When I first moved into the apartment on 17th and Oak, I was just happy to be out of my parents’ house. Jenna and I had connected on a roommate forum—she needed someone to help with rent, and I needed a place close to work. She seemed nice, if a little reserved from our first coffee meet-up at the corner café. We had that awkwardly polite “get to know you” chat, swapping a few stories about bad exes and sharing an unimpressive croissant. I remember already wondering what she looked like out of that thick maroon sweater.
Moving in, we worked out our routines quickly. Jenna had a job as an editor, mostly from home, which meant she was always buried in manuscripts and headphones. Our schedules mostly lined up for late-night kitchen encounters—me raiding the fridge after happy hour, her zapped by the blue light of her laptop, munching on carrot sticks. Thin walls make good eavesdroppers. By the end of the first week, I’d heard enough half-muffled phone calls to guess her love life was, let’s say, uneventful. Mine too, lately.
Jenna was the type you’d miss in a crowd. Slight, with a tumble of brown hair and oversized glasses. Hardly a bombshell, but she had this quiet confidence, a dry wit that started bubbling up as we got comfortable. We swapped stories about shitty bosses, Tinder horror dates, and laughed over cheap wine on the couch. Sometimes, after one glass too many, I’d catch myself watching the way she curled up, her legs folded under her, or how she’d purse her lips when amused. It became a habit to linger, to wonder.
I didn’t exactly plan on wanting her, but the idea crept up on me like a fever. Jenna was always wrapped in layers: sweatshirts, blankets, these ridiculous knee-high socks. Living together, you get familiar—the stray flash of thigh, tank tops without a bra, how she brushed her teeth in nothing but black underwear and an open flannel. We’d lock eyes in the hallway sometimes, me groggy with sleep, her apologizing for taking my coffee mug again, her voice still scratchy from bed.
Honestly, I felt guilty the first few times my mind went there. She was my friend, my roommate, a safe constant in the new chaos of my life. But the want simmered. On nights I heard her shower, the sound of running water made me picture things I tried not to dwell on. I guessed—hoped, even—that maybe she could sense it too. Sometimes I caught her looking at me just a second too long, eyes dropping to my mouth or tracking the line of my stomach when I wore just a towel back from the bathroom.
Nothing happened. It was safer that way.
One Friday, maybe two months in, things shifted. Jenna’s friend bailed on their evening out, and she offered to “let me third-wheel my own plans” instead. We hit a loud little bar around the corner—her idea. After a couple rounds of gin and tonics, the conversation veered into more dangerous territory. Jenna told me about the last time she’d had sex. It had been nearly a year, she admitted, and laughed hard when I confessed, “Same.” I played it cool, but the thought of her naked, with anyone, left me almost feral.
It started raining as we stumbled home. We were both wet and shivering, laughing at nothing, her hand slipping into mine as we crossed the street. It wasn’t anything, not really, but the skin contact sent this pulse through me—a promise, or maybe a dare. We got back to the apartment, dripping in the hallway, and she tossed me a dry towel.
“Can’t believe you wore that white shirt in the rain,” she said, staring directly at the way it clung to my chest. Her cheeks were flushed, from the alcohol or maybe something else.
“You’re one to talk,” I shot back, and she just grinned, shaking out her damp ponytail.
That night, I lay awake and couldn’t stop picturing her. I won’t pretend I didn’t touch myself to the thought—imagining her fingers, her mouth, the way she might sound if I made her lose control. But when I saw her at breakfast the next morning, she was her usual self again—polite smiles, talk about groceries, eyes averted.
Maybe it was all in my head.
Or maybe not.
A week later, during movie night, she shifted next to me on the couch, knees brushing. We watched something forgettable, both barely paying attention. Her hand rested close to mine on the blanket between our legs, barely half an inch away. I don’t know who closed that distance first—one minute we were just laughing at something on the screen, the next, my little finger grazed the back of her hand and neither of us flinched. The air got heavy.
“You ever think about…” Jenna whispered, not finishing.
I swallowed. “About…?”
She met my eyes; her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. “Us. About doing something stupid.”
I felt the room spin—because yes, I had, far too many times, but saying it felt dangerous.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “A lot.”
She turned her hand over, sliding her palm into mine. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. We sat like that for a minute, neither of us moving. I wanted to lean in, but I was frozen with indecision. Was this just the fantasy of it? Was I risking it all if I made a move? She saw the hesitation swirling on my face and squeezed my hand, gentle but definite.
“Let’s just… stop thinking,” Jenna said, her voice steadier than mine. “For once.”
Her mouth was soft on mine, cautious at first. The kiss lingered, her lips tasting faintly of the cherry seltzer we’d been drinking. My other hand found her hip, sliding up under her T-shirt, skimming the warm skin of her waist. She let out a breath—a real, needy sound—and leaned in, pressing her body flush against me. I could feel the heat rolling off both of us, the months of stolen glances, the catalog of fantasies threatening to detonate all at once.
I pulled her onto my lap, never breaking the kiss. Someone—maybe me, maybe her—let out a hungry little moan. She ground down, her ass heavy in my hands, her fingers threading into my hair and holding tight. I wrapped my arms around her, letting my hands travel up her back, tugging at the hem of her shirt until she gasped.
We fumbled, laughing and cursing, trying to get her T-shirt off without toppling off the couch. She wasn’t wearing a bra—something I’d wondered about a hundred times when she wandered around in those damn pajamas. Her nipples were already hard and aching, begging to be touched, and my mouth found one, sucking gently while my hand teased the other. Jenna’s body was restless in my lap; every touch made her hips buck, every flick of my tongue coaxed out louder, more desperate noises.
She yanked at my own shirt, impatient, her nails scratching over my skin. Her lips were wild now, biting and tugging, trailing down my jaw and chest. My hands slid up her thighs, hooked under her shorts, pulling them—slow, almost torturous—until she was naked above me, skin flush with arousal. She arched against me, needy, grinding down until I could feel her heat, wet and insistent, between her thighs.
“You want this?” I asked, my voice almost unrecognizable.
“Fuck yes,” she breathed, rolling her hips, pressing herself harder against my thigh. “Been thinking about it for months.”
That split something in me. I couldn’t wait anymore.
My hand slid between her legs, fingers finding her wet and open. She gasped, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back as I circled her clit, slow at first, dragging out the tension. She rocked against my hand, greedy, little whimpers turning vulgar, her nails digging crescents into my shoulder.
“Fuck, that’s so good,” she mumbled. “God, don’t stop—please—”
I shoved my fingers inside her, finding that spot she didn’t know she needed, and she snapped, tension unraveling, her whole body trembling on my lap. Watching her come made me lightheaded with want.
Jenna grinned, eyes glazed. “My turn.”
She slid down, tugged at my shorts, and took me in her mouth with a hunger that erased any trace of hesitation. Her tongue worked with slow, lazy swirls, then deeper, faster, until I was gripping the couch so hard my knuckles turned white. She climbed back on top, straddling me, guiding me inside her in one smooth, slick motion.
It was desperate, frantic, all control gone. We fucked right there on the couch, me thrusting up into her, our bodies finding a rhythm born from months of tension and unspoken want. She came again, clenching around me, her cries echoing in the dark apartment. I followed, the pleasure crashing through me, collapsing with her in a tangled mess of limbs.
Later, when we curled up naked under a shared blanket, Jenna laughed softly and traced a lazy circle on my chest.
“We really did something stupid,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” I said, kissing her forehead, not feeling even a little sorry.
“And you’re not going to be weird tomorrow?”
“Not unless you are.”
She smiled into my neck, warm and content.
We fell asleep like that, without a single regret.