside and a lump in the throat. The light is turned off everywhere. He climbed into bed, making the sheets rustle in the silence of a room. In the silence of the apartment. It drove him right to the edge slowly. Alex sighs deeply again and just places an arm over his face. Curtains don’t let in a lot of light in the bedroom and that pressuring on him too.

He didn’t want to be clingy. Just, a week has passed already. He really did miss her. And that man. He should have said about his concerns before, she would have listened to him, reassured him. She always does. Now he regrets it. It’s always so tough to let out the words when it’s not singing. His body needs familiar warm of her body. The soft affectionate tone she has. Who would have thought he got so anxious without her presence, even though it’s just one week? When did he miss the moment, he got so attached?

Next day he woke up in no mood as previous days exactly. The stress caused him to have some unpleasant and creepy glimpses of dreams that bothered his sleep and made him toss and turn. He didn’t go straight to the phone making himself wait not desiring to see there any other possible unpleasant news. He brushed his teeth, made the bed tidy as possible and then made coffee. The weather outside was peaceful compared to yesterday. No snow. And the sun is out. Alex couldn’t stop tiny smile from appearing.

He finally sat down sipping coffee not needing any more for a breakfast, scratched his own side a bit and shirt lifted a bit revealing hint of skin that has been untouched for long. He picked up the phone from exactly where he left it. Alex noticed a few messages from yesterday and a few texts from today thirty minutes ago.

“I had an awful night in the airport hotel.”

“But now we stand in the queue for boarding!”

“I’m really concerned that you didn’t answer yesterday…”

“Hope you just was sleeping already.”

That woman has a habit of texting few messages instead of just big one. Alex exhaled scrolling down.

“Remember the plan! I will wait for you in the airport.” That last message has emoji of kiss in the end of it, and he grins stupidly.

They do have a plan. He will pick her up at the airport. Maybe, he will be polite enough and give that colleague guy a ride to the tube. Just maybe. But he would prefer not to.

Now Alex feels contented, a bit giddy. The woman he loves deeply is going home. He hopes the sky is clear and the flight is good. She gets nervous during take off and turbulence, when they fly together, he always holds her hand. That guy better not get touchy… As thought crosses his mind, he feels a twinge of distress but doesn’t let it escalate. He gets up and washes the cup after coffee.

The thoughts of possible ways of reuniting fill his mind. A dinner together finally, and then a movie, or maybe making love instead of movie. A little trace of smirk on his lips.

He looks around slightly. Alex has nothing to do in the apartment. Its clean, because he’s the most careful and neat man on a planet, probably, in comparison to her. She’s a certified mess. When they just started living, he thought it’s a hell. They had lots of arguments about it. Now they are both came to terms with that. She tries to be cleaner, and he tries to be calm about the way she makes a mess everywhere. Though it’s lonely without her chaos, he thinks.

The lingering smell of cigarettes is usual for their place. It’s the only thing that ruins the neatness of their place. Alex smokes on the balcony but strong and bitter smell is is apartment’s air lingers there always as on his hair and clothes.

He starts to get ready, wanting to look a bit better than usual. Clothes, perfume. That one was her present on the previous Christmas for him. She said back then that she had no idea what to buy, but that one made her think of him, and he accepted the perfume with a sincere smile and grown quite fond of it. That perfume is dim with a woody undertone and doesn’t cause headaches for both of them. He hoped she would notice the perfume. Alex slips into his grey coat wrapping a scarf around his neck and fastening the buttons. Keys in his hands already. Glancing in the mirror and fixing hair he left the apartment.

When he leaves the building, the wind is enveloping him, it’s howling in his ears, and for a second he closes eyes feeling a shiver, trying to adjust to the freezing-ass weather. Alex gets in the car as soon as possible rubbing his hands and starting the car.

The ride was calm, he had gotten into small traffic because of the yesterday snow, but it quickly dissolved. Near the airport he became nervous. Lots of people, lots of cabs.

“Bloody ‘ell.” he mumbles, running fingers through his tousled hair driving slowly parallelly to exits of airport.

Alex scans the place to find some corner to park the car. He was going to park the car, and like a civilized person meet her inside of the airport. Exactly as they planned. Until he saw a familiar face with a wide grin. Contrast loud knock in the window. Nothing can be normal with her… He chuckles and leans to open the passenger seat.

“Alex!” she exclaimed slamming the door shut making Alex flinch slightly. She throws bag on the backseat and then tugging his face placing an unexpected kiss right on his lips. He hummed surprised in kiss trying to back away gently.

“Love– “ a honk can be heard from the back as other driver waiting for a way to drive. “Aye, I’m drivin’! For fuck’s sake...” he grumbles starting to drive. “Hate airports. So hectic.” says Alex as they start to leave the airport behind.

She stares at him with a satisfied full smile. She’s finally home. Familiar London, familiar atmosphere, familiar grumpy Alex that hates bustle. She is clearly happy to see him after all that week. He wasn’t the one who was missing the closeness. It’s mutual. Snow is starting to fall outside again, but it’s a light one. It sparkles and makes her mesmerized a bit. She pats his knee lovingly.

“So… Christmas soon. Did you decorate our cozy little place?” she teases him slightly.

He glances at her, making out only the one sound. “Uh…”

Speaking of bustle and Alex. Christmas is a bustle. A fuss. Tiring and loud. He doesn’t like Christmas. But she likes only Christmas out of all holidays. So, anything for her. They always decorate their apartment and that makes her light up like one of the lights on the garland. She always tries everything to do herself and he always stands behind to catch or help her, because he is still having it bad for her. That’s why a week without her makes him ache and that’s why he will help her make their place shine like a goddamn Christmas tree.

“No comments. I got it.” she chuckles, shaking her head amused.

Silence settled in the car. Alex wanted to ask about Paris, about that guy. She mentioned the guy even before the trip; she thought he’s a good employee in their field, also that he was like a puppy around her and too friendly. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t against gentleman behaviour. It just doesn’t sit right with him. There’s no fear that she will cheat. But crossing thoughts in his mind about some subtle caresses that this guy could try on her, the gentler tone he might talk with her, just the possibility made him annoyed, and he couldn’t help himself.

“That colleague, the one ya had a trip with, where is he by the way?” he asks with slight grumpiness, throwing a glance at her.

“Got a cab for himself.” she says casually shrugging, and he nods. Good, that he went his way, he thinks.

She looks at him, seeing the light frown hanging on his beautiful face, sensing something is up.

Ride is continuing, the hum of car is stable. His one palm lying securely but relaxed and confident on a leathered wheel, while the other one placed on his thigh. Eyes passing over changing scenery concentratedly taking everything in. The palm on a wheel runs over it gracefully and effortlessly from time to time. She bets he has no idea that even the way he drives the car is an art.

Snow is still falling creating the festive atmosphere. People rushing outside nestled in lots of clothes. There are middle-aged women sitting on the bench and gossiping, some man is carrying a Christmas tree on his shoulder trying his best and few girls with coffee cups laughing. Snow is crunching underfoot. Garlands are on windows in people’s apartments; storefronts are decorated already making it hard to skip them. Holiday is in the air.

When they get back into apartment, she finally breaks the ice addressing elephant in the room. “Al, is something wrong? You seem down.”

Alex sighs brushing the snow off the coat. And kicking the boots off after placing them together neatly. He didn’t really want to discuss it. It wasn’t something that needed to be discussed, he thinks. It will pass soon because she’s here so why he should worry about anything? There’s absolutely no need to show how vulnerable he is without her. Everything is under control. Right?

“Okay, that sigh is already means that something is wrong.” she is trying to prepare herself mentally for tough talk. Making a few strides towards him she puts her palms onto his slightly sagged shoulders.

“It’s ‘kay.” he mutters with low voice of his, eyes running over everything in the apartment but not her face. Wall, door, own hands.

She sees him through. At least now. He is too sophisticated to see throughout him fully. It’s impossible to know him completely and that upsets her. The desire to know every corner of his mind, every little fast thought in his gorgeous mind, every favourite places on his body. Entirely. Mentally and physically.

His lovely eyes are lying now.

“Al, look at me.” she cups his cheeks feeling stubble with her palms.

She makes him look at her and sees the deepest vulnerability in them, the apologize for that vulnerability, barely noticeable shame that he tries to hide so hard. Her own eyes are filling with sorrow and pain for him.

She wraps her arms around his neck pulling him in the balmy embrace and Alex leans in without a second thought. His face finds the base of her neck sensing her scent and sugary perfume. His arm is wrapping around her waist, and other hand is cupping the back of her head feeling her with all body as they pressed to each other. She runs her nose slowly and tenderly over his collar blade leaving a light kiss in the end. They don’t talk, just absorb each other’s warmness, sharing energy and love between each other.

She hums sniffing his neck. “The one I got for you on previous Christmas.” she affirmed and a little smiles creep on his face, pleased that she noticed the detail.

She backed away from him just a bit keeping him close, finding his face with her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” her loving, yet firm and demanding answer gaze, made him run finger into his hair anxiously under the force of her stare.

“Jus’ missed ya. That colleague guy also didn’t make any good for me…” his voice deeper as he uses all willpower to talk, but falters at the end of the thought his wants to express. He breathes out heavily shaking his head and his fingers in the hair again just trying to be composed now messing them to the different sides. “I don’t know.” he lets out a quiet chuckle, as he is at a loss for words, he looks up at her. His hand, a bit rough and calloused, reaches for her chin making few light caresses only to lower it down back on her waist again.

Her eyes darting over his face, over every wrinkle that formed on his face with age, contemplating his little awkward smile. No, that man for sure doesn’t know how cute he is. His barely noticeable smile made her smile too as reassuring him. She leans leaving a careful kiss in the corner of his dry lips after chilly wind outside.

“So… My colleague.” she begins watching his reaction.

“Jus’ don’t like him.” he mutters a short answer with a loud exhale. “He seems… I don’t know… Have no explanation.” Alex would like to stop there and not escalate the talk, and she senses it, nodding. Her delicate hand strokes his shoulder, making him at peace. Tranquillity is settling in his body and soul, making anxiousness and frustration disappear. He feels better now. Messy thoughts left his mind. All is residing is coziness and intimacy.

She leans in to kiss him properly after all the days of forced separation, and he can’t turn down the kiss. At the beginning the kiss is sweet and silky. Further gripping the waist harder, he insists a bit more, closing the eyes falling further into the kiss. The intimate moment makes them melt into each other completely. Demanding a deeper kiss, he senses she opens her mouth for him so he could slip the tongue inside. The warmth of her mouth and sensation of her tongue against his is making him desperate and hungry for prolongation.

She can’t stop only on lips determined to continue she carefully tilts his neck for a better access and keeps the palm there keeping his head on one place, her thumb caresses slowly the length of his neck which makes Alex breath out shakingly.

“On the couch…” she throws softly leading him to their living room. The scent of cigarettes is still there. The room has a dim light from the street, soon it gets dark. “Sit down, baby. Relax.”

He knows what is going to happen and he can say undoubtedly, there’s no better reunion than he could imagine. As Alex settles on couch, she is on his lap, nipping his neck very lightly to tease him. His hand instinctively sneaks under her sweater lingering on her lower back knowing he will get an instant reaction – she arches gripping his shoulder firmly.

“Alex…” she clenches shirt on his shoulder a bit harder, letting out half a hiss and half a whimper.

That’s what he thought, ghost smirk is on his lips. He doesn’t bother to answer, everything is clear for both of them. His breath is stuck in his throat as she slips down on the floor. What a sight. She’s on her knees fidgeting with button and zipper on his jeans, quite persistent to take them off as quickly as possible. He shifts on a couch closer to her so she can do it faster.

“Yes, sit on the edge of the couch…” she mumbles encouraging him.

Her fingers trembling a bit from excitement as she rushes to free him. She feels his obvious arousal that is begging to be out of imprisonment. Separation made him more sensitive, and his patience is wearing off.

She doesn’t stand on ceremony tugging his jeans down and off when she finally could concentrate and deal with button and zipper. The view of familiar pair of dark blue boxers makes her even more eager. She starts with peppering kisses on his thighs. Sensitively, slowly, to show how much she craves him, she knows he needs it. He lets out groan and his hand grips the edge of couch.

Her index finger hooks the elastic of his boxers only to snap it back. Alex huffs and his other hand is finding her head gripping hair a bit tugging her a bit closer to the prominent bulge.

“Don’t… Just, please…” his voice is husky and gruff, the need is obvious, and she can’t refuse.

She pulls out his strained cock, lowering boxers down. Making a ring of her fingers she moves it over his length, from the base to the tip and back, his hips meet her hand halfway letting out a curse. Her mouth is dealing with wet tip already, leaving feather kisses with attentiveness yet relaxed expression on her face, clearly enjoying it, licking off even the smallest amount of liquid.

“Fuck me.” he hisses through teeth clenching the handful of her hair, carrying away already. His head is tilting back on the back of the couch, as she changes the tactic now moving her full palm over his cock. Slowly at the beginning, and faster then. He lifts his head slightly to observe her. She looks up at him, only to see his flushed face and hooded dark eyes and heavy breath escaping his mouth.

She stretches her lips around his cock and starts taking him into warmth of her mouth, starting to finally suck him. Rough and hoarse moan left his lips, as his cock is burying deeper and deeper with each second. Only he thought he would reach the sweet back of her throat, when she pulled it out with wet pop making him groan and unconsciously gripping the hair harder in the process. She is taking long slow licks, lapping along all shaft, torturing him and at the same time making his body shudder in delicious pleasure. The bend of her tongue is feeling every vein tracing the form swirling at the tip which brings him closer to the edge with every second.

With no words he nudged her head closer making her open mouth wide again and starting thrust his hips into her throat collectedly taking the control. Letting out whispered curses under breath mixed with intense moans, Alex shakes his head, trying to get rid of dizziness. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to move them away from sticky with sweat forehead. Muffled moans sneak out from her full mouth, spit from corners of mouth messing the couch and few droplets fell on the floor already. Her hands grip his tensed thighs feeling how heated his body had gotten.

Slight twitches of his cock inside her mouth are telling about how close he is. She feels her jaw is getting tighter and it’s hard to take the full length, but she knows there is no way out. She moves her head just further, shutting her eyes as he is stuffing her mouth fully with no more room inside left. He moans gravelly shifting his hips, finally hitting the back of her throat. The room was filled with sloppy sounds, her dull moans, and his in contrast loud moans. It is already darker outside, so in the room. If a person would walk in, they would only make out two dark silhouettes in moment of pure lust and the long-awaited connection.

“Open eyes.” he breathes heavily, overwhelmed with sensation. Alex makes a light tug of hair trying to get her attention. “Look at me, darlin’.” his thick voice is carrying desperation for release.

When she opens her glassy eyes, looking up he pushes a bit more, letting out an immediate moan, going senseless over how tip of shaft is feeling against her throat. Alex follows with his eyes her parted mouth and can’t hold back anymore. He can’t hold back anymore.

“Just a– “ strained load moan interrupts his speaking; he is gasping for air as his hand grips her hair keeping head in the right place spilling into her, he moves his hips a couple more times to ride out the orgasm and then he stops. She shuts her eyes again feeling tears in the corner of eyes. He pulls out his cock, licking his lips feeling they sting because of dryness and wipes forehead with back of palm.

Swallowing him down, she blinks few times trying to have a full breath after whole experience, looking up at him she notices that he is already leaning to help her get on her feet.

“C’mon, love. Get up. Come here, floor ‘s cold.” Alex tugs her on his lap, his shoulders a bit drooped after release, but he still is making sure to take care of her.

The room is quiet now, harshly quiet in comparison how it was seconds ago. She climbs on his lap, sensing familiar close scent and tenderness, nestling her head against his chest she closes her eyes trying to gain energy for existing at least for few minutes before she dozes off as always after intimacy. He leans on the couch feeling gratified, he wraps her arms around her securely.

“Okay?” he mumbles, not ruining the stillness of the moment.

She only hums, and her hand reassuringly strokes his chest.

“I carried away…” Alex murmurs, trace of guilt is clear in his deep honey-like voice. She shakes her head.

“I wanted to give you a release. And I don’t only mean the physical one.” she whispers drowsily. He sighs, just hugging her tighter.

She knew back then he didn’t tell her the entire truth. He did need a release, in both ways. And now he had it.

The air was bitter. You're not sure you ever felt anything as bitter before. The air was cold and your shoulder was too. In fact, both you and Alex's shoulders were cold toward one another. 

The night before had been rough—a jumbled pile of words. You ripped at one another, tore one another down, pulled each other apart, and then went to bed. After your restless sleep, where you awoke before him, you had little idea what to do next. The argument was so long and about so much that by the end you weren't even sure what you were fighting over anymore you were just fighting.

You had gotten out of bed and made coffee. Part of you wanted to be spiteful and only make enough for yourself, but you left some for him. You took your mug over to the couch and turned on the TV to a quiet volume, not that you were listening anyway, you were just thinking. It was a cluttered confusion, a mix of rehashing the night before and what you would say to him when he woke up.

You took small sips and waited. Then, he walked out, rubbing his eyes and pulling at his sweatpants. His feet were covered in the fuzzy socks that you got him for Christmas last year. He didn't look for you but he stopped at the coffee pot and seemed to notice you had left some for him. An olive branch you'd hope he'd take.

You hoped he'd speak first because even with all this extra time on your hands, you have little idea of what to say to him. He pads around the kitchen for a while, slowly pouring his coffee and looking around for something to eat. He grabs a banana, peels it, and eats it at the kitchen counter.

The gap between you two feels wider than just the distance from the couch to the kitchen counter. It feels like two different universes and you never felt that way with Alex, never in this house. A house that feels so warm, even when it's freezing and the heat isn't on.

He throws the banana peel away and picks up his coffee. He walks at a turtle speed like he's trying to decide which direction he should go in. You watch his feet, covered in that soft fuzz. They're headed toward you.

Alex sits down on the couch with a sigh. He takes a sip of his coffee. You look at him staring straight ahead at the TV as if you were a ghost, completely non-existent in this room. "What's on?" He asks, gesturing toward the television.

"I don't know." You could be saying it about everything you're feeling right now, all those feelings lingering in the room. You can't tell if his question is his version of an olive branch or if last night wasn't as big of a deal to him as it was to you. But you know that isn't true because he yelled so unlike himself last night. He was mad. You were mad. The house was mad. Everything felt like it was falling apart and now you're both just lying in the rubble, unsure what to do with this mess.

But you love this mess, even with all the wreckage. You look at him, his brown eyes staring directly away from you like he can't bear to see your eyes. He once said your eyes made him fall to pieces. He couldn't concentrate when looking into them because he couldn't do anything but look into them. It was such an emotional description from a man, unlike anything you had ever heard before. It had made sense to you before because you felt it when he looked at you. This overwhelming, unbearable feeling beating through your chest. Now, it weighs heavy, an anchor pulling your heart down to your stomach.

His eyes flick down to his coffee mug. You follow his line of vision. His finger traces around the circumference of the mug. It's the one that your dad gave him. It was dumb and dorky, the kind of gift a dad would get when he has no idea what to get someone, and it says "Let it Tea" on it because Alex is a musician and Alex is British. You laughed at it but Alex loved it. After he got it he rather emotionally told you that he loved it because it made him feel like he was a part of the family. He drinks out of it every morning.

"I don't know what to say," you tell him. "I've sat here for over an hour and I don't know what to say, Al."

He nods. His eyes were downcast, stuck in thought, looking for the answers in the cloud in his coffee. "Neither do I." He brought the mug up to his lips, sipping out of it slowly.

You place your empty mug on the coffee table and turn the TV off, not needing the murmur of it in the background. "You won't even look at me." You felt like he might never look at you again, not completely, not directly in the eyes with all that loving sincerity he holds toward you. The last time he looked at you it was bitter. It was hurtful and mean and sorrowful. Nothing about it felt like love.

He put his mug down and rubbed his hand over his face and hair as if he were trying to scrub everything away and uncover the truth somewhere inside him. "Do you want me to look at you?" You wonder if he asks because he knows the way he looks will be the same as last night and nothing has changed for him. It all still hurts.

"Yeah," you say because, even if it's painful, you'll know how he feels. It's terrifying that you have to question it.

He moves slowly, everything methodically as he lifts himself up and Alex's eyes finally meet yours. They're not bitter, but they're not loving either. They're something else: unreadable. "I'm done fighting," he announces. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I." He snickers at this, which is fair enough. You were the one who started the fight, but he was the one who kept dragging it out, who kept coming up with more reasons to stay up and fight for another hour. "Are you trying to start a fight now?" You snap at him.

He quiets himself and nods a potential apology. He leans back against the couch and crosses his arms. "I'm tired," he says, scrubbing away at his left eye.

You lean back too, slouching down into the cushions, tugging the blanket up to your chin. "Me too."

He places his hand on your shoulder, startling you. Your body grows goosebumps. You feel a rash grow underneath his handprint. "Go back to bed."

You shake your head. "No. I've been up for too long. I'm thinking too much."

"About what?" His face has changed. To the unfamiliar eye, his face looks neutral, but to you—the one who knows each pattern inside and out—he's frowning. You know each other through and through, crawled around in the muck together, and bathed in the sun, yet, at this moment it feels like he might not know you at all. Like it's your first fight all over again. This feels like it has ripped you apart but you don't want it to tear the two of you apart. His face drowns in the worry that you might think that.

You lay your head on his hand, turning your head to give a kiss to the back of his hand. It's a sacred imprint, designed to burn itself into his skin. "Like I've messed everything up."

He shakes his head. "Not everything."

His denial isn't full coverage. You know yourself that you can't deny blame for some of last night's words. You laugh, "Alright then almost everything."

Alex leans closer down to you. His head rests on the back of the couch beside you. Still, the only part of you that he touches is your shoulder on his hand with your cheek resting against him. It feels like holding heaven in the palm of your hand. He furrows his brow, squinting with worry that he might squish it between his fingers. 

He hums. Everything is so close but so far. His lips smack together in a cruel form of temptation. He painfully smiles as if you're twisting a knife inside him. "I love you." It's simple. It's always been. It isn't your shared touch that keeps you connected, it's that love balancing on a string in between you too. Like the man on the wire crossing back and forth from each of you.

You close your eyes. You breathe to take in the words, smelling the bitterness melting if only enough to thaw the space between you and him. "I love you too," you whisper back. Because that'll never fade. You can yell and bitch and fight to the death with one another but that'll be the only thing that'll remain when you both go.

He sighs, releasing a weight from the depths of him. His hand lifts, rubbing against your cheek with a tenderness that would make even the coldest of people crack open and cry. "We're not going to fight anymore," he vows.

You laugh because it's wishful thinking. You love each other so much that's why you'll fight. "Yeah, right," you remark.

He chuckles, one "Ha" at a time, his chest rising slightly. "At least not today. I don't want to do it today."

You nod in agreement. Your head turns to kiss the palm of his hand. Your fingers wrap around the wrist, holding his hand to your chest. "What do you want to do today?" It's salacious as you move his hand to hover above your nipple, tempting him to squeeze your breast.

"Aren't you tired?" He asks as he comes closer and closer. You shake your head with a smile. "Too cold?" You shake again. He inches closer. "Too angry?" You shake again. He inches closer. "Too hungry?" You shake again. He inches closer. "Too tired?"

"You already said—" His lips are the finest feeling of them all. It makes you understand why lips were invented, solely for his to touch yours. It's divine. His hand comes back to your cheek and he holds it tight, desperate to keep a hold of you and never let go. There would never be a reason to let go of this. 

His body overtakes you, covering you, consuming you. His hands move down, smoothing down your body like you're a stick of butter melting in his hands. He grips the sides of you, squeezing your hips. You wrap your legs around him, pushing him into you. You'd absorb him if you could, take him into you, and force him to stay there forever, not that he'd mind one bit.

He pushes his arms under you, stuffing them in the space between your back and the couch cushions. He raises you up gradually like this is a ballet and you've died in his arms. He kneels on the couch as you wrap your arms around his neck. He places one foot on the floor before fully lifting you. It's far more romantic-seeming than when you usually have sex but every time his body meets yours it is romantic.

The air around you is freezing but his body against your skin is the bonfire that keeps you alive. Alex moves quickly to escape the cold air. He lays you onto your unmade bed, covering you once more.

Even though the temperature gives you frostbite, you break away from kissing him to take his shirt off before taking off your own. This captures him even more. His eyes are dark and glazed staring down at your breasts. Your nipples are hard from the cold air and his dick is hard. It's easy to tell through his sweatpants.

He doesn't move his mouth to your boobs right away, instead taking a bite out of your neck. His hands, which are somehow warm, move up from your waist, scratching along your ribcage before squeezing your boob in his hand. The surprise when he takes your nipple in between his fingers makes you moan and you feel him smile against your neck. 

"See. I know how to make it up to you," he says. He tends to get really cocky during sex. Every sound that ripples out of you helps him stand up straight and spurs him on to get more of those sounds out of your lips. You don't mind, in fact, it probably turns you on more. Not that you'd ever tell him that.

You shush him and take to running your fingers through his hair. He moves his mouth down, stopping momentarily to kiss your collarbone twice before his lips land on your other breast. He likes this the most because he says he can't do it in public, which you still find funny because he can't do a lot of things to you in public, but he reasons he can grab your ass in public and no one will care, well, except your mother, who caught him grabbing your ass one time. She didn't care either but Alex was mortified by it.

"Al," you say. He hums against your areola. "I'm cold."

He lifts himself, looking dazed as if he was hypnotized by your breasts. "Get under the covers, love."

You sit up, crawling upward to the head of the bed. He takes the opportunity to slap your ass because it's right there, still covered in your pajama bottoms and you know he can't resist. You don't even deem a glance back at him, rolling your eyes as you pull the blanket down.

"Take your pants off first," he instructs.

You smile as you sit up against the headboard and pull the blankets over your lap. He stands with his hands on his hips at the foot of the bed. "You take your pants off first," you counter.

Alex slaps his forehead. "Oh, no, another argument!" He's so dramatic but can't play the role to save his life, already breaking character to chuckle to himself.

"Shut up," you say as you reach down to your waistband and pull both your bottoms and your underwear off. He catches a glimpse of your underwear as you toss the clothes off the side of the bed, but you hide your valuables under the blanket.

In one swipe, he takes his sweatpants off before tackling you at the top of the bed. The blanket separates you as he begins to kiss you again. "Get under," you tell him, lifting the blanket on his side of the bed.

He rolls over, tucking himself in. You lay side-by-side until he situates himself before you move over to lay on top of him. "Hi," he says as he pets your hair down on your head.

You kiss his bare chest, starting at his throat and working your way down the column of him, stopping briefly at the sternum, checking in on his pecks, before riding down his stomach and stopping to lift the blanket behind you. You cover both you and his dick to allow some precious alone time.

"Oh, come on," he says, "I want to see you do it."

You hold the blanket down to prevent him from lifting it. You touch his shaft and he shivers under the touch of your cold hands. "Sorry."

"No, no, feels good," he promises. He's always had a desire for painful pleasure. He won't say it flat-out but he likes the torturous feeling when you leave him waiting, when you turn him on and refuse further release, when he suffers all day. He could very well relieve himself but he chooses not to because it doesn't feel as good as this. Nothing comes close to the payoff.

You kiss the head and slide your tongue back and forth over to slit, something that makes him tense up. You cover the head with your mouth and suck on it making him breathe through his teeth. You cover him with your hands, rounding the palm, making love to just the top part of his dick.

"I feel like I'm a teenager again," he says with a slight laugh to his tone.

"Why?" You ask.

"Because you're hiding on the blanket," he says, tapping the top of your head softly over the covers. "I feel like we're playing it safe in case my mum walks into the room. Guess we should've done this last time we were at my parents' place."

You let go of him and peek out from the covers, only revealing your face. "We said we're never going to talk about that again."

He lifts his hands up in defense. "Sorry, sorry." But he's laughing, so amused by how much it gets under your skin. It gets under his skin too, freaks him out that the last time you visited his parents his mum walked in on you topless on top of her son. You thank god every day that you weren't completely in the throes of sex yet, just on your way to getting there. 

Alex reaches out to touch your cheek but you go back into your blanket cave, returning to your holy grail. You touch him and quickly take him into your mouth. It takes Alex off-guard. It makes him moan. Loudly. You smile into his dick. You push down to reach the bottom of him, to rub your nose along the skin of his pelvis. He's so lovely.

You can hear him scrunch his hands on the sheets of the bed. This would usually be the part during the blowjob where he would take ahold of your hair but he can't do that and now he's desperate to find something else to grip onto, to keep him from floating away.

You remove your mouth from him with a pop. You run your hand up and down his junk before he says, "Get on top of me now. Please." It's said in despair, so deeply in need of that release that it's hurting him inside. "Come on out now."

His hand snakes under the blankets and grabs your arm, pulling you up out of the covers. You crawl upward to meet his lips, kissing him briefly if only to give him a small taste of himself. "Do you want me to be on top?" He asks because this is about you too, even if he's about to burst inside, he feels shameful for not giving you the same pleasure.

You'd like to please him too but the blowjob was your groveling and maybe having him be on top and do all the work will be his groveling. You nod and flip off of him onto your back. He joins you soon after, trying his best at foreplay, even if it's rushed as he kisses your neck and runs his cock through your folds.

But then he makes it slow, sliding into you at just the right speed to both savour it and want to claw him alive. You put your hands on his back and slide them over his shoulders to pull him in closer, bringing him to you, bringing him into you. You want this all the time. "I've decided," you say.

"Decided what?" He asks you, a moan tipping off the end of his sentence as he reaches the bottom of you. He tucks his head into your neck to hold onto some of this comfort because you're not sure either of you will ever feel this warm again.

"We're going to live like this," you say as you kiss the top of his head. You love him like this. When he curls up to you like this and isn't afraid to feel small. He told you once he liked the feeling of you holding him, of breathing in your perfume after a whole day of wearing it and falling asleep, forgetting about anything else. It tends to happen when he's out all day and just makes it home in time before you turn off all the lights with the exception of the living room lamp, which you always leave on for him. You said to him it means I love you just in a different language.

He chuckles into you. "With me inside you?"

"Yeah," you smile, biting your lip and trying to hide it, even though there is no one else here to see it. "Isn't it the best feeling in the world?"

You know he's smiling as he kisses one small kiss on the side of your neck. "I think so. Who wouldn't want to be this close to you?" He lifts his head to look down at you. He looks so clearly into your eyes that you almost think he's X-raying you.

You laugh. "A lot of people. But that's why it's only for you." You tap the tip of his nose and he squishes it up, carving a million lines into it. He's the cutest thing ever and you think you might die right here, underneath him in the most glorious way a person can go.

"Only for me," he says to himself like some comforting mantra. It helps a lot after the words said the night before. This is an assured thing no matter what you hurl at one another, there's no leaving this behind.

Alex drops his head back down and you sigh because it's so nice but impatience is growing. "Al." He hums. "Can you fuck me now and do that later?"

He laughs, rather boisterously. His hips buck slightly as he's so turned on by the vulgarity you’re spewing. He lifts himself, towering over you. "Alright, missy."

He begins to thrust in your established rhythm, one you set in stone many fuckings ago. It's perfect because he knows exactly how to start, exactly how to spur you on, and have you clinging for more.

You circle your arms around his neck and pull him closer for body heat. You moan up to his ear and cause him to buck harder, always hitting the right spot. He's got it down so good it's a science and it kind of blows your mind how good you both are at this. Sex was never hard and you had experienced some bad sex in your lifetime, especially right before you met him. You once asked him if it was weird that the first time you knew you'd spend the rest of your life with him was when he made you come. He said no because he knows he's just that good in bed. You rolled your eyes and he became serious and said that's when he felt it too because nothing could ever be better than this.

He pushes further, quickening the pace. You can tell he wants this to last longer but he's so eager for that release. So, you command him, "Harder."

And when he says, "Fuck" in return, you can tell you picked the right path. It's not rough but it isn't gentle lovemaking. It's about release now for both of you. He knows exactly what's right as he slides his hand down in between and plays you just right, moving his fingers along your clit.

You moan again and he groans. It's close. Everything is close. He does everything to make you tense up and let go first because that's the way he likes it. He pinches your clit in between his fingers and you never thought that would feel so pleasurable until he did it and you were throwing your head back and coming.

That's right around when he grunts and decides he's had enough for himself and he lets go, emptying into you. He pants and drops his head back into the crook of your neck. "I love doing that," Alex says.

You giggle and drop your hand on the back of his head. "Good. Me too."

The room feels hot now with how fast you both moved and how fast you both are breathing now. You stay tangled with him buried deep in your cave and you scratch the back of his head to give him that final pleasure.

It's quiet for a while minus the recovery panting and the sound of your fingers moving through his hair. At one point you think he falls asleep. At another point, you think you fall asleep. But then he lifts his head and says, "I guess it's time for me to take myself out of you."

"It's fine," you say with the hope of him staying there a little longer.

But he removes himself anyway and tells you, "I gotta pee, love." He rushes off to the bathroom while you laugh, feeling him spill from you. You guess you have to get up too.

You go into the bathroom while he is still peeing, his head thrown back with pleasure so similar to when he comes that it makes you laugh, alerting him of your presence. "Toilet paper," you say as you stand behind his bare body and reach around for a few sheets.

He nods and finishes up while you rub the dripping mess off of you. "Don't like me hanging around in you all day." He doesn't mind, other than the fact he likes when he fucks you, and some of his cum from the last time is still in there.

You throw the mess away as he moves to brush his teeth. "I have other things to do today."

Alex suggestively smirks. "Like what?"

You shrug. "Eat breakfast."

"Hm, what do you want?"

"I don't know. You can decide."

He smiles so bright you think a spark might fly off his teeth. "Okay."

You’re both nude, well, minus those fuzzy socks still on Alex’s feet. Maybe you’ll talk about last night later but for now, this is fine.

*