Getting into it

John woke to darkness.

The room was still, the digital clock glowing 2:17 AM. He reached out instinctively, hand sweeping across the sheets.

Empty.

Claire wasn’t in bed.

He blinked, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. Maybe she was in the bathroom. That was his first thought. The door was slightly ajar, but the light was off. No sound. No movement.

A dull anxiety crept into his chest.

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and slid out from under the sheets. His feet hit the cold floor. The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of settling walls.

He stepped quietly into the hallway.

There was a soft glow coming from the living room.

He moved closer.

When he reached the edge of the hallway and peeked into the room, the breath caught in his throat.

Claire was on the couch.

Not alone.

She was curled up next to Marcus, her legs tucked under her, her body angled toward him. Her head was tilted, resting loosely on his shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough to feel his warmth. One hand was resting lightly on her own thigh, the other wrapped loosely around the edge of Marcus’s hoodie she was still wearing.

Marcus was leaned back, legs wide, completely at ease. He didn’t have his arm around her, but his hand was resting behind her on the back of the couch, just inches from her bare shoulder.

They weren’t talking.

They weren’t even watching anything. The TV was on, muted. Just a low flickering light on their faces.

Claire shifted slightly, leaning in. Her side pressed gently into Marcus’s.

She said something. John couldn’t hear it. But Marcus smirked, nodded slowly. Whatever it was, it was quiet. Private.

John couldn’t move.

Something in him locked. His heart was pounding. His mouth was dry. He should have said something—should have interrupted, called out, made a noise.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, paralyzed, half in the shadows.

His eyes dropped.

Claire’s bare thighs were drawn up under her, the hem of the hoodie barely covering her hips. The way she curled into Marcus, the way her body leaned toward his—it was intimate. Familiar. Quietly possessive.

And Marcus… he looked so calm.

So completely unfazed.

John’s breath hitched.

He looked down.

His cock was hard.

He didn’t even remember it happening. But there it was, straining against his boxers. Thick. Heavy. Hungry.

His hand moved before he even thought about it.

He pressed his palm over the bulge in his pants. Just once. Then again.

The arousal hit him like a wave. Hot. Sharp. Shameful.

He rubbed once more, feeling the pressure. Watching the two of them sit there like lovers who hadn’t kissed yet—but wanted to.

Then he froze.

There was a mirror near the side of the living room.

And in it—Claire was looking directly at him.

Not at the hallway.

At the mirror.

At his reflection.

They locked eyes.

Her expression didn’t change.

She didn’t say a word.

She didn’t move away from Marcus.

She didn’t even shift her posture.

She just looked at him.

Held it.

Then slowly turned her eyes back to the muted screen, like nothing had happened.

John backed away.

He turned down the hall, walked into the bathroom, locked the door.

He stared at himself in the mirror, chest rising and falling, cock hard, pulse racing.

He didn’t know what to feel.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

He woke hours later to the sound of Claire moving in the room.

She was already up. Already dressed. Still in the hoodie.

She climbed onto the bed, crawling over him slowly, like a cat.

John blinked at the ceiling, unsure if it was real or if he was still dreaming.

Then her lips touched his.

Soft. Warm.

She kissed him once.

Then again, slower.

Then her hand slipped under the covers, found him, cupped his balls gently.

He gasped.

Claire smiled against his cheek.

“You touched yourself last night,” she whispered.

His whole body stiffened.

Her hand squeezed a little harder. Not cruel. But firm. Confident.

“You stood there in the hallway,” she said. “And you rubbed yourself. While you watched me.”

John tried to speak, but no sound came out.

Claire nuzzled his neck. “You thought I didn’t see you.”

Her tongue flicked lightly at his ear. “But I did.”

She pulled back and looked him in the eye.

“You like it, don’t you?” she said. “Watching. Not stopping it. Letting it happen.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Claire leaned in and kissed him again, deeper this time.

Then whispered, “It turned me on.”

He moaned softly.

She grinned. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Her hand moved lower, stroking him through the fabric. Slow. Methodical.

John’s hips jerked slightly.

“You’re mine,” she said. “But I get to share. If I want to.”

He swallowed hard.

“Do you want that?” she asked.

He nodded slowly.

She stopped stroking.

“Say it.”

“I want it,” he whispered. “I want to watch.”

Her smile was pure fire.

“Good,” she said.

Then she kissed his chest, pulled back the covers, and disappeared into the hallway—leaving him alone in the silence, hard and leaking and completely broken open.