It's fine as long as nobody knows. Thought crimes aren't real, and you can't judge people for what gets them off. As long as no one is getting hurt in the process, there's really nothing wrong with it.
That's what Leo tells himself each time he lies in bed, wishing it was your cunt squeezing around his cock instead of his own fist. Imagining the way your brow might pinch as he slides inside of you, or the way your back might arch beneath him when he bottoms out, or the way your breath might hitch when he pulls out and thrusts back in.
Fuck. Fuck. You'd take him so well. He knows you would.
He wonders if you'd talk to him. Tell him what you like, or ask him to go faster, or just babble while he fucks you. He'd like to hear what sounds you make when he fucks you, with his thumb rubbing slick little circles over your clit and his mouth against your ear, telling you just how good you feel. How insane you make him, how soft and warm and wet you are.
Would you like that?
What about his hand on your belly, feeling himself move in and out? You're small compared to him, but you would take it so well, he knows.
Leo reaches for the box beneath his bed. He pulls out your sweater, pressing it to his nose and breathing in slow. It still smells like you, but it's getting fainter. He'll need to put it back soon and borrow something else. The next time he comes by and you're sleeping, maybe. What's a little borrowing of clothes between friends?
He wonders what you'd taste like. Wonders how many times he could curl his tongue just right and make you gasp his name. Wonders if maybe this time he'll be brave enough to steal a pair of underwear instead of a shirt or jacket. Wonders how heavy a sleeper you are. Wonders what it would be like to lick over the cotton of your panties and-
Fuck.