I notice the way you're curled up on the couch, staring at the TV without really watching it, your phone tossed aside like it's contaminated. It's one of those days where the world feels like it's grinding you down—work bullshit, maybe a fight with a friend, or just the weight of everything piling up. You've barely said two words to me since I got home from the garage, where I spent the afternoon elbow-deep in someone else's busted transmission. I don't push; I know you well enough. But fuck, seeing you like this twists something in my gut. I love you too much to let it fester.
I kick off my boots by the door, the thud echoing in our quiet apartment. The place smells like the takeout we ordered earlier—half-eaten cartons of pad thai still on the coffee table—but you haven't touched yours. I grab a couple of cold beers from the fridge, the condensation slick on the bottles, and slide onto the couch beside you. Not too close, just enough that my thigh brushes yours. You don't pull away, but you don't lean in either.
"Hey," I say softly, twisting the cap off my beer and offering you the other. "You look like you could use this more than I do."
You glance at it, then at me, your eyes tired and distant. "Not really in the mood, Matt. Just... leave it."
I set the beer down anyway, undeterred. My hand finds your knee, a light touch, thumb tracing small circles over the fabric of your jeans. You're wearing that oversized hoodie that swallows you up, hiding the curves I know are underneath. I lean in a bit, my voice low. "I get it. Bad day. But you don't have to go through it alone, you know? Talk to me, or don't. I'm here."
You sigh, shoulders slumping, and finally meet my eyes. There's a flicker there—frustration, maybe exhaustion—but also that underlying trust we've built over years. "It's stupid. Everything just feels off. I don't want to drag you into it."
"Too late," I murmur, my hand sliding up to your thigh, squeezing gently. "I'm already in it. With you."
You don't respond right away, but you don't shove me off either. That's progress. I shift closer, my arm draping over the back of the couch, fingers grazing your shoulder. The TV drones on some mindless sitcom laugh track, but I'm focused on you—the way your chest rises and falls a little quicker now, the subtle warmth radiating from your skin. I press a kiss to your temple, lingering there, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the day's stress.
Slowly, I start rubbing your shoulders, working the knots I can feel through the hoodie. You're tense as hell, muscles like coiled springs. "Let me take care of you," I whisper against your ear. "No talking if you don't want. Just this."
You exhale, leaning into my touch just a fraction. It's enough. I peel the hoodie up and off, tossing it aside, revealing the thin tank top underneath. Your bra straps peek out, and I trace one with my fingertip, light as a feather. Goosebumps rise on your arms. I pull you back against my chest, my legs bracketing yours on the couch, and keep massaging—neck, shoulders, down your arms. My lips brush your neck, not demanding, just present.
"Matt..." you start, voice hesitant, but I shush you gently.
"Shh. I've got you."
Minutes pass like that, my hands exploring without rushing. I slip under your tank top, palms flat against your bare back, feeling the heat of you. You arch slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips—not quite a moan, but close. It stirs me, blood rushing south, but I keep it slow. This isn't about me yet. I tug the tank top over your head, exposing your breasts in that simple black bra. They're perfect, full and soft, nipples already pebbling against the lace.
I unhook the bra with one hand, letting it fall away. My mouth finds your shoulder, kissing down to the curve of your breast. You turn your head, watching me, and I meet your gaze. "You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah," you breathe, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Don't stop."
That smile? It's like a green light. I cup one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it's hard and begging. My other hand works the button of your jeans, popping it open. You lift your hips without me asking, letting me slide them down along with your panties. You're naked now from the waist down, legs parting slightly as I settle between them on the couch. The air's cool against your skin, but I warm you with my body, hovering close.
I kiss your inner thigh, tasting the salt of your skin. Higher, closer to where I know you need it. Your hand threads into my hair, not pulling, just holding. "Fuck, Sara," I murmur against your thigh. "You're beautiful like this. Let me make it better."
You nod, eyes half-lidded. I spread your legs wider, settling on my knees on the floor now, the carpet rough under me. Your pussy is right there, pink and glistening already, despite the mood you were in earlier. I don't dive in; I tease first, breath hot against your folds, lips brushing the sensitive skin. You shiver, hips twitching.
When my tongue finally touches you, it's flat and slow, licking from your entrance up to your clit. You gasp, fingers tightening in my hair. I do it again, savoring the taste—musky, sweet, all you. My hands grip your thighs, holding you open as I lap at you steadily, circling your clit with the tip of my tongue. You're getting wetter, slick coating my chin, and I hum against you, the vibration making you buck.
"Oh god, Matt... that feels..." Your words trail off into a moan as I suck gently on your clit, then slide my tongue inside you, fucking you with it shallowly. I want to drown in you, erase every shitty moment of your day with this. Your breaths come faster, body arching off the couch. I add a finger, slipping it into your heat, curling it just right to hit that spot that makes you clench.
"Yes, right there," you gasp, your free hand clutching the cushion. I work you like that—tongue on your clit, finger thrusting slow and deep—building you up without mercy. Your thighs tremble around my head, and I can feel you getting close, the way you pulse against my mouth.
But I don't let you tip over yet. I pull back, kissing your thigh again, my face shiny with you. "Not done with you," I say, voice rough. You whine in protest, but I stand, stripping off my shirt and jeans. My cock springs free, hard and throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip. Your eyes lock on it, darkening with want.
You sit up, reaching for me, and I let you. Your hand wraps around my shaft, stroking slow, thumb smearing the slickness. "My turn," you say, that spark back in your eyes. You push me back onto the couch, kneeling between my legs now. The sight of you like that—naked, hair tousled, lips parted—nearly undoes me.
You lean in, tongue flicking out to taste the head of my dick. I groan, head falling back. "Fuck, Sara..." You take me into your mouth, warm and wet, sucking gently at first. Your hand works the base, twisting lightly, while your tongue swirls around the underside. It's slow, deliberate, like you're savoring me too. You bob your head, taking more each time, lips stretching around me. Saliva drips down, making it messy, and I love it— the wet sounds, the way your cheeks hollow.
I thread my fingers through your hair, guiding but not forcing. "Just like that. God, your mouth..." You hum around me, the vibration shooting straight to my balls. You pull back to lick the length of me, from base to tip, eyes locked on mine the whole time. It's intimate, dirty, pulling me deeper into you. My hips twitch, but you pin me with a hand on my thigh, taking control. You suck harder now, hollowing your cheeks, and I feel the pressure building, but I fight it. Not yet.
"Enough," I rasp, pulling you up gently. "Need to be inside you." You straddle me, knees sinking into the cushions, your pussy hovering over my cock. I grip your hips, guiding you down slow. The head parts your folds, sliding in inch by inch. You're so wet, so tight, it takes everything not to thrust up hard. We both moan as you bottom out, me buried deep.
You start rocking, slow grinds that make us both shudder. But I want more—want to look in your eyes, hold you close. "Like this," I say, easing you onto your back. The couch is narrow, but we make it work, your legs wrapping around my waist. I settle over you in missionary, forearms braced on either side of your head. My cock slips back in, and I thrust slow, deep, feeling every ridge and pulse.
Our faces are inches apart, breaths mingling. I kiss you—deep, tongues tangling, tasting myself on your lips from earlier. "I love you," I whisper against your mouth, pulling back to watch your face as I move. Each thrust is measured, dragging out the friction, my hips rolling to hit your clit with every push. Your nails dig into my back, urging me on.
"Matt... harder?" you ask, but I shake my head.
"No. Slow. Feel me." I keep the pace, building that deep ache. Your pussy clenches around me, wet sounds filling the room with each slide in and out. I drop to one elbow, freeing a hand to tweak your nipple, then slide it down to rub your clit in slow circles. You arch, crying out, "Fuck, yes—don't stop."
We're slick with sweat now, bodies sliding together. I can feel my orgasm coiling, but I hold back, wanting you first. "Come for me, Sara. Let go." My thrusts deepen just a bit, angling to grind against that spot inside you. Your eyes flutter shut, mouth open in a silent scream as you shatter—walls pulsing, milking my cock. It's the hottest thing, watching you come undone, your body trembling under mine.
I follow right after, unable to hold it. "Gonna fill you up," I groan, burying deep one last time. The release hits hard, cum spilling into you in hot spurts, slow and pulsing. I stay there, grinding through it, feeling the warmth spread. We both pant, locked together, my weight pressing you into the couch.
After a minute, I pull out gently, watching my cum leak from you, mixing with your wetness. It's filthy, intimate. I grab a throw blanket, draping it over us as I pull you into my side. You nestle against my chest, the tension from earlier gone, replaced by a lazy satisfaction.
"Better?" I ask, kissing your forehead.
You laugh softly, tracing patterns on my skin. "Way better. You're my fix, you know that?"
I grin, holding you tighter. "Good. Because I'm not letting you have a bad day without me again."
We lie there as the TV flickers forgotten, the night stretching out peaceful. Your breathing evens out, and I know the storm's passed. Tomorrow can wait; right now, it's just us, tangled and content. And damn if that doesn't feel like the best kind of healing.
But as you drift off, murmuring something about ordering pizza later, I can't help thinking how lucky I am. You stir, eyes cracking open with a mischievous glint. "Round two in the shower?" you suggest, and I chuckle, already hardening at the thought. Yeah, definitely my girl.
I notice the way you're curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, the remote clutched like a lifeline but not actually changing the channel. It's been a day— I can tell from the way your texts were short and clipped all afternoon, from the sigh you let out when I walked in the door with grease still under my nails from the shop. The apartment's a mess of your usual chaos: sketchbooks scattered on the kitchen counter, a half-dead plant by the window that we've both been ignoring, and the faint hum of the fridge kicking on in the background. You don't even look up when I drop my keys on the side table, the jingle loud in the silence.
I stand there for a second, watching you. Your hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to frame your face, and you're in those ratty sweatpants that hang low on your hips. Bad day. The kind where everything piles up until you just want to disappear. I've seen it before, and it kills me every time because I hate not being able to fix it with a snap. But I can try. I always try.
Padding over in my socks, I crouch in front of you, hands on your knees. "Sara," I say, keeping my voice steady, no bullshit. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
You finally glance at me, eyes red-rimmed but dry, like you've been fighting tears all day. "Nothing. Just... fuck off, Matt. I don't want to talk."
Ouch, but I get it. I don't back away. Instead, I pry the remote from your fingers gently and set it aside, then tug at your hand until you uncurl enough for me to pull you into a hug. You're stiff at first, arms limp, but I hold on, chin resting on your head. "You don't have to talk. But I'm not going anywhere."
Minutes tick by like that, the only sound your breathing slowing against my shirt. I rub your back in broad strokes, feeling the knots under my palms. The scent of you—vanilla lotion mixed with the stress-sweat of the day—fills my nose. Eventually, you melt a little, one hand fisting my tee. Progress.
I pull back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek. "Let me help. However you need."
Your eyes search mine, vulnerable, and you nod almost imperceptibly. That's all I need. I stand, pulling you up with me, and lead you to the bedroom without a word. The bed's unmade from this morning, sheets tangled, but it's ours—comfortable, lived-in. I sit on the edge and pat the spot beside me. You hesitate, then join, and I start with your feet, massaging the arches, working up your calves. Your sweatpants slide down as I go, pooling at your ankles. I help you kick them off, then your panties follow, leaving you bare from the waist down.
You watch me, biting your lip, but don't stop me. My hands move to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, inching higher. The air in the room feels thicker now, charged. I lean in, kissing your knee, then the inside of your thigh. "Tell me if it's too much," I murmur.
"It's not," you whisper, voice husky. "Keep going."
I do. Hooking my fingers in your tank top, I lift it off, then the bra. You're fully naked now, skin flushed in the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds. I lay you back, following, my body covering yours without pressing too hard. Kisses trail from your collarbone down to your breasts, tongue flicking a nipple until it tightens. You arch, a soft "Mmm" escaping.
Lower still, I kiss your stomach, hands spreading your legs. Your pussy is exposed, lips slightly parted, a hint of moisture already there. I settle between your thighs, shoulders nudging them wider. My breath ghosts over you first, making you twitch. Then my tongue—flat and broad—licks up your slit, tasting you fully. Salty, aroused, perfect.
"Fuck, you taste good," I say, voice muffled as I dive in again. I lick slow, exploring every fold, circling your clit with the tip before sucking lightly. Your hips lift, seeking more, and I oblige, sliding a finger inside you. You're warm, velvety, clenching around me as I pump it in and out, matching the rhythm of my tongue.