Iwoke before Ansel, my head resting on his chest, the rise and fall of it a quiet rhythm beneath my ear. The room was small and too warm, the faded curtains filtering soft morning light across the cramped space. Our legs lay tangled, his arm draped possessively over my waist, pulling me impossibly close.
The mattress creaked under us whenever he shifted, reminding me how small the bed really was — but it only made me press into him harder, needing every inch of him against me.
I traced slow circles on his skin, fingers hesitant at first, then braver, sliding under the thin waistband of the boxers he’d tossed on last night. His breath hitched, and his hand tightened around my waist.
“June,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep, “you’re killing me with this.”
I smiled into his chest, words caught in my throat. Instead, I let my lips brush his skin, soft kisses that felt like promises.
He shifted again, carefully, trying not to wake his mom next door, but his fingers found my face, tucking a loose strand of hairbehind my ear. His thumb stroked my cheek slowly, worshipful, like he was memorizing every detail.
“I could stay like this forever,” I whispered.
His laugh was soft and rough. “Me too.”
I pressed closer, needing to feel him, needing the quiet honesty in this small room where no one else existed but us.
I shifted against him, my hand still teasing under the waistband of his boxers. His breath stuttered, chest rising sharper beneath my cheek.
“Juniper…” His voice was low, warning and wanting all at once. “Fuck, you don’t?—”
I lifted my head just enough to meet his gaze. His lashes were still heavy, his mouth soft, lips parted in that sleep-rough way that made my stomach twist. God, he looked wrecked and beautiful, like the boy I shouldn’t have touched and the man I couldn’t stop needing.
“I want to,” I whispered, hot against his skin. I pushed at the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down until his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy against his stomach, and the sight alone made my thighs press together.
His head thudded back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’ll say.” I replied, tongue already heavy in my mouth at the sight of him. With pre-cum already beginning to bead at the tip of his cock. My pulse raced as I sat there — staring.
I wrapped my hand around him, slow at first, just enough pressure to make him grunt into the crook of his arm. My lips brushed the tip, tasting the salt of him gently —teasingly.
“Fuck—fuck,” he choked, hips jerking before he caught himself, biting into his own fist to stay quiet. The sound of it — half-growl, half-whimper — went straight through me. “Juniper—” His voice was still rough with sleep, already frayed at the edges. He half-sat up like he meant to stop me, but when mytongue dragged a wet stripe from base to tip, he fell back with a strangled groan.
The first pull of my mouth, wrapped around him, had him swearing, one hand clawing uselessly at the sheet. The second, when I took him deeper, wet and tight, had his hips twitching up, helpless, like he couldn’t control himself.
“Christ—fuck, you can’t—” His hand finally tangled in my hair, not pulling me away, just holding on like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling hard. “Baby, please, I can’t—oh, fuck?—”
He bucked against my lips. “You’re—shit, you’re gonna kill me—” His voice was wrecked, breaking on a moan as I hollowed my cheeks and dragged my tongue along the underside of him. “June, I can’t?—”
He tried to twist away, tried to spare me, but I pinned his hips with both hands, took him deeper, and the noise that ripped out of him was anything but quiet. He clamped a pillow over his face to muffle the cry, but I could feel every shudder, every hot, frantic twitch against my tongue.
“Sweetheart, stop—stop, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna lose it.” His voice cracked on the last word, and when I moaned around him, he choked out something that was almost a sob. His thighs trembled under my hands, muscles jerking with the effort of holding back.
His hips bucked, his head thrown back against the pillow as a hoarse,desperatemoan tore out of him. He was begging now, incoherent, gasping my name between curses.
When he finally came, it was with a sound that shook me—half a groan, half a cry—as his whole body arched off the bed, shuddering. I swallowed it down, sucked him through it until he was twitching, until he yanked me off because he couldn’t take anymore.
I pulled back, lips swollen, the remnants of him smeared down my chin, and looked up at him.
And grinned.
He looked ruined. Chest heaving, hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy like he’d just barely survived.
“Juniper,” he rasped, voice raw, “you’re gonna kill me.” And then, even wrecked and trembling, he hauled me up and kissed me like he needed every last piece of me, groaning when he tasted himself on my tongue.
“You’re not real,” he whispered as he pulled me against him. With my cheek pressed to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm, there was a soft knock on the door.
“Juniper? Ansel?” His mom’s voice drifted in, warm and familiar. “I made breakfast. You two better get up before I start eating it all myself.”
