I guess I should begin by saying I never thought I’d be the kind of girl to do something like this. Maybe that sounds cliché, but it’s true. My name’s Anna, I’m 25, and after college I ended up moving in with my best friend Kelsey in a tiny apartment in downtown Boston. The arrangement wasn’t weird—we’d been friends since freshman year, we’d shared dorms before, so it just made sense to split rent.
Except Kelsey’s boyfriend, Jake, sort of became a fixture of our apartment almost overnight. He was over all the time; the three of us watched Netflix together, shared drinks, sometimes sat up till two in the morning talking about everything and nothing in our cramped little living room.
Jake was… magnetic. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice how easily he lit up a room. He made Kelsey laugh like no one else could, and I thought: lucky her. Sometimes when he smiled at me, though, something in my stomach twisted the wrong way.
For weeks, it was just a vague, humming kind of energy—not real, just one of those silly things that happens when another person’s presence wakes something in you. But then one night, around Thanksgiving, everything changed.
It started with wine. Kelsey had gone early to her parents’ place in Vermont, and Jake stayed a couple days longer to finish some work. Neither of us had holiday plans that night, so he offered to cook. I remember the way Jake filled my glass a little fuller than usual, the way he called me “chef’s special assistant,” the way, after dinner, we sat too close on the sofa, the wine bottle between us, the TV playing but neither of us paying real attention.
He leaned back, his leg pressed along mine, warm and solid.
“You always do this?” he teased.
“Do what?”
“Take care of people. Clean up after dinner, make sure everyone’s got enough to drink…”
I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “Maybe. It’s just polite.”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “It’s more than that.”
I felt the air between us go dense. His gaze lingered on my mouth, wondering. I swallowed. I didn’t know if I wanted him to look away, or keep going.
That was the first real moment when something unspoken crawled out into the open. I excused myself to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, hands trembling. This was Kelsey’s boyfriend. This was a hard, bright line I’d never imagined crossing. But the thought of pushing him away made something ache in the pit of my stomach.
I splashed water on my face, thinking: Don’t do this, Anna. You’re not that kind of girl.
Still, when I came back, he was there. Our knees almost touched. Silence fell again, loaded this time.
“I should probably head to bed,” I whispered.
He didn’t move. “You don’t have to.”
For a minute, neither of us spoke. My heart hammered. All I could think was: just friends, just friends, just friends. But the words rang hollow. I wanted him with a kind of raw, knotted hunger I hadn’t even realized I’d been hiding.
Then his hand found mine. The shock of it unravelled every bit of logic inside me. I pulled back, heart in my throat, but his eyes held mine, gentle, questioning.
“You okay?”
“It’s just…” I couldn’t finish.
He shook his head. “We shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
I stood up, but I didn’t walk away. For a long second we stood like that—me, not saying no, him, not pushing further. The air buzzed with tension, the wrongness, but also… the possibility.
I went to bed alone that night, but sleep was impossible. I replayed everything: the warmth where he’d touched me, the way my breath had caught, the time-stretched moment when it felt like anything could happen.
For the next two days, I avoided him. I left for work early, came home late, kept busy. But Jake is stubborn. He texted me, “We need to talk,” and the thought of that—of actually speaking the truth—frightened and electrified me at once. For the first time, I started imagining what it would be like to just say fuck it and give in. But then guilt hit me, sharp and real. How could I hurt Kelsey? How could I look her in the eye again?
By Sunday, I couldn’t take the tension. I walked out to the living room to find Jake on our second-hand couch, eyes strained and tired like he hadn’t slept, either.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
I shook my head, honest. “Not really.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Look. I’m not trying to screw things up. But… I can’t pretend there’s nothing between us.”
I stood there, working up the words. “Me neither.”
His jaw clenched. He got up, crossing to me. He searched my face, hesitation painted all over his. “Last chance to stop,” he said, half a whisper.
For a moment, I hesitated. I thought of Kelsey, her trust, everything I stood to lose. I could feel the cracks forming in my resolve, something dangerous crawling to the surface.
But the honest truth? I’d already made the choice. My body moved before my brain could shout no. I reached out, touched his face, soft at first. The exhale he let out was half relief, half desperation. Suddenly, his mouth was on mine—hungry, urgent. All the pent-up tension, the weeks of glances and what-if’s, crashed together in a fever.
He pressed me back against the wall, hands sliding down my sides, fingers digging in. His tongue found mine, hot and insistent. I let myself melt into it, guilt unraveling, replaced by raw, pulsing need.
Wordlessly, we stumbled to my bedroom. He tore my shirt over my head, lips tracing the length of my neck, every inch of skin they touched spared no mercy. My breath came out in desperate shudders. Jake’s hands mapped my body, electric, rough and sweet all at once.
“God, Anna,” he groaned, teeth at my shoulder, “tell me to stop if you want me to.”
I shook my head hard. “Don’t fucking stop.”
His mouth made a mess of me—lips, tongue, teeth—everywhere I wanted, exactly how I ached for. I clawed at his back, drove him mad, pulling him closer. He pushed my panties aside, fingers finding me, slick and ready. I moaned, loud and real, not caring about anything except the way he made me feel.
Jake drove into me in one hard, deep stroke, the kind that felt like it could knock the world sideways. My nails dug into his shoulders, his hips slamming into mine, slow at first, then faster, as if we’d been waiting for this our entire lives. He fucked me harder, deeper, my legs wrapping around his waist. Every thrust unspooled whatever guilt remained, made way for raw, unfiltered pleasure.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned against my throat.
“Harder,” I gasped, “don’t stop—God, right there—”
We crashed together again and again, sweat-slick, desperate. My climax curled up from deep inside and took me fast, flooding me with hot white need. I bit at his shoulder, not caring if I left bruises, and he came with a hoarse shout, shuddering against me.
After, tangled in sheets slick with sweat, the truth rolled over us. Jake traced a finger along my ribs, forehead pressed to mine.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I didn’t say anything. Maybe there wasn’t anything to say.
I don’t know what happens next. Jake left before sunrise, and Kelsey wasn’t home for another day. All I know is that for a moment, guilt lost to desire, and I let myself have exactly what I wanted—even if it cost more than I ever imagined.