***
Ross hasn’t touched me in four days and… I’m losing my mind.
It’s not his fault – he’s been buried in deadlines all week. But it’s Sunday now and he’s still at it… just sitting at the other end of the sofa buried in his laptop, doing something with spreadsheets that could absolutely wait until tomorrow. He’s in grey sweats and nothing else. No shirt. Because he’s a terrorist. Just the sweats sitting low on his hips and his shoulders looking like that and his arms looking like that and I’ve read the same paragraph six times and I can feel my pulse between my legs.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.
Six years together and this man cannot read a room.
Fine.
I put the book down and pull off my shorts and underwear in one motion. My heart is hammering. At this point I’m sitting in my yellow tank top and thigh highs and nothing else, curled onto my side facing him. I open the book, and pull one knee up just enough. From where he’s sitting, there’s nothing left to imagine.
I turn a page I haven’t read. I’m wet already – just from the wanting, from the air hitting me, from knowing what I look like right now. I turn another page.
His typing stops.
I keep my eyes on the book and do my best to not smile. A pause. I hear the laptop close.
“Julia.”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing.”
“Reading.”
The cushion shifts. His hand lands on my ankle, his thumb pressing the skin above my sock. That single point of contact runs a current all the way up my thigh and settles right where I need him. He knows what that spot does to me. He’s known for years.
“You’re a menace,” he says.
I look at him over the book. “You could’ve just paid attention to me.”
He takes the book and drops it off the couch and his hand slides up my inner thigh and I feel every inch of the trail – his fingertips dragging slow over my skin and I’m holding my breath without even meaning to. His thumb traces the crease where my thigh meets my center. Close. I can feel the warmth of his hand almost where I want it. I tilt my hips toward him and he presses them back down.
“Ross. I swear to god.”
“You started this.”
“And I want you to finish it-“
His thumb grazes over me, barely there, and I gasp. Just a brush over my clit, and my whole body shudders. He does it again slower, and I feel how slick I am under his touch, how easily his fingers slide through me. Knowing he can feel how wet I am, how badly I’ve been wanting this, makes something hot bloom in my chest.
He pushes my knees apart. And then he’s between my legs and pulling his sweats down and I see how hard he is and my mouth goes dry.
I reach for him. He catches my wrist and pins it to the cushion beside my head and leans forward and I feel the head of his cock press against me. Just the tip, resting against my entrance, and I can feel myself pulse around nothing. He drags it up through the wet of me, over my clit, and the pressure makes my hips jerk.
“Please.“
He slides back down, nudging at my opening, and I try to shift my hips to take him in and he pulls back. I could kill him. I could actually kill him.
“Ross, if you don’t-“
He pushes in.
My breath leaves my body. One slow, long stroke and I feel every inch of him sinking into me – the stretch, the heat, the way my body opens around him. He bottoms out and holds there and I feel so full my brain empties. I clench around him involuntarily and he curses under his breath.
Then he pulls back and pushes in again harder. The angle is exactly right because he knows my body like a map. He hits that deep spot and my back arches off the couch and I grab the arm of the sofa because I need something to hold onto.
He fucks me steady and deep and every thrust sends a jolt from my center up through my stomach and into my chest. A throw pillow is jammed against my ribs and I shove it off the couch without looking. He laughs and I laugh and then he drives into me harder and the laugh turns into a moan. My tank top is bunched up and his hand covers my breast. His palm drags over my nipple, and I wrap my legs around him to pull him deeper. I feel him twitch inside me and I squeeze around him on purpose and he groans against my throat. I feel it vibrate through my whole body.
“Turn over,” he says into my neck.
I bite his bottom lip before I let him go. Then I flip onto my stomach, one knee pulled up, arms folded under my chin. I feel him line up and push back in and – fuck – it’s deeper like this, the angle hitting a different wall inside me. I gasp into the cushion and press my hips back to meet him because I want all of it.
His hand spreads across my lower back, holding me in place, and he fucks me harder. Each stroke pushes a sound out of me that I can’t control. I feel him everywhere – the fullness, the friction, the way he swells when he’s close. I know his body too. I can feel it building in his rhythm. His thrusts get shorter and rougher and his breath goes ragged behind me.
He pulls out and comes on my lower back.
I feel it land across my skin, streaking down my side. His hand gripping my hip, his breath shuddering. And something about it – the mess of it, the heat of it cooling on my skin, the raw, filthy proof of what I do to him – it doesn’t bring me down from the edge. It shoves me closer. I’m throbbing. That ache hasn’t broken, and I can feel his cum sliding down toward my hip and I want more.
I reach back, find his cock – still half-hard and slick – and guide him back. He makes a choked sound.
“Jules – fuck, I just-“
“I don’t care. Stay.”
He pushes in slowly and the sound he makes is almost pained. I can feel how sensitive he is – the way he twitches inside me, the way his hand tightens on my hip like he’s holding on. He’s wet with his own cum and I’m wet with mine and the slide of him back inside me is obscene and perfect. I reach underneath myself and press my fingers against my clit and start rubbing in tight, fast circles.
I know exactly what I need. My fingers are right where they need to be, and knowing that he came and I’m still using him, that he’s letting me take what I want because he knows me well enough to just hold still and give me this-
It hits me hard. My whole body pulls tight and I come in waves, clenching around him. My face is pressed into the cushion. My thighs are shaking. I moan into the fabric. He holds still and runs his hand slow up my spine and I ride it out until my body gives and I collapse flat against the sofa.
He pulls out slowly and I feel everything – the mess, the warm ache – and I don’t move. I lie there face-down with my tank top bunched under my arms and my thigh highs still on and his cum drying on my lower back. I feel completely wrecked.
He collapses beside me on the couch, half on top of me, and exhales against my shoulder.
“So what were you reading?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Someone was on a train.” I’m panting.
His fingers trace a lazy line up the back of my thigh. I close my eyes. I feel warm and spent and buzzy around the edges. I am not done with him today.
“You know you can just ask,” he says.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
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