summary: The cute church boy you accidentally met one Sunday turns out to be far less innocent than he looks — and once Michael starts touching you, neither of you can seem to stop. ₊˚⊹♡
warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, oral (f receiving & m receiving), thigh sex
a/n: GIRL idk i’ve been home from work for the past two days bc of really bad cramps so i guess the ideas have just been flowing lol, i hope you like this little story, i think i need to go outside（⊙_⊙）
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Considering you had grown up in a fairly religious household, you never really became all that religious yourself.
Maybe it was the rebellious, anti-establishment streak from your teenage years still lingering into your early twenties, but the entire concept had always felt a little difficult for you to fully grasp.
Still, out of respect for your parents — and because you genuinely liked the sense of community it brought people — you continued going to church with them most Sundays whenever you could.
You liked the stories.
The way people from completely different walks of life gathered together to talk about their struggles, their families, the ways faith had helped them become kinder, better versions of themselves.
Even if you didn’t fully believe the same things they did, you appreciated the comfort of it all.
It had been two years since you graduated high school. Since then, you’d spent most of your time working odd jobs and trying to recover from the exhaustion school had left behind, before eventually applying to universities closer to home.
But just when you finally felt ready to settle somewhere, your father announced that he’d accepted a position as a music attorney for a major label in Los Angeles. Which was how you found yourself moving across the country only a month later, settling into the sprawling luxury of Encino, California.
You were grateful, of course. Your father had worked incredibly hard to give your family a comfortable life, and you admired the discipline it had taken to build it.
But despite the beautiful neighborhoods and massive homes tucked behind iron gates, loneliness still seemed to follow you everywhere.
Which was exactly why you had agreed to come to church that Sunday morning.
You missed feeling connected to people.
And maybe — if you were lucky — you’d meet someone your own age. Maybe even make a friend.
The California heat was already unforgiving by the time you arrived, making you silently grateful for the soft yellow wrap dress you had chosen that morning, paired with black wedge sandals that clicked softly against the church floors as you searched for somewhere to sit.
That was when you noticed them.
A large family gathered a few pews ahead of you, talking and laughing amongst themselves loudly enough to draw attention without seeming to care.
And then one of them caught your eye completely.
Slender, with dark curls brushing against the collar of a crisp white dress shirt, a black tie hanging neatly down the front. High-waisted black trousers. White socks paired with polished loafers.
He looked almost painfully put together.
Your eyes met for only a second before he looked away immediately — shy enough that it almost seemed panicked.
The reaction made warmth spread through your chest before you could stop it.
Something about him intrigued you instantly.
Throughout the entire sermon, you kept finding your attention drifting back toward him, watching the quiet slope of his shoulders from a few pews ahead.
And every now and then, you could have sworn he was doing the same.
By the time the service ended and people began filtering toward the exit, your stomach had started fluttering nervously.
Maybe this was your chance.
Before you could overthink it, you “accidentally” bumped into him in the aisle, your black clutch slipping from your hands onto the floor.
It hit the ground with a soft thud.
You crouched down immediately, only for another hand to reach it at the same time as yours.
“Sorry,” he blurted quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, that was my fault,” you laughed lightly.
He finally looked up at you properly then.
Up close, he looked even prettier somehow.
Large brown eyes framed by long lashes stared back at you with open nervousness, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do now that your attention was actually on him.
For a second, neither of you moved. Still crouched in the middle of the aisle, both holding onto the same clutch.
His cheeks turned pink first.
He pulled his hand back quickly.
“Sorry,” he repeated, standing up a little too fast.
It made you smile instantly.
“You apologise a lot,” you teased before thinking better of it.
His eyes widened slightly.
A small laugh escaped him — nervous, warm, almost embarrassed.
“My mother says that too.”
That made you laugh softly too.
And for a second, Michael just looked at you.
Like hearing you laugh had become something he wanted to remember.
Before either of you could say anything else, a young girl — maybe twelve or thirteen — suddenly appeared beside him, tugging impatiently at his arm.
“Come on, Michael,” she complained dramatically. “You promised we were getting ice cream right after church.”
Michael glanced down at her with mild annoyance, though the fondness behind it was obvious.
“Alright, alright, Dunk,” he sighed. “Gimme a second.”
She narrowed her eyes at him like she didn’t believe him for a second, then rolled them dramatically before running off toward the rest of the family outside.
You watched her go, smiling faintly before looking back at him.
“Well…” you started lightly. “I probably shouldn’t keep you from your very serious ice cream plans, stranger.”
That made him look at you almost panicked, like this suddenly felt like an opportunity he couldn’t afford to lose.
Usually he was far more reserved — shy to the point of almost disappearing into himself — but the words still tumbled out before he could stop them.
“L-let me give you my number,” he blurted quickly. “If you want it, I mean.”
The compliment made warmth rush straight to your face.
“Well… how am I supposed to say no to a face like yours?” you teased.
He let out an embarrassed laugh, looking away as his cheeks flushed even deeper.
After fumbling for a second, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook — worn at the edges, filled with scribbled notes and half-finished ideas.
He quickly wrote his number down before tearing out the page and handing it to you.
You slipped it into your pocket, smiling to yourself.
Before he could turn to leave, you reached out and gently caught his arm.
When he turned back, you introduced yourself properly — and for a second, he just looked at you like he’d forgotten what he was meant to say.
Your hand felt small in his. His was warm and noticeably larger, long fingers wrapping around yours almost carefully, like he was afraid of holding on wrong.
“Michael,” you repeated softly.
He blinked, then nodded quickly, finally snapping back into himself.
“It was nice meeting you.”
You lasted exactly two days before finally working up the nerve to call the cute boy you had met at church.
He simply couldn’t seem to leave your mind, and eventually you realized you had to do something about it.
You picked up the receiver and waited for the dial tone.
One by one, you started dialing his number on the rotary phone, the soft clicking sound filling the quiet room as the dial spun back into place each time.
It took longer than you wanted, the kind of waiting that made you almost second-guess yourself.
Until finally — the number you had been hoping for so desperately connected.
His voice came through softer than you expected, cautious at first, like he wasn’t entirely sure who he was speaking to.
“Hi Michael, it’s the pretty girl from church calling,” you said lightly.
You could almost hear the moment he sat up straighter on the other end of the line, like something in him had instantly shifted into attention.
What you couldn’t see through the phone was the way his face lit up, a bright pearly smile spreading across it almost immediately.
“The pretty girl… how could I forget?”
The words made your cheeks warm instantly, and a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Just as naturally as ever, the words started spilling out from both of you.
He told you more about himself — his family, the band, the music, and how he was working on releasing music on his own.
You talked about your move, about being in that awkward in-between stage of settling in, before explaining that you were about to start applying for school.
It flowed so easily, almost as if you had known each other for years.
You calling him, or him beating you to it.
Getting to know each other piece by piece over the following days.
Until, one day, right as you were about to end the conversation, you surprised yourself by asking something a little braver.
“Do you wanna come over on Saturday?”
“I have a pretty cool movie selection… we could watch a thriller, if you dare.”
On the other end of the line, his heart felt like it nearly stopped from excitement.
He tried to keep his voice steady, tried not to sound too eager — not wanting to come across as some desperate puppy just because all he wanted was to be near you.
Even though that was exactly what he was.
You gave him your address.
The nickname shouldn’t have affected him the way it did — but it shot straight through him anyway, butterflies erupting in his stomach.
And somehow, he still managed to answer:
On your end, it hit just as hard.
And as soon as the call ended, you were left with the exact same reaction — and a very dangerous little idea forming in your mind.
Saturday rolled around eventually… painfully slow, you thought.
Your parents had planned a short trip to visit friends, which left you with the house to yourself — the perfect excuse for what you had in mind.
You were sitting at your vanity, carefully applying lipstick before adding the final touches and spraying yourself with perfume. The sweet vanilla scent filled the air around you.
A soft knock came at the door, and excitement immediately bubbled in your stomach.
You stood up and took a quick glance at your outfit — something you had thought about a little too carefully.
A white broderie anglaise top with puffy sleeves and a soft, elasticated neckline, paired with denim cut-offs that were a little too short to be subtle, slightly rolled at the hem.
Your legs were left bare, the whole look finished with a matching layer of red polish on both your fingers and toes.
A thought lingered in the back of your mind — one you probably shouldn’t have been having.
You shook it away quickly, exhaling softly before walking to the front door.
Taking a breath, you opened it.
You were met with the man you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past few days.
You looked at him and smiled, quickly glancing over his outfit.
He wore black trousers with a striped rugby-style shirt in beige and navy horizontal stripes, a white collar peeking out neatly underneath. On his feet were the same shoes from church — black loafers with white socks.
He looked more dressed down now, but still undeniably fashionable… and cute.
You broke your gaze before smiling at him.
You pulled him into a hug, standing on your tiptoes as your arms wrapped around his neck.
He nearly broke into a sweat at the sudden closeness, your sweet vanilla scent filling his senses and sending goosebumps across his skin.
You pulled away and he looked at you with a shy, wide smile.
“…Hi,” he said softly, his gentle eyes meeting yours.
“Well, come on inside,” you said, gently tugging him in as you slipped past him and closed the door.
You noticed him taking in the space as you walked beside him.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. We’re still unpacking,” you said.
He shook his head lightly.
“That’s alright. It still looks really nice.”
“Do you want something to drink? I have some orange juice.”
As you walked toward the kitchen, he lingered for a moment, his attention drifting as he took in your outfit properly for the first time.
Your caramel-toned legs were on full display, and he quickly looked away again when his gaze accidentally lingered a second too long on how your shorts… stopped far too high for his ability to think properly.
As you came back with a cold glass of orange juice and handed it to him, your fingers brushed against his.
The brief contact sent a tingling sensation straight through your stomach.
At the same time, his breath caught slightly at the small interaction as he quickly took a sip of his drink, trying to calm the thoughts that had suddenly started racing through his mind.
You spoke softly.
“It’s a perfect evening for a movie night, honestly.”
Today was one of the rare days where the sun had been swallowed by gloomy clouds, leaving the air a little chilly — the kind of weather where being outside didn’t feel appealing at all.
You continued,
“Good timing too — my parents just helped me move their old TV into my room right before they left.”
His eyes widened at that.
“Right before they left?” he repeated, sounding slightly thrown off.
The idea clearly caught him off guard — he hadn’t fully processed the fact that he’d be alone with you in your house.
You looked at him and said innocently,
“Yeah! They went to see some old friends — they’re not coming home until tomorrow evening,” you added casually.
He looked at you with wide eyes again, swallowing hard.
“O-oh… o-okay,” he stammered, clearly caught off guard.
For a moment, he didn’t move, like the information was still settling in — the realization that it was just the two of you here, alone in the house, stretching a little too long in his mind.
A part of him briefly wondered if he should say something, maybe even turn around and leave before he got himself into something he wouldn’t be able to think his way out of later.
But then you were already taking his hand.
And the thought disappeared almost immediately.
You led him up the stairs into your room.
He stepped in behind you, letting go as soon as you did, his eyes immediately taking in the space.
Pink walls covered in posters and magazine cutouts. A cream-and-white wooden bed frame with a pink floral bedspread at the center. Flower-shaped pillows in hot pink and lime green scattered across it, surrounded by stuffed animals.
A pink rotary phone sat on one mismatched nightstand, while a small table lamp on the other cast a warm, cozy glow — the only light in the room aside from the television already playing at the foot of the bed.
He smiled softly, like your personality was reflected perfectly in the space around him.
You glanced at him and said,
“It’s very pink.”
He let out a small laugh.
“Yes… but it’s cute. It fits you.”
You smiled, heat rising slightly to your cheeks.
“Well, come on — the popcorn’s gonna get cold.”
You gestured toward the large bowl sitting in the middle of the bed.
The thought of actually sitting on your bed with you hadn’t fully registered for him yet — at least not until he suddenly became very aware of it.
Carefully, almost cautiously, he sat down, like he was afraid of breaking something.
You turned on the movie — a horror film, judging by the description.
Then you sat down on the other side of the bed, close enough that your hands could brush if either of you moved, but still keeping a small distance between you.
You sat in silence about halfway into the movie before a sudden jumpscare made you flinch. Instinctively, your body turned toward him, your face pressing into his chest as your arms wrapped around his waist in an attempt to calm yourself.
He let out a startled laugh — loud and breathless — before he fully realized the position you were in.
The sound died in his throat almost immediately.
You were too close. Way too close for his thoughts to stay in order.
Slowly, you looked up at him, still holding onto him.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
His eyes flickered over your face before dropping — briefly, instinctively — to your lips.
And just like that, his heartbeat spiked so hard he was sure you could feel it against your hands.
Just as you moved closer, hovering barely above his lips, he pulled away.
His expression shifted instantly — a little panicked.
“I… we shouldn’t,” he said.
You paused, still close enough to feel the tension hanging between you.
“Well— your parents aren’t home, and I don’t want to, uh…” he trailed off, words spilling out in a rushed ramble. “Start something I can’t stop.”
He swallowed, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to steady himself.
“And I’ve… I’ve never really—”
He stopped again, letting out a small, embarrassed breath.
“I don’t want you to think I’m… bad at it or anything,” he added quickly, like he regretted it the second it left his mouth.
For a second, you just looked at him.
The movie was still playing quietly in the background, but it felt distant now — like it didn’t belong in the same moment anymore.
You were still close enough to feel everything, but now there was a gap where there hadn’t been one before.
Because he had pulled away.
And you were left hovering there, realizing how much you had actually wanted him to stay.
You gave him a reassuring smile, trying to ease the nervous tension radiating off him. Slowly, you crawled closer across the pink floral bedspread and swung one leg over, straddling his lap. You settled down onto him with clear intent, your denim cut-offs riding higher as you pressed against the growing bulge in his trousers.
A soft, involuntary whimper slipped from Michael’s mouth. His hands hovered uncertainly in the air for a second before gently landing on your thighs, fingers trembling slightly against your bare skin.
“That’s okay,” you whispered, voice warm and low. “You can practice on me…”
You reached up and threaded your fingers through the dark curls at the side of his head, gently twirling one around your finger. His breath hitched.
“…Besides,” you added, leaning in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, “maybe I don’t want you to stop.”
Michael shivered beneath you, a quiet, shaky exhale leaving his lips. His fingers flexed gently on your thighs, like he was still deciding whether he was really allowed to hold on. You could feel the heat of him through his trousers, already hard and twitching under the slow pressure of your hips.
“I… okay,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, eyes wide and dark as they flicked up to meet yours. “Can you try kissing me again?”
You smiled softly and leaned in, catching his lips before he could second-guess himself. At first his kiss was tentative and careful, but the moment you deepened it, a tiny needy sound escaped him. He started following your lead, learning quickly even as his hands stayed sweetly hesitant.
When you rolled your hips again, grinding down against his hardness with more purpose, Michael broke the kiss with a soft gasp. His head tipped back against the floral pillows, exposing the long line of his throat as another quiet whimper slipped out.
“God… that feels really good,” he murmured, voice rougher than usual. “You feel so good…”
Encouraged, you dipped your head and pressed your lips to his neck, kissing and sucking gently, deliberately leaving a faint mark. His breath hitched sharply.
One of his hands dared to slide up under the hem of your broderie top, fingertips tracing warm, reverent lines along your waist. You caught both his wrists gently and guided them higher, slipping them fully beneath your shirt until his palms rested just below your breasts.
He squeezed carefully at first — almost too gently, like he was scared of being too rough. But when you let out a soft moan at the contact, it seemed to flip a switch in him. His fingers grew bolder, grazing over your hardened nipples before gently rolling and squeezing them between his fingertips.
A whimper left your lips. You rolled your hips again, pressing down harder against his throbbing length.
“Mmm, Mikey… you’re making me feel so good,” you breathed.
His eyes widened, dark with hunger he couldn’t hide. A helpless little whimper escaped him.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice trembling with want. His thumbs brushed over your nipples again, slower this time, like he was savoring every reaction he pulled from you.
He looked up at you with those wide, dark eyes, hesitation and desire flickering across his face. His hand slowly slid down again, fingers brushing the hem of your broderie top.
“Can you take it off… please?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper, almost reverent.
You didn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, you pulled the top up and over your head, letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The cool air kissed your skin, leaving you bare from the waist up.
Michael’s breath caught. He stared at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen — like you were a painting made just for him. His eyes traced every inch of you with pure, open adoration, cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted.
A faint blush rose to your own cheeks under the intensity of his gaze. You looked away, suddenly shy, the roles quietly reversing for a moment.
Michael smiled — soft, warm, and a little awed. He gently cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your heated skin, and the words slipped out of him so naturally:
Then he pulled you into a deep, loving kiss. There was nothing rushed about it. His lips moved slowly against yours, full of quiet wonder and affection, like he was trying to pour every bit of how he felt into you. One of his hands eventually slid down to rest at the small of your back, warm and steady, holding you close while the other stayed gently cradling your cheek.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was low and a little breathless.
“You’re so beautiful it almost hurts,” he murmured, eyes still drinking you in. His thumb traced a slow circle on your lower back. “I don’t even know what I did to deserve this…”
You let out a soft giggle and whispered, “You have such a way with words… I wonder what else that mouth of yours can do.”
Michael’s eyes widened, the flush on his cheeks spreading all the way to his ears. For a second he just stared at you, lips parted in surprise. Then a shy, flustered little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I… I’ve never…” he started, voice low and a little hoarse. But instead of pulling away, he swallowed hard and nodded, eyes flicking down your body with open reverence. “I want to. I really want to make you feel good. I want to taste you.”
The honest desire in his voice sent heat rushing through you. You kissed his forehead, then gently moved off his lap and leaned back against the pile of pillows. Michael followed eagerly as you pulled him into a passionate kiss.
With surprising confidence and clear determination to please you, he began trailing soft kisses down your body — first between your breasts, then slowly down your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your shorts, he paused and looked up at you with those big, nervous eyes.
“Can I… take these off?” he asked gently.
You smiled. “I don’t want anything else.”
He let out a soft, relieved smile and carefully unbuttoned your shorts, sliding the zipper down before tugging them off. They landed quietly on the floor beside the bed. His gaze lingered on your white ribbed panties — the delicate frilly edges and tiny bow at the center — and his breath hitched.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. With slightly shaky hands, he hooked his fingers into the waistband and slowly pulled them down your legs.
The moment you were fully bare in front of him, Michael stilled. A flicker of nervous uncertainty crossed his face as the reality of what he was about to do hit him.
You noticed immediately. “Do you know what to do?” you asked gently.
“Uhm—in theory, yes,” he admitted, cheeks burning. “I’ve seen it in movies…”
The confession sent a thrill down your spine. The image of sweet, church-going Michael secretly watching filthy movies was unexpectedly hot.
“I’ll guide you, okay?” you said softly. “Just follow what feels natural.”
He nodded, eager to please, and slid down between your parted thighs. Curiosity quickly won over his nerves. He reached forward with two fingers, gently brushing over your sensitive clit before sliding them down between your slick folds.
“You’re… you’re so wet,” he whimpered, voice full of awe. His hips twitched against the bed.
“Mmm, it’s all for you, Michael,” you moaned.
“Put them in, baby,” you guided, voice breathy. “Kind of in a curling motion.”
He obeyed instantly, sliding his fingers inside you and curling them exactly as you asked. Your sweet moans encouraged him, and he quickly found a steady rhythm.
“Mmm, Mikey… please, I need more, baby.”
He looked up at you, a little confused but desperate to learn. You smiled down at him.
“I need you to kiss me here,” you whispered, “gently, with your tongue too.”
Understanding flashed across his face. He leaned in and pressed a soft, experimental kiss to your clit, then dragged his tongue over you. He explored different pressures and patterns until your hips jerked and you moaned, “Don’t stop—”
Your hand pressed firmly into his dark curls, holding him closer. Michael moaned against you and started grinding desperately against the sheets, chasing his own relief while he licked and sucked with growing confidence. His fingers kept curling inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over.
Your breathing grew ragged. Your thighs started to tremble and squeeze around his head as you tugged harder on his hair.
“Mmm, it feels so good, Mikey… I’m g-gonna cu—”
Your orgasm crashed over you, thighs clamping around him as you clenched tightly around his fingers. Michael kept going through every wave, like he never wanted it to end.
When you finally relaxed, he gently pulled his fingers out and sat back on his knees, looking up at you with glassy, adoring eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.
A fresh wave of heat spread through your chest. You sat up and pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Michael melted into it, making a soft, needy sound against your lips as his hands rested gently on your waist.
When you finally parted for air, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours. His cheeks were still flushed, lips shiny, and his breathing was uneven. He looked up at you through his lashes, a mix of nervousness and hope in his eyes.
“Did I… do okay?” he asked quietly, voice a little hoarse. “Was that good for you?”
The sweet vulnerability in his question made your heart flutter. You smiled, cupping his face with both hands and brushing your thumbs over his warm cheeks.
“Mikey… you were amazing,” you whispered, kissing him softly between words. “So good for me. I came so hard because of you.”
His eyes lit up at the praise, and a shy, relieved smile broke across his face. The tension in his shoulders melted away almost instantly.
His smile faded into something softer, almost dazed, as your hand slid down and gently palmed the obvious hardness straining beneath his trousers.
“You’re so big and hard for me, Mikey,” you whispered, voice low and warm against his skin. “I want to make you feel good too.”
A quiet whimper slipped from his lips. You guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, then sank down between his knees, the soft pink carpet warm beneath you. The lamplight painted gentle shadows across his flushed chest as you looked up at him through your lashes and slowly drew his zipper down.
His breathing had already changed — shallow, quick, trembling with anticipation. You took his hands, threading your fingers through his where they gripped the edge of the mattress, grounding him.
You brought two of his fingers to your mouth, letting your lips slide slowly over them, sucking gently, your tongue warm and teasing. When you pulled back, a glistening string of saliva still connected you to him. His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide.
“J-Jesus Christ…” he breathed.
You let out a soft, amused laugh, the sound low and fond. “Using the Lord’s name in vain, Michael? That’s not very holy of you.”
He gave you a breathless, half-dazed smile, voice rough. “I think I’ve gone too far for the Lord to care anymore…”
The words sent a thrill through you. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and slowly pulled it down. His cock sprang free — long, flushed, and beautifully hard, the tip already glistening. For a moment you simply admired him, heat pooling low in your belly.
“Mmm… I wonder what you’d feel like inside me,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
His cock twitched visibly at your words, and a desperate little sound escaped his throat.
You wrapped your hand around him, stroking with slow, deliberate care, feeling the velvet heat of his skin, the way he pulsed against your palm. Leaning in, you pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses along his length before letting your tongue trace slowly over the most sensitive spot beneath the tip. Then you took him into your mouth, warm and wet, moving with unhurried reverence.
Michael’s head tipped back with a deep, broken moan of your name. One of his hands found its way into your bouncy curls, fingers tightening instinctively in the soft coils as pleasure overtook him. He tugged harder than he meant to, then immediately loosened his grip with a string of breathless apologies — until you moaned around him, the vibrations pulling another helpless whimper from his throat. His hips jerked gently, thighs trembling with the effort of staying still.
You could feel him getting closer — his thighs tensing, his breathing turning ragged and needy. Then suddenly his voice cracked:
You pulled off gently, lips shiny, and looked up at him with soft concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He was breathing hard, cheeks burning, eyes glassy with want. “I’m okay… I just— I don’t want to finish yet.”
You kept stroking him slowly, tenderly. “Then tell me what you want, Mikey.”
He looked down at you, embarrassed but aching. After a long, shy pause, the plea came out barely above a whisper:
“Can I maybe just… put it between your thighs?” His voice cracked with desperation. “Baby, please? Pretty please?”
God, you loved when he begged like that — like you were something sacred and he was just a sinner asking for mercy.
With a big, satisfied smile you rose from the floor and climbed onto the bed, lying on your back against the floral pillows. Slowly, you drew your legs up and pressed your thighs tightly together, raising them toward the ceiling in offering.
Michael twitched at the sight. Almost instinctively, he knelt between your legs, facing you. His dark curls were damp and messy, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his chest as he rested his trembling hands on the backs of your thighs. His eyes were wide with awe and hunger while he lined himself up.
The moment the hot, heavy length of his cock slid between your pressed-together thighs, a soft moan escaped you. He felt incredible — thick, burning hot, and pulsing against your skin.
He pushed forward carefully, sinking fully between your thighs with a broken, needy moan. With every slow roll of his hips, the flushed tip of his cock grazed teasingly along your slick folds, brushing right over your clit. The delicious friction made your breath hitch sharply.
One of his hands braced on the bed behind him while the other gripped the front of your thigh, holding you like he feared you might slip away.
“Oh my God…” he whimpered, eyes fluttering. He kept that same slow, deep rhythm, the head of his cock kissing your wetness again and again.
The constant gliding pressure quickly became overwhelming. Your thighs began to tremble around him as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
“Mikey—” you gasped, fingers twisting into the sheets.
He looked down at you, completely mesmerized. “You’re… mmh, you’re so wet,” he breathed shakily. “Feels so good… so warm and slippery around me…”
Your orgasm hit you hard. Your thighs clamped tighter around his cock as you came with a trembling moan, eyes locked on him the entire time. Fresh wetness coated his length, making the slide between your thighs even smoother and hotter for him.
Michael let out a desperate whine at the new sensation.
His hips stuttered, then sped up, chasing the slick heat you were giving him. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding through your soaked thighs filled the pink bedroom as he lost himself completely. His grip on your thigh tightened, thrusts growing faster and more desperate until broken moans spilled freely from his lips.
With a deep, shuddering cry, Michael came hard. Thick, warm ropes of cum painted your stomach and breasts as his hips jerked unevenly through every wave. When it finally subsided, he stayed kneeling there, breathing heavily, staring down at you with glassy, adoring eyes.
He looked utterly wrecked — curls plastered to his forehead, chest heaving, lips parted in quiet disbelief.
You smiled softly up at him, then dragged two fingers slowly through the warm mess on your skin. Holding his gaze, you brought them to your lips and licked them clean, savoring the taste with a quiet hum.
“You taste so good, Michael,” you murmured, voice low and sweet.
A broken, almost tortured sound escaped him — half moan, half sob.
“Oh my God… you’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe and exhaustion.
He collapsed forward carefully, catching himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush you. His body pressed flush against yours, warm and trembling, as he buried his face in your neck. One hand gently stroked through your curls while he placed soft, reverent kisses along your shoulder and throat, like he was still worshipping the very same goddess who had just undone him.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the forgotten movie still playing on the TV. Michael’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your side, gentle and soothing, as if he couldn’t stop touching you.
Eventually he shifted slightly, reaching for the box of tissues on your nightstand. With careful, almost shy movements, he cleaned your stomach and chest, his touch so tender it made your heart ache.
When he was done, he pulled the pink floral blanket over both of you and wrapped you up in his arms, tugging you close so your head rested against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat slowly calming down.
After a few peaceful seconds of silence, Michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.
“…Did you plan this?” he asked, voice still a little rough. “The tiny shorts, the perfume, the empty house… Were you trying to seduce me the whole time, pretty girl?”
You tilted your head up to look at him, grinning. “Maybe. Is it working?”
Michael’s cheeks flushed again, but he smiled — that bright, shy, heart-melting smile you were already falling for.
“Too well,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I didn’t stand a chance.”
He hugged you tighter, nuzzling into your curls with a content sigh.
“I’m really glad you bumped into me at church,” he whispered, suddenly softer. “Best accident of my life.”
