#chewchewchew

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.

But his face. The way his words turned into gibberish mid-sentence, blinking down at you in pure shock while you did your best to cover yourself with your arms.

He wouldn’t stop glancing at you upon your return later that day, kept finding excuses to be near you, to occupy the same rooms.

To be honest, you didn’t hate the feeling of his attention. It didn’t feel scary or dangerous. It settled over your skin like the hot water from a bath, tingling and coaxing across your nervous system. He’s curious about you, that’s all. Curious about your body, the way it looks, the way it feels.

You encourage him after that. Partly because you like the attention, and partly because you like the feeling of having some kind of power over him.

You start showering with the bathroom door cracked open a couple of inches. Start being in such a hurry while getting dressed, carelessly pulling your shirt over your head halfway through stepping out of your room. Start getting your midnight snack in a sweatshirt and thong, seemingly clueless as you lean against the counter and spoon ice cream into your mouth, watching the TV while he watches you.

And he doesn’t do a damn thing about it.

It’s like this is all he wants, to have a half-naked person around all the time for him to look at. He doesn’t seem inclined to touch, or to change the state of your roommate relationship at all. He just likes to see you.

And you like to be seen.

Your bedroom door gets left open all the time now. You shave your legs in the bathroom sink, wearing only a towel that barely covers your ass. Do your makeup in a tiny satin bra, with your favorite music softly playing in the background.

He’s there for it all, leaning against the doorframe, chatting with you about the neighbors, or giving you advice about work. His eyes run up your thighs, linger on your ass and breasts.

It makes you feel like such a pervert that you find yourself constantly aroused from exposing yourself to him. You can hardly glimpse him in the kitchen anymore without fantasizing about him finally feeling you up. Wrapping his arms around you on some random day, learning the truth about your dirty thoughts, in that sticky wetness his fingers would find between your legs.

But you’re both stubborn, and neither of you makes the first move. You continue to change with the door open, and he continues to openly stare at your body. You feel divine, the way he looks at you. The sizzle of desire in the air leaves no room for self consciousness, and you become more and more comfortable revealing your body to him.

You don’t expect it, the day he actually breaks. You haven’t seen him around in a few weeks, probably a mission that needed wrapping up, and you get extra sloppy. You leave your bedroom door open while lotioning your body from the shower.

With your back to the door, you’re absorbed in the routine task, when suddenly you hear a soft, “Let me do that.”

It’s John. Home out of nowhere, looking a little sleep deprived, but otherwise right as rain. He’s not looking at your nude body, he’s staring straight into your eyes, honest and steady.

“O-oh,” you stammer, covering your breasts with one arm. “It’s just lotion, I got it.”

“Let me do it,” he says, like he’s perfectly practiced the words. “I’m good at it.”

He takes one step into your room, and your heart leaps into your throat.

“It’s really okay.” God, why are you so nervous all of a sudden? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? “I don’t want to make you work, you just got home.”

He extends a hand out to you, palm up. “Give me some. Let me take care of it.”

You know what, maybe it’s best if you don’t get into the details. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because you have your routine, and it works for both of you.

First thing in the morning, you bring your boss his coffee.

He takes one sip, and gives you an absentminded, “Thank you darling, shut the door please.”

Which you of course take care of right away, with your heels clacking cheerfully across the vinyl floor.

Then it’s morning briefing time, where you hover near the end of his desk and fill him in on any changes to his schedule that day, remind him of meetings and things he needs to sign off on, and just generally become more and more flustered because of what he’s doing.

Namely, that’s when he scoots his chair farther back from his desk, spreads his legs a bit, and strokes his beard while he looks at you.

Oh, the way that man looks at you.

You’ve tried to describe it to your friend once, and utterly failed because you started stumbling over your words with sudden embarrassment.

But your mind knows. Your subconscious perfectly understands the meaning of that particular gaze he levels at you.

It’s like you’ve found the most important person in the world, a person whose attention feels like it should be rationed in crumbs, and it's suddenly, fully locked onto you.

Not onto what you’re saying, though he does pay vague attention because that’s part of his professional day-to-day. But more than anything, he’s watching the changes in your face, the small shifts of your legs as you stand in one place in heels. It would be unprofessional to lean against his desk, so you just shift your weight slightly, planner in hand, and rattle off military organizational nonsense while Price’s eyes caress your face, linger on the curl of your fingers around the pen, lazily examine that spot where the skin of your throat disappears under your shirt collar.

“How was your weekend?” he'll ask softly, once he's certain you've got through the boring necessities.

"It was lovely, thank you sir. Saw a film with my friend."

He'll stretch out his hips slightly, forcing you to glue your eyes to his face and not drop them to the expanse of warm lap so close by.

“How are you feeling today?” he always inquires.

Which, of course, you know what it means. The words are cordial enough, but you've had this routine long enough to understand what's unsaid.

‘How’s our little arrangement treating you today? Do you need a break?’

To which you reply something like, “Right as rain, sir.”

And that's it. Business settled, coffee delivered, everything ship shape in that little office on base.

And then you get a different sort of attention, because that's what this is all about in the first place -- the fact that you can't get enough of his attention.

Some days, if there really isn't anything going on that morning, he'll let you suck him off. Those are really nice days, because it means he'll be in a good mood after that, smiling at you and giving you soft, happy eyes.

But mostly there isn't time, so he's forced to tend to you in other ways.

Namely, the Captain makes you come stand between his knees, so he can run his hands over your body. He'll talk to you while he does it, tell you a little bit about his weekend, the fishing he did, the reruns he watched, while he undoes the little buttons on your blouse.

He prefers you in those soft fabric bras without any padding, partly because he can see the imprint of your nipples through your shirt, and partly because it's so easy to tug the top down and let your breasts spill out onto his waiting hands.

Price is a boob man, in case you were wondering.

You keep your hands clasped carefully onto your planner behind your back, and endure each tug on your nipple while he shines those gorgeous eyes up at you, his expression full of playful fondness. That's all this is, after all. A little bit of playing with each other, because you both enjoy it.

"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you miss me over the weekend?"

"I always do, sir."

Sometimes he finds other ways to play with your body, but you get the general idea. Ten minutes of touching and attention, and you're set for the day. Wet, breathless, and practically stumbling over yourself to please him in whatever ways you can.

Ten minutes, and then he's buttoning you back up, making you proper again, and turning back to his coffee with a casual, "That's all for now. Thank you, darling."

Thank you. As if you're the one doing him the favor. You're half convinced it's his own little joke.

Actual work begins about that time, and it often happens where you don't see much of each other. He's occupied with meetings or trainings or briefings most mornings, and you deal with your usual papers and busywork.

For lunch you often pop off to the mess, or occasionally bring sandwiches to the office mini fridge. Lunch is always overshadowed by your anticipating of the midday meeting. It's the next bit of time you get to spend time with Captain Price.

"How was your lunch?"

"Just fine, sir."

"Close the door please."

Much like his, 'How are you feeling today?' question, you believe the door closing is a signal of sorts. That he's ready and willing, and that nothing has come up that keeps him from the midday meeting, as things occasionally do.

Most days, though, he manages to prioritize it.

You appreciate that greatly, because it's your favorite part of the day. The part where you remove all of your clothes apart from your heels, and he guides you into his lap for wandering hands, and soft, interested whispers.

He never takes off a stitch of his own clothes. It's part of the arrangement, you suppose, to help you feel more vulnerable. The contrast of his rough, reinforced clothing against your bare skin, the occasional scratch of velcro, or the poke of a corner of fabric, only makes it better. The complex excitement and fear of it has your heart thumping like a trapped animal, which is obviously the point. The more trapped you feel, the more wrong it is, the wetter your pussy gets, and you both know it.

You attempt to relax like that, melting back against that broad chest, shivering slightly from the cold air of the room, and aware of every motion of those steady hands exploring your most sensitive areas.

When he gets his fingers in your pussy, when he starts touching it exactly the way you like, that's when he asks you the most difficult questions, in quiet little murmurs against your hair.

They're rhetorical, but you give him a quiet, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," as you're meant to.

He'll ask you if you've been wet on the weekend while you were away. If you've been a selfish girl and touched yourself at all. If you went on any dates, if you let anyone fuck you. If you told them about how you're not allowed to cum, if you took precautions to make sure it didn't happen. If you were generous and let them use you. If you've been thinking about hooking up with anyone else at work, if having a wet pussy all week is making you more interested in being used by random people.

And he touches you through every question, regardless of how you answer. Until your knees are trembling, and every reply is coming out with a little more of a struggle, a little more whimpery and pitiful.

He doesn't make you edge yourself. He's got a pretty clear idea of where your tipping point is, after a few accidents in the early weeks of this. He'll just decide you've had enough, and his sticky fingers will dry while coasting over the other parts of your skin, sampling the feel of your heated body in his hands while you catch your breath and try to calm yourself.

Price always gives himself time to spend with you like that, gently petting you and letting you feel connected to him, until the soft warmth of that is almost as loud in your brain as your throbbing clit.

And then it's time to get proper again. Get dressed, get back on schedule, back to your office duties, with your underwear now uncomfortably sticky against your aching pussy.

Aching, because he's so fond of you that he gives you all this wonderful attention.

The end of the day tends to be the part that's flexible. Sometimes it's just a friendly pat on your ass and a, "See you tomorrow, good work today."

Occasionally he'll inspect your panties, maybe get rid of them for you since they're so wet and useless at that point. More than a few times you've had to ride the train home with nothing on under your skirt, your inner thighs wet from your own arousal wandering down your legs. It's very difficult to not think about fucking strangers when that's happening.

And sometimes, very rarely, he'll fuck you at the end of the day. Especially if it's been a very good day, or if you've done something particularly smart, you'll get bent over his desk as a goodbye, get your pussy filled while your eyes roll back and little whispered, "Thank you, sir"s roll off your tongue.

Those are the days you really wish he was coming home with you.

But then, the best day is always Friday. That's the day you're always extra nervous, extra good, trying your very hardest to do everything exactly right so that nothing will stand in the way of you and getting the orgasm you earned all week.

Price lets you pick it, because he's a very nice boss. Whether it's eating you out on top of his desk, or getting fingered uncomfortably close to the window, or just riding him until your knees have imprints of his chair, you're guaranteed to finally, finally, get to cum. He often stays late so you can get as many as you want, shuddering and gasping as quietly as you can while your pussy spasms in intense, long-delayed release.

You've never felt anything like it. Many partners, many different kinds of experiences, but your Friday afternoon fuck is something different. Something emotional and vulnerable, when you let your body do what it needs to do, while he watches. Watches, and offers hushed little comforts and praises.

Take what you need, you've earned it. You've been such a busy worker this week. His favorite subordinate, but don't tell anyone. Never met anyone so cute and competent at the same time, what a treasure you are. Doesn't that feel so much better? Let's keep going, you deserve it. You're doing so well, darling. That's my girl.

You're left a sweaty, blissed-out mess by the end, when he tucks you into his chest and strokes your back.

But miserably, you’ve been getting home at the same time as him for weeks, and it’s made it nearly impossible to be alone. This weekend, though, you're determined. You're going to make it happen, one way or another. You're going to get that solo wank if it's the last thing you do.

But it seems like as soon as you’ve fully attached yourself to the plan, your boyfriend is suddenly an inescapable force of observance.

All of a sudden he wants your in-depth advice on vacation ideas, following you around the house like a lost duckling. He even turns down drinks with his mates, which is absolutely unheard of, just to spend incredibly inconvenient time with you.

The one weekend you want him gone, and he's become the most constantly around person imaginable, much to your irritation.

It’s absolutely unfair. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a private wank, and you shouldn’t have to feel like you’re sneaking around to get it. But every time you think you've gathered your courage enough to ask, you'll look over at him and he’ll just be standing there, so cute and seeming so happy to be near you, so you don't ask.

You don't ask, and you don't wank.

You start withdrawing from his hugs and touches, hoping it'll put off your the usual weekend fuck, because you just know it'll suck all the satisfaction out of your wank. You can't ask, but you can't seem to let it go either, because it's somehow become a need. An actual, emotional need for something that shouldn't matter that much, but it does. It matters that you aren't getting time to yourself when you need it.

The hours continue to pass, until you find yourself in the last afternoon of your weekend, and you swear he hasn't sat his ass down away from you all day.

You touch yourself a little bit in the bathroom, desperately hoping it'll be good enough, and you'll be able to just get it over with and go back to normal.

But it's not good. It's rushed and anxious and completely unenjoyable, so you give up before you even manage to get yourself wet.

And of course, as soon as you've washed your hands and stepped out of the bathroom, that man is right there waiting for you. You can't help the flicker of annoyance on your face when you spot him sitting there on the corner of the bed.

"Um, I think I'm going to..." You pause, picking up your car keys from the dresser, but then setting them back down. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll stay home. Do you need to go anywhere? Run any, um, errands?"

Kyle frowns at the suspicious, hopeful blinks you're throwing in his direction. "Not particularly."

Unconsciously your fingers grab hold of your keys again, and you only realize you're doing it when his eyes follow the movement.

"Oh, okay," you ramble, shoving your keys away, and feeling like you suddenly don't know what to do with your hands. "You gonna... pop round to see your mum today?"

Kyle stands up slowly, openly eyeing your nervous body language. Your gaze wanders to the dresser because you can't stand to look at him, can barely think past the haze of repressed feelings and self denial and the deception. It's not fair, it's not fair. When will you get what you need?

“D’you want to see other people?” he finally asks.

Instantly your eyes snap up to his face, to the pained expression he’s failing to hide.

“Like, open the relationship or something?" he continues in that too-calm voice. "If you haven’t been satisfied lately, then we can talk about—“

“Kyle, no. What the fuck? No.”

He visibly sets his jaw. “Then what is it? Cause if we’re breaking up—“

“God, shut up! Just shut up for a second. Oh, god."

You start giggling before you can stop it, not because anything is funny, but because you're incredibly nervous. He still looks so worried, and it's still so hard to say, but you might as well just spill your guts at this point because the giggling is making things worse.

“I just wanted to, um, m-masturbate, um by myself, because we just have sex now whenever I’m horny, and I haven’t got to do it in a while. Without you, I mean. All by myself. Oh, god, this is so stupid."

Another giggle slips out, and you’re braced for his hurt feelings, maybe a rare bit of anger poking through the surface.

But instead he suddenly lets out a barking laugh. “That’s it?? You’ve been torturing me all weekend just cause you needed some alone time?”

"It's not funny, Kyle." Nevermind that you're failing to suppress more nervous laugher.

"Oh my god." He wipes his hand over his face, seeming utterly dumbfounded. “Oh my god, what a relief.”

And then your boyfriend spins around all dramatic, and flattens himself against the wall, laughing obnoxiously with his head buried in his arms.

“A fuckin’ wank.” Comes his incredulous voice, half muffled by his forearm. “Just... wanted a wank. All that for a wank."

“You’re being annoying,” you mutter. “And I still haven’t got my wank, thank you very much.”

"You're right." Kyle straightens right up, looks you dead in the eye, and smiles. "And you're gonna get it right now."

"Ha ha, very funny."

"Look at me." He takes one step towards you, pointing a finger at his suddenly grave expression. "I'm fuckin' serious. We're getting you that wank."

The idiot takes you by the hand -- you're incapacitated with giggles, by the way -- and leads you straight to the bed, helping you up onto it as if he was your personal masturbation chauffeur.

"You stay there," he instructs you, only to scurry off and quickly return with your water bottle and your phone.

"For hydration--" holds up the water bottle-- "for visual aids--" holds up the phone-- "for moral support--" leans down and kisses you straight on the mouth.

"Baby, I love you."

"I love you too. I'm gonna go pop off to the shop so you'll have no distractions. You stay there, and please for the love of god, tell me the next time you need a wank."

"You're the best!" you call after him, tucking yourself into the blankets.

"Yes I am."

Soon the place is quiet and still, and it's just you in your fluffy bed, wonderfully, deliciously alone.

You starfish your limbs out in the sheets, once you're good and naked. Let all the fabric drag against your bare skin and sigh happily.

You are happy. You're so happy with Kyle.

It's a good wank, too. You get out your vibrator, and find exactly the visual aids that you want, and you let yourself savor the buildup, without any reason to hide what you're doing.

Soon your brain turns to mush and you cum in your nice comfy bed, cradled in the sheets that smell like your boyfriend. It's lovely. It's wonderful. You click off your sex toy and catch your breath with your fingers pressed tight to your clit, basking in that gooey warmth as long as you're able.

And then you miss him. Like, instantly, as soon as you're done cumming. You miss Kyle.

You should be gratefully taking advantage of his absence to be alone in the bed, maybe grab a few more orgasms for yourself, but instead you find yourself snatching up your phone. You scan through the last few texts he's sent you, imagining hearing them in his voice.

Fuck it. Might as well just call him.

"Alright?" he answers after a few rings.

"Yeah, I'm all finished. You can come back now."

There's a laugh on the other end of the line that makes you smile from ear to ear. "I haven't finished my shopping."

"Okay, but hurry back if you can."

"You missing me, baby?"

Another smile. "Yes. A little."

"Ahh, well. Just a little isn't too bad, I've got a list."

You half laugh, half growl at him. "Come back, please."

"On my way."

It does seem like he's immediately on his way, because he returns so quickly, you imagine he just set down his basket right there and fled the store. You've been too relaxed and lazy boned to even put away your vibrator, but you're so happy to see him that you sit up naked in bed and reach out your arms for him to join you.

That man's face. He's getting worse and worse at hiding how much he likes you.

It just takes one look, one second of having him wrapping his arms around you in a reunion hug, before you're suddenly, violently horny again.

Good news, he's right on board with that idea. Soon you're both tugging his clothes off, and he's tucking himself into the sheets with you, his fingers finding you already so wet and welcoming from your time apart.

This is what your body wants. It's a dumb animal that wants to feel safe, and get the things it needs, and it especially wants him. All of him. His tongue in your mouth, his happy sounds mixing with yours, his cock inside you after you manhandle him onto his back.

You want to ride him. Give him a chance to lay back and relax, and give you a chance to take care of your man who takes care of you. You smile down at him while you bounce on his dick, feeling that familiar stirring of emotion in the top of your throat.

He belongs to you. You want him forever.

It has you going slower, stroking your hand up his body, across his jaw. Feeling and memorizing, and accepting him as yours while you grind his cock in and out.

"Kyle." You're not expecting your voice to crack, so you swallow and try again. "Kyle, I love you so much."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

"Do you want to get married?"

It slips out before you can stop it, before you can cut yourself off or pretend it was a joke, or do anything but inhale in nervous shock.

Kyle's blinking up at you with an equally surprised look on his face, holding your hips tighter than he was before, until you stop moving.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, "I didn't mean--"

"Stop it." Something deadly serious has settled over his face, and he pushes you up and off him in one careful motion.

Shit, fuck, why did you say it? Why did you have to ruin everything?

"Forget I said that, we don't have to get married, I don't even know why I said that--"

He's pushing you off him, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to get away.

"Kyle, please--"

"Shut up! Just shut up." Your boyfriend quickly fumbles his hand around in his bedside table drawer, and then retrieves a...

Jewelry box.

"Oh my god," you whisper, clapping your hand to your mouth.

"I was gonna... That is, I was planning on something else, sometime next month, but..."

"Oh my god," you repeat, relieved tears suddenly stinging your eyes.

"Feels a bit stupid to do it like this, when we're halfway through a fuck, but lord knows I can't reason with you once you've got it in your head that I hate you, so. Will you marry me?"

He starts to sink down like he's about to belatedly get on a knee, but like an animal suddenly untethered, you're already launching yourself at him.

"YES!" you squeal, swinging your arms around his shoulders and giggling like an insane person while you take him halfway to the ground.

You both can't stop laughing after that, especially when he's shaking so much he can barely get the ring on your finger. It's a beautiful, sparkly one, just like you always imagined.

Somehow, between kisses and excited whispers, you both make it back to the bed. He gets you under him and twines your fingers together next to your head, the hand that's now bearing the ring he'd hidden away for you.

And then he fucks you, nice and slow, until his shaking has vanished. That man kisses you like you're precious, keeps pulling back to look into your eyes and smile, like you're the most wonderful thing he's ever seen.

And he keeps fucking you like that, slowly grinding himself into you, keeping your hand in his.

"You gonna be my wife?"

"Uh huh."

"We're getting married, baby."

"I know, I'm so happy."

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--