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It’s been a week. One week of video messages, late-night calls, broken moans over the phone—one week of wanting, teasing, aching.
And now he’s finally here.
Mark stands in your doorway like he’s unsure whether to take the first step in or drop to his knees. He’s barely said anything since arriving—just looked at you like he’s been starving. And when you pull him inside, lead him toward your room with your fingers curled into his, you swear he’s trembling.
You don’t waste time. Neither of you does.
The door barely shuts behind you before you’re kissing him, hands already tugging at the hem of his shirt. He groans into your mouth, hot and breathless, grabbing at your waist like he doesn’t know where to touch first.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“Been thinkin’ about that video all week,” you whisper, voice low, head tilting. “About how you touched yourself.”
Mark’s face flushes instantly. His eyes flick to your mouth, your hands, your body.
“I—yeah,” he breathes, already dazed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Clothes come off in rushed movements, messy and urgent. His shirt, your hoodie, the waistband of his sweats dragged down with shaking hands. You press him back onto the bed with barely a push, and he goes—obedient, wide-eyed, and already hard, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.
You climb into his lap slow, taking your time as you straddle him, soaking in the way his hands flex on your thighs.
“Waited so long for this,” he says, voice breaking a little. “You have no idea.”
Your chest tightens at how wrecked he already sounds.
“I do,” you murmur, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I was just as fucked up over it.”
You line yourself up, and his breath hitches.
The stretch is deep, overwhelming—and he feels so good.
Mark gasps beneath you, hands flying to your hips, but he doesn’t grip—he clings, head falling back with a desperate, breathy moan.
“Oh my god—you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”
You rock down fully, swallowing a gasp as your hips settle flush to his.
Mark looks ruined already.
His eyes flutter shut, chest heaving, lips parted. And when you start to move—slow at first, rolling your hips just enough to drag him deeper—he whimpers.
Actual, broken whimpering.
“Please—please don’t stop—feels so good—”
You lean over him, your palms on his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls erratically beneath you. He grabs for your waist again, not to control—just to hold.
“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “So good for me.”
He whines at that, hips twitching up involuntarily.
You ride him steady, deep, and slow—driving him crazy with every roll of your hips. His hands wander helplessly over your body—your waist, your thighs, up to your chest and back down again, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch most.
“Been dreaming about you,” he pants, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet yours. “Every night.”
“Yeah?” you breathe, tightening around him just to hear the sound he makes. “Was it like this?”
He nods, frantic. “Y-yeah. But you—fuck—you’re better.”
His voice is high and tight with need, his body straining beneath yours, every muscle tense like he’s holding on by a thread.
And when you start to bounce a little faster, angling just right, his moans spill freely.
“Can’t hold back,” he gasps. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”
You kiss him then, swallowing his groan as his hips stutter up, his fingers digging into your thighs. He breaks apart beneath you, moaning into your mouth as he cums hard, breath shattering, body trembling.
You don’t stop. You can’t.
You keep riding him through it, chasing your own high, and he lets you—soft and pliant now, mumbling through the overstimulation.
“Want you to cum, too—please—please,” he begs, voice cracked and hazy. “Wanna feel you—”
You gasp as the heat inside you finally snaps, everything tightening as you ride it out, burying your face in his neck. He holds you through it, arms wrapped tight around your back, panting against your skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
You stay draped over him, still joined, your heart pounding against his.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“I wanna do that again,” Mark murmurs, voice rough and sleepy. “Like… as many times as you’ll let me.”
You smile into his shoulder, still catching your breath.
“Yeah,” you whisper, kissing the side of his neck. “Me too.”
And you know—this wasn’t just tension. It wasn’t just the week apart.
It’s the start of something more.