dick sucked, boundaries crossed

"Oh shit! Fuck, Taylor" Trevor, my neighbor, was practically screaming as I sucked his big dick.

His grip on my hair tightened

Not harsh.

Not cruel.

Just enough to let me know he was feeling everything.

Every movement. Every breath. Every second of this.

His chest rose and fell unevenly above me, his abs flexing beneath my hands like they had a life of their own. I could feel him growing harder again, thick and heavy in my grip, responding to me like his body had made a decision his brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

His head tipped back against the couch, eyes closed, jaw tight.

“Taylor…” he exhaled.

My name sounded different now.

Less teasing.

More reverent.

I liked that.

I liked knowing I did that to him.

I let my hand move slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction like I was studying something dangerous and beautiful. His stomach tensed. His breath hitched. His grip in my hair tightened just slightly, like he was trying not to lose control and failing anyway.

He looked down at me then.

And the look in his eyes made something low and electric coil in my stomach.

Not arrogance.

Not this time.

Something softer.

Something almost… disbelieving.

Like he couldn’t quite accept that I was real. That this was real.

“You don’t have to…” he started, his voice rough.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t break eye contact.

His words died in his throat.

His fingers flexed in my hair again, not forcing, not guiding, just holding on. Like I was the only solid thing in the room.

His breathing grew heavier, more uneven, his composure cracking in tiny fractures.

I could feel the way he was fighting himself.

Trying to stay in control.

Trying not to unravel.

Failing.

His jaw clenched, a quiet groan slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

“Jesus…” he muttered under his breath.

The sound of it sent heat straight through me.

He was crumbling so beautifully.

His stomach tightened again, his thighs shifting slightly beneath me, his control slipping further and further through his fingers.

His head fell back fully now, exposing his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“Taylor,” he said again.

A warning.

A plea.

A confession.

I felt it in the way his hand trembled slightly in my hair.

In the way his breathing broke apart.

In the way he couldn’t look away from me when his eyes opened again.

His control was gone.

And he knew it.

His fingers tightened suddenly, his body going rigid, his breath catching sharply.

“Fuck…” he choked out.

His reaction hit him fast this time.

Harder.

More intense.

Less controlled.

His head dropped forward, his forehead nearly touching mine, his breathing uneven and shaky as the moment overtook him completely.

He didn’t try to hide it.

Didn’t try to pretend he was still composed.

He let himself feel it.

All of it.

His hand loosened in my hair slowly afterward, his fingers sliding free, falling uselessly to his side.

The room went quiet.

Not empty.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that follows something irreversible.

His chest rose and fell beneath my gaze, his breathing gradually steadying, his heartbeat slowly returning to something resembling normal.

But his eyes stayed on me.

Watching.

Searching.

Trying to understand.

I stayed where I was for a moment longer, my own breathing uneven, my pulse still racing beneath my skin. My panties soaked.

Then slowly, I moved back, sitting beside him on the couch.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

We knew what just happened was crossing boundaries faster than light.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, dragging a hand down his face.

A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

“That…” he started, then stopped.

He shook his head slightly, like he didn’t have the language for it.

Like words weren’t built for whatever this was.

I hugged my arms loosely around myself, suddenly aware of everything. The room. The air. Him.

His presence filled the space differently now.

Less like noise.

More like gravity.

He glanced at me again, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it.

“You’re dangerous,” he said quietly.

Not accusing.

Not afraid.

Just honest.

Heat flickered low in my stomach. I chuckled.

I tilted my head slightly. “You weren’t complaining.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“No,” he admitted.

A small silence settled between us again.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was full of questions neither of us knew how to ask.

Or maybe didn’t want to answer.

He leaned back against the couch, his arm stretching along the back behind me, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“How long have you lived next door?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught me off guard.

“Eight months,” I said.

He nodded slowly, like he was filing that away somewhere.

“I noticed you,” he admitted.

My heart stuttered.

“When?” I asked.

His eyes flicked to mine.

“First week.”

The answer landed heavier than it should have.

“You never said anything,” I said.

He gave a small shrug.

“You never looked like you wanted to be bothered.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

“That didn’t stop you from bothering me.”

His smile deepened slightly.

“Maybe I wanted you to notice me.”

The honesty in his voice stripped away any illusion of casualness.

This hadn’t been random.

Not entirely.

I studied him now, really studied him.

The tattoos.

The sharp lines of his jaw.

The quiet intensity in his eyes.

We went into another streak of silence. I had somehow ended up, head against his chest, his arm around my waist.

“That elevator stunt,” I said finally, dragging my finger down the center of his chest, “do you make a habit of that?”

His jaw tightened slightly. For a second, I thought I might've offended him.

“No.” he answered, placing a kiss on my hair.

“Just me?”

“Just you.”

The way he said it wasn’t flirtation. It was fact.

A slow heat pooled low in my stomach.

“That’s reckless,” I whispered.

His hand slid from my waist to my thigh, squeezing gently.

“Yet You opened the door.”

“And you stepped in.”

He shifted then, rolling so he was above me, bracing himself on one arm. The movement wasn’t rough. It was deliberate. Controlled.

His crotch settled between my legs, not pressing, just present. My pulse spiked anyway.

The city lights filtered through the window, painting shadows over his tattoos. He looked unreal like this. Like a fictional character imagined too vividly and accidentally made real.

“Tell me something,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Are you always this bold?”

I almost laughed. “You started it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You started it.”

“How?” I defended.

“You knocked on my door wearing nothing under that shirt.”

His free hand drifted slowly up my side again. Not wandering. Not rushed. Just tracing.

"I was too tired and annoyed to put on a bra, sue me" I responded. I can't believe, that was just yesterday.

"Do you still find me annoying?" Trevor asked, his hand tracing my collarbone.

"No" I admitted.

His eyes darkened.

“Good.”

He lowered his head and kissed me. It was slow. Deep. Intentional. His mouth moved like he had nowhere else to be, like he planned to stay here until I unraveled.

I felt it everywhere.

In the way my fingers slid into his hair. In the way my hips tilted upward instinctively. Wanting him, In the way my thoughts blurred into sensation.

He broke the kiss first.

Just enough to look at me.

“Still sure?” he asked softly.

The question wasn’t teasing anymore.

It was real.

My throat tightened. Not from fear. From the weight of it. From the awareness that this wasn’t just heat. This was choice.

“I’ve been sure since the elevator,” I admitted.

Something in his expression shifted.