I’m Julieya, and looking back, that night with Mark wasn’t just comfort—it became something feral, something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in months. The two weeks after Joe left had starved me of touch, of heat, of anything that made my body feel alive. When the dam finally broke, it didn’t break gently.
It was still raining hard outside, the kind that muffles every sound except your own heartbeat and breathing. Mark had pulled me against his chest while I cried, his hoodie smelling faintly of his cologne and campus coffee. I don’t know who moved first—maybe me, maybe both of us—but suddenly my mouth was on his, hungry, almost angry. Not sweet. Not careful. I kissed him like I was trying to devour the ache Joe left behind.
“Julieya…” he groaned against my lips, voice already rough. “We shouldn’t—”
“Shut up,” I whispered, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. “Just shut up and touch me.”
That was the switch. His hands stopped being polite. They yanked my thin tank top over my head in one rough motion, bra following seconds later. My breasts spilled free and he stared for half a second like he couldn’t believe it was real, then his mouth was on me—hot, wet, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinched and rolled the other. I arched, fingers digging into his shoulders, already moaning louder than I meant to.
“Fuck, your tits are perfect,” he muttered between licks, voice thick with want. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”
I didn’t answer with words. I shoved him back so he was sitting against the headboard, then climbed onto his lap, straddling him. I could feel how hard he was through his jeans—thick, insistent. I ground down on him slowly, deliberately, watching his jaw clench.
“You want this?” I asked, voice low, almost taunting. My hands were already working his belt open.
“More than anything,” he rasped. “Been dying for it since first year.”
I freed him—long, heavy, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked once, twice, slow and firm. He cursed under his breath, hips jerking up into my hand.
Then I slid down between his legs.
I looked up at him while I took the head into my mouth—just the tip at first, tongue swirling, tasting the salt there. His hand flew to my hair, not pushing, just gripping like he needed an anchor.
“Julieya… fuck…” His voice cracked.
I didn’t tease long. I wanted it messy. I took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, letting him hit the back of my throat until my eyes watered. I bobbed faster, sloppy, spit slicking my chin, one hand pumping the base while the other cupped his balls, rolling them gently. He was panting, swearing, thighs trembling.
“Gonna come if you keep—fuck—slow down, I want inside you first.”
I pulled off with a wet pop, lips swollen, and crawled back up his body. “Then fuck me.”
We didn’t bother with slow buildup anymore.
He flipped me onto my back, hooked my legs over his shoulders in deep missionary. One hard thrust and he was buried to the hilt. I cried out—sharp, surprised pleasure-pain. He didn’t pause. He fucked me hard, fast, bed creaking under us, skin slapping skin. Every stroke dragged against that spot inside that made my toes curl.
“Like that?” he growled, watching my face. “Tell me.”
“Harder,” I gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop.”
He shifted angles, grinding his pelvis against my clit with every thrust. I clawed at his back, nails leaving red lines. My first orgasm hit like a slap—sudden, violent. I clenched around him so tight he groaned like it hurt, hips stuttering.
But he didn’t come. Not yet.
He pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, yanked my hips up. Doggy. Face pressed into the pillow, ass in the air. He slapped my ass once—sharp sting that made me moan—then slammed back in. Deeper this time. Brutal rhythm. One hand wrapped my hair, pulling my head back just enough so I could breathe.
“You feel so fucking good,” he panted. “So tight… so wet for me.”
I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. “Don’t hold back,” I begged. “Use me.”
He did. Fucked me like he’d been holding it in for years. I came again—second one ripping through me, legs shaking, muffled screams into the pillow. He kept going, relentless, until I felt him swell inside me.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Where—”
“On my tits,” I panted. “Pull out—on my tits.”
He yanked out at the last second, flipped me over, straddled my waist. I grabbed my breasts, pushed them together for him. Three hard strokes of his fist and he came—thick, hot ropes painting my chest, dripping down the curves, some landing on my collarbone. He shuddered hard, groaning my name like a prayer.
We collapsed. Sweaty. Panting. Covered in each other.
Neither of us moved to clean up right away. I just lay there, sticky, marked, his come slowly cooling on my skin while he kissed my shoulder, my neck, my jaw—soft now, almost reverent.
“Stay,” I whispered.
He did.
We slept naked the whole night. His arm heavy across my waist, my leg thrown over his hip, bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. Every time one of us shifted, skin slid against skin, still sensitive, still humming. I woke up once in the middle of the night, felt him half-hard against my ass, and rocked back lazily until he was inside me again—slow, sleepy, spooning sex that ended with both of us coming quietly, barely moving, just grinding together until we shuddered and fell back asleep.
Morning came too soon.
Sunlight hit the mess on my chest, dried now. I felt shy again—suddenly aware of how raw we’d been. I pulled the sheet up, avoiding his eyes.
“Mark… last night was…”
“Intense,” he finished, voice hoarse from moaning my name half the night. “And I don’t regret a second.”
I swallowed. “I needed it. Badly. But I can’t… I’m not ready for more. Not with anyone. Not yet.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “I know. I won’t push. But if you ever need me like that again… I’m here. No strings. No expectations.”
We hugged—awkward, careful—and he left.
The room still smelled like sex and rain for days.
And yeah… I thought about that night a lot longer than I ever admitted.
