I was trying to be good. I really was. We had been flirting for a while — playful, a little flirty, a lot of tension. But I kept saying we should wait. Build it up. Make it worth it.
That lasted about five minutes.
He came over, we talked for a bit, and then he leaned in and said, “You keep pretending you’re not soaked for me, but your eyes tell on you.”
I didn’t say a word. I just climbed into his lap.
We kissed like we’d been waiting all month — his hands on my ass, my hips grinding down on his cock through his jeans. I could feel how hard he was, and I didn’t want to wait anymore.
I reached into his sweats, pulled him out, and slid down onto him so slow I nearly lost it right there. He groaned. I gasped. My head fell back as I sank all the way in.
And then I rode him like I needed it to survive.
Hard. Messy. Skin slapping, hair pulling, my fingers digging into his chest while he grabbed my waist and begged me not to stop. I came once, twice, lost count after that.
When I collapsed on his chest, still twitching, he kissed the side of my neck and said, “Told you your body would figure it out before your brain.”
And fuck… he was right. It was raw, electric, a wave of pleasure washing over us both.
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