In which you ask roommate!Nanami to massage your sore breasts
“A-are you,” he begins, clearing his throat when his voice comes out shaky, “Are you sure you want me to, um, touch them?”
Without bothering to answer, you plop yourself down on his lap, grabbing those big, veiny hands you’ve been eyeing for years now and placing them on your clothed tits. Choked sounds splutter behind you. “Ken, didn’t you once say you’d do anything for me?”
His voice vibrates against your back. “Well, yes, I did, but I was hardly thinking about this when I made that promise.”
Head leaning back on his broad shoulder, you nuzzle against his jaw, the scruff of a beard yet to be shaved tickling your skin. Lips glossy, you skim them against the shell of his ear. Nanami shudders.
There's no room for rebutting your accusation when you’re grinding down on the evidence of his untruth. It's hard, hot, and throbbing. And all yours now.
“Ah, fuck.” Emboldened, and probably trying to hide his embarrassment, your roommate growls. His long fingers dig into your flesh, groping and squeezing with expert pressure. You moan. Gone is his shyness, the awkwardness, the not knowing where to look or how to be in your presence. In their place, sits a man bearing your weight, and not only is he unburdened by it, but he's sinfully urged.
“Is this what you wanted? You -mmm move those hips, sweetheart, that's it- you got bored in your room and came into mine to what? Hump me, like some desperate, dumb dog? This isn’t the girl I know. The girl I know is well-behaved. She's polite and sweet. She knows better than to be sitting on my lap without panties.”
“What? You thought I wouldn’t -ngh- n-notice how you’re soaking my pants? How your bare pussy lips are hugging my cock through the cotton?" He scoffs. "And here, I thought you were smarter than that. What a disappointment.”
He’s breathy, raspy, and grinding up into you.
Who could blame you for striking when he had been walking around your shared apartment with a loose shirt and joggers?
Sure, nothing about that sounds particularly seductive, but he had just gotten back from the gym. He was all sweaty, flushed, and asking if you could wait for him to shower before dinner like a married man. Like your married man. And those joggers?
Mewling, you arch your back into his punishing grip. His thumbs are grazing your hardened nipples, flicking like how you once told him, in a drunken stupor, you liked it. Fuck, if you get up now, there’d be a humiliating puddle on his pants. He’d probably rip it off when you leave and press the soaked material to his nose, drowning in your scent. Just like how you found him inhaling the scent of your dried juices from the ruined bedsheets you left for him to wash.
A sexy, glasses-wearing mouse in your trap.
“I’m sorry, Ken,” you whimper. “I just couldn’t -ah! f-fuck- help myself.”
Darkly, he chuckles, lips shifting against your forehead, as if he was mouthing kisses – it contrasts the dirty, rough circling of his hips and the sudden pinching of your nipples – and says, “No, I bet you couldn’t. Well, then, if my precious roommate needs help easing her…aches…what am I to do but help?”
You’re close. So so so close.
And when your high, that peak, that euphoric wave neared, a hair's breadth away, you’re stunned to find it snatched away. “W-what—”
Creeping down, a hand cups your sobbing cunt, pressing in so you can hear the obscene squelching of your juices. Once, twice, he lays a hard smack to your covered clit. You gasp.
“What do you say?” You have no response and he tuts. “When someone helps you, what are you supposed to say? Use your big girl words. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it.”
A trap was indeed laid out, but the one caught?
He kisses your temple. “You’re welcome. Now, why don't you turn around and let me see your pretty face.”
Dinner will have to wait it seems.
dailybridgerton
stormborns
jacobvanloon
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annaxmalina
