ash

The new episode of Love Island plays on the background so quietly, you can barely hear what is happening on the screen. But it doesn't matter, because actually you are not trying to watch. The truth is... you are waiting. You are staring at the cutting board, listening past the tinny television dialogue for a specific, familiar rhythm.

Finally, the front door clicks shut. Then the thump of sneakers hits the hallway floor, one after another. There he is.

You don’t even look up from the cutting board, because the sound pattern of his steps is unmistakable. You can't help but count the seconds until that voice reaches the kitchen.

“Hey!”

The familiar silhouette appears in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the walk over, brown curls sticking up in three different directions. He’s wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and the same hopeful expression he’s worn every afternoon for weeks on end.

“My brother’s not here,” you say, dragging the knife through a bell pepper. “Practice ran late.”

There is a small pause before he answers.

“I know. He texted me.”

Then why are you here.

The question sits on your tongue, but you already know the answer. Or rather, you’ve been refusing to admit you know. Because admitting would mean acknowledging that your brother’s best friend Kimi Antonelli has been finding reasons to be wherever you are. That he started showing up at five o’clock sharp when you get home from work. That he started staying until you or your brother kicked him out.

That you stopped kicking him out.

“You want something to drink?” You wipe your hands on a towel, finally turning to face him.

He’s closer than you expected. Close enough that you catch the faint clean-laundry smell of him, the way his fingers are fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

“Uh.” His eyes drop to his hands. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You’re acting weird.” you confront him just to tease, because you already know the reaction that is coming.

“I’m not.” The words tumble out too fast, and his ears go pink at the tips. “I’m totally normal. This is my normal face.”

You lean back against the counter and cross your arms, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch him squirm. “Okay.“

The thing about Kimi was that up close, the cheerful clueless boy act started to fray entirely. The nervous swallow. The way he shifts his weight from foot to foot. His chest rises and falls a little too fast. His fingers keep twisting the hem of the towel on the counter. His eyes — brown and wide and fixed on your face with something that looks almost like hunger — dart away the second you meet them.

He’s your brother’s friend.

But you can't help yourself from wanting to tease him, get more frustrated emotions from him, enjoy the way he looks at you.

He’s practically a kid, you tell yourself.

But the word “practically” has been doing a lot of heavy lifting lately, because Kimi Antonelli is nineteen and his jawline has already sharpened and his hands are not a kid’s hands. They’re broad and restless and currently twisting together like he’s trying to wring out an answer he can’t speak.

Turn around to the fridge, you grab a cold can of Mountain Dew, pulling a tall glass from the cabinet. You pour it slowly, the sharp hiss of the soda loud in the quiet room, before sliding the glass across the counter to him.

He accepts the drink with a mumbled thank you, his fingers tight around the glass as he takes a long, desperate swallow. You return to the cutting board, grabbing the tomatoes from the colander. As you rinse them under the tap and begin to slice, you can feel his eyes on you, tracking the movement of your hands while he quietly sips his drink.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“S-sorry.” He blinks many times as if trying to pull himself back to reality, his shoulders dropping as he catches himself. He quickly drains the rest of the soda and sets the empty glass down on the counter. “I didn’t mean to. Or- I mean, I did, but I didn’t think you’d…” He trails off, the words tangling up in his throat as his face flushes a deeper, darker red.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Seeing him so completely derailed by a single comment is genuinely, painfully endearing. The teasing edge in your chest softens into something a little warmer, a little heavier.

Kimi lets out a low, defeated groan, burying his face in his hands for a brief second before letting them drop. “God, you’re making me feel like a complete idiot.”

“Kimi.” You say his name softer than you intended, the teasing tone dropping entirely.

His head snaps up instantly. The wide, brown eyes lock onto yours, suddenly dead serious, stripped of the stuttering playful armor.

“Why do you keep coming over when my brother is not here?”

The question lands heavily between you, the silence stretching long and thick over the kitchen counter. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator, steady and mundane against the sudden spike of your own pulse.

Kimi looks completely trapped. His lips part, but his brain seems to be short-circuiting as he stares at you.

When the silence stretches long enough to become heavy, and he still hasn't found his words, you simply turn your back on him, picking up the knife again and returning to the cutting board. You drag the blade through the tomatoes, slicing them into neat, rhythmic strips like his paralysis doesn't affect you at all. If he wants to continue this dialogue, he’s going to have to be the one to bridge the gap.

“Because…”

You hear the sharp hesitation in his voice first. It cracks a little on the syllable before he harshly clears his throat, forcing the rest of the words out into the quiet kitchen.

“…Because I want to see you.”

The knife stops dead in the air.

He can’t see it — he’s only looking at your back—so you hold your breath, forcing your posture to remain completely still and composed. But underneath that mask, your mind is racing. You’d braced yourself for a deflection — some goofy excuse about needing a textbook or wanting to raid your brother's gaming setup — but the raw honesty of it catches you right in the chest.

You don't let yourself get excited, though. You can't. When you’ve been single as long as you have, your first instinct is to build a wall. You want to search his face, to narrow your eyes and try to read him. Is he joking? Is this some dare? Is he just a nineteen-year-old with a passing crush because you’re the available older girl in his immediate radius? You refuse to play along if he’s just going to laugh it off in two seconds.

“To see me,” you repeat. You keep your tone carefully leveled, flat and cool, as if you couldn't care less. It’s an easy out if he wants to take it. You don't turn around yet. “My brother is not going to be back for at least an hour, Kimi. You're wasting your time.”

You chuckle, a half-nervous, dismissive sound meant to downplay the sudden thudding in your veins.

To your surprise, the kitchen goes entirely dead.

The silence drags for one second. Two. Three. It lasts so long that a cold prickle of doubt hits you; you genuinely assume he got annoyed at your dismissive tone and simply walked out of the room.

But you don’t hear the sound of his steps retracting down the hall.

Instead, the air behind you shifts.

The temperature changes first, a sudden wave of body heat radiating against your spine. Your arms instantly fill with goosebumps, the tiny hairs rising under the sudden, heavy weight of someone invading your personal space. It is a massive, unmistakable presence. Suddenly, you realize just how vulnerable you are — you are still holding your breath, the knife is still frozen mid-air, and you haven't even finished making your salad. You are trapped between the counter and his shadow.

Before you can pull away, a broad hand comes to rest on the curve of your waist.

The touch is hesitant at first, completely lacking in smooth confidence. The heavy heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of your shirt, a clumsy, desperate grip, like he's a drowning man reaching for a ledge. Then, his other hand follows, gripping your opposite hip, his touch heavy and trembling so hard it vibrates right through your shirt, his fingers splaying wide and firm. He pulls himself forward, practically collapsing his weight against your back until his chest is flush against your back.

You lose the ability to breathe entirely.

He tilts his head down. His soft, messy curls brush against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, a brief, chaotic friction before his forehead settles against the side of your neck. His breath hits your skin in a ragged, uneven ghost of heat, warming your collarbone.

When he speaks, his voice is a quiet, strained whisper right against your ear, thick with a desperation he can barely contain.

“I don’t care about him,” Kimi chokes out, his grip tightening on your waist with an unpolished sort of strength. “I really, really don't. I... I came here for you.”

This isn't a joke. The heavy, feverish weight of his chest pressing flush against your spine tells you everything you need to know—this isn't a game to him. The same kid who laughs too loud during dinners and aggressively arm-wrestles your brother over the last slice of pizza is standing in your kitchen completely defenseless. He’s putting everything on the line, just waiting for you to either turn around and laugh in his face, or take him seriously.

You don't answer right away.

You let the silence linger, completely still against him. It’s not because you’re unsure of your decision — no, your mind was made up the second his hands touched your hips. You pause simply because you like it. You like the intoxicating feeling of him clinging to you from behind like a lost puppy, desperate for shelter.

With every passing second that you don’t pull away or push him off, you feel the subtle shift in his body. The tension in his shoulders begins to bleed out. His hands, realizing they aren't being rejected, grow a fraction more confident, his fingers smoothing against your waist and drawing you just a millimeter closer into his heat. You want to prolong this exact moment. You want to lock the exact weight of his hands and the erratic rhythm of his breathing into your memory forever, a perfect capsule of time you can always return to.

Slowly, you set the knife down on the cutting board. And then... you cover his hands with yours. His knuckles jump under your palms, a tiny, startled hitch, but he doesn't let go. If anything, he grips you tighter.

He drops his head completely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His messy curls brush chaotically against your earlobe, and his forehead touches your skin with a defeated sort of thud. Your stomach does a sudden flip at the contact, a sharp spike of heat pooling low in your belly. His breath hits your neck in shallow, rapid huffs, so fast and uneven that you can tell his heart is practically trying to punch its way out of his ribs. Up close, the cheerful, bouncing, golden-retriever energy he usually carries completely evaporates. He doesn't feel like the funny kid anymore. Now he is utterly consumed by a desperate, needy hunger. Yet, even with his weight pressed against you, he feels entirely at your mercy.

“Kimi,“ you murmur.

He lets out a shaky, muffled sound against your skin. ”Yeah?”

“I thought I was imagining things,” you whisper, the confession loosening something in your ribs. “I convinced myself there was no way you’d be interested in someone-”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp, almost wounded. He pulls his face from your neck just enough to speak, his voice thick and raw against your ear. “Don’t say it like you’re not, like you haven’t been driving me completely insane for weeks. Months."

A shaky breath rattles in his chest, his fingers digging into your hips like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Remember that sleepover last month? When me and your brother we were studying late?” Kimi’s voice cracks, his forehead laying softly against your shoulder as words spill out of him. “You came home late from the club that night. I stayed awake until four AM, just listening to you walk down the hall. I was so anxious — laying there terrified that you’d bring some guy back with you, that I’d have to hear... I couldn't breathe. And every time the three of us have dinner together, I purposely say the stupidest jokes just to hear you laugh. I immediately want to come back as soon as I leave. You are all I think about the second I step out of this apartment. I’m- God, I’m so stupidly in love with you, please don't make it sound like it's nothing.”

The honesty of it is staggering. He is completely undone, his forehead pressing back into your shoulder as if he can't bear the weight of his own confession.

You twist within the circle of his arms. His grip loosens just enough to let you move, but his hands don't leave your waist, sliding along your skin until you are finally, completely facing him.

Backed up against the kitchen counter, you finally look at him. His face is entirely flushed, his eyes wide and glossy with a vulnerability so intense it makes your breath hitch. He looks so young, so terrified, and so entirely yours.

You can't help yourself anymore. You lift your hand, your fingers sinking gently into the soft, chaotic tangle of his brown curls, brushing them away from his forehead. The contact is feather-light, and Kimi’s eyes instantly flutter shut like it’s the most intense sensation he’s ever felt. A small, broken sound catches in the back of his throat, his broad shoulders shivering under your palms.

Oh.

Your pulse spikes, a sudden rush of heat flooding your chest. Oh, he’s sensitive.

“When’s the last time someone touched you like this?” you ask, your thumb tracing a slow path down the curve of his jaw to the soft, warm skin beneath his ear.

“Never.” His voice is a hoarse, breathless whisper. He leans his face heavily into your palm, practically begging you to continue. “Nobody’s ever- I haven’t- it’s never been-”

The pieces click into place, and the sharp edge of your want shifts into something more careful, more wondering. He’s not just nervous because he’s nineteen. He’s entirely untouched. The realization settles into your palms, into the sudden, fierce desire to be gentler with him than you’ve ever been with anyone in your life.

“Kimi,” you say. “Look at me.”

His eyelids flutter, heavy and reluctant, before opening. His eyes are wide with a terrifying mix of absolute hope and sheer panic.

“If we do this,” you continue, your thumb smoothing over his earlobe, “you have to talk to me. You tell me what feels good, and you tell me the second you want to stop. I don't want you trying to act like you know what you're doing. Okay?”

He nods so fast a few curls fall right into his eyes, his hands tightening their grip on your shirt.

“I need words, Kimi.”

“Yes,” he swallows hard. “Yes. I understand. Please.”

“Good boy.”

The praise slips out casually, and the effect is immediate — his whole body shudders, a visible ripple that starts at his shoulders and cascades down his spine. A low, breathless whine is pushed straight out of his throat. His eyes widen in absolute shock, caught completely off guard by how intensely his own body just betrayed him at a simple compliment.

A dark wave of wonder pulls at your stomach. “Oh, you like that,” you murmur, watching the way his chest heaves. “You like being told you’re good.”

He looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin, crimson flush staining his cheeks and rushing down the front of his neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make that- I’ve never-”

You don't let him overthink it. You slide your hand up to the warm nape of his neck, your fingers anchoring into his hair, and tug him closer.

The first touch of his lips isn't smooth. It’s clumsy, a little too hard, and desperate. He tastes like the Mountain Dew he’d been drinking earlier, his mouth parting the absolute second your lips meet yours. He lets out a muffled sound right into your mouth—surprised and instantly starving—and his hands fly from your waist to your back, pulling you against him with an unpolished strength that almost lifts you off your feet. He’s kissing you like a drowning man tries to breathe.

You have to break away just an inch, your lips grazing his as you try to slow him down. “Breathe, Kimi. Slow down.”

He lets out a shaky, half-hysterical laugh, his forehead dropping heavily against yours. His nose nudges yours, his breath hot and frantic against your mouth. “I can’t- I can’t believe this is happening. I feel like I'm dreaming.”

“You're not dreaming,” you whisper, sliding your hands down to cup his burning cheeks.

Your fingers drift downward, finding the hem of his oversized hoodie. Slowly, you slide your hands underneath the fleece, your palms immediately meeting the heat radiating from his torso.

Kimi sucks in a sharp breath through his nose the exact second your bare skin touches his.

You don't rush. You let your hands smooth upward, skimming the warm and incredibly soft skin of his lower stomach. There’s a layer of boyish softness there, smooth and completely unblemished, but as your fingers trail higher, you feel the natural contour of the muscles beneath — not a sculpted, rigid six-pack, but the definition of someone who spends his weekends running around a field.

The moment your fingertips trace the shallow dip just above his navel, the muscles there jump, contracting under your touch in an involuntary spasm.

Another sound escapes him, muffled completely against your temple as his head drops into your shoulder. You realize it’s a whimper. Not a quiet, suppressed one, either — it is a full, trembling keen that vibrates straight through the thin inch of air left between your bodies, warm and heavy with a desperation that makes your own core throb.

“Sorry,” he gasps, his entire abdomen shivering beneath your palms as you slide your hands just a fraction higher. “I’m sorry... I don’t know why I’m- why I'm reacting like this-”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, your thumbs smoothing over the tight curve of his ribs. “I want to hear you, Kimi.”

The explicit permission seems to melt whatever remaining strength he has left. When you gather the heavy fabric of the hoodie and push it upward, he blindly lifts his arms above his head like a child being undressed. It lands somewhere on the cold kitchen tile.

Now, he is bare to the waist in the twilight of the kitchen, his skin radiating heat. His collarbones look so prominent and clean, you immediately get the urge to ruin them.

You step closer, tracing along his chest with your fingertips — a light touch that sends a shiver down his spine. Your lips finally meet his neck, and you latch onto the soft skin right above his collarbone. You suck heavily, drawing the heat to the surface, feeling him tremble under the new sensation.

The moans rise deep from his chest. He doesn't pull away; instead, he tilts his chin up, blindly leaning into the pressure to give you better access, exposing the long line of his throat. He is completely malleable in your hands, as soft and pliant as dough being molded, utterly willing to bend and shift however you want him to. You could do absolutely anything to him right now, and he would just let you.

Using the leverage of your hands on his bare waist, you guide him backward a few steps until his back hits the kitchen wall.

The impact anchors him, but his chest continues to heave in frantic bursts. Your saliva glistens on his throat, and the skin is already beginning to bloom into deep purple marks that look incredibly stark against his pale skin.

He looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, a soft, surrendered smile touching his lips. He still looks like he can't fully process that this is real. His broad hands hover uncertainly just an inch above your hips. His fingers are twitching, flexing in the empty air — not quite brave enough to actually grip you, just resting near the fabric of your clothes, waiting. Asking. Begging for permission without words because he clearly doesn't know the rules yet.

You pull back just enough to read his face, your hands sliding up the smooth skin of his chest to frame his bare shoulders. His lips are swollen, slick from your mouth, and parted as he fights for air. His face has that completely undone, fucked-out expression already, even though you've just started.

“Tell me you want this,” you say, keeping your voice steady, forcing him to ground himself in the reality of your kitchen.

“I want this,” he sobs out. “I want everything. Whatever you’ll give me. I don’t know anything, but I want to be good for you. So good. Please just let me be good.”

Hearing a man — a boy — be that utterly stripped of pride is shockingly hot. In all your past relationships, there had been a script, a careful dance of ego, of pretending to be cooler or more experienced than they were. But Kimi doesn't have a single drop of armor. He just wants to be good... His inexperience paired with how desperately he wants to please you, sends another wave of heat straight between your thighs, making your underwear slick with arousal.

You kiss him again instead of answering.

It’s not gentle this time. You claim his mouth with a hard, bruising pressure that forces his lips open, your tongue sliding inside to taste the minty, frantic heat of him. At the same moment, you step completely into his guard, pressing your thigh up high between his legs.

The blunt contact against his crotch draws a desperate moan that he has absolutely no hope of controlling. He’s already rock-hard — you feel the thick length of him straining through the heavy denim of his jeans. When you rock your weight forward ever so slightly, tilting your pelvis into his stiffness, his mind completely snaps. His fingers finally stop hovering; they lash out, curling into your shirt, twisting the fabric as he holds onto you like you're the only stable thing in a spinning room.

The kitchen goes entirely quiet except for his wrecked, unpaced breaths and the wet sound of your mouths meeting, parting, and instantly colliding again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a faint voice tries to remind you that this changes everything — your brother, your dinners together, the easy, predictable rhythm of your days. But right now, Kimi is literally melting beneath your hands, making broken, needy sounds you’ve never heard another human make.

The power you have over him turns you on so intensely it makes your head spin. Nothing has ever felt less wrong.

Slowly, you break the kiss and sink to your knees on the kitchen floor before he can stop you.

His entire body goes rigid against the wall, his hands tearing away from your shirt as his eyes follow you down in absolute panic. “Wait-wait, are you- here? Now? On the- the floor is-”

“Cold,” you finish, looking up at him from between his thighs. Your hands slide down his legs to anchor him. “I don’t care.”

He stares down at you like you’ve hung the moon, his throat bobbing with a heavy, terrified swallow. Twenty-four hours ago, you were still pretending not to notice the way he looked at you across the dinner table. Now his fingers are trembling against the wall behind him, his bare chest is open for you to see, and he’s looking down at you with an expression that borders on religious reverence. A regular guy would be trying to look smooth but Kimi looks like he’s about to cry just from the situation.

“I won’t last,” he whispers, the warning completely cracking apart mid-sentence as his hips give an involuntary, microscopic twitch toward your face. “I’ve thought about this too many times... if you actually- if your mouth-”

You reach for his belt and then the button of his jeans, pausing with your thumb hooked over the waistband, letting him feel the agonizing delay.

“How many times, Kimi?”

His blush deepens impossibly. He looks to the side, utterly humiliated by his own honesty, yet unable to lie to you. “Every night. For weeks. I can’t even- it’s so embarrassing. I’d just lie there in the dark and think about you and- and-”

He can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. You know exactly what a nineteen-year-old boy does in the dark when he's horny. But knowing it was you driving him to that point makes your own desire burn hot and demanding.

The heavy denim of his jeans slides down his thighs, hitting the floor with a soft, weighted rustle before pooling clumsily around his ankles and effectively trapping his feet. The kitchen tile bites into your bare knees, aching, but the sensation is completely distant, muted by the thick pulse of adrenaline in your throat. You ignore it, focusing on the view in front of you.

You look up. Kimi is marooned where he stands, completely exposed to you in a way he’s never been to anyone.

Beneath the tight cotton of his gray boxer briefs, he is tented obscenely, the sharp, heavy silhouette of his length leaking a dark circle of moisture through the fabric. His lower stomach is completely drawn in, his navel shallow as he holds his breath, trying — and failing — to keep his pelvis from twitching instinctively toward your face. You don't say a word and flatten your palms against the skin and drag them slowly up the outside of his thighs.

The reaction is instantaneous. The muscle under your hands jumps under the unexpected contact. Kimi lets out a small hitch in the back of his throat, his fingers blindly clawing behind him for purchase against the wall.

“So you’ve never had anyone down here before,” you whisper, your thumbs tracing the deep line where his hip meets his thigh.

“I haven’t,” he chokes out. His voice is totally wrecked, stripped of any defense. He’s staring down at you with a wide, glassy look. “I... it’s not that I haven't wanted to, it's just... girls at school, they always felt like a game. I didn't want it to just be some random thing. And now you’re... you’re actually on the floor for me. And I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

“Keep them against the wall,” you tell him, hooking your fingers into the elastic waistband of his briefs. “And don’t move.”

You pull the cotton down.

”Or at least try to.” You chuckle.

When he springs free, the sudden rush of cool air makes him drop his head back against the wall with a sharp gasp. He is beautiful. At nineteen, he doesn’t have the weathered, calculated look of the men you used to date; there is no performance here. He is heavy and swollen, a thick pearl of pre-cum already glistening at the slit, his length curving up slightly against his lower belly. The absolute raw, unvarnished look of his arousal sends a sharp, demanding ache straight through your pussy, a heavy throb that makes you want to consume him entirely.

“You’re pretty everywhere,” you say, the praise slipping out before you can filter it. “Has anyone ever told you that, Kimi?”

“No,” he wheezes, his eyes screwed shut so tight his long lashes are crimped against his skin. “Nobody’s ever... please. If you keep looking at it like that, I’m going to cum before you even touch me.”

“Watch me do it, then. Can you keep your eyes open for me?”

He nods frantically, swallowing hard. “Yes. Please.”

You chuckle, already knowing the reaction that's about to hit you. You whisper. “Good boy.”

The quiet praise gives a reaction exact as you expected. His hips blindly jerk forward, a helpless, high-pitched whimper tearing out of his throat before his brain can stop it. You file that reaction away instantly — three syllables, and his entire body completely loses its alignment.

You wrap your hand around the base of him slowly.

He is shockingly hot in your palm, the smooth skin stretched incredibly tight over his full hardness. He feels immense, heavy and thick, yet the frantic, echoing flutter of his pulse directly against your palm is a stark reminder of just how fragile his composure is right now. A possessive urge spikes deep in your stomach — you want to wrap your fingers tight, to stroke him hard and absolutely overstimulate him until he’s weeping, entirely ruined by his own pleasure. But the purity of his submission holds you back. You want to be gentle, to handle his lack of experience like something rare and precious, yet the primal ache between your legs demands that you push him over the edge as fast as humanly possible, just to watch him fracture. No. You can't do that.

His skin is fever-hot, running with the hard pulse beneath it, and so sensitive that when you give him one slow, testing stroke from root to tip, his knees completely buckle. You have to clamp your free hand firmly onto his bare hip, burying your thumb into the muscle to anchor him against the wall so he doesn't slide onto the floor.

He pants, his hands fisting into his own hair now, pulling at his curls as his head thrashes. “I’m sorry, your hand... it’s so warm, and I’ve tried to imagine what it felt like a thousand times, but the real thing is... it’s too much. It’s too much.”

At this point you are so impatient and turned on so you ignore him, don't let him adjust anymore and lean in, letting your breath hover just a fraction of an inch above the oversensitive tip. You know this tiny action will make his head spin but can't stop yourself.

“Breathe, Kimi,” you remind him.

Then, you take him into your mouth.

The heat of your mouth swallowing him whole draws a sound out of Kimi - guttural, shocked, almost pained. His hips buck, and you press your palm flat against his stomach to hold him steady. He feels massive against your tongue, heavy and burning, his pulse a frantic, rhythmic thudding right against the roof of your mouth. When you hollow your cheeks and slide deeper, his hand flies to your hair—not pulling, just resting, trembling against your scalp like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to take. You wrap your fingers tight around the exposed base of his shaft, your thumb anchoring against his groin to keep him from jerking away from the sudden, wet friction.

You don't give him time to adjust. You take him in deep, your throat tight around him, and slide back up slowly, letting your lips catch on the ultra-sensitive rim of his crown.

“God-” Kimi chokes out. His knuckles scrape against the wall as the other hand blindly buries deeper into your hair. “Wait, please- I'm gonna cum if you keep-”

You pull back slowly, letting your lips drag along the shaft. His lashes are clumped together, cheeks blotchy red. He’s a disaster. A beautiful, trembling disaster.

“You’re doing so well,” you tell him, stroking him through the slickness your mouth left behind. “Letting me take my time with you.”

“You said you were gonna do that later,” he gasps. “Take your time.”

“That was before I saw how pretty you look right now.”

Another whimper. His hips twitch into your fist. “I’m not gonna last. I can feel it already, it’s right there, I’m- I’m so close and you’ve barely even-”

“Then don’t last. Let me taste you.”

You take him deep again, and this time you don’t hold back. The sensory overload is immediate. Kimi’s hips begin to move on their own, completely detached from his brain’s frantic panic. It’s an uncoordinated and desperate lifting of his pelvis, trying to force himself deeper into your mouth, his thighs twitching. He’s completely blind to everything else now; his eyes are rolled back, staring at the dark kitchen ceiling, his teeth bared as he fights for oxygen.

The look of him makes your own core tighten painfully. You want to make it last, want to tease him until he’s begging, but the muscles at the base of his length starting to contract rhythmically against your fingers. He’s already arriving at the point of no return, his body entirely consumed by a build-up he has no idea how to slow down.

Your tongue works the underside of him, pressing into the sensitive ridge just beneath the head, and the hand in your hair finally tightens — a reflexive grip that he immediately tries to loosen, mumbling quiet “I'm sorry” between broken moans. You don't stop. You won't stop when his body reacts like this. So you increase the pace, sucking the wet tip of him every time you pull back. You hum around him, encouraging, and his whole body convulses.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, I’m coming, please, I can’t stop it-” he gasps, his voice dropping into a sob.

You don’t pull away. His fingers tighten convulsively in your hair, pulling your face hard against his groin as his spine completely arches off the wall.

He jerks into your mouth, a heavy, violent spasm that repeats four, five times in rapid succession. He comes with a choked cry, spilling hot and bitter across your tongue, his hips stuttering in uneven pulses. The first thick rush of him hits the back of your throat — scalding hot and heavy — and you keep your mouth locked tight around him, swallowing the fierce, frantic pulses of his release while your hand strokes the base to wring out every last drop, until he’s whimpering from oversensitivity and his thighs are shaking against your shoulders.

When you finally release him, he slides down the wall like his bones have liquefied. He lands on the tile in front of you, knees knocking yours, chest heaving. The cool kitchen air hits his wet skin, and Kimi lets out a shivering sigh. He looks utterly wrecked — his lips are bitten raw, his hair is a wild mess from his own fingers, and his bare chest is slick with sweat. His eyes are dazed, unfocused, swimming with something that looks perilously close to worship.

“You swallowed it,” he whispers, his voice nothing more than a raspy scratch. He looks down at his own sticky thighs, then back to your eyes, vulnerability clouding his face. “You... you actually kept me in your mouth.”

You wipe your lips with the back of your hand without answering. The unadulterated awe in his expression makes him look even younger.

“I came so fast,” he whispers, horror creeping into his voice. “That was so embarrassingly fast, you probably think I’m-”

You cut him off. “I think you were perfect.”

His brow furrows. “But I didn’t even- you didn’t get to-”

“Kimi.” You let your hand drift to his jaw, thumb stroking the corner of his mouth. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. Obviously yes. I’ve never- that was the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Then it was perfect.”

He blinks at you, processing. The shame slowly melts into something softer, more wondering. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his eyes drop to your mouth.

He looks so incredibly young sitting there on the tile, his long legs tangled in his dropped jeans, his chest still slick and heaving. He looks up at you with the dazed expression of someone who has just been completely rearranged from the inside out.

“Can I-” He swallows, his throat bobbing hard as his hand lifts, hovering hesitantly in the space between you. “I want to try again. Please. I don't want it to just be about me.”

You don't answer yet, just watching the chaotic thoughts move across his face.

“I want to make you feel good,” he whispers. His eyes fixate entirely on your lips, tracking the faint, slick sheen left behind on them. “I want to taste you. And I want to taste... I want to taste myself. On your tongue. Is that weird? That’s weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s not weird, Kimi.”

“I just want to know what we taste like together,” he chokes out, the raw honesty of it bleeding through.

You don't give him permission with words. Instead, you catchs his mouth with yours while you're both still grounded on the kitchen floor.

The kiss is instantly messier than before — open-mouthed, exploratory, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate, unpracticed enthusiasm. The second he tastes the ghost of his own musk on you, a muffled moan is pushed straight into your mouth. The shock of it seems to finally give him courage; his hands fly up, one broad palm cupping your jaw while his other hand grips your hip, splaying wide against your skin as if he’s terrified you might dissolve into thin air if he lets go.

He pulls back just enough to catch his breath. He doesn't say a word at first, just swallowing hard, his lips slightly parted as his thumb brushes your cheekbone.

“I want to... ” He looks down at your hips. “I want to put my mouth on you. I don't just want to be the one who gets taken care of, I want to learn what you like. ”

He takes a shaky breath, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip, anchoring you closer. The embarrassment is still clearly painting his face, but underneath it, there’s a new, stubborn wave of determination. He’s just offering himself up completely.

“You want to learn how to eat me out,” you say firmly.

Kimi shudders slightly at the direct phrase, but doesn't look away. He holds your gaze, his chest rising and falling in one heavy, deliberate breath as he drops his armor completely.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Tell me exactly what to do. I’ll do whatever you tell me.”

Kimi’s eyes follow you as you rise to your feel, looking at you like a man waiting for his sentence. You reach down, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, and tug him up with you. His jeans are still around his ankles; he kicks them off clumsily, until his legs are completely free, standing bare-legged and exposed before you.

There’s a brief sheepishness in his eyes, and for a moment he’s just Kimi again — the boy who laughs too loud and yells at the monitor when your brother wins the round—but as your eyes slowly trace the line of his bare, solid chest, the boyishness completely evaporates.

You pick up his hoodie from the tile and toss it carelessly onto the counter, clearing the space.

Then you take his wrist and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom.

It is dim inside, curtains half-drawn, the bed is unmade. You sit on the edge of the mattress and shimmy out of your clothes, letting them drop to the floor. Kimi stands frozen at the foot of the bed, watching like he’s witnessing something sacred.

“Come here,” you say, patting the space beside you.

Kimi swallows and doesn't move immediately; his eyes are locked onto your body, wide and completely unblinking in the gray twilight of the room. It’s a stare, devoid of the cheap, sizing-up look you've gotten from other men. He looks entirely paralyzed by the privilege of being allowed to look at you like this.

Finally, his bare feet pad against the floorboards as he crosses the room. The mattress dips significantly under his weight as he sits down exactly where you pointed. He doesn't immediately try to slide into your space or lean in for a smooth kiss; instead, he sits stiffly, his shoulders squared, his hands resting flat on his own bare thighs as if he's waiting for further instructions.

Up close, you can hear the slight, ragged catch in his breathing, his chest still tight from the adrenaline of the kitchen.

”You're very quiet,” you murmur, reaching out to trace a line down his arm. The muscle of his bicep instantly tightens under your touch.

”I'm just...” Kimi clears his throat, his eyes flickering down to your bare waist before snapping back up to your face. ”I’ve looked at the door to this room so many times from the hallway, and now I’m... you’re right here.”

You shift slightly, pulling one leg up onto the mattress, opening your posture to him. The movement brings your thigh into light contact with his hip. ”Still nervous?”

”Terrified,” he admits softly. A small, self-deprecating smile touches the corner of his mouth, but it fades the moment your hand slides up to rest on the warm nape of his neck. His gaze drops back down to your mouth, his dark pupils visibly expanding in the dim light. ”But I meant what I said in the kitchen. I want to please you. I want to do exactly what you want.”

You reach down and take his right hand by the wrist, and he lets you guide him without an ounce of resistance.

Slowly, ignoring your own arousal and built-up impatience, you press his palm flat against your inner thigh, way lower than you actually want his hand to be.

Kimi lets out a sharp, hitching breath, his eyes locked down on your hand leading his. He stays perfectly still, his hand now heavy but frozen against your leg, staring at the contrast of his fingers against your thigh like he’s afraid a sudden movement will break the spell.

“You can touch me, Kimi,” you murmur, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind his ear to ground him. “Explore me. I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers flex against your skin, a tentative movement that travels just an inch upward before he hesitates again, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. He wants to, but his inexperience is keeping him anchored in place — he’s too terrified of doing the wrong thing.

Seeing him stall, you simply slip your fingers through his, locking your hand with his, and drag his palm higher. You guide his hand right between your legs, the temptation and slowness making you wetter by the second. He is so pure, uncertain, and entirely open for you to guide him, trusting you implicitly with his body.

Finally, you press his fingers directly against the center of your pussy, dragging his fingertips deliberately through the slick heat so he can get the full, unvarnished reality of what he's doing to you.

The contact is immediate and unmistakable. Your underwear is long gone on the floor, and his palm cups you perfectly, his fingers instantly coating in the heavy moisture flooding your core. Kimi’s eyes go completely wide, a soft gasp tearing out of his chest at the visceral sensation of your bare and slick folds under his touch.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice cracking, thick with a mix of awe and pure, unfiltered heat. His fingers twitch against you, parting the wetness instinctively as he realizes just how intensely he’s driving you crazy. “You’re... you’re so wet. For me?”

Hearing the raw wonder in his voice makes a new pulse of heat travel straight to your pussy.

“Yes, for you,” you breathe out.

You don't have to guide his hand anymore. The raw spark of curiosity completely kills his shyness.

You flutter your eyes shut for a brief second, giving yourself over to the sensation as the pads of Kimi's fingers linger at your entrance, instinctively gathering the moisture on his digits. Then, driven by pure, unpracticed instinct, he slides straight inside you with two fingers at once — completely oblivious to the unwritten rule that he should have started with one.

The sudden, blunt fullness knocks a surprised gasp out of you, the sound catching in your throat as a sharp moan follows it. Your internal muscles clamp down hard, tightening fiercely around his invasion. You’re trying your absolute best not to rush him — you know he’s overwhelmed, you know he needs a second to process the friction — but your own composure is fraying at the edges. Kimi is barely breathing, looking like a panther frozen in the brush, completely motionless, when really it's a scared lamb, his face locked as he tracks every micro-expression and hitched breath on your face.

Then, as if suddenly startled by the sheer intensity of your reaction, he abruptly yanks his fingers back out. They leave your body with a loud, wet, sound that completely shatters the quiet room. Far from being embarrassed, it seems to thrill him, a ragged exhale rushing out of his lungs.

You open your eyes just in time to see him instinctively bringing his glistening, slick fingers straight toward his own mouth, desperate to taste you.

But the second he catches you watching, Kimi freezes mid-motion, looking like a kid who just got caught stealing from the jar.

“You can try it if you want,” you murmur, your voice thick and dripping with encouragement as you lightly nudge his elbow upward.

To him, it probably looks like you're just teasing him, playing into his frantic desire to experience everything at once. But the reality is much darker—the sight of him looking that hungry is driving you out of your mind, and it is taking every single ounce of your willpower not to throw him onto his back right now, pin his back to the mattress, and ride him until he screams.

Your encouragement is the final tether snapping. Kimi doesn't look away from your eyes as he slowly parts his swollen lips and slides his own fingers into his mouth.

He sucks the moisture from his knuckles, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. A heavy, low growl vibrates in his chest at the taste of you — it’s the first purely dominant sound he’s made all night, completely stripped of his usual boyish hesitation.

“You taste so sweet...” He chokes on the words, pulling his hand away, his lips wet and glistening. “God, it’s everywhere.”

Before he can overthink it, before the shyness can crawl back into his head, you reach up and catch him by the back of his neck. Your fingers anchor firmly into his curls, and you pull him down into a messy kiss. He tastes like your own slick heat mixed with the minty remnants of his soda, the combination so toxic and intense it makes your hips hitch off the mattress completely on instinct.

Kimi catches the movement. His hands splay out across the bedsheets on either side of your waist, his upper body pinning you down. He’s kissing you with a sudden, heavy confidence now, his tongue sweeping deep, drugged by the flavor of himself on you. For a moment, as his body keeps pressing you into the matress, you forget that its the same Kimi that was hesitating to even touch you minutes ago. With every heavy breath he takes, you can feel his thick dick rubbing directly against your bare pussy, already half-hard again and frictioning against your slick heat.

You break the kiss with a ragged gasp, your hands sliding from his neck down to his bare shoulders, firmly pushing him back.

“Kimi,” you pant. “You said you wanted to learn.”

He blinks down at you, confused, his chest heaving.

“Get on your knees.”

The command registers instantly. He shifts himself to the space between your thighs and lays flat on the stomach so low that his breath tockles the wetness of your pussy and the contrast makes you inhale sharply.

From this angle, you are completely exposed to him in the dim light. Kimi stares down at your pussy—slick, swollen, and glistening from his own fingers—with a look that borders on absolute terror and fierce, consuming hunger. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Kimi’s eyes lock onto the center of you, and his lips part like he’s already tasting you in his mind.

“Don't just stare at it,” you whisper. “Put your hands on my thighs. Spread me.”

His hands shake as he obeys, his palms gripping the outsides of your knees and gently, reverently pressing your legs wider apart. His frantic breath ghosts across your sensitive skin, making your internal muscles twitch in anticipation.

“I don’t know where to start,” his voice is desperate. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, his cheeks burning. “Do I... do I lick, or do I-”

“Start slow,” you instruct, keeping your voice gentle. “Use the flat of your tongue first. Don’t go straight for the clit. Start at the bottom and go up. Smoothly. Don't rush.”

Kimi nods. His hands come to rest on your inner thighs, palms damp, fingers spreading you open with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He drops his head, his face disappearing between your thighs, and then the first touch of his wet, incredibly warm tongue hits your entrance.

The first stroke is broad and experimental, dragging from your entrance up through the center. He hums at the taste and your hips roll forward to meet him.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Good,” you manage. “That’s really good, Kimi.”

He does it again. Slower this time. Mapping you with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for solving equations, memorizing the exact texture of you against his tongue. When he reaches the top of your slit, he pauses.

“Here?” His voice is muffled against your cunt.

“A little higher. Higher. Yes. Right there.”

He licks again, and the tip of his tongue catches your clit with just enough pressure to send a bolt of electricity up your spine. You gasp — sharp, involuntary — and his eyes fly up to your face.

“Is... is that it?”

“Yes-.” you choke out as your hand finds his curls and yanks him down with a bit of a force.

Enough yapping.

He continues. This time he’s emboldened, his tongue tracing circles around the swollen bud, and when you press him closer, he moans directly into your cunt. The vibration sends you arching off the mattress.

“Right there. Don’t stop. Just like that.”

“Mhm.” He can’t form words anymore. His tongue works you with increasing confidence, following the cues of your gasps and the tightening of your fingers in his hair. When you pull, he speeds up. When you release, he slows. He’s learning you in real time, adapting to every breathy instruction, and the eagerness radiating off him is almost as intoxicating as the wet heat of his mouth.

“You’re a fast learner,” you pant, and the praise makes him groan — loud and desperate, the sound swallowed by your flesh.

His fingers curl into your thighs, holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His hips are rocking subtly against the carpet, grinding into nothing, but he doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t reach for himself. His entire focus is on you, on the taste of you, on the way your thighs are beginning to tremble around his ears.

“Kimi.” His name fractures on your tongue. “I’m close.”

He doubles his effort instantly, tongue flicking rapid patterns against your clit, and your vision whites out at the edges. The orgasm builds low and fast, coiling tight in your belly, and when it breaks, it breaks with your moan tangling with his. He doesn’t stop until you tug his hair, pulling him back, and he’s gasping, chin glistening, eyes wild with something that looks like triumph.

“I made you come,” he says and you see a tiny smile forming in the corner of his mouth.

You’re still catching your breath when he crawls up your body, but lays right beside you. You can see how hard he is, and how desperately he tried to fin his release againt the mattress but failed as he was too focused on you.

You turn on the side to see his face and leave a soft kiss on his lips. If he wants to continue, he just needs to tell you. You don't want to overwhelm him in just one day.

Minutes pass, the only sound the slow settling of your heartbeats against the mattress. Finally, Kimi shifts, his arm brushing yours as he turns his head to look at you.

“Can I...” He starts, then immediately loses his nerve. “Are you... are you tired? Or did you want to stop?”

You stroke the soft hair at his nape, your thumb smoothing over his skin to ground him. “I’m not tired, Kimi. What do you want?”

The question hangs heavily in the room. He looks up through his eyelashes, his eyes wide, swimming with that familiar mix of intense desire and absolute uncertainty. He’s trying to read your face, trying to figure out if he's even allowed to want what he’s currently obsessing over.

“I want to...” He chokes slightly on the words and leans a fraction closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “I really want to be inside you. If... only if you want to. I know I already came, and I know I’m probably going to be terrible at it, but I just... I want to feel what it's like. With you. Can I?”

The absolute lack of assumption in his voice hits you right in the chest. He isn't trying to look smooth or push his way in; he’s genuinely asking for permission, holding his breath like a boy waiting to find out if he’s dreaming.

You look down between your bodies. He’s already fully recovered, the thick, rigid length of him pinning itself hard against your outer hip. Nineteen. The thought flickers through your mind with a rush of heavy, possessive fondness.

You don't answer right away. Instead, you hook your leg around his waist, shifting your weight beneath him until his heavy, athletic frame settles more fully between your thighs. The blunt, hot pressure of his front slides directly against your slick warmth, making him let out a shaky, caught breath.

“Of course you can, Kimi.”

“I came in thirty seconds last time.“

“And I told you it was perfect.“ Your thumb traces his lips. "I meant it.“

“But I want to be good for you. I want to make it last. I want you to feel-" His voice cracks. "I want you to feel as good as you made me feel.“

Something in your chest squeezes tight.

“You're already good,“ you murmur. “You're so good, Kimi. The way you learn, the way you listen. Do you know how rare that is?“

His breath hitches. He absorbs your words like a sponge, his chest rising in a heavy line as he tries to process that you are actually talking about him.

“Let me get a condom,“ you say, shifting your weight off his thighs. You cross the room toward the nightstand drawer, hoping you actually have one left. You don't want to disappoint him, but more importantly, you know there is absolutely no way he has the control to pull out in time.

As if reading your exact thoughts, Kimi’s voice cuts through the darkness from the center of the bed. “If you don't have one, it's fine. I can just pull out. I've seen men do it in porn.“

You let out a quiet laugh, turning around with the square foil wrapper in your hand. “The men in porn have done this a hundred times, Kimi. Not you.“

His cheeks immediately turn dark crimson, his gaze dropping to his own hands on the sheets.

“I'm joking,“ you say softly, walking back to the mattress. “I wanted to tease you. You look cute when you're flustered.“

“Cute?“ Kimi repeats the word like it’s a foreign language, staring at you as you sink back onto the edge of the mattress and toss the wrapper onto the sheets.

“You don't believe me?“ You scooch sloser and lean over him to deepen the kiss, your bodies instantly tangling back together as your chest presses against his.

You quickly realize it would be better if ypu ride him instead. He's too overwhelmed to control the pace steadily. So you sit between his hips steadily, tearing the foil open.

His eyes drop to your hands, completely captivated.

The moment your bare fingers wrap around the base of his shaft, Kimi jolts against the mattress like you've touched him with ice. He is fully hard again, a thick bead of moisture already glistening at the tip.

“You're so responsive,“ you murmur,sliding your hand up his length once, just to hear the low hitch that escapes his throat.

“I can't help it,“ he pants, his head thumping back into the pillows. “It's you. Everything you do.“

You pinch the tip of the condom and roll it down his length. His stomach muscles contract into hard ridges under the friction. His fingers fist into the bedsheets, a desperate keen vibrating deep in his chest until the condom is rolled all the way to the base.

“There,“ you say, guiding him forward by the hip. “All done.“

Kimi’s hands instinctively reach for your waist, his grip tight and uncertain as he realizes what position you're taking. He looks up at you from the pillows, totally exposed beneath you, his eyes wide as you guide the wet tip of him against your entrance.

The first push is slow tilt of your hips. The head of him slips just inside your slick folds, and the sudden, tight heat of the friction makes Kimi’s entire body go rigid beneath you. His mouth falls open, a sharp fracture of air tearing out of his chest—a sound that is closer to a shocked sob than a moan.

“Oh fuck,” he chokes out. “Oh fuck, you’re... it’s so warm. You’re swallowing me.”

The absolute reverence in his voice sends a sharp, demanding ache straight through your core. You don't rush. You keep your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you sink another inch, forcing your internal muscles to stretch and accommodate his width.

Kimi looks up at you, completely paralyzed by the sight of your bare torso hovering over him, taking him into your body piece by piece.

“Look at me,” you whisper.

He obeys, and when you press down another fraction, seating him deeper, a guttural cry is wrenched from his throat.

“I’m inside you,” he whispers, the reality hits him. He looks down to where your bodies join, then back to your face, his breathing coming in short, erratic gasps. “I’m actually inside you. I didn't think... I never thought I’d be allowed to touch you like this.”

Your throat tightens at the sheer weight of his honesty.

“You’re doing beautifully, Kimi,” you murmur against his lips. “Just stay still. Let me do it.”

You lift your hips slightly and sink back down in one smooth, continuous motion. The full length of him fills you completely with a dense, relentless heat that forces a low moan from the back of your throat. Your fingers curl into the sheets beside his head, your back arching as your internal muscles clamp fiercely around his stiffness.

Kimi lets out a broken whine, his hips giving an involuntary, uncoordinated twitch upward to meet you.

“You're so warm,” he pants, his hands sliding from your waist up to your ribs, his fingers splaying wide against your skin. “It’s squeezing me so hard. I feel like I’m going to lose my mind if you move again.”

The observation is so intimate, so strangely poetic. But the stretch of him is gentle, a slow burn that makes your back arch and your nails drag down his shoulders. He's not thick, not overwhelming, but the fullness of him—the knowledge of what this means to him — makes it feel different than anything else.

“Fuck! Kimi-“ you choke out as you pick up the slowest possible pace. It's not enough, it's so not enough, but you know you just can't go faster than this.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks suddenly, his eyes turning frantic as he searches your face for any sign of discomfort. “Should we stop?”

“No,” you breathe out. “No, you're not hurting me. It just feels so good.”

The praise hits right inside him. He doesn't wait for you to control the pace this time. His hips jerk forward to meet your movements, and the sensation punches a moan from both of you simultaneously. You stay there, with him buried deep.

“I’m not going to last with this pace,” he warns, his voice cracking mid-sentence as his thumb digs into your hip. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, it’s too tight, I can already feel it building-”

“Then don’t last,” you say and switch your positions so he can tower over you. If your control is too much for his endurance, then he can dictate the speed. “Come inside me, Kimi. Let me feel it.”

The position switch and your words shatter him completely.

The view looking up at him right now is something you want to paint, to hang on your wall so you can look at it every single day. His face is absolutely incredible — an unbelievable mix of shock and intense heat. Realizing that the control has suddenly been handed over to him, Kimi hesitates for a split second, momentarily lost, before his instinct takes over. He wraps his fingers around his base and guides his dick right back to your pussy.

He completely forgets that he should probably ease his way back in, but you don't say a single word to him, choosing instead to just let his length stretch you open at that incredible, reckless speed. If anything, his length stretching your internal muscles open with an incredible, dizzying velocity it only turns you on more, your walls fluttering from the rapid stretch. The sudden fullness makes your heart skip a beat, your walls fluttering against the hard invasion as you are abruptly filled to the hilt. Your lower back arches off the mattress from the impact, forcing Kimi to instinctively clamp his heavy hand onto your hip to hold you down and keep you steady.

The first actual thrust is clumsy, unpracticed, his rhythm nonexistent. But the sounds he makes — the wet, desperate gasps, the broken moans, the way he whimpers your name like a prayer — more than compensate. His eyes squeeze shut, concentration and pleasure warring on his face. He doesn't know how to pace himself, doesn't know how to smooth out the angles, but the hunger of his body makes it hotter than anything you've ever felt.

As he picks up the pace, his stamina entirely gives out under the weight of the friction. His upper body collapses onto yours, his chest flattening against your breasts as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. He breathes in ragged, shuddering gasps. He whimpers your name against your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone as he drives himself into you, completely consumed by the taste, the heat, and the terrifying speed of his own release.

His movements are chaotic, exactly as expected. His dick slips out a little too far on one stroke, then fails to go all the way in on the next, and his rhythm leaves a lot to be desired, but surprisingly, it turns you on just as much. You literally cannot guess the speed or intensity of his next thrust, and the unpredictability of his movements hits your nerve endings with double the force.

Finally, his pace quickens, still erratic but gaining urgency. His hand fumbles between your bodies, thumb searching for your clit. He finds it on the third try, pressing with just enough pressure to make your hips buck into his.

“Like that?“

“Exactly like that. You're-“ The word dissolves into a moan. “You're learning so fast.“

“I'm learning you,“ he corrects, and the desperate sincerity in his voice is almost enough to tip you over the edge.

He watches your face like he's memorizing scripture. His thumb circles faster. His thrusts grow sloppier, more frantic. You can feel him holding back, feel the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw is clenched against his own release. He's waiting. Waiting for you.

The realization is what breaks you.

Your climax crashes through you, sudden and sharp, pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your back bows off the mattress. A moan tears from your throat, half his name. His eyes go wide — shocked, awed, incredible — and then his control finally shatters.

“I'm coming,“ he sobs. “Oh god, I'm coming, I'm coming inside you, I'm-“

His hips stutter. His rhythm fractures. He buries himself deep and pulses, pulsing within you in hot, frantic waves, his face buried in your neck and a raw cry vibrating against your skin. You hold him through it, hands smoothing down the shaking planes of his back, murmuring words he probably can't hear over the sound of his own unravelling.

He completely collapses onto you, still buried inside, still trembling. His heartbeat frantically hammers against your ribs, gradually slowing.

“I felt you,“ he whispers eventually, the words muffled against your skin. “I felt you come around me. That was- I didn't know. Nobody told me it could feel like that.“

You stroke his curls, tangled and damp with sweat.

“Kimi“ You tilt his chin up, forcing eye contact. His eyes are still brimming with something that looks perilously close to devotion. “You're incredible. You know that?“

The blush appears on his cheeks again.

“I just- I wanted to be good.“

“You were.“ You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You are.“

“I want to do that again,“ he continues, voice slurring with exhaustion. "Not now, of course, but later. Tomorrow. Every day. I want to make you come every single day for the rest of my life.“

The declaration is ridiculous. He's nineteen, post-orgasmic, he doesn't mean it literally. Except the way he says it suggests he absolutely does.

He softens inside you, the condom slick between your bodies. Neither of you moves. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers interlacing, holding on like you might vanish if he lets go.

The weight of him is heavy and grounding, anchoring you to the mattress as the room finally settles back into total silence. His breathing has slowed to a long, deep rhythm against your collarbone, his forehead resting heavily in the crook of your neck. You can feel the absolute exhaustion rolling off him in waves, the intensity of the last hour completely draining his system.

“Kimi,“ you murmur softly, shifting your hips by a fraction of an inch. “We need to move.“

He lets out a small, protesting groan, his fingers tightening their grip on yours instead of letting go. He doesn't want the physical connection to break. He doesn't want the reality of what just happened to end.

Yet slowly, reluctantly, he slides out of you. The sudden absence of his heat leaves you feeling cold, a small shiver running up your spine as the cool air hits your skin. Kimi carefully disposes of the latex, his movements quiet and self-conscious, before he climbs right back onto the mattress.

He doesn't hesitate this time. He pulls the heavy comforter up over both of your shoulders, shutting out the rest of the apartment, and immediately wraps his hands around your waist, dragging you back into his space. His chest presses flat against your body, anchoring you securely against him.

“Is this okay?“ he whispers into the dark, his voice barely a raspy thread as his face buries into your hair.

You relax back against his solid frame, letting your hand rest over his on your stomach. “It's perfect, Kimi.“

He lets out a long, heavy sigh of relief, his chest expanding against your side. Within minutes, his body goes completely lax, his breathing deepening into the heavy, unbroken rhythm of sleep. You lie there in the quiet room, listening to the pace of his heart finally slowing down. You know you will probably have to wake him up in the next ten minutes before your brother walks through the front door, but watching how utterly spent and peaceful he looks, you know he will appreciate this little nap.

For now, you just let him have the ten minutes, entirely aware that everything between you has completely changed.

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Your heart had been doing this tight, anticipatory rhythm all through Sociology 204—a habit that started the moment you spotted him two rows down during your first week in America. Caleb. You’d finally learned his name a month ago when the professor called on him during a discussion about urban migration patterns. His voice had been a calm, low tenor that somehow made the fluorescent-lit classroom feel intimate. Since the first day, you’d spent every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday cataloging the smallest details: the way he rolled a pen between his fingers, the precise curve of his shoulders beneath his hoodie, the flash of white teeth when something amused him.

You were staring again. You knew it, but you couldn't help it. Back home, your exposure to Black men had been limited to TikToks, movies, and Pinterest boards—things that felt untouchable and entirely theoretical. But here, sitting just a few feet away three times a week, that theoretical distance completely evaporated. The fact of his presence, the quiet confidence in his posture, the way his laugh traveled across the room—all of it settled like a heavy, persistent ache low in your stomach.

A gust of wind sliced across the porch, and you shivered, but not from cold. The shiver had been building all semester, so now your thighs pressed together beneath your skirt — a new habit that developed here. You used to imagine scenarios where he’d turn around, catch your eye, and smile. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d ask your name. But those fantasies always shattered the moment the bell rang, because what would you even say? Your English was decent—better than decent—but the thought of approaching him made your tongue feel numb.

So you stared instead.

Like a creep. Like a weird Eastern European creep who couldn’t figure out how American social conventions worked.

Your phone buzzed with a message from your host mother asking if you’d be home for dinner. You typed a quick yes, locked the screen, and looked up—

And there he was.

Caleb stood fifteen feet away, ascending the last step onto the porch with his eyes locked directly on you. Not passing by. Not glancing. Fixed.

His jaw was tight, his brows drawn together into a hard line, and behind him, near the bike racks, three of his friends had stopped mid-conversation to watch. Your stomach dropped before he even opened his mouth.

“Yo.” His voice cut through the afternoon air, sharper than you’d ever heard it in class. It surely didn’t sound like a love confession out of your night fantasies. “Let me ask you something.”

You blinked, hesitantly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He stopped right in front of you, completely blocking your path. He was tall enough to tower over you, close enough that you could see the dark amber of his irises and the slight flare of his nostrils. His hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his shoulders squared. He looked exactly like a guy straight off your saved Pinterest boards: rich, chocolate skin, amber eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes, full, perfectly symmetrical lips, and dark hair twisted into neat, short locs.

“You got a problem with me?”

The question didn’t register at first. Your brain was still stuck on how close he was, how his cologne reached you before his words did—something woody, something that made your thighs press tighter.

“I—what?”

“You heard me.” He pulled one hand from his hoodie, gesturing toward the building behind you. “Every class. Every single class, you’re staring. Monday, you stared. Wednesday, you stared. Today, you stared for a solid ten minutes. I fucking timed it.” His voice sharpened, cutting right through the space between you. “I get that you’re from somewhere else, but that doesn’t make it okay to be racist in public. It’s weird as hell. If you got a problem with me, say it to my face.”

The word hit like a slap.

Racist.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Panic flooded your chest. How were you even supposed to defend yourself against something like this? How do you get out of it? Should you just tell him the honest truth—that you think about him every single night before you go to sleep? No, that would be horrifyingly embarrassing. Should you just turn around and run? If you ran, everyone on campus would think the accusation was true, but at least you wouldn't have to confess your pathetic crush in front of a crowd.

All of these chaotic thoughts spun through your head in a fraction of a second.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, a deep, burning mortification that crawled all the way down your neck. The raw misunderstanding of it all hung heavy in the air. He thought you hated him, when the absolute truth was that you were practically coming apart at the seams just being this close to him.

“No,” you managed, your voice trembling. “No, that’s not—”

He thrust a hand forward as if asking you to stop mumbling excuses, and crossed his arms. The movement flexed his biceps hard against his sleeves. Your eyes automatically darted down to the shift of muscle before snapping back to his face. He caught the look, and his jaw tightened. “What’s your problem? You think I’m some kind of exhibit? Something to gawk at?”

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed how his friends had moved closer. What a show has this become and you were the lead actress. One of them—a tall guy with long dreads—had his phone out, though you couldn’t tell if he was texting or recording. Another one, stockier, had his arms crossed, mirroring Caleb’s posture.

A painful knot swelled in your throat, tightening with that sharp, heavy ache that hits right before you cry as you fought to keep your breathing steady. The words you needed were trapped beneath the panic building in your chest, completely tangled up in raw mortification. Because even now—with the threat of tears burning your eyes, with his friends watching, and with that horrific accusation hanging between you—your body was violently betraying you.

The frantic heat rushing to your cheeks dragged a heavy, agonizing ache straight down between your thighs. It was terrifying. The sheer fury in his dark eyes wasn't just intimidating; it was fierce, commanding, and paralyzingly hot. You choked back a desperate sob as your nipples hardened painfully against the friction of your jacket, sensitized by the sheer rush of adrenaline. Your body didn't understand that this was a confrontation, not flirtation, and the shameful, pulsing wetness pooling in your underwear only made the urge to cry feel twice as suffocating.

“I’m not,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. You forced yourself to meet his heavy gaze. “I’m not racist. I swear. I just—”

“You just what?”He tilted his head down, trapping you under his stare.

The tension between you stretched to a breaking point. The whole world felt like it had shrunk down to just the two of you on these steps. No, this cannot be happening. How could you be stupid enough to let it get to this point? If he walked away right now believing that, it was over. The rumor would spread. You’d be completely isolated in a country where you already felt like a ghost, an outcast before your first semester was even over.

A sudden, desperate wave of nausea hit you. The sheer weight of the pressure felt like it was crushing your ribs. You had to fix this. You had to strip away every ounce of your pride and lay yourself completely bare, because the alternative—letting him look at you with that pure, disgusted hatred—was completely unbearable.

You pushed strands of wind-whipped hair back with a shaky hand, taking a tiny, trembling step forward, closing the remaining distance until you were looking right up into his face. Your heart hammered against your sternum, a terrifying "now or never" panic roaring in your ears. It was a total leap off a cliff. You were about to hand him the ultimate weapon to humiliate you with, but you didn't have a choice.

“I just think you’re,” you started, your voice dropping to a whisper, the honesty tearing out of you before you could stop it. You let your eyes trace his lips before meeting his glare, “really attractive.”

Silence.

The next word practically died in his throat. His entire posture locked up, the aggressive lean of his shoulders freezing instantly as the anger vanished from his face, leaving him completely blank. The sudden quiet on the porch felt heavy and completely off-balance, the wind cutting right through the space where he’d just been tearing into you.

“What?”

You swallowed hard, the complete lack of reaction from him sending a fresh spike of panic straight to your brain. He was just staring at you, totally unblinking, and the terrifying void of his silence made you lose your grip completely. You started talking, the words tumbling out of you in a frantic, nervous rush, your voice shaking as you desperately tried to fill the quiet before he could laugh in your face or walk away.

“That’s why I stare," you blurted out, the sentences tripping over each other. "I’m… I'm just really attracted to you. A lot. I should have just said something, I know I should have, but my English gets messed up when I'm nervous and I didn’t know how, so I just kept looking because I couldn’t help it. And I know that sounds awful, I know it sounds so creepy, but it’s not because of anything bad. It’s not because I’m racist, please believe me, it’s just because I’m—” Your voice broke, the frantic momentum giving out all at once as the tears finally threatened to spill. You had to jerk your gaze away, focusing hard on a crack in the concrete just to keep from sobbing. “I’m just really, really into you.”

Behind him, the guy with dreads let out a low whistle.

Caleb just stood there, the whole defensive front he’d built up completely short-circuiting. The hard set of his jaw dropped slightly, his face blanking out as the anger completely gave way to sheer, unadulterated confusion. He looked down at you, really taking you in for the first time—the deep flush staining your neck, your trembling mouth, and the sheer, watery panic in your eyes. His arms stayed crossed over his chest, but all the rigid posture went right out of his shoulders.

He studied you for a long moment. Then:

“Wait—like, into me into me?”

You nodded, too mortified to even try to force a word past your throat.

“Like, every class you’ve been staring because you think I’m hot?”

Another nod. Smaller this time.

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you. The tight corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the sudden, completely disarmed threat of one. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” The word scraped out of you. “I’m sorry. I should have just said something. Instead I made you think… that.”

“Damn.” He uncrossed his arms, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “That’s not what I expected.”

The stocky guy behind him laughed. “Told you, bro. Told you she was checking you out.”

“Shut up,” Caleb said, but without heat. His eyes hadn’t left your face. “You’re from… where? Poland? Ukraine?”

“Croatia.”

“Croatia.” He repeated the word like he was tasting it. “And you’ve just been sitting behind me in class for weeks, working yourself up?”

The phrasing— working yourself up —sent another pulse of heat through you. Because yes. Yes, that was exactly what you’d been doing. Working yourself up in your tiny host-family bedroom at night, hand pressed between your thighs, imagining what his voice might sound like if it dropped even lower, imagining what his hands might do—

“Yes,” you whispered.

Caleb took another step forward, crowding into your space until the air between you completely vanished. You caught that woody scent again, overtaken by the sheer warmth radiating off him.

“So what happens now?” he asked, and his voice had changed—the sharp edge gone completely.

Your breath caught. He wasn't laughing.

The realization hit you in a dizzying wave. He hadn't scoffed at you, he hadn't stepped back in disgust, and he hadn't let his friends humiliate you. He was still standing right in your space, looking down at you with a heavy, intense focus that made your head spin. He was actually leaning into it.

“I don’t know,” you managed to whisper.

His gaze dropped—briefly—to your mouth, then back up. “You want to find out?”

Behind him, friends made a sound that might have been encouragement, but you barely registered it. The world had narrowed to the space between you and Caleb, to the warmth radiating off his body, to the way his pupils had expanded just slightly, darkening his eyes.

Another buzz rattled in your pocket, but the distraction died instantly. Let your host mother text. The only thing that mattered was Caleb, close enough to touch and waiting for your answer.

“What about them?” you managed, flicking your eyes toward his friends.

“They’re leaving.”

“We are?”

“You are,” he said, not looking away from you. “Go.”

The stocky friend let out a soft groan, clearly annoyed that the dramatic showdown had dissolved before a fight could break out.

The tall one with dreads grabbed stocky’s arm. “We’re going. We’re gone.” He shot you a grin that bordered on conspiratorial. “Good luck, Croatia.”

They retreated down the steps, their laughter fading into the parking lot, and then it was just you and Caleb on the porch. The weight of the misunderstanding completely draining away, leaving a heavy, breathless quiet in its place.

A sharp gust of wind swept across the stone steps, and a visible shiver ran straight through you.

Caleb’s eyes traced the movement, tracking the way you tried to steady yourself against the chill. A slow, knowing look crossed his face, the corner of his mouth tucking in.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly, though his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Your stomach did a slow, heavy flip. “A little.”

Before you could say anything else, his hand found your waist. There was nothing hesitant about it—his fingers just slid firmly against the curve of your hip, his palm flat through the fabric of your jacket. The sudden, solid weight of his hand anchored you instantly, sending a jolt of heat straight up your spine. Your mouth parted on a tiny, breathless gasp.

Caleb pulled you a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb brushing against your hipbone as if he thought the pressure of his body would stop your shivering. But the proximity did the exact opposite. Being this close to him made your pulse race twice as fast, the frantic heat between your thighs flaring up all over again.

You didn't try to pull away. You didn't say a word. You just let your eyes drop back down to his mouth, completely helpless as you let the situation unfold.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private register. “You want to find out?”

Your phone buzzed again. Somewhere distant, a car engine turned over. None of it mattered. You stood there, utterly paralyzed, your mind a chaotic blur of Croatian and frantic English. It felt like you were trapped in one of those PornHub videos, except the heat radiating off him was real, the scent of his skin was real, and you were completely out of your depth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

The word barely left your mouth when he closed the remaining space. His other hand came up to your jaw, palm warm against the hinge of your cheek, and then his mouth was on yours—not gentle, not testing. Claiming. The kiss landed with the same intensity as his confrontation, but channeled differently now, funneled into the press of his lips and the slight scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip. The wind sliced across the porch, whipping your hair around and kindly pushing your bodies closer together, as if gently nudging you closer.

You were short of breathe. Your thoughts shattered. Your knees did something terrifyingly embarrassing—a sudden, helpless wobble—and a wave of sheer panic hit you. You had to frantically grip the front of his hoodie just to stay upright, your knuckles brushing against the solid, unyielding wall of his chest.

His tongue swept against yours, and a completely uninvited sound escaped your throat—a soft, breathless whimper. You could feel him smiling through the kiss as the woody cologne flooded your senses. Under it, the salt taste of his skin. The warmth. The presence of him, which you’d only ever experienced from afar, now compressed to inches, to millimeters, to the wet slide of mouth against mouth.

Caleb pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead nearly touching yours. His breathing had changed—shallower now, less controlled.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” The word came out thready.

He glanced down at how tightly you were anchoring yourself to him, and a slow, wicked grin broke across his face. “I see that.”

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.”His chuckeled and his thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone. I’m asking for your number, Croatia.”

You searched in your pocket, nearly dropped it, managed to unlock it with your face. He took it from your hand, tapped the screen a few times, frowned the eyebrows at the foreign letters, then handed it back. A new contact glowed up at you: Caleb. A number beneath it. A text already sent—just a single emoji: 🚗.

“Now you have mine too,” he said. “In case you want to keep staring from a distance. But I was thinking something more immediate.” He stepped back, and the loss of his body heat felt like a door opening onto winter. “There’s a coffee place ten minutes away. You busy?”

Your host mother’s dinner sat ignored in your texts.

“Not busy.”

The walk to his car took you through the emptying parking lot, your boots clicking against asphalt still slick from morning rain. Caleb walked close enough that his shoulder brushed yours every few steps, and each accidental contact sent a fresh pulse of electricity through you.

“It’s this one,” he said, nodding toward a sedan near the far row.

He unlocked it, and you opened the passenger door, looking at the interior.

"Sorry," Caleb muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight grin. "I usually don't have girls in my car. It's a bit of a mess."

But it wasn't. The car was impressively clean, and the tiny glimpses into his daily life made your chest tighten. An air freshener shaped like a pine tree hung from the rearview mirror, and a little Bluetooth adapter blinked a steady blue from the dashboard. Scattered in the console were a few custom mix CDs with his own handwriting on them. Resting on the dashboard was a small, plastic Spider-Man figurine, a surprisingly endearing touch that made your heart do a strange little flip. The soft contrast didn't last long, though, as Caleb leaned over and tossed his heavy Sociology 204 textbook onto the back seat. It landed with a dull thud right on top of a messy pile of other textbooks and a crumpled hoodie—a chaotic reminder that class had ended barely ten minutes ago.

“Are you inspecting it?” Caleb asked.

You startled, realizing you’d been cataloging his possessions like museum artifacts. “I just—I don’t know. It’s interesting. Seeing someone’s car.”

“Interesting how?” He was leaning over the roof from the driver’s side now, that half-smile playing at his mouth.

“It shows the parts you don't see in a lecture hall," you said, gesturing toward the Spider-Man and the cluttered back seat. "Like... what you keep around when you think no one is looking. Your hoodie. The mess. It’s just...” You trailed off, the heat rising to your cheeks again as you realized how deeply you'd been analyzing him.

“It’s what?”

“Intimate.”

Caleb laughed—a real laugh, full and warm, the last of his sharp-edged armor completely vanishing. “You’re something else, Croatia. Get in.”

The coffee shop was called Mrs Wick's Pies, a narrow storefront wedged between a laundromat and a used bookstore. The lighting was amber, the tables were scarred, and the barista knew Caleb by name. You sat across from him at a table near the window, your frappuccino cooling in your hands—you still weren’t used to American menus, so you had just ordered whatever looked prettiest on the board. His black coffee sat untouched.

“So, Croatia,” he said. “You’ve been here how long?”

Hearing him use the nickname again sent a small ache through your chest. You secretly loved the way it rolled off his tongue, but a cynical part of you knew it was just a crutch—a safety net because he didn't actually know your real name and probably just remembered you as the creepy foreign girl. You were too self-conscious to correct him now, content to just be a country to him if it kept his attention.

“Three months. First semester.”

“And you just—what, picked a Black guy to stare at?”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop bringing that up.”

“I’m just saying.” He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “There’s like six other guys in that class.”

“None of them look like you.”

The sentence landed heavily between you. Caleb’s posture went entirely still, his hand tightening around the handle of his ceramic mug.

“What’s that mean?” he asked quietly.

You slowly pulled your hands away from your face, forcing your eyes up to meet his. Your skin was still burning, but you fought the urge to look away, desperately trying to string the words together without sounding completely unhinged.

“It means I’ve never... back home, there isn’t anyone who looks like you. I’d see people in movies, online, whatever. And I’d think…” You swallowed. “I’d imagine. And then I got here, and you were sitting two rows down, and I couldn’t stop.”

The confession hung in the amber light. Around you, the coffee shop hummed with other conversations, other lives, but the two of you had your own little thing going on.

Caleb just watched you, his gaze heavy and incredibly focused. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

His knee playfully bumped yours under the table. Completely intentional. The contact sent a sudden rush of heat straight up your inner thigh, and you had to set your cup down before you spilled it.

“So all those times,” he said, “in class. When you were staring. What were you thinking about?”

Your throat went dry. You were not gonna say this out loud. “A lot of things.”

“Like?”

“This.”

“What’s this?”

“Being alone with you.”

His knee pressed harder against yours. “And what did you imagine happening when being alone with me?”

You gave him a short, helpless look right in the eyes before darting your gaze away, already feeling your ears burning a bright, furious crimson. You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Caleb watched it all, his expression still and intent, like he was memorizing every single reaction.

“Drink your coffee,” you chuckled out breathlessly, still refusing to look at him.

“I don’t want coffee.” He stood up, dropping a bill on the table without breaking his stare. “Let’s get out of here.”

The backseat of his car smelled like the pine air freshener and something muskier underneath. One moment you were standing by the passenger door in the parking lot, and the next Caleb had opened the rear door and said, “Get in.”

You had obeyed instantly. In the few months you’ve been here, you were still trying to adapt to how straightforward sometimes Americans were—how they just said what they wanted. Caleb turned out to be the epitome of it. He wanted you, so he told you to get in. And despite the frantic pounding in your chest, you wanted to be taken by that exact American boldness.

He followed you in, locking the door behind him. The tight confines of the backseat immediately made the car feel smaller and intimate. Before you could even settle comfortably, Caleb’s hands were at your chest, his long fingers finding the track of your zipper.

“Let’s get this off,” he murmured, his voice a low, heavy vibration that buzzed right against your lips. He pulled the heavy leather jacket from your shoulders, and tossed it asside to the front passanger's seat. Immediately, the cool autumn air hit the bare skin of your collarbone.

Now you were wedged between the door and his massive frame, the folded hoodie pressing into your spine.

His facial features looked utterly magical under the warm, slanting rays of the sunset filtering through the glass, turning his brown eyes into swirling amber. You caught yourself staring all over again, completely captivated, only snapping out of it when you felt his broad palm slide right under your skirt. He let out a low, knowing chuckle, watching your face as his thumb lightly stroked the ultra-sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured against your neck. “Don’t worry, no one can see us back here.”

“It just feels so exposed,” you lied, trying to avoid mentioning that you were shaking from a total excitement, not fear.

“My windows are tinted,” he whispered, his lips brushing your skin. “At most, someone walking by would just see dark silhouettes.”

You nodded and closed your eyes for a fraction of a second. A sharp spike of adrenaline hit you. Beneath the fabric of your skirt, his fingers were moving upward at a pace that was almost cruel. The pads of his fingertips were slightly rough, catching on your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

You wanted to dissolve entirely into the moment, to capture his image under this heavy, exploring gaze forever on a camera, or just stay on this backseat for the rest of your life. Caleb was like the sun, burning up the oxygen around him. Your skin scorched everywhere his hot hands traveled.

Your head fell back against the window. The glass was cold against your scalp, a shocking contrast that made the boiling heat between your legs feel twice as intense.

“How long?” he asked, still at your neck, his breath warming the spot just below your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. “How long have you been like this?”

“Weeks.”you gasped.

His fingers found the edge of your panties, sliding beneath the cotton fabric to find the slick, betraying dampness gathered there. A low, almost pained sound came from deep in his throat.

“Fuck. You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” you gasped. Your mind absolutely short-circuiting. He can feel exactly what he does to you. “I told you I was—”

He kissed you, swallowing whatever frantic explanation you’d been about to make. At the same moment, his finger slid fully into the slickness, and your hips jerked involuntarily into his hand.

“Easy,” he breathed against your lips. “Easy. I got you.”

You weren't a virgin—you’d had sex before, back home—but just the presence of him made you feel like you were entirely untouched. The guys you’d been with before had never moved with this kind of unblinking confidence.

But this… this felt raw. It felt monumental. A flush of heat bloomed in your cheeks as a sudden, shameless thought crossed your mind: all those late nights on Twitter, putting multiple videos in your saves and rewatching them every single night, all the videos of Black men you’d watched behind a locked bedroom door... it was finally a reality. You were actually living it.

His finger pressed inward, just barely, slowly, just enough to make your inner walls flutter desperately around the intrusion. He wasn't rushing; instead, his brow furrowed in deep, quiet concentration. He looked down at the physical contrast of his dark hand against your pale thighs, completely transfixed by the way your body reacted to him. The sight of his intense focus—how genuinely captivated he was by your pleasure—was devastating. It took away any lingering fear of being judged, making you reach up, your fingers wrapping around the back of his neck just to hold him close.

He flicked his finger quickly across your clit, teasing you, and a sharp moan escaped your lips despite how hard you tried to hold it back.

He didn't push deeper right away. He just kept that single finger moving inside you in a slow, agonizingly steady rhythm, letting the friction build until you were practically begging for more. You rolled your hips against his hand, trying to force him deeper, but Caleb just watched you with that same heavy, quiet concentration, deliberately keeping you on the edge.

Only when your fingers tightened in his hair did his hand shift, pressing firmly against you as a second finger joined—stretching, filling. The hoodie slipped. Your skirt bunched around your waist. But none of it mattered.

“Oh my,” Caleb murmured, his voice laced with a teasing, dark amusement. Yet beneath the playfulness, he looked genuinely stunned, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused entirely on you. The sight of his intense concentration was devastatingly attractive. “Look at how wet you are.”

A third finger. The stretch intensified with a heavy, overwhelming pressure, and fullness that radiated outward until your thighs trembled and your breath came in sharp, abbreviated bursts. He curled his fingers, finding a spot that made white light bloom behind your closed eyelids.

“Oh,” you choked. “Oh, Caleb—”

“Yeah. Right there?”

“Right there, right there, please, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, a dual rhythm that shattered your capacity for language. You were reduced to sounds and motions. To the grip of your fingers on his shoulder and the desperate roll of your hips against his hand. The car windows fogged. His breath was hot against your cheek. The pressure built—a tightening so profound it felt like your entire body was drawing inward toward the point where his hand met your flesh.

When you came, it was with a cry muffled against his jacket, your teeth sinking into the leather, your thighs clamping around his wrist. The orgasm rippled through you in pulses, each one a clench around his still-moving fingers, each one pulling another sound from deep in your chest.

You slumped back against the door, chest heaving. His hand withdrew slowly, carefully.

“Jesus,” he said.

You looked at him—his blown pupils, his parted lips, the erection straining visibly against his pants—and something fierce welled up in you. Gratitude. Hunger. The knowledge that you weren’t done, not even close.

Without a word, you shifted your weight off the damp corduroy. You crawled right into the center of the seat, your knees crowding into his space, driving him backward until his spine hit the opposite door.

He was completely trapped between the glass and your trembling hands as they moved straight for his waistband. The sudden boldness made Caleb inhale sharply, his head snapping back against the frame as you went to work on his belt. The leather slipped free. The button. The zipper. You tugged his pants and boxers down just enough, and then—

Your breath completely caught in your throat.

He was heavy in your hand. Thicker, longer, and far more imposing than anything you had ever seen in person, or even imagined during those torturous nights alone in your host room. The tip was already slick, catching the dim parking lot light filtering through the fogged glass. The skin was darker here, velvet-soft, and the sight of your own pale, trembling fingers wrapped around him made something clench low in your belly.

“You’re staring again,” Caleb said. But there was no anger this time—only a thick, unsteady tremor in his voice that told you he was just as affected as you were.

You glanced up, forcing yourself to meet his heavy gaze, letting him see the absolute devotion in your eyes.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The salt taste hit first, then the stretch of your lips around his width, then the low, guttural groan that tore from his throat—a sound that vibrated through you like a second heartbeat. Your jaw ached. Your eyes watered. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, like you were something precious.

Like he’d been waiting for this too.

“Damn, Croatia,” he rasped. “Damn.”

The salt-slick taste of him coated your tongue as you adjusted your knees on the backseat. One of your legs slipped against a loose textbook—Sociology 204, the spine cracked from use—and you nudged it aside without pulling your mouth away.

His fingers threaded deeper into your hair, a warm, grounding weight that made your scalp tingle as he anchored you to him.

“Slower,” Caleb murmured. His voice had gone rough at the edges, sanded down by pleasure. “You’re rushing.”

You obeyed. Of course you listened. You couldn't help but smile to yourself at how easily his low command anchored you.

You pulled back until only the tip remained between your lips, your tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head—the spot that made his thigh muscle jump against the seat. His breath came out in a sharp exhale.

“Like that. Yeah. Just like that.”

The praise landed somewhere deep in your chest, blooming outward. You’d never thought of yourself as someone who needed approval, but hearing it from him, in that wrecked baritone, made your pussy clench around nothing. A fresh pulse of wetness seeped into your already-soaked panties.

This is real.

The thought surfaced without warning, cutting through the fog of arousal. Three months ago you’d been in your small boring town, packing your suitcase, wondering if American boys would even notice you. Now you were kneeling in the backseat of a car behind a laundromat, a Black man’s cock in your mouth, his thumb stroking the shell of your ear like you were something fragile.

You took him deeper. Let your jaw relax, throat open, let the head of him nudge against the soft palate at the back of your mouth. The stretch was intense—your eyes watered, your lips strained—but the sensation of fullness, of being occupied, of having his entire focus narrowed to this single act, made up for the discomfort.

Caleb groaned. The sound vibrated through him, through you, a low frequency that made your pussy start to feel wet again.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, you’ve done this before.”

His hips shifted. The movement was unconscious—a micro-thrust that pushed another half-inch past your lips. Your throat constricted around him, a reflexive swallow, and his fingers tightened in your hair.

“Shit. Sorry.” He tried to pull back.

But you wouldn't let him. Your hand shot up, fingers wrapping desperately around his wrist to lock him in place, anchoring him deeply inside you. You leaned heavily into the stretch, your hips tilting forward to swallow that extra half-inch back down, wordlessly demanding everything he had to give.

You didn’t have the vocabulary for what you wanted to communicate—don’t apologize, don’t hold back, I’ve been imagining this for weeks, let me feel what you feel—but your body said it for you. The way you leaned into his touch. The way you hollowed your cheeks. The wet, obscene sounds filling the fogged-up car as you worked him with renewed focus.

“Alright,” Caleb said quietly, and something in his tone had changed. The hesitation was gone. “Alright.”

His other hand joined the first, both palms cradling your skull, and then he guided you downward—slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You let him set the pace, let him push deeper, let the head of his cock slide past the resistance at the back of your throat until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.

Your throat spasmed and eyes flooded. A single tear broke free and traced a hot line down your cheek.

Caleb held you there for three pounding heartbeats... and then released.

You came up gasping, a thin strand of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his skin. Your chest heaved. Your mascara was probably ruined, but you didn’t care.

“You good?” His thumb caught the tear on your cheek, brushing it away with a touch so soft it almost made you ache.

You nodded, unable to speak, your chest still heaving.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his thumb resting gently against your chin to tip your face up. “Use your words, Croatia.”

“Yeah.” The syllable scraped out of you, hoarse and raw. “I’m good.”

His eyes searched your face like the way they’d searched it back on the porch, when he’d been trying to figure out if you were racist or just weird, but now the edge was completely gone. He was just looking at you: softer and more careful.

“You like it like that,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

You nodded again, the shameless truth of it hot on your face. “I like when you don’t hold back.”

His jaw shifted and left out a soft giggle. Then his hands pulled you upward, drawing you onto his lap, and your skirt bunched around your hips as your knees bracketed his thighs. The position put you higher than him—you had to look down to meet his gaze, which felt wrong and right simultaneously. His erection pressed against the damp gusset of your panties, separated by a single layer of cotton, and the contact made you both inhale sharply.

“You think I’m the one not holding back?” he asked, sounding a bit judgmental yet his eyes showed the opposite. He chuckled and looked to the side, suddenly avoiding eye contact. His hands had moved to your hips now, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. “You’ve been running this show since the porch. You confessed. You got in my car. You got in my backseat. You pulled my dick out.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Croatia, I’m just trying to keep up.”

The absurdity of it startled a laugh from you that cut through the thick air of the car.

"Don't laugh now," Caleb murmured, his hands sliding slightly higher on your waist, his thumbs tracing the edge of your ribs. "You're the mastermind here, remember? I'm waiting for the next phase of the plan."

“There is no plan,” you admitted, heat flooding your face as you looked down at him. “I didn't think I'd get past the porch.”

It felt like the simple teasing finally cleared the air, taking the suffocating weight out of the tension. Even though you were still wet and horny, and his dick was pressing hard against your thigh—a constant reminder of exactly where you were—it suddenly felt like there was room to breathe in the car again. Caleb didn't feel like an intimidating guy you had to please or prove your attraction to anymore. You looked into his eyes, watching the soft, warm crinkles form at the corners.

"Well, you're in the deep end now," he said, his gaze dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes. "Don't back out on me."

"I'm not backing out," you murmured. You leaned down just an inch, letting the tips of your hair brush his cheek as the playful mood softened into something much more grounded, much more honest.

Your fingers found the hem of him t-shirt, finally allowing yourself to touch what you'd spent a quarter of a semester anchoring your eyes to. “I’ve been staring at the back of your head for weeks. And now I’m here, and you’re—” You broke off.

“And I’m what?”

“Naked in your backseat with an erection.”

He laughed too then, sounding completely unlike the intimidating figure who’d confronted you on the steps.

“When you put it like that,” he said, “it does sound kind of crazy.”

His hands slid back to your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside, and your laughter faded slowly. You could feel his arousal pressing against your leg as his thoughts of you only made him harder.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to—” He paused, choosing his words. “Go further?”

Your breath hitched. Further meant things you hadn’t let yourself imagine in detail—only in vague, hazy impressions during those nights in your room. Further meant skin on skin with no barriers. Further meant letting him inside you, feeling that thickness where his fingers had been, finding out what his face looked like when he lost control.

“I don’t have a condom,” you admitted, using this answer as a shield against his actual question.

Caleb reached behind himself, awkwardly twisting his torso against the car door. Papers rustled. Something small and foil-wrapped landed in his palm. He held it up between two fingers.

“I do.”

You stared at the little square. Square that had been sitting in his glove compartment this whole time.

“You keep condoms in your car?”

“One condom.” He shrugged, clearly trying to sound nonchalant, though a faint hint of an endearing, high-school awkwardness peeked through his composure. “Came in a goodie bag from a health fair last month. Thought it might come in handy. Pun not intended.”

“Pun absolutely intended.”

“Maybe a little intended.”

The banter was ridiculous. You were straddling him with your underwear soaked through, and you were bantering like this was a normal Friday. But somehow it helped—the laughter, the teasing—it made the situation feel less like a fever dream and more like something happening between two people who might actually like each other more than a simple high-school crush.

Caleb set the condom on the seat beside his thigh. His hands returned to your waist.

“Only if you want to,” he said. “No pressure. We can just keep doing what we were doing.”

The offer, so plainly stated, undid something in your chest. You’d been worried—some small, paranoid part of you—that revealing your attraction meant you’d given up your dignity. But he was asking, waiting. He was letting you decide. You smirked to yourself, giving your intuition a mental pat on the back. Who knew that choosing a guy entirely based on his looks would actually lead you to someone this perfect—attentive, incredibly gentle, and mind-numbingly hot.

“I want to,” you said. “I want you.”

His eyes darkened. The amber glow from the streetlamps caught the deep brown of his irises, illuminating flecks of gold you hadn’t noticed before. His hands tightened on your waist.

“Yeah?”

“Caleb.” You leaned forward until your forehead touched his. “I’ve been wanting you since the first day of class. Yes.”

The last word landed in the space between your mouths. Then he closed the distance and kissed you—deep and slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched the pulse still throbbing between your legs. The kiss tasted different than the first one on the porch. Less urgent. More certain.

His hands left your waist, sweeping over the bare skin of your shoulders where your shirt had shifted, pulling you completely flush against him. He kissed his way across your collarbone, up to your ear, parting your hair to press his nose against the sensitive column of your neck.

“Let’s get the rest of this off,” he murmured against your lips.

You lifted your arms to let him pull your shirt over your head, and then you were sitting in his lap in just your skirt and bra, your pale torso glowing under the faint amber glow of the streetlamps. His gaze traveled down with an intensity that made your breath quicken.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Not hot.

Not sexy.

Beautiful.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt before your brain could catch up. The fabric was soft, washed so many times it felt like silk against your fingers. You tugged upward, and Caleb lifted his arms to help, and then the shirt was gone, and you stopped breathing.

Three months of staring at him from a three-quarters angle three times a week, memorizing the span of his shoulders beneath hoodies and jackets, the way the fabric stretched taut when he leaned forward to take notes. You'd memorized the shape of him through layers of cotton and wool, assembling a guesswork version in your head during those late nights in your host room.

The guesswork had been pitiful.

His skin in the amber streetlamp glow was something else entirely—a deep brown that seemed to absorb the light and throw it back, softer, warmer. The slope of his shoulders blocked out the window, blocked out the parking lot, blocked out everything except the sudden, overwhelming fact of his body occupying space in your world. A thin sheen of sweat caught the light along his collarbone. The muscle definition you'd imagined was there, yes, but so was texture—a small scar near his left shoulder, the way his chest rose and fell with breaths that had gone shallow.

Your fingers touched his chest before you thought of doing it. The past version of you, alone under your duvet with your hand between your legs, couldn't have even imagined it turning out like this. The fantasy had been vivid, but it had also been entirely wrong. You hadn't known about the actual warmth his skin would radiate like a sun-warmed stone, or how the sheer mass of him would make the car feel suddenly too small and exactly not big enough simultaneously.

“You’re going to burn a hole right through me,” Caleb murmured.

His voice had dropped even lower, a register that vibrated in the small space between your bodies. The teasing was still there, but underneath it, his chest hitched slightly under your fingertips.

"I'm allowed," you managed, your thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone. "You took your shirt off."

"Fair point."

Your palm flattened against his chest—the heart beneath it beat steady and fast. Your hand looked incredibly pale against his skin, a sharp, beautiful contrast that snagged your attention and held it. You'd imagined this visual too, but the reality was so much more specific: the blue-green trace of veins at your wrist against the darker warmth of his chest, the way your fingers seemed to glow against him in the amber light.

Your other hand joined the first, both palms sliding up to his shoulders, tracing the curve of muscle, the hard line of his collarbones. You smiled softly when you realized he was quietly letting you learn his body, completely still beneath your touch, allowing you to live this moment through a quiet, mutual appreciation. Words weren't needed anymore.

Caleb’s large hands slid up from his thighs, his fingers gently wrapping over yours where they rested against his chest. He didn't pull your hands away—he just held them there, his thumbs tracing the backs of your knuckles.

“Tell me if it's too much,”he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched your face. “We can stop or we can slow down. Whatever you need.”

The offer, so plainly stated, sharpened something in your chest. You'd spent weeks constructing a version of him in your head—confident, intimidating, the object of your silent fixation. But the man beneath your hands was careful, attentive, checking in at every step. The fantasy couldn't have included the slight catch in his voice when he said whatever you need.

His fingers worked the clasp of your bra with a deftness that made you huff a surprised laugh—there was competence, and then there was that. The lace slipped from your shoulders to join the growing pile of clothes on the floorboards. Before the chill could settle, Caleb’s large, warm hands were there, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitized peaks.

You gasped as he leaned forward, his mouth replacing his thumbs. He took one dark nipple between his lips, sucking softly at first before pulling it deeper into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the tight, wet point. The sudden, intense pull of his mouth sent a sharp wire of heat straight down between your thighs. Your fingers instantly tangled in his hair, anchoring his head against your chest as a wrecked sound escaped your throat.

He let out a low growl against your skin, his hands squeezing your flesh, kneading you as he switched to the other side, his hot breath flaring against your wet skin.

When he finally pulled back, your chest was heaving. You blindly reached down for the condom. The foil square crinkled between your fingers as you tore it open, and the sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet car. Your hands were shaking, but not from nervousness—it was pure anticipation mixed with excitement. Caleb noticed—of course he noticed—and his fingers closed over yours, steadying them.

“Let me.”

“I want to.”

He paused, studying your face for a beat, then nodded and released your hands.

You rolled the condom onto him with more care than grace, your fingers learning the shape of him in a new way—the heat, the weight, the slight twitch when your knuckle brushed the underside. His breath hissed between his teeth. His head fell back against the freezing window, the glass completely fogged over now, sealing you both inside a private world.

“There,” you whispered. "Done.”

“Yeah.” His voice was wrecked. “Good job.”

The praise—simple, genuine, delivered in that sanded-down baritone—made your pussy clench. You shifted your weight, rising on your knees, one hand on his shoulder for balance. The other hand guided him into position. The head of him pressed against your entrance, and you both held still, breathing, the moment stretching like a held note.

“Whenever you're ready,”Caleb said.

You lowered yourself.

The sensation unspooled in increments—the initial resistance, the slow give of muscle, the stretch that was so much more than his fingers had been. Your eyes fluttered, your mouth opening as a wordless sound escaped you.

Caleb’s hands immediately shot to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. He didn't push you down, but his knuckles were white, his entire body going rigid beneath you as he absorbed the tight, wet heat of you taking him in.

“Slow,” he choked out, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut as a low groan rumbled in his throat. The sheer effort it was taking him to hold back made your heart hammer against your ribs. His body language was completely frantic, totally overwhelmed, but he was still trying to talk you through it. He opened his eyes, his gaze dark and wild. “Slow, Croatia... fuck. You're in control. Just go... steady.”

Inch by inch. Breath by breath. The fullness built until you were seated against his hips, your thighs flush with his. Hearing him lose his mind like that sent a wicked, intoxicating rush of heat straight to your center. His gaze was dark, wild, and completely blown out. He let out a ragged, trembling exhale, his head snapping forward as he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a split second just to breathe you in, his flared nostrils brushing your skin.

When he pulled back, he was inches away, his gaze unblinking and intent, the gold flecks catching fire in the streetlamp glow.

“Look at me,” Caleb rasped, entirely unaware that you already were. The intensity of being watched so completely sent a hard tremor straight through you.

The fogged windows filtered the amber light, casting a muted, golden glow over the backseat. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, rhythmic hum of the laundromat dryer vibrated through the asphalt of the parking lot, a mundane reminder of the outside world that only served to highlight how isolated, how safely hidden you were inside this capsule.

You began to move.

The first roll of your hips was tentative, but his tight grip on your hips anchored you, his palms splayed flat against your skin to steady your rhythm as the angle shifted. Something inside you sparked, and your next roll was deeper, less tentative.

“Like that,” he groaned, his hips twitching upward just a fraction against his own will, betraying him. “Find what feels good.”

Your thighs flexed, your knees pressing deeper into the seat as the rhythm found itself. His thickness filled you with each stroke, the head of him hitting a spot that made your vision stutter. The sounds inside the small car became entirely obscene: the wet clasp of your bodies meeting mixed with the ragged tandem of your breathing. It was filthy, raw, and entirely intoxicating.

“You've been thinking about this,” Caleb said. The topic of your non-stop fantasies over the past months clearly wouldn't leave him alone. Even with his dick buried deep inside you, hard as steel, he needed to hear it again.

“Every night. Every single night for weeks.”

“Tell me.”

You could see it in the intense, hyper-focused stare of his eyes—how deeply this part of the conversation flattered him. He was hooked on your praise, craving the raw admiration of knowing exactly how much power he held over your thoughts. He wanted the details, wanted to feed his own rising desire with the proof of your obsession, so he initiated the topic again, pushing for more.

“In my room, laying under the duvet. Hand between my thighs, touching myself.” Your nails bit into his shoulders. “Imagining your hands, your voice... what you'd feel like.”

“And?” His hips bucked up to meet your downward stroke, and a sharp moan punched out of your throat. “Is it close?”

“Better,” you cracked. “It's so much better.”

The pace quickened. Your hair had become complete mess, falling across your face and sticking to the sweat on your temples. Caleb brushed it back with one hand, tucking it behind your ear, and the sheer tenderness of the gesture—in the middle of fucking in the backseat of his car—made your eyes sting.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his thumb catching the moisture at the corner of your eye. “I got you. You're doing so good.”

The low, rough affirmation bypassed your brain and your hips found a faster, desperate rhythm.

“I'm so close,”you gasped. “I'm—“

“I feel it.” His hands wrapped you tighter, anchoring your hips. “Let go. I'm right here.”

The orgasm seized you mid-stroke, your inner walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that wrung a groan from Caleb's throat. Your head tipped back, the amber light fracturing through the condensation into gold sparks behind your closed eyelids, and you rode the sensation until your thighs burned and your breath gave out.

He followed moments later—his hips moving upward once, twice, a third time, then holding tight as his own release shuddered through him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. One hand still gripped your waist while the other found your hand, twisting to interlace your fingers. Your head descended slightly, resting on top of his already bowed head, and you stayed in that exact position for a few quiet minutes, him still deep inside you, waiting while your breathing slowly leveled out.

The quiet that followed was heavy. Not awkward, just full. The cold gradually crept back through the car's insulation, raising goosebumps on your sweat-damp skin as the adrenaline began to fade.

Caleb lifted his head, looking up at you. “Damn,” he said.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh.

The cleanup was surprisingly wordless. As if both you needed that time to truly process what just happened. Caleb took tissues from the glove compartment and silently helped you clean youself. Then, with a quiet, careful gentleness, he helped retrieve all your clothes from the messy pile on the floorboards. Your brain felt completely empty—comfortingly, beautifully empty. It felt like a heavy weight you’d been carrying all semester had finally fallen from your shoulders, clearing space for a brand-new chapter.

Then, your phone buzzed from somewhere under the passenger seat.

Your stomach flipped anxiously at the sound, the harsh spike of reality ruining the calm. You could already imagine the text messages stacking up. Your host mother had probably written twenty times by now, and a cold dread settled in your chest as you worried whether she would report this curfew violation to the exchange program manager. One wrong move, one strict phone call, and your entire visa could be in jeopardy.

Caleb pulled his shirt back on, and you had to fight a sudden, fierce urge to reach out and stop him, to ask him to stay shirtless for just a little while longer. You watched his broad shoulders disappear beneath the familiar gray fabric and felt something sharp twist in your chest. The fantasy was ending. The anonymous, months-long, two-rows-back fantasy was officially over.

“So,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. He reached across the small space of the backseat, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist. “Croatia.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes in the dim, cooling air of the car.

“Wanna tell me how to pronounce your actual name properly?”

The question landed between you with a profound, unexpected warmth. Your breath caught. You hadn't been expecting that—not that specific question. He knew your name all along! The realization hit you with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. And by asking how to say it properly, it meant he had known exactly who you were before he ever stepped onto that porch.

He rubbed the back of his neck, seeing your reaction, a slight, endearing warmth coloring his cheeks. “I saw it on the professor's attendance sheet when I passed by his desk last week. I kept trying to say it in my head, but... man, I didn't want to butcher it in front of you, especially after... yeah.”

The October night waited outside the fogged windows, your host mother's texts were stacking up on your lock screen, and your temporary, complicated life in this country was pressing in, ready to resume.

But for one more moment, you were just a girl in a car with a boy who wanted to learn your language. It meant something serious. It meant he was planning on using it tomorrow, and the day after, and during the lectures next week.

You smiled softly through the dim light, leaned in, and told him.

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Your heart had been doing this tight, anticipatory rhythm all through Sociology 204—a habit that started the moment you spotted him two rows down during your first week in America. Caleb. You’d finally learned his name a month ago when the professor called on him during a discussion about urban migration patterns. His voice had been a calm, low tenor that somehow made the fluorescent-lit classroom feel intimate. Since the first day, you’d spent every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday cataloging the smallest details: the way he rolled a pen between his fingers, the precise curve of his shoulders beneath his hoodie, the flash of white teeth when something amused him.

You were staring again. You knew it, but you couldn't help it. Back home, your exposure to Black men had been limited to TikToks, movies, and Pinterest boards—things that felt untouchable and entirely theoretical. But here, sitting just a few feet away three times a week, that theoretical distance completely evaporated. The fact of his presence, the quiet confidence in his posture, the way his laugh traveled across the room—all of it settled like a heavy, persistent ache low in your stomach.

A gust of wind sliced across the porch, and you shivered, but not from cold. The shiver had been building all semester, so now your thighs pressed together beneath your skirt — a new habit that developed here. You used to imagine scenarios where he’d turn around, catch your eye, and smile. Maybe he’d say something. Maybe he’d ask your name. But those fantasies always shattered the moment the bell rang, because what would you even say? Your English was decent—better than decent—but the thought of approaching him made your tongue feel numb.

So you stared instead.

Like a creep. Like a weird Eastern European creep who couldn’t figure out how American social conventions worked.

Your phone buzzed with a message from your host mother asking if you’d be home for dinner. You typed a quick yes, locked the screen, and looked up—

And there he was.

Caleb stood fifteen feet away, ascending the last step onto the porch with his eyes locked directly on you. Not passing by. Not glancing. Fixed.

His jaw was tight, his brows drawn together into a hard line, and behind him, near the bike racks, three of his friends had stopped mid-conversation to watch. Your stomach dropped before he even opened his mouth.

“Yo.” His voice cut through the afternoon air, sharper than you’d ever heard it in class. It surely didn’t sound like a love confession out of your night fantasies. “Let me ask you something.”

You blinked, hesitantly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He stopped right in front of you, completely blocking your path. He was tall enough to tower over you, close enough that you could see the dark amber of his irises and the slight flare of his nostrils. His hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his shoulders squared. He looked exactly like a guy straight off your saved Pinterest boards: rich, chocolate skin, amber eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes, full, perfectly symmetrical lips, and dark hair twisted into neat, short locs.

“You got a problem with me?”

The question didn’t register at first. Your brain was still stuck on how close he was, how his cologne reached you before his words did—something woody, something that made your thighs press tighter.

“I—what?”

“You heard me.” He pulled one hand from his hoodie, gesturing toward the building behind you. “Every class. Every single class, you’re staring. Monday, you stared. Wednesday, you stared. Today, you stared for a solid ten minutes. I fucking timed it.” His voice sharpened, cutting right through the space between you. “I get that you’re from somewhere else, but that doesn’t make it okay to be racist in public. It’s weird as hell. If you got a problem with me, say it to my face.”

The word hit like a slap.

Racist.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Panic flooded your chest. How were you even supposed to defend yourself against something like this? How do you get out of it? Should you just tell him the honest truth—that you think about him every single night before you go to sleep? No, that would be horrifyingly embarrassing. Should you just turn around and run? If you ran, everyone on campus would think the accusation was true, but at least you wouldn't have to confess your pathetic crush in front of a crowd.

All of these chaotic thoughts spun through your head in a fraction of a second.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, a deep, burning mortification that crawled all the way down your neck. The raw misunderstanding of it all hung heavy in the air. He thought you hated him, when the absolute truth was that you were practically coming apart at the seams just being this close to him.

“No,” you managed, your voice trembling. “No, that’s not—”

He thrust a hand forward as if asking you to stop mumbling excuses, and crossed his arms. The movement flexed his biceps hard against his sleeves. Your eyes automatically darted down to the shift of muscle before snapping back to his face. He caught the look, and his jaw tightened. “What’s your problem? You think I’m some kind of exhibit? Something to gawk at?”

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed how his friends had moved closer. What a show has this become and you were the lead actress. One of them—a tall guy with long dreads—had his phone out, though you couldn’t tell if he was texting or recording. Another one, stockier, had his arms crossed, mirroring Caleb’s posture.

A painful knot swelled in your throat, tightening with that sharp, heavy ache that hits right before you cry as you fought to keep your breathing steady. The words you needed were trapped beneath the panic building in your chest, completely tangled up in raw mortification. Because even now—with the threat of tears burning your eyes, with his friends watching, and with that horrific accusation hanging between you—your body was violently betraying you.

The frantic heat rushing to your cheeks dragged a heavy, agonizing ache straight down between your thighs. It was terrifying. The sheer fury in his dark eyes wasn't just intimidating; it was fierce, commanding, and paralyzingly hot. You choked back a desperate sob as your nipples hardened painfully against the friction of your jacket, sensitized by the sheer rush of adrenaline. Your body didn't understand that this was a confrontation, not flirtation, and the shameful, pulsing wetness pooling in your underwear only made the urge to cry feel twice as suffocating.

“I’m not,” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. You forced yourself to meet his heavy gaze. “I’m not racist. I swear. I just—”

“You just what?”He tilted his head down, trapping you under his stare.

The tension between you stretched to a breaking point. The whole world felt like it had shrunk down to just the two of you on these steps. No, this cannot be happening. How could you be stupid enough to let it get to this point? If he walked away right now believing that, it was over. The rumor would spread. You’d be completely isolated in a country where you already felt like a ghost, an outcast before your first semester was even over.

A sudden, desperate wave of nausea hit you. The sheer weight of the pressure felt like it was crushing your ribs. You had to fix this. You had to strip away every ounce of your pride and lay yourself completely bare, because the alternative—letting him look at you with that pure, disgusted hatred—was completely unbearable.

You pushed strands of wind-whipped hair back with a shaky hand, taking a tiny, trembling step forward, closing the remaining distance until you were looking right up into his face. Your heart hammered against your sternum, a terrifying "now or never" panic roaring in your ears. It was a total leap off a cliff. You were about to hand him the ultimate weapon to humiliate you with, but you didn't have a choice.

“I just think you’re,” you started, your voice dropping to a whisper, the honesty tearing out of you before you could stop it. You let your eyes trace his lips before meeting his glare, “really attractive.”

Silence.

The next word practically died in his throat. His entire posture locked up, the aggressive lean of his shoulders freezing instantly as the anger vanished from his face, leaving him completely blank. The sudden quiet on the porch felt heavy and completely off-balance, the wind cutting right through the space where he’d just been tearing into you.

“What?”

You swallowed hard, the complete lack of reaction from him sending a fresh spike of panic straight to your brain. He was just staring at you, totally unblinking, and the terrifying void of his silence made you lose your grip completely. You started talking, the words tumbling out of you in a frantic, nervous rush, your voice shaking as you desperately tried to fill the quiet before he could laugh in your face or walk away.

“That’s why I stare," you blurted out, the sentences tripping over each other. "I’m… I'm just really attracted to you. A lot. I should have just said something, I know I should have, but my English gets messed up when I'm nervous and I didn’t know how, so I just kept looking because I couldn’t help it. And I know that sounds awful, I know it sounds so creepy, but it’s not because of anything bad. It’s not because I’m racist, please believe me, it’s just because I’m—” Your voice broke, the frantic momentum giving out all at once as the tears finally threatened to spill. You had to jerk your gaze away, focusing hard on a crack in the concrete just to keep from sobbing. “I’m just really, really into you.”

Behind him, the guy with dreads let out a low whistle.

Caleb just stood there, the whole defensive front he’d built up completely short-circuiting. The hard set of his jaw dropped slightly, his face blanking out as the anger completely gave way to sheer, unadulterated confusion. He looked down at you, really taking you in for the first time—the deep flush staining your neck, your trembling mouth, and the sheer, watery panic in your eyes. His arms stayed crossed over his chest, but all the rigid posture went right out of his shoulders.

He studied you for a long moment. Then:

“Wait—like, into me into me?”

You nodded, too mortified to even try to force a word past your throat.

“Like, every class you’ve been staring because you think I’m hot?”

Another nod. Smaller this time.

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you. The tight corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but the sudden, completely disarmed threat of one. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.” The word scraped out of you. “I’m sorry. I should have just said something. Instead I made you think… that.”

“Damn.” He uncrossed his arms, and one hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “That’s not what I expected.”

The stocky guy behind him laughed. “Told you, bro. Told you she was checking you out.”

“Shut up,” Caleb said, but without heat. His eyes hadn’t left your face. “You’re from… where? Poland? Ukraine?”

“Croatia.”

“Croatia.” He repeated the word like he was tasting it. “And you’ve just been sitting behind me in class for weeks, working yourself up?”

The phrasing— working yourself up —sent another pulse of heat through you. Because yes. Yes, that was exactly what you’d been doing. Working yourself up in your tiny host-family bedroom at night, hand pressed between your thighs, imagining what his voice might sound like if it dropped even lower, imagining what his hands might do—

“Yes,” you whispered.

Caleb took another step forward, crowding into your space until the air between you completely vanished. You caught that woody scent again, overtaken by the sheer warmth radiating off him.

“So what happens now?” he asked, and his voice had changed—the sharp edge gone completely.

Your breath caught. He wasn't laughing.

The realization hit you in a dizzying wave. He hadn't scoffed at you, he hadn't stepped back in disgust, and he hadn't let his friends humiliate you. He was still standing right in your space, looking down at you with a heavy, intense focus that made your head spin. He was actually leaning into it.

“I don’t know,” you managed to whisper.

His gaze dropped—briefly—to your mouth, then back up. “You want to find out?”

Behind him, friends made a sound that might have been encouragement, but you barely registered it. The world had narrowed to the space between you and Caleb, to the warmth radiating off his body, to the way his pupils had expanded just slightly, darkening his eyes.

Another buzz rattled in your pocket, but the distraction died instantly. Let your host mother text. The only thing that mattered was Caleb, close enough to touch and waiting for your answer.

“What about them?” you managed, flicking your eyes toward his friends.

“They’re leaving.”

“We are?”

“You are,” he said, not looking away from you. “Go.”

The stocky friend let out a soft groan, clearly annoyed that the dramatic showdown had dissolved before a fight could break out.

The tall one with dreads grabbed stocky’s arm. “We’re going. We’re gone.” He shot you a grin that bordered on conspiratorial. “Good luck, Croatia.”

They retreated down the steps, their laughter fading into the parking lot, and then it was just you and Caleb on the porch. The weight of the misunderstanding completely draining away, leaving a heavy, breathless quiet in its place.

A sharp gust of wind swept across the stone steps, and a visible shiver ran straight through you.

Caleb’s eyes traced the movement, tracking the way you tried to steady yourself against the chill. A slow, knowing look crossed his face, the corner of his mouth tucking in.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly, though his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Your stomach did a slow, heavy flip. “A little.”

Before you could say anything else, his hand found your waist. There was nothing hesitant about it—his fingers just slid firmly against the curve of your hip, his palm flat through the fabric of your jacket. The sudden, solid weight of his hand anchored you instantly, sending a jolt of heat straight up your spine. Your mouth parted on a tiny, breathless gasp.

Caleb pulled you a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb brushing against your hipbone as if he thought the pressure of his body would stop your shivering. But the proximity did the exact opposite. Being this close to him made your pulse race twice as fast, the frantic heat between your thighs flaring up all over again.

You didn't try to pull away. You didn't say a word. You just let your eyes drop back down to his mouth, completely helpless as you let the situation unfold.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private register. “You want to find out?”

Your phone buzzed again. Somewhere distant, a car engine turned over. None of it mattered. You stood there, utterly paralyzed, your mind a chaotic blur of Croatian and frantic English. It felt like you were trapped in one of those PornHub videos, except the heat radiating off him was real, the scent of his skin was real, and you were completely out of your depth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

The word barely left your mouth when he closed the remaining space. His other hand came up to your jaw, palm warm against the hinge of your cheek, and then his mouth was on yours—not gentle, not testing. Claiming. The kiss landed with the same intensity as his confrontation, but channeled differently now, funneled into the press of his lips and the slight scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip. The wind sliced across the porch, whipping your hair around and kindly pushing your bodies closer together, as if gently nudging you closer.

You were short of breathe. Your thoughts shattered. Your knees did something terrifyingly embarrassing—a sudden, helpless wobble—and a wave of sheer panic hit you. You had to frantically grip the front of his hoodie just to stay upright, your knuckles brushing against the solid, unyielding wall of his chest.

His tongue swept against yours, and a completely uninvited sound escaped your throat—a soft, breathless whimper. You could feel him smiling through the kiss as the woody cologne flooded your senses. Under it, the salt taste of his skin. The warmth. The presence of him, which you’d only ever experienced from afar, now compressed to inches, to millimeters, to the wet slide of mouth against mouth.

Caleb pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead nearly touching yours. His breathing had changed—shallower now, less controlled.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” The word came out thready.

He glanced down at how tightly you were anchoring yourself to him, and a slow, wicked grin broke across his face. “I see that.”

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything.”His chuckeled and his thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone. I’m asking for your number, Croatia.”

You searched in your pocket, nearly dropped it, managed to unlock it with your face. He took it from your hand, tapped the screen a few times, frowned the eyebrows at the foreign letters, then handed it back. A new contact glowed up at you: Caleb. A number beneath it. A text already sent—just a single emoji: 🚗.

“Now you have mine too,” he said. “In case you want to keep staring from a distance. But I was thinking something more immediate.” He stepped back, and the loss of his body heat felt like a door opening onto winter. “There’s a coffee place ten minutes away. You busy?”

Your host mother’s dinner sat ignored in your texts.

“Not busy.”

The walk to his car took you through the emptying parking lot, your boots clicking against asphalt still slick from morning rain. Caleb walked close enough that his shoulder brushed yours every few steps, and each accidental contact sent a fresh pulse of electricity through you.

“It’s this one,” he said, nodding toward a sedan near the far row.

He unlocked it, and you opened the passenger door, looking at the interior.

"Sorry," Caleb muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight grin. "I usually don't have girls in my car. It's a bit of a mess."

But it wasn't. The car was impressively clean, and the tiny glimpses into his daily life made your chest tighten. An air freshener shaped like a pine tree hung from the rearview mirror, and a little Bluetooth adapter blinked a steady blue from the dashboard. Scattered in the console were a few custom mix CDs with his own handwriting on them. Resting on the dashboard was a small, plastic Spider-Man figurine, a surprisingly endearing touch that made your heart do a strange little flip. The soft contrast didn't last long, though, as Caleb leaned over and tossed his heavy Sociology 204 textbook onto the back seat. It landed with a dull thud right on top of a messy pile of other textbooks and a crumpled hoodie—a chaotic reminder that class had ended barely ten minutes ago.

“Are you inspecting it?” Caleb asked.

You startled, realizing you’d been cataloging his possessions like museum artifacts. “I just—I don’t know. It’s interesting. Seeing someone’s car.”

“Interesting how?” He was leaning over the roof from the driver’s side now, that half-smile playing at his mouth.

“It shows the parts you don't see in a lecture hall," you said, gesturing toward the Spider-Man and the cluttered back seat. "Like... what you keep around when you think no one is looking. Your hoodie. The mess. It’s just...” You trailed off, the heat rising to your cheeks again as you realized how deeply you'd been analyzing him.

“It’s what?”

“Intimate.”

Caleb laughed—a real laugh, full and warm, the last of his sharp-edged armor completely vanishing. “You’re something else, Croatia. Get in.”

The coffee shop was called Mrs Wick's Pies, a narrow storefront wedged between a laundromat and a used bookstore. The lighting was amber, the tables were scarred, and the barista knew Caleb by name. You sat across from him at a table near the window, your frappuccino cooling in your hands—you still weren’t used to American menus, so you had just ordered whatever looked prettiest on the board. His black coffee sat untouched.

“So, Croatia,” he said. “You’ve been here how long?”

Hearing him use the nickname again sent a small ache through your chest. You secretly loved the way it rolled off his tongue, but a cynical part of you knew it was just a crutch—a safety net because he didn't actually know your real name and probably just remembered you as the creepy foreign girl. You were too self-conscious to correct him now, content to just be a country to him if it kept his attention.

“Three months. First semester.”

“And you just—what, picked a Black guy to stare at?”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop bringing that up.”

“I’m just saying.” He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “There’s like six other guys in that class.”

“None of them look like you.”

The sentence landed heavily between you. Caleb’s posture went entirely still, his hand tightening around the handle of his ceramic mug.

“What’s that mean?” he asked quietly.

You slowly pulled your hands away from your face, forcing your eyes up to meet his. Your skin was still burning, but you fought the urge to look away, desperately trying to string the words together without sounding completely unhinged.

“It means I’ve never... back home, there isn’t anyone who looks like you. I’d see people in movies, online, whatever. And I’d think…” You swallowed. “I’d imagine. And then I got here, and you were sitting two rows down, and I couldn’t stop.”

The confession hung in the amber light. Around you, the coffee shop hummed with other conversations, other lives, but the two of you had your own little thing going on.

Caleb just watched you, his gaze heavy and incredibly focused. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious.”

His knee playfully bumped yours under the table. Completely intentional. The contact sent a sudden rush of heat straight up your inner thigh, and you had to set your cup down before you spilled it.

“So all those times,” he said, “in class. When you were staring. What were you thinking about?”

Your throat went dry. You were not gonna say this out loud. “A lot of things.”

“Like?”

“This.”

“What’s this?”

“Being alone with you.”

His knee pressed harder against yours. “And what did you imagine happening when being alone with me?”

You gave him a short, helpless look right in the eyes before darting your gaze away, already feeling your ears burning a bright, furious crimson. You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Caleb watched it all, his expression still and intent, like he was memorizing every single reaction.

“Drink your coffee,” you chuckled out breathlessly, still refusing to look at him.

“I don’t want coffee.” He stood up, dropping a bill on the table without breaking his stare. “Let’s get out of here.”

The backseat of his car smelled like the pine air freshener and something muskier underneath. One moment you were standing by the passenger door in the parking lot, and the next Caleb had opened the rear door and said, “Get in.”

You had obeyed instantly. In the few months you’ve been here, you were still trying to adapt to how straightforward sometimes Americans were—how they just said what they wanted. Caleb turned out to be the epitome of it. He wanted you, so he told you to get in. And despite the frantic pounding in your chest, you wanted to be taken by that exact American boldness.

He followed you in, locking the door behind him. The tight confines of the backseat immediately made the car feel smaller and intimate. Before you could even settle comfortably, Caleb’s hands were at your chest, his long fingers finding the track of your zipper.

“Let’s get this off,” he murmured, his voice a low, heavy vibration that buzzed right against your lips. He pulled the heavy leather jacket from your shoulders, and tossed it asside to the front passanger's seat. Immediately, the cool autumn air hit the bare skin of your collarbone.

Now you were wedged between the door and his massive frame, the folded hoodie pressing into your spine.

His facial features looked utterly magical under the warm, slanting rays of the sunset filtering through the glass, turning his brown eyes into swirling amber. You caught yourself staring all over again, completely captivated, only snapping out of it when you felt his broad palm slide right under your skirt. He let out a low, knowing chuckle, watching your face as his thumb lightly stroked the ultra-sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“You’re all tense,” he murmured against your neck. “Don’t worry, no one can see us back here.”

“It just feels so exposed,” you lied, trying to avoid mentioning that you were shaking from a total excitement, not fear.

“My windows are tinted,” he whispered, his lips brushing your skin. “At most, someone walking by would just see dark silhouettes.”

You nodded and closed your eyes for a fraction of a second. A sharp spike of adrenaline hit you. Beneath the fabric of your skirt, his fingers were moving upward at a pace that was almost cruel. The pads of his fingertips were slightly rough, catching on your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

You wanted to dissolve entirely into the moment, to capture his image under this heavy, exploring gaze forever on a camera, or just stay on this backseat for the rest of your life. Caleb was like the sun, burning up the oxygen around him. Your skin scorched everywhere his hot hands traveled.

Your head fell back against the window. The glass was cold against your scalp, a shocking contrast that made the boiling heat between your legs feel twice as intense.

“How long?” he asked, still at your neck, his breath warming the spot just below your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin. “How long have you been like this?”

“Weeks.”you gasped.

His fingers found the edge of your panties, sliding beneath the cotton fabric to find the slick, betraying dampness gathered there. A low, almost pained sound came from deep in his throat.

“Fuck. You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” you gasped. Your mind absolutely short-circuiting. He can feel exactly what he does to you. “I told you I was—”

He kissed you, swallowing whatever frantic explanation you’d been about to make. At the same moment, his finger slid fully into the slickness, and your hips jerked involuntarily into his hand.

“Easy,” he breathed against your lips. “Easy. I got you.”

You weren't a virgin—you’d had sex before, back home—but just the presence of him made you feel like you were entirely untouched. The guys you’d been with before had never moved with this kind of unblinking confidence.

But this… this felt raw. It felt monumental. A flush of heat bloomed in your cheeks as a sudden, shameless thought crossed your mind: all those late nights on Twitter, putting multiple videos in your saves and rewatching them every single night, all the videos of Black men you’d watched behind a locked bedroom door... it was finally a reality. You were actually living it.

His finger pressed inward, just barely, slowly, just enough to make your inner walls flutter desperately around the intrusion. He wasn't rushing; instead, his brow furrowed in deep, quiet concentration. He looked down at the physical contrast of his dark hand against your pale thighs, completely transfixed by the way your body reacted to him. The sight of his intense focus—how genuinely captivated he was by your pleasure—was devastating. It took away any lingering fear of being judged, making you reach up, your fingers wrapping around the back of his neck just to hold him close.

He flicked his finger quickly across your clit, teasing you, and a sharp moan escaped your lips despite how hard you tried to hold it back.

He didn't push deeper right away. He just kept that single finger moving inside you in a slow, agonizingly steady rhythm, letting the friction build until you were practically begging for more. You rolled your hips against his hand, trying to force him deeper, but Caleb just watched you with that same heavy, quiet concentration, deliberately keeping you on the edge.

Only when your fingers tightened in his hair did his hand shift, pressing firmly against you as a second finger joined—stretching, filling. The hoodie slipped. Your skirt bunched around your waist. But none of it mattered.

“Oh my,” Caleb murmured, his voice laced with a teasing, dark amusement. Yet beneath the playfulness, he looked genuinely stunned, his brow furrowing slightly as he focused entirely on you. The sight of his intense concentration was devastatingly attractive. “Look at how wet you are.”

A third finger. The stretch intensified with a heavy, overwhelming pressure, and fullness that radiated outward until your thighs trembled and your breath came in sharp, abbreviated bursts. He curled his fingers, finding a spot that made white light bloom behind your closed eyelids.

“Oh,” you choked. “Oh, Caleb—”

“Yeah. Right there?”

“Right there, right there, please, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, a dual rhythm that shattered your capacity for language. You were reduced to sounds and motions. To the grip of your fingers on his shoulder and the desperate roll of your hips against his hand. The car windows fogged. His breath was hot against your cheek. The pressure built—a tightening so profound it felt like your entire body was drawing inward toward the point where his hand met your flesh.

When you came, it was with a cry muffled against his jacket, your teeth sinking into the leather, your thighs clamping around his wrist. The orgasm rippled through you in pulses, each one a clench around his still-moving fingers, each one pulling another sound from deep in your chest.

You slumped back against the door, chest heaving. His hand withdrew slowly, carefully.

“Jesus,” he said.

You looked at him—his blown pupils, his parted lips, the erection straining visibly against his pants—and something fierce welled up in you. Gratitude. Hunger. The knowledge that you weren’t done, not even close.

Without a word, you shifted your weight off the damp corduroy. You crawled right into the center of the seat, your knees crowding into his space, driving him backward until his spine hit the opposite door.

He was completely trapped between the glass and your trembling hands as they moved straight for his waistband. The sudden boldness made Caleb inhale sharply, his head snapping back against the frame as you went to work on his belt. The leather slipped free. The button. The zipper. You tugged his pants and boxers down just enough, and then—

Your breath completely caught in your throat.

He was heavy in your hand. Thicker, longer, and far more imposing than anything you had ever seen in person, or even imagined during those torturous nights alone in your host room. The tip was already slick, catching the dim parking lot light filtering through the fogged glass. The skin was darker here, velvet-soft, and the sight of your own pale, trembling fingers wrapped around him made something clench low in your belly.

“You’re staring again,” Caleb said. But there was no anger this time—only a thick, unsteady tremor in his voice that told you he was just as affected as you were.

You glanced up, forcing yourself to meet his heavy gaze, letting him see the absolute devotion in your eyes.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The salt taste hit first, then the stretch of your lips around his width, then the low, guttural groan that tore from his throat—a sound that vibrated through you like a second heartbeat. Your jaw ached. Your eyes watered. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, like you were something precious.

Like he’d been waiting for this too.

“Damn, Croatia,” he rasped. “Damn.”

The salt-slick taste of him coated your tongue as you adjusted your knees on the backseat. One of your legs slipped against a loose textbook—Sociology 204, the spine cracked from use—and you nudged it aside without pulling your mouth away.

His fingers threaded deeper into your hair, a warm, grounding weight that made your scalp tingle as he anchored you to him.

“Slower,” Caleb murmured. His voice had gone rough at the edges, sanded down by pleasure. “You’re rushing.”

You obeyed. Of course you listened. You couldn't help but smile to yourself at how easily his low command anchored you.

You pulled back until only the tip remained between your lips, your tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head—the spot that made his thigh muscle jump against the seat. His breath came out in a sharp exhale.

“Like that. Yeah. Just like that.”

The praise landed somewhere deep in your chest, blooming outward. You’d never thought of yourself as someone who needed approval, but hearing it from him, in that wrecked baritone, made your pussy clench around nothing. A fresh pulse of wetness seeped into your already-soaked panties.

This is real.

The thought surfaced without warning, cutting through the fog of arousal. Three months ago you’d been in your small boring town, packing your suitcase, wondering if American boys would even notice you. Now you were kneeling in the backseat of a car behind a laundromat, a Black man’s cock in your mouth, his thumb stroking the shell of your ear like you were something fragile.

You took him deeper. Let your jaw relax, throat open, let the head of him nudge against the soft palate at the back of your mouth. The stretch was intense—your eyes watered, your lips strained—but the sensation of fullness, of being occupied, of having his entire focus narrowed to this single act, made up for the discomfort.

Caleb groaned. The sound vibrated through him, through you, a low frequency that made your pussy start to feel wet again.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, you’ve done this before.”

His hips shifted. The movement was unconscious—a micro-thrust that pushed another half-inch past your lips. Your throat constricted around him, a reflexive swallow, and his fingers tightened in your hair.

“Shit. Sorry.” He tried to pull back.

But you wouldn't let him. Your hand shot up, fingers wrapping desperately around his wrist to lock him in place, anchoring him deeply inside you. You leaned heavily into the stretch, your hips tilting forward to swallow that extra half-inch back down, wordlessly demanding everything he had to give.

You didn’t have the vocabulary for what you wanted to communicate—don’t apologize, don’t hold back, I’ve been imagining this for weeks, let me feel what you feel—but your body said it for you. The way you leaned into his touch. The way you hollowed your cheeks. The wet, obscene sounds filling the fogged-up car as you worked him with renewed focus.

“Alright,” Caleb said quietly, and something in his tone had changed. The hesitation was gone. “Alright.”

His other hand joined the first, both palms cradling your skull, and then he guided you downward—slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You let him set the pace, let him push deeper, let the head of his cock slide past the resistance at the back of your throat until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.

Your throat spasmed and eyes flooded. A single tear broke free and traced a hot line down your cheek.

Caleb held you there for three pounding heartbeats... and then released.

You came up gasping, a thin strand of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his skin. Your chest heaved. Your mascara was probably ruined, but you didn’t care.

“You good?” His thumb caught the tear on your cheek, brushing it away with a touch so soft it almost made you ache.

You nodded, unable to speak, your chest still heaving.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his thumb resting gently against your chin to tip your face up. “Use your words, Croatia.”

“Yeah.” The syllable scraped out of you, hoarse and raw. “I’m good.”

His eyes searched your face like the way they’d searched it back on the porch, when he’d been trying to figure out if you were racist or just weird, but now the edge was completely gone. He was just looking at you: softer and more careful.

“You like it like that,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

You nodded again, the shameless truth of it hot on your face. “I like when you don’t hold back.”

His jaw shifted and left out a soft giggle. Then his hands pulled you upward, drawing you onto his lap, and your skirt bunched around your hips as your knees bracketed his thighs. The position put you higher than him—you had to look down to meet his gaze, which felt wrong and right simultaneously. His erection pressed against the damp gusset of your panties, separated by a single layer of cotton, and the contact made you both inhale sharply.

“You think I’m the one not holding back?” he asked, sounding a bit judgmental yet his eyes showed the opposite. He chuckled and looked to the side, suddenly avoiding eye contact. His hands had moved to your hips now, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. “You’ve been running this show since the porch. You confessed. You got in my car. You got in my backseat. You pulled my dick out.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Croatia, I’m just trying to keep up.”

The absurdity of it startled a laugh from you that cut through the thick air of the car.

"Don't laugh now," Caleb murmured, his hands sliding slightly higher on your waist, his thumbs tracing the edge of your ribs. "You're the mastermind here, remember? I'm waiting for the next phase of the plan."

“There is no plan,” you admitted, heat flooding your face as you looked down at him. “I didn't think I'd get past the porch.”

It felt like the simple teasing finally cleared the air, taking the suffocating weight out of the tension. Even though you were still wet and horny, and his dick was pressing hard against your thigh—a constant reminder of exactly where you were—it suddenly felt like there was room to breathe in the car again. Caleb didn't feel like an intimidating guy you had to please or prove your attraction to anymore. You looked into his eyes, watching the soft, warm crinkles form at the corners.

"Well, you're in the deep end now," he said, his gaze dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes. "Don't back out on me."

"I'm not backing out," you murmured. You leaned down just an inch, letting the tips of your hair brush his cheek as the playful mood softened into something much more grounded, much more honest.

Your fingers found the hem of him t-shirt, finally allowing yourself to touch what you'd spent a quarter of a semester anchoring your eyes to. “I’ve been staring at the back of your head for weeks. And now I’m here, and you’re—” You broke off.

“And I’m what?”

“Naked in your backseat with an erection.”

He laughed too then, sounding completely unlike the intimidating figure who’d confronted you on the steps.

“When you put it like that,” he said, “it does sound kind of crazy.”

His hands slid back to your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin on the inside, and your laughter faded slowly. You could feel his arousal pressing against your leg as his thoughts of you only made him harder.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to—” He paused, choosing his words. “Go further?”

Your breath hitched. Further meant things you hadn’t let yourself imagine in detail—only in vague, hazy impressions during those nights in your room. Further meant skin on skin with no barriers. Further meant letting him inside you, feeling that thickness where his fingers had been, finding out what his face looked like when he lost control.

“I don’t have a condom,” you admitted, using this answer as a shield against his actual question.

Caleb reached behind himself, awkwardly twisting his torso against the car door. Papers rustled. Something small and foil-wrapped landed in his palm. He held it up between two fingers.

“I do.”

You stared at the little square. Square that had been sitting in his glove compartment this whole time.

“You keep condoms in your car?”

“One condom.” He shrugged, clearly trying to sound nonchalant, though a faint hint of an endearing, high-school awkwardness peeked through his composure. “Came in a goodie bag from a health fair last month. Thought it might come in handy. Pun not intended.”

“Pun absolutely intended.”

“Maybe a little intended.”

The banter was ridiculous. You were straddling him with your underwear soaked through, and you were bantering like this was a normal Friday. But somehow it helped—the laughter, the teasing—it made the situation feel less like a fever dream and more like something happening between two people who might actually like each other more than a simple high-school crush.

Caleb set the condom on the seat beside his thigh. His hands returned to your waist.

“Only if you want to,” he said. “No pressure. We can just keep doing what we were doing.”

The offer, so plainly stated, undid something in your chest. You’d been worried—some small, paranoid part of you—that revealing your attraction meant you’d given up your dignity. But he was asking, waiting. He was letting you decide. You smirked to yourself, giving your intuition a mental pat on the back. Who knew that choosing a guy entirely based on his looks would actually lead you to someone this perfect—attentive, incredibly gentle, and mind-numbingly hot.

“I want to,” you said. “I want you.”

His eyes darkened. The amber glow from the streetlamps caught the deep brown of his irises, illuminating flecks of gold you hadn’t noticed before. His hands tightened on your waist.

“Yeah?”

“Caleb.” You leaned forward until your forehead touched his. “I’ve been wanting you since the first day of class. Yes.”

The last word landed in the space between your mouths. Then he closed the distance and kissed you—deep and slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched the pulse still throbbing between your legs. The kiss tasted different than the first one on the porch. Less urgent. More certain.

His hands left your waist, sweeping over the bare skin of your shoulders where your shirt had shifted, pulling you completely flush against him. He kissed his way across your collarbone, up to your ear, parting your hair to press his nose against the sensitive column of your neck.

“Let’s get the rest of this off,” he murmured against your lips.

You lifted your arms to let him pull your shirt over your head, and then you were sitting in his lap in just your skirt and bra, your pale torso glowing under the faint amber glow of the streetlamps. His gaze traveled down with an intensity that made your breath quicken.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Not hot.

Not sexy.

Beautiful.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt before your brain could catch up. The fabric was soft, washed so many times it felt like silk against your fingers. You tugged upward, and Caleb lifted his arms to help, and then the shirt was gone, and you stopped breathing.

Three months of staring at him from a three-quarters angle three times a week, memorizing the span of his shoulders beneath hoodies and jackets, the way the fabric stretched taut when he leaned forward to take notes. You'd memorized the shape of him through layers of cotton and wool, assembling a guesswork version in your head during those late nights in your host room.

The guesswork had been pitiful.

His skin in the amber streetlamp glow was something else entirely—a deep brown that seemed to absorb the light and throw it back, softer, warmer. The slope of his shoulders blocked out the window, blocked out the parking lot, blocked out everything except the sudden, overwhelming fact of his body occupying space in your world. A thin sheen of sweat caught the light along his collarbone. The muscle definition you'd imagined was there, yes, but so was texture—a small scar near his left shoulder, the way his chest rose and fell with breaths that had gone shallow.

Your fingers touched his chest before you thought of doing it. The past version of you, alone under your duvet with your hand between your legs, couldn't have even imagined it turning out like this. The fantasy had been vivid, but it had also been entirely wrong. You hadn't known about the actual warmth his skin would radiate like a sun-warmed stone, or how the sheer mass of him would make the car feel suddenly too small and exactly not big enough simultaneously.

“You’re going to burn a hole right through me,” Caleb murmured.

His voice had dropped even lower, a register that vibrated in the small space between your bodies. The teasing was still there, but underneath it, his chest hitched slightly under your fingertips.

"I'm allowed," you managed, your thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone. "You took your shirt off."

"Fair point."

Your palm flattened against his chest—the heart beneath it beat steady and fast. Your hand looked incredibly pale against his skin, a sharp, beautiful contrast that snagged your attention and held it. You'd imagined this visual too, but the reality was so much more specific: the blue-green trace of veins at your wrist against the darker warmth of his chest, the way your fingers seemed to glow against him in the amber light.

Your other hand joined the first, both palms sliding up to his shoulders, tracing the curve of muscle, the hard line of his collarbones. You smiled softly when you realized he was quietly letting you learn his body, completely still beneath your touch, allowing you to live this moment through a quiet, mutual appreciation. Words weren't needed anymore.

Caleb’s large hands slid up from his thighs, his fingers gently wrapping over yours where they rested against his chest. He didn't pull your hands away—he just held them there, his thumbs tracing the backs of your knuckles.

“Tell me if it's too much,”he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched your face. “We can stop or we can slow down. Whatever you need.”

The offer, so plainly stated, sharpened something in your chest. You'd spent weeks constructing a version of him in your head—confident, intimidating, the object of your silent fixation. But the man beneath your hands was careful, attentive, checking in at every step. The fantasy couldn't have included the slight catch in his voice when he said whatever you need.

His fingers worked the clasp of your bra with a deftness that made you huff a surprised laugh—there was competence, and then there was that. The lace slipped from your shoulders to join the growing pile of clothes on the floorboards. Before the chill could settle, Caleb’s large, warm hands were there, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitized peaks.

You gasped as he leaned forward, his mouth replacing his thumbs. He took one dark nipple between his lips, sucking softly at first before pulling it deeper into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the tight, wet point. The sudden, intense pull of his mouth sent a sharp wire of heat straight down between your thighs. Your fingers instantly tangled in his hair, anchoring his head against your chest as a wrecked sound escaped your throat.

He let out a low growl against your skin, his hands squeezing your flesh, kneading you as he switched to the other side, his hot breath flaring against your wet skin.

When he finally pulled back, your chest was heaving. You blindly reached down for the condom. The foil square crinkled between your fingers as you tore it open, and the sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet car. Your hands were shaking, but not from nervousness—it was pure anticipation mixed with excitement. Caleb noticed—of course he noticed—and his fingers closed over yours, steadying them.

“Let me.”

“I want to.”

He paused, studying your face for a beat, then nodded and released your hands.

You rolled the condom onto him with more care than grace, your fingers learning the shape of him in a new way—the heat, the weight, the slight twitch when your knuckle brushed the underside. His breath hissed between his teeth. His head fell back against the freezing window, the glass completely fogged over now, sealing you both inside a private world.

“There,” you whispered. "Done.”

“Yeah.” His voice was wrecked. “Good job.”

The praise—simple, genuine, delivered in that sanded-down baritone—made your pussy clench. You shifted your weight, rising on your knees, one hand on his shoulder for balance. The other hand guided him into position. The head of him pressed against your entrance, and you both held still, breathing, the moment stretching like a held note.

“Whenever you're ready,”Caleb said.

You lowered yourself.

The sensation unspooled in increments—the initial resistance, the slow give of muscle, the stretch that was so much more than his fingers had been. Your eyes fluttered, your mouth opening as a wordless sound escaped you.

Caleb’s hands immediately shot to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. He didn't push you down, but his knuckles were white, his entire body going rigid beneath you as he absorbed the tight, wet heat of you taking him in.

“Slow,” he choked out, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut as a low groan rumbled in his throat. The sheer effort it was taking him to hold back made your heart hammer against your ribs. His body language was completely frantic, totally overwhelmed, but he was still trying to talk you through it. He opened his eyes, his gaze dark and wild. “Slow, Croatia... fuck. You're in control. Just go... steady.”

Inch by inch. Breath by breath. The fullness built until you were seated against his hips, your thighs flush with his. Hearing him lose his mind like that sent a wicked, intoxicating rush of heat straight to your center. His gaze was dark, wild, and completely blown out. He let out a ragged, trembling exhale, his head snapping forward as he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a split second just to breathe you in, his flared nostrils brushing your skin.

When he pulled back, he was inches away, his gaze unblinking and intent, the gold flecks catching fire in the streetlamp glow.

“Look at me,” Caleb rasped, entirely unaware that you already were. The intensity of being watched so completely sent a hard tremor straight through you.

The fogged windows filtered the amber light, casting a muted, golden glow over the backseat. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, rhythmic hum of the laundromat dryer vibrated through the asphalt of the parking lot, a mundane reminder of the outside world that only served to highlight how isolated, how safely hidden you were inside this capsule.

You began to move.

The first roll of your hips was tentative, but his tight grip on your hips anchored you, his palms splayed flat against your skin to steady your rhythm as the angle shifted. Something inside you sparked, and your next roll was deeper, less tentative.

“Like that,” he groaned, his hips twitching upward just a fraction against his own will, betraying him. “Find what feels good.”

Your thighs flexed, your knees pressing deeper into the seat as the rhythm found itself. His thickness filled you with each stroke, the head of him hitting a spot that made your vision stutter. The sounds inside the small car became entirely obscene: the wet clasp of your bodies meeting mixed with the ragged tandem of your breathing. It was filthy, raw, and entirely intoxicating.

“You've been thinking about this,” Caleb said. The topic of your non-stop fantasies over the past months clearly wouldn't leave him alone. Even with his dick buried deep inside you, hard as steel, he needed to hear it again.

“Every night. Every single night for weeks.”

“Tell me.”

You could see it in the intense, hyper-focused stare of his eyes—how deeply this part of the conversation flattered him. He was hooked on your praise, craving the raw admiration of knowing exactly how much power he held over your thoughts. He wanted the details, wanted to feed his own rising desire with the proof of your obsession, so he initiated the topic again, pushing for more.

“In my room, laying under the duvet. Hand between my thighs, touching myself.” Your nails bit into his shoulders. “Imagining your hands, your voice... what you'd feel like.”

“And?” His hips bucked up to meet your downward stroke, and a sharp moan punched out of your throat. “Is it close?”

“Better,” you cracked. “It's so much better.”

The pace quickened. Your hair had become complete mess, falling across your face and sticking to the sweat on your temples. Caleb brushed it back with one hand, tucking it behind your ear, and the sheer tenderness of the gesture—in the middle of fucking in the backseat of his car—made your eyes sting.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his thumb catching the moisture at the corner of your eye. “I got you. You're doing so good.”

The low, rough affirmation bypassed your brain and your hips found a faster, desperate rhythm.

“I'm so close,”you gasped. “I'm—“

“I feel it.” His hands wrapped you tighter, anchoring your hips. “Let go. I'm right here.”

The orgasm seized you mid-stroke, your inner walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that wrung a groan from Caleb's throat. Your head tipped back, the amber light fracturing through the condensation into gold sparks behind your closed eyelids, and you rode the sensation until your thighs burned and your breath gave out.

He followed moments later—his hips moving upward once, twice, a third time, then holding tight as his own release shuddered through him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. One hand still gripped your waist while the other found your hand, twisting to interlace your fingers. Your head descended slightly, resting on top of his already bowed head, and you stayed in that exact position for a few quiet minutes, him still deep inside you, waiting while your breathing slowly leveled out.

The quiet that followed was heavy. Not awkward, just full. The cold gradually crept back through the car's insulation, raising goosebumps on your sweat-damp skin as the adrenaline began to fade.

Caleb lifted his head, looking up at you. “Damn,” he said.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh.

The cleanup was surprisingly wordless. As if both you needed that time to truly process what just happened. Caleb took tissues from the glove compartment and silently helped you clean youself. Then, with a quiet, careful gentleness, he helped retrieve all your clothes from the messy pile on the floorboards. Your brain felt completely empty—comfortingly, beautifully empty. It felt like a heavy weight you’d been carrying all semester had finally fallen from your shoulders, clearing space for a brand-new chapter.

Then, your phone buzzed from somewhere under the passenger seat.

Your stomach flipped anxiously at the sound, the harsh spike of reality ruining the calm. You could already imagine the text messages stacking up. Your host mother had probably written twenty times by now, and a cold dread settled in your chest as you worried whether she would report this curfew violation to the exchange program manager. One wrong move, one strict phone call, and your entire visa could be in jeopardy.

Caleb pulled his shirt back on, and you had to fight a sudden, fierce urge to reach out and stop him, to ask him to stay shirtless for just a little while longer. You watched his broad shoulders disappear beneath the familiar gray fabric and felt something sharp twist in your chest. The fantasy was ending. The anonymous, months-long, two-rows-back fantasy was officially over.

“So,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. He reached across the small space of the backseat, his fingers gently brushing against your wrist. “Croatia.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes in the dim, cooling air of the car.

“Wanna tell me how to pronounce your actual name properly?”

The question landed between you with a profound, unexpected warmth. Your breath caught. You hadn't been expecting that—not that specific question. He knew your name all along! The realization hit you with a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion. And by asking how to say it properly, it meant he had known exactly who you were before he ever stepped onto that porch.

He rubbed the back of his neck, seeing your reaction, a slight, endearing warmth coloring his cheeks. “I saw it on the professor's attendance sheet when I passed by his desk last week. I kept trying to say it in my head, but... man, I didn't want to butcher it in front of you, especially after... yeah.”

The October night waited outside the fogged windows, your host mother's texts were stacking up on your lock screen, and your temporary, complicated life in this country was pressing in, ready to resume.

But for one more moment, you were just a girl in a car with a boy who wanted to learn your language. It meant something serious. It meant he was planning on using it tomorrow, and the day after, and during the lectures next week.

You smiled softly through the dim light, leaned in, and told him.

-> reblog to support me, if you enjoyed reading this ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

it was a month ago, in the middle of july.

your brother had just returned from college for the summer holidays and decided to bring a friend with him. why that friend had to be introduced to the entire family was something you couldn’t understand. for a brief, confusing second, you even thought he was about to come out and introduce mike as his boyfriend.

contrary to the slutty appearance, mike behaved painfully shy. he hadn’t addressed you directly all evening, lingering awkwardly in corners, yet still throwing quick, stolen glances at you, probably thinking you didn't notice.

you did.

inadvertently, you watched him too, when wasn't looking. everything about him made you want to observe. the sharp jawline that you thought would cut you if you touched it. the eyebrow piercing with the large earring, long black hair curling slightly at the ends. the mischievous glint in his eyes contrasted by a beaming smile — the contrast was killing you.

fortunately or not, it was not your last meeting. your brother ignored your initial complaints, and gradually you began seeing mike almost every day — watching him eat your family's supply of chips, play video game with your brother, stay for dinner and then overnight because it's "too late to go home". eventually, you grew used to having him permanently in your line of sight.

but it didn't help the feelings you were fighting.

mike was the same age as your brother, which meant he was four years younger than you. it didn't seem right to think of him like that. and yet, every time you noticed the piercing in his lip, all you could think about was what it would feel like to kiss him.

no matter how hard you tried, ignore his presence became impossible when he was walked around your house every day. you couldn't stop those butterflies in your stomach, couldn't silence the desire to pin him beneath you, make him moan your name. a month passed, but the feeling didn't fade. instead, you realized how badly you needed a dick. his dick. 

mike, however, either didn’t notice how flustered you became around him, or was deliberately avoiding crossing invisible boundaries. he never looked at you longer than he was “supposed to”, never entered your room without knocking, never even touched you, and barely spoke to you. 

it was a game with fire. with such age difference, you knew you couldn't get caught. so all you allowed yourself to do was watch him from distance, memorizing his habits and things he liked.

you didn't notice how you learned every little detail about him. his favorite food, the movie he loved to rewatch, the way he could fall asleep in any place and position, but at the same time he liked to do something until the sunrise.

it was the middle of the night when you heard strange sounds coming from the garage. it startled you for a second. your family only ever used it as a storage, so the last thing you expected to find in that musty part of the house was mike, sitting there at three in the morning, completely absorbed in playing the guitar.

"i'm sorry... did I wake you up?" he let go of the strings and lifted his head. strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed them aside casually without taking his sleepy eyes off you.

it was strange seeing him alone, without the presence of your brother. he looked exhausted, and puffy eyes suddenly made him look even more like his age.

"no..." and you didn't lie.

you really hadn't been sleeping, jerking off to the thought of him fucking you raw. you were planning to wash your hands and finally sleep when the noise pulled you here instead. you hovered awkwardly in the doorway until mike invited you inside.

that night, he sang you what he'd been working on. he even showed his notebook — million of neatly written words on paper dedicated to someone. the intimacy of the moment felt so unusual and strange for your relationship, it made you feel special.

you knew you would remember it forever.

after reading a few lines, it dawned on you. he was writing about a girl he couldn't have for some reason. someone he'd fallen for at first sight and couldn’t get out of his head. the thought hurt you more than you expected.

somewhere out there, most likely back in college, there was a girl he wanted badly enough to write songs about. you tried to act casual, listened to him sing. it sounded magical, and you admitted once again how talented he was. even though deep inside you felt like you were ready to cry. why had you even gone into that stupid garage?

despite the inner pain, curiosity and desire to get to know him better were stronger. that’s how that night became the first of many.

at first you only listened to him. then you asked him to teach you how to play, and soon the night concerts quietly turned into night lessons. 

the dim light of the floor lamp, dusty boxes stacked along the walls, an old sofa in the corner — and the two of you in the center of the room, sitting on chairs that should have been thrown away ten years ago. even under those conditions, you were happy. you finally found an approach to him, that fragile point of contact, what united you. 

the interactions outside of night hours changed too. mike started acting calmer around you. the clearest indicator was his touch. he’d never touched you before, not even when he first started teaching you. but now he would grab your shoulders when passing by, guide your hands into the right position, let his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary — and other skin contact that set your body on fire.

mike was so peaceful and focused during lessons. unlike you.

it was hard for you to keep cool when he showed up in nothing but pajama pants and a tank top. he also had a habit of licking his lips quite often and playing with his earring; at first you thought he was teasing you, but even if he wasn't, your eyes kept gluing there anyway.

“bb-dm-c and repeat bb-dm-c.” mike’s fingers plucked the strings with effortless ease, while you struggled to simply get yours in the right position.

you sighed heavily and buried your face in your hands. everything was going wrong tonight.

it all began with your ruined orgasm, because, for some reason, mike had knocked on your door thirty minutes earlier than usual. so now you were sitting with a puddle of wetness in your panties, trying not to squirm too much. you attempted to follow his words, but your wet pussy kept pulling your focus away. your body didn’t even need his touch — his presence alone was enough to cause a reaction.

"it's okay.” he was using his soft voice again. just hearing him speak like that, without the usual teasing edge he used with your brother, made you shift in place.

"look at me and try to remember how my fingers move, okay?" he patted your shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. 

the melody of the chorus continued, followed by his soft hums. the truth was, you didn't hear a word he said. you only watched his pretty lips move, and the way he clamped the earring between his teeth before playing. you were so so down bad for someone you’d known for a month. he was your brothers friend, for fuck’s sake. and still, you couldn’t help but stare at his bare face like a lovesick fool, studying the way his biceps strained with each chord, noticing his adam’s apple bob when he sang.

“got it?” mike stopped, a trace of shyness still clinging to his voice.

“y-yes…” you gulped and nodded quickly, trying to save yourself.

god, why was he making you shudder like this?

“okay.” he set his guitar aside. “then show me what you’ve learned.” 

“w-what?! no! we just started on the chorus!” you wanted to scream, but it was already past two in the morning.

“sorry-sorry!” mike immediately surrendered, cheeks puffing up with embarrassment. his tongue slid over his lower lip and paused at the piercing, sucking lightly on the metal.

your pussy throbbed harder. you clenched your legs, eyes locking on his mouth.

“i know.” without another second of thought, mike sighed and stood up, suddenly towering over you.

your heart began racing. what was he doing? you were ready to apologize for being a terrible student, for wasting his time. guilt flooded you, and you looked up at him with a helpless expression.

“hey, i think we can continue tomor-” you didn't finish.

his hands closed around yours, pulling you up.

“come here,” he said, voice unexpectedly firm, guiding you toward the couch. “sit on my lap.”

“w-what?” your eyes stayed glued to his hands, breathing suddenly impossible as he positioned you exactly where he wanted

one hand settled on your waist, pulling you back against his chest, as the other lifted the guitar and rested it across your legs. then he took your hands again, placing them on the instrument, seemingly ignoring how stiff and flustered you were. his breath tickled your neck, and you felt his chest rise and fall behind you as he breathed. thankfully, he couldn’t see your flushed face. a soft hum escaped his lips once he seemed satisfied with your position. 

“alright. try to remember where i place your fingers, ‘kay?” he said softly, and you slightly jerked. 

it was the first time you were that close to each other. the wetness between your legs had become unbearable; your panties were absolutely soaked by now.

you thought you could endure it — until he rested his chin on your shoulder for a better view, his chest pressing impossibly close and firm into your back.

that was it for you. if you didn’t get out of his lap now, you were going to end up fucking him right there.

“mike- stop…” you exhaled shakily, trying to get up. 

but your attempt was interrupted by his hands going on your waist again, holding you tightly in place.

“what’s wrong? i’m trying to help.” 

did he really not understand what he was doing or was he just pretending?

“can’t you see how flustered you make me?!” you nearly yelled in annoyance as you finally turned to face him. 

“oh-“ mike froze, blinking at you stupidly. “why?”

you were about to laugh in his face. 

“because you are so fucking hot?” the annoyance in your voice mixed with embarrassment. “are you really that dumb that you can’t see how horny and wet i get around you?!”

“oh- i-i’m sorry…” he looked away shyly. “i actually didn’t realize that- i’m sorry…”

his face turned crimson, but his hands stayed on your waist. 

you weren’t even angry at him anymore, just insanely needy and turned on. the blush dusting his cheeks was so cute, and the way he avoided eye contact, only made you want him more. you grabbed his chin and forcefully turned his head to face you. mike gasped, redder you had even seen him. 

“not so bold now, huh?” you teased and leaned closer, so he could feel your breath on his lips. 

“i… uh- i-” it was unfair how he looked even cuter like this, all nervous and soft beneath you. 

you'd be lying if you said you didn’t fucking adore this side of him. all you wanted was to tease him more. so you did. 

“do you want me to kiss you?”

he stared at you dumbly for a second as if his brain stopped working.

“do i… oh god-” his mouth hanged open as he swallowed, and you smiled at his expression. fuck, how was he even real?

the room grew silent, nothing else other that the tense breathing from the two of you. mike kept switching between your eyes and lips, while you were waiting, searching for a sign of discomfort, for him to say that he wasn’t thinking what you were thinking of right now. 

but he didn’t. he was just as desperate for you, licking his lips in anticipation. you could see how nervous he got by he way he kept twitching his lip piercing again. god, you wanted to feel it so bad. 

for the first time in your life, you weren’t afraid to make the first move. millimeters between your faces disappeared as you finally pressed your lips to his, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him impossibly closer to you. his dark hair was soft and he moaned quietly, when you tucked your fingers in them. 

the sharp taste of metal mixed with his saliva and his scent, all of it set a sharp pulse through your already throbbing pussy. it was unusual to feel something else other than tongue and lips, maybe even a little disgusting, but at the same time incredibly hot. as soon as you felt mike’s body relax under you and he started stroking your hips, you traced your tongue over his lower lip and played with the piercing, just like he always did.

mike's eyes flew open and he broke the kiss, groaning like an impatient puppy. 

“what are you…” 

his shuttering only made you bolder with him.

“wanna continue or-”

“yes-yes! please! please!” mike mumbled, his doe eyes looking at you desperately.

“you are so sweet, mikey…” you chucked, leaning in again to leave a quick kiss on his neck. 

mike jolted, and you finally felt his eagerness poking your thigh. that only made your realize how badly you wanted to touch him more. you didn't hesitate, instantly reaching down to grab his dick through the fabric.

and then it happened — mike whimpered… whimpered! and his expression settled into a mix of pain and desperation.

the sound shattered you. it was an entirely new look on him — the one that you could only imagine in your fantasies before — a vulnerable, desperate side. clearly, he’s never looked like a dominant guy, but still you never would’ve thought you’d hear him whimpering under you. the wave of arousal that rushed down to your pussy nearly made you dizzy. 

“shit, shit!” he groaned, watching you with blown wide pupils as you kept palming him through his pants. “fuck! that feels so good-“

“yeah?” you smiled, satisfied with a state you’ve gotten him into. “want me to touch you more?”

“mhm-“ he whimpered again. 

“shh," you whispered. "be quiet or you’ll get us in trouble.” you couldn’t forget about the fact that your entire family was still in the house sleeping. “if you keep whimpering like a horny bitch, someone will surely wake up.”

mike’s eyes widened at your words, and he bit his lip to suppress the sound crawling up his throat.

still, you didn't stop. without hesitation, you pulled down his pants and boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock. mike hissed at the cool air, but still blushed, averting his gaze. the corner of your lips curved into a smirk and you pressed on the tip, watching the precum glisten. mike let his mouth fall open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyebrows furrowed together as he kept adjusting to the new sensations. 

to his credit, he tried to listen, but only lasted a few seconds. he thought he would actually be able to keep quiet, right up until you wrapped your hand around his dick and started pumping him slowly. 

it was so enticing; this pace was too slow compared to how much mike was turned on. but he kept sitting like a good boy, letting you control his body entirely. 

he was looking at you from under half-closed eyelids, sweaty bangs tousled over his face, and chest occasionally heaving as he let out the most pitiful sobs you've ever heard. you felt as another wave of arousal hit and shifted slightly in place, trying to ease the tension between your legs.

you watched the veins on his dick glisten with wetness, the way the skin gathered at the head. when you began to flick your wrist, palm sweeping over the leaking tip, he cried out even more, moaning your name.

“shh, remember what i said?”

“s-sorry- you hand feels so good… c-can’t-“ 

his whimpers were too good in your ear, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about being caught anymore. 

why did he have to sound so seductive saying that?

mike was moaning and squirming, leaking so much precum that you could feel your entire wrist getting coated in his desire. 

“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he suddenly confessed, voice low and breathy. “why did you have to be such a tease, huh?”

his words made you pause for a second, staring down at him with a half-surprised expression, until the realization hit you. he really was playing dumb this whole time. this little shit!

you gripped the base of his cock just a little too tightly and pulled away to snap at him. “i’m not the one who teased.”

“‘m sorry- i just didn’t have the courage to make the first move, you know? i-i’m sorry! don’t be mad at me!” he kept blurting it all out, mouth betraying him faster than his mind could keep up. “you look so hot and confident all the time. of course every guy is afraid to approach you!” 

“afraid?” you slowly asked, your hand hadn’t left the base of his cock, only tightening around it. “are you afraid of me?”

mike whimpered, bucking his hips up embarrassingly. 

“n-no, no! i’m just saying- you always look so pretty, and gorgeous, and hot, and i fell in love with you the day i saw you for the first time.” he started babbling, making you smile despite yourself. “i only hesitated, because you are that much older than me. i didn’t think you would be interested. i even wrote songs about you…” 

as you were about to say you forgave him, he mumbled the last sentence in a quiet voice and looked up at you with those doe eyes. 

oh, you were so stupid! you were about to smack your own forehead. how could you not put two and two together this whole time? “the girl he couldn’t get and fell in love with at first sight?” of course!

“now shut up, or i’ll stop,” you replied shyly, trying to sound cool as a pink blush spread across your cheeks.

“no-no, don’t stop. please. i’ll shut up. just don’t leave me here like this.” he very clearly did not shut up, grabbing your hand and thrusting his hips slightly to meet the movements, silently begging you to continue.

obviously, you wouldn’t leave mike like this, especially after his confession. he was so stupidly cute, pure and adorable. you also couldn’t wait to see how he looks when he cums. almost as much as he needed to see you naked. you were still fully clothed sitting on top of him.

besides, it would be great fodder for your nights of shameful masturbation at the thought of this boy. 

“‘m close… aaghh! s-so close!” the sounds mike made were beautiful and breathtaking. in that moment you wished you could record them just for yourself. 

despite that, you immediately pulled away, forcing him to open his eyes and plead, “please?” 

“eat me out first like a good boy, ‘kay?” you whispered, sending a shiver down his spine.

as you finally got off from his lap and began undressing, you heard his husky voice murmur, “fuck- that’s hot.”

you giggled, glancing back at him. he stared at you like a museum painting, watching carefully as your clothes hit the floor, afraid to miss a second. his breathing grew heavier as more skin was revealed, his mind filling with thoughts he shouldn’t have been thinking. but it was too late. you looked so good to him that he could feel his dick twitching, aching for the attention it so badly craved. 

“enjoying the view?” you teased as you stripped off the last bits of your clothes. 

mike blushed but kept looking. his desire finally overtook his shyness. 

a shiver ran through your body at the hunger in his half-lidded eyes, now fixed on the curves of your body. 

you pushed him on the chest, signaling to lie back, and he obeyed, watching you move toward his face.

“fuck...” he breathed out in shock, pupils blown wide, lips parting before curling into a hungry grin.

he couldn’t believe his luck.

you looked down at the hearts in his eyes as your thighs come to rest alongside his flushed cheeks. your pulse suddenly quickened at the realization — you were about to let your brother’s friend tongue fuck your dripping pussy.

“you are so hot.” mike said softly, right on the edge of a moan, his voice rough and thick with arousal.

he wanted to be used by you so bad that he wasn’t sure he could handle holding back anymore. particularly, with your glistening pussy hovering just above his face.

abruptly, mike’s palms cupped your thighs and pulled you down to his face. his movements were hesitant at first, barely noticeable, but after a few laps of the tongue, he adjusted the pace that sent your mind spiraling. you nearly leaped off his face. 

“hold still.”

the fact that he said it while being completely crushed beneath you made your breath hitch.

his hands gripped your thighs harder, locking you firmly onto his face. you were not going anywhere.

all you could focus on was his tongue flicking across your slick folds. he was eating your pussy like he was starving, paying no attention to your flinching.

he circled his tongue up around your clit. your moans spilled out hot and breathy as you grasped at his black hair, overwhelmed.

“jesus, mike… what the fuck-“

you could see the smile in his eyes as he only pressed into your clit harder after the praise. he was so damn proud of himself and the reaction he was getting from you.

“you taste incredible,” he mumbled before thrusting his tongue right into your cunt.

“oh- god! holy- fuck, slow down!” your plea was weak and not convincing at all, especially as you began grinding against his face yourself. 

your eyes rolled back in satisfaction and moans grew louder, probably loud enough for your entire family to hear. but you couldn’t care less, when mike was eating you out like he needed it. he was devouring you.

your head fell back as you spread your knees to sink down further on his face. your worries about accidentally suffocating the poor guy have vanished when he adjusted his grip and wouldn’t let you rise.

his nose brushed repeatedly against your swollen clit, and you cried out at the pressure. you were starting to lose control, your body teetering on the edge of an intense orgasm… and that’s when you stopped. 

“mike-mike, wait.” you put all effort to get out of his grip. 

“what?” the disappointed look on his face almost made you coo at him. “did i do something wrong? you don’t like it?”

“no-no! of course not!” you patted his cheek and crawled down to where his still-hard cock waited. “i wanna ride you.”

you could hear how mike’s breath hitched once again and you put all your effort not to chuckle at him. the way the struggled with himself, tried to put a mask of an experienced guy, when you could see right through him. you knew that he was as nerdy as you brother, meaning no sex in college.

you stared at his dick, trying to ignore how your own breath caught too. all you wanted was to sink down onto him, feel him fucking you raw — the fantasy you’d replayed endlessly in your mind. 

“wait- before we start…” mike interrupted you midway.

he propped himself up on his elbows, and you looked at him, confused, as he leaned closer, ending with his face between your breasts. 

“didn’t have time to feel them…” he justified himself, making you chuckle.

but that embarrassment faded quickly as he kissed down your neck, pausing to nip at your collarbone. his hands followed the curve of your breasts and you panted loudly. 

the way he looked up at you while sucking on your hard nipple and pinching the other between his fingers, added to the heartbeat thumping between your legs. you breathed his name shakily and bit into your lip. it was harder and harder to keep quiet.

mike raised an eyebrow at you and flashed the naughtiest little grin as he continued playing with your breasts. you could feel the metal ring brushing your sensitive flesh and it made you ache even more.

“stop looking at me like that and let me ride you…” you scoffed, nudging his chest.

he sighed, but obeyed — how could he possible be oppose that?

you wrapped your hand around his swelling dick and pumped it a little, giggling at his whiny sounds.

“wanna fuck me?” you teased, savoring the desperation painted on his face. 

you were absolutely loving this.

“oh shit- yes-yes.” he nodded as he bucked his dick into your grip. 

you leaned close and whispered in his ear. “wanna stretch me open? make me scream? watch how my tits bounce while i ride you? is that what you want, mikey?”

his face flushed completely at your words as he hid behind his hands, groaning in frustration. “stop…”

“aww.” you cooed. “is mikey embarrassed? this is what you get for playing with me for so long.”

“but i apologized…” he pouted. 

“correct. and that is exactly why i’m still gonna fuck you.” 

his dick pulsated hard in your hand as you slid it between your wet folds. mike must have been so sensitive, moaning loud at this simple action, hands gripping your thighs again. you let yourself sink down slowly, to feel and remember every second, every vein of his dick. a muffled moan left you as you sank down further, arching your back. your heart pounded. 

slowly, your walls began to stretch around his thick head. the sensation was overwhelmingly delicious.

“ahhh…” 

the sound below made you eyes open. mike was mumbling your name quietly. the mixture of lust, embarrassment and bliss on his face was intoxicating. 

“aahahh…” he repeated.

“what, mikey?”

“i-i don’t think i’ll last long if you are this slow…” he swallowed, licking his lips. “i-i don’t wanna rush you, of course. b-but i’m so fucking close.”

“i’m not even halfway in, and you are already about to cum?” you forcefully raised your voice a little just to see his flush deepen.

“‘m sorry…” 

“fine.” you sank down on him in one motion. 

it filled you to the brim, and you both gasped at the feeling. the look on his face was well worth it. his head fell back, bitten lips parted, brows knit. a ray of sunrise catching his face. it was the first time you really noticed how beautiful he really was.

you began grinding your hips and groaning at the feeling of his cock stirring up inside you. his hands moved to your waist, steadying you as your grip switched from his chest to the arm of the couch. you kept working yourself up and down in his lap. he was so deep inside you.

“good boy, mikey…”

another needy moan fell out of him and his face looked almost pained by your words.

he didn’t want this to end. he didn’t want to cum so fast, trying his best to make you slow down, but all he could do was whimper and moan like crazy, which only fueled your desire to act rougher.

it was all just hot. you couldn’t even feel the cold air of the garage anymore, sweat slicked your skin. your head rolled back as you came, feeling the familiar pleasure spreading through your body. mike came right after you, his cock pulsing as he saw the fucked out look on your face. he came right inside you and you moaned in satisfaction, feeling the thick liquid spreading over the walls. 

heavy breathing filled the room. mike grinned when you mouthed a silent “fuck“ at him.

with his dick still inside you, you leaned down to connect your lips. you played with his tongue, enjoying the filthy squelching sound. that only made his pretty face to flare up even more.

“you look so cute like this, pretty boy. you can keep going on for me just a little longer, can't you?" you said with a sweet voice, looking on his pretty doe eyes, making him feel like he really was the most special. 

he couldn’t help but mewl a quiet “yes”, blush blooming across his cheeks.

you still had time before everyone woke up.

it was a month ago, in the middle of july.

your brother had just returned from college for the summer holidays and decided to bring a friend with him. why that friend had to be introduced to the entire family was something you couldn’t understand. for a brief, confusing second, you even thought he was about to come out and introduce mike as his boyfriend.

contrary to the slutty appearance, mike behaved painfully shy. he hadn’t addressed you directly all evening, lingering awkwardly in corners, yet still throwing quick, stolen glances at you, probably thinking you didn't notice.

you did.

inadvertently, you watched him too, when wasn't looking. everything about him made you want to observe. the sharp jawline that you thought would cut you if you touched it. the eyebrow piercing with the large earring, long black hair curling slightly at the ends. the mischievous glint in his eyes contrasted by a beaming smile — the contrast was killing you.

fortunately or not, it was not your last meeting. your brother ignored your initial complaints, and gradually you began seeing mike almost every day — watching him eat your family's supply of chips, play video game with your brother, stay for dinner and then overnight because it's "too late to go home". eventually, you grew used to having him permanently in your line of sight.

but it didn't help the feelings you were fighting.

mike was the same age as your brother, which meant he was four years younger than you. it didn't seem right to think of him like that. and yet, every time you noticed the piercing in his lip, all you could think about was what it would feel like to kiss him.

no matter how hard you tried, ignore his presence became impossible when he was walked around your house every day. you couldn't stop those butterflies in your stomach, couldn't silence the desire to pin him beneath you, make him moan your name. a month passed, but the feeling didn't fade. instead, you realized how badly you needed a dick. his dick. 

mike, however, either didn’t notice how flustered you became around him, or was deliberately avoiding crossing invisible boundaries. he never looked at you longer than he was “supposed to”, never entered your room without knocking, never even touched you, and barely spoke to you. 

it was a game with fire. with such age difference, you knew you couldn't get caught. so all you allowed yourself to do was watch him from distance, memorizing his habits and things he liked.

you didn't notice how you learned every little detail about him. his favorite food, the movie he loved to rewatch, the way he could fall asleep in any place and position, but at the same time he liked to do something until the sunrise.

it was the middle of the night when you heard strange sounds coming from the garage. it startled you for a second. your family only ever used it as a storage, so the last thing you expected to find in that musty part of the house was mike, sitting there at three in the morning, completely absorbed in playing the guitar.

"i'm sorry... did I wake you up?" he let go of the strings and lifted his head. strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed them aside casually without taking his sleepy eyes off you.

it was strange seeing him alone, without the presence of your brother. he looked exhausted, and puffy eyes suddenly made him look even more like his age.

"no..." and you didn't lie.

you really hadn't been sleeping, jerking off to the thought of him fucking you raw. you were planning to wash your hands and finally sleep when the noise pulled you here instead. you hovered awkwardly in the doorway until mike invited you inside.

that night, he sang you what he'd been working on. he even showed his notebook — million of neatly written words on paper dedicated to someone. the intimacy of the moment felt so unusual and strange for your relationship, it made you feel special.

you knew you would remember it forever.

after reading a few lines, it dawned on you. he was writing about a girl he couldn't have for some reason. someone he'd fallen for at first sight and couldn’t get out of his head. the thought hurt you more than you expected.

somewhere out there, most likely back in college, there was a girl he wanted badly enough to write songs about. you tried to act casual, listened to him sing. it sounded magical, and you admitted once again how talented he was. even though deep inside you felt like you were ready to cry. why had you even gone into that stupid garage?

despite the inner pain, curiosity and desire to get to know him better were stronger. that’s how that night became the first of many.

at first you only listened to him. then you asked him to teach you how to play, and soon the night concerts quietly turned into night lessons. 

the dim light of the floor lamp, dusty boxes stacked along the walls, an old sofa in the corner — and the two of you in the center of the room, sitting on chairs that should have been thrown away ten years ago. even under those conditions, you were happy. you finally found an approach to him, that fragile point of contact, what united you. 

the interactions outside of night hours changed too. mike started acting calmer around you. the clearest indicator was his touch. he’d never touched you before, not even when he first started teaching you. but now he would grab your shoulders when passing by, guide your hands into the right position, let his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary — and other skin contact that set your body on fire.

mike was so peaceful and focused during lessons. unlike you.

it was hard for you to keep cool when he showed up in nothing but pajama pants and a tank top. he also had a habit of licking his lips quite often and playing with his earring; at first you thought he was teasing you, but even if he wasn't, your eyes kept gluing there anyway.

“bb-dm-c and repeat bb-dm-c.” mike’s fingers plucked the strings with effortless ease, while you struggled to simply get yours in the right position.

you sighed heavily and buried your face in your hands. everything was going wrong tonight.

it all began with your ruined orgasm, because, for some reason, mike had knocked on your door thirty minutes earlier than usual. so now you were sitting with a puddle of wetness in your panties, trying not to squirm too much. you attempted to follow his words, but your wet pussy kept pulling your focus away. your body didn’t even need his touch — his presence alone was enough to cause a reaction.

"it's okay.” he was using his soft voice again. just hearing him speak like that, without the usual teasing edge he used with your brother, made you shift in place.

"look at me and try to remember how my fingers move, okay?" he patted your shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. 

the melody of the chorus continued, followed by his soft hums. the truth was, you didn't hear a word he said. you only watched his pretty lips move, and the way he clamped the earring between his teeth before playing. you were so so down bad for someone you’d known for a month. he was your brothers friend, for fuck’s sake. and still, you couldn’t help but stare at his bare face like a lovesick fool, studying the way his biceps strained with each chord, noticing his adam’s apple bob when he sang.

“got it?” mike stopped, a trace of shyness still clinging to his voice.

“y-yes…” you gulped and nodded quickly, trying to save yourself.

god, why was he making you shudder like this?

“okay.” he set his guitar aside. “then show me what you’ve learned.” 

“w-what?! no! we just started on the chorus!” you wanted to scream, but it was already past two in the morning.

“sorry-sorry!” mike immediately surrendered, cheeks puffing up with embarrassment. his tongue slid over his lower lip and paused at the piercing, sucking lightly on the metal.

your pussy throbbed harder. you clenched your legs, eyes locking on his mouth.

“i know.” without another second of thought, mike sighed and stood up, suddenly towering over you.

your heart began racing. what was he doing? you were ready to apologize for being a terrible student, for wasting his time. guilt flooded you, and you looked up at him with a helpless expression.

“hey, i think we can continue tomor-” you didn't finish.

his hands closed around yours, pulling you up.

“come here,” he said, voice unexpectedly firm, guiding you toward the couch. “sit on my lap.”

“w-what?” your eyes stayed glued to his hands, breathing suddenly impossible as he positioned you exactly where he wanted

one hand settled on your waist, pulling you back against his chest, as the other lifted the guitar and rested it across your legs. then he took your hands again, placing them on the instrument, seemingly ignoring how stiff and flustered you were. his breath tickled your neck, and you felt his chest rise and fall behind you as he breathed. thankfully, he couldn’t see your flushed face. a soft hum escaped his lips once he seemed satisfied with your position. 

“alright. try to remember where i place your fingers, ‘kay?” he said softly, and you slightly jerked. 

it was the first time you were that close to each other. the wetness between your legs had become unbearable; your panties were absolutely soaked by now.

you thought you could endure it — until he rested his chin on your shoulder for a better view, his chest pressing impossibly close and firm into your back.

that was it for you. if you didn’t get out of his lap now, you were going to end up fucking him right there.

“mike- stop…” you exhaled shakily, trying to get up. 

but your attempt was interrupted by his hands going on your waist again, holding you tightly in place.

“what’s wrong? i’m trying to help.” 

did he really not understand what he was doing or was he just pretending?

“can’t you see how flustered you make me?!” you nearly yelled in annoyance as you finally turned to face him. 

“oh-“ mike froze, blinking at you stupidly. “why?”

you were about to laugh in his face. 

“because you are so fucking hot?” the annoyance in your voice mixed with embarrassment. “are you really that dumb that you can’t see how horny and wet i get around you?!”

“oh- i-i’m sorry…” he looked away shyly. “i actually didn’t realize that- i’m sorry…”

his face turned crimson, but his hands stayed on your waist. 

you weren’t even angry at him anymore, just insanely needy and turned on. the blush dusting his cheeks was so cute, and the way he avoided eye contact, only made you want him more. you grabbed his chin and forcefully turned his head to face you. mike gasped, redder you had even seen him. 

“not so bold now, huh?” you teased and leaned closer, so he could feel your breath on his lips. 

“i… uh- i-” it was unfair how he looked even cuter like this, all nervous and soft beneath you. 

you'd be lying if you said you didn’t fucking adore this side of him. all you wanted was to tease him more. so you did. 

“do you want me to kiss you?”

he stared at you dumbly for a second as if his brain stopped working.

“do i… oh god-” his mouth hanged open as he swallowed, and you smiled at his expression. fuck, how was he even real?

the room grew silent, nothing else other that the tense breathing from the two of you. mike kept switching between your eyes and lips, while you were waiting, searching for a sign of discomfort, for him to say that he wasn’t thinking what you were thinking of right now. 

but he didn’t. he was just as desperate for you, licking his lips in anticipation. you could see how nervous he got by he way he kept twitching his lip piercing again. god, you wanted to feel it so bad. 

for the first time in your life, you weren’t afraid to make the first move. millimeters between your faces disappeared as you finally pressed your lips to his, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him impossibly closer to you. his dark hair was soft and he moaned quietly, when you tucked your fingers in them. 

the sharp taste of metal mixed with his saliva and his scent, all of it set a sharp pulse through your already throbbing pussy. it was unusual to feel something else other than tongue and lips, maybe even a little disgusting, but at the same time incredibly hot. as soon as you felt mike’s body relax under you and he started stroking your hips, you traced your tongue over his lower lip and played with the piercing, just like he always did.

mike's eyes flew open and he broke the kiss, groaning like an impatient puppy. 

“what are you…” 

his shuttering only made you bolder with him.

“wanna continue or-”

“yes-yes! please! please!” mike mumbled, his doe eyes looking at you desperately.

“you are so sweet, mikey…” you chucked, leaning in again to leave a quick kiss on his neck. 

mike jolted, and you finally felt his eagerness poking your thigh. that only made your realize how badly you wanted to touch him more. you didn't hesitate, instantly reaching down to grab his dick through the fabric.

and then it happened — mike whimpered… whimpered! and his expression settled into a mix of pain and desperation.

the sound shattered you. it was an entirely new look on him — the one that you could only imagine in your fantasies before — a vulnerable, desperate side. clearly, he’s never looked like a dominant guy, but still you never would’ve thought you’d hear him whimpering under you. the wave of arousal that rushed down to your pussy nearly made you dizzy. 

“shit, shit!” he groaned, watching you with blown wide pupils as you kept palming him through his pants. “fuck! that feels so good-“

“yeah?” you smiled, satisfied with a state you’ve gotten him into. “want me to touch you more?”

“mhm-“ he whimpered again. 

“shh," you whispered. "be quiet or you’ll get us in trouble.” you couldn’t forget about the fact that your entire family was still in the house sleeping. “if you keep whimpering like a horny bitch, someone will surely wake up.”

mike’s eyes widened at your words, and he bit his lip to suppress the sound crawling up his throat.

still, you didn't stop. without hesitation, you pulled down his pants and boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock. mike hissed at the cool air, but still blushed, averting his gaze. the corner of your lips curved into a smirk and you pressed on the tip, watching the precum glisten. mike let his mouth fall open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyebrows furrowed together as he kept adjusting to the new sensations. 

to his credit, he tried to listen, but only lasted a few seconds. he thought he would actually be able to keep quiet, right up until you wrapped your hand around his dick and started pumping him slowly. 

it was so enticing; this pace was too slow compared to how much mike was turned on. but he kept sitting like a good boy, letting you control his body entirely. 

he was looking at you from under half-closed eyelids, sweaty bangs tousled over his face, and chest occasionally heaving as he let out the most pitiful sobs you've ever heard. you felt as another wave of arousal hit and shifted slightly in place, trying to ease the tension between your legs.

you watched the veins on his dick glisten with wetness, the way the skin gathered at the head. when you began to flick your wrist, palm sweeping over the leaking tip, he cried out even more, moaning your name.

“shh, remember what i said?”

“s-sorry- you hand feels so good… c-can’t-“ 

his whimpers were too good in your ear, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about being caught anymore. 

why did he have to sound so seductive saying that?

mike was moaning and squirming, leaking so much precum that you could feel your entire wrist getting coated in his desire. 

“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he suddenly confessed, voice low and breathy. “why did you have to be such a tease, huh?”

his words made you pause for a second, staring down at him with a half-surprised expression, until the realization hit you. he really was playing dumb this whole time. this little shit!

you gripped the base of his cock just a little too tightly and pulled away to snap at him. “i’m not the one who teased.”

“‘m sorry- i just didn’t have the courage to make the first move, you know? i-i’m sorry! don’t be mad at me!” he kept blurting it all out, mouth betraying him faster than his mind could keep up. “you look so hot and confident all the time. of course every guy is afraid to approach you!” 

“afraid?” you slowly asked, your hand hadn’t left the base of his cock, only tightening around it. “are you afraid of me?”

mike whimpered, bucking his hips up embarrassingly. 

“n-no, no! i’m just saying- you always look so pretty, and gorgeous, and hot, and i fell in love with you the day i saw you for the first time.” he started babbling, making you smile despite yourself. “i only hesitated, because you are that much older than me. i didn’t think you would be interested. i even wrote songs about you…” 

as you were about to say you forgave him, he mumbled the last sentence in a quiet voice and looked up at you with those doe eyes. 

oh, you were so stupid! you were about to smack your own forehead. how could you not put two and two together this whole time? “the girl he couldn’t get and fell in love with at first sight?” of course!

“now shut up, or i’ll stop,” you replied shyly, trying to sound cool as a pink blush spread across your cheeks.

“no-no, don’t stop. please. i’ll shut up. just don’t leave me here like this.” he very clearly did not shut up, grabbing your hand and thrusting his hips slightly to meet the movements, silently begging you to continue.

obviously, you wouldn’t leave mike like this, especially after his confession. he was so stupidly cute, pure and adorable. you also couldn’t wait to see how he looks when he cums. almost as much as he needed to see you naked. you were still fully clothed sitting on top of him.

besides, it would be great fodder for your nights of shameful masturbation at the thought of this boy. 

“‘m close… aaghh! s-so close!” the sounds mike made were beautiful and breathtaking. in that moment you wished you could record them just for yourself. 

despite that, you immediately pulled away, forcing him to open his eyes and plead, “please?” 

“eat me out first like a good boy, ‘kay?” you whispered, sending a shiver down his spine.

as you finally got off from his lap and began undressing, you heard his husky voice murmur, “fuck- that’s hot.”

you giggled, glancing back at him. he stared at you like a museum painting, watching carefully as your clothes hit the floor, afraid to miss a second. his breathing grew heavier as more skin was revealed, his mind filling with thoughts he shouldn’t have been thinking. but it was too late. you looked so good to him that he could feel his dick twitching, aching for the attention it so badly craved. 

“enjoying the view?” you teased as you stripped off the last bits of your clothes. 

mike blushed but kept looking. his desire finally overtook his shyness. 

a shiver ran through your body at the hunger in his half-lidded eyes, now fixed on the curves of your body. 

you pushed him on the chest, signaling to lie back, and he obeyed, watching you move toward his face.

“fuck...” he breathed out in shock, pupils blown wide, lips parting before curling into a hungry grin.

he couldn’t believe his luck.

you looked down at the hearts in his eyes as your thighs come to rest alongside his flushed cheeks. your pulse suddenly quickened at the realization — you were about to let your brother’s friend tongue fuck your dripping pussy.

“you are so hot.” mike said softly, right on the edge of a moan, his voice rough and thick with arousal.

he wanted to be used by you so bad that he wasn’t sure he could handle holding back anymore. particularly, with your glistening pussy hovering just above his face.

abruptly, mike’s palms cupped your thighs and pulled you down to his face. his movements were hesitant at first, barely noticeable, but after a few laps of the tongue, he adjusted the pace that sent your mind spiraling. you nearly leaped off his face. 

“hold still.”

the fact that he said it while being completely crushed beneath you made your breath hitch.

his hands gripped your thighs harder, locking you firmly onto his face. you were not going anywhere.

all you could focus on was his tongue flicking across your slick folds. he was eating your pussy like he was starving, paying no attention to your flinching.

he circled his tongue up around your clit. your moans spilled out hot and breathy as you grasped at his black hair, overwhelmed.

“jesus, mike… what the fuck-“

you could see the smile in his eyes as he only pressed into your clit harder after the praise. he was so damn proud of himself and the reaction he was getting from you.

“you taste incredible,” he mumbled before thrusting his tongue right into your cunt.

“oh- god! holy- fuck, slow down!” your plea was weak and not convincing at all, especially as you began grinding against his face yourself. 

your eyes rolled back in satisfaction and moans grew louder, probably loud enough for your entire family to hear. but you couldn’t care less, when mike was eating you out like he needed it. he was devouring you.

your head fell back as you spread your knees to sink down further on his face. your worries about accidentally suffocating the poor guy have vanished when he adjusted his grip and wouldn’t let you rise.

his nose brushed repeatedly against your swollen clit, and you cried out at the pressure. you were starting to lose control, your body teetering on the edge of an intense orgasm… and that’s when you stopped. 

“mike-mike, wait.” you put all effort to get out of his grip. 

“what?” the disappointed look on his face almost made you coo at him. “did i do something wrong? you don’t like it?”

“no-no! of course not!” you patted his cheek and crawled down to where his still-hard cock waited. “i wanna ride you.”

you could hear how mike’s breath hitched once again and you put all your effort not to chuckle at him. the way the struggled with himself, tried to put a mask of an experienced guy, when you could see right through him. you knew that he was as nerdy as you brother, meaning no sex in college.

you stared at his dick, trying to ignore how your own breath caught too. all you wanted was to sink down onto him, feel him fucking you raw — the fantasy you’d replayed endlessly in your mind. 

“wait- before we start…” mike interrupted you midway.

he propped himself up on his elbows, and you looked at him, confused, as he leaned closer, ending with his face between your breasts. 

“didn’t have time to feel them…” he justified himself, making you chuckle.

but that embarrassment faded quickly as he kissed down your neck, pausing to nip at your collarbone. his hands followed the curve of your breasts and you panted loudly. 

the way he looked up at you while sucking on your hard nipple and pinching the other between his fingers, added to the heartbeat thumping between your legs. you breathed his name shakily and bit into your lip. it was harder and harder to keep quiet.

mike raised an eyebrow at you and flashed the naughtiest little grin as he continued playing with your breasts. you could feel the metal ring brushing your sensitive flesh and it made you ache even more.

“stop looking at me like that and let me ride you…” you scoffed, nudging his chest.

he sighed, but obeyed — how could he possible be oppose that?

you wrapped your hand around his swelling dick and pumped it a little, giggling at his whiny sounds.

“wanna fuck me?” you teased, savoring the desperation painted on his face. 

you were absolutely loving this.

“oh shit- yes-yes.” he nodded as he bucked his dick into your grip. 

you leaned close and whispered in his ear. “wanna stretch me open? make me scream? watch how my tits bounce while i ride you? is that what you want, mikey?”

his face flushed completely at your words as he hid behind his hands, groaning in frustration. “stop…”

“aww.” you cooed. “is mikey embarrassed? this is what you get for playing with me for so long.”

“but i apologized…” he pouted. 

“correct. and that is exactly why i’m still gonna fuck you.” 

his dick pulsated hard in your hand as you slid it between your wet folds. mike must have been so sensitive, moaning loud at this simple action, hands gripping your thighs again. you let yourself sink down slowly, to feel and remember every second, every vein of his dick. a muffled moan left you as you sank down further, arching your back. your heart pounded. 

slowly, your walls began to stretch around his thick head. the sensation was overwhelmingly delicious.

“ahhh…” 

the sound below made you eyes open. mike was mumbling your name quietly. the mixture of lust, embarrassment and bliss on his face was intoxicating. 

“aahahh…” he repeated.

“what, mikey?”

“i-i don’t think i’ll last long if you are this slow…” he swallowed, licking his lips. “i-i don’t wanna rush you, of course. b-but i’m so fucking close.”

“i’m not even halfway in, and you are already about to cum?” you forcefully raised your voice a little just to see his flush deepen.

“‘m sorry…” 

“fine.” you sank down on him in one motion. 

it filled you to the brim, and you both gasped at the feeling. the look on his face was well worth it. his head fell back, bitten lips parted, brows knit. a ray of sunrise catching his face. it was the first time you really noticed how beautiful he really was.

you began grinding your hips and groaning at the feeling of his cock stirring up inside you. his hands moved to your waist, steadying you as your grip switched from his chest to the arm of the couch. you kept working yourself up and down in his lap. he was so deep inside you.

“good boy, mikey…”

another needy moan fell out of him and his face looked almost pained by your words.

he didn’t want this to end. he didn’t want to cum so fast, trying his best to make you slow down, but all he could do was whimper and moan like crazy, which only fueled your desire to act rougher.

it was all just hot. you couldn’t even feel the cold air of the garage anymore, sweat slicked your skin. your head rolled back as you came, feeling the familiar pleasure spreading through your body. mike came right after you, his cock pulsing as he saw the fucked out look on your face. he came right inside you and you moaned in satisfaction, feeling the thick liquid spreading over the walls. 

heavy breathing filled the room. mike grinned when you mouthed a silent “fuck“ at him.

with his dick still inside you, you leaned down to connect your lips. you played with his tongue, enjoying the filthy squelching sound. that only made his pretty face to flare up even more.

“you look so cute like this, pretty boy. you can keep going on for me just a little longer, can't you?" you said with a sweet voice, looking on his pretty doe eyes, making him feel like he really was the most special. 

he couldn’t help but mewl a quiet “yes”, blush blooming across his cheeks.

you still had time before everyone woke up.

-> reblog to support me, if you enjoyed reading this ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

it was a month ago, in the middle of july.

your brother had just returned from college for the summer holidays and decided to bring a friend with him. why that friend had to be introduced to the entire family was something you couldn’t understand. for a brief, confusing second, you even thought he was about to come out and introduce mike as his boyfriend.

contrary to the slutty appearance, mike behaved painfully shy. he hadn’t addressed you directly all evening, lingering awkwardly in corners, yet still throwing quick, stolen glances at you, probably thinking you didn't notice.

you did.

inadvertently, you watched him too, when wasn't looking. everything about him made you want to observe. the sharp jawline that you thought would cut you if you touched it. the eyebrow piercing with the large earring, long black hair curling slightly at the ends. the mischievous glint in his eyes contrasted by a beaming smile — the contrast was killing you.

fortunately or not, it was not your last meeting. your brother ignored your initial complaints, and gradually you began seeing mike almost every day — watching him eat your family's supply of chips, play video game with your brother, stay for dinner and then overnight because it's "too late to go home". eventually, you grew used to having him permanently in your line of sight.

but it didn't help the feelings you were fighting.

mike was the same age as your brother, which meant he was four years younger than you. it didn't seem right to think of him like that. and yet, every time you noticed the piercing in his lip, all you could think about was what it would feel like to kiss him.

no matter how hard you tried, ignore his presence became impossible when he was walked around your house every day. you couldn't stop those butterflies in your stomach, couldn't silence the desire to pin him beneath you, make him moan your name. a month passed, but the feeling didn't fade. instead, you realized how badly you needed a dick. his dick. 

mike, however, either didn’t notice how flustered you became around him, or was deliberately avoiding crossing invisible boundaries. he never looked at you longer than he was “supposed to”, never entered your room without knocking, never even touched you, and barely spoke to you. 

it was a game with fire. with such age difference, you knew you couldn't get caught. so all you allowed yourself to do was watch him from distance, memorizing his habits and things he liked.

you didn't notice how you learned every little detail about him. his favorite food, the movie he loved to rewatch, the way he could fall asleep in any place and position, but at the same time he liked to do something until the sunrise.

it was the middle of the night when you heard strange sounds coming from the garage. it startled you for a second. your family only ever used it as a storage, so the last thing you expected to find in that musty part of the house was mike, sitting there at three in the morning, completely absorbed in playing the guitar.

"i'm sorry... did I wake you up?" he let go of the strings and lifted his head. strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, and he brushed them aside casually without taking his sleepy eyes off you.

it was strange seeing him alone, without the presence of your brother. he looked exhausted, and puffy eyes suddenly made him look even more like his age.

"no..." and you didn't lie.

you really hadn't been sleeping, jerking off to the thought of him fucking you raw. you were planning to wash your hands and finally sleep when the noise pulled you here instead. you hovered awkwardly in the doorway until mike invited you inside.

that night, he sang you what he'd been working on. he even showed his notebook — million of neatly written words on paper dedicated to someone. the intimacy of the moment felt so unusual and strange for your relationship, it made you feel special.

you knew you would remember it forever.

after reading a few lines, it dawned on you. he was writing about a girl he couldn't have for some reason. someone he'd fallen for at first sight and couldn’t get out of his head. the thought hurt you more than you expected.

somewhere out there, most likely back in college, there was a girl he wanted badly enough to write songs about. you tried to act casual, listened to him sing. it sounded magical, and you admitted once again how talented he was. even though deep inside you felt like you were ready to cry. why had you even gone into that stupid garage?

despite the inner pain, curiosity and desire to get to know him better were stronger. that’s how that night became the first of many.

at first you only listened to him. then you asked him to teach you how to play, and soon the night concerts quietly turned into night lessons. 

the dim light of the floor lamp, dusty boxes stacked along the walls, an old sofa in the corner — and the two of you in the center of the room, sitting on chairs that should have been thrown away ten years ago. even under those conditions, you were happy. you finally found an approach to him, that fragile point of contact, what united you. 

the interactions outside of night hours changed too. mike started acting calmer around you. the clearest indicator was his touch. he’d never touched you before, not even when he first started teaching you. but now he would grab your shoulders when passing by, guide your hands into the right position, let his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary — and other skin contact that set your body on fire.

mike was so peaceful and focused during lessons. unlike you.

it was hard for you to keep cool when he showed up in nothing but pajama pants and a tank top. he also had a habit of licking his lips quite often and playing with his earring; at first you thought he was teasing you, but even if he wasn't, your eyes kept gluing there anyway.

“bb-dm-c and repeat bb-dm-c.” mike’s fingers plucked the strings with effortless ease, while you struggled to simply get yours in the right position.

you sighed heavily and buried your face in your hands. everything was going wrong tonight.

it all began with your ruined orgasm, because, for some reason, mike had knocked on your door thirty minutes earlier than usual. so now you were sitting with a puddle of wetness in your panties, trying not to squirm too much. you attempted to follow his words, but your wet pussy kept pulling your focus away. your body didn’t even need his touch — his presence alone was enough to cause a reaction.

"it's okay.” he was using his soft voice again. just hearing him speak like that, without the usual teasing edge he used with your brother, made you shift in place.

"look at me and try to remember how my fingers move, okay?" he patted your shoulder and gave a reassuring smile. 

the melody of the chorus continued, followed by his soft hums. the truth was, you didn't hear a word he said. you only watched his pretty lips move, and the way he clamped the earring between his teeth before playing. you were so so down bad for someone you’d known for a month. he was your brothers friend, for fuck’s sake. and still, you couldn’t help but stare at his bare face like a lovesick fool, studying the way his biceps strained with each chord, noticing his adam’s apple bob when he sang.

“got it?” mike stopped, a trace of shyness still clinging to his voice.

“y-yes…” you gulped and nodded quickly, trying to save yourself.

god, why was he making you shudder like this?

“okay.” he set his guitar aside. “then show me what you’ve learned.” 

“w-what?! no! we just started on the chorus!” you wanted to scream, but it was already past two in the morning.

“sorry-sorry!” mike immediately surrendered, cheeks puffing up with embarrassment. his tongue slid over his lower lip and paused at the piercing, sucking lightly on the metal.

your pussy throbbed harder. you clenched your legs, eyes locking on his mouth.

“i know.” without another second of thought, mike sighed and stood up, suddenly towering over you.

your heart began racing. what was he doing? you were ready to apologize for being a terrible student, for wasting his time. guilt flooded you, and you looked up at him with a helpless expression.

“hey, i think we can continue tomor-” you didn't finish.

his hands closed around yours, pulling you up.

“come here,” he said, voice unexpectedly firm, guiding you toward the couch. “sit on my lap.”

“w-what?” your eyes stayed glued to his hands, breathing suddenly impossible as he positioned you exactly where he wanted

one hand settled on your waist, pulling you back against his chest, as the other lifted the guitar and rested it across your legs. then he took your hands again, placing them on the instrument, seemingly ignoring how stiff and flustered you were. his breath tickled your neck, and you felt his chest rise and fall behind you as he breathed. thankfully, he couldn’t see your flushed face. a soft hum escaped his lips once he seemed satisfied with your position. 

“alright. try to remember where i place your fingers, ‘kay?” he said softly, and you slightly jerked. 

it was the first time you were that close to each other. the wetness between your legs had become unbearable; your panties were absolutely soaked by now.

you thought you could endure it — until he rested his chin on your shoulder for a better view, his chest pressing impossibly close and firm into your back.

that was it for you. if you didn’t get out of his lap now, you were going to end up fucking him right there.

“mike- stop…” you exhaled shakily, trying to get up. 

but your attempt was interrupted by his hands going on your waist again, holding you tightly in place.

“what’s wrong? i’m trying to help.” 

did he really not understand what he was doing or was he just pretending?

“can’t you see how flustered you make me?!” you nearly yelled in annoyance as you finally turned to face him. 

“oh-“ mike froze, blinking at you stupidly. “why?”

you were about to laugh in his face. 

“because you are so fucking hot?” the annoyance in your voice mixed with embarrassment. “are you really that dumb that you can’t see how horny and wet i get around you?!”

“oh- i-i’m sorry…” he looked away shyly. “i actually didn’t realize that- i’m sorry…”

his face turned crimson, but his hands stayed on your waist. 

you weren’t even angry at him anymore, just insanely needy and turned on. the blush dusting his cheeks was so cute, and the way he avoided eye contact, only made you want him more. you grabbed his chin and forcefully turned his head to face you. mike gasped, redder you had even seen him. 

“not so bold now, huh?” you teased and leaned closer, so he could feel your breath on his lips. 

“i… uh- i-” it was unfair how he looked even cuter like this, all nervous and soft beneath you. 

you'd be lying if you said you didn’t fucking adore this side of him. all you wanted was to tease him more. so you did. 

“do you want me to kiss you?”

he stared at you dumbly for a second as if his brain stopped working.

“do i… oh god-” his mouth hanged open as he swallowed, and you smiled at his expression. fuck, how was he even real?

the room grew silent, nothing else other that the tense breathing from the two of you. mike kept switching between your eyes and lips, while you were waiting, searching for a sign of discomfort, for him to say that he wasn’t thinking what you were thinking of right now. 

but he didn’t. he was just as desperate for you, licking his lips in anticipation. you could see how nervous he got by he way he kept twitching his lip piercing again. god, you wanted to feel it so bad. 

for the first time in your life, you weren’t afraid to make the first move. millimeters between your faces disappeared as you finally pressed your lips to his, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him impossibly closer to you. his dark hair was soft and he moaned quietly, when you tucked your fingers in them. 

the sharp taste of metal mixed with his saliva and his scent, all of it set a sharp pulse through your already throbbing pussy. it was unusual to feel something else other than tongue and lips, maybe even a little disgusting, but at the same time incredibly hot. as soon as you felt mike’s body relax under you and he started stroking your hips, you traced your tongue over his lower lip and played with the piercing, just like he always did.

mike's eyes flew open and he broke the kiss, groaning like an impatient puppy. 

“what are you…” 

his shuttering only made you bolder with him.

“wanna continue or-”

“yes-yes! please! please!” mike mumbled, his doe eyes looking at you desperately.

“you are so sweet, mikey…” you chucked, leaning in again to leave a quick kiss on his neck. 

mike jolted, and you finally felt his eagerness poking your thigh. that only made your realize how badly you wanted to touch him more. you didn't hesitate, instantly reaching down to grab his dick through the fabric.

and then it happened — mike whimpered… whimpered! and his expression settled into a mix of pain and desperation.

the sound shattered you. it was an entirely new look on him — the one that you could only imagine in your fantasies before — a vulnerable, desperate side. clearly, he’s never looked like a dominant guy, but still you never would’ve thought you’d hear him whimpering under you. the wave of arousal that rushed down to your pussy nearly made you dizzy. 

“shit, shit!” he groaned, watching you with blown wide pupils as you kept palming him through his pants. “fuck! that feels so good-“

“yeah?” you smiled, satisfied with a state you’ve gotten him into. “want me to touch you more?”

“mhm-“ he whimpered again. 

“shh," you whispered. "be quiet or you’ll get us in trouble.” you couldn’t forget about the fact that your entire family was still in the house sleeping. “if you keep whimpering like a horny bitch, someone will surely wake up.”

mike’s eyes widened at your words, and he bit his lip to suppress the sound crawling up his throat.

still, you didn't stop. without hesitation, you pulled down his pants and boxers, revealing his painfully hard cock. mike hissed at the cool air, but still blushed, averting his gaze. the corner of your lips curved into a smirk and you pressed on the tip, watching the precum glisten. mike let his mouth fall open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyebrows furrowed together as he kept adjusting to the new sensations. 

to his credit, he tried to listen, but only lasted a few seconds. he thought he would actually be able to keep quiet, right up until you wrapped your hand around his dick and started pumping him slowly. 

it was so enticing; this pace was too slow compared to how much mike was turned on. but he kept sitting like a good boy, letting you control his body entirely. 

he was looking at you from under half-closed eyelids, sweaty bangs tousled over his face, and chest occasionally heaving as he let out the most pitiful sobs you've ever heard. you felt as another wave of arousal hit and shifted slightly in place, trying to ease the tension between your legs.

you watched the veins on his dick glisten with wetness, the way the skin gathered at the head. when you began to flick your wrist, palm sweeping over the leaking tip, he cried out even more, moaning your name.

“shh, remember what i said?”

“s-sorry- you hand feels so good… c-can’t-“ 

his whimpers were too good in your ear, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about being caught anymore. 

why did he have to sound so seductive saying that?

mike was moaning and squirming, leaking so much precum that you could feel your entire wrist getting coated in his desire. 

“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he suddenly confessed, voice low and breathy. “why did you have to be such a tease, huh?”

his words made you pause for a second, staring down at him with a half-surprised expression, until the realization hit you. he really was playing dumb this whole time. this little shit!

you gripped the base of his cock just a little too tightly and pulled away to snap at him. “i’m not the one who teased.”

“‘m sorry- i just didn’t have the courage to make the first move, you know? i-i’m sorry! don’t be mad at me!” he kept blurting it all out, mouth betraying him faster than his mind could keep up. “you look so hot and confident all the time. of course every guy is afraid to approach you!” 

“afraid?” you slowly asked, your hand hadn’t left the base of his cock, only tightening around it. “are you afraid of me?”

mike whimpered, bucking his hips up embarrassingly. 

“n-no, no! i’m just saying- you always look so pretty, and gorgeous, and hot, and i fell in love with you the day i saw you for the first time.” he started babbling, making you smile despite yourself. “i only hesitated, because you are that much older than me. i didn’t think you would be interested. i even wrote songs about you…” 

as you were about to say you forgave him, he mumbled the last sentence in a quiet voice and looked up at you with those doe eyes. 

oh, you were so stupid! you were about to smack your own forehead. how could you not put two and two together this whole time? “the girl he couldn’t get and fell in love with at first sight?” of course!

“now shut up, or i’ll stop,” you replied shyly, trying to sound cool as a pink blush spread across your cheeks.

“no-no, don’t stop. please. i’ll shut up. just don’t leave me here like this.” he very clearly did not shut up, grabbing your hand and thrusting his hips slightly to meet the movements, silently begging you to continue.

obviously, you wouldn’t leave mike like this, especially after his confession. he was so stupidly cute, pure and adorable. you also couldn’t wait to see how he looks when he cums. almost as much as he needed to see you naked. you were still fully clothed sitting on top of him.

besides, it would be great fodder for your nights of shameful masturbation at the thought of this boy. 

“‘m close… aaghh! s-so close!” the sounds mike made were beautiful and breathtaking. in that moment you wished you could record them just for yourself. 

despite that, you immediately pulled away, forcing him to open his eyes and plead, “please?” 

“eat me out first like a good boy, ‘kay?” you whispered, sending a shiver down his spine.

as you finally got off from his lap and began undressing, you heard his husky voice murmur, “fuck- that’s hot.”

you giggled, glancing back at him. he stared at you like a museum painting, watching carefully as your clothes hit the floor, afraid to miss a second. his breathing grew heavier as more skin was revealed, his mind filling with thoughts he shouldn’t have been thinking. but it was too late. you looked so good to him that he could feel his dick twitching, aching for the attention it so badly craved. 

“enjoying the view?” you teased as you stripped off the last bits of your clothes. 

mike blushed but kept looking. his desire finally overtook his shyness. 

a shiver ran through your body at the hunger in his half-lidded eyes, now fixed on the curves of your body. 

you pushed him on the chest, signaling to lie back, and he obeyed, watching you move toward his face.

“fuck...” he breathed out in shock, pupils blown wide, lips parting before curling into a hungry grin.

he couldn’t believe his luck.

you looked down at the hearts in his eyes as your thighs come to rest alongside his flushed cheeks. your pulse suddenly quickened at the realization — you were about to let your brother’s friend tongue fuck your dripping pussy.

“you are so hot.” mike said softly, right on the edge of a moan, his voice rough and thick with arousal.

he wanted to be used by you so bad that he wasn’t sure he could handle holding back anymore. particularly, with your glistening pussy hovering just above his face.

abruptly, mike’s palms cupped your thighs and pulled you down to his face. his movements were hesitant at first, barely noticeable, but after a few laps of the tongue, he adjusted the pace that sent your mind spiraling. you nearly leaped off his face. 

“hold still.”

the fact that he said it while being completely crushed beneath you made your breath hitch.

his hands gripped your thighs harder, locking you firmly onto his face. you were not going anywhere.

all you could focus on was his tongue flicking across your slick folds. he was eating your pussy like he was starving, paying no attention to your flinching.

he circled his tongue up around your clit. your moans spilled out hot and breathy as you grasped at his black hair, overwhelmed.

“jesus, mike… what the fuck-“

you could see the smile in his eyes as he only pressed into your clit harder after the praise. he was so damn proud of himself and the reaction he was getting from you.

“you taste incredible,” he mumbled before thrusting his tongue right into your cunt.

“oh- god! holy- fuck, slow down!” your plea was weak and not convincing at all, especially as you began grinding against his face yourself. 

your eyes rolled back in satisfaction and moans grew louder, probably loud enough for your entire family to hear. but you couldn’t care less, when mike was eating you out like he needed it. he was devouring you.

your head fell back as you spread your knees to sink down further on his face. your worries about accidentally suffocating the poor guy have vanished when he adjusted his grip and wouldn’t let you rise.

his nose brushed repeatedly against your swollen clit, and you cried out at the pressure. you were starting to lose control, your body teetering on the edge of an intense orgasm… and that’s when you stopped. 

“mike-mike, wait.” you put all effort to get out of his grip. 

“what?” the disappointed look on his face almost made you coo at him. “did i do something wrong? you don’t like it?”

“no-no! of course not!” you patted his cheek and crawled down to where his still-hard cock waited. “i wanna ride you.”

you could hear how mike’s breath hitched once again and you put all your effort not to chuckle at him. the way the struggled with himself, tried to put a mask of an experienced guy, when you could see right through him. you knew that he was as nerdy as you brother, meaning no sex in college.

you stared at his dick, trying to ignore how your own breath caught too. all you wanted was to sink down onto him, feel him fucking you raw — the fantasy you’d replayed endlessly in your mind. 

“wait- before we start…” mike interrupted you midway.

he propped himself up on his elbows, and you looked at him, confused, as he leaned closer, ending with his face between your breasts. 

“didn’t have time to feel them…” he justified himself, making you chuckle.

but that embarrassment faded quickly as he kissed down your neck, pausing to nip at your collarbone. his hands followed the curve of your breasts and you panted loudly. 

the way he looked up at you while sucking on your hard nipple and pinching the other between his fingers, added to the heartbeat thumping between your legs. you breathed his name shakily and bit into your lip. it was harder and harder to keep quiet.

mike raised an eyebrow at you and flashed the naughtiest little grin as he continued playing with your breasts. you could feel the metal ring brushing your sensitive flesh and it made you ache even more.

“stop looking at me like that and let me ride you…” you scoffed, nudging his chest.

he sighed, but obeyed — how could he possible be oppose that?

you wrapped your hand around his swelling dick and pumped it a little, giggling at his whiny sounds.

“wanna fuck me?” you teased, savoring the desperation painted on his face. 

you were absolutely loving this.

“oh shit- yes-yes.” he nodded as he bucked his dick into your grip. 

you leaned close and whispered in his ear. “wanna stretch me open? make me scream? watch how my tits bounce while i ride you? is that what you want, mikey?”

his face flushed completely at your words as he hid behind his hands, groaning in frustration. “stop…”

“aww.” you cooed. “is mikey embarrassed? this is what you get for playing with me for so long.”

“but i apologized…” he pouted. 

“correct. and that is exactly why i’m still gonna fuck you.” 

his dick pulsated hard in your hand as you slid it between your wet folds. mike must have been so sensitive, moaning loud at this simple action, hands gripping your thighs again. you let yourself sink down slowly, to feel and remember every second, every vein of his dick. a muffled moan left you as you sank down further, arching your back. your heart pounded. 

slowly, your walls began to stretch around his thick head. the sensation was overwhelmingly delicious.

“ahhh…” 

the sound below made you eyes open. mike was mumbling your name quietly. the mixture of lust, embarrassment and bliss on his face was intoxicating. 

“aahahh…” he repeated.

“what, mikey?”

“i-i don’t think i’ll last long if you are this slow…” he swallowed, licking his lips. “i-i don’t wanna rush you, of course. b-but i’m so fucking close.”

“i’m not even halfway in, and you are already about to cum?” you forcefully raised your voice a little just to see his flush deepen.

“‘m sorry…” 

“fine.” you sank down on him in one motion. 

it filled you to the brim, and you both gasped at the feeling. the look on his face was well worth it. his head fell back, bitten lips parted, brows knit. a ray of sunrise catching his face. it was the first time you really noticed how beautiful he really was.

you began grinding your hips and groaning at the feeling of his cock stirring up inside you. his hands moved to your waist, steadying you as your grip switched from his chest to the arm of the couch. you kept working yourself up and down in his lap. he was so deep inside you.

“good boy, mikey…”

another needy moan fell out of him and his face looked almost pained by your words.

he didn’t want this to end. he didn’t want to cum so fast, trying his best to make you slow down, but all he could do was whimper and moan like crazy, which only fueled your desire to act rougher.

it was all just hot. you couldn’t even feel the cold air of the garage anymore, sweat slicked your skin. your head rolled back as you came, feeling the familiar pleasure spreading through your body. mike came right after you, his cock pulsing as he saw the fucked out look on your face. he came right inside you and you moaned in satisfaction, feeling the thick liquid spreading over the walls. 

heavy breathing filled the room. mike grinned when you mouthed a silent “fuck“ at him.

with his dick still inside you, you leaned down to connect your lips. you played with his tongue, enjoying the filthy squelching sound. that only made his pretty face to flare up even more.

“you look so cute like this, pretty boy. you can keep going on for me just a little longer, can't you?" you said with a sweet voice, looking on his pretty doe eyes, making him feel like he really was the most special. 

he couldn’t help but mewl a quiet “yes”, blush blooming across his cheeks.

you still had time before everyone woke up.