#((it's done))

You wipe your damp palms against your pants and make your way towards the door. You suddenly feel self-conscious. You're still painfully turned on. Your body feels like a live wire and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Plus you wish you'd had time to change from the plain black leggings and loose band tee you're wearing.

Your organs feel like they're actively rearranging themselves as you pad over to the door, your hand shaking as you reach out to swing it open.

Ryland is on the other side, and you try your very hardest to look normal as the two of you come face-to-face. You smile at him like you always do and step aside to let him in. If you happen to take a few extra seconds to stare at him as he walks by, no you didn't.

Honestly, he looks the same as he always does, at least in the physical sense. His blond hair is dishevelled atop his head, his glasses are slowly sliding down his nose, and he's dressed in blue jeans and a red hoodie. You can see the hem of his t-shirt peeking out from the bottom. But he's giving you a wide berth as he steps inside and you're not oblivious to the way he can't quite meet your gaze as he says "hi" and steps inside.

Ryland peels off his hoodie and hangs it on your overcrowded coat rack. Underneath he's wearing a dark blue t-shirt. On the front in white ink is a picture of a cat sitting proudly, a computer mouse dangling from its mouth.

Hank, having temporarily forgotten how hopelessly hungry he is, trots over and wails up at Ryland, who is trying his best to kick off his shoes without tripping over the tabby that twists between his legs, tail vibrating.

"Slut," you accuse him fondly.

"Don't call him names, he's just a little guy," Ryland objects, leaning down to scratch under Hank's chin.

"Yeah, he's a slutty little guy."

Ryland rolls his eyes and immediately heads for the kitchen, reaching for the bag of cat treats you keep stashed on top of the fridge. He fishes several out and then crouches down to feed them to Hank one by one. It's totally unfair that Ryland can hand feed Hank without issue but the second you go to do the same suddenly your fingers become food and you narrowly avoid ending up on antibiotics while Hank stoutly avoids you for the next day and a half. Whatever, you're not mad about it.

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter and watch Hank gobble up the last few treats. "You're the reason he's fat, you know."

"I'm the reason he's happy," Ryland corrects you. He is not modest about the fact that Hank likes him more and shows noticeable joy whenever Ryland comes around to your apartment. "Look at his bowl, it's empty. No wonder he's glad to see me." Ryland reaches out to scratch at Hank's ears. The traitorous tabby begins to purr. "Aren't you, pal? You know I'll always give you treats."

"Oh my god, it's not like he's starving. He's just a dramatic bitch who can't wait ten minutes for his dinner." You retort.

"Wow, ten whole minutes? You should be glad I got here when I did, he definitely would've died of starvation by then."

It's your turn to roll your eyes. In the end you cave and give Hank his dinner early. It'll keep him out of your space for at least the first few minutes of the movie. Then Hank will take his customary place on Ryland's lap for the remainder of the evening.

"Popcorn?" You offer, making your way over to the broom-closet-turned-pantry.

"Always."

You set about to making the popcorn while Ryland pulls the movie up. He closes the too-thin curtains that really don't do anything to block out the evening sun and turns off the overhead light.

Neither of you says anything while the popcorn pops. You keep your eyes glued to the timer and tap your finger against the counter as the seconds tick downwards. It feels less like you're waiting to start a fun movie night with your bestie and more like you're watching the countdown on a bomb. Except instead of an immediate impact - which would surely be easier to handle - this explosion will be slow. Not controlled, not by any means. But definitely slow. With luck, it'll at least be painless.

You pull the steaming bag from the microwave and dump its contents into a big plastic bowl with a gaudy floral print on the side that you're pretty sure made it (somehow) from your grandma's house to your apartment when you first moved in.

You hand Ryland the popcorn bowl as you settle onto the couch next to him, leaning forward to set your phone on the coffee table. Ryland's eyes follow it, and for a moment he looks like he wants to puke. You know exactly why and you feel exactly the same.

You lean back, curling your legs underneath you and pressing yourself as far against the arm rest as you can. It does very little to provide you space on the cramped couch, and the six inches that separate you from Ryland somehow feel like too much and too little at the same time.

Ryland settles the popcorn bowl on his lap, nibbling at it as you get comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as you can get on this godforsaken piece of furniture.

You both keep your eyes forward as the movie starts, but you're having a hard time focusing. You can't bring yourself to relax back into the cushion like you normally would. You can't seem to stop the nervous bouncing of your leg or the way your fingers twitch and flex against the hem of your t-shirt.

You can tell Ryland is on edge too, even though he's trying to look like he's not. He's leaning back against the couch in a way that appears, at first glance, like he's relaxing, but you can see the subtle tenseness in his posture - how his shoulders are slightly hunched forward, the way his fingers grip a little too tightly to the bowl in his lap, the faint furrow between his eyebrows.

Normally he would be providing live commentary on the movie, picking apart the scientific inaccuracies, and somehow managing to eat the entire bowl of popcorn in the first five minutes. Tonight, though, he is uncharacteristically quiet from his spot opposite you, his hands braced against the sides of the popcorn bowl that sits untouched on top of his legs.

Hank appears at Ryland's feet and perches his front paws on the couch cushion to investigate the availability of Ryland's lap. Upon seeing it occupied he sits back down, looking distinctly displeased. He opts for glaring at Ryland, who only reaches down to scratch Hank's head. Hank, feeling slighted, bats a paw at him and walks away.

Ryland shifts in his seat and you swear you see him lean further away from you. You can't help but wonder if he knows what he's done. If he knows, does he know you know? How could he not, with how jumpy you've been since he arrived?

You look at Ryland.

He looks back.

You both look away.

You look at him again. Ryland looks back from the corner of his eye.

"You good?" he asks without turning to face you fully.

"Yeah. Yep, fine." You respond in a totally natural and convincing way.

Except you're not fine, because you're still thinking about that goddamn voicemail, about the sound of his voice pitched low with want for you, about how sensual your name sounded as it lingered on his tongue. You wanted to hear it again - muffled into your shoulder - and again - whispered against your cheek - and again - groaned into the crease of your thigh. You were thinking about the fact that he wanted you and you wanted him and you two had spent who-knows-how-long dancing around each other like the romantically inept twenty-somethings you were, when you could have been getting closer in every sense of the word.

You contemplate your choices while Mark Watney expounds on the details of harvesting potatoes on Mars.

On one hand, the last thing you wanted was to put your friendship with Ryland in jeopary. It would be easy (enough) to put the whole thing out of your mind. To forget it happened and move on, pretending as if you don't hold the knowledge of how Ryland sounds with his hand on himself deep in your mind.

On the other hand, what if… what if he really did want more from you? What if he had considered it? What if he had turned the thought of you and him and together over in his mind again and again only to arrive at the same conclusion you had: that it was better to not say anything, to cherish what you had and be happy with that?

Then again, that was assuming his feelings for you extended beyond the lust of a young man imagining his attractive friend in what sounded like a very erotic fantasy. Maybe you were getting ahead of yourself there.

You don't even consider the possibility that he'd done it on purpose, regardless of the true nature of his feelings. Ryland was sweet - he held too much respect for you, for your autonomy, for your comfort, to do something like that. If he had wanted you to know how he felt he would have opened a dialogue about it. You two had always been (mostly) honest with one another. But he never had, so you had assumed he harbored no romantic feelings towards you.

You don't pay any attention as the protagonist on screen joyfully celebrates receiving his first message from Earth. Outside, the sun dips further towards the horizon. You watch some dust motes dance in the slats of golden light that shine through the gaps in the curtains.

You glance over at Ryland and all you can think in that very moment is is fuck it.

He wants you. You want him. Now one of you just needs to do something about it, and you know it's not going to be him. You'll have to be brave for the both of you.

"So," you say to the TV screen.

"So," he echoes.

You both watch in silence as poor Mark's potato farm blows up. Ryland's fingers twitch against the side of the popcorn bowl. The tension in the room is palpable, but not necessarily uncomfortable. Like you're both waiting for something you know is coming, but you're not afraid of it.

You finally turn your head to look at him, his face in profile. You clear your throat and try to keep your voice even as you ask, "Sooo… are we just going to pretend you didn't leave me that voicemail earlier?"

Ryland chokes on air. He buries his face in his hands and sinks further down into the couch. It makes the popcorn bowl tilt precariously in his lap. You can see a blush creeping its way down his neck, staining his skin an enticing shade of pink.

"Oh my god," he says into his palms. "I'm so sorry. I was really hoping you hadn't listened to that. I don't know how that happened, honestly, I thought I'd hung up and I- I really didn't mean for you to hear that, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable and I- look, I never-" Ryland sits up suddenly and twists to face you. The movement sends the popcorn bowl tilting off his lap and into the space between you.

"Shit! Sorry, sorry. Let me clean that up." He starts to scoop the spilled popcorn back into the bowl. "I can make us more, just give me a minute."

The movie continues to play. He continues to ramble. Hank has reappeared, hoping to make off with a few pieces of movie theater butter popcorn. You watch Ryland try to shoo him away while desperately attempting to clean popcorn from between the cushions. And the whole thing is so ridiculous that you can't help but laugh.

Ryland pauses, his hand still shoved between the cushions. He squints at you through his glasses.

"Sorry. I'm not laughing at you, I promise. It's just- this is not how I expected tonight to go." You take a moment to collect yourself, then say, "Sorry I sprung that on you."

"No, it's fine. I didn't exactly expect- well, that- to happen. I should've paid closer attention." Ryland maintains eye contact, but you can tell he's feeling flighty. You finish helping him gather up the spilled popcorn and then he places the bowl on the coffee table. "I really am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. And I don't expect you to- you know- feel- what I mean is I'm not, like, expecting anything from you. I hope you know the last thing I'd want to do is ruin our friendship, and if you'd rather not be friends anym-"

"Ryland." You interrupt him. He stops, mouth hanging open around a sentence that never comes. His jaw closes with a soft click. He looks a little pale and you wonder if you should be telling him not to puke on your couch. Instead, you say, "I know. You didn't make me uncomfortable. And even if you did, all I'd need is some space. You're my best friend, I don't think I could just cut you from my life and pretend you were never there."

And even if you did, you had no doubt Ryland would respect that. It'd be like he didn't exist.

You don't like the way that thought makes your heart ache.

Ryland's face crumples with relief.

"Okay. That's good. I appreciate that." He glances away, then glances back at you. There's a nervous quaver to his voice when he asks, "So we'll just… forget about it, yeah?"

This is it. With sudden clarity you realize you hold the future of this relationship in your hands. You told yourself you'd be brave for the both of you, and this is your chance to follow through on that.

You gnaw at your lower lip, picking out a stray piece of popcorn from where it's tucked under one of the back cushions. You try to toss it into the bowl and miss, watching as it bounces off the edge and lands on the floor in front of your feet. Hank eats it, then disappears into the dark like the little gremlin he is.

"I mean, we could, but I'm kind of curious. About how long you've…" you trail off, your eyes flicking to his face, then down to his stomach, then back up again. He immediately understands what you're referring to. His eyes grow wide and his face turns red as he plucks his glasses from his nose and uses the edge of his t-shirt to clean the lenses. You know he's doing it so he doesn't have to look at you. You've seen him use this tactic before.

You can't really blame him. You know it's a probing question, and it's clearly caught him off guard. But he doesn't look uncomfortable, just a little perplexed, like he can't understand why you'd want answers to these questions. Like he can't believe you're even asking them in the first place. But Ryland's always been something of an open book with you, even now that you've turned this particular page.

"Well," he starts, his voice cracking. He pauses to clear his throat, then tries again, "well I've had a crush on you for awhile. And it- that- started not long after I realized I liked you. As more than a friend."

"And how long is 'awhile'?" you prod. You know you're encroaching on dangerous territory. You're nearing a line that can't be uncrossed. Hell, you probably already passed it when you asked him how long he's been masturbating to you.

He continues to wipe at his glasses, which are surely clean by now, and mumbles, "Three years."

"Three years?!" You're kind of taken aback. Three whole years he's had this crush on you? Three whole years he hasn't said a word, given the slightest hint, tried to make a single move? And you, who somewhere in the summer between sophomore and junior year had started wondering about him as more than a friend, had just… done the same.

God, you feel like a fucking idiot.

"Look, I'm sorry, I just- I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to think I was one of those guys who only sticks around in the hopes you'd sleep with me one day and I didn't want to ruin what we already had so I thought it was better if I didn't say anything at all and I-"

"Ry," you interject again. "Stop apologizing. Seriously. I know you're sorry. And I don't think you'd be the type to do something like that." That shuts him up again. You shake your head and try to keep your tone light as you say, "I'm the one asking some really invasive questions. I feel like it's my turn to apologize."

Ryland huffs out a low laugh, but doesn't respond otherwise. A beat of silence passes. Then another. In the lull of the conversation you see something shift in his expression as he carefully slides his glasses back on. He goes from being uncertain to being curious, adopting that look he gets when he's found a particular problem he really wants to solve. He peers at you from over the top of his glasses. God, you hate it when he does that. It always manages to make you wet in a shamefully short amount of time.

He turns to face you, drawing one leg up on the couch between you and propping his arm on the back. You mirror him before you even realize you're doing it. The left half of his face is obscured by shadow now, the sun having set low enough to plunge your apartment into darkness, while the right half of his face is painted in color as the movie plays on, forgotten.

"Why do you wanna know, anyway?"

You fix him with what ends up being a very half-hearted glare. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

You scowl. "That, right there. Feigning innocence. You know damn well why I wanna know."

There's a brief flicker of surprise on his face - a subtle raise of his eyebrows and a parting of his lips that's there and then gone so quick anyone else might second guess if it were there. Not you. You've known Ryland for so long you've memorized every microexpression, and you're certain of what you saw.

Surprise gives way to smugness. He smirks at you, looking far too pleased. You hate when Smug Ryland makes an appearance and now is an especially irritating time. He's caught onto you, and you know he's not going to make this easy for you.

"Yeah, I think I do." His eyes drift unsubtly down to your lips. "It'd still be amazing to hear you say it."

He's already had his secrets laid bare and he took it like a champ so you don't understand why it's so hard for you to do the same now that it's your turn. You can't quite bring yourself to look him in the face so you settle for staring at his bicep. Not that it's any better, because now you're thinking about how it might feel so have those arms wrapped around you and-

You blink, gather up your scattered thoughts, and force the words out before you can think too hard or too long about how exposed you feel. You know it'll be worth it.

"I have feelings for you, too." You leave it at that and finally muster the confidence to look him in the eye again. You know he'll have questions later. But right now he's looking at you with such intensity that you know an interrogation is the very last thing on his mind.

You watch as he slowly - so slowly - moves his hand towards you, the one that's resting against the back of the couch. He lifts it up to your face and grasps your chin which draws a soft gasp from you. He uses his grip to tilt your face towards him, and the expression on his face is unreadable because he's leaning in, so so close, and then his lips are brushing against yours.

It's not really a kiss, more of a question, and you answer it immediately as you press forward to more firmly secure your mouth against his. Ryland groans, swiping his tongue across the arc of your lower lip. You part for him immediately and at the first touch of his tongue against yours you sense that something inside him as broken open, because he presses forward with such desperation that it steals the breath from your lungs. It's like three years of longing and frustration have finally found an outlet and you, you're all too willing to drown in the flood of his affection. Your hands tangle in his hair and oh, it really is as soft as you imagined it would be.

Ryland's free hand finds its way to your calf, his fingers curling into the space behind your knee, and then he's tugging you towards him. You go easily, slinging yourself across his lap. He's already hard in his jeans - fuck, is he that desperate for your touch? - and you can feel him where he's now pressed against your core. You can't help but grind down, drawing your clothed cunt over the length of him with a sinuous roll of your hips. Your lips part on a gasp and Ryland seizes the opportunity to lick into your mouth again, his fingers digging into your thighs. Every point of pressure is an anchor, keeping you tethered as you threaten to float away into the stratosphere.

Something on the TV explodes. You don't even notice.

"Wait, wait," you mumble against his mouth, forcing yourself to separate from him. "I don't have any condoms-" there's a brief flash of disappointment on his face before you continue, "but I'm on birth control and I don't have anything. Uh, diseases, I mean."

Ryland considers this for only a brief second before he nods. "Okay. That's okay. Me, either."

That's good enough for you. You press a quick kiss to his lips and reach down to grasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it up. Ryland helps you wrestle it off and tosses it into the shadows somewhere. His glasses are only a little off-center after. If he notices he doesn't seem to care, too busy looking at you looking at him.

Ryland's fit for someone whose only form of exercise is walking to and from campus every day. It's unfair that a guy who spends most of his time in the library or lab looks like that, but whatever. You take time to enjoy the sight of him bare-chested beneath you, your eyes roving over the slight swell of his pecs, the cut of his waist, the faint outline of his muscles. You especially like the way his stomach twitches as you run your right down his chest and then towards the trail of dark blond hair that trails from his navel and disappears below his waistband. You caress the tips of your fingers across the skin there. Ryland holds his breath.

You swallow and attempt to weave your rapidly unspooling thoughts into something coherent. Preferably a full sentence that won't sound disastrously unsexy as it leaves your mouth. Something that will tilt the balance of power back in your favor. Ryland's looking far too pleased with himself and you just can't have that.

You reach up with your left hand to card your fingers through Ryland's hair and lean forward so your lips brush against his jaw as you speak.

"What did you think about? When you-" your voice falters under the weight of your building anticipation, but you manage to compose yourself and continue, "when you got yourself off to me?"

It has the desired effect. Ryland's hands tighten on your waist as you resume the slow back-and-forth of your hips. His corresponding groan is muffled into your hair. He already sounds like a wreck when he confesses, "Thought about you like this. On top of me. Riding me."

The thought punches an undignified moan out of you. You bring your lips back to his. Ryland continues to kiss you as he works his hands under your shirt. His fingertips are warm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as he explores the curve of your hip and the column of your spine and the jut of your shoulderblades. Then he's dropping his hands to the hem and giving the material a soft tug. You break the kiss and lift your arms so he can pull it off and drop it onto the armrest of the couch.

"Wait," he says. He reaches over to turn on the lamp on the end table next to him, flooding the room in a warm, low light. "Wanna see you." He murmurs, leaning back in and pressing his lips along your jaw. He moves his mouth down your neck and to the base of your throat. He presses a kiss to the space between your collarbones as he reaches both hands around and fumbles for a second with the clasp. He only has to try twice to get it unhooked. It slips from your shoulders and gets discarded on top of your shirt.

Ryland pulls back so he can drink in the sight of you, shamelessly sweeping his gaze across your exposed chest. "So perfect." Whispered so low you barely catch it. He brings his right hand up and rubs his thumb across your left nipple, his eyes fixated on that point of contact. His other hand settles on your ribcage. You can see his pupils are blown wide, eclipsing the blue of his eyes, and it's the hottest thing you think you've ever seen.

You resist the urge to squirm in his lap, desperate for some friction against your clit. You can feel your thighs getting slick and if you had any sense of propriety left you'd be worried about the state of his jeans underneath you but as it is the only thing you can think about it is the way he's staring at you right now. Like he can't believe you're really here, that you really want him, that he's even getting the chance to see you like this.

Ryland leans forward and replaces his thumb with his tongue, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth. You arch into him, one hand settling on the back of his head while the other comes to rest on his shoulder. His hands drop to your hips and he guides you into another slow grind against the bulge in his jeans. His mouth disconnects from your nipple with a wet pop.

"Ho-hold on, hold on," Ryland stammers, pulling you against him so he can peer over your shoulder. You feel him shift and look back to watch as he plants one foot against the edge of the coffee table and pushes it back. The thin area rug underneath crumples and moves with it.

"Sit back," he urges with a nudge of his hand against your hip, guiding you into a sitting position on the couch. You hold your breath as Ryland slides from the couch to kneel between your legs in the newly created space. He's looking at you from over the edge of his glasses again and you can't suppress the shudder that dances its way down the length of you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

"Can I?" he asks, his fingers lingering at the hem of your pants. The only response you can muster is a nod, your throat working as you struggle to swallow against the saliva pooling beneath your tongue.

Ryland leans over you to plant a kiss below your navel as he curls his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulls them down, taking your underwear with them. They end up in a crumpled pile next to him.

You fight against the urge to close your legs, watching as Ryland turns to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. He hitches your right leg up onto his shoulder, curling his arm loosely under the limb and settling his hand on the outside of your hip. With his right hand he reaches up to push at the opposite knee, spreading you wider in front of him.

He looks at you with such unabashed hunger as he trails his hand up from your knee. Higher and higher it climbs, each brush of his fingertips sending sparks across your skin. They dance along your nerve endings and coalesce in your core until you're reduced to a sighing, shaking mess on your couch.

God, he hasn't even touched you properly yet.

Ryland glances up at you, and you can see the question in his eyes. You're nodding, maybe a little too eagerly if the way Ryland's lips twitch into a smirk is anything to go by.

Any hint of smugness in his face quickly evaporates as he runs his thumb across the seam of you and feels how wet you are. His eyes find your face and he's wearing that same expression from before, the one that tells you he can't quite believe this is happening. That you're this turned on, and all because of him.

You blush but steadfastly maintain eye contact, greedily drinking in the sight of him on his knees in front of you, his thumb stroking through your folds. He presses the tip of the digit against your entrance, just enough for you to feel the pressure of it, the promise of more to come lingering in his touch. Then he's moving his finger up and swiping it across your clit and you keen at the contact.

Ryland does it once, twice, a third time. He analyzes each reaction he manages to pull from you, memorizes the way you press yourself against the couch and tilt your hips up, savors the sound of you telling him, 'yes' and 'more' and 'right there, that's it'.

When he leans forward and replaces his thumb with his tongue, the first wet lick across your clit has your back arching.

"Ry-Ryland, shit," you stammer out, your hands tangling in his hair. Ryland groans and repeats the action, his fingertips tightening against your hip. A quavering moan is ripped from your throat as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. Galaxies explode behind your eyes, your body set to trembling as your pleasure builds. You want to close your legs around his head but with the position he's put you in all you can do is flex your thighs - one against his bicep, one against his shoulder - as he reaches up to stroke the fingers of his right hand against your cunt.

"So good," you hear him mumble against you, "always wanted to know how you taste."

You barely have time to process his words before one thick finger presses against you. You tilt your hips so Ryland can slide his index finger into you, and the sensation of him inside coupled with the steady flicking of his tongue and the gentle pressure of his lips is almost enough to make your brain short-circuit entirely. He adds another and he's so steady, so gentle, so attentive as he opens you up, taking note of every spot that has you whining with pleasure.

You peel your eyes open and look down at Ryland and it's all too much. The sight of him with his mouth on you. The way he's looking up at you through his stupidly sexy glasses. The wet sound of his lips and tongue working against your cunt. The steady pace of his fingers and the exquisite pressure as he curls them against that spongy spot inside of you that sends a jolt through your core and up your spine.

You fall apart on the edge of his tongue and the tips of his fingers and you're pretty sure you have some sort of break in the circuitry of your brain because the next thing you know Ryland is draped on top of you. His arms curl around your waist to pull you closer, his nose nuzzling against the side of your neck.

"Good?" He inquires against the curve of your jaw. You muster a nod and a breathless laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"Yeah, good." Really, really good, you want to say but you don't because the last thing you want or need is Ryland's ego getting any bigger. You slip an arm from his shoulder and tilt his face up towards you, catching his lips in a slow, sensuous kiss.

You move your hands to the buckle of his belt and get to work loosening it. Ryland suckles at your lower lip as you flick open the button and draw his zipper down. You're too eager, too needy, to take it slow now, sliding your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and wrapping your fingers around his cock. He's thick and heavy against your palm, twitching in your fingers when your thumb flicks up to spread the pre-cum gathered at the head. Ryland groans against your neck.

There's a rustle of fabric and the soft clink of metal as his jeans and boxers are wrangled off and summarily tossed to the side.

"Move," you demand, tugging at his arms. Now it's your turn to guide Ryland back onto the couch. After a bit of awkward maneuvering to find a relatively comfortable position he settles back against the couch with you settled in his lap, his hands locked on your thighs. You take the opportunity to fix his glasses as you roll against him, grinding your bared core across the hard length of him.

You use your free hand to notch the head of his cock at your entrance. Ryland's hips twitch, but he doesn't push himself up into you yet.

"Please, can I-? Please," he shamelessly begs, eyes finding yours. Your only response is to sink down onto him and the stretch of your body as he fills you is immaculate, your lips parting on a loud moan.

Ryland, on the other hand, whimpers. The noise is spilling from the back of his throat before he can stop it. You look down at him and he's looking down at you, his eyes locked on where his cock is disappearing into you. You continue to bear down against him, taking him in and in and in until your hips are pressed flush.

You pause to catch your breath, your body still buzzing from your previous orgasm. Ryland throws his head back against the couch cushion as you set a leisurely tempo above him, grinding on the downstroke in a way that rubs your clit against his stomach and stokes the fire that burns beneath your skin.

"Fuck," he bites out, followed by your name. His left hand abandons its place on your hip and slides up the length of your body, ghosting across your breast and up your neck until he's gripping your chin in his hand just like he was the first time he kissed you. God, how long ago was that? You feel like it could be hours, even though you know it's not.

He pulls you down for a kiss that's less a kiss and more the two of you breathing and moaning and swearing into each other's mouths, his tongue stroking across your lower lip as you maintain your steady pace. His hold on your chin loosens and then his hand drags down to the base of your throat, pausing there. There's no pressure, no hint of a grip, just his hand settling there with his fingertips at your fluttering pulse point and the promise of something that could be - later, once you've settled down and had time to discuss such things.

He meets you thrust for thrust, the sound of his hips snapping against yours out of rhythm with the David Bowie song playing from the TV. With each upstroke the head of his cock brushes against your g-spot and the thread of pleasure spooled between your hips winds tighter and tighter.

"Fuck, 'm close," he mumbles into your neck. "Can I- inside- please?"

You're nodding before he even finishes asking. "Yeah, yes, please. Wanna feel you-" You gasp, your burgeoning orgasm sending ripples of pleasure through you that make your legs shake. Ryland reaches down and swipes his right thumb against your clit, and it's that little extra pressure you needed. You come apart in his lap, your legs trembling against his hips.

Ryland's hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you forward so your bodies are flush as he latches his mouth onto yours, sucking on your lower lip. He's grasping at your thigh so hard you think you might see bruises blossoming there later.

He's nearing his peak, you can tell from the way his rhythm is growing more frantic. He manages a few more thrusts up into you before he uses the hand on your hip to pull you flush with him, grinding you down onto his cock as he spills inside you. You're vaguely aware that he's babbling in your ear, but you're too awash in the afterglow of your own orgasm to bother to make out what he's saying. You catch his lips so you can eagerly swallow the low, drawn-out moan that wrenches its way from his mouth and you think to yourself that you've never been so happy to receive a voicemail in your life.

After, when you've both cleaned up (and narrowly managed to avoid staining your couch), you slip back into your t-shirts and underwear and settle on the couch, carefully arranging your bodies and limbs until you find a decently comfortable position. You lay against his chest and watch as he rewinds the movie that both of you spent the past two hours completely disregarding. A smile curls at the corners of your mouth and you huff out a soft laugh, turning your head to press a kiss against his throat.

"What's so funny?" He asks, stroking his fingers along your shoulder.

"Nothing, I just can't believe how stupid we both are. We could've been doing this for years." You lift your head up to look at him.

Ryland snorts and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Yeah, well, I guess we both got kind of in our heads about it." His voice drops as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek and then murmurs into your ear, "At least now we can make up for lost time."