The rain tapped a delicate rhythm against the window above our couch, a soft percussion that blurred the edges of the world outside. Two droplets slid down the glass, side by side, and I found myself quietly cheering one onward, a secret race no one else could see. Foolish, perhaps, but I let it claim me. Wrapped naked beneath the blanket, warmth sealed tight around me, I sank into the cocoon it made, safe from the cold and all things beyond the glass.

My gaze drifted to him, stretched out across from me. The blanket clung to his hips but did little to hide him, his body loose, unashamed, as though the world had shaped him only to be bare. He turned a page without lifting his eyes, steady in his silence, untouched by my secret race on the glass—as if my small games and the storm alike were beneath his notice.

The race pulled me back to the glass. The right droplet, lagging and doomed, suddenly leapt ahead when the wind struck, scattering rain across the pane in a shuddering burst. The noise startled me, a sharp percussion against the quiet, and my body jolted in answer, small, unthinking, enough to break the cocoon of stillness. It was in that crack of movement that I felt him.

His hand slipped beneath the blanket as if summoned by instinct. Fingers curled around my foot, his thumb circling the arch in a patient rhythm. The touch soothed me, steadied me, told me without words that I was safe. Perhaps he thought I had flinched at the storm. Perhaps it was only habit. It made no difference. What mattered was the spark, small and quiet but alive, that trembled through me at that touch. Wrapped together in our cocoon, the world beyond the glass seemed very far away.

I leaned back into the armrest, the blanket sliding lower until it rested just shy of my breasts. The raindrops on the glass no longer held me. All that remained was the warmth of his hand on my foot, every stroke a fine thread drawing me deeper into him. The touch was tender, steady, grounding, yet beneath that calm a hunger stirred, slow but certain, waiting to rise.

Then he stopped. His hand stilled, and the absence struck like a door shutting in my face. I flexed my toes against his thigh, coaxing, pleading for the rhythm to return. Nothing. His eyes stayed fixed on the book, stubborn in their refusal to see me. Heat pricked at my chest, my lips pulling into a pout, impatience flickering to life beneath the quiet.

Enough. I tossed the blanket over my head and slipped onto all fours, the cool air grazing my bare backside. I crawled down the couch, my body dragging across his leg, breasts brushing his thigh before grazing the heavy outline of his cock. He stirred, shifting beneath me, but his silence held. Before he could break it, I slipped free of the covers and settled my head against his chest. I tilted up, eyes wide and waiting, silently pleading for his attention.

At last, he looked down at me, the corner of his mouth curling into a small smile. Relief swelled in my chest, proof that he had felt me, that he had seen me. But then he chuckled, low and careless, and turned back to his book as though I were nothing more than a passing distraction. The audacity of him. My heart fluttered with indignation even as heat unfurled through me at the sting of being dismissed.

His eyes stayed on the page, one hand steady on the book, the other draped carelessly across the backrest. Not even the courtesy of teasing me back. I let out a small huff, a low growl of displeasure, but he didn’t move. So my fingers wandered instead. I traced across his chest, rising and falling with each breath, dipping along his side until he squirmed beneath me. Then I slid higher, circling his nipple before snapping it lightly with my finger. He grunted, his body twitching as it stiffened under my touch. I lingered, watching the soft peak tighten into a sharp little bud, the change so small yet so telling, a secret proof that I had reached him.

But my petty provocations weren’t enough. I drew in a shallow breath, his scent filling me, warm and faintly musky, carrying the edge of his skin. My hand drifted lower, tracing the line of his stomach until I reached the trimmed curls beneath the blanket. The heat there pulsed against my palm, steady and undeniable. I combed lazily through the hair, parting it with my fingers until I found the solid base of his cock, already thickening, firming under my touch.

I stroked upward, savoring the thick length until my fingers brushed the swollen crown. I curled my hand around him in one smooth grip and tugged, coaxing him to full hardness. A groan slipped out, raw and unguarded, his thigh shifting wide to open space for me. The sound thrilled me, and I bit back a laugh that cut between hunger and triumph. He could pretend the book mattered, but his body was already betraying him. I looked up, hungry for his eyes, certain they would meet mine at last. But he stayed buried in the book, nose deep in fiction when he should have been buried in me.

I worked him beneath the blanket, wrist pumping steady, each stroke swelling the fabric into a restless tent that thrashed in time with the storm outside. His breath grew heavier, nostrils flaring, thighs twitching against me as if the control he clung to was slipping grain by grain. I grinned in triumph. His cock strained hard in my grip, his chest rising ragged and uneven, every shudder a confession he could no longer hide.

Then his hand moved. At last. It slid down from the backrest, shadow falling across me, and my whole body tensed in readiness. At last he would shove the book aside, roll me beneath him, fuck me like I was begging to be fucked. Instead, his fingers lifted to his mouth, tongue gliding over their tips, wetting them with slow, deliberate care. My heart leapt. Was he about to touch me, tease me, press those slick fingers deep inside while I stroked him? But no. He only turned the page. A low chuckle slipped from his lips, and heat curled in my stomach, sharp and furious with need. His laugh cut me open, sharp enough to sting, and still, shame tangled with hunger, binding me tighter to him.

Enough. I snapped forward, twisting, and swung my leg across him. My cunt dragged over his cock as I straddled him, pinning him beneath me. The blanket tangled around us like a torn veil, useless now. His thickness pressed against my slit through the thin fabric, the head nudging me in brutal little kisses. Each jolt cracked through me, sharp and insistent, like flint sparking fire in the dark.

I ground down, hard enough to feel him pulse beneath me, the contact so raw it bordered on painful—pleasure sharpened to a blade. My breath tore from me, ragged, and I knew there was no hiding anymore. This wasn’t coaxing, it was conquest. His book could shield him only so long; my body was already splitting it open.

I slammed the book against his chest, the sound breaking the silence and forcing his eyes from the page. At last he met me. Our gazes clashed, sharp and stubborn, a collision neither of us would yield. My hair spilled around his face, a dark curtain closing us in, and he tilted his head beneath it, a glint in his eyes daring me to go further.

I reached between us, my fingers curling around his cock, hot and heavy in my hand. Lifting my hips, I hovered just enough to guide him, then pressed down. The blunt crown split me open, sliding just inside, and the shock of it tore a gasp from my throat. His breath shuddered in answer, sharp and unwilling, a fracture in the mask he clung to.

I planted my hands against his chest and pushed up, straightening my spine as though claiming the seat of a throne. For a heartbeat I faltered. Too full. Too stretched. Then I lifted my chin and met his eyes. I wanted him to see me take him. To know I had made myself his throne. The blanket slipped down my back, cool air breaking across my skin, my nipples tightening into sharp peaks from pleasure and chill. His cock sank deeper as I rose over him, thick and unyielding, stretching me wider until I forced myself down to the root, filled to the hilt, my body split open around him.

A wicked smile curved across my lips. At last, I had him. Yet still he clung to the book with one hand, lazy and stubborn, feigning detachment even as his eyes burned hot into mine. I rocked once, slow and deliberate, and a grunt broke from him, torn through clenched teeth. I rocked again, sharper, hips bucking in quick little bursts. Each jolt wrenched another crack through his control until his fingers slipped, the book tumbling to the floor.

My breath caught, half giggle, half moan, the sound rising unbidden as triumph and hunger tangled together.

I ground down hard, rolling my hips until his cock dragged thick through me in steady, consuming strokes. His grip shifted, sliding upward in one fluid motion—one hand pressing into the small of my back to draw me closer, the other sweeping along my side to cup my breast, his palm closing until my nipple stiffened against it. The slap of our bodies cracked through the room, louder than the rain outside, wet and relentless. Each grind fed the storm inside me, pressure mounting until it clawed at my chest and throat, demanding release.

The storm broke. He surged upright, arms circling my back, crushing me tight against his chest as though he could fuse us into one body. I clung to him, moaning into his ear while I drove myself down, his cock filling me deeper, every grind raw and unrelenting, breaking me open again and again. My cunt clenched around him, slick and frantic, milking with each shudder as pleasure crested.

The triumph blurred, softening into something stranger—devotion, longing, maybe even love. My breath broke on his skin, the sound more than climax, nearly confession. Release tore through me first, shattering against him, my nails raking his skin as I cried out into his shoulder.

He held tighter, his face buried in my neck, and then his body gave with mine. His cock pulsed inside me, spilling in thick waves, heat flooding until I felt full to bursting. He gasped and trembled as though emptied to the core, but still he would not let me go. We shook together, tangled and spent, joined as the rain hammered wild applause against the glass.

The tremors ebbed, leaving me boneless against him. His cock rested inside me still, softened but present, warmth seeping deeper with each quiet breath. My eyelids grew heavy, fluttering as if the storm outside were rocking me toward sleep.

The blanket lifted higher, his hand careful as he drew it over my shoulders, wrapping me once more in the cocoon of our warmth. A kiss brushed the crown of my head, gentle and unhurried, sealing the moment shut.

But even in that gentleness, the marks lingered—my thighs sore where his hands had pinned me, my cunt swollen, stretched, pulsing with the memory of him. I shifted, and the ache thrilled me, a scar written into flesh.

Outside, the rain still raced down the glass, droplets chasing each other in secret little duels. I no longer watched them. The race was finished, and the victory trembled in the beat of his heart beneath my cheek. A steady drum that carried me down into sleep.