The rain hammered against the windshield like a thousand tiny fists, each drop a desperate plea to come inside. You had parked in the farthest corner of the university lot, where the streetlights flickered weakly, casting long shadows that danced with the storm. The car smelled like damp denim and the faintest hint of your cologne—something woodsy, expensive. I always loved that about you. Even when you were just Fernando, the guy who borrowed my notes and laughed too loud at his own jokes, you carried yourself like you knew the world was yours for the taking.
I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around me. "Fuck, it’s cold," I muttered, my breath fogging up the window beside me. The heater was on, but it was doing jack shit against the chill seeping through the glass.
You smirked, reaching over to turn up the music—some indie band with a bassline that thrummed through the seats. "Come here," you said, patting your thigh. "I’ll keep you warm."
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t hesitate. Sliding across the console, I settled against you, my hip pressing into yours, my head tucking under your chin. Your arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and for a second, we just sat there, listening to the rain and the music and the quiet hum of the engine.
Then your hand drifted.
It started innocently enough—your fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm, your thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. But then your touch wandered higher, skimming the curve of my waist, the dip of my ribs. I sucked in a breath when your palm grazed the underside of my breast, just barely, like you were testing the waters.
"Fernando," I warned, but my voice came out breathier than I intended.
"Yeah?" Your lips brushed the shell of my ear, and I could feel the smirk in your voice.
I should’ve pushed you away. Should’ve reminded you of all the times I’d shot you down, all the excuses I’d made about not wanting to ruin our friendship. But the truth was, I’d wanted this for months. Wanted *you*—your hands on me, your mouth on mine, your cock buried so deep I’d forget my own name.
So when your fingers finally closed over my tit, squeezing just hard enough to make me gasp, I didn’t stop you.
"Fuck," I breathed, arching into your touch. My nipples were already hard, pressing against the thin fabric of my bra, aching for more.
You chuckled, low and dark, and then your mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. "You like that?" you murmured against my skin. "You’ve been driving me crazy with these for months. Every time you bend over in those tight little jeans—" Your hand slid down, palming my ass through the denim. "I swear, I’ve jacked off thinking about this ass more times than I can count."
A whimper escaped me. I could feel how wet I was, my panties clinging to me, my thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to ease the ache. "You’re such a perv," I managed, but my hand was already reaching for you, my fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans.
You groaned when I finally got them undone, your cock springing free, thick and heavy in my palm. "Shit, Isis," you hissed, your hips jerking up into my grip. "Fuck, that’s good."
I stroked you slowly, savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers dug into my hip. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, and I swiped my thumb over it, spreading the slickness down your shaft. You were big—bigger than I’d expected—and the thought of taking you inside me made my pussy clench.
"Condom?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
You shook your head, your forehead pressing against mine. "I’m clean. And I want to feel *you* when I come."
I should’ve argued. Should’ve insisted. But the way you were looking at me—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—made my brain short-circuit. So instead, I just nodded, my hand tightening around your dick.
You kissed me then, slow and deep, your tongue sliding against mine like you were memorizing the taste of me. Your hand slipped under my shirt, fingers hooking into the cup of my bra and pulling it down, exposing my nipple to the cool air. When your mouth closed over it, I moaned, my back arching, my free hand tangling in your hair.
"God, you’re perfect," you muttered against my skin, switching to the other breast, your teeth grazing the sensitive peak. "I’ve dreamed about this. About you."
I whimpered, my hips rocking against yours, my pussy throbbing with need. "Then stop dreaming and fuck me," I demanded, my voice rough with want.
You didn’t need to be told twice.
In one smooth motion, you pushed me back against the seat, your body covering mine. The car was too small, the space too cramped, but neither of us cared. Your hands were everywhere—pulling my jeans down, yanking my panties to the side, fingers sliding through my wetness before pushing inside me.
"Fuck, you’re soaked," you groaned, your thumb circling my clit. "You’ve been thinking about this too, haven’t you?"
I nodded, my nails digging into your shoulders. "Yes. God, yes."
You pulled your fingers out, bringing them to your mouth and sucking them clean. The sight of you tasting me made my stomach flip. "Delicious," you murmured, and then your cock was pressing against my entrance, the thick head stretching me open.
I gasped as you pushed inside, inch by slow inch, my body adjusting to the intrusion. You were big—bigger than I’d ever taken before—and the burn was exquisite.