It was a quiet Saturday afternoon.

I was perched at his dining table, notebook open, sipping something light while he lounged on the sofa watching ESPN—some summer league game, maybe a pre-season highlight reel. One arm draped over the back of the couch, the other cradling the remote. His thighs spread wide, posture relaxed but full of presence, like he owned the whole damn room.

He wasn’t even trying.

Bare-chested, those carved lines between his obliques and groin—disappeared beneath low-slung cotton shorts. The sight of him like that—so casual, so exposed—sent a gentle hum through my limbs.

I closed my laptop.

Walked over slow.

Stood in front of him like I had that first night—teasing, poised—then climbed on, one knee straddling each of his legs. I sank down onto his lap but didn’t go for his mouth.

I started behind his ear.

My tongue traced a path down his neck, soft and warm across his collarbone. I took my time, letting my mouth explore his chest, adjusting myself with care. I shifted down between his legs, kneeling, lips parting as I met him with the kind of hunger that had no beginning and no end.

“Oh… shit,” he muttered, voice low as he paused the game and slid deeper into the cushions, legs opening wider.

He was already getting hard beneath my mouth, his body responding to every flick of my tongue, every breath that ghosted over his skin. The more I gave, the more I wanted, arching my back, letting out a sigh that trembled with satisfaction.

Then his hand was in my hair.

“Come here,” he said, voice velvet-drenched gravel.

He pulled me up—fluid, effortless—until I was straddling him again. His hands didn’t fumble. One snap undone. My French terry shorts tugged aside. His tongue between my thighs like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

I rocked against his mouth, rolled my hips, and lowered my body again to taste him, both of us giving, both of us taking.

And when the tension broke, when pleasure collapsed into quiet, we pulled each other in. I curled into his chest, cheek against smooth skin, and let the silence cradle me.

The game forgotten.

The afternoon slipping into golden sleep.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon.

Nothing on but ESPN—preseason coverage, maybe a rerun of a 30 for 30. White noise to fill the space. I wasn’t really watching. Just sittin’ on the couch, legs spread, one arm along the back cushion, the other flipping the remote outta habit.

She was across the room, at my table—writing. Always writing. Hair up, neck long, back straight. Every so often she’d glance up at me like I was the view.

She closed her laptop.

Didn’t say a word.

Just walked over—slow. Intentional.

That sway she had, like she was carrying thunder in her hips. She stopped in front of me, eyes locked on mine, then climbed on—one knee, then the other, straddling me like she belonged there.

Didn’t even kiss me.

She dipped her head to my neck. Started just behind my ear. That first warm press of her tongue made me exhale hard.

I went still.

She took her time, tracing slow down my collarbone, letting her mouth learn me again. Then she moved lower, slid off my lap to the floor, got between my legs.

I looked down, and fuck—

The sight of her there, on her knees, lips parting for me?

“...Oh shit,” I muttered, half to myself. My hand hit pause on the remote, body shifting deep into the seat. She didn’t stop. She didn’t ask.

Her mouth was all over me—soft, then firm, then soft again. She knew what she was doing. And my body knew it too.

I tugged her up.

"Come here.

Pulled her back into me, into my lap again. No hesitation. One snap—undone. Shorts to the side. My mouth met her—wet, sweet, already aching.

She rocked on me like she knew my rhythm before I did.

When she dipped down again, her mouth found me, and it was like we couldn’t stop—just kept giving it back and forth, taking turns devouring each other until we both gave in. No climax, no fireworks—just heat and breath and the sound of skin meeting skin like we were music.

Later, she curled into me. That little sigh she let out?

I felt it in my ribs.

My arm stayed around her. One hand tracing lazy lines on her hip. The game still paused. The world still turning.

But for a minute, there was no noise.

Just her. Just this.

And it was enough.