It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this. Not tonight.

We were just hanging out. Drinks at our place. Catching up, laughing, reminiscing. Her legs draped over my lap. His eyes doing a terrible job pretending not to linger.

She’d always been around.
His best friend’s little sister.
Cute. Sweet. Dangerously grown now.

And when I leaned over and whispered,

“Want to share me with her?”
His whole world short-circuited.

He didn’t even answer.
He just looked at me—like I’d dropped a lit match in his lap.

I smiled.

And then I kissed her.

Soft, slow. Pulling her into me by her chin.
Just enough to make her blush.
Just enough to make him ache.

He was already hard.
I could tell.
The second we stood up and took her by the hand to lead her to the bedroom, I felt him press against me from behind.

Hard and already leaking.

We barely made it to the bed before the tension snapped.

Clothes came off piece by piece—
Giggling, touching, warm breath shared between the three of us.

He sat back on the edge of the bed.
Watching.
Silent.
Wide-eyed.

We kissed in front of him. Let him hear it.
Let him feel how soft we were.
How wet I got from just her fingertips trailing down my stomach.

And he sat there.
Cock straining against his boxers.
Hands balled into fists.
Barely breathing.

“Touch him,” I told her gently. “He’s been dreaming about you for years.”

She laughed nervously. “Really?”

He didn’t deny it.

I moved behind him, kissed his neck.
Whispered in his ear:

“She wants to make you feel good, baby. Can she?”

He nodded.
Hard.

She knelt in front of him, lips parting slowly.
Hands soft. Curious.
She bit her lip and reached for his waistband.

He let out a shaky breath.

And when she pulled his cock out?

Oh, God.

It throbbed—visibly.
Slick with precum, pulsing with a rhythm that said, “I’m not going to last.”

She looked up at him, sweet and unsure.

And when she wrapped her fingers around the base—

He exploded.

“*Fuck—fuck—*no—no, wait—I’m—”

Too late.

His body jerked violently.

One stroke.

One gentle stroke.

And he came—hard.
A thick, messy, embarrassing load all over her hand, her wrist, her thigh.
His moan was desperate. Apologetic.
His whole body collapsed.

Silence.

She blinked.

I tried not to laugh.

His face was redder than his chest.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he panted. “I didn’t—fuck—I couldn’t—I just—”

We both leaned in.

And I kissed his cheek.

“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered. “That just means round two’s going to be even messier.”