You make a move

Your eyes drift down. You let them take their time, tracing the line of his jaw, the column of his throat, the way his chest rises and falls beneath the oversized hoodie. And then you let them land. On the bulge.

The denim is stretched taut, the outline unmistakable—a long, thick ridge that curves against his thigh, straining against the seam. Your breath catches. Cathy's breath catches. Your lips part, and you make a sound, a small, surprised intake of air that you don't have to fake.

"Oh," you whisper. Your hand rises to your mouth. Your eyes are wide, fixed on the shape of him, and you let the realization wash over your face—the flattery, the shock, the dawning awareness of what you've done to him. "Marcus, I—"

You don't finish. You don't need to.

Your hand drops from your mouth. Your fingers drift down, slow, hesitant, like they have a mind of their own, and you watch them move as if they belong to someone else. They hover over his jeans. They don't touch—not yet—but they hover, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that his breath hitches again, a sharp, desperate sound.

Your fingers brush the fabric.

The contact is electric. You feel him twitch beneath the denim, a reflexive response that makes your pussy clench. Your fingertips trace the outline, following the curve of his length, from the base to the head, and you feel every inch of it through the thick material. He's bigger than Matt. The thought surfaces unbidden, and you let it escape on a whisper, your voice soft and wondering, meant for him to hear.

"You're bigger than him."

His eyes go wide. "What?"

You don't answer. Your hand is moving now, stroking him through his jeans, feeling the shape of his cock, the weight of it, the way the fabric strains against your palm. Your bathrobe hangs open, your breasts bare, your body fully exposed, and you don't even try to cover yourself. You've stopped pretending.

"Marcus." His name is a breath, a prayer. "You can't tell anyone. Not a single person."

He nods. He can't speak.

You close the distance.

Your lips meet his, and the kiss is soft at first—tentative, questioning. His mouth is warm, unmoving, frozen in shock, but you press harder, parting your lips, letting your tongue trace the seam of his. He tastes like mint and surprise. His hand rises, hovers, and then lands on your waist, his fingers trembling, and you feel the contact like a brand.

The kiss deepens. Your tongue finds his, and he makes a sound, a low, broken groan that vibrates through your chest. His hand tightens on your hip. The other hand finds your back, pulling you closer, and you feel his erection press against your stomach, hard and insistent.

You pull back, just enough to let the bathrobe fall completely.

It slides off your shoulders, catches at your elbows, and then drops to the floor. You stand before him naked, fully naked, Cathy's body bare and offered, your nipples hard, the neat triangle of dark hair between your legs visible in the soft light. You watch his eyes travel down your body, slow and reverent, and when he reaches your face again, his expression is raw, undone.

"Do you like what you see?" you ask.

He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs. "I've never—" His voice cracks. He tries again. "I've never been with a woman before."

The confession lands like a stone in still water. You feel the ripple of it through your chest, through your belly, through the growing heat between your legs. A virgin. He's a virgin.

You drop to your knees.

The hardwood is cool against your bare skin. You look up at him, at his wide eyes, his parted lips, his trembling hands, and you feel the power settle into your bones. He's yours. All of him. Every nervous breath, every racing heartbeat, every inch of the cock straining against his jeans.

Your hands find his waistband. You pop the button, and the sound is sharp in the quiet room. You pull the zipper down, slow, tooth by tooth, and the denim parts, revealing the strained cotton of his boxer briefs and the shape beneath. He's hard. So hard. The fabric is damp at the tip, a dark spot of precum staining the cotton.

You hook your fingers into the waistband and pull.

His cock springs free, and the sight of it makes your breath catch. It's long and thick, the skin a deep, warm brown, the head a shade darker, glistening with moisture. It curves upward, heavy and full, and it's longer than Matt's. Thicker. The thought makes your head spin.

You're cheating.

The word forms in your mind, clear and cold. You're wearing Cathy's body, standing in Cathy's flat, about to take another man's cock into Cathy's mouth, and she'll never know. Matt will never know. Marcus will never know that the woman on her knees before him is a twenty-two-year-old virgin nerd who couldn't get a girl to look at him twice.

But you're not that person right now. Right now, you're Cathy. You're the girl everyone wants, the girl everyone watches, the girl who has all the power in the world.

Your hand wraps around his shaft.

The skin is hot, smooth, velvet over steel. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, feeling the weight of him, the way his whole body shivers at the contact. He groans, a low, guttural sound, and his hips twitch, pushing into your grip.

"I know this is wrong," you whisper, and your voice is small, uncertain. "I know I shouldn't be doing this. But I—"

You look up at him, your eyes wide, your face flushed. You look like a girl losing a battle with herself. "Matt hasn't touched me in weeks," you lie. "I've been so lonely. And you're so—"

Your hand strokes him again, and his breath hitches. "I can't help myself."

He's yours. Completely yours. He'd do anything for you right now, say anything, give anything. You can see it in the glassy heat of his eyes, in the way his hands hang at his sides, trusting, waiting.

You want him to fuck you.

Your first time. Not Cathy's—yours. The thought makes your pussy ache, a deep, hollow need that spreads through your pelvis like warm water. You want to feel him inside you. You want to feel his weight, his heat, his inexperience. You want to guide him, teach him, ruin him.

You want to take his virginity while wearing the body of a woman who doesn't know you exist.

Your grip tightens on his cock. You stroke him once more, slow and deliberate, and you watch his eyes flutter closed.