It wasn't long after Cindy left that I crept downstairs, barefoot, my heart hammering like a guilty secret. The house was quiet — only the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant buzz of a streetlamp outside.
And then I saw him.
Jake was asleep on the living room couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach. His shirt had ridden up slightly in his sleep, exposing the hard lines of his abdomen. The whiskey glass sat empty on the coffee table, and the TV flickered silently, casting shifting shadows across his face.
He looked… different.
The sharp edges of his dominance were softened by sleep. His jaw wasn't clenched. His brow wasn't furrowed. For the first time since I'd known him, Jake Sterling looked… vulnerable.
And God help me — that's when I wanted him most.
My breath caught. My nipples tightened beneath my sundress. My pussy clenched, already slick, already aching.
This was wrong.
This was dangerous.
This was exactly what I needed.
I knelt beside the couch.
I crawled onto it, slow, silent, careful not to wake him.
I straddled his thighs, my knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his hips, my hands hovering over his waist.
His belt was still fastened. His slacks were pristine. But my hands were trembling.
I unhooked the leather.
I unzipped the fly.
I peeled his pants down just enough to expose the waistband of his black boxer briefs — and the thick, sleeping length beneath.
I hadn't seen him fully before. Not like this. Not in the quiet.
Even soft, he was massive — a heavy, thick curve pressing against the fabric, like a beast at rest.
I bit my lip.
I looked at his face — still asleep. Still unaware.
I told myself: He won't know. I'll stop before he wakes. This is just… just curiosity.
But then my hands were on his shirt.
I unbuttoned it slowly, one by one, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the dark trail of hair leading down to his waist.
I lowered my head.
I kissed his stomach — just above his navel.
Then lower.
Then lower.
I licked.
His skin tasted like salt and sandalwood and him. My tongue traced the ridges of his abs, worshiping each hard line, imagining how they'd flex when he thrust into me. My big tits, still confined in my dress, spilled out with every movement, brushing against his thighs, his hips, his cock.
I couldn't stop.
I didn't want to.
With shaking fingers, my hands went to my own buttons. My dress fell open. My bra came undone. And then my heavy, full breasts were free — pale, round, tipped with hard, pink nipples.
I pressed them against him.
I rubbed them over his stomach, his pelvis, then — finally — over the thick ridge of his cock.
"Oh God…"
I moaned softly, the friction sending sparks through my clit. My pussy pulsed, gushing more wetness onto my already soaked panties.
His cock twitched beneath my tits.
Then thickened.
Then rose.
Even half-asleep, his body responded to me.
I lifted my head, watching in awe as the heavy shaft swelled, lifting out of his briefs, the broad, mushroom-shaped head now fully exposed, flushed dark with blood, glistening with a bead of pre-cum at the slit.
I leaned down.
I licked it.
The taste was musky, male, mine. My tongue swirled around the crown, collecting the salty drop, then my lips closed around it — just the tip at first, then deeper, taking more of him into my mouth.
"Mmm…"
A low groan rumbled in his chest. Not awake. Not yet. But feeling me. Reacting to me.
That sound — that small, unconscious pleasure — sent a jolt through my spine.
I opened wider.
I took him deeper.
I sucked.
His cock grew harder, hotter, thicker in my mouth, until my jaw ached from the stretch. My nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base, and my lips slid up and down, slow and worshipful, coated in slick spit and his leaking arousal.
"Oh… God… yes…"
I moaned around him, the sound muffled, filthy, perfect. A thin string of saliva and pre-cum stretched between my lips and his shaft when finally pulled back.
I was panting.
I was soaked.
I was ruined.
And he was still asleep.
But my body couldn't wait.
I couldn't wait.
With trembling hands, my fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties. My thighs were slick with arousal. My clit throbbed, swollen, desperate.
I peeled them off.
I tossed them aside.
Then my hands guided myself — my swollen, dripping pussy — over his rigid cock.
I didn't slide down. Not yet.
I rubbed.
I ground.
Up and down.
Slow.
Teasing.
Our fluids mixed — his pre-cum, my slick heat — coating his shaft, my inner lips, the head of him glistening in the low light. The smell filled the room — sex, sweat, us.
I could feel his heat.
I could feel his pulse.
I could feel myself falling — falling into something I'd never climb back from.
And then…
His hand moved.
Not fast. Not rough.
Just one hand — large, warm — settling on my hip.
And his voice, thick with sleep and desire, broke the silence:
"Keep going, Jessica."