Work Text:
You were halfway to burning your tongue on the first sip of coffee when someone tried to knock your door off its hinges.
You flinched, sloshed hot liquid onto your hand, hissed, and glared at the clock on the stove. 09:12.
“Christ,” you muttered, wiping your fingers on a dish towel as the knocking came again, harder. “I’m coming, calm down- ”
You yanked the door open.
Your next door neighbor, Simon Riley, filled the frame in a hoodie, grey sweats, eyes dark, flat, and murderous in a way you’d never seen in the hallway before.
You blinked. “Uh… good morning?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze scraped over you: oversized T shirt, no bra, bare legs. His jaw flexed once.
“Keep it down,” he said.
You stared. “What?”
His voice was rough with sleep and something like fury. “Last night. Or this mornin’, technically.” He jerked his chin toward the wall your bed sat against. “Had your TV on full blast and a herd of elephants runnin’ laps in there.”
Understanding hit you like a bucket of ice water and embarrassment. Your stomach dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” He folded his arms. “Last time I checked, elephants don’t fake giggles and moan like they’re readin’ from a script.”
Your face went molten. “We were not that loud.”
His brow lifted. “I know your headboard’s rhythm now.” He ticks it off on one hand. “Bang, bang, bang, wobble, silence. Rinse, repeat.”
You wished for death. Or at least for the floor to open and swallow you.
“Okay, we get it,” you snapped, mortification curdling into defensiveness. “You heard some things. Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep.”
“I’m home on leave,” he said flatly. “First proper bed I’ve had in months. First chance to sleep without artillery or some fucker snorin’ in the next bunk. Instead, I get to listen to you and your lad cosplayin’ bad porn through the wall until three in the mornin’.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You had nothing, because he wasn’t wrong. Your fuck buddy had been… enthusiastic. Not especially talented. And you’d… helped.
Your cheeks flared hotter. “Fine. I’ll keep it down next time.”
He huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “There shouldn’t be a ‘next time’ with him if you’ve got to fake it that hard, love.”
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stared you down, unblinking. “You were louder when he kissed your neck than you were when he ‘finished’. D’you really think I’m that daft?”
You wanted to crawl into the drywall and never emerge. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Good.” He leaned in a fraction, enough that you caught soap and cigarette smoke. “Because I didn’t come here to have a chat. I came to tell you to knock it the fuck off.”
Something in you bristled. “Oh, did you? My apologies, Private HOA. I didn’t realize you were on the noise complaint committee.”
He stared for a beat. Then, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched under the fabric in a way that made you think he was baring his teeth.
“I don’t give a toss what you get up to,” he said. “Just don’t keep me up with a performance.” His gaze flicked to your mouth and back, blatant. “If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.”
The words hit like a slap and a spark at the same time.
Your brain stalled. “I- excuse me?”
He shrugged, infuriatingly casual. “Unless you’re offering to actually make it worth stayin’ awake.” His eyes held yours, steady. “You knock on my door instead, we can arrange somethin’ a bit more… honest.”
Your heart did something ugly and bright against your ribs.
“You are not serious,” you managed.
“Dead.” His gaze swept you once more, almost clinical. “But if you’re not, I’d appreciate a quiet night. I don’t get many.”
The worst part was that underneath the smugness, he did look exhausted. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there last week. His shoulders hung heavy in a way you recognized from the lobby when he got back from wherever the military kept him.
You hated that you felt a flicker of guilt underneath the mortification.
“Wow,” you said instead, grasping for anything sharp. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”
“Never claimed to be,” he said. “Just honest.”
“Great. Well, honestly? Go fuck yourself, Riley.”
His eyes glinted. “Offer’s on the table, love. Door’s right there.”
Every neuron in your body lit up with humiliation and annoyance.
You slammed the door in his face.
You heard him huff, low, on the other side. Then his footsteps retreated down the hall.
You pressed your back to the wood, heart racing, skin buzzing like he’d said all of that directly into your bloodstream.
“Asshole,” you muttered.
Later, when you texted your fuck buddy that you thought you should take a break, you definitely, absolutely, did not think about Simon Riley’s flat, unimpressed stare while you typed.
You didn’t see him for three days.
The first felt like a hangover of the argument; replaying it while you brushed your teeth, while you scrubbed your dishes, while you sat on the couch and pretended not to listen for his boots in the hall.
The second, you heard his door once in the afternoon and the murmur of a phone call. His laugh short and rough through the plaster. You told yourself it didn’t make your chest tighten.
By the third, you’d managed to talk yourself into being over it. The weather app said rain all weekend. You bought snacks. You queued up a comfort show. You put on a face mask and tried not to care that his door stayed shut and the apartment stayed quiet.
Until 01:37.
You woke up to the sound of it: the low, rhythmic thump of a headboard against a wall that matched yours.
For a moment you lay there, disoriented, thinking your brain had dragged up an old memory. Then you heard it: a high, breathy moan that definitely wasn’t yours.
You were suddenly, vividly awake.
You stared at the ceiling. The sound came again, muffled but clear, the exact timbre of a woman who was not reading from a script.
Your stomach did this weird flip, hollow and sharp.
Oh.
Your heart started racing for a different reason.
She sounded… different. Not just louder. There was a messy edge to it- little broken noises, a laugh cut off midway by a gasp, the pitch catching when something hit just right. No deliberate build up, no “oh my God, yes, just like that” delivered in perfect porn inflection.
It sounded… real.
You pressed your lips together and stared at the cracks in your ceiling like they were personally responsible.
Of course he brought someone home. You’d told him to go fuck himself. Apparently he’d outsourced.
Another drawn out moan slid through the wall, followed by the creak of springs and a low, rough sound that was definitely his. The tiny hairs on your arms stood up.
Heat crawled down your neck.
You flipped onto your side, facing away from the wall, as if that would help. It didn’t. You could hear her breathing pick up, the rhythm of the bed stuttering, a muffled curse, a plea.
You’d never sounded like that.
Not once.
God, you’d thought you did. You’d been loud. You’d made noise. But lying there, listening to the difference, you realized how careful yours had been. How… shaped. Performed. You’d hit beats you thought you were supposed to. Rising volume. Little shivered “ohh”s when he fumbled close. That big dramatic final gasp.
This was nothing like that. This sounded uncontrolled. Like something happening to her, not something being presented.
Your throat went tight.
What did that even feel like? To be that gone? To not be in your head counting how many minutes it had been, wondering if he was close yet, thinking about what your face looked like? To not secretly decide three quarters of the way through that you’d just… help things along to wrap the whole thing up?
Another muffled cry. A dull thump. You swallowed hard.
You hated how jealousy slid in, sharp and green. Stupid. Petty. You barely knew him. You’d told him off. You had no claim.
But the sound of it- of her- prickled under your skin.
You imagined her: pretty, probably. Confident. One of those women who just knew how to move. Maybe someone he’d known for ages. Maybe picked up at a bar. Maybe it didn’t matter because whoever she was, she was getting something you’d never had: the real version of you that he’d so casually implied you were wasting.
“Knock it off with the performance.”
You shoved your face into your pillow, torn between humiliation and… something else. Curiosity. Ache.
The bedframe thudded again, faster. Her voice pitched high, then broke off entirely into a choked sound that made your body clench in sympathetic echo.
Your fake orgasms had never sounded like that, either.
You squeezed your thighs together under the sheets, furious with yourself. You were not going to lie here getting turned on by your neighbor and his… whatever-she-was… on the other side of the wall. You were not that girl.
A lower noise slipped out of him: half groan, half swear, and your resolve did a messy nosedive.
You stared at the dark and let the questions spiral anyway.
What had he done to her to make her sound like that?
Was that how he’d sounded in your ear if you’d said yes instead of slamming the door?
Would you have made those sounds too, if someone actually knew what they were doing with you? If you didn’t feel like you had to make it easier, smoother, quieter, quicker?
The bed in his room creaked through a final flurry of motion. There was a long, quiet pause. You listened like an absolute creep.
Her laugh came first, breathless and warm. His voice rumbled something low in response that you couldn’t make out; then the whispered rustle of sheets, bodies shifting, settling.
Your chest ached.
You lay there staring at the wall between you, suddenly, acutely aware of your own heartbeat and the empty space in your bed.
After a long time, when the apartment was finally quiet again, you threw an arm over your face and groaned into your own elbow.
“Asshole,” you whispered.
You weren’t entirely sure whether you meant him or yourself.
Sleep didn’t come easy after that. Every time you drifted toward it, you heard again the difference between your practiced noise and that girl’s unselfconscious, messy sounds, and now, layered over it, his blunt voice in your doorway:
If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.
You hated how much you wanted to know what it would be like, just once, to be worth it.
You told yourself it was a one time thing.
People hook up. Neighbors have sex. The world keeps spinning. You were a grown adult and not the feral protagonist of some messy soap opera.
You even managed to sleep the next night.
It was the one after that that killed you.
You woke up to the low rumble of laughter through the wall. His voice. Then a lighter, higher one flirty and giggly, the kind of laugh people made when they touched someone’s arm in a bar and tilted their head just so.
You froze, mid-roll, staring at the glowing red digits of your clock.
00:49.
“Nope,” you whispered to no one. “Nope, no, absolutely not- ”
Your brain, traitor that it was, supplied a clear picture: Simon in the doorway of some crowded place, that bored half lidded stare softening just enough for some pretty stranger. Her hand curling in his hoodie. That rough, low chuckle he hadn’t given you, because he’d been too busy lecturing you in your doorway.
A muffled thunk against the shared wall made your stomach swoop.
You sat up short, heartbeat rocketing.
This girl sounded different than the last one. Less breathy, more sharp edged. Her laugh cut off mid giggle into a startled squeak, then a broken “oh, God-” that you felt embarrassingly low in your spine.
Heat flared under your skin. Annoyance came right on its heels.
He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. Some kind of cosmic karmic payback: you fake it and keep me up? Fine. I’ll show you what not faking sounds like.
The mattress on his side creaked. The headboard tapped the wall. Soft at first. Then a little harder.
You stared at the wall, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Another moan slipped through, higher now, thready. You recognized the sound of a woman trying to keep it down and failing.
Bile and jealousy churned together in your throat.
Is that what I’d sound like?
You hated that the question clawed its way in at all. Hated that under the irritation, the humiliation, there was this raw little knot of curiosity twisting tighter with each ragged sound that wasn’t yours.
You flopped back onto your pillow and yanked it over your head.
It didn’t help. You could still hear them. Her. Him. The low, wordless sound he made when he liked something, muffled by drywall but still there. Thick. Warm. Real.
Your pulse beat a frantic rhythm in your ears.
“That’s it,” you muttered, throwing the pillow aside and sitting up again, hair wild, heart ridiculous. “I am not doing this. I am not losing more sleep because my neighbor has a thriving sex life and apparently a point to prove.”
Another breathless cry, followed by a thud of headboard.
You glared at the wall like it had personally insulted you.
“Shut up,” you gritted.
They did not, in fact, shut up.
Something in you snapped.
You threw off the covers, stomped over to the wall in your ridiculous fuzzy socks, reared back, and kicked it. Hard.
The drywall shuddered. Pain shot up your toes. “Ow- fuck,” you hissed, grabbing your foot and hopping in place, immediately regretting every life choice that led you here.
For a second, everything on the other side went quiet.
Then, through the silence, you heard him laugh.
Not a full belly laugh. Just this low, dark little huff of amusement that you felt squarely between your ribs.
The headboard started up again. Slower. Deliberate.
You squeezed your eyes shut, mortification crawling all the way to the roots of your hair.
“Oh my God,” you groaned into your hands. “I am the world’s biggest idiot.”
You limped back to bed, cheeks burning, and pulled the covers over your head like they could block out reality. They couldn’t. You lay there listening, every thump of wood, every caught breath from the girl on the other side scraping your already raw nerves.
You tried to be angry.
You were angry. Mostly at him. Some at them. A lot at yourself.
Underneath all of it, though, there was that same stupid ache:
You had never sounded like that. Not once. Not for anyone.
By the time it finally went quiet, you were wide awake and vibrating on something that was half adrenaline, half mortification, and half… something you did not have the emotional energy to name.
You slept badly.
You ran into him in the elevator the next morning, because of course you did. The universe was a comedian.
You almost made it out of the building unscathed. You’d timed it: 08:02, just late enough all the other tenants had cleared out for work but early enough the lunchtime crowd wouldn’t be a problem. You texted your group chat about needing caffeine and emotional support. You made it three steps into the lobby.
Then the elevator dinged and he stepped out.
Grey T shirt, black joggers, a duffel slung over his shoulder. Mask in place. Hair damp from a shower. He walked like his body hurt in familiar places but had gotten used to it.
You stopped dead when you saw him.
You considered spinning on your heel and pretending you’d forgotten something upstairs. Your pride, maybe.
Instead, you tightened your grip on your keys, lifted your chin, and walked toward the door like you didn’t remember every sound from several hours ago.
“Mornin',” he said.
You hated that your body reacted physically to his voice; this stupid little clench low in your stomach like a Pavlovian response.
“Is it,” you said, a bit sharper than intended.
His eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. “Sleep well?”
He knew. Obviously he knew. Of course he knew. You’d literally tried to kick a hole through his bedroom wall like you were in some low budget music video.
“Like a baby,” you said sweetly. “Woke up every hour and cried.”
His shoulders shook once. That might have been a laugh. “Sounded like it.”
You flushed. “Maybe if certain people respected quiet hours- ”
“Ah.” He tipped his head, expression politely blank. “Now y'care about quiet hours.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Not what she said,” he replied, mild as tea.
Your jaw dropped. “Did you just- ”
“I’m on leave,” he went on, chatting right over you. “Thought I’d enjoy some… recreational time.” His gaze flicked over your face, lingering just a heartbeat too long on your mouth. “Didn’t think my neighbor would object t' me takin’ my own advice.”
“Your advice?” you demanded. “You barged into my apartment and lectured me. There’s a difference.”
“Didn’t barge.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Knocked.”
“You woke me up.”
“You woke me up,” he countered. “Several times now, if we’re keepin’ score.”
You made a strangled noise. “Oh my God, are you punishing me?”
“Punishin’ you?” He huffed. “No, love. If I was punishin’ you, you’d know.” His eyes gleamed. “This is just me mindin’ my business.”
“Your business is eight inches of plaster away from mine,” you snapped before your brain could stop your mouth, and then immediately realized what you’d said.
His gaze dropped. Paused. Came back up much, much slower.
“Is that a complaint,” he asked softly, “or a question?”
You wanted to die.
You crossed your arms over your chest like shield. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re jumpy.” He shifted his weight, duffel creaking. “You kicked the wall.”
You looked away, ears burning. “You were being loud.”
“That was the point.” His voice stayed annoyingly calm. “Thought we’d established I preferred honest noise.”
Anger flared, sharp enough to cover the humiliation. “Right, because that’s your whole thing, isn’t it? Simon Riley, Patron Saint of Authentic Female Pleasure. You want a medal?”
Something like surprise flickered across his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he grinned, a flash of teeth beneath the mask, quick and real.
“Nah,” he said. “Just like to hear when I’m doin’ a good job.”
The implication hit you square in the chest.
You scoffed, because the alternative was making an embarrassing choking sound. “Must be nice.”
“What?”
“To be so sure you are.”
His gaze sharpened. For a heartbeat, the air between you felt… different. Heavy.
“Practice,” he said finally.
“Practice,” you repeated, incredulous. “What are you, a… a hobbyist?”
His mouth curved. “Enthusiast.”
You could not believe you were having this conversation before coffee.
“Wow,” you said. “The humility is staggering.”
He studied you for a second, head tilted, like he was slotting puzzle pieces together.
“You’re still thinkin’ about it,” he said quietly.
You went still. “About what?”
His eyes did that slow, assessing sweep again, this time not of your body, but your face. The tight set of your mouth. The faint shadows under your eyes.
“‘What it’d be like to actually have one,’” he quoted, and the bottom dropped out of your stomach because you hadn’t said that out loud to anyone. “Bet that’s been rattlin’ ’round your head since we spoke.”
You stared. “Were you… listening through the wall?”
“Didn’t have to.” He tugged one glove snug, leather creaking. “Can hear it on you. Questions. Curiosity. Bit of jealousy.” His gaze didn’t waver. “All loud as any moan, once you know how to listen.”
Your pulse was thundering so hard you were sure he could hear that too.
“You’re unbelievably arrogant,” you said, aiming for dismissive and landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless.
“Honest,” he corrected again. “S’what started this, remember?”
You swallowed around the dry lump in your throat. “Well, honestly? I don’t need a neighbor commentary track on my sex life.”
He nodded once. “Fair enough.”
The elevator dinged again behind him. Someone laughed on an upper floor. The building hummed around you.
“You want it to stop,” he said, “it stops. I mind my noise, you mind yours, we go back to bein’ strangers.” He shifted his duffel on his shoulder. “Or…”
You hated that your entire body leaned into that “or”.
“Or what,” you asked, already knowing the answer and already wanting to punch yourself for asking.
“Or you stop pretendin’ this isn’t botherin’ you for more reasons than sleep,” he said. “You stop lettin’ blokes waste your time. You knock on my door instead of his.” His eyes caught yours and held. “And we see what all that noise in your head actually sounds like when it’s comin’ out of your mouth.”
Heat flooded you so fast you felt a little dizzy.
You opened your mouth and something petty and self-protective came out instead of the yes your hindbrain wanted to blurt.
“Pass,” you said. “I’d hate for you to lose more sleep. Noise complaints and all that.”
He smiled, small and knowing, like he could see right through you.
“As you like, love.”
He stepped past you, the faint brush of his arm against yours lighting up every nerve ending you had. The door swished open; cold air gusted in.
“You ever change your mind,” he added without looking back, “you know where I live.”
You watched him go, jaw clenched, fingers tight on your keys.
You told yourself the twist in your gut was annoyance.
You told yourself kicking the wall had been childish and you were done with this game.
You told yourself you definitely, absolutely, under no circumstances, were going to stand in front of your door later that night staring at his door number down the hall and wondering how it would sound when the noise wasn’t coming through plaster.
You were an excellent liar.
Just not to him.
You spend the whole day pretending you’re fine.
You go to work, or the store, or sit on your couch doomscrolling, whatever it is people do when they’re trying very hard not to think about their neighbor’s sex life. Every time your brain tries to replay it- the sounds, his smug little as you like, love- you slam a mental door in its face.
By the time it’s past midnight and the building’s quiet, you’re wound tight enough to hum.
You’re not even trying to be subtle about it when you finally say fuck it and reach for your drawer.
It’s not like you’ve never done this before. You have an orgasm history. Probably. Technically. Somewhere back there.
You lie back on your bed, phone screen dim, some mindless show murmuring in the background, and let your hand wander down the familiar path.
It should be easy. This is supposed to be the easy part.
Your fingers find sensitive skin, slide through the slick that’s already there because your body figured this out long before your brain admitted it. You circle your clit the way you always do, the way that usually works, and wait for the slow build.
It comes… sort of.
Your breathing picks up. Heat curls low. You press a little harder, up the pace, try to tune out the awareness of the wall to your left.
You remember the second girl’s voice. The way it had broken on a wordless sound, like something knocked the air right out of her.
You’ve never sounded like that alone, either.
You try to picture something else: old hookups, porn clips, that one crush; but your mind keeps circling back to the same place: his voice in the doorway. The rough, blunt cadence of it.
If I’m losin’ sleep over you, I’d rather it be worth my while.
Your hips flex up into your own touch. You groan quietly, annoyed at yourself, and let him in.
Fine. Whatever. If your brain wants to be a traitor, let it commit fully.
You imagine his hand instead of yours. Big, rough, that warm weight on your thigh. The pressure of him between your legs, fingers working you like he’s in no hurry at all. That low rumble he makes when he’s amused.
You speed up, chasing it. The build is there, tension coiling, but it keeps… slipping. You get close enough that your muscles flicker on the edge, but it never tips. The peak hovers just out of reach, taunting, and the more you push the further it recedes.
“Come on,” you mutter, sweat starting at your temples. “Come on, just- ”
Nothing. You circle harder, but now everything feels too direct, too focused on the finish line. Your thighs burn. Your wrist aches. Your brain won’t shut up long enough to let your body take over.
What if this is just… it? What if all those times you thought you came were just warm up acts? What if you’ve never actually-
You stop.
Just… stop.
Your hand falls away. You stare at the ceiling, chest heaving, unsatisfied need fizzing under your skin like static.
You can’t even remember the last time you were sure. Not “good enough, close enough, I made the right noises and my partner looked pleased so we’ll file it under win.” Actually sure. No pretending. No shaping it for someone else.
It’s been… a while.
Your eyes stray to the wall. The one that connects your bedroom to his.
You remember the first girl. The shivery, helpless sounds. The way her voice had gone ragged when she was close.
You remember the second one last night. The sharp gasp and the way everything about the rhythm had changed in that last, frantic minute.
You’ve never sounded like that.
You lie there stewing in it, cheeks burning, heart hammering, for a long time.
Your face is hot and your body is throbbing and you suddenly, viscerally, cannot stand one more second of being alone in this bed with that knowledge.
Then, without really deciding to, you throw the covers back.
Your legs feel shaky when you stand. You don’t bother with pants. You grab the first hoodie you find, shrug it on over your oversized shirt, and march for the door barefoot like a woman possessed.
The hallway is dim and quiet. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
You cross the few feet between apartments before your brain has a chance to catch up with your body and talk you out of it.
You bang on his door.
Not a polite neighborly tap. Three sharp, insistent knocks that say open up.
For a second, nothing happens.
Then you hear movement. Heavy steps. The thunk of a lock.
The door swings open.
He’s in grey sweats and a dark T shirt, mask on, hood down, blinking like you dragged him out of bed. Which, honestly, you probably did.
He blinks once, taking you in: bare legs, big hoodie, probably wild eyes.
“Thought you liked your sleep,” he says, voice rough with just-woke-up gravel. “What’s- ”
You fist your hand in the front of his T shirt, yank him down, and kiss him.
It’s clumsy at first. You hit mask instead of mouth and make a small, frustrated noise against the fabric. He goes still, not pulling back, not pushing in. Just… shocked.
Then he makes a low sound that’s almost a growl, one hand catching your hip to steady you as the other comes up between you.
Two fingers hook the bottom of the mask and shove it up, baring his mouth.
You only get a glimpse- full, soft, the hint of a scar near one corner- before he’s kissing you back.
Everything else drops out.
He doesn’t ease into it. One second you’re the one hauling him down, the next your back meets the inside of his door because he’s turned the whole situation around without breaking contact. The door swings shut with a soft click behind you, locking you in with 200 pounds of very awake soldier.
His mouth is hot and sure. He tastes like the faint tang of toothpaste, his lips moving against yours like he’s been waiting for this to happen since the first time he heard you through the wall.
His hand spreads over the small of your back, hauling you closer, slotting you against the firm line of him. The other carded into your hair, angling your head just where he wants you, tongue pushing past your lips like it’s a foregone conclusion.
You moan.
It’s instinctive, unplanned, a raw sound that catches both of you off guard.
He makes a deep, pleased noise in answer and chases it, kissing you harder. Heat slams through you, need surging up so fast it makes you dizzy.
You break just enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, his breath fanning hot over your mouth.
“You sure?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “’Cause if this is about provin’ a point- ”
“Not about a point,” you cut in, fingers knotting tighter in his shirt. “It’s about the fact I can’t- ” you swallow hard, pride hanging by a thread. “I can’t get there. Not with them. Not with me. I… can’t stop thinking about how they sounded and how I- don’t, and I’m- ”
Words tangle. You shake your head, frustrated.
“I want to know,” you say, finally, helplessly. “I want to know what it’s like.”
His eyes search your face. Whatever he sees there makes something in his expression go dark and intent.
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
Your voice wobbles but your grip on him doesn’t.
His thumb strokes your cheekbone once, oddly gentle for how wound up he feels under your hands.
“All right,” he says. “We’ll find it.”
He doesn’t say I will. Doesn’t make it a boast. Just a promise, simple and solid.
It hits harder than any smirk would’ve.
He backs you away from the door, mouth finding yours again, walking you blind across his living room. Your bare feet brush against the edge of a rug, then cool floor again. The space smells like him: soap, coffee, that faint hint of gun oil that clings even off duty.
Your calves bump a low surface. Couch. His hands flex at your waist.
You break the kiss long enough to gasp, “Bed.”
His eyes flash, hungry. “Bossy.”
“Focused,” you shoot back, breathless.
He huffs out a laugh and pivots, steering you further in. The bedroom’s only a few steps away: small, simple, lived in. Unmade bed. Dark sheets. The same wall your own bed rests against on the other side.
That thought makes your stomach flip.
He stops by the edge of the mattress, letting you feel the moment stretch between you.
You look up at him, heart pounding, fingers still twisted in his shirt like you’re afraid he might vanish.
“This it?” he asks, voice softer now. “Last chance to tell me to fuck off.”
“Shut up, Riley,” you say. “You talk too much.”
His mouth curves slow and dangerous. “That’s a first.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, like there’s no hurry at all. One hand slides up under the hem of your hoodie, fingers skating over warm skin. The other drifts down, catching the back of your thigh, lifting.
You wrap your leg around his hip automatically, body slotting against his. You can feel him, hard through the thin cotton of your underwear and his sweats, and the blunt reality of it knocks another sound out of you.
He catches that too. “There you are,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Knew you’d be loud.”
You want to say something snarky. All that comes out is a small, helpless noise when his hand squeezes.
He steps in, nudging you to turn. You end up sitting on the edge of the bed, knees between his. He peels the hoodie off you in a smooth motion, eyes dropping to take in the rumpled shirt beneath, your bare thighs, the way you shift in place.
“Up,” he says, tapping your hip.
You scoot back until you’re fully on the mattress. He follows, bracing a knee beside you, leaning over you like he’s staking a claim. His weight sinks the bed around you, his body caging yours without pinning you.
His fingers find the hem of your shirt and push. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away. The cool air kisses your skin; his gaze does far worse.
“Pretty,” he says. No embellishment, no theatrical appreciation. Just the word, rough and sure.
You shiver.
His hand drags down your torso, warm and callused, pausing at every small hitch of breath. When he reaches your underwear, he hooks his fingers under the elastic and glances up, checking.
You nod, teeth in your bottom lip.
He slides them down slow, knuckles skimming the insides of your thighs as he goes. When they clear your ankles he tosses them somewhere over his shoulder, like he doesn’t particularly care where they land.
You’re bare under him now, spread out on his bed, undeniably here by choice.
It should feel vulnerable. It does. It also feels… right.
He shifts down, shoulders settling between your knees as he nudges them apart. His palms wrap around your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles on the soft inner skin as he takes in the view.
You squirm, heat rushing to your face. “Simon…”
“Hush.” His eyes are dark, heavy lidded. “You came knockin’ on my door half naked and pushy. Let me enjoy the view a second.”
You’d roll your eyes if your pulse weren’t roaring in your ears.
He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another, higher. His stubble scrapes delicately against your skin, a rough soft contrast that makes you gasp.
He works his way in; lips, tongue, teeth nipping just enough to spark until he’s where you’re already slick and aching.
He looks up once more, catching your gaze.
“You don’t fake for me,” he says. “Not this. You don’t have to make it pretty. Just let it happen.”
You nod, throat tight. “Okay.”
He smiles wicked and lowers his mouth to you.
His tongue slides through your heat, up to your clit, circling lightly before backing off when your hips jerk.
“Mm.” His hum vibrates against you. “That’s nice.”
He does it again, a fraction more pressure. Circling, tasting, like he’s memorizing every twitch, every gasp. One hand stays firm on your hip to keep you from squirming away; the other drifts lower, fingers resting just at the entrance to your cunt, not pushing in yet. Waiting.
You fist your hands in his hair without meaning to. “Oh- fuck- ”
“There she is,” he murmurs, the words hot against your skin. “That’s better.”
He settles into a rhythm that has nothing to do with performance. No quick jackhammer motions, no frantic showmanship. Just steady, deliberate attention: the flat of his tongue here, the tip there, tiny adjustments based on how your breathing changes, how your thighs and hands tighten.
Every time you chase it, you feel him ease off just enough to keep you from tipping too soon. Not to tease you. To build you.
It’s infuriating. It’s incredible.
His fingers press in when you’re already hovering. Two of them, thick and sure, sliding into you in a smooth, unhurried stroke. You gasp, the stretch hitting deeper, fuller than your own hand ever manages.
“Fuck,” you whine. “Simon- ”
“That’s it,” he says without lifting his mouth. “Let me hear you.”
He curls his fingers just so and your vision goes white around the edges.
There’s no time to think about how you sound now versus how you sounded through the wall. No mental checklist of what noise might be convincing. There’s just this overwhelming, climbing rush rolling through you, riding the precise drag of his fingers and the relentless, perfect pressure of his tongue.
You feel yourself getting close in a way that’s… different. Less like a finish line you’re sprinting at and more like a wave you’re already on, cresting whether you’re ready or not.
Panic flickers. You try to hold back out of reflex, muscles tensing, the old habit of controlling it kicking in.
He feels it instantly. His free hand slides up, flattening over your lower belly, thumb reaching for your clit to keep the exact same unbroken rhythm.
“Don’t fight it,” he says against you, words half muffled. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
Something in you trusts him enough to listen.
You let go.
It hits like stepping off a ledge into open air.
The orgasm rips through you in a sharp, shuddering wave that has you arching off the bed, a helpless, broken sound tearing from your throat. For a second you have absolutely no control over the noise you’re making, your body just… takes.
He doesn’t stop. He works you through it, tongue and fingers steady, easing only when the sharp crest breaks and rolls into softer aftershocks. You whine, oversensitive, thighs trembling around his head.
“Easy,” he murmurs, gentling his touch, pressing a last soft kiss to your swollen clit before finally easing his fingers out.
You slump back into the mattress, boneless. Your chest heaves. Your hands are still in his hair, sticky with sweat.
You have never, ever felt like this.
Your brain eventually boots back up enough to process that there are tears at the corners of your eyes. Which is… new.
He notices. Of course he does.
His big frame moves up the bed, careful of your limbs, until he’s braced on his forearms above you, lips slick and a little swollen.
He looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with taking his own pleasure yet.
“You all right?” he asks quietly.
You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I just- ” You swallow. “That was…”
“Real?” he offers.
You nod, a little hysterical. “I think I saw God.”
“Not God,” he says, that same low laugh from the hallway rumbling in his chest. “Just me.”
He leans down and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on him. It should be filthy. It is. It also feels weirdly intimate, like sharing a secret.
When he starts to pull back, you catch his shirt.
“Your turn,” you say, voice still fuzzy at the edges but determined. “I didn’t wear out my foot on that wall to tap out now.”
His eyes darken, heat flaring back to the surface. “That so?”
“Mhm.” Your hand slides down, palming his cock through his sweats. He’s hard, thick under the soft fabric, and the way his breath catches when you squeeze makes something warm uncurl in your chest.
“Greedy,” he mutters, already shedding his T shirt in one smooth motion. The rest follows, sweats out of the way, his body finally fully against yours.
He lines himself up, pauses, eyes on yours.
“Tell me,” he says, voice lower than you’ve heard it yet. “You still want this?”
There isn’t a doubt left anywhere in you.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
His jaw clenches like the word please hits him somewhere vital.
“Good girl,” he says, and pushes in.
It’s a stretch that borders on too much thick, slow, inexorable; your nails biting his shoulders as your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t plan. His breath punches out through his nose. “Christ, love.” He holds still, buried to the hilt, the weight of him caging you against the mattress. “Warm little thing, aren’t you.”
You nod too fast, a shaky laugh tumbling out. “Move.”
He does; patient at first, like he’s proving a point to both of you. Long, measured pulls of his cock that drag over the place his fingers already found, each thrust a precise nudge that builds heat rather than blows through it. You chase up to meet him without thinking, the rhythm landing in your bones and taking over your hips. The bed creaks. A picture frame on his dresser taps out a tiny syncopated beat.
“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, voice gone low and ugly beautiful, stubble dragged over your throat. “Not pretendin’. Not rushin’. Just takin’ it?”
“Yeah,” you gasp, head tilting back. “Yeah- more.”
He obliges, hips snapping a little harder, a little deeper, the bedframe answering in soft, rhythmic complaint. Your heel hooks behind his thigh, urging him closer; he grunts, adjusts his angle, and suddenly you’re keening, fingers scrambling for purchase as he nails that exact spot again and again with the kind of stroke that uses all of him- hips, abs, thighs- until your body stops pretending it can keep up and just rides.
You’re loud now. There’s no containing it. Every time his pelvis grinds down you break apart a little more, noises rising without shape or shame. He drinks them like water, swallowing whatever he can and groaning into your mouth when he can’t.
“That’s it,” he pants, head dropping to lick into the hinge of your jaw. “There she is. Give it to me.”
You do; sound and heat and the looseness of your body yielding under his. He braces on one forearm and slides the other hand between you, thumb finding your clit with the same steady pressure he used with his mouth. The double edge of it rockets you forward so fast your breath punches out in a ragged little cry.
He hears it and smiles against your jaw, all teeth. “Thought so.”
You arch into him, shameless. “Don’t stop- don’t- ”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He keeps you right there, the pace unapologetic now, sweat beading at his temples, his breath stuttering in your ear in a way that obliterates whatever dignity you had left. You can feel him everywhere: weight, heat, the thick drag of his cock inside you and you’re already teetering again, that wave rising, bigger this time, inevitable.
“Simon,” you plead, shocking yourself with how desperate your voice sounds. “Please- ”
“Go on,” he orders, almost gentle. “Let me hear you.”
You break.
It rolls through you like a fuse finally catching, sharp, deep, whole body, your back bowing off the bed as your orgasm claws a raw, helpless sound from your chest. Your vision whites out; somewhere far away you feel him swear, feel the way your squeeze drags him to the edge with you. He doesn’t let your clit go until you hit that tumbling, sweet, uncontrollable after, and then he eases, mouth finding yours while you shake under him.
You’re still fluttering when he sits back on his heels without pulling out, palms sliding to your hips. “Turn over,” he says, voice shredded silk. “Hands and knees.”
You should be wrecked. You are. You go anyway, obedient on a gasp, cheek to the sheet, knees apart. He drags you back by the hips the last few inches- possessive little tug- and sinks home again in one long stroke that knocks a strangled moan out of you.
“Fuck,” he grits, both hands gripping your waist. “Look at that. Took me so sweet.”
You feel sweet and snug around him, every thrust a heavy slide that lands perfectly. His fingers shift, one hand splayed across your lower belly to feel himself inside you, the other bracing between your shoulder blades to arch you just right. The angle turns wicked; your thighs shake.
“Filthy thing,” he says, delighted. “Took one taste and now you can’t stand not havin’ me, hm? Knocked on my door in that little shirt- ” He thrusts, deeper. “- and now you’re squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to keep me.”
You are. God help you, you are.
He drives you hard enough to steal thought, hips clapping, breath hot where he bends over you to mouth at your nape. When his hand snakes around again, thumb finding your clit from behind, you actually try to crawl away from the intensity- one inch, a reflex- only to feel him chase you, pin your hips and give you nowhere to go but through.
“Stay,” he growls, not harsh, just inexorable. “Stay right there for me.”
You do. You come again, messier, thighs trembling, a broken sob scraping out of you as it hits. He snarls, driving you through it, and finally- finally- loses the last of his composure. His rhythm goes wild and perfect, hips shuddering, a bitten off groan against your neck as he buries himself deep and stays, eyes squeezed shut while it takes him.
Silence after, except for the hammer of both your breaths and the faint tick of the baseboard heater.
He stays inside you while he comes down, mouth softening against your shoulder, hand smoothing over your thigh like he’s easing you back into your body. When he finally slips free you feel empty and sweet and wrecked, nerves buzzing everywhere he’s touched.
He rolls you onto your back and props himself on an elbow, studying you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in years. Hair ruined. Mouth swollen. Eyes glassy.
For a long, thick moment, there’s only breath. Your sweat slicked chest pressed to his. His thumb smoothing thoughtlessly at the back of your hip like he’s cataloging you to memory.
“Worth your while?” you manage, voice wrecked.
He huffs a laugh that’s almost tender. “There it is. The mouth.”
“I kicked your wall.”
“Mm.” His lips tilt. “I heard.”
You drag him down by the back of the neck and kiss him once, slow. “Worth mine,” you say against his mouth. “And then some.”
He exhales like that does something to him. “Good.”
He gets up long enough to grab a towel, cleans you with a gentleness that makes your throat tight, then tosses it aside and hauls you into his chest.
You lie there listening to the steadying thud of his heart, the quiet of the room, the hush on the other side of the wall.
After a while, you tip your head back. “Do you think…” You flush, suddenly shy in the wake of your own audacity. “Do you think you could… show me again? Not now. I mean- yeah, now, if you want- but also… again.”
He smiles slow and wolfish, eyes warm in a way you’ve never seen on him in the hallway. “Love, I’m on leave.” He kisses your temple. “I plan on sleepin’. But I plan on keepin’ you up, too.”
You snort into his chest. “Very neighborly.”
“Public service,” he says solemnly. “Educational.”
You elbow him; he bites your shoulder, playful, and you squeal and swat at him, and somehow you’re laughing together in his wrecked bed like you didn’t just redraw your whole life across eight inches of plaster.