#yeah yeah yeah

you just keep moving—small, rolling movements, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breathing starting to stagger. your lips are kiss-swollen, chin a little sticky from spit, and all you can think about is how good his thigh feels between your legs. how easy it is to just stay like this.

you’re tired. exhausted, even. too much to undress or climb into his lap or drag yourself into anything more. but this? this you can do. this is lazy and slow and good.

and god, he’s so warm under you. muscle taut and solid, a little flex here and there that makes your breath hitch. the friction is low and sweet and soft, just enough to make you dizzy without pushing you over the edge too soon.

he smells like laundry and clean skin and faint cologne—the kind that lingers on your own hoodie when he gives it to you to wear, the kind that makes your brain go quiet when he’s this close.

his hand starts moving again. not to stop you. just to help. big palm sliding down, fingers curving over your waist and guiding your hips without pressure. just helping. his mouth brushes your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. gentle. sweet. like he’s trying to be respectful about how completely wrecked you’re becoming just from this.

the faintest whimper escapes you when the seam of your underwear drags just right, and he breathes a soft curse under his breath.

either way, you don’t stop. and neither does he.

you lose track of how long it lasts, how many soft sounds you let slip into the quiet between songs on the stereo. it’s all heat and pulse and pleasure curling beneath your skin like a slow burn. like you could stay right here forever, grinding helplessly against the warmth of him, the safety of him, letting yourself come apart in the laziest, sweetest way.