Chris X f! Reader
Mature | Explicit | MDNI
Matt is your boyfriend and he'd been neglecting you the past few months until a glimmer of light leads you to a dangerous scratch to an itch you've been enduring.
It had been another wasted night.
You’d worn the pink lingerie. The one with the delicate straps and the plunge that made you feel like a secret. You’d kissed Matt slowly, deeply, trying to pull him into the moment with you. But his responses were sluggish, his mind somewhere else—on work, on some problem, on anything but the woman in his arms.
“Not tonight, babe. I’m dead,” he’d murmured, his lips brushing your forehead before he rolled over.
Dead. The word had echoed in the quiet room as his breathing evened out into sleep. Again.
The frustration wasn’t just sexual. It was a hollow, aching loneliness. You felt like a ghost in his life, a pleasant piece of furniture. The anger was a quiet, cold thing that finally propelled you out of bed. You needed water. You needed space.
The hallway floor was cool under your bare feet. The house was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. That’s when you saw it—the sliver of yellow light from under a door. Not Matt’s. The one directly across.
Your heart, already pounding with a low-grade resentment, kicked into a different, more dangerous rhythm.
You knew he was in there. Chris, the youngest triplet, the most energetic one, the one whose flirty gaze always seemed to see you a little too clearly. The one you’d noticed first at that party months ago, with his easy laugh and the way he listened like your words were the only ones in the room. But Matt was the first to actually insisted on getting to know you then finally pursue you.
The faint glow from his room drew you in, a siren call to the very temptation you’d been trying to avoid all night. Your bare feet padded silently across the hallway, the floor cool beneath you. The door was slightly ajar, just enough to let that sliver of light spill out. You paused, your heart thudding in your chest, the kind of rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the heat pooling low in your belly.
Chris was on his side on the bed, shirtless, his black boxer briefs riding low on his hips. You see him breathe as his body gently rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, but it felt different this time. It felt like the calm before the storm. You hesitated at the edge of the bed, your breath catching in your throat as you stared down at him. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his face. He looked so much like Matt, yet so entirely different.
You climbed onto the mattress, the sheets cool against your legs as you settled behind him. Your hand hovered over him, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. For a moment, you almost chickened out. Almost.
But then you remembered the way Matt had rolled away from you earlier, the way he’d mumbled, “Not tonight, babe,” before falling asleep. Again. The frustration wasn’t just sexual; it was deeper, more personal than that. It was the ache of being ignored, of being an afterthought in someone else’s life. And now, here you were, not with your boyfriend but with his brother.
Your heart pounded in your chest as you finally lowered yourself beside him, your body pressing into the firmness of his back. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles stiffened under your touch. He wasn’t sleeping, not really. You could feel his awareness, his hesitation.
The room was silent save for the sound of your breathing and his. The tension between you crackled like static electricity, ready to ignite at any moment. You knew you were crossing a line, stepping into forbidden territory, but the hunger in you couldn’t be ignored.
Chris was younger than Matt, but in that moment, he felt like everything Matt hadn’t been for you lately. He felt like the answer to a question you hadn’t even known you were asking. And as you lay there beside him, your body pressed against his, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was where you were meant to be all along.
Then Chris shifted a little. “Christ, Nick, what the hell?” Chris mumbled, voice thick with sleep as a warm, soft weight pressed against his back. Then he froze. The body behind him was all wrong—too soft, too curved. And were those…?
He twisted, his heart pounding a sudden, frantic rhythm against his ribs. In the sliver of moonlight cutting through the blinds, he saw you. Matt’s girlfriend. In his bed.
“Shhh,” you whispered, your finger pressing gently against his lips. The scent of your skin, something sweet and floral, filled the space between you. Your eyes were wide, pleading, shimmering with a frustration he recognized all too well. The same frustration he’d seen simmering in you for weeks while Matt checked out.
He should push you away. He knew he should. But his body wasn’t listening. It was waking up, heat pooling low in his gut as he took you in. His brother’s girl. In his sheets.
Your hand slid from his mouth, tracing the line of his jaw. Then you shifted, moving with a quiet, determined grace. Before he could form another protest, you were straddling his hips, sitting on his lower stomach. The thin sheet fell away.
You were wearing baby pink lingerie. A delicate lace bra that did little to contain the heavy, full curves of your breasts, the peaks straining against the fabric. Matching panties, just a sheer scrap of silk. His mouth went dry. He was a boob guy. Always had been. And yours… yours were a fucking masterpiece.
“He’s asleep, again” you murmured, your voice a husky secret in the dark room. “He’s always asleep.”
Chris’s hands, which had been gripping the sheets to push you off, went slack. His resistance melted under the heat of your thighs on his abdomen, the visual feast above him. God, look at her.
A war raged in his head for all of three seconds. Loyalty to his brother. The months of watching you, wanting you, burying it because Matt got there first. The raw, hungry need on your face now, mirroring his own.
His hands came up, not to push, but to settle on your bare waist. His thumbs stroked the silky skin just above the lace of your panties. A surrender. A yes.
A slow, wicked smile touched your lips. You reached back, your fingers finding the clasp of your bra. With a soft snick, it came undone. You let it slide down your arms, dropping it beside the bed.
Chris groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest. In the pale light, your breasts were full and heavy, tipped with taut, pink nipples that begged for his mouth. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word reverent.
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, letting them sway enticingly close to his face. “You look hungry,” you whispered.
He was. Ravenous. All thought vanished, replaced by pure, primal want. He surged up, capturing one pebbled peak with his mouth. He suckled hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive bud. The taste of you, salt and sweetness, exploded on his tongue.
You cried out, a sharp, gasping sound you muffled against your own arm. Your hips rolled instinctively against his stomach, seeking friction. He switched to your other breast, lavishing it with the same desperate attention, one hand coming up to knead the soft, yielding flesh he wasn’t feasting on. The sensation was overwhelming—the hot pull of his mouth, the rough pad of his thumb circling your other nipple, the hard ridge of his erection now unmistakable against your inner thigh through his boxer briefs.
“Chris,” you panted, arching into his mouth. “Please.”
He released your breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and glazed. “What do you want?” he growled, though he knew. He needed to hear it.
“You. I want you. All of you.”
That was all the permission he needed. In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back, his large body settling between your spread legs. He kissed you then, deep and consuming, his tongue tangling with yours. It was nothing like Matt’s tired, distracted kisses. This was all fire and possession.
He kissed his way down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, down the quivering plane of your stomach. His fingers hooked into the sides of your panties and dragged them down your legs. You kicked them away, completely bare for him now.
He settled back on his heels, staring down at you, at the slick, glistening proof of your desire. “So fucking beautiful,” he muttered, before lowering his head between your thighs.
His mouth on you was electric. A slow, languid lick from bottom to top that made your back bow off the mattress. Then his tongue dove in, fucking you with it, shallow and fast. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him to you, moaning into the pillow. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside you, finding a spot that made you see stars.
“Chris! I’m gonna… right there, don’t stop!”
He didn’t. He drove you higher, his mouth relentless, until your thighs clamped around his head and you shattered with a silent, trembling scream, your core pulsing around his fingers.
Before the waves even fully subsided, he was moving. He shoved his black boxer briefs down, freeing his thick, rigid length. He was huge, and you whimpered, both in anticipation and a flicker of fear. You his fully erect cock, you can't help but compare it to Matt's. Almost the same length if not fully the same length but Chris was a bit thicker and it has a slight curve. And it's hard, rock hard, for you. A sight you haven't seen for so long from Matt.
He leaned over you, caging you with his arms, the tip of him nudging at your soaked entrance. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his heated gaze.
“This is me,” he said, pushing forward an inch. A stretch, a burn, a perfect fullness. “Not him. Me.”
You nodded, breathless. “You. Only you.”
He drove home in one deep, devastating stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You both cried out, the feeling of complete, utter fullness stealing the air from your lungs. He stilled, letting you adjust, his forehead dropping to yours. The intimacy of it, his eyes locked on yours, was almost more than the physical act.
Slow, at first. Long, deep pulls that rubbed every sensitive nerve inside you. Then faster, harder. The bed rocked against the wall with a rhythmic thump. He braced himself on one arm, the other hand groping and squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple. The combined sensations—the deep, pounding friction inside, the rough play on your breasts—coiled your pleasure tight again, impossibly fast.
“You feel… so… good,” he grunted between thrusts, his control fraying. “Tighter than I… fucking imagined.”
You wrapped your legs high around his waist, taking him deeper. “Harder,” you begged, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back. “Chris, please.”
His hips snapped forward, a punishing, delicious rhythm. The slap of skin on skin, your mingled gasps, the creak of the bed—it was a symphony of sin. You could feel the tension coiling in his body, the way his thrusts became erratic, desperate.
“I’m close,” you sobbed, the pressure building to a breaking point. “So close.”
“Come for me,” he snarled, his mouth crashing down on yours. “Let me feel it.”
That was all it took. Your climax ripped through you, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him like a vise. With a guttural shout, he followed you over, driving into you one last, deep time as he spilled himself inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing in the dark room. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting anchor, before quickly rolling to the side, taking you with him, still joined. He pressed his face into your hair.
The reality of what you’d just done began to seep into the haze of pleasure.
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