u/Geologist_Flashy

I continued to fuck her warm wet mouth with short quick pumps, almost to the point that my cock was tearing her eyes up. I could feel my cock hitting her throat as she struggled to take me fully. The full control i had on her made me realize that this was pleasure coming from purely owning her completely.

“Good girl , you’re fully mine now.”

I came quickly than all the previous times and shot rope after rope down her throat which she enthusiastically swallowed. I felt quite spent at this point.

“ah, well that was fun” she said. She just came up to my face and planted a kiss on my mouth so that i could taste a bit of my own cum.

Who would have thought, that this sweet baby faced girl i had met not more than 72 hours ago was a filthy kinky bitch, who was insatiable by all means.

“ I want to ride you a bit now, I’m just soaking wet and horny” Sara said while she rubbed her pussy lips to soak up her fingers with the wet mess.

I noticed the wet patch that she was starting to rub against my left thigh now. She was just waiting for my cock to be ready. She continued to rub her pussy lips against my thigh and picked a slow rhythm by now. I could feel my thighs getting wetter and warmer with all this, to a point where my cock started tingling a bit with new found excitement. Sara noticed this. “Someone’s liking this more than i thought” she said.

She just straddled on top and started rubbing her pussy lips on my throbbing cock. Gently, rhythmic up and down across the back of my cock, teasing it enough without taking it inside her pussy. She placed both her hands on my chest as she continued grinding against my cock that was ready to go. I placed my hands on her boobs which were swinging above me, almost crushing it with my palms by now.

“I want you to taste me fully” Sara said, and took her right hand down her back. She put her index finger right inside her ass , watching her expressions change as she fully dug inside her hole with one finger. She then took it straight out and brought it to my lips to taste. I sucked at it while she climbed on ride on top of me.

The room was thick with it now—the heady, unmistakable smell of sex, warm and close in that tiny space. We tangled up together under the sheets, sticky and spent, and neither of us made any move to clean up or pull away. She fit against me like she’d always been there.

We talked. God, we talked—about everything and nothing, my whole strange journey across the world, her city, the ridiculous slow-burn of our two dates, that mortifying hug at the train station she still wouldn’t let me live down. The conversation wandered late into the night, drifting and unhurried, punctuated by kisses that didn’t lead anywhere in particular. I don’t know when we finally fell asleep. It just happened somewhere in the middle of a sentence, her head on my chest.

I woke around 4am to some warmth , only to find Sara rubbing her ass against my cock under the sheets. She was sticking to a slow rhythm of gently moving up and down , just enough to get my cock between her ass crack. I just lay there pretending to be sleeping while my dick showed full excitement. I grabbed her right breasts from behind, these really large supple boobs felt nice and comforting, while she let out a soft moan as she rubbed against me.

“There you are. I just woke up horny, sorry. And I couldn’t resist waking you up” she said with a soft giggle laden moan that escaped her. At this point my cock is fully erect while i play with her right nipple, as I almost crush them with my fingers with all the pleasure. This went on for a bit before she went under the covers. And wrapped her warm moist mouth around my fully erect dick. I’m gently lifting my hips at this point to get it all in to the back of her throat, while she used one palm to softly cup my balls. “Use my mouth as much as you’d like” she said in between all this. Hearing this i flip her to the side of my legs and starts pumping while i can hear gags and groans as o start picking up speed to hit a nice peak. At this point is more about fully owning her than my pleasure.

We couldn’t hold the position for long—neither of us wanted to finish like this. She lifted off me, breathless, and turned to face me properly, crawling back up my body with her hair falling around us both. For a moment she just looked at me, the teasing finally spent, replaced by something more direct.

“You’ve made me wait all night,” she whispered. “I’m done waiting.”

She straddled me, and I felt her settle her weight over me—not taking me in yet, just there, sliding herself against the length of me, slick and hot, letting us both feel exactly how close we were. Even that had my breath catching, my hands gripping her hips.
She reached down and lined us up. Then, watching my face the whole time, she lowered herself onto me—slow, inch by inch, her mouth falling open at the stretch of it.

Nothing I’d imagined came close. The heat of her, the tight wet grip as she took me in, the way her whole body shuddered when she’d taken all of me—it wiped every coherent thought out of my head. So this was what it was like. This overwhelming, drowning fullness of being inside her. I understood, in that moment, everything I’d been missing.
“Oh—” she breathed, going still, adjusting to me. “God, you feel—”
She didn’t finish. She just started to move—slow rolls of her hips at first, taking her time, both hands braced on my chest. Every motion sent a fresh wave through me, and I gripped her, meeting her, learning her rhythm as fast as I could.

She leaned down, her lips finding mine, and kissed me deep while she moved—then broke away to drag her mouth along my jaw, my throat, her tongue tracing hot lines against my skin. She murmured filthy things against my ear the whole time, low and constant, the way she’d learned undid me completely.

Her pace picked up. What had started slow turned urgent, both of us chasing it now, her breath ragged against my neck, my hands guiding her hips down harder onto me. She had to press her face into my shoulder to muffle the sounds she was making, the roommate down the hall the only thing keeping either of us quiet.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped against my skin. “Please—right there, don’t stop—”
I fought to hold on. I didn’t want this to end—not now, not when I’d waited a lifetime to feel anything close to it—so I gritted through it, gripping her hips, focusing on anything that would keep me from going over too soon.

She got there first.

I felt it build in her before it hit—the rhythm going ragged, her whole body winding tighter, her breath catching higher and higher. Then it broke. She came hard, shaking on top of me, her eyes rolling back, whatever she’d been saying dissolving into something wordless and broken against my shoulder. She clamped a hand over her own mouth, but the sounds still escaped, muffled and desperate.

And I felt it—all of it. The way she clenched down around me as she came, gripping and pulsing, squeezing me so tight I had to bite back a groan of my own. Her walls fluttered and pressed against me in waves, dragging me right to the edge with her, and it took everything I had not to follow her straight over.
She rode it out on top of me, trembling, incoherent, her thighs shaking against mine, until she finally collapsed forward onto my chest—boneless, breathing hard, still twitching with aftershocks.

“Oh my god,” she managed into my neck, her voice completely wrecked. “Oh my god.”
I held her there, still hard inside her, both of us slick and gasping, the lamplight warm on her red hair.
“Your turn,” she whispered, lifting her head with a dazed, wicked little smile. “And I want to feel all of it.”
She expected me to flip her over and finish—I could see her bracing for it, that dazed anticipation on her face.

I did the opposite.

Still buried in the afterglow, I eased her off me and moved down her body instead, pressing kisses down her stomach as I went, ignoring the confused, breathless little sound she made.
“Wait—you didn’t—” she started.
“You first,” I said against her hip. “Again.”

I settled between her thighs and went to work with a single-minded determination—mouth and fingers together, giving her no time to come down from the first one. She was still swollen and sensitive from coming, every touch magnified, and I felt her jolt hard the moment my tongue found her.

“Oh—fuck, I can’t, I just—” But she could. I kept at it, relentless, learning what made her hips buck and chasing it, two fingers curling inside her while my tongue worked her clit in steady circles. Her hands flew to my hair, gripping, not sure whether to pull me closer or push me back from how intense it was.

My fingers were starting to cramp—the strain of the angle, the relentless pace, a dull ache building in my hand. But she was screaming into a pillow not to stop, and there was no force on earth that would’ve made me pull away now.

So I didn’t stop. I pushed through the burn in my hand, fingers still working inside her, curling to that spot that made her hips leave the bed. My tongue flicked fast against her clit—no more slow circles now, just relentless, exactly what she needed. And I brought my free hand up to her right breast, catching her nipple between my fingers and rolling it, giving it that same firm pressure that had made her cry out earlier.

The three sensations at once undid her completely. She arched off the bed, the pillow barely containing the sound she made, her whole body seizing.
I felt her break—harder than the first time, if that was even possible. She clamped down around my fingers, pulsing, her thighs snapping shut around my head as the wave crashed through her. She was shaking uncontrollably now, one hand fisted in my hair, the other clawing at the sheets, every muscle in her locked tight and trembling.

I worked her through all of it, gentling only slightly, until the aftershocks left her twitching and gasping and finally pushing weakly at my forehead—too sensitive, too much, unable to take another second.
She threw the pillow aside, chest heaving, face flushed and wrecked, staring up at the ceiling like she’d forgotten her own name.

“You,” she panted, when she could finally speak, “are going to kill me.”
The truth I hadn’t said out loud: all that going down on her, all that drawing it out—part of it was for her, but part of it was me stalling. Because I was a virgin, and I’d never once made it this far. Every delay was me holding the finish line at arm’s length, not quite ready to cross a threshold I’d never crossed.
But watching her come apart twice, hearing what I’d done to her—something in me finally stopped hesitating. I was ready. I wanted it now, with none of the fear left.

I flipped her over onto her stomach, and she went willingly, boneless and eager, lifting her hips for me. I settled over her, prone against her back, and sank into her again—the angle deeper this time, her still-trembling body gripping me impossibly tight.

And then I let go of everything.

I drove into her with everything the whole night had built up in me—all the teasing, all the waiting, all the restraint I’d carried across an entire world—again and again while she buried her face in the mattress and moaned. She was still oversensitive from coming twice, and it tipped her fast, her back arching, her hands clawing the sheets as I pushed her up and over one more time, into some place past coherent thought.

I felt her go there—felt her clench and shudder beneath me, tipping into that eternal bliss—and that was it for me. There was no holding back anymore, and I didn’t want to.
When I came, it hit with a force that whited out everything. My whole body seized, the release rolling through me so hard I actually saw stars burst behind my eyes—every nerve I had firing at once, a lifetime of never collapsing into this single overwhelming moment. I collapsed onto her back, buried deep, both of us shaking, gasping, wrecked.

For a long moment neither of us could speak. My heart was hammering against her spine. Hers was racing just as hard beneath me.
“So,” she finally breathed, a dazed laugh in it. “That was worth the wait.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.

She caught on fast. Her hand slid down between us and pressed flat against the front of my jeans, against the strain I’d long given up hiding. She palmed me through the denim, slow and deliberate, and my whole rhythm stuttered.

“Feels like someone’s struggling,” she murmured, watching my face for the reaction—and getting it.
But it was the other thing that undid me. She leaned up to my ear, and the sweet, kind-eyed girl from the Tinder photo said something filthy—low and specific and shameless—right against my skin.

It hit like a live wire. I’d been raised to be polite, to keep everything decent and inside the lines, and hearing her talk like that was the exact opposite of everything I’d been conditioned into. That was the thrill of it—forbidden in a way that went bone-deep. Every dirty word out of her mouth felt like knocking down a wall I’d been told never to touch.
She saw it land. Felt me press harder against her hand. “Oh,” she breathed, delighted. “That’s what does it.”

“Keep talking,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it. “And you might get what you want.”
She gave me exactly what I’d asked for. Her mouth stayed at my ear and she talked—low, filthy, unhurried—telling me in blunt detail exactly what she wanted, no euphemisms, nothing polite about it. Each word peeled another layer off what was left of my restraint, her hand working me through the denim the whole time.

My hand finally moved lower, and I felt how ready she was through the black cotton—soaked through, hot against my fingers. I pushed the fabric aside and touched her bare for the first time—slick and hot against my fingertips. But I didn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet.

One finger, and only along the outside—tracing slow through how wet she was, parting her just enough to feel her, never pushing in. Teasing and drifting away again, spreading the wetness up toward her clit and back down, keeping it maddeningly light.
Her hips jerked up, chasing. I pulled back just enough to keep her wanting.

“You’re killing me,” she hissed, her hand flying up to cover her own mouth to stay quiet.
“Say please,” I murmured against her neck, dragging that single fingertip in another slow, feather-light circle.

She said a great deal more than please—filthy, breathless, demanding—all of it muffled behind her palm. She grabbed my wrist and pushed my hand harder against her, done with being teased, telling me exactly what she wanted. She wasn’t asking anymore.
“Inside. Now,” was the only part clean enough to be just those two words.

But I didn’t give it to her. My finger stayed outside—circling, pressing just at the entrance and then retreating, never once slipping in no matter how she rolled her hips.

She realized I wasn’t going to break. So she changed tactics.

“Fine,” she panted, shoving my hand away. “If you’re going to be like that—”
She sat up, pushed me back, and went straight for my jeans. She’d had enough of feeling me through the denim all night. Her fingers made quick work of the half-open button and the zipper, and she dragged the fabric down.

Whatever she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. Seven and a half inches, thick, after an entire night of being teased through denim—and the little smug plan she’d walked in with visibly reorganized itself.

“Well,” she said, dragging the word out. “That’s—not what I had you pegged for.”
“Disappointed?”
“The opposite of disappointed.” She wrapped her hand around the base, and now it was my turn to lose the thread. “You’ve been hiding this all night? Making me wait?”
“Turnabout,” I managed.
“Mm. No more turnabout.” She stroked again, firmer, all her earlier teasing repaid with interest.

She didn’t take me in right away. She teased—her tongue flicking just at the tip, light and merciless, tracing circles and then pulling back the second I strained toward her mouth. Everything I’d done to her, paid back exactly.

“Not so fun, is it,” she murmured, and did it again.
Then she decided she wanted more than to torture me. She shifted, swung a leg over, and repositioned herself above me—lowering herself until all that heat I’d been teasing all night was finally within reach of my mouth. She took me back between her lips at the same time.

Both of us finally getting what we’d been denied, at exactly the same moment.
The scent of her hit me—warm and heady and utterly intoxicating. Night jasmine, I thought stupidly, the kind that only opens after midnight, releasing everything it’s been holding back all day in the space of a single dark hour. That’s what she was. Pure ecstasy, right there against my mouth.

I never imagined it would be like this. Coming from where I came from—all that careful distance, all those years of never—I’d pictured my first time, if I pictured it at all, as something fumbling and quiet and apologetic. Not this. That it was her. That it was like this. Something in my chest turned over even as everything below it caught fire.

I pulled her hips down and gave in completely—tasting her, drinking in that midnight-jasmine heat while she gasped and rocked against my mouth. Whatever walls I’d carried across the world with me, they were gone.

She broke off from what she was doing to me, pressed her forehead against my thigh, and breathed my name into the dark. Just that—ragged, disbelieving, half-moan and half-question. It undid me more than anything her hands or her mouth had managed.

“Say it again,” I murmured against her, and dragged my tongue slow and deliberate right where it made her shudder.

She did. My name again, breaking apart in the middle this time as her hips rolled down against my mouth. Then she took me back in, deeper than before, and whatever answer I might have given dissolved into the two of us moving together—no teasing left, no restraint, just her name and mine passing back and forth in the dark like the only two words either of us knew.

The night jasmine had opened all the way now. And there was still so much of the night left.

Prev part : Part 1

The lock turned, and she pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh—roommate,” she whispered, easing the door open. “She’s probably asleep.”

Inside, it was pitch dark. She took my hand and led me forward, and I followed blind, completely lost in the geography of her apartment. I could make out the vague shapes of furniture and nothing else.
Then she stopped—suddenly, without warning—and I walked straight into her from behind.
There was no hiding it. For the second time in our short history, my body announced itself against her before I could do anything about it.
A giggle escaped her, quickly smothered by her own hand. “That again,” she whispered over her shoulder, delighted, barely keeping it quiet.
“It has a mind of its own around you,” I whispered back. “I take no responsibility.”
“Clearly.” She leaned back into me, deliberately this time, and I heard her breath catch as she settled against me in the dark. My hands found her hips on instinct.

I kept close as she led me through the dark—closer than I needed to, my hips staying flush against her from behind, because it felt good and she’d made it clear she didn’t mind. Every step became a slow, deliberate drag of my body against hers, and I felt her breath change with it. She pressed back into me just as much, one hand reaching behind to keep me there.
“You’re not making this easy,” she whispered, and I could hear the smile in it.
“You started it. Stopping in the middle of the room like that.”
“Mm. My mistake.” She rolled her hips back against me, unhurried, and it was my turn to bite back a sound. “Terrible, terrible mistake.”
I dropped my mouth to the curve of her neck, one hand splaying across her stomach to pull her in tighter, and she let her head fall back against my shoulder. Then she found my hand again and tugged, more urgent this time.
“Okay—bedroom. Now. Before I forget my roommate exists.”
The door clicked shut behind us.

She flicked on a lamp—the room bloomed into soft light. It was tiny and cozy, barely enough space for the bed and a little sofa crammed against one wall, everything close and warm.

And then she turned around and became an absolute menace.
“So,” she said, all innocence, drifting toward the far side of the room. “Can I get you a drink? Water? I think I have wine somewhere.”
I stared at her. “A drink.”
“Or—” she gestured at the little sofa, biting back a grin, “—you’re welcome to crash there. If you’re tired. Long night, early class and all.”

After the hallway. After all that. “You’re evil,” I said.
“I have no idea what you mean.” She leaned back against her dresser, arms crossed loose, thoroughly enjoying herself. The lamplight caught her red hair and the curve of her smile.

“You dragged me through your apartment in the dark,” I said, stepping toward her, “nearly gave us both away giggling, and now you want to know if I’d like a water.”

“I’m a good host.” She didn’t move, but her eyes tracked me closer, and the tease was fraying at the edges—her breath giving her away. “It’d be rude not to offer.”

I closed the last of the distance and put my hands on the dresser on either side of her, caging her in without touching, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her. “Offer declined,” I murmured.

Her composure finally cracked into something hungrier. “Thank god,” she breathed, and reached for my shirt.

She yanked me in and the tease evaporated—all that held-back pressure breaking at once, like a valve finally opened. We crashed together into a kiss that had none of the patience of the hallway. Her hands were everywhere, dragging my shirt up, and I broke away just long enough to pull it over my head.

Then it was frantic. She pulled her own shirt off in one motion, and I got my first real look at her in the lamplight—black bra, the swell of her breasts rising with each fast breath—before she was on me again, mouth hot against mine, hands splayed across my bare chest.

I didn’t know where to touch first. That was the honest truth of it. My hands moved over her like they couldn’t decide—her waist, the curve of her hips, up her back—greedy and overwhelmed, trying to take in all of her at once.

“Slow down,” she laughed against my mouth, breathless, though she was the one who’d started the storm. She wasn’t slowing down either.
She got my belt open, worked at the button of my jeans, but they stayed on—half-undone, forgotten the second her hands slid back up to my shoulders and pulled me down with her toward the bed. She landed under me in just the black bra and matching panties, hair fanned out, chest heaving, looking up at me like she’d been waiting all night for exactly this.
“You’re staring again,” she whispered.
“Can you blame me?”
Something shifted in me then—something that shoved all the conditioning and the careful politeness clean out of the way. Pure instinct. I pushed her back onto the bed, eyes locked on hers, and she read it instantly. Her breath caught; she knew exactly what had come over me, and she wanted it.

I slid my hand under her bra and went straight for her nipple, rolling it, giving it a firm pinch. Her eyes squeezed shut and a sound tore out of her—that knife’s edge between pain and pleasure—her back arching up off the sheets.

I dragged my mouth down her neck, biting, sucking at the soft skin there while she gasped and gripped my shoulders. Then lower, to the sensitive skin beneath her arm, dragging my tongue across it—somewhere she clearly didn’t expect, because she shivered hard and let out a broken little laugh that dissolved into a moan.

And I deliberately, pointedly, did not go near her crotch. I could feel the heat radiating off her, the way her hips kept lifting, searching for contact I refused to give. Every time she tried to guide me lower I’d move somewhere else—her ribs, the underside of her breast, the dip of her waist.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she managed, her voice wrecked.
“Doing what?” I murmured against her skin, giving her back exactly what she’d done to me with the couch.

“Bastard.” But she was grinning through it, breathless, her whole body strung tight and desperate.

Coming from a deeply conservative corner of Asia, my experience with intimacy had been almost theoretical—more imagined than lived. So when a student exchange program landed me on the opposite end of the earth in my mid-twenties, everything felt electric with possibility. I was a fish out of water in the best way: alone in a sprawling city, scraping rent together from an internship, my evenings swallowed by classes and my days wide open.

It was the early 2010s, when Tinder was still a novelty and swiping felt like a small act of daring. One slow afternoon, half-watching Netflix, I found her—Sara. A redhead with a soft, open face, kind eyes, and a smile that had something of Drew Barrymore’s warmth. The conversation caught fire immediately. We traded numbers, then agreed to meet at a bar near the financial district.

I arrived early, claimed a good seat, and waited with my pulse ticking faster than I wanted to admit.
Then Sara walked in.

She wasn’t trying to turn heads, but mine turned anyway. Everything about her seemed drawn by a careful hand—the curve of her hips, the way an unassuming t-shirt still hinted at a figure it couldn’t quite contain. And her lips. When she spotted me and smiled, they became the only thing in the room, growing more distracting with every degree that smile widened.

The moment she reached me, I think I stood up too fast—jumped, or half-stumbled, I honestly can’t remember. There was a lightness in my head, that same swimming rush you get from the first drag of a cigarette after going too long without one.
“Hey there, Sara. Nice to finally meet you,” I managed, pulling her into a hug.

And God, she smelled perfect—something warm and clean and faintly sweet, the kind of scent that makes you forget the sentence you were halfway through. I wished I could’ve held on a beat longer than was proper. But I didn’t. I was no creep, and whatever the years of conditioning back home had failed to teach me, they’d drilled restraint into my bones. Polite. Courteous. Firmly inside the lines of decent. Even if something else entirely was making its case from behind my zipper.

I pulled back before the hug could overstay its welcome, and she settled into the seat across from me with an easy grace that made the whole nervous performance of my arrival feel a little foolish. She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, looked at me, and smiled again—slower this time.
“So,” she said. “You made it.”
“Barely,” I laughed. “Ask me again after I figure out how the bus system works.”
The waiter came, and she ordered a gin—something with cucumber and a botanical name I didn’t catch—while I went for a whiskey old fashioned. She raised an eyebrow at that, approving.
“A man who knows what he wants,” she teased.
If only she knew how little of that was true right now.
She told me about her work—she was a designer, the kind who talked about typography and negative space like they were living things. When she described a project, her hands moved, her eyes lit, and I found myself listening less to the words and more to the way her mouth shaped them.
“And you,” she said, tilting her head. “You just packed up and moved to the literal other side of the planet. That’s brave.”

Brave. Inside, I was quietly losing my mind—every day a small negotiation with panic, every unfamiliar street a reminder of how far I’d flung myself from everything I knew. But I gave her a modest shrug, the kind that lets someone keep believing a flattering thing about you.
“Something like that,” I said.
By the time the second round arrived, the space between us had shrunk. Her gin was doing its work; my old fashioned was doing mine. She leaned in when she laughed now, her fingertips grazing my forearm when she wanted to make a point—which, conveniently, became more often.
“You keep looking at my mouth,” she said suddenly, not accusing. Amused. A little pleased.
I could’ve deflected. Years of conditioning told me to. Instead the whiskey answered for me. “Can you blame me? You’ve got a very distracting way of talking.”
Her smile turned into something slower, warmer—the kind that isn’t really a smile anymore. “Distracting good, or distracting bad?”
“Dangerous,” I said. “Definitely dangerous.”

She held my gaze a beat too long, then took a sip of her gin, watching me over the rim of the glass.
There was a war going on inside me—the pull of the tension against the loud, familiar voice asking what do I do next that won’t scare her off? The two forces ground against each other, and somewhere in the middle of it, I realized my hand had come to rest on her thigh. I hadn’t decided to do it. It had simply happened, the way your body sometimes moves ahead of your permission.

She didn’t flinch. If anything, she went still in a way that felt like the opposite of pulling away—and the tension in the air went taut as a wire.
Neither of us wanted the night to end, but the adult excuses crept in the way they always do. She had meetings. I had a class at an ungodly hour. So we settled the tab, half-reluctant, and stepped out into the cool of her city.

She walked me to the train station—so you don’t get lost, she said, which was kind, and also, I suspected, an excuse of her own. Our shoulders kept brushing. The walk felt slower than it needed to be.
At the entrance, I turned to her, and there it was: that magnetic pull toward her mouth, so strong I nearly gave in. I wanted to kiss her. Every nerve I had was arguing for it. Instead—coward that my conditioning had made me—I went for a hug.
And that’s when it betrayed me. Because as I pulled her in, I felt the unmistakable, mortifying press of exactly how much this evening had affected me. Right against her. There was no hiding it.
She went very still against my chest. Then I felt it—the small, low vibration of her laughing, just slightly.
“Get home safe,” she murmured into my ear, not letting go quite yet. “Text me when you’re back.”

The train ride home was useless. I replayed the hug on a loop—the press of her, the low hum of her laugh against my chest, text me when you’re back—mortified and elated in equal measure.
She beat me to it. Her message was waiting before I’d even climbed my stairs: that was fun. we should do it again soon.

Soon turned out to be Halloween. She named a bar in her neighborhood, and I got there early. By eight the place was packed—costumes, noise, the loose electricity of a night where everyone’s a little bolder than usual. She found me, and she’d caught that boldness too: closer than last time, touchier, her hand finding my knee like it belonged there.
We took a booth tucked into the back, half-shadowed, and the drinks kept coming. Her fingers traced idle lines on my thigh while she talked, and mine drifted to hers, and the conversation kept flowing even as neither of us was really listening anymore. At some point she leaned in, lips just brushing my ear.
“I can’t stop thinking about that hug,” she murmured. “Very memorable.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you.”
“Never.” She pulled back just enough to look at me, and there was a question in it. “My place is a five-minute walk from here.”
I didn’t need conditioning to answer that one.
The night had already made its decision for us. I flagged the waiter, paid the tab—fumbling the card a little because my hands weren’t entirely steady—and we spilled out into the Halloween night, the noise of the bar fading behind us.
Her neighborhood was quiet, the streets thinning of costumed stragglers. She slid her hand into mine, and that small contact felt louder than anything that had happened inside.
“This way,” she said, tugging me toward a side street.
I pulled her in before we’d gone half a block—couldn’t help it. Backed her gently against the brick of a shopfront, out of the streetlight, and finally kissed her the way I’d wanted to since the train station. She melted into it, her mouth soft and eager, a small sound catching in her throat.
“Took you long enough,” she breathed against my lips.
“I’ve been thinking about this since our first hug.”
“I noticed.” She grinned. “Hard not to.”
I kissed the line of her jaw, her neck, and let my hand slide up from her waist. My palm found the curve of her breast through the thin fabric of her shirt, and she drew in a sharp breath, arching just slightly into the touch. I could feel how little was underneath—the warmth of her, the way she responded when my thumb brushed across her.
“God,” she whispered, her head tipping back against the brick.
I kept my touch slow, unhurried, teasing more than anything, savoring the way each pass made her breath stutter. Her fingers curled into my shirt, gripping, pulling me closer.
“How far?” I murmured against her throat.
“Two minutes.” Her voice had gone unsteady. “Less if you keep doing that, because I’m going to drag you the rest of the way.”

We made it—barely—in a tangle of stolen kisses and slowing footsteps, her pressed against my side, both of us hardly holding it together by the time she got her key into the door.

Next part : Part 2