I never thought moving to New York after college would lead to this. My roommate, Emily, was just supposed to be someone I split rent with. We found each other online after both struggling to afford the rent alone, and she seemed nice, regular—brown hair, smart mouth, English major, always walks around barefoot. I’m Jake, recently turned 23, working at a PR firm and trying to understand adulthood. We’d lived together for almost five months before anything happened, so I know what you’re thinking: this must be about some instant, wild attraction. But it wasn’t. It was a slow burn, like the city itself in July—every day, gradually hotter.
Things started to shift one night in late summer. I came home soaked from a downpour, my white shirt clinging to me, cursing the subway delays and my soaked shoes. Emily was sprawled on the couch in a tank top and tiny sleep shorts, her long legs curled underneath her. She was reading, earbuds in, and didn’t see me at first. I think it was that exact second—when she looked up, eyes wide, lips parted, and said, “Hey, hell of a storm, huh?”—that something in me started to shift.
We were friends, mostly, often had beers together and complained about life; sometimes she’d ask if I thought her writing sucked, and I’d just shrug and say, “You know it doesn’t.” But after that storm, I started noticing things. I’d watch her twist her hair up while standing in front of the fridge in her underwear. Sometimes I’d catch her glancing at me through the steam while we both brushed our teeth, or I’d hear her sigh to herself after a long day. There was this crackle in the air, and I started to wonder: Did she feel it too? Or was this all just in my head?
At first, I tried to shake off the thoughts. She was my roommate and a friend. If I made a move, it could get messy, ruin what we had. But the more I tried to avoid it, the more my eyes lingered—like when I’d run into her in the hallway, skin almost touching, or when I’d hear her laugh at one of my stupid jokes, her mouth wide and free. One night, I dreamt about her: tangled sheets, her body pressed up against mine. I woke up hard enough to ache, but the thought of acting on it terrified me.
About a week after the storm, we decided to have a lazy movie night. Emily made popcorn and teased me for picking some old classic I’d never actually seen. We sat side by side on the couch, our knees accidentally nudging a little more often than usual. Somewhere halfway through, I looked over to find her staring at me.
“You okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual, my heart drumming.
She looked at me for a second too long. “Yeah,” she said. Then she hesitated, biting her lip, eyes dropping to my mouth. “Do you ever, like…feel weird living with someone you’re attracted to?”
The question hit me like an electric current. I fumbled for words, my throat dry. “Only, uh, sometimes. Do you?”
She let out a breathy laugh, nervous. “Yeah. There are nights I can’t sleep because I—” She stopped herself, cheeks turning a little pink.
“Because you what?” I pushed, voice husky. Suddenly, I didn’t care about the risk. I had to hear her say it.
“Because I want you to touch me,” she whispered, so quietly I could barely hear it over the movie’s background noise.
My pulse jumped. “You do?”
She gave a shy, crooked smile. “Yeah. But then I remember all the warnings—not to fuck your roommate. Feels like something you can’t go back from.”
It was like the last thread snapped inside me. “Maybe I don’t want to go back.” I moved closer, slow enough she could pull away, but she didn’t. Her hand landed on my thigh, tentative, but her fingers squeezed a little. She leaned in, and suddenly her lips were on mine—hot, eager, our breaths mixing.
The kiss was soft at first, but I couldn’t hold my hunger back for long. She tugged my hair, sighing into my mouth, and I pulled her onto my lap. Her arms wound around my neck, and she pressed her chest against me, nipples hard through her thin tank. I slid my hands under her top, feeling her smooth, warm skin. She gasped when my fingers grazed the underside of her breast, arching into my touch.
She broke the kiss for a second, staring into my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I want you, Em. Been thinking about it for weeks.” My voice came out rough, desperate.
“Yeah? You been jerking off over me in the shower?” Her words electrified me.
I grinned. “Guilty.”
“Good,” she whispered, kissing me again. This time, her tongue slipped between my lips, demanding. I let my hands roam down her back to her ass, squeezing it through her shorts. She moaned into my mouth, grinding a little against me.
We didn’t even make it to her room. She pulled her shirt off, baring perfect, soft breasts, her nipples flushed and stiff. I sucked one into my mouth, rolling my tongue over the tip as she whimpered and clutched at my hair. Her hands slipped under my shirt, nails dragging down my torso. She pushed me back on the couch, straddling me, and ground her hips along my cock—so hard I was almost dizzy.
I tugged her shorts off, and she shivered as I slipped a finger over her wet pussy, teasing her clit. “You’re soaked,” I growled, loving how wild she looked—hair mussed, cheeks pink, eyes half-lidded.
“All your fault, Jake,” she whispered, rolling her hips with my touch.
I slid my fingers into her, feeling her clench around me, her moans growing louder. She leaned down, biting my jaw, and grabbed my cock through my boxers, stroking me slow and deliberate.
“God, I need you,” she said, voice shaking. She yanked my boxers down, and I hissed when her hand wrapped around my length, stroking me.
“Condom?” she breathed. I fumbled in the drawer behind the couch, never expecting to actually need it for this, but somehow grateful now.
She slid down onto me, her heat taking me in inch by inch. We both groaned—fuck, she felt so good. Emily rode me, slow at first, her eyes locked on mine, her body trembling. I cupped her ass, guiding her rhythm, meeting her thrust for thrust.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders as she bounced faster, her breath turning shaky, desperate. “Jake, fuck, I’m so close,” she whimpered. I grabbed her hips, thrusting up into her, loving the way her tits bounced and how her lips parted with every gasp.
I could feel her tightening, close to the edge. I thumbed her clit, and her whole body shuddered as she came hard, crying out my name. That did me in—I drove into her a few more times, groaning as I spilled inside the condom.
For a minute, we just clung together, sweaty and laughing, out of breath. She collapsed on top of me, pressing her lips to my neck.
“Well,” she said, breathless, “guess things just got a little weird.”
“Not in a bad way,” I murmured, still dazed. “Not regretting it either.”
She grinned, kissing me again—soft, slow, this time sweet. “Me neither. But we are definitely not telling my parents.”
We ended up tangled on the couch for the rest of the night, barely watching the movie, hands wandering and bodies pressed close. I knew things would be different, maybe complicated. But I couldn’t bring myself to care, not with her hair on my chest and her hand on my hip, both of us grinning in the heavy summer heat.