Chapter 6
6
2020
T he city outside my window felt like it had gone silent forever. That eerie hush of the world on pause. I’d been pacing my apartment all day, restless in my skin, tired of screens and solitude, until Amir finally texted.
Amir: Don’t panic. I’m outside.
I opened the door and found him standing there—mask under his chin, wine and Thai takeout in hand, joggers slung low on his hips and a plain white tee stretching across his chest. My breath hitched before I could check it.
I let him in without a word.
We ate on the floor in front of my couch. Drank. Laughed a little. Watched Love Jones , even though we knew every line. And still, every few minutes, I caught him watching me. Not obvious. Just aware .
And I was aware too. Of how the sleeves of the hoodie swallowed my hands. Of how bare my legs were beneath it. Of the warmth that spread every time our arms touched, every time our knees brushed.
It had been years of this. Of almosts. Of maybe-one-days.
Of knowing him better than I knew most people, but never quite knowing if it was safe to want more.
But tonight, the air was different. Thicker. Louder in the quiet. I don’t know how we got from laughing to silence, from silence to heat.
Maybe it was the wine.
Maybe it was the hoodie.
Maybe it was the way I looked at him too long, and he didn’t look away.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the sleeve. "You always wear it like this?"
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like it still belongs to me.”
I swallowed. My body answered before my mouth could. His eyes sought mine for the answer we both already knew. That I wore it because it belonged to him. I wore it because I wanted to live in it, in him. Because I wanted him to live inside of me.
As if he understood, his eyes dropped to my bare legs—long, stretched out in front of me, warm under his gaze. His hand slid to my thigh. Just resting. Still. But my breath caught.
He noticed. His thumb moved—slow circles, teasing the edge of my shorts. My body responded before my mind could form a thought.
I turned toward him, knees folding. We faced each other, inches apart, breath synced. His fingers skimmed higher, just under the hem of the hoodie, against the soft skin at the crease of my thigh. My lips parted as my pussy thumped between my thighs.
“Please,” he whispered, like a prayer.
I stared at him, heart pounding.
He was kneeling on the rug in front of the couch, hands resting on either side of my thighs, his head bowed like he wasn’t just asking for permission—he was asking for me.
He leaned in, lips brushing my jaw, then lower—dragging heat across the curve of my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. His mouth moved like he was memorizing me.
His fingers skimmed the hem of my hoodie, tracing the bare skin beneath it, then slipped lower, sliding close to. my panties.
Then he paused and looked at me—eyes dark, searching. Voice almost shaking. “A…”
I didn’t blink. Just nodded. Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just yes.
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.
Then he kissed the inside of my thigh. Soft. Slow. Sacred.
His hands moved with purpose—steady palms pressing my thighs apart, thumbs grazing the crease where softness met heat. My legs opened wider without thought.
He hooked a finger around my panties, dragged them to the side, then paused again.
His fingertips brushed through my wetness, slow and deliberate, and his body shivered.
“Please,” he said again, voice so low and reverent it made my stomach clench. “Let me taste you.”
He kissed me there first.
Not rushed. Not greedy.
Just a press of lips—tender, aching—on the soft, sensitive skin at my center. Then another. A breath. A groan.
Then he opened me with his hands and flattened his tongue against me.
I gasped.
The first stroke was slow and exploratory. The second deeper. Firmer. His mouth fit to me like it belonged there. My back arched, my head dropped to the cushions, my fingers fisted in the blanket beneath me.
He groaned into my pussy—low and broken—then wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked.
“Amir—” I choked, hips lifting, hands flying to his head.
I could feel the coarse thickness of his hair between my fingers, could feel the way his tongue moved with precision and care, like he’d dreamed of this, practiced this, like he already knew how to make me fall apart.
And I did. Bit by bit.
“Yes,” I whispered. Again. And again. Until it wasn’t words anymore.
Until it was a moan.
A plea.
A need.
My body rocked against his mouth, slow at first, then more desperate. He anchored me with both hands on my thighs, fingers pressing firm, keeping me open, holding me steady as his mouth drove me higher.
He didn’t rush it. He savored it.
Every flick of his tongue. Every swirl. Every pull of his mouth around my clit. He took his time—eating me like he wanted to make sure I’d remember exactly how he made me feel.
And I would.
Forever.
When my orgasm hit, it wasn’t a scream—it was a slow, drawn-out exhale, my entire body shaking, my thighs clenching around his head as my hips bucked and my mouth dropped open in disbelief.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away until I was whimpering from the sensitivity, still trembling, still raw.
Only then did he lift his head, mouth wet, lips swollen, eyes heavy with something that made my breath catch all over again.
He rested his cheek against the softness of my belly, one hand still holding my thigh. His other arm wrapped around my waist like he was trying to keep me close a little longer.
He kissed my stomach—once. Then again. Slower this time.
His fingers brushed the underside of my breast through the hoodie, and his hand lingered there.
Then he sat up—moved forward—his mouth now on the front of my hoodie, then the hem, dragging it up inch by inch.
He didn’t ask this time.
Just lifted it until my breasts were bare, his mouth moving over one nipple, then the other, tongue swirling, lips sucking gently as I gasped and arched beneath him.
“God,” I breathed, my fingers pulling his head close.
He moaned against my skin, pulled one nipple into his mouth again, and I felt the throb return low in my belly.
I looked down and saw the way he moved—head tilted, shoulders tense, one hand on my breast, the other sliding along my hip.
I could feel the weight of him between my legs. The push of his body leaning forward. The way he kissed and touched me like he wanted all of me.
And for a second—I wanted to give it. But then… reality crashed in.
The weight of it.
The world waiting just outside this moment.
Amir wasn’t mine. Not really. He was my friend. Someone else’s boyfriend—or at least, he had been. Maybe still was. I didn’t know. And not knowing made everything inside me twist.
What if I couldn’t come back from this? What if it got messy? What if I ruined the only person who’d ever made me feel safe?
I pressed my hand to his chest.
He looked up, lips kiss-swollen, eyes half-lidded, confused. Still breathing hard.
“Amaya,” he whispered, reaching for me again.
I shook my head slowly. Even though it pained me and my pussy, I had to stop this before I lost myself.
He paused. Stilled.
His hand brushed my cheek, his forehead pressed to mine, and for a moment we just breathed there—close enough to feel each other’s heartbeat.
“I wasn’t trying to make this complicated,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“I just… needed to touch you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
I kissed his cheek. His jaw. His lips.
Then pulled the hoodie back down over my chest and reached for the blanket.
He didn’t fight me. Just exhaled and sat back, palms dragging over his thighs.
And we sat in the stillness, both of us trying to believe that stopping made it safer. But neither of us moved. And neither of us forgot.
And when he left, hours later, I still had the taste of him in my mouth and the weight of something unspoken wrapped around me like the hoodie I never took off.