The Move

His move went surprisingly well, without a single hitch. Well, just one. She was almost an hour late and by the time she changed into her work clothes, most of the heavy lifting was done with the furniture placed. She began to unpack the boxes that were scattered throughout the place as the guys who came to help him brought in the last of his belongings. After the usual banter with them, and a stern lecture from her that every single person with a license should be able to drive stick, the boys left, leaving them alone. He asked her to stay, helping him unpack and to, in his words "organise the shit out of this mess". He saw a level-three nuclear disaster. She saw a pile of stuff needing to be sorted and agreed. Besides, the payment of an all-expense paid dinner at their favourite pub was too good to pass up.

She walked out of his bedroom, her arms full of carton boxes, the closet finally settled. She placed the empty boxes in the corner of the living room and stretched. From the corner of her eye, she saw him carrying a box into the kitchen, his back straining with its weight. The setting sun pierced through the windows, outlining his form. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, something that was becoming a regular occurrence of late whenever she was around him.

When was it that she started to notice him as something other than a solid figure in her life, being the person that they each could depend on, a sounding board, a pillar of support? When did she begin to look forward to their occasional afternoons of coffee and conversation that inevitably segued into dinner and drinks? When did she begin to hold him to the half-promises of 'we need to do this agains'?

When did she begin to feel the soft twinges of jealously when he spoke about some of his girlfriends and the relief she felt when he mentioned that he was single? When was it that she felt reluctant to share the stories of her trysts? When was it that she just didn't care about them and stopped her sporadic casual fun?

When did his texts begin to give her small flutters to her stomach? When did she begin to find any excuse to message him, to call him, just so that she could feel the squirms of pleasure coursing through her? And how the hell did he begin to play the leading role in her fantasies as she rubbed herself each night, bringing herself to countless orgasms as the reel of imagination projected ever more erotic scenarios onto the screen of her brain - when did that happen?

When did she notice him not just as a man, but as a sexual being? Was it when she belatedly realised that she had sensed that he may have wanted to kiss her? Or did she just simply misinterpreted that? Or was it that time when they shared some erotic fantasies? Was it when he looked to her for a shoulder after his hardships, breaking her heart that she couldn't share in his pain to alleviate his suffering? Or when she turned to him for advice when she really just wanted to cry and feel the comfort provided by the warmth of his body?

She noticed the small rivulet of sweat meandering down his neck, and she wanted nothing more than to lick it clean before sinking her teeth into his flesh. She looked at his hands as they tore the packing tape from the box and she could feel them on her body, pinning her wrists, stroking her neck. His scent of sweat filled her nostrils and she could feel her mouth water.


"What?" he interrupted, his smile quizzical. She had been staring. She shook her head and threw him a dazzling smile.

"Nothing," she replied. "Just thinking about work and the report I have to write." At that moment she mentally kicked herself, but really, what could she do? Tell him that she was picturing herself on her knees in front of him as he grasped her hair and plummeted her throat?

"So," he began. "I figured that once the kitchen and the office is mostly unpacked, we can go grab some food and then after, maybe I can think about decorating."

She thought for a moment. "If you want it done in a day, you may want to get Jessie and offer a bottle," referring to their mutual friend with a knack for interior design and penchant for vodka. "Your bathroom is pretty much set up." He nodded his thanks. "Want me to start on the kitchen?" 



"I think I got it. I mean, I don't have your mad organising skills but I do pretty well."

He started to unpack the bins, throwing the various pots and pans haphazardly into any random cupboard, his spoons into the drawer whereas the forks and knives were dumped on the second shelf. He glanced at the chasing looks of horror and disapproval that crossed her face while placing the pitcher in the pantry and plunking the slow cooker on top of the microwave. The cheese grater was stuck in the breadbox and he shoved the mixing bowls into his oven. She shuddered.

"Oh, for God's sake! Give me that!" she stormed, grabbing a stack of plates. He looked up, his entire visage the very epitome of innocence, one that echoed a cherubic Renaissance painting. Botticelli himself could not have produced such beguiling virtue. He stepped aside as she began to quickly and efficiently sort his kitchen.

She noticed his smirk. "You did that on purpose, you ass!"

"Maybe," he replied, the chortle clear in his voice. "Or maybe I know how much you like organising and I just gave you a present." He had to duck as a wad of tape flew, the projectile missile barely missing his head. She gave a satisfied grunt as he chuckled.

"Tell you what," she offered. "I'll finish the kitchen and you work on your office. Your bedroom is pretty much done anyway; your bed needs to be made and I think that's it."

"You sure?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Really?" She gave him such a withering look that he disappeared into the room that will become his office, his howl of laughter ringing across the apartment.

It took less time than she anticipated. There was a certain comfort in bringing order to chaos, in organising. They have been close friends for so long, working together on the same committee that she could comfortably predict where he preferred his utensils to be. That, and the few times he came over to her place he had a tendency to rearrange parts of her kitchen.

She paused and could hear him setting up his computer. Knowing how particular he was with his equipment, she began to clean his living room, wiping the dust, straightening his furniture and organising his extensive collection. She was so engrossed that she jumped when he came up behind her. He reached out to steady her, giving her shoulder an apologetic squeeze.

"How about we go out for that dinner that I promised?" He reached over swipe the streak of dust off her cheek.

"How about I take a quick shower before?" she grinned.

"Be my guest. Do you need towels? Where did I put the towels? On a second thought, do I actually have towels?"

She laughed. "You have towels, and yes, they are already in place. Told you, the bathroom is set up. All that it's missing is your touch." She winked as she sashayed into the lavatory, removing the bandana from her head that kept her hair clean.

The door didn't quite close; she could hear him washing his hands and face at the kitchen. Staring into the mirror, she told the reflection to get herself together. Pinning her hair into a knot, she quickly stripped and turned on the shower. She gasped as hot jets hit her back. The door may be broken, but at least the hot water tank is fully operational.

She wasn't all that dirty, mostly just dusty. She rinsed her body, and finding a bit of conditioner, she lightly massaged her skin with a washcloth. She stifled a moan as the rough fabric grazed her nipples, hardening them. When she reached the apex of her thighs, she hesitated, glancing out the curtain and through the half open door, watching him putter around, moving with his sure movements. She bit her lower lip. Should she? They weren't sleeping together, they weren't even dating. Was it even appropriate?

She realised that she didn't care.

Closing her eyes, her fingers drifted. A tiny moan strangled as her hand moved in its familiar pattern, circling her clit as the water pounded on her back. She slipped a finger in and drew out her juices, smearing the hard bud. She luxuriated in the moment, the steam, tingles and the water titillating her.

She reluctantly stopped. As much as she would love to continue, to rub herself to that release that her body desperately craved, it would not do to waste his hot water. And in that instance, she realised she did care whether or not she orgasmed in his shower. It just... didn't feel right. With a sigh, she continued to briskly wash her body and turned off the water.

Wrapping herself in a towel, she stepped out of the shower only to notice her fatal mistake.


She forgot to bring her clean clothes.

The bag that held them were by the entrance, right beside the kitchen where he was leaning against the counter, drinking a mug of coffee. There was no way she could sneak out to grab it and there was no way that she would put her dusty clothes back on.

So she did the next best thing that she could think of in that moment of aroused panic. She walked out, her spine stiff, her gait as casual as she could make it. She almost convinced herself that this was something she did regularly, walking out in a skimpy towel after taking a shower in her friend's new apartment. All she needed was to be confident and smooth and unperturbed. All she needed to do was to glide and slink and...

... and proceed to stumble on an empty box that was discarded in her path. So much for an innocuous moment.

He looked up, the mug paused halfway to his lips, and he took in the image that stood in front of him: a dripping wet woman, fresh from a shower, her damp hair messily pinned, a towel wrapped around her chest, barely hiding her nakedness. A strangled groan escaped from his throat as he swore under his breath. He placed his coffee on the counter and straightened. He licked his lips. She imperceptibly glanced down and noticed a slight hardening, mirroring her increased arousal. The air grew tense as they stared at each other. He took a single step forward and stopped. He rearranged his belt which did nothing to mask his growing hardness.

She took a deep breath, masking her thundering heart.

"Do you want me?" she asked, her voice low, husky with desire.

"Yes," he whispered hoarsely.

"How much do you want me?"



"Very much."

She simply dropped her towel. "Show me."

She stood, naked, water slowly dripping down her body, the rising moon bathing the room, kissing her wet skin. She straightened her back slightly to hide the trembling of her thighs and stared him deep in his eyes.

His sharp inhale reverberated across the room, breaking the heavy silence.

He crossed to her in four steps and cradled the back of her head, pulling her in for his kiss, his fingers loosening her messy, damp bun, releasing the cascade of her mane. His demanding lips surprised her for a brief moment before she fiercely kissed him, her tongue sparring with his. She wove her fingers in his hair, trapping his head to her mouth.

He cupped her ass and pressed her to him. She could feel his bulge and groaning deep in her throat, she sank her teeth into his lower lip. His arms crushed her against him and he kissed again. They pulled apart and he bent his lips to her neck, licking the drops of water from her skin. She arched against him; she could feel the thundering of his heart pounding in time with hers.

Growing impatient, she slipped her hands to his sides and began to lift his shirt, revealing his torso. Throwing the garment to the side, she licked up the centre of his chest, and reaching his throat, placed tiny kisses across his skin. He groaned, and pulled her closer to him, his jeans scratching her tender skin. They swayed for a moment in a half dance to music that they only could hear, moving in the general direction of his room.

They somehow made it to his bedroom, to the foot of the yet-unmade bed with the entire contents of the linen closet neatly covering it. In two swipes, all the pillows, sheets, blankets, comforter that were piled on the bed made its way to the floor. They turned to each other, his hands rubbing her arms as she fumbled with his belt. She managed to unbuckle it when she lost her footing and tumbled onto the nest they had just made, pulling him down with her.

He leaned over to kiss her again as she continued to work on the seemingly arduous task of removing his jeans. His fingers gently tweaked her nipples, softly playing her breasts. His hand traced its way down her belly, and through her soaked cleft, his caress teasing. She shifted her hips and opened her legs. The light touch was maddening. She growled.

He opened her legs and gently kissed her inner thighs, his breath warm over her wet sex. Her clit was throbbing. He settled in between them and blew on her smooth lips, swollen with desire. Lowering his head, his tongue snaked out and circled her hard nub. At his warm touch, she moaned and jolts settled into the base of her spine. His teeth lightly holding her clit, his tongue continued its sweet assault, relentless in its desire to taste her.

"Oh fuck," she cursed. Her hands tightened in his hair as her hips rolled over his probing tongue. She arched, her heel and head the only parts of her body touching their makeshift nest. His hands, warm on her hips, held her steady to his mouth, not letting her go. Pulling his face into her streaming sex, she called out, the liquid fire coursing through her body, taking her by surprise. She never had an orgasm take her so quickly.

He moaned against her, lapping at the flowing juices. She tugged at his hair, pulling his head up from between her legs. His chin glittered with her wetness. She smiled her invitation and he crawled up to her. With his help, she was finally able to remove his jeans and boxer-briefs. His naked body hovered over hers, his shaft hard and pressing against her thigh. She reached down and grasped him, guiding towards her. He gently took her hand away and shook his head. She looked at him in surprise for a brief moment until she felt him rubbing the head over her entrance, teasing her. With a sigh, she wrapped her legs around him, feeling his pulsing hardness against her clit.

He slowly entered her. Too slowly. She tightened her legs around his waist to push him deeper, to push him quicker, to feel the length of him embedded deep within her. He stopped.

"I need to feel you," he whispered. "I need to feel every inch of you."

He gradually pressed in deeper in small increments, her soaked walls enveloping his shaft. The sensuous torture was almost unbearable. She whimpered. Gripping his shoulders, she tried to impale herself on him. He pulled out slightly. She swore.

"Please," he murmured, his voice tight. She could tell that there was nothing more he wanted to do than to thrust himself completely into her warmth. "Fuck," he swallowed. "Please, I need... Christ, you feel good... please..." His fists tightened in her hair, his back was straining with the effort.

She cupped his face in her hands and drew his lips to hers. She could taste herself on his tongue, an intoxicating blend of desire and coffee. She willed herself patience in that kiss.

Inch by agonising inch, he slowly sank himself into her until he could go no further. They both sighed. They began to move, hips rolling, their pelvises moulding together. With every fluid thrust, he pushed himself deep into her, kissing her cervix, the dull pain radiating through her body. She arched in pleasure, her nails digging into his back. He began to move faster, deeper, harder. She could feel the ball of tension quickly building again, her moans vibrating through her, her hands gripping him tighter with each thrust.

"Please," she gasped. "Fuck please..." She licked her lips. "Please," she pleaded.

He moved his lips to her ear. "I know you like to be told when to cum," he whispered, his breath tickling her. She could only moan in response. Perhaps he wasn't as drunk as she thought he was when she mentioned that to him. She didn't care. She didn't care if he commanded her release or not. It didn't matter. All that matter in that moment was his pleasure in her and her pleasure in him. She tightened herself around him.

"Do you want me to tell you to come?" he panted in between gasps. She slowed her rocking, surprised at his question, touched by his consideration. She squeezed his shaft with her inner muscles.

"All I want is that you be you," she whispered. "All I want, all I need is your pleasure, your release. However it takes." There was so much more that she wanted to tell him, so much more she wanted to show him, so much more she wanted him to show her. But the moment demanded that they speak with their bodies. Words were secondary here.

He kissed her as he pushed himself as deep as he could go. His thrusts were less sure, more wild. Their groans became wordless urgings, encouraging each other to reach the heights of exquisite ecstasy.

"Come with me?" It wasn't an order, it was a request, almost a plea. It was perhaps one of the most erotic thing someone ever told her. That one little question, that supplication, embodied everything that she knew him to be and everything that he kept hidden from her.

She arched as he slammed into her, his jerking shaft buried deep, nestled against her cervix. That ball of tension finally exploded, the liquid spread taking over her body as her walls convulsed around him. Her fingers dug deep into his back, marking his skin. She could feel the flush heat emanating from her clit and base of her spine, coursing through her blood. She could hear his groan of release interjected with the low, deep moan that ripped from her throat.

He collapsed onto her, panting, his arms tight around her shoulders. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, her breathing jagged. She swallowed hard. He rolled off of her, taking her with him, settling her on his chest.

She kissed his jaw, nuzzling him, tracing her hand over his arms. The cool air lightly kissed the sweat from their bodies, the rapid tattoo of their hearts slowing, their breaths more even. He stroked the soft skin of her neck; she purred.

Silence reigned for long moments. She raised her head, her eyes twinkling.

"Well, that was some move," she teased him. He chuckled.

"Yeah," he agreed. He winked at her. "So tell me... when do you move?"