I never thought moving in with Josh would turn out like this. He was just my old friend from high school, a quietly charming guy with an easy smile and a laid-back attitude. We hadn’t really kept in touch over college, but when I got a job offer in Boston and needed a place to crash, he was instantly down to let me share his apartment. It felt like a win-win—splitting rent, sharing duties, and catching up on old times. As I handed over my boxes that first day, I wasn’t thinking at all about sex, or at least not with him. Josh was safe territory: familiar, reassuring, and not remotely someone I pictured myself wanting.
That’s what made it so damn confusing when, two months later, every one of my thoughts about him was laced with heat.
To be honest, sharing a space with him somehow made me more aware of every little detail: the way his towel clung to his hips when he left the shower, the casual touches during after-dinner beers, the fleeting look in his eyes sometimes when I smiled too long. But I shrugged it all off—I wasn’t going to cross that line, and anyway, I wasn’t even sure if I was reading him right.
One night, though, everything shifted. It started out like any other Friday. Josh got home late from work, his shirt untucked, hair a little mussed. “You wanna order something? I’m too wiped to cook,” he asked, collapsing onto the couch next to me, closer than usual. “Yeah, sure,” I said, scrolling on my phone, trying to ignore how my heart kicked up just sitting near him. We ended up splitting pizza and drinking way too much, lying side by side with our legs touching, both laughing at some stupid show.
I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy, and that was only partly the tequila’s fault. At one point, when he leaned sideways to grab the remote, his hand accidentally landed on my thigh. He didn’t move it right away. The pressure of his palm lingered—enough to make my skin tingle. He glanced at me, some unreadable emotion crossing his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered, moving his hand away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that touch. And when I met his eyes, there was something vulnerable and hungry there. Suddenly, I needed air. I stumbled into the kitchen, busying myself with dishes I didn’t need to wash, trying to shake off the tension zapping through me.
Josh followed, leaning against the counter, his gaze fixed on me. “Is everything okay?” he asked, quieter now.
I turned, dish towel in hand, and forced a smile. “Yeah, just—” I hesitated, clamping down on the secret burning inside me. “Just tired, I guess.”
He stepped closer, so close I could smell his cologne—something dark and spicy and completely intoxicating. “You sure that’s it?” he whispered, voice rougher than I’d ever heard. His eyes dropped to my lips, and I felt my core tighten.
A war started inside me. I could either shrug it off and keep pretending nothing was happening, or lean in to whatever this was. I thought about all the times I’d felt the spark between us in the last few weeks—the late-night glances, the lingering touches, the way my body responded in ways I couldn’t ignore. But I also thought about how risky this all was. He was my roommate, my friend. If this went bad, everything would get messy. But God, I wanted him.
Before I could say more, Josh reached for me, brushing his fingers down my arm. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… if you feel it too, tell me to stop.” His voice trembled slightly. The electricity in the air was so thick it was hard to breathe.
I looked at him—really looked. His broad shoulders, the nervous flicker in those brown eyes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. All that uncertainty vanished as soon as I leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative. But then his hands were in my hair and my back hit the fridge, his mouth hot and insistent against mine. I couldn’t help it—I moaned softly, arching into him as his tongue claimed me, tasting like tequila and salt and desire. My hands fumbled at his shirt, pushing it up to feel his warm skin, the hard lines of his torso.
“Fuck,” he murmured against my mouth. “I’ve wanted this for weeks.”
“Me too,” I whispered, breathless, my head spinning.
He kissed down my neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses that made me shiver. His hands cupped my shoulders, then drifted lower, skimming over my curves. My nipples hardened beneath my shirt, aching for his touch, and he seemed to sense it—he dragged his thumb over the fabric, teasing me until my knees nearly buckled.
“Bedroom,” I gasped, squeezing his arm.
We stumbled down the hallway, peeling off layers of clothing as we went. Somehow, we crashed onto his bed—me half-laughing, half-moan as he pulled me on top of him, our bodies finally skin to skin. The first rush of contact was electric; all the tension, all the buildup, snapped into place as I ground my hips against him, feeling him hard and ready beneath me.
He trailed kisses down my chest, teasing each nipple with his tongue, making me squirm and whimper. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he groaned, his breath hot against my skin. I reached down, wrapping my hand around his cock, stroking him slowly, loving the way he gasped and bucked beneath me.
We moved together, finding a rhythm that felt natural and desperate at the same time. It was new, but it was also right. He slid his fingers between my thighs, finding me wet and aching for him. I gasped as his fingers worked me, sliding inside, curling just right, while his thumb circled my clit.
“Please, Josh, I need you,” I begged, barely recognizing my own voice—husky and raw.
He rolled us over in one smooth motion, pinning my wrists over my head as he lined up, his eyes locked on mine. He hesitated, his cock teasing at my entrance, and in that moment, I saw the question in his gaze—are you sure?
“Yes,” I whispered fiercely, lifting my hips to meet him. I wanted this. Him. Every part of it.
He pushed inside slowly, filling me inch by inch, and I cried out at the stretch, the way he felt so perfectly right. We moved in a messy, perfect rhythm, his hands everywhere—tangling in my hair, gripping my waist, skimming down my legs as he drove deeper and faster. Every thrust made the bed creak, my cries mingling with his.
He pressed his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned, slamming into me harder. My body tensed, pleasure spinning tight and hot in my belly. I dug my nails into his back, pulling him closer.
“I’m—fuck, I’m close,” I gasped, feeling myself unravel.
“Me too, come on, let go for me,” he urged, voice hoarse with need.
I shattered around him, moaning his name as the orgasm tore through me, my whole body shaking. He followed with a deep, wild groan, coming hard inside me, losing control.
For a few breathless moments, we just lay there tangled, sweat-slicked and dizzy. Josh brushed my hair from my face. “You okay?” he murmured.
I laughed, a little breathless. “More than okay.”
Neither of us knew what it would mean for tomorrow, or the next week. But in that moment, all that mattered was how real it felt, how good it was to finally give in.