Time to go home

The pub night spilled out onto the pavement, the cold night air sharp against their flushed skin. Sarah caught the eye of the man she’d been chatting to all evening and waved them off, announcing she was going to stay out with him to see where the night went.

"Suit yourself," Ben muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Tom and Dave had already swapped numbers inside, still buzzing about suspension setups and engine tunes as they stood by the kerb.

They hailed a taxi, piling into the back. It was a cramped, tight squeeze that **** bodies together in the dark, leather-lined interior. Emma ended up in the middle, sandwiched between Tom and Ben. As the cab lurched forward, the contact was unavoidable. Her hip pressed hard against Ben’s, his denim rough and familiar against her skin, while Tom sat on her other side, completely preoccupied with his phone, looking up some car website no doubt.

The proximity to Ben was maddening. Every time the taxi swung around a corner, he slid into her, his thigh locking against hers. He wasn't even trying to hide it; he just sat there, heavy and solid, his hand resting on the seat back behind her head. She could smell the stale beer and his musk, a scent that was inextricably linked to the cum she’d cleaned up minutes ago. It made her core ache, a dull throb that refused to go away. She kept her eyes forward, biting her tongue, barely listening to Tom ramble on about engine configurations.

When they finally arrived at the flat, the tension was thick enough to **** on. The goodnights were brief, polite, and boring. Tom ushered her toward their bedroom, while Ben shuffled off toward his own, tossing a casual look at Emma that made her stomach flip.

Inside the bedroom, the door clicked shut, cutting off the rest of the world. Emma was still buzzing, her skin feeling hypersensitive, her mind replaying the sight of Ben’s cock spurting onto the wood. She wanted that fire. She wanted the mess, the urgency, the feeling of being used.

She turned to Tom, who was already starting to unbutton his shirt. She moved into his space, pressing her body against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She pulled his head down for a kiss, eager to translate the energy from the pub into something physical.

"You're in a mood," Tom murmured, sounding pleased but confused.

"I just... I missed you tonight," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She wanted to **** him to be something he wasn't. She wanted him to be animalistic, to tear at her clothes, but he was just... him. Neatly folding his shirt, kissing her with a familiar, practiced rhythm.

They tumbled onto the bed, and Emma tried to guide him, arching her back, **** to heighten the sensation, but the friction just wasn't . He focused on her pleasure but seemed to miss the mark, and while her body responded to the touch, her mind remained elsewhere, stuck in that booth at the pub.

Before she could even get a proper rhythm going, or build any real, deep intensity, Tom stiffened. A few quick, shallow thrusts, a soft groan, and he collapsed against her, his energy spent almost instantly.

He stayed there for a moment, then pulled back, his expression sheepish and apologetic. "Sorry, babe," he whispered, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought. Didn't mean to rush it."

Emma lay beneath him, her pulse slowing down into a hollow, frustrating thrum. She was still aching, still wet, and entirely unsatisfied. She felt a flash of irritation, how typical, how underwhelming, frustrating.

But she bit back the complaint. She **** a small, soft smile and pulled him closer, stroking his back. "It's fine," she said, as she stared at the ceiling. "It was... nice. Don't worry about it."

Inside, she was grinding her teeth, her mind flashing back to the messy, spurting reality of Ben’s climax, feeling a wave of disappointment that the night had ended so quietly.