soph

[hohhggk]

That Friday morning, it was no different — the echo of rowdy voices, sneakers screeching on the tile, girls laughing too loud. And somewhere in the chaos, there he was. Hockey jersey half-hanging off one shoulder, silver chain flashing under the fluorescent lights, his dark brown hair messily perfect in the kind of way that only happened when someone just didn’t care. Chris didn’t need to try. People gravitated to him like moths to a flame — and every girl at Lincoln High wanted to burn.

You weren’t one of them.

He’d slept with half the senior class. Maybe more. Fast nights, fast hands, faster disappearances. He was all swagger and no sincerity, the kind of boy who could kiss you like you were the only girl in the world, then forget your name the next day. You’d seen it all. The locker-side makeouts. The whispers. The not-so-subtle glances in class. You hated guys like him — careless, cocky, and dangerously charming.

And unfortunately… Chris Sturniolo wanted you.

Desperately.

You first caught his eye at the start of the year. Quiet. Mysterious. Always dressed like you had somewhere more important to be. Your makeup flawless, hair in a sleek clip, lips glossy and unreadable. You had this way of walking like you didn’t care who was watching — which, of course, made everyone watch.

Especially him.

“Hey, Ice Queen.” His voice hit you before his shadow did. Deep. Smooth. Infuriatingly smug.

You didn’t look up from your locker. “Don’t call me that.”

“But it fits,” he murmured, leaning his arm against the locker beside yours, boxing you in without touching you. His eyes dragged over you — long lashes, slow smirk, that stupid dimple. “You’re cold as hell to everyone but somehow still hot.”

You finally looked up at him. Annoyance flared behind your eyes. “Why don’t you go crawl back to whatever girl you left unsatisfied last night?”

He chuckled. A deep, low sound that settled somewhere in your chest like heat.

“You think about me in bed often, Y/N?” he teased, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

You snapped your locker shut. “Only when I’m thinking about nightmares.”

“Shame,” he said, following you down the hall like a shadow, “because I’ve been thinking about you every night this week. Every damn night.”

You turned sharply, stopping in the middle of the hallway. “Whatever game you’re playing—”

“Oh, it’s hockey, baby.” He winked.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Y/N!” a voice called behind you — Ms. Lawson, clipboard in hand. “I’ve been looking for you.”

You took a grateful step away from Chris and met your teacher halfway.

“I need someone reliable to run point on the championship game next Friday,” she said. “Tickets, player check-in, after-party logistics — the whole thing. It’s a big deal. Principal’s request.”

You opened your mouth to protest but hesitated. One look at her face and you knew you couldn’t say no.

“I’m assigning you manager for the event.”

You felt it before you heard it — Chris behind you again, grinning like he won something.

“Wait — she’s managing my game?” he said, and you could practically hear the satisfaction dripping from his voice.

“It’s not your game,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” he said smoothly. “Finals. Championship. Against Eastbridge — undefeated this season. Biggest night of my life.”

He leaned closer, breath warm near your ear. “And now you’ll be there. Watching me. All night.”

You stepped away, heart thudding, trying to stay cold. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “You wearing black for me tonight?”

You looked down. Tight black top, tucked into a plaid mini skirt, sheer tights, and platform boots. Your signature. Minimal effort. Maximum intimidation.

He smirked again. “God, I love when you dress like that.”

You scoffed. “Go away, Sturniolo.”

“No can do,” he said. “You’re stuck with me for a whole week, Miss Manager.”

He tapped your clipboard, the metal clinking under his fingers. “Better get used to having me around.”

You hated him. Every inch of him. The smirk. The swagger. The way he somehow always made your body heat spike ten degrees. And yet — the worst part was that you felt it. The tension. Thick. Heavy. Like static in the air before a storm.

As the day passed, you tried to shake it.

But at lunch, he was there — catching your eye from across the cafeteria. Smirking when he made a girl sit in his lap just to get a reaction out of you.

In class, he sat behind you — legs wide, chair tipped back, tapping his pen against your chair leg just to mess with you. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. But your spine stayed straight, your body tense, your mind racing.

And then after final period — as you headed down the hall to drop off the event sign-up sheet to Ms. Lawson’s office — he cornered you again. Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, hockey jersey slung over his shoulder.

“Next Friday,” he said, eyes scanning yours. “You working the ticket booth?”

You nodded warily. “Why?”

“Let’s make a bet.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“If we lose… I’ll stop. No more teasing. No more flirting. I’ll act like you don’t exist.”

Your breath hitched. The thought of never seeing that infuriating smirk again should’ve thrilled you — but something deep in your chest tightened instead.

“And if you win?” you asked slowly.

His lips curved into a grin so devastating it made your stomach twist.

“You come back to my room. That night.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “You’re playing Eastbridge. They’ve never lost.”

He stepped closer, just enough to make your back press into the wall behind you. His hand lifted — fingers ghosting over your waist, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

“I know,” he whispered. “So say yes.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. The hallway was too quiet. His eyes were too much. Your pulse was too loud.

Finally, with your voice low, you said, “You’re insane.”

“But you’re thinking about it,” he murmured, lips barely an inch from yours.

You should’ve walked away.

You should’ve said no.

But you didn’t.

You just looked him dead in the eye and whispered, “Fine. You’re on.”

And that was how you ended up in a bet with the one boy you swore you hated.

Chris fucking Sturniolo.

[hohhggk]

the science project list

• summary : Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

part 1 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783404655449456640/the-science-project-pt-1

part 2 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405001245671424/the-science-project-pt-2

part 3 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405266539577344/the-science-project-pt-3

part 4 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405423291187200/the-science-project-pt-4

part 5 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405599057674240/the-science-project-pt-5

part 6 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405778904170496/the-science-project-pt-6

part 7 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783405912884969472/the-science-project-pt-7

part 8 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783406094990163968/the-science-project-pt-8

part 9 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783406266172260352/the-science-project-pt-9

part 10 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783406453075623936/the-science-project-pt-10

part 11 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783406609463492608/the-science-project-pt-11

part 12 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783407639346528256/the-science-project-pt-12

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[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 12

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Her room was warm and glowing with a soft golden hue—fairy lights twinkling along the walls, flickering candles casting soft shadows that danced over the posters above her bed. Outside her window, a quiet snowfall blanketed the world in white, turning the streets into a glowing wonderland, hushed and untouched. The contrast between the wild, breathless chaos that had just happened and the gentle stillness around them felt almost surreal.

Y/N lay on Chris’s bare chest, still panting, her skin dewy with sweat, her breath cooling quickly in the space between their tangled bodies. His heart thudded steadily beneath her ear, his palm spread across her back, slowly rubbing in calming circles with his thumb dragging lightly up and down her spine. His other arm curled protectively around her, fingertips softly grazing the curve of her waist.

He let her breathe.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak.

He just held her, grounding her, letting the weight of what had just passed between them settle in its own time.

Her body was still trembling slightly, not from cold, but from aftershocks—waves of sensation and emotion still rippling under her skin. And Chris could feel it.

He gently dipped his head, his lips brushing her hairline as he whispered, voice low and raw with reverence, “Hey… breathe, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His voice was honeyed gravel—still dominant, but soft. Controlled. Loving.

She nodded slightly against his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

Chris’s hand moved up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, slow and careful like he was trying not to break her. He placed a kiss there too—on her crown. Lingering.

“Thank you,” he whispered, still holding her so close. “You did so good for me. So fucking good.”

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers tightening slightly where they rested on his ribs.

Chris leaned back just enough to look at her face—his blue eyes scanning every inch of her expression with quiet, focused care. His brows furrowed a little with concern, but his gaze was nothing but soft.

“How do you feel?” he asked gently, brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “You’re not hurting, right? You feel okay?”

She nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m okay.”

Still, Chris studied her a second longer, as if making sure her words matched the truth in her eyes. Then, slowly, he leaned in again, kissed her nose.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “All of you. Every inch. I mean it.”

He kissed her jaw next. “You let me see all of you… and I need you to know how perfect you are. Nothing about you could ever be anything but gorgeous.”

Y/N blinked up at him, her eyes glassy now—not sad, but overwhelmed. He gave her a soft smile and then, with a slow exhale, shifted beneath her.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, kissing her temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He didn’t ask her to walk.

Chris sat up, still cradling her close, and with one fluid movement, lifted her into his arms like she weighed nothing. Her bare skin against his still made her shiver, but he held her tighter, murmuring, “I’ve got you. Always.”

They passed through the candlelit room, the fairy lights painting shadows across their bare skin. The snow outside was still falling, casting a dim glow into the space. He paused just long enough to pull a towel from the bathroom hook and flick on the shower.

The warm mist rose instantly.

He stepped into the glass shower with her still wrapped in his arms, settling her feet gently to the tiled floor but keeping an arm wrapped around her waist.

Hot water cascaded over them.

Chris reached for the soap and took his time, lathering it between his palms, and then gently washing her body—starting with her shoulders, moving slowly down her arms, then her back. His fingers stayed delicate, worshipful, like she was a fragile sculpture he was lucky to touch. When he knelt to clean between her legs, he looked up at her, searching her face again.

“You’re okay?” he asked, his voice soft but clear over the sound of the water. “Let me know if anything feels off, alright?”

She nodded again. “I’m okay, Chris.”

His hand was so gentle, respectful, yet so full of love. When he stood again, he kissed her collarbone, then her jaw, and finally her lips—slow, slow, as if tasting her all over again.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed into her mouth. “So perfect. You have no idea how good you are to me.”

He rinsed her off, then quickly washed himself, not once letting go of her completely. After the shower, he wrapped her in the thick towel, another around his waist, and carried her back to the bedroom.

The sheets were a mess, but Chris didn’t let her touch them.

“Sit,” he murmured, kissing her cheek. “Let me.”

She watched in stunned silence as he pulled the corner of her soft pink duvet off, gathering the crumpled sheets in his arms and replacing them with a clean set he found in her closet—fluffy, lilac-colored, still smelling faintly of laundry detergent and lavender.

He smoothed them down, fluffed her pillows, then turned to her with open arms.

“C’mere.”

She crawled into the fresh bed, and he pulled her right into his chest, wrapping the duvet around them both.

The room glowed with soft lights and warmth. The wind outside was gentle against the window, and the snow kept falling. Chris held her as though anchoring her to the world, fingers stroking her spine again, one hand sliding into her hair, the other wrapped around her waist.

That’s when she got quiet.

He felt it instantly—the shift in her breath, the way she tensed just slightly against him.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling her even closer. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, then muttered, “I just… I don’t know. I feel weird.”

Chris leaned back, just enough to see her face again. “Weird how, baby? What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

She bit her lip, eyes darting down. “Just… I guess I’m scared. Or… insecure. Like what if it was just a one-time thing? What if I’m just… not enough?”

His brows knitted again, but this time with something closer to pain.

“No,” he said immediately, voice low and firm, but so gentle. “No, don’t do that. Don’t go there.”

His hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing beneath her eye.

“You are more than enough. You are everything, Y/N.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, and Chris kissed her forehead.

“I’m here,” he said again. “Right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She sniffed, curling in closer. His arms didn’t loosen once.

“You feel safe with me right now?” he asked quietly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Just be honest. It’s okay.”

She nodded into his chest. “Yeah. I do. Really safe.”

Chris let out a soft breath of relief. He kissed the top of her head again. “Good. That’s all I care about. That you’re okay. That you feel safe and cared for.”

He rubbed her back again, slow and repetitive, like a lullaby.

“You did so good. You made me feel so much. And you don’t ever have to be scared, okay? I’m right here. Every second. You can talk to me about anything.”

She was quiet, but he could feel her tension melting, breath evening out, body relaxing again.

The candles flickered, casting a golden halo over their entwined bodies, and outside, the snow still fell like feathers from the sky—soft and endless.

In her rom-com room, safe in his arms, she felt like the leading girl at last.

And Chris? Chris held her like he’d waited his whole life to.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 11

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

The moment Chris flipped me over, everything shifted. His grip on my hips was strong, guiding me effortlessly as he positioned himself behind me, his chest pressed against my back, breath hot on my neck. My pulse raced, and I could feel his chest rising and falling against mine as his hands moved down to settle at my waist, keeping me in place. I wasn’t sure if I was still breathing.

His fingers tightened, almost possessively, sending a shiver down my spine. I felt the weight of his body looming over me, and even though the space between us was small, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to just us.

“You like that, don’t you?” Chris whispered in my ear, his voice husky, low, and dripping with something dangerous. “You like it when I’m in control like this.”

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have words. My body was vibrating with need, with desire. I could feel the way my heart hammered in my chest, the heat radiating from his body as he leaned into me, his hard form pressing against my back. He moved his hands up to my ribs, fingers grazing lightly against my skin before they slid lower, where they seemed to rest, waiting.

“You’re so fucking tense,” he murmured. “Just relax, Y/N. I won’t bite… unless you want me to.”

My body shook, barely able to contain the fire he was igniting. Every breath I took felt like it was too much—like I was drowning in him, in the heat of the moment.

Chris’s lips brushed against the side of my neck, his mouth teasing my skin before his teeth grazed it, just enough to send a jolt through me. He chuckled softly at the way I shuddered beneath him, and I could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again. “So responsive. I can’t get enough of you.”

The way he said it sent a wave of heat through my chest, and I couldn’t help but let out a shaky breath. My hands gripped the sheets beneath me, the soft fabric doing little to calm the intensity of what was happening. Every inch of me was alive, burning from the inside out, and all I wanted was more.

He pushed forward just enough that I could feel the pressure building between us, that need that was nearly unbearable. His movements were deliberate, slow—but the tension was so thick I could practically taste it. His voice was a constant murmur against my ear, his words sliding into me like whispers in a dream.

“I think you like it when I have you like this,” he teased, voice rougher now, as though he was barely holding on. “Don’t lie to me.”

The words hit me hard, and I sucked in a breath, closing my eyes as I bit my lip. My entire body was trembling, not just from his touch, but from everything—every heated word, every second of anticipation that was about to break me.

“I don’t—” I began, but the words didn’t come out the way I wanted. The moment was too raw, too heated, and I couldn’t lie. Not when every part of me was screaming yes.

Chris didn’t give me a chance to finish. His hands slid around to my front, dragging over my skin, and I arched involuntarily, pushing back against him. The pressure was building—so much pressure. His hands were everywhere, touching, pressing, and I was losing myself in it. The way he touched me, the way his fingertips lingered just a moment longer before moving, sending shivers down my spine—everything felt like it was too much, but also not enough.

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against my ear once again. “Relax, Y/N,” he murmured. “Let go.”

And for the first time, I let myself. My body melted into him, every nerve exposed, every inch of me on fire.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 10

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

chapter 10 - y/n pov

My breath caught in my throat the second he pressed in—slow, thick, and hot—and I swear I saw stars.

My legs jerked around his hips. My back arched. My hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in, clutching. I could barely breathe, let alone think.

He was inside, not all the way, not yet—but enough to stretch me, burn me, split me open like I was made for it.

And he wasn’t moving.

Chris just hovered over me, arms shaking slightly where they held him up, muscles tight, face flushed and wrecked, watching the way my lips parted and my brows knit.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice wrecked, low, hot. “So fucking tight. You feel that?”

I moaned, high-pitched and breathy. “Yes—oh my God, yes—”

He growled, deep in his throat, and suddenly pushed in another inch.

I cried out, clinging to him, hips lifting involuntarily to chase him deeper.

“Shhh,” he cooed, but his tone was taunting. His mouth brushed mine. “What would your science teacher think of this, huh?” he whispered, tongue teasing my bottom lip. “Y/N letting her partner fill her up right after a biology lesson.”

I gasped. My cheeks were on fire. My head tipped back.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—burying himself completely. I screamed.

Chris groaned, head dropping to the crook of my neck. “Fuck, you take me so good,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

My nails raked down his back. My legs were trembling.

Then he started moving.

Slow, at first—deliberate. Deep, dragging thrusts that pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, hard and wet and perfect. The room was filled with the slick sound of our bodies meeting—skin slapping, breath catching, moaning.

He buried his face in my neck, tongue sliding over my skin, teeth grazing my pulse. “You taste like fucking sugar,” he hissed. “I knew you would. You’re so sweet when you moan like that, baby.”

My whimper was shameless. Loud. And I didn’t care.

I couldn’t care—because Chris was fucking me slow and deep, grinding into me with each thrust, his hips grinding into mine, his cock hitting the perfect spot again and again and again.

My thighs were shaking. My hands slid up into his hair, tugging, pulling, grounding me to something while my body felt like it was floating, unraveling.

“You’re soaking me,” he whispered. “So desperate for it. I should’ve known. All that attitude in class just meant you needed me to ruin you like this.”

“Chris—please—please—” I couldn’t even finish. My voice broke on a moan.

He snapped his hips harder, and I screamed. My legs wrapped tighter. My whole body was burning.

“You beg real pretty when you’re underneath me,” he grunted. “Bet no one else gets to see you like this, huh? Mouth open, eyes rolling back, crying just from my cock.”

And then he kissed me.

Sloppy. Deep. Tongue swallowing my moans. His lips crashed against mine, not soft or sweet—starved. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he was losing his mind from the taste of me. Our mouths were slick, spit dripping down my chin, his tongue pressing deep, licking, exploring.

“You feel so fucking good,” he panted. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

Every word was making me wetter. Tighter. Closer. My moans were high and cracked, desperate, and I could barely hold still under the weight of his body pinning me down.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he murmured, biting at my bottom lip. “Let me feel you lose it all over me?”

I nodded, crying out. “Yes, yes, Chris, I’m gonna—”

“Good girl,” he groaned. “Come on. Show me how good I’m ruining you.”

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[hohhggk]

The science project pt. 9

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Chapter 9 - y/n pov

His mouth leaves me, and I can still feel the ghost of him between my thighs—like my body refuses to believe he’s gone.

But he’s not really gone.

He’s hovering above me, mouth wet, lips swollen, hair a mess, eyes absolutely black.

And he’s still hard.

I feel it—pressed between us. His hips grinding down into my thigh like he’s trying to keep himself from losing control. His length so thick and heavy it makes my stomach twist, and he hasn’t even touched himself.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes. His voice is wrecked. Deep, gravelly, strained—like he’s holding back something animal. “Laying here under me like that. Legs shaking. Eyes begging.”

My fingers curl in the sheets. My chest is rising too fast. My skin’s burning everywhere—especially where his palm is gripping my thigh, holding it wide open, claiming it.

He leans down and drags his mouth over my jaw, slow and wet, breath hot on my ear.

“I haven’t even gotten started, baby.”

I whimper—actual whimper—and he smirks against my neck.

“You like this, huh?” he whispers. His lips trail down, kissing just below my ear, teeth grazing, tongue teasing. “You like being laid out and soaked while I grind into you with a hard-on so bad I’m seeing stars.”

My thighs squeeze around his waist involuntarily, and he grinds down. Hard.

I moan. Loud. My hips twitch up toward his, begging for friction.

He growls—actually growls—and presses down again, his clothed length dragging against me, thick and firm through the thin fabric of his sweats.

“Feel that?” he says, low. Dangerous. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”

I nod. Barely. I can’t speak. My throat is too dry. My whole body’s buzzing.

He kisses me then—hard.

Tongue deep, lips tight, messy and hot and starving. His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back so he can devour me deeper, his other hand gripping my thigh, holding it wide while he rocks against me. The pressure is unbearable. We’re soaked. Sticky. My body is sliding against the sheets, tangled and flushed and aching.

And then he growls against my mouth, desperate, frustrated.

“Fuck it.”

He pulls back, eyes wild. “I can’t take it anymore.”

His hand goes to his waistband, and he rips his sweats down just enough—freeing himself, heavy and hard and flushed. I gasp, legs tightening around his hips out of pure instinct.

Chris lowers himself between my thighs again, his bare skin hot against mine, and the moment he drags his hips down and his bare length presses against my soaked folds—

I scream.

“Chris—!”

His forehead presses to mine, his eyes locked on mine, hand gripping his base and dragging himself slowly against my entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing, slicking himself in how wet I am.

“You want this?” he pants. “Say it.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I just nod, frantic, my hands fisting in his shoulders, dragging my nails down his back.

His lips graze mine.

“I need to hear it, baby. Say you want me to ruin you.”

“Please,” I gasp. “Please, Chris. I want it—I want you.”

And then—

He thrusts.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 8

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

chapter 8 - Y/N’s POV.

Chris goes lower.

His mouth trails down your stomach. His breath hot. His fingers slide your shorts off. He sees you—bare, soaked, waiting—and it’s over.

He loses it.

His tongue is on my collarbone, licking the bruise he just made like he’s trying to own it, mouth wide and hot and slick. I’m gasping, whimpering beneath him, my legs trembling on either side of his hips as he grinds into me again—slow, hard, possessive.

And then his lips start moving lower.

I barely register it at first—my head is spinning, my mouth parted in a dazed moan, my body stuck somewhere between floaty and feverish. But then I feel it—his lips kissing a slow trail down the center of my chest, down my ribcage, over the middle of my stomach, and I whine.

“Chris…” My voice is high, desperate, almost shaking. “What are you…?”

He looks up at me from where he’s hovering over my hips, eyes half-lidded, blown black with lust, spit on his lips, chest rising and falling like he just ran a fucking marathon.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he says. It’s not a question.

And he’s right. I’m soaked. I’m shaking. My entire core aches.

Still, I can’t find words—I just nod, frantic, the back of my head digging into the pillow, my thighs squeezing around his waist as he grins.

“That’s what I thought.”

His hands move down—slowly, fingertips grazing the sides of my thighs, gripping, pulling them open wider. Then his thumbs slide under the hem of my shorts and he tugs—painfully slow, letting the fabric drag over my heated skin, peeling them off inch by inch like he’s unwrapping a gift.

And I can feel how wet I am. I know the evidence is there. My cheeks burn.

When he finally gets them past my knees, he tosses them somewhere behind him, then looks down between my legs—and pauses.

His lips part. His eyes darken. He groans low, almost like he’s in pain.

“Jesus fuck, Y/N…”

His hand drags up the inside of my thigh, stopping just before it touches where I’m soaked, and he just stares. Like he’s mesmerized.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping.”

He leans in—mouth hovering just inches above me—and breathes.

“You smell so fucking good. Like cinnamon and perfume and sex.”

And then—finally—finally—his tongue slides up the inner curve of my thigh.

I moan. My back arches off the bed. My fingers twist in the sheets.

His tongue licks again—slow, teasing, dragging from the crease of my thigh to just near the edge of my panties. I feel every detail of it—wet, hot, hungry. His hands are holding my hips down, thumbs pressing into my waist, fingers curled tight like he’s trying to ground himself, like he’s trying not to lose control.

But he’s already losing.

Because he growls—deep in his throat—and then mouths me over the fabric, full-tongue, open-mouthed, sucking hard, grinding his face against me like he’s already obsessed.

And I cry out.

“Chris—!”

He presses harder, nose buried, tongue licking a slow, hard stripe up the soaked fabric, groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You taste so fucking sweet, baby,” he rasps against me. “I need these off.”

In one swift motion, he hooks his fingers into my panties and yanks them down—slow over my thighs, my knees, my ankles—leaving me completely bare beneath him.

And when he looks down again, he goes still.

His tongue drags across his bottom lip. He lets out a low, hoarse fuck.

Then he meets my eyes—his expression feral, starved—and says, “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.”

And then he dives in.

His mouth crushes against me—tongue hot and thick and ravenous, licking into me with long, deep strokes, flattening against my clit, dragging up and down in messy, desperate motions. He’s moaning into me, groaning like I’m his favorite fucking meal, and I can’t think—I can’t breathe.

“Chris—oh my god—”

He grips my thighs tighter, holds me wide open, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring. I feel him everywhere—his spit, his moans, the heat of his breath as he buries his face deeper between my legs like he wants to live there.

And I can’t stop shaking.

My thighs are twitching, hips bucking, and he loves it—grinds himself into the bed as he eats me out, hips rutting against the sheets, desperate to relieve the pressure in his pants as he sucks my clit into his mouth and groans.

“Fucking perfect,” he pants. “You taste like heaven. You’re so wet, baby, you’re—”

He cuts himself off by licking into me again—tongue pushing deep, then dragging up and swirling around my clit until my eyes roll back and I scream.

My hand shoots down and tangles in his curls, pulling—hard.

He groans. Loud. And he doesn’t stop.

His rhythm gets rougher, sloppier, wetter—spit and slick dripping down my thighs, his jaw soaked, the sounds obscene, sticky and wet and filthy.

And then he says it.

“You’re gonna come for me, baby. Right here on my mouth.”

His tongue flicks just right.

“You’re gonna come so hard, you forget your fucking name.”

I cry out, thighs shaking around his head, fingers digging into his hair, the whole room spinning—

“Chris, please—”

“Give it to me,” he growls. “Come all over my tongue.”

And when I do, it’s violent.

I scream. My back arches. My legs clamp around his head as the orgasm wrecks me—pulse after pulse ripping through me, my vision flashing white, my body jerking, my hips lifting off the bed—

He moans into me, tongue still lapping, swallowing every drop, not stopping until I’m twitching and whining and begging him to slow down—

And only then, finally, does he lift his mouth from me, chin soaked, eyes wild.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leans over me, kisses me hard.

And I taste myself.

“I could live between your thighs,” he whispers. “And I wouldn’t get tired.”

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 7

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

chapter 7 : y/n pov

He’s not kissing me anymore—he’s devouring me.

His lips are slick and hot and everywhere, mouth dragging across my jaw, wet kisses smeared over my cheek, down my throat, across the front of my collarbone. He groans against my skin like he’s drunk on it—open-mouthed, teeth grazing, tongue licking and sucking like he’s starving.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Your skin… it’s so soft, I can’t—”

His voice breaks as he latches onto the spot just above my chest, sucking hard enough to leave heat behind. I feel the blood rush there, the sting of the bruise forming under his tongue.

And then I moan.

His hips buck.

“You keep making those sounds,” he growls, “and I’m gonna make a mess in these fucking sweatpants.”

I can feel it now—him grinding into me hard and wet, cock rock-solid against the thin denim of my shorts. Each movement draws a pulse through my whole body, a cry from the back of my throat. I’m soaked. Every single grind drags against the aching spot between my legs like he’s sliding right over it, and my hips lift to meet him.

“Please,” I whisper. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

But he does.

His hand dips under my top again, this time lifting it fully, exposing my stomach, then the swell of my chest, until the soft cotton is bunched beneath my chin.

His breath catches.

“Oh my God,” he mutters—like he wasn’t prepared for how good I’d look. “Fucking perfect.”

And then his mouth is on my chest—everywhere. Kissing, sucking, dragging his tongue over the skin, nipping, groaning, whispering curses into me. His hand comes up and cups one breast while he licks and sucks at the other—slow and possessive and messy.

“You were made to be touched,” he says against my skin, voice low and raw. “Look at the way your body reacts. Look how hard you’re breathing—how bad you want it.”

He rolls his hips again—this time harder, grinding his length right against my clit, and I cry out—sharp and breathless and broken.

“Say you want it,” he demands. “Say you want me to touch you everywhere.”

“I do,” I gasp. “I want you—I want you everywhere.”

That breaks him.

He crashes back up to my mouth and slams our lips together—tongue aggressive, dominant, deep, licking into me with no hesitation, no shame. His hand slides under my shorts, palming over the heat there—groaning deep in his chest when he feels how wet I am.

“Holy shit,” he pants, lips dragging along mine, spit stringing between us. “You’re soaking through these shorts.”

His fingers rub harder—over the fabric, the pressure making me tremble—and then his mouth moves to my ear.

“You’re dripping for me, baby. Fuck, you’re practically begging.”

I whimper as he bites my earlobe, then moans when his hand squeezes my thigh and pushes it open further.

And then he’s humping again—grinding himself into me, thick and heavy and needy, pressing me hard into the mattress with every thrust. His body is shaking. His breath is ragged. I can feel his cock throb with every movement—he’s so turned on it’s almost painful.

“Your little shorts,” he growls. “The ones you wore just for me, huh? You knew I’d be here. You wanted this.”

He ruts harder.

“You wanted my cock pressed against you like this.”

His hand grabs my jaw again—firm, fingers digging into my cheeks—and tilts my head to look right at him. Our lips brush, hot and wet and breathless.

“You wanted me to get so fucking hard I couldn’t think.”

I whimper.

“Well, congratulations,” he snarls, grinding again—harder, faster, claiming me with every desperate thrust. “I can’t think about anything but you.”

Then he licks into my mouth again—sloppier now, wetter, both of us groaning, tongues wrestling, saliva dripping down my chin. I can feel the mess, feel the slickness of his lips against mine, hear the obscene noises echoing in my candle-lit bedroom.

And I don’t care.

His body pins mine into the sheets, thick forearms on either side of my head. The scent of cinnamon and sweat and him clouds the air. The lights glow soft and golden, the bed creaks beneath us, his breath fans hot over my skin.

“You taste like sin,” he groans. “You’re my favorite fucking flavor.”

He drops his head to my chest again—licks up the valley, sucks another bruise under my collarbone.

I’m soaked. I’m trembling. I’m his.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 6

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

chapter 6 : y/n pov

His mouth breaks from mine again—just long enough to suck in a breath like he’s drowning. His lips are slick, his tongue wet and swollen from how deep he’s kissed me, and the second his eyes drop to my mouth again, he groans like it physically hurts not to be there.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants, chest heaving, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, do you?”

He grinds down again—hard.

And this time, I feel him twitch.

Right there, between my legs, right through my shorts, through his sweats—thick and hot and throbbing against me.

I whimper—full-body trembling. My thighs squeeze around his waist, instinct, desperation, need, and he chokes on a moan so filthy it makes my ears ring.

He grabs my wrists again and shoves them up over my head—pinning them down with one large, hot palm—and uses his other hand to grab my jaw, thumb pressing into my chin until I look up at him.

“I said look at me,” he growls. “I want your eyes on mine when I make you feel this good.”

His hips roll again—slow and devastating, grinding his cock into me with a rhythm that makes my vision black out at the edges. The friction is unbearable—every nerve between my legs screaming.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “That’s your fault, baby. All that attitude… all that fighting me—”

He kisses me again, sloppy, licking into my mouth like he owns it.

“—And now I’m fucking leaking for you.”

I gasp—legs locking tighter around his waist. He smirks into my mouth, wicked and beautiful and completely unhinged.

And then his hand slides down my body—rough, greedy, taking its time. Fingers skimming over the band of my shorts, toying with the button, grazing just beneath.

“Fuck, you’re burning down here,” he moans, head falling to my shoulder. “You’re soaked, aren’t you?”

I nod—pathetic, trembling, biting my lip so hard it stings.

He licks the skin under my jaw, nips, then sucks hard, leaving a thick, wet bruise.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you’re soaked for me.”

I sob. “I’m soaked for you.”

Chris growls—low and feral.

“I fucking knew it.”

And then he slams his mouth back onto mine—tongue thrusting deep, messy, wet, dragging against mine with so much hunger it makes my back arch off the bed. He grinds into me harder now—faster, desperate, like he’s humping me through our clothes—and I can hear the wet drag of our bodies, the damp cotton, the obscene sounds of spit and moaning and friction.

“Oh my God, Chris—”

“You’re gonna cum just like this,” he snarls, hips thrusting. “Just from kissing. Just from my cock rubbing on your tiny little shorts.”

I can’t speak—I can’t even think.

His hand leaves my wrists and slides under my top—palm spreading over my ribs, dragging up, warm and calloused and so sure of himself, until he cups my breast and squeezes.

I gasp again.

“You’re perfect everywhere,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good, you taste—”

He drags his tongue over my mouth again.

“—Like heaven and sin.”

His hand grabs my ass through my shorts and pulls me into his next grind. I feel the sharp drag of his cock against my clit and whimper—shaking under him.

And Chris is moaning, too.

“I can’t stop,” he groans. “Fuck, I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby. You’re so soft, so warm, so fucking sweet—”

He kisses me again—open-mouthed, tongue-fucking me, moaning into my mouth like I’m his only oxygen.

And I am losing control.

Everything is sticky and wet—my lips, my thighs, the front of my shorts. His cock is pulsing against me, leaving a damp spot in his sweats, and he doesn’t even care. He wants more. He wants all of me.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You fucking hear me?”

I nod, breathless.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

His tongue shoves back into my mouth like a reward, his hand gripping my waist hard enough to bruise, pulling me into him like he wants to climb inside.

And I let him.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 5

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Chapter Five – Y/N’s POV

My lungs forget how to breathe.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at him, still not saying anything—just frozen, wide-eyed, trying to survive the heat in his voice, in the air, in his stare that refuses to leave my lips. His fingers still cradle the side of my neck, thumb pressing slow circles into my skin like he knows I’m about to fall apart and he’s making it worse on purpose.

He doesn’t move again.

He waits.

And then—God help me—I lean in.

It’s tiny. Barely a tilt of my head. Barely a breath. But he feels it. He sees it.

And that’s when Chris snaps.

He growls—growls—low and rough from his throat and pulls me into him like he’s done pretending. His hand wraps around the back of my neck, fingers in my hair, and he slams his mouth onto mine again, even harder this time.

And I melt.

Everything inside me detonates.

His lips are rough, dragging over mine, then softer—tongue parting them, deepening the kiss, then harder again, biting. Tasting. Claiming. He devours me like he’s starved—like he’s waited too long and can’t stop now.

His hips roll into mine, slow, heavy, deliberate—and I feel it.

Hard.

Thick.

So hot it’s unreal, pressed through nothing but thin grey sweatpants and my little denim shorts that suddenly feel way too tiny.

I moan—loud.

That gets him.

Chris moans back, deeper, low in his chest, vibrating against my lips like a promise. He ruts into me again, harder, slower, and I feel the exact shape of him.

“Oh my God—” I gasp, back arching.

He doesn’t even let me finish. His hand grabs my hip, yanks me into him like a ragdoll, and grinds again.

“Feel that?” he growls into my mouth. “That’s what you do to me, Y/N.”

Another thrust. He presses his hips down, dragging himself against me in a slow, filthy roll.

“You gonna pretend you don’t feel how fucking hard I am for you?” His voice is wrecked—raspy, breathless, full of need.

I whimper—yes, whimper, because I can’t think, can’t breathe with how hot I am, how wet, how empty.

Chris swallows the sound with his tongue—thrusting it deep into my mouth like he’s fucking me with it, like this kiss is just the start of something worse, something better.

His hand slips under my shorts—flat against my bare hip—and drags me up into his next grind. His other hand spreads over my lower back, yanking me closer. Holding me there. Trapping me under his weight as he ruts into me again, and again, and again, his cock stiff, dragging over my heat through two pathetic layers of clothes that feel like they’re burning off.

I moan into his mouth—desperate and high.

“God, your sounds,” he hisses. “You’re fucking made for this.”

He shifts his weight, and suddenly he’s over me again—completely. One hand gripping both of mine, pinning them above my head into the mattress. The other slips up under my top, fingers brushing the curve of my breast.

I arch—shaking, gasping—completely lost in the heat.

His mouth breaks from mine again—both of us soaked in spit and panting—and drags down the column of my neck, teeth scraping, tongue licking, hot breath making every nerve scream.

“I should leave marks all over you,” he murmurs. “Make sure you feel this tomorrow. Every step you take. Every time you sit.”

I gasp his name.

He bites my collarbone.

“You like when I grind against you like this?” he whispers, his hips rutting again, now faster. Needier. I can hear the wet sound of friction between us, can feel the outline of him pressed hard and pulsing right up against my—

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me how good I feel.”

“I—Chris—fuck—yes.”

He kisses me again, swallowing the last word right off my tongue. This one is messier—sloppier. Our mouths crashing over and over again, spit sliding down my chin, his tongue licking into me with a filthy noise that makes me shake. Our teeth knock. Our breaths break.

“Don’t stop—” I gasp.

“Not planning on it,” he grits. “Not until you’re soaked through these shorts.”

Another deep grind.

I can feel him dragging over my clit—so thick, so hot—and I cry out.

Chris lifts his head, sweat-damp curls falling across his forehead. His eyes are ravenous.

“Look at you,” he pants. “All this attitude, and now you’re moaning under me like you’re gonna cum just from kissing.”

I hide my face in his shoulder.

He laughs.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes, mouth at my ear, tongue flicking the shell. “You are gonna be so fucking ruined.”

He licks his way back down my neck, nipping at my throat, his breath wrecking me.

“Open that pretty mouth again,” he growls. “Let me back inside. Let me feel you.”

And I do.

I lift my chin and kiss him again, and it’s feral.

My legs shake around him. My hips roll up into his. His hand goes everywhere—down my back, over my ass, gripping and squeezing and taking while our tongues fight for air.

He moans into my mouth.

Loud.

Desperate.

And I swear I could cry from how badly I want more.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 4

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Chapter Four – Y/N’s POV

When I open the front door, he’s already leaning against the frame—backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, hood pulled down, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips like they’re barely holding on. His black compression shirt clings to every sharp line of him—his chest, his shoulders, his arms.

I hate how good he looks. I hate that I notice.

“Wow,” he says, eyes dragging over me like a touch I can’t swat away. “You did not dress like that for a science project.”

My jaw tightens. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But the second his eyes drop to my legs, my stomach twists. His gaze lingers—slow, hot, unreadable. He doesn’t even pretend to hide it.

I turn and walk upstairs before he can see the way I’m already flushed.

He follows without a word.

Every creak of the stairs feels too loud. Every breath feels too full. And when we step into my bedroom, I feel it—I feel the shift. Like the second his body crosses the threshold, the air changes.

It’s warmer in here. It smells like cinnamon sugar and candle wax and perfume.

Cloud by Ariana Grande, to be specific—the vanilla one I only wear when I want someone to remember me.

The room glows. Literally. There are three candles lit—one flickering on my desk, one nestled into my windowsill, and one tucked by my bed, a Bath & Body Works three-wick in Warm Cinnamon Roll. The flame dances against the side of the jar, reflecting in the mirror and painting gold across the walls.

My bedsheets are fresh—white cotton with pale pink embroidery—and the throw blanket is folded neatly at the foot. The air smells like fall and sugar and tension. My LED lights are dimmed, letting the candles do the work. The walls are covered in posters—music, movies, Polaroids of me and my friends laughing at carnivals and sleepovers, even one I accidentally took of myself mid-eye roll.

Chris stands in the center of it all like he belongs there. Like he’s not the exact opposite of everything this space is.

His eyes scan slowly, taking it in.

“You really lit candles,” he says, that mocking edge already curling around his tongue. “Should I have brought wine?”

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. “Do you want to do the project or not?”

He drops his bag with a thud on the rug beside my bed and flops down right on the edge of it like it’s his. Like we do this all the time.

“Sure,” he says, stretching back slightly. His shirt rides up an inch. “But full disclosure, I only know about the reproductive system from firsthand experience.”

My stomach jumps and I shoot him a glare.

“I swear to God—”

“I’m joking,” he says innocently. “Unless you want me to demonstrate.”

“Chris.”

“Okay, okay.” He pulls out the textbook and cracks it open dramatically. The spine groans. “Chapter Twelve: Human Reproductive System. Oof. That’s a loaded topic.”

I sit next to him carefully—not too close. Close enough to read, far enough not to touch. My legs are crossed, and I have to tug my tube top up subtly every time I shift.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

I smell the warmth of him now. Clean, masculine, a little like cologne and the dryer. His leg brushes mine and he doesn’t move.

I swallow and force myself to look at the book.

It’s already open to a diagram of the male body.

Graphic. Anatomical. Every vein, every part, labeled in bold black ink.

I blink, feeling heat crawl up my chest. “Ugh. Gross.”

Chris glances over, grin widening like he’s waited for this.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice syrupy-smooth. “Never seen one before?”

“Shut up,” I snap, trying to flip the page, but he holds the edge down with one finger.

He leans in. His breath brushes my cheek. “Y/N. Be honest. You’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

“You so are.” He points to my cheek. “Right there. Little pink glow. Kinda cute, actually.”

“Chris.” I glare. “Can you just focus?”

“I am focusing. On you. And how you’re reacting like this textbook just tried to kiss you.”

I shove his arm. He laughs.

The page turns to the female reproductive system. Even worse. I tense. He notices that too.

“You uncomfortable?” he asks, voice dipping lower now. Almost serious.

I pause. “I just think it’s weird. They don’t even try to make it not awkward.”

He hums, and something changes in his face. He still looks like a menace, but there’s softness behind his eyes now. Just a flicker.

“It’s just a body,” he says. “It’s not gross. It’s you. It’s human.”

His tone isn’t teasing anymore. It’s quiet. Steady. And for a second, I forget to breathe.

Then he shifts closer. Not by much—just enough that our knees touch now, his thigh warm against mine. The air feels heavier. The candle flickers beside us. The scent of cinnamon is stronger.

“You sure you want to keep going?” he murmurs, smirking again. “I don’t want you passing out from embarrassment.”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, though my voice is thinner than I’d like.

He watches me for a long moment. His gaze drops to my lips.

My breath hitches.

His voice drops.

“You smell good, by the way,” he says softly, like he wasn’t expecting to admit that. “Like… vanilla or something.”

I don’t say anything.

I can’t say anything.

The tension coils between us, tighter and tighter, until I feel like I’ll snap. His hand is resting on the bed, inches from mine. I can feel the heat of it like it’s already touching me.

He leans in, just a little more. The creak of the bed beneath him is deafening.

Then—

“You’re not gonna run away if I ask you something, right?”

My heart trips. “Depends on what it is.”

He turns to me slowly, voice lower than ever. His lips hover inches from mine.

“I’ll keep working on this project,” he says, “on one condition.”

I’m already shaking. “What?”

His eyes are molten now. Starving. Focused.

“I get to kiss you.”

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 3

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Chapter Three – Y/N’s POV

The second I step into my bedroom, I shut the door and press my back to it, staring at the fairy lights above my bed like they might have answers for me.

Chris is coming over.

Chris.

The boy who’s ruined every group project I’ve ever been forced to share oxygen with. The boy who smirks like sin and looks at me like he’s undressing me with his eyes every time I so much as blink. The boy who gets under my skin, behind my ribs, and in my head without even trying.

I should be cleaning.

I should be digging up the stupid science notes and figuring out how to talk about the reproductive system without imagining his voice in my ear.

But instead, I’m standing in the center of my room, heart pounding like I’ve just run a mile, asking myself what the hell I’m going to wear.

It’s not like I care. I don’t. I hate him. He’s cocky and smug and rude and—

Hot. He’s hot. Stupidly, infuriatingly hot.

I close my eyes and groan, dragging my hands down my face. This is war. Not a date. So why am I freshly shaved, with lotion up to my collarbones and a playlist on in the background that’s more “accidental hookup” than “biology homework”?

I move fast after that, because if I stop thinking too long, I’ll second guess it.

First: the outfit.

My fingers twitch as I yank open my dresser. I dig through drawers, tossing old tees and oversized sweats onto the floor before landing on the smallest pair of jean shorts I own—the frayed ones that cling to my thighs and sit high on my hips, showing way too much skin for a night in.

I pair it with a white ribbed tube top that cuts off just under my ribs, leaving my stomach and shoulders bare. It clings like a second skin. My hair’s already curled from earlier, soft waves falling around my shoulders, but I run my fingers through them anyway, fluffing the ends and smoothing the flyaways.

I glance at the mirror. I look… hot. Like, way too hot for someone who’s supposed to hate the person coming over.

Still, I keep going.

A dab of concealer under my eyes. Highlighter on my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose. I swipe on mascara, then some plumping gloss that leaves my lips glossy and flushed. I roll my lips together, checking them in the mirror—and immediately scold myself.

“Stop,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re not getting ready for him.”

But the perfume says otherwise.

I reach for my bottle of Cloud by Ariana Grande, the one that makes me smell like whipped vanilla and warmth and dreams. I spray once on each side of my neck, once on the inside of my wrists, and once—nervously—behind my knees.

It’s intoxicating. Sweet and soft and inviting.

I light three candles and place them on my desk and windowsill, casting a warm golden glow across the room. Cozy. Like I’m trying to set the mood, even though I know I’ll deny it the second he calls me out.

Then I clean.

I smooth the blanket over my bed—twice. I tuck a pillow into the corner of the headboard, hiding the stuffed animal peeking out. My stomach twists. The bed creaks when I lean on it.

I stare at it too long, heat crawling up my spine.

He’s going to be sitting on my bed.

I shake the thought away, pacing the room, tugging down the hem of my shorts even though they don’t stretch. I check the clock again.

6:57.

He said he’d be here at 7.

I chew on my nail, then curse and run back to the mirror to dab more gloss on. My legs feel shaky. My skin hums. I hate him—I hate him—but the idea of him seeing me like this, soft and glowy and scented and bare-legged…

I want him to stare.

And I know he will.

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[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 2

• • this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

•Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

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Chapter Two – Chris’s POV

The bell rings and the hallway explodes.

Lockers slam. Sneakers squeak against tile. The smell of cafeteria pizza and body spray hangs in the air like a warning. I slide out of the classroom without a word, but I know she’s behind me.

Y/N.

The storm in a sweatshirt. The girl who’s spent the last two years trying to win every fight with me, and failing every single time.

I shove my hands in my hoodie pocket, rounding the corner past the lockers. I hear her before I see her—her voice sharp like glass breaking.

“You didn’t have to say it like that, asshole.”

I smirk, already knowing what this is about. She stomps up beside me, her eyes narrowed, and I swear—if looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor.

I turn slowly, leaning one shoulder against the row of lockers and crossing my arms.

“You mean the part where I said you can’t handle talking about sex without blushing like a little church girl?” I tilt my head. “Did I lie?”

“You’re unbelievable,” she spits, and her whole body shifts toward me like she wants to start swinging.

“You keep saying that,” I murmur, voice dropping low, “but you haven’t stopped chasing me around since fourth period.”

“I’m not chasing you.” She bites the words off like they taste bad. “I was assigned to you. There’s a difference.”

I raise my eyebrows. “So you don’t want me coming over tonight?”

That shuts her up.

A beat of silence stretches between us, thick with static. She looks like she wants to punch me in the throat and maybe kiss me right after. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she can’t decide where to put them.

“Just—come over,” she mutters, avoiding my eyes now. “We need to get the project done.”

“Aw, no please?” I grin. “No sweet little ‘Chris, will you come over and help me understand the human body’?”

Her eyes flash, and she takes one hard step closer, chin tilted high. “I will literally staple your lips shut if you say another word.”

God, she’s hot when she’s furious.

Not that I’d ever tell her that. Not that I’d admit I’ve noticed how her mouth curves when she talks back, or the way her hips sway even when she’s mad. Not that I’ve ever pictured her lips parted and her voice breathless, whispering my name instead of spitting it.

I won’t give her the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.

“Tell you what,” I murmur, leaning in just enough that she can feel the heat of my breath on her cheek. “You light a few candles, maybe wear something cute, and I’ll consider showing up.”

She freezes.

It’s only for a second, but it’s there. That pulse in her throat. The way her chest rises a little faster. I know that look. She wants to throw something at me again. Or throw herself at me. Either way, I win.

“Bring your notes,” she mutters, taking a shaky step back.

I push off the locker and let my gaze trail lazily down her body, on purpose, just to watch her squirm.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll bring the notes. You bring the tension.”

She turns to walk away, her hair swaying behind her like a challenge. I could watch her all day. That attitude. That mouth. That fire.

She’s gonna break eventually.

And I’m gonna enjoy every second of it.

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[hohhggk]

the science project pt. 1

• this is a series in which enemies turn into to lovers, ft. y/n and chris sturniolo

• summary : Y/N and Chris Sturniolo are sworn enemies—until a science project forces them to work together. Tension turns explosive when an argument in her bedroom ends with him on top of her, eyes dark, lips inches away. Enemies? Maybe. But tonight, the line between hate and want disappears.

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Chapter One – Chris’s POV

There are exactly three things I can’t stand before noon: slow walkers, Mr. Dalton’s coffee breath, and Y/N.

She’s sitting across from me right now, legs crossed, face all smug like she knows I’m annoyed just by breathing the same air. And okay, maybe she’s right. The second I saw her name scribbled on the seating chart, right across from mine, I knew my semester was screwed.

She doesn’t look at me when I drop my backpack onto the floor with a loud thud, but I know she hears it. Her shoulders go stiff for a second—barely noticeable, but I’ve spent enough time watching her to catch every twitch.

Not because I like her. God no. She’s loud. Stubborn. Argumentative. The human version of nails on a chalkboard. But she’s got this way of existing like she’s the main character in a movie and everyone else is just background noise. It drives me insane.

Her lip is tucked between her teeth as she flips through her binder, a blue pen twirling in her fingers like she’s trying to distract herself from me. I know she’s pretending not to notice I’m here. So I make it my personal mission to ruin her morning.

“You know,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair, “I heard if you clench your jaw any tighter, your teeth might actually shatter.”

She glances up, eyes cold, jaw still very much clenched. “And if you open your mouth one more time, I might shove my pen through your eye.”

God, she’s fast. I smirk.

“Violence before 8am? You should really talk to someone about that anger problem.”

She slams her binder shut and narrows her eyes at me. “Or maybe the real problem is that I’m being forced to share oxygen with someone whose entire personality is sarcasm and sweatpants.”

I look down at my outfit—black hoodie, grey sweats, beat-up Nikes—and then back at her. “This is called comfort. You should try it sometime instead of squeezing into whatever tight little outfit you’re wearing today.”

She bristles. Her eyes flicker just for a second, and I know I hit a nerve.

Her jeans are ripped at the knees, and that hoodie she’s wearing is zipped halfway down, exposing the thinnest sliver of a white tank top underneath. Not that I noticed. Not really.

The classroom fills around us. Students file in, voices rising into a chaotic blur of chatter and backpack zippers. Mr. Dalton strolls to the front, holding a stack of papers like he’s about to ruin all our lives—which, let’s be honest, he probably is.

He clears his throat like he’s important. “Alright, folks. New seating chart and your new partners for the semester project. No trades. No exceptions. You’ll be working in pairs on a presentation about the human reproductive system. Full project, in-class demonstration encouraged, and I better not hear any complaints.”

Y/N’s head whips toward me like she just stepped on a landmine.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says aloud, eyes wide with horror. “Mr. Dalton, you seriously paired me with him?”

Dalton doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. “It’s alphabetical. You’re next to each other. Deal with it.”

I throw her a slow, exaggerated grin. “Guess we’re doing this together, baby.”

She glares at me like she wants to break something over my head. “If you call me that again, I swear to god—”

“What?” I lean in, resting my elbows on the table. “Afraid you might like it?”

“Afraid you will,” she hisses back, and that little pink flush starts creeping up her neck.

My pulse kicks up a notch, and I don’t even know why. I don’t like her. I can’t like her. She’s a pain in my ass—bossy, bratty, sharp-tongued—but there’s something addictive about the way her eyes flare when she’s mad at me. It’s a dangerous kind of beautiful. The kind I’d never say out loud.

“We’re supposed to present on reproduction?” I ask, loud enough for the people behind us to hear. “You sure you can handle talking about sex in front of a class, Y/N?”

She throws her pen at me.

It hits me square in the chest. I catch it before it bounces off the desk and twirl it in my fingers like a trophy.

“I hope you trip over your own ego and die,” she snaps.

I lean in again, dropping my voice low, so only she hears it. “If I’m gonna die, I hope it’s during our ‘demonstration.’ Seems like a good way to go.”

She jerks back like I’ve physically slapped her with the thought.

And yeah, maybe that was a little much, but she brings it out of me. That fiery, smart-ass mouth. The way she acts like she’s immune to me when I know she isn’t.

Mr. Dalton starts writing something on the board, but I can’t focus. Not when she’s sitting right there—glowing with rage, lips pressed into a pout, thighs tight together under the desk like she’s trying not to squirm.

It’s going to be a long week.

And I’m not sure either of us is going to survive it.

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[hohhggk]

makout o’clock

• summary: basically just pure smut

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Chris’s lips are everywhere—on my mouth, my neck, my chest. He’s devouring me like he’s trying to breathe me in, marking every inch of skin he can reach. His body is pressing against mine, hot and heavy, and I can feel his every muscle flexing beneath the thin fabric of his sweats. I’m trembling under him, my mind lost in the haze of what he’s doing to me, what he’s making me feel.

His hand grips my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh like he’s trying to hold me in place, keep me from slipping away from him. His lips find the curve of my breast, and I gasp, arching into him, desperate for more, for something I can’t even put into words.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re driving me insane.”

I can barely process his words—can’t think, can’t do anything except feel him. His hips grind into me again, and I cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he captures my lips in another savage kiss. His hands are everywhere, caressing, grabbing, pulling me against him like I’m the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely.

“I need you, baby,” he pants, his voice raw with need. “You’re mine, understand? I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”

I nod, gasping for air, but he’s not letting up. His hands slide down my body, fingers finding the hem of my shorts, tugging at the waistband like he’s testing my limits. My breath hitches in my throat, and I can feel the heat between my legs growing unbearable. I want him—desperately—but I’m still not sure if I can give him everything he’s asking for.

But Chris doesn’t give me a choice. He pulls my shorts off, tossing them aside like they’re nothing, leaving me bare beneath him, exposed and trembling.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze dark and intense. “So fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect. And you belong to me.”

Before I can respond, he’s lifting me effortlessly, pulling me onto his lap, straddling him, my body trembling with anticipation. I can feel the hard press of him beneath me, and it makes my stomach flip. My hands are on his chest, gripping the soft cotton of his shirt, but he doesn’t give me time to adjust.

His hands are on my hips, guiding me, making me move against him, his breath hitching with every thrust. His lips crash against mine again, this kiss even more frantic, more desperate than before.

“You don’t get to be shy now, baby,” he growls against my lips. “You’re fucking mine. You’re gonna show me what you want.”

I let out a breathless moan, my hips moving against his, the friction between us making my body ache with need. Every thrust, every grind sends waves of heat crashing through me, and I can’t stop—can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop moving against him, can’t stop the desperate sounds that slip from my throat.

Chris’s grip tightens on my waist, and he guides me even harder, faster, making me feel every inch of him as his body meets mine with a force that takes my breath away. His teeth graze my ear, and I gasp.

“You’re so fucking tight, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. “Can you feel how hard I am for you? Can you feel how much I fucking need you?”

I nod, my chest rising and falling with every desperate breath, my body on fire. I can’t hold back anymore. The pressure building inside me is too much. I need release, I need him—I need all of him.

“I’m not stopping, Y/N,” Chris says, his voice a command, a promise. “Not until you’re completely mine.”

His lips crash down on mine again, this kiss even more aggressive, more needy. I feel his hands pulling at my top, desperate to see more of me. His fingers trail down my body, teasing, testing, driving me mad with every touch. I’m lost in him—lost in the heat, the need, the hunger that has taken over both of us.

“I’m gonna ruin you, baby,” he breathes, his mouth moving to my neck again, his teeth scraping against my skin. “You’re gonna beg me for more, and I’m gonna give it to you.”

The words send a jolt of excitement through me, and I can’t stop the moan that slips from my lips as I feel him push into me harder, faster, deeper. The feeling of him, the heat, the need—it’s too much. My whole body is trembling, my heart racing, and I’m on the edge of losing myself completely.

And I want to lose myself in him.

His breath hovers over my skin, warm and heavy, as his hands settle once again at my waist, strong but careful, as though he’s giving me space to breathe. But the thing is, I can’t breathe. Every inch of my body is on fire, trembling with a hunger I don’t want to admit I have—can’t control.

Chris’s fingers tighten around my hips just enough to remind me he’s in control, but the way his touch lingers, almost possessively, makes the air between us feel thick, suffocating. It’s all too much.

“Are you gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, the words low and hushed, almost like a challenge. There’s a bite in his voice, something darker now—like he knows how badly I want to say yes, but I’m not ready to admit it.

I can feel the tension in every part of my body—the way my chest rises and falls unevenly, the tightness in my throat that refuses to let words pass. Everything about me is wound too tight, like a string pulled to its breaking point, and the only thing I can do is wait, wait for him to either push me over or pull me back.

His lips graze the back of my neck, soft at first, a featherlight touch that feels like a tease. But then his teeth graze my skin, just enough to send a shiver racing down my spine. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s unraveling me one slow stroke at a time, building something too big for me to control.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers, voice dripping with something darker now. I almost choke on the air, not sure if I want him to stop, if I could survive him stopping. My body betrays me, shifting beneath him, arching back just enough to meet his chest. The movement is involuntary, desperate, and the sharp contrast between his heat and mine is enough to make me ache for more.

“I—” My voice cracks, unable to get the words out. I want to say no. I want to tell him I need more, that I can’t stop now, that the pull between us is too strong. But I can’t. The words get stuck in my throat.

Chris chuckles, low and dark, and the sound makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re like this,” he murmurs, his voice a breath against my ear. “So fucking responsive. You’re killing me.”

His hands roam again, but this time, they slip lower—dangerously low—just brushing against the curve of my hips before sliding back up, teasing, testing. The touch is light, but it’s too much. I feel the tension in my muscles, the heat that’s building between us with each touch, each barely-there movement that seems to send shockwaves through my body.

“I can feel how badly you want this,” he breathes, his lips right against my ear now. His teeth scrape lightly, sending another shiver down my spine. His voice is rougher, darker. “But you’re gonna have to beg for it, baby. You’re gonna have to show me you want me the way I want you.”

I can’t stop the whimper that escapes my lips. My hands grip the sheets beneath me, knuckles white, heart racing in my chest. His words sink deep, twisting through me like a slow burn. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

“I’m waiting, Y/N,” Chris continues, his hands slowly gliding back down to my waist, his fingers pressing into my skin. “Are you gonna give it to me?”

I don’t answer immediately, the space between us thick with everything unsaid. The moment stretches, the silence a heavy, oppressive weight. I want to scream, to beg, to do anything to make this feeling stop—stop building, stop growing, stop suffocating me—but I can’t. I won’t.

His fingers tighten again, pulling me closer, and I let out a breathless gasp, my chest heaving with the anticipation that’s killing me. His lips find my neck again, his kiss a promise, a threat. I can feel the way he’s losing control, his breath ragged, his body pressing against mine harder, urging me to feel it—feel how much he needs me.

And for the first time, I let go.

I push back against him, moving in time with the rhythm of his body, feeling every inch of him, every heavy breath. I don’t need to say anything. I don’t need words. My body is telling him everything he needs to know.

And I know, without a doubt, he’s not going to stop until we both have everything we need.

The space between us seems to shrink with every second. His breath against my neck is ragged, heavy, and I can feel the way his body is pressed so close to mine, every inch of him taut with need. But still, Chris doesn’t rush. He’s making me wait, letting the tension between us simmer, and it’s almost unbearable. My pulse is erratic, a constant thrum of desperation I can’t shake off.

His hands—God, those hands—remain where they are, just above my hips, fingertips brushing the skin of my waist with slow, deliberate movements. He’s testing me, waiting for me to break, to beg for more. But I refuse to give in, at least not yet.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, his voice rough, low, like it’s dragging itself through his throat. “You feel that?” His hand moves ever so slightly, fingers brushing across the curve of my waist, trailing lower, and I can’t help the involuntary shiver that runs down my spine. “Every part of you is so fucking responsive. I can feel it.”

The words hang between us like a challenge, the unspoken promise of something far more intense, far more dangerous, and I know exactly what he’s asking. He’s pushing me, testing how far I’ll go, and I can’t deny how much I want him to keep pushing.

His chest presses harder against my back, and I can feel the rigidness of his body, the way he’s struggling to maintain control. His breath brushes against my ear, hot and unsteady. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he mutters, his lips brushing my earlobe just barely, the whisper of a kiss. “How badly I want to see you fall apart under me.”

I gasp, my entire body trembling at the sound of his voice—so broken, so needy. Every inch of him seems to demand something from me, every touch, every movement, sending shockwaves through me that make it impossible to think clearly. His presence is overwhelming, suffocating in the best possible way.

But he still holds back. His hands are soft and careful, like he’s afraid to push me too far too fast. But every time he moves, every time he shifts, the intensity of it all builds. His fingertips are like fire against my skin, each brush of them making me ache for more. I’m desperate for him to break this slow, torturous pace, to give in to the pull between us, but he won’t. Not yet.

And that’s the part that’s killing me.

He wants me to beg for it. To give him a sign, any sign, that I’m ready for more. But it’s so much more than I thought it would be. The way he moves against me, the way his hands are both tender and possessive—each touch lingers just long enough to keep me on edge, but never long enough to truly satisfy the hunger building inside me.

His lips find the edge of my jaw, pressing a soft kiss there, then another. It’s like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin beneath him, tasting every inch of me. His breath is hot against my ear again, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell me you want it, Y/N. Tell me you need me, or I swear to God, I’ll make you beg for it.”

His words hit me like a wave, crashing over me with an intensity that sends a bolt of heat straight to my core. I know what he’s doing—he’s breaking down my walls, pushing me until I can’t hold back anymore. And I’m so close. So close to letting go.

But instead of responding, I do the only thing I can do. I shift beneath him, just enough to press my back against his chest, my body arching into his, begging without words. The movement is barely noticeable, but it’s enough for him to feel it.

His hands tighten around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the sound that leaves his throat—low, guttural—makes everything inside me explode. “You’re fucking killing me,” he breathes, his voice hoarse with restraint.

I can feel his control slipping. His body is rigid against mine, every inch of him trembling with need. And still, he holds back, forcing himself to wait, to let me come to him. It’s maddening.

“Please,” I whisper, the word slipping past my lips before I even realize I’ve said it.

It’s all I can give him for now.

And that’s all he needs.

The moment I whisper that word—please—everything shifts. His body tenses behind me, muscles tightening, fighting for control. And that’s when I feel it. The shift from restraint to raw hunger, the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, something I can’t look away from even as my breath hitches in my chest.

Chris doesn’t say a word. Instead, he lets out a low, primal growl, the sound vibrating through my spine as his hands finally move, sliding with deliberate slowness up my body. Every inch of him feels like an inferno against my skin, and I ache for more, need more.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he says, voice dark and rough as his lips skim my ear, the heat of his breath making my skin burn. His hands press firmly against my hips, pushing me into the mattress, the shift in position making my pulse spike.

I don’t regret it. Not for a second.

Chris moves behind me like a predator closing in on its prey, but there’s something tender in the way his hands slide down my arms, gently pinning them above my head. He doesn’t need to restrain me—I’m already trapped under the weight of his desire. And I know it’s only a matter of time before he loses the last of his control.

“You want me to make you beg for it?” His voice is teasing now, but there’s a dark edge to it, like he’s barely holding on. “You want me to break you, Y/N? Show you how badly you need this?”

I nod. It’s all I can do. The tension is suffocating, but I can’t breathe without him, can’t think without him. My body is screaming for him, every inch of me aching to feel the release I know is coming. But he’s making me wait. Making me feel every second of it, stretching it out like a cruel, delicious game.

He shifts again, and this time I feel the hard press of him against my back, his breath ragged in my ear. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he murmurs, lips brushing against my skin. “Waiting for you to beg, to fall apart. And when you do… fuck, it’s gonna be all mine.”

His hands move to my thighs, fingers brushing the fabric of my shorts, teasing, pulling just enough to send shockwaves through me. I’m lost in the sensation, in the sheer agony of anticipation, and I can feel my body trembling beneath his touch.

The sound of my own breath is loud in my ears as I struggle to hold onto whatever composure I have left. He’s driving me to the edge with every flick of his fingertips, every press of his body against mine.

“You still want this?” he asks, voice raw, desperate. “You’re still sure you’re ready?”

I gasp, my body answering before I can speak. “Yes,” I breathe, desperate for him to push me over the edge, to take me completely.

He doesn’t wait. His lips crash against mine again, hungry, demanding, taking. This kiss is nothing like the others—it’s messy, frantic, every part of him crashing against me, every part of me breaking for him. His hands grip my hips tighter, lifting me against him, pressing harder.

“You feel that?” His words are a breathless rasp as he thrusts into me, slow, but unmistakable. “Feel how fucking hard I am for you?”

My body quakes with every movement, the friction between us turning my insides to molten fire. He’s everywhere—his hands, his lips, his body—each part of him claiming me, marking me as his own.

And then, just as I think I can’t take it anymore, he pulls back, leaving me gasping, craving more.

“Tell me,” he demands, his voice rough, “Tell me you need me.”

The command is clear, but the way his voice cracks, the way he trembles against me, it’s too much to ignore. I can’t hold back anymore. My body shakes with need, my chest heaving as I tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

“I need you, Chris,” I breathe, the words coming out in a ragged gasp. “Please.”

A growl escapes him, deep and guttural, as he crashes his lips to mine again, this time with a ferocity that leaves no room for doubt. He’s lost. We’re both lost in this whirlwind of hunger, of craving, and there’s no turning back.

He takes me.

Every inch. Every part of me. He owns me.

And I can’t do anything but surrender.

His mouth breaks from mine, breathless and swollen, spit slick between our lips as he hovers just above me—eyes dark, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale. One of his hands grips my thigh, spreading me open slowly, deliberately, and the other anchors him beside my head, knuckles white from how tightly he’s fisting the sheets.

“You feel that?” he growls, pressing himself flush against me again, his cock dragging right where I need him through his sweats and my soaked, pathetic excuse for shorts. “You feel what you’re doing to me?”

I nod frantically—can’t speak, can’t breathe.

He shakes his head, smirking, voice low and punishing. “No. I want to hear you say it.”

“Y-Yeah,” I gasp, hips twitching against him.

“Say it properly,” he growls, grinding slow—deep—circles against me. “Say you feel how hard I am for you. Say you know how fucking wet you are for me.”

“Chris—fuck—I feel it,” I cry. “You’re so hard—and I’m—God, I’m soaking—”

He moans at that, filthy and unrestrained, forehead dropping to mine as he thrusts again, harder this time, and I swear I see stars. The friction, the heat, the wet sounds between us—it’s like my body is being dragged toward the edge in slow, delicious agony.

“You’re dripping,” he mutters, his voice thick with disbelief, reverence. “All this just from me grinding on you like a fuckin’ animal. You don’t even need me inside to fall apart, do you?”

I whimper, thighs shaking, and he laughs softly—darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

His hand slips under my shirt, brushing my ribcage, up to my breast—bare, because of course I didn’t wear a bra, and he growls again when he feels it. Thumb dragging slow circles over my nipple, fingers cupping me greedily, like he owns me.

“God, you’re perfect,” he pants. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

Then—pop—he slips the button of my shorts open.

My breath stops.

“Shh,” he whispers, voice soft now, like velvet soaked in gasoline. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

His fingers hook into the waistband—slowly, torturously peeling the denim down my thighs. He watches every second of it, eyes locked on the fabric dragging over my trembling legs, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s starving.

And when he sees my underwear—thin, damp, ruined—he groans so deep in his throat I feel it in my core.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

One hand trails up my bare thigh, spreading me just slightly. Just enough.

Then—his fingers press against the soaked fabric.

I jolt—back arching, moan ripping from my throat, unfiltered.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs, eyes glued to my face as he rubs slow, torturous circles. “I haven’t even touched you properly.”

He leans down—mouth against my jaw now, tongue dragging hot and slow as his fingers tease through the fabric, just barely grazing where I need him most.

“You want more?”

I nod—wild, desperate.

“Tell me.”

“Please,” I gasp. “Chris—please—”

His mouth crashes onto mine again, swallowing every broken moan, every shattered breath, while his hand slips under the last barrier of clothing—and finally touches me.

Skin on skin.

Flesh on fire.

He groans—deep—and starts to move.

Slow at first.

Testing.

Learning.

And I shatter.

His fingers slide against me—bare, slick, and so gentle at first it almost hurts. Just the lightest press to my swollen clit, circling so slow it makes my hips jerk and my breath catch in my throat.

“There we go,” he whispers. “Look at you already twitching for me.”

I’m shaking. My body isn’t mine anymore—it’s his. Every nerve is firing, desperate and alive under his touch, and I can’t stop the sounds tumbling from my mouth—soft, broken moans that only make him move slower.

“You’re soaked,” Chris growls, lips dragging over my jaw as his fingers begin to slide lower, teasing the slick mess between my folds. “So warm, baby. So fucking wet. I could slide right in, couldn’t I?”

My hips buck into his hand involuntarily, and he groans—filthy—deep in his throat, like the sound alone is too much.

“But I won’t. Not yet,” he breathes. “You don’t get that until you beg.”

His teeth graze the edge of my ear. “Until you cry for it.”

He circles again—slower now—just the tip of his finger pressing against my entrance, dipping inside, then pulling back, teasing me until I’m panting like I’m about to lose my mind. My hands scramble for something—his shirt, the sheets, anything to ground me.

Then—he pushes one thick finger in. Deep.

My entire body arches. My legs tremble. My mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “So tight, baby. So fucking tight around just one finger.”

He starts to move it—slowly. Deeply. Curling it just right, dragging it against the softest spot inside me like he’s memorized every part of me already.

“You’re clenching around me,” he pants. “Like your body’s begging.”

A second finger slips in beside the first—stretching me more—and I cry out, my legs falling further apart, spine arching like a bow.

“Chris—please—” I gasp, not even sure what I’m asking for anymore.

“Please what?” he demands, mouth hot on my throat, fingers still thrusting slow and deep. “Use your words.”

“Please—need more—need you—”

He groans, rutting his hips down against the mattress, his cock straining hard in his sweats and dragging over my thigh like he can’t take it anymore.

“You wanna feel me grind on you while I finger-fuck you, huh?” he growls.

He does it—grinds down, rutting his hips in a slow, heavy roll while his fingers thrust harder, deeper, stretching me open.

“God—Chris—”

“You’re gonna cum for me like this,” he whispers. “Just my fingers. Just my voice. Just my weight pressing into you until you can’t take it anymore.”

And I can’t.

I’m writhing—helpless—hips rolling against his hand, tears pricking the corners of my eyes from how intense it is, how full I feel, how close I am.

“Don’t fight it,” he growls. “Let it happen.”

His thumb finds my clit.

One press.

One perfect circle.

I shatter.

My body arches into his. My mouth opens in a silent scream. My thighs shake so hard I think I might collapse. He keeps going—working me through it, kissing my cheek, whispering how good I am, how beautiful I look falling apart for him.

I’m still trembling when he pulls his fingers out—slow, wet, slick.

Then—he licks them.

And groans.

“You taste like heaven.”

His eyes lock with mine.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

He doesn’t give me a second to come down.

Before my lungs can fill, before my pulse even steadies, Chris is over me—hands braced on either side of my head, mouth hovering just inches above mine, his eyes blown wide with something feral.

“You think I’m done?” he rasps, voice ruined.

His hips dip down—slow, heavy—and I feel it. Him. The thick, hard length of him pressing into me through his sweats, dragging right over where I’m still soaked, sensitive, aching.

I gasp—shaking again, hips twitching up—and he groans, deep and rough, eyes fluttering shut like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Fuck, baby… you feel that?” he pants, rolling his hips again, slower this time. “You’re still trembling. Still leaking for me.”

He leans down—licks into my open mouth without warning, messy and wet, tongue claiming every inch until I’m moaning into him again like I didn’t just fall apart.

He pulls back only slightly—enough to murmur, “Gonna make a mess out of you.”

His hands are on my thighs, spreading them wider—wider—until I feel stretched open, exposed, trembling under him. He settles between them like he belongs there, sweatpants still on, but barely. The fabric’s soaked through from how hard he’s rutting against me now—slow, brutal rolls that press the thick length of him right against my clit, dragging it raw with need.

“Feel that?” he grits. “That’s what you do to me.”

He thrusts again. And again.

“You see how fucking hard I am? You think that’s fair?” he growls. “You think I can feel you shake under me and not lose my mind?”

My nails dig into his back, dragging down the curve of his spine. He hisses, hips snapping forward harder, grinding so deep I feel it in my throat.

“Take it,” he growls. “Take all of it.”

He leans down—rubs the bridge of his nose against mine, voice cracking, desperate. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. To own you like this. To feel you melt under me.”

I whimper—wrecked—and he smirks, but it’s twisted. Dark. The calm before the storm.

“You want more?” he breathes.

I nod—shaky. Wordless.

His hand grips my jaw—tight. He forces my eyes to his.

“Say it.”

“I want—God, Chris—I want you. All of you.”

That’s all it takes.

He snaps.

Chris yanks his sweats down with one hand, just enough to free himself, and I feel the thick, hot weight of him slap against my thigh. I can’t help the gasp that flies from my mouth—the sheer size of him, the veins, the way he’s pulsing, dripping, ready.

His hand fists around himself once—twice—slicking it through my mess, rubbing the tip right against my entrance.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

He grips my thigh, hauls it higher up his waist, lines himself up—

And waits.

Hovering. Teasing. Letting just the head press inside—barely. Not enough.

“Beg,” he pants. “Beg for it.”

“Beg,” he growls again, voice scraping through the dark, trembling with restraint. “Say you want it. Say you need me to fuck you.”

My lips part, breathless. My brain barely works—just hot static and the heavy throb between my thighs, the stretch of his tip pressing in but not enough, never enough.

“I—Chris—please,” I gasp. “I need you. I need all of you.”

His eyes go black.

That’s all it takes.

With one brutal thrust, he sinks inside—deep—and I choke on a moan that shatters through the room.

He’s thick. Hot. Stretching me to the point of breaking.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, head falling to my shoulder. “You’re so tight—so wet—it’s like you were made for me.”

I can’t even speak.

He pulls out slow—almost to the tip—then drives back in hard, and the sound that tears from my throat isn’t human.

He does it again.

And again.

Each thrust sharper, deeper, hungrier, until I’m crying out with every stroke, gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping me grounded.

“You feel that?” he pants against my neck, voice ragged. “Feel how deep I am?”

I nod—helpless, shaking, wrecked.

Chris shifts his weight, knees digging into the mattress, and suddenly he’s everywhere—pressing me down, hand on the back of my neck, hips slamming into me with filthy, punishing rhythm.

Skin on skin.

The slap of bodies, the slick sound of my soaked heat dragging down his length—it echoes in the room, obscene and raw.

“You wanted this,” he growls, pounding into me harder. “All that attitude. All that teasing. Now you’re fucking crying on my cock.”

And I am. Eyes glassy. Legs trembling. Lips parted as my voice comes out in choked, breathless whimpers with every brutal thrust.

He leans down—mouth right at my ear.

“You’re mine now.”

A deep thrust.

“Say it.”

“Y-Yours,” I sob. “Chris, I’m—yours.”

He groans—loud, desperate—and his rhythm stutters, hips grinding in deep and slow for just a second, dragging the head of his cock right over my spot until I scream.

“I feel you clenching,” he pants, voice shaking. “You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you? Gonna cum all over my cock.”

I nod, broken. Gone.

And he fucks into me.

Hard.

Desperate.

Slamming deeper, faster, his hand slipping between us to rub tight circles on my clit—too much—and I unravel.

I cum with a cry, thighs locking around his hips, body pulsing around him in waves I can’t control. He growls, slamming in one more time—and freezes.

“Fuck—” he gasps, forehead pressed to mine. “Gonna—”

I feel him twitch inside me.

Hot. Deep. Endless.

He holds me tight, shaking against me, both of us gasping in the silence that follows, bodies stuck together with sweat and heat and something dangerous.

Something we can’t take back.

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[hohhggk]

say it, say you hate me

• pt. 3

• summary: On a road trip to Hawaii with friends, you’re forced to share a seat with your childhood rival, Chris Sturniolo. Hours of tension, teasing, and grinding on his lap finally break him—and it all explodes into a heated argument back at the Airbnb. But when the shouting turns into an angry love confession, hate gives way to something far more dangerous… and irresistible.

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chapter eight : Lifted, Pinned, Ridden

He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

You were still gasping, skin flushed, lips throbbing from how hard he’d been kissing you when suddenly—

He gripped the underside of your thighs.

Hard.

And with a grunt, Chris lifted you clean off the ground like you weighed nothing, your back hitting the wall again with a breathless thud.

You cried out, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance, but he was already moving—pressing his body flush to yours, lips dragging down your throat, biting at the curve of your neck, holding you up like you were his.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

His hands slid under your ass, gripping the softest part of you, holding you there, grinding you down against his hips. The pressure between your legs made you moan—loud and unfiltered—and Chris groaned into your skin like it drove him insane.

He didn’t even kiss you this time—he devoured you.

His lips slammed against yours again, tongue instantly sliding deep into your mouth, tasting you, owning you, controlling the kiss with filthy, relentless dominance. He kissed like he needed it to breathe. Like he was starving and you were the only thing that would feed him.

You couldn’t help it—you whimpered into him again.

And that did it.

Chris moaned hard, rolling his hips up into you as he pinned you harder against the wall, grinding between your legs so deep you gasped against his lips. “God, baby—fuck—your whimpers are killing me.”

His hands shifted again, one sliding up your back, the other fisting your hair to hold your face in place as he deepened the kiss—tongue, tongue, tongue—hot and deep and dominant, licking into your mouth like he owned it.

You were soaked.

You could barely think.

Then—he pulled back. Just barely. His eyes were wrecked, lips swollen and wet, his breathing ragged as he stared down at you like you were a dream and a curse all at once.

“You wanna tease me?” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. “You wanna grind on me like you did in the car?”

Your breath caught.

“I’ll give you something to grind on, sweetheart.”

He turned with you still clinging to him and walked to the bed.

The movement was fast, effortless—his arms tight around you, his grip secure, your legs locked around his waist as he walked both of you across the room like he was drunk on the taste of you.

Then—

He sat down.

On the edge of the mattress, legs spread wide, you straddling his lap.

You blinked down at him, breathless.

He stared up at you, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, hands settling firmly on your hips.

And then—he said it.

“Go ahead.”

A wicked smirk curled his lips.

“Move your hips on me, love.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower, filthier.

“Just like you were in the car.”

You whimpered.

And then you did it.

You rolled your hips.

Slow. Deliberate. Pressing your center against the hard bulge in his grey sweats.

His head dropped back. A deep, broken groan ripped out of his chest.

“Fuck…”

You did it again.

This time slower.

You dragged your hips along him in one long, grinding rock that made your eyes flutter and your breath stutter and your whole body melt.

Chris’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like he was holding back from flipping you onto the bed and going feral.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice rough and breathless. “I swear to god, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

And then—his mouth was back on yours.

Hard. Deep. Wet. Tongue. Tongue. Tongue.

He kissed you like he was starving, like this was his last breath and your mouth was the only air he wanted. His hands slid up your spine, pulling you in tighter, your chests pressed together, hips locked, mouths moving in messy, filthy harmony.

You couldn’t stop moaning.

Every roll of your hips made your head spin, your body clench, your lips break from his to gasp his name. “Chris—Chris—Chris.”

He licked into your mouth between kisses. “Keep saying it, baby.”

Then he dragged his lips down your jaw again, to your neck, sucking harshly right at the base.

“Mine,” he growled against your skin. “Say you’re mine.”

“i’m yours.” you gasped

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You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

Your hips moved on instinct now—slow, deep circles against his lap, dragging your denim shorts across the aching bulge straining his grey sweats. You were soaked through. Your thighs trembled. Your stomach clenched with every motion.

Chris hovered above you—hands pinning yours to the sheets, his arms caging you in, his eyes glued to your face.

Watching you fall apart.

Watching what he was doing to you.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you rolled your hips again, dragging your body up and down against him, grinding your core into his like you were chasing something neither of you dared name.

Chris groaned—loud, wrecked, breathless.

“Fuck—“ he choked, voice raw. “That’s it. Keep going. Just like that.”

His forehead dropped to yours.

His nose nudged yours.

He kissed you again—hard. His tongue shoved between your lips, desperate, breath hot against your face. The kiss was messy—open, wet, teeth pulling lips, tongues sliding, spit stringing between you when he pulled back just long enough to whisper:

“You taste so fucking good.”

You whimpered.

He moaned back.

You were grinding without even realizing it—hips circling in filthy rhythm, friction burning between your thighs. The front of his sweats was soaked with your arousal now, and when his hips rolled up to meet yours—

You cried out. Loud.

“Chris—”

His jaw clenched.

His eyes burned.

And then—he let go of your wrists.

Only to grab your waist. Hard.

“Take this off,” he growled, tugging at the hem of your crop top. His voice was wrecked. “I want your skin on mine.”

You didn’t think—you just lifted your arms.

Your crop top peeled off in one swift motion, and Chris froze.

His eyes dropped to your chest, his mouth parting, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. You were still wearing a thin, lacy bra, and his hands slid up—fingertips dragging lightly over your ribs, your sides, until they cradled the curve of your waist.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost reverently. “You’re so perfect.”

And then his lips were on your collarbone again.

He kissed his way across your chest—slow, open-mouthed kisses, dragging tongue, teeth, heat. He sucked a mark right under your bra strap and groaned into your skin like your body was the only thing he ever wanted to taste.

His hand slipped behind you. He undid the clasp in one swift motion.

Your bra fell away.

Chris breathed you in.

His mouth was on you in seconds—hot kisses down your sternum, then lower, his tongue circling your nipple, his groan deep and filthy as he sucked, teeth grazing, hands still gripping your waist like if he let go, you’d disappear.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

You arched.

You moaned—loud, unfiltered.

And Chris lost it.

He pushed your shorts down.

You gasped—but lifted your hips. You wanted this. You needed it.

The denim dragged down your thighs, exposing your thin underwear—soaked, clinging to your heat—and Chris hissed when he saw it.

“You’re dripping.”

You were. Embarrassingly.

He pressed his hand over your core—palming you through the fabric, slow, gentle pressure that made your hips buck into his touch.

“All for me?”

You whimpered.

His fingers rubbed slow circles over the wet fabric, his voice filthy against your throat.

“You really want me to beg?” he growled. “Because I will, baby. I’ll get on my knees for you. I’ll do whatever the fuck you want.”

Your head dropped back.

Your hips moved again—grinding into his palm, your thighs shaking, your voice breaking on his name.

“Please, Chris—” you gasped.

And he smirked against your jaw.

“That’s my girl.”

Part VII: His Hands Slide Lower

Chris was panting.

Chest heaving beneath that black compression shirt, forehead sweaty, hair clinging to his temples—but his eyes?

Starving.

You were still in his lap, straddling him. Grinding slowly. Filthily. Each rock of your hips sent shivers up your spine, the thick bulge beneath you pressing perfectly against your soaked heat.

And Chris? He was falling apart under you.

His hands were gripping your waist—tight—thumbs dragging over the curve of your hips. He leaned forward, mouth brushing your throat, lips parted.

Then—he licked.

Slow.

From the base of your neck up to your jaw.

You gasped.

And he moaned against your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathed, tongue dragging across your collarbone now. “You taste like heaven. You feel like sin.”

Your nails raked down his arms. You couldn’t stop. Every kiss, every grind, every breath was unraveling you.

He kissed you again—hard.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, messy and greedy, curling around yours. Wet, open-mouthed kissing. Loud and filthy. Like you were starved for each other. Like you needed this to live.

You whimpered into his mouth when he rolled his hips up against you.

And that sound—that sound—

It broke him.

He pulled back, just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

His hands dragged up your sides—slow, possessive.

“Take these off,” he rasped, nodding at your underwear.

Your eyes widened.

Your thighs clenched.

You didn’t move.

So he smirked.

“Want me to do it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

His hands slid down.

Under the waistband.

Rough. Confident. Dominant.

He gripped the sides of your panties, lifted your hips just slightly, and dragged them down your thighs.

You were bare in his lap.

He hissed.

“Holy shit—Y/N—”

Then—his fingers returned.

Slid between your thighs.

Found your heat.

And stopped.

You were throbbing. Aching. So wet, it was obscene. You whimpered—needing him to move, needing anything.

He looked up at you.

Eyes dark.

Jaw clenched.

“I want to watch your face when I touch you.”

His fingers moved—slow, deep strokes through your folds. He circled your clit once, twice—you gasped—and his lips were back on yours instantly, swallowing every sound.

You moaned into his mouth.

Your hips started rocking again—instinctively chasing his hand, grinding against his palm.

And then—he slid a finger in.

You cried out.

He groaned.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “So tight—so warm—god—”

He kissed you again. Tongue deep. His finger curling inside you. His other hand sliding up your back, pulling you tighter to him.

You were a mess—moaning into his mouth, hips grinding harder, faster, riding his hand like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered. “I could do this all night. Watch you fall apart on me. Feel you squeeze around my fingers. Taste those pretty little noises you make—”

You couldn’t take it.

Another finger slipped in.

He scissored them gently, curling into that spot inside you that made your vision go white.

Your moans were helpless now.

Your legs were shaking.

You could barely kiss him back.

“You close?”

His voice was pure filth.

“Come for me, Y/N. I want to feel you lose it.”

Part VIII: The First Time He Sees You Break

His fingers were still inside you—deep, curling, relentless—his palm grinding against your clit in slow, devastating circles.

And Chris was watching you like he was obsessed.

Your face—your mouth open, your breath catching, your thighs trembling around his hips—it was wrecking him. His eyes traced every twitch of your lips, every roll of your hips, every single whimper that spilled out of your throat.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he asked, voice low, dark, fucked-out.

“On my fingers? On my lap?”

You tried to answer—but all that came out was a broken gasp.

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

His mouth found your jaw again, teeth grazing your skin, and then he kissed your neck—open, wet, slow. He licked up the column of your throat, whispering filth between kisses.

“That’s it.”

“Let go, pretty girl.”

“Fuckin’ love feeling you like this.”

Your hips were bucking now—completely out of control. Riding his hand, grinding into his lap, chasing the sharp heat coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.

“You’re so close.”

“I can feel you, baby.”

“You’re clenching so tight—fuck—you’re gonna make me come just watching you.”

And then he kissed you again—tongue shoving deep, teeth dragging across your lower lip—and his fingers stroked you just right—

And you shattered.

Your body locked up, a scream catching in your throat, your hips jerking forward as the orgasm tore through you like lightning.

Chris groaned into your mouth, holding you through it.

“Fuck, that’s it—fuck—look at you—so pretty when you break—”

Your head dropped to his shoulder, whimpering, gasping, shaking.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His fingers slowed, stroking you through the aftershocks. His palm rubbed gentle circles on your clit. His lips kissed the shell of your ear, whispering,

“That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”

You clung to him, body limp, legs still trembling.

And Chris just held you.

Wrapped you in his arms like you were fragile. Like something he’d do anything to protect.

And then—he pulled his fingers out.

You gasped at the loss.

But what he did next?

Made your stomach drop.

He brought his fingers to his mouth—

And licked them clean.

Slow.

Deep.

Groaning.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so good. Sweet as fuck. I knew you would.”

Your body jolted at his words. You tried to sit up, but your legs were too weak.

He smirked, pulling you close again, kissing your shoulder.

“Told you I’d make you break.”

“Didn’t think it’d be this easy though, love.”

You looked at him, still breathless. Still dazed. Still straddling his lap, your body flushed and wrecked.

And Chris?

Still hard. Still pulsing beneath you. Still watching you like he was going to devour you again.

“We’re not done.”

Part IX: You Return the Favor

You were still straddling him, trembling from the aftershocks, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

Chris watched you like he was watching a miracle. His jaw was slack. His chest was heaving. His hands? Still splayed across your hips like he couldn’t let go.

Still rock-hard under you.

Still throbbing.

And the second you shifted—slowly grinding your hips over his lap again—he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Fuck, Y/N—don’t.”

His voice cracked. Like he was begging. Like if you moved just once more, he’d come undone right there.

Which, of course, made you smile.

“Don’t what?” you asked, leaning in, brushing your lips over his throat. “This?”

You rocked your hips again.

Harder this time. And he whined.

His hands gripped your waist, desperate, trying to control the motion—but you slapped his chest gently.

“Uh-uh.”

“You don’t get to be in charge anymore, Sturniolo.”

He groaned—deep and low, his head falling back, neck exposed, jaw tight.

You leaned in and licked a slow line up his throat.

Then sucked just below his jaw.

And he moaned.

You felt it vibrate through your chest.

Felt his cock twitch underneath you.

“You wanna taste?” you whispered against his skin. “Then you’re gonna watch me take my time with you.”

He barely managed a nod.

So you pulled away, slowly. Smiling.

Then—pushed him back onto the bed.

He landed with a soft grunt, arms flung out, eyes wide, hair messy.

You climbed off his lap, kneeling beside him now. Your hands slid up his thighs, teasing, slow. His grey sweats were strained, tight, tented so high you could see the outline of everything.

He looked desperate.

And that was your favorite look on him.

Your fingers curled around the waistband.

“These,” you murmured, tugging gently, “are coming off.”

He whimpered.

Chris Sturniolo whimpered.

For you.

You pulled them down—slowly—watching every twitch of his muscles, every breath that caught in his throat.

And when he was bare?

You stared.

Big. Thick. Veins tracing up the shaft. Hard and flushed and leaking.

You swallowed hard.

Then looked him right in the eyes.

“You’re even prettier here.”

He cursed. Loud.

“Y/N—please—”

You leaned down.

And licked the tip.

Just once.

Barely.

And his whole body jerked.

Your hands splayed on his hips, holding him down, tongue teasing the head again. He groaned—threw his head back, muscles flexing under you.

You took him in just slightly—lips wrapped around the head—then pulled off with a pop.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “Already falling apart. And I’ve barely touched you.”

He was breathing like he’d run miles. His hands fisted the sheets.

“Y/N,” he groaned, “you’re killing me.”

You smiled.

“Good.”

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Chris was laid out beneath you—sweaty, flushed, panting like he was seconds from falling apart.

His black compression shirt clung to every muscle on his chest, slightly bunched where you’d grabbed at it earlier, riding up just enough to reveal the sharp grooves of his stomach. His hair was messy, pushed off his forehead, cheeks pink, lips parted—

And his eyes?

Blown wide. Black with lust. Locked on you.

You were kneeling over him, completely bare now, flushed and dripping, chest still rising and falling with shaky breaths.

You dragged your nails down his abs slowly, watching the way his whole body shivered at your touch.

“You gonna be good for me now?” you asked, tilting your head.

Chris’s hands twitched beside him, like he wanted to grab you so bad it hurt.

“I’ve been good.”

His voice was strained.

“You’re the one who started grinding on my lap like a fucking tease—”

You shut him up by grabbing the base of his cock, making his whole body seize up.

“That was a preview,” you whispered, voice dark and slow. “This is the main event.”

You raised your hips—hovering right above him.

And when you lowered down?

Both of you moaned.

Loud.

The stretch was slow, hot, deep—your walls clenching around him inch by inch. He was thick. Bigger than you’d even realized. And it felt like you were made for this.

Made for him.

Chris was a wreck. His hands fisted the sheets on either side of him, neck straining, mouth dropped open in a silent groan. His thighs trembled beneath you.

“Fuck, fuck—Y/N—Jesus—”

You sunk all the way down.

Sat flush against his hips.

And his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Oh my God,” he choked out.

“You feel like a fucking dream.”

You leaned forward, hands braced on his chest.

Started to move.

Slow. Deep. Grinding.

His hips jerked up instinctively—but you slapped his stomach gently, keeping control.

“No,” you breathed. “Let me.”

He nodded—desperate, submissive.

You rolled your hips again, and his head dropped back into the pillows. A strangled, guttural moan left his throat.

You could feel how deep he was.

Every ridge. Every pulse.

And you weren’t giving him a second of relief.

“This what you wanted in the car?” you taunted. “When you were whimpering under me?”

His eyes snapped open.

“You’re evil,” he rasped. “You’re fucking evil—”

You clenched around him.

And he whined.

“Say it again.”

He licked his lips. Voice shaking.

“You’re evil.”

You smiled.

Then rode him harder.

Faster. Deeper.

The sounds—god—the sounds.

Skin slapping. Breaths panting. Your moans mixing with his growls. The obscene wet noises of you moving on him like you were meant to stay there forever.

His hands finally lifted—grabbing your hips—digging in hard.

“You ride me so good,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect. I could come like this—fuck—I might—”

You leaned down.

Kissed him hard.

Tongue deep.

Teeth dragging across his bottom lip.

You whispered against his mouth—

“Don’t you dare come yet.”

He groaned.

“Then stop moving like that.”

You smiled.

And ground down again, slow and filthy.

“Not a chance.”

Chris’s body is pressed against mine like a fire that can’t be extinguished. Every movement feels like an electric shock, and I can’t get enough. His lips are still on mine, harder now, deeper, and I’m completely lost in him. My hands are gripping his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, pulling him closer as if I’m afraid he’ll disappear.

His hips move against me with a slow, deliberate grind, and I can feel every inch of him. The heat between us is unbearable. I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath, but he makes it impossible. His hand slides down my back, pulling me even tighter against him, his fingers pressing into the curve of my waist. I feel my legs give way, my knees weak, but he’s holding me steady, his grip tightening as he pushes into me.

His lips leave mine, trailing down my neck with a hungry growl. His teeth graze my skin, sending waves of heat through my body. I arch into him, every inch of my body craving more. He murmurs something low against my neck, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re fucking perfect,” he growls, his lips returning to mine with a new urgency, his tongue sweeping into my mouth in a forceful kiss.

My head is spinning, my body shaking with need. Every second that passes, I’m more lost in him. I can’t focus, can’t think. His lips are everywhere—my neck, my collarbone, down to my chest. His hand moves lower again, dangerously close to where I want him most, but he doesn’t go far enough. The teasing, the constant build-up, it’s maddening.

“You taste so fucking good,” he mutters against my skin, his voice thick with desire. I can barely process the words, my body trembling under his touch. I want more. I need more.

I try to push him closer, but he’s always one step ahead. He grinds against me again, harder this time, and I gasp, unable to control the moan that escapes my lips. The sound of my desire seems to push him further, his lips returning to mine in a fiery kiss, his tongue diving deeper, more frantic now. My hands move down to grip his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more of him against me.

His hips roll against mine again, a slow, calculated grind that drives me wild. I feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against me, and it only makes the ache inside me more unbearable. My legs are weak, shaking as he holds me tighter, one hand pinning me against the wall while the other slides down, gripping my thigh. He lifts me again, his lips never leaving mine, his body taking control, guiding mine to where it needs to go.

“Say it,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes. His voice is dark, low, and filled with dominance. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

I can’t hold back anymore. I need him. My words come out in a desperate whisper, “I want you. Please.”

Chris’s lips crash into mine again, and everything becomes a blur. His hands are everywhere, his mouth demanding, taking, not giving me a single second to breathe. I’m lost in him, in the heat, the need, the way he makes me feel like I’m the only thing that matters in this moment.

Chris’s dominance fills the space between us like a heavy, unspoken promise. His hands slide down my sides, pressing me harder against the wall, his body surrounding me, making it impossible to move, to breathe without him. Every inch of his touch is calculated, and every time I try to pull him closer, he just pulls away slightly, letting the tension build.

His lips find my ear again, hot breath cascading over my skin, sending goosebumps across my body. “You want me to make you beg for it?” he asks, voice husky, dripping with dominance.

I can barely hold myself together. My legs feel like jelly, weak under the weight of his control. My body screams for more, and yet, I know he’s in charge here. His words linger in the air, a challenge. A dare.

“Please,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. The word slips out, desperate. I need him so badly, I can’t think straight. But I know he’s not done with me yet.

He pulls back, his eyes flicking over me, dark with a hunger that matches my own. “Begging already?” he murmurs with a smirk. “That’s cute. But I don’t give in that easily.”

His hands slide to my hips, gripping me hard, as he lifts me again, pinning me to the wall even more forcefully. His lips crash against mine, hard and demanding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. I try to kiss him back, to match his intensity, but he controls it—taking, not giving, as he grinds against me in a slow, torturous rhythm.

“Tell me how much you want me,” Chris breathes between kisses, his lips trailing down to my neck again, nipping at the soft skin, making me gasp. His teeth graze my skin, leaving marks that only belong to him. “Tell me how much you need this.”

My body betrays me, trembling against his. I don’t even have the strength to fight anymore. I can only nod, my words lost in the haze of desire that clouds my mind. “I need you,” I finally manage, my voice shaking with desperation. “Please, Chris, I need you.”

His lips curve into a dark, satisfied grin, and he presses harder against me, his body moving with a slow, relentless force. He doesn’t need to speak—his body says it all. He owns me. And I’m more than willing to let him.

His grip doesn’t loosen for a second. Chris holds me pinned against the wall, completely caged in by his body—his hands firm on my hips, his chest pressing into mine, every inch of him radiating dominance and heat. The air between us is heavy, charged like a live wire, and it feels like the only sound in the world is the frantic rhythm of my breath.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his lips ghosting over my jaw, his voice like rough velvet. “That’s what you do to me.”

He grinds into me again—slow, deep, dragging out the motion like he’s savoring every second. My back arches off the wall instinctively, a soft whimper slipping out of me, unfiltered and desperate. He eats the sound up like he’s starving for it.

“God,” he growls, “you sound so good when you’re like this. When you’re needy. When you’re mine.”

He kisses me again—hard. There’s nothing sweet about it now. It’s filthy, full of tongue and tension and teeth. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, claiming it like he owns it. The kiss is messy, noisy, and I can’t keep up. His hand slides up my spine, threading into my hair and tugging just hard enough to make me gasp into his mouth.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes against my lips, his words hot and sinful. “I could stay right here—teasing you—forever.”

My head spins. I can’t think. All I feel is his voice in my ear, his body grinding into mine, the overwhelming dominance in every breath he takes.

“Can’t even stand up, can you?” Chris taunts, lips brushing my ear as he tilts his hips in another devastating roll against mine. “Your legs are shaking. You’re trembling for me.”

I let out a quiet moan, my body collapsing just slightly under the pressure of his hold. He catches me instantly, one hand gripping the back of my thigh and hiking my leg around his waist, securing me against him like he’s never letting me go. His strength, the control he holds in just the way he touches me—it makes everything inside me burn.

“I’ve got you,” he says lowly, dominant and gentle all at once. “You don’t have to do a damn thing. Just feel me.”

He presses his forehead to mine for a beat, letting the moment hang thick between us—then bites down on my lower lip, dragging a soft cry out of me.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he murmurs, cocky and breathless, eyes locked on mine. “No one else will ever touch you like this. No one else will ever know how to pull those sounds out of you.”

He grinds again, harder this time, and I nearly cry out, the friction shooting straight through me. My arms wrap around his neck tighter, holding on like I might fall apart if I let go. I whimper again, and he smirks like he’s won a game he designed just for us.

“You like it when I talk to you like that?” he asks, dark and velvety. “You like when I tell you you’re mine?”

I can only nod, breathless, dazed, and aching.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not finished.”

Chris doesn’t ease up—not even for a second. His lips crash into mine again, messier this time, like he can’t get enough of me. His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming my mouth with such intensity that I forget how to breathe. I melt into him, whimpering into the kiss, my hands fisting into his shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding me up.

He groans low in his throat, deep and rough, like the sound is being torn from him. “You drive me insane,” he growls against my lips, biting my bottom one before tugging it between his teeth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

His hand slides lower, gripping the underside of my thigh tighter, pushing me up the wall as he grinds into me again—slow, devastating, controlled. I feel every part of him, hard and unrelenting. His body moves with purpose, like he’s savoring how wrecked he’s making me.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along my cheek. “Can’t even speak, huh?” He kisses just below my ear, biting softly, making me moan. “You’re so needy. So desperate. So fucking good for me.”

I whimper again, my voice breaking into a moan as my head tilts back against the wall. My entire body trembles, overwhelmed and desperate. I feel like I’m on fire—like his touch has burned through every rational thought I’ve ever had.

He trails kisses down my neck, open-mouthed and wet, licking and sucking at my skin like he’s starving. “Every little sound you make?” he growls, licking slowly over a spot he just marked. “Mine. Every moan. Every breath. Every part of you belongs to me.”

Chris pulls back for a second—just enough to look me in the eyes. His chest heaves, his lips red and swollen from kissing, his pupils blown wide. “Say it,” he commands, low and serious, voice edged with heat. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I breathe without hesitation, voice cracking with need.

He smirks, and it’s dark. Dangerous. “That’s my girl.”

He slams his hips into mine again—shamelessly, fiercely—and my back arches off the wall. The friction is unbearable. Perfect. I cry out softly, my lips parting with another shaky moan, and Chris watches me like I’m the most addicting thing he’s ever seen.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding again, rolling his hips in the slowest, dirtiest way. “That’s what I do to you. That’s what you do to me.”

His lips find mine again, and he kisses me so hard I lose all sense of time. He owns every inch of me—every sound, every movement, every thought—and he knows it.

“Don’t forget this,” he murmurs against my lips, voice dropping even lower, hotter, rougher. “Don’t forget how I make you feel. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Chris doesn’t ease off—if anything, he grows rougher, more demanding. His grip on my thigh tightens as he pins me higher against the wall, forcing my body to mold against his completely. I gasp, a sharp, breathy moan escaping me when his hips slam into mine again, deliberate and unrelenting.

“I want to ruin you,” he growls into my ear, voice jagged with heat. “I want you so wrecked, you forget how anyone else ever touched you.”

His mouth returns to my neck, and this time he’s ruthless. He licks, bites, sucks—claiming me in messy, hot marks that’ll stay for days. His hand grips my jaw, forcing my face back to him, eyes burning into mine.

“You like it when I’m like this, huh?” he snarls softly, lips brushing mine, his tone cocky and wicked. “You like when I get rough with you—when I take what’s mine.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His mouth crashes into mine again, and this time, there’s nothing gentle. His tongue forces into my mouth, deep, messy, overwhelming. He kisses like he owns me, like he’s trying to make sure I can never breathe without remembering the taste of him.

I can’t keep up. I can’t think. All I can do is let him kiss me like that—let him grind into me over and over until I’m crying out against his lips, my voice trembling with every breath.

He pulls away just enough to smirk at how wrecked I look, panting, eyes glassy. “There you are,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along my lower lip. “All soft. All mine. You look so fucking good like this.”

Then his hand drops to the back of my neck, gripping tight, and he yanks me into another filthy, possessive kiss. His hips roll harder against mine, and the friction sends shockwaves through me. My fingers curl into his shoulders, nails dragging down his back as I moan against his tongue.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he growls into my mouth. “This is what you do to me. Every time you look at me, every time you talk back, every time you pretend you don’t want me—this is what you make me.”

His lips trail down my throat again, teeth grazing the bruised skin, and he doesn’t stop until I’m practically writhing in his arms. I whimper his name, broken and breathless, and that’s when he growls again, voice cracking with heat.

“Say it again,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp. “I’m yours, Chris—please.”

He growls—low, feral—and kisses me again so deep, so rough, I feel like I’m being devoured.

Before I can catch my breath, Chris spins me around with force, his grip unrelenting as he presses my front against the wall. My palms slap the surface, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. He steps up behind me, his body crowding mine, his chest against my back, hips already pushing forward into me—firm, slow, claiming.

“You feel that?” he rasps against my ear, his voice hot and feral. “That’s mine. All of it. Every inch of you.”

I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut as his hand runs up the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, tugging just enough to make me whimper. He tilts my head back so his mouth can reach the curve of my throat, and then he sinks his teeth in—sharp, hot, possessive.

“Arch your back,” he growls, one hand gripping my hip, dragging me back against him. “Let me see you.”

My body obeys before my mind can catch up—spine curving, heat flooding through me as he drags his hand down my side, rough and unrelenting. I can feel him smirk against my neck, breath hot on my skin.

“That’s it,” he whispers darkly, grinding into me from behind with slow, punishing pressure. “You don’t even have to think—just listen. Just feel me.”

He presses me harder against the wall, his palm flattening between my shoulder blades. I can barely breathe, crushed between the heat of him and the cold surface in front of me. His other hand slides over my hip again, fingers digging in like he’s branding me there.

“You make the prettiest sounds when you’re desperate,” Chris murmurs, teeth brushing the shell of my ear. “And you’re so desperate for me right now, aren’t you? So needy.”

A broken sound escapes my lips—half whimper, half moan—and he groans, loving it.

“Fuck, I could listen to you fall apart all night.”

He grinds into me again, rougher this time, making me gasp. Every motion is measured, like he’s savoring my helplessness, the way my body trembles under his. His lips trail along my shoulder now, biting, sucking, marking as he goes.

“I don’t care who hears,” he growls. “Let them. Let them know who’s making you feel like this. Let them hear what I do to you.”

My knees weaken under me, my breath hitched and ragged as he holds me up, completely and utterly under his control.

“Say it,” he demands again, voice dark and low. “Say you belong to me.”

“I’m yours,” I breathe, wrecked, shaking. “I’m yours, Chris.”

His hand slides back into my hair, tugging harder, tilting my head so he can kiss me from behind—deep, filthy, possessive. I melt into it, into him, and I know without a doubt…

Chris keeps me pinned, his hand tight in my hair, his chest rising and falling against my back like he’s barely holding himself together. Every slow grind of his hips is more intense than the last—rough, relentless, his breath hot and ragged against the side of my neck.

“You feel that?” he growls, voice cracking with the restraint he’s barely clinging to. “You feel how close I am?”

I nod, unable to speak, the tension coiling in my core so tight it feels like I might shatter. My body trembles in his grip, legs weak, moans falling from my lips in broken gasps.

He pulls my head back harder, forcing me to arch deeper into him. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Falling apart just from me grinding into you. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His hand slides down, gripping my waist like he’s anchoring himself—and then he slams his hips forward, rough and unfiltered, and I let out a desperate, high-pitched moan. My knees nearly give out, but he catches me, holding me up with nothing but his strength and his need.

“You’re mine,” he says again, but this time it’s a growl, a promise, a possession. “Mine to hold, mine to touch, mine to ruin.”

He thrusts again—slow, hard, dragging the motion out—and I gasp, the friction so overwhelming I cry out his name. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I feel is him. Everywhere.

My whole body shakes, the pressure building with nowhere left to go. And then—

“Let go,” he whispers, voice tight with dominance and heat, lips brushing my ear. “Come on, baby. Fall apart for me.”

And I do.

Everything crashes. I cry out, my whole body convulsing with it, pleasure snapping through me like lightning. My hands claw at the wall, lips parted, whimpering his name again and again like it’s the only word I know.

Chris groans—deep, wrecked, primal—his grip tightening on me as he grinds one last time, hard, like he’s chasing his own release. His forehead drops to the back of my neck, his breath shaky and hot against my skin as we both ride the high together—overwhelmed, unfiltered, and utterly consumed by the moment.

He doesn’t move for a long second. Just holds me there, pressed against the wall, arms around me like he never wants to let go.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, lips ghosting along my shoulder. “You ruin me.”

And in that messy, breathless stillness—wrapped in him, wrecked and raw—nothing else exists.

Chris doesn’t let go right away. His arms are still wrapped around me tightly from behind, our bodies pressed together as we both breathe hard, tangled in the silence.

But slowly—so slowly—he eases his grip. One hand glides softly over my waist, his other releasing the gentle tug in my hair, fingertips brushing down the back of my neck like he’s trying to soothe every place he touched too hard. His lips press against my shoulder, a soft, trembling kiss—so different from the ones before.

He stays still for a long moment, then whispers, “Hey… baby?” His voice is low now, soft and careful, a complete contrast to how rough he was minutes ago.

I hum in response, still breathless, still trembling a little in his hold.

Chris slides one arm around my front, pulling me gently back against his chest, like he needs me close to calm down too. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his voice warm and close. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”

I shake my head, letting out a small laugh through my unsteady breathing. “No. Not at all.”

He kisses the back of my shoulder again, slower this time. “Are you okay, baby? Really okay?”

“I promise,” I whisper, turning my head just enough to catch his eyes over my shoulder. His brows are furrowed slightly, his eyes searching mine like he’s reading every tiny signal I might be sending.

“I wasn’t too rough?” he asks, voice more tender now. “Tell me if I was. I need to know.”

“You weren’t,” I say softly, smiling now, dazed and floaty but grounded in the warmth of him. “You were perfect.”

Chris exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing all at once. “God… I just—I get carried away sometimes. You make me feel so much.”

He turns me gently to face him, his hands cradling my cheeks, brushing my hair back, tilting my face so he can really look at me. “You’re okay?” he asks again, just to be sure. “You’re not sore? You can breathe?”

I nod, leaning into his hands. “I’m okay.”

Chris presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes. His thumbs brush my skin so softly now, and he’s so close I can feel every breath he takes.

“I need you to know something,” he murmurs. “I might act all tough. I might tease and push and want to wreck you like that—but I love you more than anything. I’d never, ever want to hurt you.”

I blink, heart swelling as I reach up to hold his wrists gently. “I know,” I whisper. “I know, Chris. You make me feel safe.”

His eyes flick up to mine, and he gives a tiny, crooked smile, relief flooding his face. “Good. ’Cause all I wanna do now is hold you for a while.”

And he does—lifting me gently, carrying me like I’m made of glass, and setting us down somewhere soft. He pulls me into his lap, arms around my waist, holding me against his chest like he can’t bear to be apart from me for even a second.

His hand strokes my back slowly, and he murmurs into my hair, “You taste like heaven. You sound like my favorite song. I swear, you’re everything.”

I curl into him tighter, lips brushing his collarbone.

And in that quiet afterglow—where there’s no heat left, just warmth—he holds me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Chris doesn’t let go right away. His arms are still wrapped around me from behind, our bodies tangled and breathless in the dim, quiet room. I feel the way his chest rises and falls against my back, his heartbeat still racing, matching mine.

But slowly—so slowly—he eases his grip, his hand brushing from my waist to my hair, smoothing it gently down my spine. He presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder, not rushed or hungry now, but soft. Careful. Full of something deeper.

“Hey… baby,” he whispers into my neck, his voice low and ragged. “You okay?”

I hum, still floating, still catching my breath. “Yeah.”

His arms tighten just a little, like he needs that last reassurance. Then, softer still: “I didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No,” I whisper, turning my head just enough for our eyes to meet. “Not at all.”

Chris looks at me for a second—really looks. His brows slightly drawn, his expression unreadably tender. “Wasn’t too rough?”

I shake my head again, smiling now, my fingers brushing along the side of his face. “You were perfect.”

Relief floods his face, and he leans in to kiss me again—this time to my temple, then my cheek, then right between my brows. “Okay. Okay… I just— You mean too much to me. I get so caught up in you, and I never wanna push too far.”

He slowly lowers me onto the bed, pulling a soft blanket over my body, his hands lingering at my sides. “Stay right here,” he says gently. “I’ll be back in a second. Just relax for me.”

I nod, the afterglow warming my whole body as I sink into the mattress. A minute later, I hear the bathroom sink running. When Chris returns, he’s holding a warm cloth. He kneels beside me like I’m made of glass, his hand brushing my thigh before he begins to gently clean me up.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

“It’s not. It’s perfect.”

He’s slow and deliberate with every pass of the cloth—wiping away what’s left of the moment with a reverence that makes my throat tighten. When he finishes, he leans in to kiss my knee, then rises to meet my eyes.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” he says softly, his voice warm and comforting. “Hot water, soft soap, and my arms around you. That sound good?”

“Mmhmm.”

Chris scoops me up again, lifting me like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The bathroom is already full of mist, soft and golden from the dimmed lights. The world narrows to the sound of running water and the steady beat of his heart under my ear.

He steps into the shower with me still in his arms. The heat hits us instantly—steam curling around our bodies, water sliding down our skin. I sigh into his shoulder, my legs tightening slightly around his waist.

“There we go,” he whispers. “Nice and warm.”

He slowly lowers me onto my feet, but keeps me pressed against him, his chest to my back. His arms wrap around me again, holding me still beneath the stream. I close my eyes and rest my head against him, the feeling of his hands on my waist and the hot water washing over us making me feel weightless.

Chris leans down, kissing the back of my neck. “Still okay?” he murmurs.

“Better than okay.”

He reaches for the soap and lathers it in his hands, then glides them across my shoulders, down my arms, along my sides in slow, circular motions. The bubbles slide over my skin, warm and slick, while his fingers follow every line of my body—never rushed, never greedy now. Just loving.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs into my skin. “You’re so damn beautiful, baby.”

He shifts me gently, letting the water rinse the suds from my back while he kisses the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “Let me take care of all of you.”

Then he turns me around, his hands guiding me to face him. His eyes search mine, checking for even a flicker of discomfort.

“Still feel good?” he asks softly.

I nod, barely able to speak with the way his tenderness is making my heart ache.

He kisses me slowly—deep and sweet—and when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “You’re not sore anywhere? No aches?”

“No. Just… floaty. Safe.”

“Good,” he whispers. “So good.”

Chris lifts my hands and washes them too, gentle and patient, like even my fingertips deserve to be treated with care. He kneels in front of me, suds trailing down my legs as he massages my calves, his eyes flicking up now and then to make sure I’m okay.

Then he rises again and pulls me into his arms, skin to skin, my body pressed into his. He holds me so tight I can feel his heartbeat, his breath warm against my damp hair.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” he whispers. “Like I just want to wrap you in my arms and never let go.”

My arms tighten around his waist, cheek resting against his chest. He strokes my hair under the water, tucking strands behind my ear.

“You still feel okay?” he asks, softer this time.

I nod. “I feel… like I could fall asleep right here.”

Chris smiles, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You’re safe, baby. You can rest now. I’ve got you.”

And so we stand there—held in the warmth of the water, hearts slow and steady, wrapped in nothing but skin, steam, and love.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

lmk if i should make more parts 💕💕

[hohhggk]

say it, say you hate me

• pt. 2 ( pt.3 : https://www.tumblr.com/hohhggk/783302369734688768/say-it-say-you-hate-me)

• summary: On a road trip to Hawaii with friends, you’re forced to share a seat with your childhood rival, Chris Sturniolo. Hours of tension, teasing, and grinding on his lap finally break him—and it all explodes into a heated argument back at the Airbnb. But when the shouting turns into an angry love confession, hate gives way to something far more dangerous… and irresistible.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

chapter five : Welcome to Paradise

The last stretch of the drive was quiet—almost too quiet. The sky had turned a deep molten gold as the sun began its descent into the Pacific, casting long shadows over the winding roads. You’d slid off Chris’s lap after the gas station, but the tension between you remained, simmering like a pot left just below boil.

He didn’t look at you. Not once.

But you could feel him.

Every time the car turned, every time your knee brushed his leg or your hand accidentally grazed his thigh, his whole body would stiffen like he was barely holding it together. You smiled to yourself and leaned back into the seat.

And then—you arrived.

The Airbnb was nestled on a private stretch of coastline just outside Honolulu. A glassy two-story house with wide windows that caught the gold of sunset, casting warm reflections across the driveway. Palm trees framed the path to the door, and beyond the gate, you could see the ocean. Quiet, endless, and humming.

Inside, it was open-concept—sleek white walls, honey-wood floors, and sand-colored linen furniture. There was a kitchen with granite counters, an upstairs loft with two queen beds, and three bedrooms on the main floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a back patio and pool, the horizon stretching past the glass like a dream.

“Alright,” Matt called, clapping his hands together. “We’re starving. Food run. Who’s coming?”

Nick, Nate, and Madi immediately agreed, arguing over where to go. You stayed quiet. So did Chris.

Madi looked at you. “You coming?”

You stretched your arms above your head. “I’m beat. Gonna chill for a bit.”

Chris still said nothing.

Matt raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

You nodded, already wandering toward the sliding doors to watch the sun over the water. You could feel Chris’s eyes on your back. You didn’t have to look.

The door clicked shut behind the others. Their laughter faded with the hum of the car pulling away.

Silence.

You turned—and found Chris standing in the middle of the living room. That black compression shirt was now sticking to his chest from heat, and his curls were wild, as if he’d run his hands through them too many times.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “What? Got something to say?”

And just like that—the silence snapped.

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chappter six : The Argument

The door clicked shut.

Silence wrapped around the house like a noose.

Chris hadn’t moved. He stood in the middle of the living room, tension wound tight in his arms, the veins in his forearms bulging slightly as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was still in those cursed grey sweats and the black compression shirt that clung to him in all the wrong—or right—ways. His chest heaved like he’d run a marathon.

You turned from the glass door, the fading light casting golden shadows on your face. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” Chris snapped, “because I’m trying to figure out how someone can be such a fucking menace.”

You laughed, slow and cold. “Oh, you’re mad now? Poor baby didn’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrowed. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” you replied. “I think this is karma. For the years you’ve spent being an arrogant, irritating, cocky little prick.”

His mouth opened, then shut. You’d caught him off guard. But it only lasted a second. Then he stepped forward, slowly, like a storm building momentum. “You really think this is about today? About you grinding on me in front of everyone like some—some smug little tease?”

You tilted your head, matching his step for step. “If the shoe fits.”

His jaw ticked. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“And yet you never stop looking,” you hissed. “Never stop staring. Even back in eighth grade, when you hated me more than anything, your eyes always gave you away.”

His mouth curled into a sneer. “That’s because I was trying to imagine duct taping your mouth shut.”

“Sure it was,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why you turned red every time I walked by. That’s why you nearly failed your math final sophomore year—too busy watching me bend over in front of you.”

His face flushed, deep and instant, and he stepped in again—closer now. You could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Careful,” he said lowly, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re pushing.”

You leaned in until your lips hovered a breath from his. “And you’re cracking.”

He growled, actually growled, and turned sharply away from you like if he stayed close, he’d explode. His fists were clenched at his sides. His body trembled, and not from anger alone.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, pacing now. “You think you can mess with me—treat me like a toy to get your sick little thrills.”

You watched him from across the room, arms crossed over your chest, breathing slow and deliberate. “Because that’s all you are, right? Just a body. Just a cocky, short-tempered idiot who can’t handle being wanted by someone he hates.”

He turned back around, eyes wide with disbelief. “Wanted?”

You didn’t blink. “Yeah. Wanted. Do you think I’d put this much effort into torturing someone who didn’t get under my skin? Someone who didn’t make my blood boil every time he walks into a room?”

The words hung between you both. Electric. Shocking. Real.

He stared at you—genuinely stunned for a moment. Then, “That’s fucked up.”

You took a step closer. “So’s the fact that you let me grind on you for hours and didn’t stop me.”

Chris flinched like you’d slapped him. “You think I wanted that?”

You laughed, bitter and loud. “Your body sure did.”

He snapped.

Chris crossed the room in two long strides, his hand slamming into the wall just beside your head. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. You stared up at him like you were daring him to keep going. He was breathing hard, nostrils flared, jaw tight enough to crack.

His other hand hovered in the air like he didn’t trust it near you. Not when it ached to touch. To grab. To shove. To pull.

His voice was ragged. “You drive me fucking insane.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Good.”

The moment detonated.

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chapter seven : Combustion

It happened like lightning.

One second, you were toe-to-toe, seething. The next—his hand was on your waist.

Not gentle. Not hesitant.

Possessive.

His fingers slid across the strip of exposed skin between your crop top and your shorts, the pads of his fingers dragging along the heat of your waist until they gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise. His other hand came up—slow, dangerous, trembling with restraint—and hovered just above your cheek, like he didn’t know if he was going to cup your face… or slam his fist into the wall behind your head.

Your breath caught.

His jaw was clenched, lips parted slightly, eyes burning into yours with a look that was something between hate and hunger. You could see the exact moment he broke—when the lines blurred, when he gave up fighting it.

His hand snapped to your throat.

Not choking—holding. Fingers curled lightly against the side of your neck, thumb brushing up, slow, soft, just under your jaw. Your pulse jumped beneath his touch. You knew he could feel it.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at him like if you broke eye contact, the moment would vanish.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

And then—

His mouth crashed into yours.

Not soft. Not sweet.

Ferocious.

Your back hit the wall with a thud as his entire body pushed against you, caging you in like you were something wild he had to trap before you slipped through his fingers again. His lips were molten, devouring yours in a fevered frenzy—clumsy and greedy and rough, like he was trying to make up for years of missed chances.

You gasped, and he took it.

Tongue pushing into your mouth, hands tightening on your waist, dragging you into him until every inch of you was flush. His kiss was desperate, messy—his teeth grazed your bottom lip, biting it between his own, sucking, pulling until you moaned into him and your knees went weak.

Your fingers gripped his shirt, twisting it in your fists. The fabric stretched, taut under your hands. His muscles rippled beneath it as he moved against you, grinding his hips forward in one slow, punishing roll that knocked the breath from your lungs.

His hand left your waist and slid lower—curling around the underside of your thigh, lifting it up, hooking your leg around his waist until he could press deeper into you. His body heat was unbearable. His mouth never left yours.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want you this badly.

Your hands slid up under his shirt, palms dragging along his abs, his ribs, his chest—feeling every inch of heat and hardness until he groaned into your mouth and bucked forward again, rutting against you like he couldn’t help it.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped against your lips, voice wrecked, barely human. “You’ve ruined me.”

You arched into him, grinding back. “Good.”

He growled, literally growled, and his lips were on you again—sloppier this time, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, spit smearing between your mouths. Your lip was swollen. His jaw was wet. It was so filthy, so raw, so explosive it didn’t feel real.

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back, exposing your throat. You didn’t even have time to catch your breath before his mouth was on your neck.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailed from your jaw to your collarbone. He sucked harshly under your ear—biting, licking, soothing it with his tongue while your body jolted against him. His other hand gripped your ass, kneading, pulling you closer with every breathless moan that slipped from your lips.

You clung to his shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

“You think I haven’t dreamed about this?” he rasped against your throat. “Think I haven’t hated you every fucking day for making me want this?”

You gasped, shuddering.

“Say something,” he demanded, voice cracked and breathless. “Say you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you moaned, rocking against his hips. “God, I hate you—”

He bit your neck, and you choked on a cry.

“Liar.”

His hands were fire on your waist. They dragged up and gripped your sides like he owned them, like they were his, pulling you tighter, tighter, until your back arched off the wall and your chest pressed into him—nothing but heat between you.

Then his hand slid up, gripped the underside of your jaw, and tilted your face toward him again.

And without warning—

His tongue shoved into your mouth—hard.

You gasped, moaned into him, and his chest rumbled with approval as his mouth devoured yours, open and wet and dominating. He kissed you like he wanted to wreck you. Like his tongue wasn’t exploring—it was claiming. He pushed deeper—tilting his head, lips moving aggressively, tongues tangling, his breath ragged and full of groaned curses.

You whimpered.

There was no space to hide it.

Your legs were already starting to tremble.

He felt it—because his hand snapped down, gripped your thigh again, and hiked it higher up around his waist. His hips rolled into yours, hard, slow, and filthy, grinding deep between your legs like he was fucking you through the kiss.

You moaned.

Loud.

He pulled back just enough to growl, “Fuck… you taste so good.”

Your head hit the wall, eyes fluttering shut, throat exposed, lips parted and tingling from how hard he’d been kissing you. But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He leaned in and dragged his tongue down your jaw, slow and possessive. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head to the side, and his lips attached to your neck like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

He kissed it like worship.

Open-mouthed. Hot. Wet. Deep.

Licking up the curve. Nipping. Sucking.

He bit the sensitive skin under your ear, and you nearly crumpled.

“Chris—” you whimpered.

His grip tightened, holding you up like he knew your knees were going.

“Shut up,” he rasped against your throat. “You wanted this. You fucking begged for this with every grind of your hips.”

You moaned again, hands clutching his shirt, nails digging into his back. You could feel everything—his abs grinding against your core, his thigh between yours, the full hardness pressing into your stomach, undeniable and throbbing.

And still—he kissed your neck.

He sucked harshly right beneath your collarbone until he left a deep purple mark that made your breath stutter. Then another. And another. Until he was painting you with his mouth, marking his territory, dragging his tongue across each bruise he left like an apology and a promise all in one.

“Say it again,” he ordered.

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Say… what?”

His lips brushed your earlobe, voice like gravel. “Say you hate me.”

You shuddered.

“I—I hate you,” you whimpered again, your voice breaking.

Chris grinned against your skin. “You’re such a bad liar.”

Then he kissed you again—sloppier. Wetter. Dirtier.

Tongue deep. Lips open. Breath mingling.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could do was feel—his hand splayed on your lower back, dragging you closer, his knee holding your thighs open, his tongue fucking into your mouth like it belonged there.

You whimpered again, and this time—he moaned into you.

And it was raw.

“God, you’re so sweet,” he groaned, pulling back just far enough to speak before slamming his mouth back on yours. “I should’ve done this years ago.”

You gasped as his hand slid under your top, palm dragging up your stomach, heat pouring from him like fire. His lips trailed from your mouth back to your neck, then down to the curve of your shoulder where he bit down again and sucked so hard you gasped his name.

“Chris—!”

He growled. “You sound so pretty when you moan my name. Say it again.”

Your lips were swollen, your body shaking, your mind blank.

And you did.

“Chris,” you whimpered, voice cracking as he pushed you harder into the wall, grinding against you like he was trying to fuse your bodies together.

He moaned into your skin. “That’s it, baby. Moan for me.”

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