The bathroom door clicked shut.
The lock turned with a sound that went through me like a current—sharp, final, a period at the end of a sentence I wasn't ready to read.
Hannah shifted beside me on the couch, her bare thigh pressing warm against my jeans. She smelled like cherry lip gloss and something muskier underneath, and when she turned her head her dark chestnut waves brushed my shoulder. The cushions sank where she moved closer, worn velvet warm and slightly damp from the heat of her skin.
"She'll be a while," she said.
Her voice landed low, playful, a dare wrapped in a lilt. Green eyes found mine and held them—knowing, patient in a way that wasn't patient at all.
Her hand landed on my knee.
I stopped breathing. Just stopped. My lungs seized up like I'd been punched, and my hands—my stupid, useless hands—were already gripping my own wrists in my lap, knuckles white, fingers locked. Her palm was hot through the denim, and she didn't move it. Just let it sit there. Heavy. Deliberate. Claiming the space like she'd already decided it was hers.
Then she slid it up.
Slow. So slow I felt every inch of the friction—her fingertips dragging along the seam of my jeans, the heel of her hand pressing into my thigh muscle, the warmth spreading upward like a stain I couldn't stop. My throat made a sound that wasn't a word, and she heard it. Her lips curved.
Her palm settled flat over the button of my jeans.
From the bathroom, the shower hissed to life. The pipes groaned in the walls, and somewhere behind the closed door Lena was stepping under the spray, honey-blonde hair going dark with water, and she didn't know. She didn't know Hannah's hand was on me. She didn't know I wasn't pulling away.
"Tell me something, Jo." Hannah's thumb traced a slow circle over the metal button. The friction sent a shiver up the base of my spine. "Has she ever touched you like this?"
I shook my head. My jaw was clenched so tight my teeth ached.
"Use your words."
"No." The syllable came out strangled. My ears were on fire.
Her thumb hooked under the denim waistband and tugged. Not hard—just enough. The button strained, the fabric pulled tight across my lap, and I felt the tension in my groin respond like she'd yanked a leash. My cock pressed against the inside of my briefs, half-hard already, and I knew she could feel it through the denim because her smile deepened and she didn't look away from my face.
"She doesn't know what she's missing," Hannah said, and her other hand came up to rest on my chest, fingers splayed over my heartbeat. "All this time. All these nights. And she's just—" She tugged the waistband again, harder, and the button popped open with a small, obscene click. "—leaving you like this."
Cold air hit my stomach where my shirt rode up. My belt was still fastened, but the open fly gaped, and her fingers—long, sure, painted with chipped black polish—rested just above the buckle. Not moving. Waiting.
Her fingers unfastened the belt. Not fast—slow, deliberate, each pull of the leather through the buckle a separate sound in the quiet. The hiss of the shower still filled the apartment, but I couldn't hear anything else. Just that. Just her.
Then she undid the button of my jeans.
I watched her hands work. Couldn't look away. Her nails, black polish chipped at the edges, hooked into the waistband and tugged the denim down over my hips. My briefs were the only thing left between her and me. Cotton. Thin. The outline of my dick pressed against the fabric, and I knew she could see it—the shape of me, half-hard and getting harder, the damp spot where I'd already started to leak.
Hannah leaned forward. The neckline of her top gaped, and she didn't adjust it. Didn't need to. She knew exactly what she was showing me—the deep curve of her breasts, the red lace edge of her bra, the way her cleavage darkened in the low light from the window. She smelled like cherry lip gloss and perfume, close enough now that I could feel the heat coming off her skin.
She put her mouth next to my ear.
"I'll show you," she whispered, and her breath was warm and wet against the shell of my ear. "How a good girlfriend would worship you." Her tongue flicked out, just the tip, tracing the edge of my earlobe. "And your dick."
My whole body went rigid. My fingers were still locked around my own wrists, knuckles white, useless. Every nerve in my body was screaming, and I couldn't move—couldn't push her away, couldn't pull her closer, couldn't do anything but sit there and let her talk into my ear while my cock throbbed against my briefs.
"And if I have to," she said, and her teeth grazed my earlobe, a sharp little bite that made my hips jerk without my permission, "I'll take your virginity too. Make you a real man."
She pulled back just enough to look at me. Green eyes burning. Her lips, deep red, curved into a smile that knew everything I was too scared to say.
Her hands found the hem of my shirt. She pushed it up, palms sliding over my stomach, my ribs, my chest. The air was cool on my skin where she'd exposed it, but her hands were hot. She bunched the fabric under my arms and left it there, my chest bare, my jeans halfway down my thighs, my briefs the last barrier.
"Should I give you the present of a good blowjob, Jo?"
The question landed like a punch. Blowjob. The word, in her voice—cherry lip gloss and casual hunger—sent a pulse straight through my cock. I felt it twitch against the cotton, and she saw it. Her smile widened.
I nodded.
It was all I could manage. One jerky, desperate nod. My throat was too tight for words. My ears were on fire. My pulse was hammering in my neck, and she could probably see it—probably could see everything, every tell, every weakness, written all over me.
"Say it, Jo." Her palm came down on my briefs. Not grabbing—just resting, the weight of her hand pressing against my erection through the damp fabric. Her fingers curled slightly, and I felt the pressure go through me like a current. "Say you want to feel a mouth sucking your dick."
She squeezed.
Gently. Just enough that my hips jerked again, and a sound came out of my throat that was too broken to be a word. Her thumb traced the ridge of my head through the cotton, and the wet spot spread, and I was panting now, my chest heaving, my hands gripping my wrists so tight the bones ached.
“Yes.”
The word came out of me like something ripped loose—quiet, cracked, barely a syllable. My ears were on fire, my chest heaving, and I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look away. Hannah’s green eyes lit up like I’d just given her exactly what she wanted, and her lips curved into a smile that made my stomach drop and my cock throb against her palm at the same time.
“There,” she said, soft and satisfied. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She pulled her hand back. The sudden absence of pressure left me aching, my briefs damp and clinging, my erection straining against the cotton. I watched her sit back on the couch, watched her fingers find the hem of her own top—deep burgundy, thin fabric, already gaping at the neckline. She didn’t hesitate. She peeled it up and over her head, and her hair fell in messy waves across bare shoulders, and then she was sitting there in nothing but that red lace bra and her tiny shorts, and I forgot how to breathe again.
“Do you want to touch real boobs, Jo?” Her voice was a dare wrapped in cherry lip gloss. “Lena just has those small ones. Sweet, sure. But these—” She reached behind her back, and the clasp of her bra came undone with a practiced flick of her fingers. The straps slid down her shoulders. The red lace fell into her lap. “These are what a woman looks like.”
I stared. I couldn’t not stare. Her breasts were full, curved, pale except where the bra had left faint pink lines. Her nipples were dark and already tight, and she didn’t cover herself—didn’t even shift to hide. She just sat there, half-naked on my girlfriend’s couch, and watched me watch her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She took my hand. I didn’t resist—couldn’t have even if I wanted to. Her fingers were warm and sure as she lifted my palm and pressed it flat against her breast. Soft. So soft. The heat of her skin was different from anything I’d felt before, and when she kept her hand over mine and pressed harder, my fingers curled without permission, sinking into the give of her flesh.
“Yeah,” she breathed, and her eyes fluttered, just for a second. “Just like that. Massage them. Gentle. That’s it.”
My thumb found her nipple and traced around it in a slow, stupid circle. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t care. She felt incredible—warm and real and alive under my hand—and when her nipple hardened against my thumb, a sound came out of her that wasn’t a word but meant everything. Her other hand slipped down between us, past the open fly of my jeans, past the damp cotton of my briefs. Her fingers hooked under the waistband and tugged.
Cool air hit me. Her knuckles brushed the base of my cock, and then her palm wrapped around my balls—gentle at first, just cupping, weighing. I sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt. She squeezed, slow and deliberate, and my hips bucked without me telling them to, and she laughed—a low, throaty sound that vibrated through her chest and into the hand I still had on her breast.
“Look at you,” she murmured, and her fingers slid up, tracing the length of me through the slit in my briefs. She found the head, wet and slick already, and circled it with her thumb. “Getting more comfortable now, aren’t you?”
I was. God help me, I was. The shame was still there, somewhere—a knot in my chest, Lena’s name like a bruise at the back of my mind—but Hannah’s hand was stroking my cock and her breast was soft in my palm and my body didn’t care about anything else. My hips were rolling into her grip, and my breathing was ragged, and I was leaking so much the fabric was soaked through.
“Maybe—” My voice cracked. I swallowed. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this, Hannah.”
Her response was immediate. She lifted her free hand and pressed one finger to my lips, silencing me. The taste of her skin—salt, something faintly sweet—hit my tongue before I could pull away.
“Believe me,” she said, and her voice had dropped, all the tease gone, replaced by something harder, more certain. “Lena will let you wait minimum half a year before anything happens. Minimum. You know she will. She’s scared of her own body.” Her finger pressed deeper, parting my lips, and I tasted her knuckle. “You are in good hands, Jo. My hands.”
She withdrew her finger, and before I could speak—before I could think—she hooked both hands into the waistband of my briefs and pulled them down. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, the tip slick and flushed dark. It slapped against my stomach with a wet sound, and Hannah looked at it. Looked at it the way she’d looked at my face when she first put her palm on my knee. Claiming it. Owning it.
“Wow,” she said, and the word was breathless. Genuine. “Really nice size, Jo. Lena never told me.” She shifted on the couch, sliding down until she was sitting between my legs, her bare breasts brushing my thighs, her face level with my cock. She looked up at me through her lashes, green eyes burning. “Ready?”
I didn’t have time to answer. Her lips parted, and she leaned forward, and then her mouth was on me—hot and wet and soft in ways I’d never felt, never imagined. A moan tore out of my throat before I could stop it, loud and broken, and my hands flew to the couch cushions, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping me in my body.
Her tongue swirled around the head, tracing the ridge, dipping into the slit where I was already leaking. She hummed, and the vibration went straight through my cock and up into my stomach, and I was making sounds I didn’t recognize—gasping, whining, her name caught somewhere in the back of my throat. She smiled around me. I felt it. Felt her lips curve, felt her take me deeper, inch by inch, until the head hit the back of her throat and she didn’t stop, just kept going, swallowing me down.
Her tongue swirled around the head, tracing the ridge, dipping into the slit where I was already leaking. She hummed, and the vibration went straight through my cock and up into my stomach, and I was making sounds I didn’t recognize—gasping, whining, her name caught somewhere in the back of my throat. She smiled around me. I felt it. Felt her lips curve, felt her take me deeper, inch by inch, until the head hit the back of her throat and she didn’t stop, just kept going, swallowing me down.
My hips bucked. I couldn’t control them—couldn’t control anything. My hands left the couch cushions and found her hair, fingers threading through those dark chestnut waves, tangling, gripping. She made a sound around my cock that might have been approval, and her hands slid up my thighs, nails dragging just enough to leave pink lines, until her thumbs pressed into the hollows of my hips and pinned me down.
The wet sounds of her mouth filled the room. Obscene. Rhythmic. My breathing was ragged, my chest heaving, and somewhere in the back of my head I knew the shower was still running—could hear the hiss of water through the bathroom door—but it was distant, muffled, like it belonged to another world.
The heat was coiling in my gut—tight, insistent, a pressure that had been building since her lips first touched me. I could feel it spiraling down, pooling at the base of my cock, and every pull of her mouth dragged me closer. My fingers clenched in her hair, not guiding, just holding on, because if I let go I might fly apart. She knew. Of course she knew—Hannah always knew—and her tongue flattened against the underside of my shaft, a slow, deliberate stroke that made my vision swim.
Se sounded desperate—high and tight, not at all the cool, teasing voice she’d had earlier. “Yes. Come for me. Come in my mouth, Jo.”
She doubled down. Her head bobbed faster, her lips a tight ring sliding up and down my length, and the wet gurgle of her throat blossomed in the quiet room. One hand left my hip and cupped my balls, fingers rolling them gently, then pulling, and the dual sensation sent a bolt of lightning up my spine. My hips jerked, thrusting into her mouth, and she took it—took all of it—humming around me like I was the best thing she’d ever tasted.
The hiss of water stopped.
Silence. Then the dull clunk of the shower knob turning. Footsteps. Soft, bare feet on tile. The bathroom door was still closed, but it wouldn’t be for long—Lena’s routine was burned into my memory: shower off, towel from the rack, three steps to the door, and then she’d be standing in the hallway in her robe with wet hair and trusting eyes.
Hannah Hollowed her cheeks and sucked.
The pressure exploded. My back bowed off the couch, a guttural cry tearing from my throat, and I was coming—hard, uncontrolled, spurting deep into her mouth in thick, pulsing waves. She didn’t flinch. She drank me down, her throat working around my cock, milking every last drop while her hands kneaded my balls and her tongue lapped at the sensitive head. My hips kept thrusting, involuntary, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, and she held me there, lips sealed, until I was trembling and empty and gasping for air.
The bathroom door opened.
Hannah pulled off me with a wet pop, her lips glistening, a smear of my cum at the corner of her mouth. She licked it away with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue, her green eyes locking onto mine, and then she smiled—a lazy, satisfied curve that said I told you so.
Footsteps in the hallway. Light, unhurried. Lena was walking toward us.
I couldn't move. My cock was still wet, still throbbing, still cradled in the open air between my bare thighs. Hannah's smile didn't waver. She sat back on her heels, her bare breasts still brushing my knees, and watched me with those green eyes while Lena's footsteps grew closer.
"Jo? You out there?" Lena's voice, soft and slightly muffled from the hallway. The sound hit me like a bucket of ice water.
Hannah's hand landed on my thigh, giving it a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring but felt like a brand. "Breathe," she whispered.
I didn't breathe. I grabbed for my briefs, fumbling with the waistband, trying to pull them up over my damp, oversensitive cock. My hands were shaking so bad I missed twice before I got a grip.
The footsteps stopped. "Is someone there?" Lena's voice was closer now, right past the bathroom door.
"Just us," Hannah called out, her voice smooth and casual. "Watching TV." She didn't move to help me. Didn't reach for her shirt. Just sat there half-naked while I yanked my briefs up and winced at the friction.
I got my jeans halfway up my thighs before I realized there was no way—no way—I was going to look normal. My shirt was still bunched under my arms, my chest bare, my face burning. And Hannah's top was still on the floor. And her bra.
"Give me a sec," Lena said, and I heard her pad into the hallway bathroom—the little one, not the master—and close the door. Probably fixing her hair. Probably slathering on lotion.
Hannah leaned forward, her hand catching mine as I reached for my fly. "Relax, Jo. She can't smell you." She said it like a joke, but her eyes were serious, and she was still naked from the waist up, her tits full and pale in the dim living room light. "You're fine."
I wasn't fine. My cock was still half-hard, my briefs were wet with pre-cum and spit and—I didn't want to think about it—Hannah's mouth. I could feel it cooling on my skin. The evidence was all over me.
I managed to zip my jeans, but my hands were still shaking. "Your—your shirt," I hissed.
Hannah glanced down at herself as if she'd forgotten. Then she shrugged, reached for her bra, and started clipping it back on with slow, deliberate movements that made my throat tight. She didn't hurry. She didn't rush. She took her time, adjusting the straps, settling the cups over her breasts while I watched the hallway like a deer in headlights.
"You owe me," she murmured, and her eyes flicked up to mine just as she pulled her top back over her head. "For being so good to you."
The bathroom door opened again. I heard Lena humming something soft—one of those indie folk songs she liked—and her footsteps started toward the living room.
Hannah stood up, smoothing down her shorts, running a hand through her dark chestnut waves. By the time Lena rounded the corner, Hannah was perched on the arm of the couch like she'd been sitting there all along, and I was sitting stiff as a board with my hands gripping my knees.
"Hey," Lena said, smiling. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, her face pink from the shower, and she was wearing her favorite robe—the mint-green one with the little flowers. She looked soft and clean and completely unaware. "You guys okay?"
Hannah grinned. "Never better."