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runm3over · 12 days ago

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chefs kiss

Tender Ruin — Lara Raj (18+)

✒️ explicit sexual content · g!p lara · dubcon · oral/face-fucking · worship · praise/degradation · emotional sex · hate sex · reader has a bf (ex) · resentment · miscommunication · emotional cheating · hurt/comfort · guilt · angst · bullying · sex as emotional release · implied exhibitionism · college au

Summary: Your boyfriend mocked her. You didn’t join in—but you didn’t stop him, either. You let it happen. And now she wants nothing to do with either of you. But one heated confrontation cracks everything open. The anger turns carnal. The silence, intimate. But guilt doesn’t vanish just because you finally touched her like you meant it. (10.6k words)

Lara’s alone, earbuds in, notebook half-open on her lap, nursing a strawberry juice like it’s the only sweet thing left in her day. Her foot taps a rhythm only she knows, and her shoulders are curled in like she’s used to taking up less space.

It’s a sunny day, it was loud, hot, and cruel. Your boyfriend is louder than usual. He’s cracking open a protein bar, chewing with his mouth open, talking about last night’s scrimmage like he scored the winning goal when he didn’t.

The rest of the table’s half-listening, half-scrolling, except you. You’re not really listening either, just staring past him, eyes landing every so often on the quiet girl across the courtyard.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, too loud, tossing the wrapper behind him, “Check her out, the emo’s at it again.”

A few heads turn. Lara doesn’t. She keeps writing, pen steady, expression blank, but the flick of her wrist slows just slightly.

“She’s always drinking those, right? What, is that her whole diet? Strawberry fucking Hi-C?”

The others chuckle, just because he’s the one who said it, not because it’s funny.

“She’s not bad at writing though,” someone else mutters, attempting neutrality.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” your boyfriend says, “Bet she just recycles songs anyway. All that effort just to be weird.”

Then, lower, not for everyone, just for the boys, “Freaks like her are always hiding something. You know. Wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up with a knife one day,” Another laugh echoed, and it was way too loud, too long. One of the guys even fake-shivers.

“Okay,” you say under your breath, half-hearted. Not angry, just tired. He doesn’t hear you, or maybe he pretends not to.

Lara still hasn’t looked up, she just flips the page, starts over, but you can tell, just barely, that her hand is shaking now. Her fingers tighten around the pen. Her jaw works in slow, silent circles like she’s clenching it from the inside out, but she doesn’t say anything, and that’s because she knows better—because boys like him don’t need reasons. They just need someone softer than themselves to crush in front of an audience.

He leans back in his chair, tossing his empty drink bottle toward the trash but missing. You go to say something, to point it out, maybe, but then Lara looks up, and everything stops. She meets your eyes. Only for a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. Because you were already watching her the whole time.

Your face was unreadable; you looked calm, perhaps even bored. But you didn’t look surprised nor angry; you weren’t laughing, but you weren’t leaving either. Just sitting beside him like you belong there.

That look burns; it needles under her skin, and not because you’re mocking her, but because you aren’t. You look at her like you know exactly what’s happening, and you won’t do a damn thing about it. And maybe worst of all, behind that still expression, she sees it: that flicker of interest, and she hates it, hates you, but hates herself more.

He always picked on her; it wasn’t personal, at least that’s what she told herself. Guys like him didn’t need reasons. They were loud because they could be, mean because no one stopped them. It didn’t matter if she was sitting alone with her headphones in or just passing by with a guitar case slung over her shoulder. Somehow, she was still a target.

“She always looks like she’s about to cry,” he once said, fake-pouting to his friends, “Like, bro, you can’t major in feelings. Just say you’re broke and move on.”

She never responded, that would only make it worse. So she let it roll off, or at least tried to. Wrote about it in fragments, lyrics that never made it to full songs. Lines like:

he touches gold and still spits it out / says it tastes like pity and dirt / but I’m the one bleeding from the mouth.

She didn’t write for anyone but herself, that’s what she kept telling herself. Until the day she left her notebook on the bench outside the music building.

Lara had been rushing, late for class, brain buzzing with a melody she couldn’t get down in time. By the time she realized she left it, the notebook was already gone, her stomach twisted at the mere thought that someone else had it. It wasn’t just lyrics in that book, it was thoughts. Ghosts. Some of her handwriting was so frantic she couldn’t even remember writing it. That notebook had pieces of her no one had ever seen. If someone opened it, really opened it—

And then you appeared. You approached her nonchalantly, not a smile in sight, you didn’t even say much, you simply held it out to her, “Lara? I think you left this.”

She blinked, took it slowly, half-expecting a joke, but your tone was even. Neutral. Your eyes didn’t move like they were mocking her. They were just… there. Present. Real. She cleared her throat, “Did you—did you read it?”

You hesitated before answering, “Just the first few pages,” you said, “To figure out who it belonged to.”

That was it. There was no teasing or any commentary. There was no violation. Lara stared at you a little longer than she should have, heart thudding, waiting for the punchline. One that never came.

For three days after, she played that moment over in her head. You’d look tired. Pretty. Kind, maybe. She wasn’t even sure how you found out that it was hers; the notebook didn’t have her name or anything that would link it to her unless you truly knew her—which you didn’t.

But since then, she started writing again. Not songs, not yet, just stray lines about you. Your face. The way you handed the notebook back like it was something valuable. The way she imagined your fingers brushing over the spine, maybe lingering just a little too long.

Lara didn’t know your name, but she knew your voice now; your cadence. But then she heard him. It was in the quad, the group was gathered, loud and sprawled out over a cluster of benches. She wasn’t close, not that she ever was, but close enough to hear your boyfriend’s voice, cocky and nasal.

“She left her little diary full of sad girl poems or whatever, and of course guess who found it?”

Laughter, but they weren’t yours. She froze.

“She probably sings to herself in the mirror. Bet she thinks she’s deep. Like, ‘I’m not like other girls, I write about pain.’ So original.”

More laughter. Again, not yours.

And you—you just sat there. Quiet. Still. That’s when Lara knew. You’d read it. You told him. You handed it back with those calm eyes and let him rip it apart behind her back, and worst of all, you’d looked at her like you understood, like you liked what you read.

Lara burned the pages she’d written about you. She didn’t write for a week after that. Didn’t look at you when you crossed paths again in the hallway. She didn’t let herself stare too long when you were out at night, clinging to his arm like you were scared of your own thoughts.

But she remembered your face. She remembered thinking you were different. And maybe you were. Maybe that was what made it worse.

It was a warm afternoon, but Lara felt cold. The sun touched the backs of her arms as she sat on the grass, headphones on but not playing. She wasn’t close to them, just near enough to hear when they got too loud, and they always got too loud.

Your boyfriend was in rare form today. You were sitting beside him on the concrete bench, legs crossed, one hand nursing an iced coffee that had already started to sweat. You weren’t speaking, just listening in the conversation, watching your surroundings.

That was the worst part. Lara always knew when you were watching. It made her skin crawl. She honestly believed in things like that; gut feelings, energy, that whole “sixth sense” kind of thing. So she knew the weight of your stare the way she knew how to tune a guitar by instinct. Even with her back turned. Even when your voice didn’t join theirs. She knew.

‘Stop looking at me.’

“She’s probably writing about me right now,” your boyfriend laughed. He was talking about her again, loud enough to make sure she’d hear, “Like, ‘he pierced my soul with cruelty.’”

He put on a fake-sincere tone, “Bro, I swear to god, I saw her carrying that same notebook again last week. That shit’s like… a personal burn book set to acoustic guitar.”

The group erupted in laughter. Not all of them, but enough, “She just gives off that dark and misunderstood but boring as hell vibe, y’know?”

“She’s like… if Spotify Sad Girl playlists had a mascot,” Lara didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn around. That’s what he would have wanted.

She clenched her jaw, thumb digging into her palm; she could take this, she thought. She could always take it. But when he said it—

“Why’s she always dressing like she’s in a cultural identity crisis?”

—That’s when she almost turned. Her neck twitched, her eyes burned, but she didn’t move. If she looked at him, it would be worse. So she looked at you instead, and you were already looking at her.

And fuck, it felt like shame. You didn’t laugh; you never did. But you never told him to stop, either and that’s just as bad as what he’s doing. The way she looked at you now, eyes sharp, like knives honed on disbelief, made something in your chest twist painfully. Because she didn’t see awe or apology or guilt in your eyes. She saw pity.

‘Why are you still sitting with him?’

Lara’s lips parted, but no words came out. She looked away fast, as if the act of seeing you had burned her, had confirmed what she already knew. You weren’t kind. You weren’t different. You just knew how to pretend.

And you? You didn’t know how to explain to her that you weren’t pretending. You didn’t know how to tell her that you’d read her lyrics, just a handful, just enough to know it was her and to see she was brilliant, to understand she was hurting. You didn’t know how to say you weren’t laughing because you agreed, you were laughing because you were scared.

Of him. Of her. Of the way she looked when the sunlight hit her eyes and it made your breath hitch.

‘She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. But she looks at me like I’m filth.’

And maybe you deserved that.

Lara stood up abruptly. The air shifted with her movement, like the room had changed. Her footsteps were steady as she walked away, but you could feel it, the tremor in the space she left behind. The bitter perfume of disappointment clinging to the air.

Your boyfriend leaned back, scoffing, “She’s so dramatic.”

You didn’t respond. You just watched her leave. And wondered how it was possible to miss someone who was never yours.

She didn’t mean to bump into you the next day. Lara had just rounded the building, trying to cut across the campus walkway near the back stairwell, head down, earphones in but not playing. It wasn’t until she looked up, saw him first, then you behind him, that her spine went rigid.

She almost turned around, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. You saw her a second too late, but he saw her instantly, “Look who it is.”

That same smirk and that same voice. That same ache in Lara’s temples from clenching her jaw too tightly.

You froze. “Let’s not—”

“Relax. I’m not gonna hit her,” he laughed, “Unless she’s got a song in there that rhymes with ‘restraining order.’”

Lara didn’t say a word.

Don’t give him anything. Not a glance. Not a reaction. He feeds on it.

You stepped forward. You reached for his arm, lightly, not enough to stop him, not enough to hold your ground.

“Come on,” you said softly, “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late for lunch.”

But your hand slipped off when he stepped forward again, chest puffed slightly, posturing for a fight no one wanted, “Why do you always look so surprised to see me, huh?” he kept going, louder, “This is my campus too, sweetheart. You think you’re some tortured genius, walking around with your little emo notebook like anyone gives a shit?”

Still, Lara said nothing.

‘Just walk. Just walk away. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing.’

She didn’t move, but you did. You walked to her side, but didn’t say anything, not to her, not to him. You didn’t touch her, didn’t look at her; you just stood there. Close enough that your arm nearly brushed hers.

A little too close for him not to miss. A little too subtle for her to trust. But Lara noticed, of course she did.

She noticed the way your gaze didn’t leave him. The way your jaw was set, like you were biting your tongue hard enough to bleed. She noticed the way your body shifted, slightly angled, like you were trying to block his line of sight, like you were trying to make it harder for him to lunge if he ever got that idea.

But Lara also noticed how easily your hand slipped off his arm earlier. How quickly you gave up on pulling him away. She saw you do nothing when it counted, then felt you do something too late.

“You said you wanted sushi,” you said suddenly, eyes still on him. Your voice is quiet, almost pleasant, “Let’s go to the mall. They’ll have a table by now.”

He scoffed, “Are you serious?”

You didn’t respond. Just tilted your head toward the path. You still hadn’t looked at her. Lara didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

And then, as he turned with a final muttered insult, something she didn’t catch, something she didn’t care to, you followed. But not before Lara caught the barest flicker of your eyes, a glance over your shoulder. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was something quieter. Something more raw. Perhaps it was shame.

Lara stood still in the heat of the sidewalk, alone now.

Her throat felt dry. Her pulse throbbed behind her ears. Not from anger, but from confusion. From the way her body had almost, almost leaned toward yours when you stood beside her. From the way your perfume had stuck to the air even after you left.

She hated that she remembered how it smelled. She hated that she thought, for just a second,

‘She stood beside me. Why?’

But most of all —

‘Why didn’t she stay?’

He always had something to say. Usually with his mouth full.

“So what, now you’re just gonna keep defending her?” he said, picking at his teeth with a toothpick he grabbed from the café counter, “The freak? I’m serious, babe, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were the one who wrote those lyrics.”

You stared out the window. The glass was slightly fogged from the aircon. You drew your finger across it, “You’re not funny,” you said quietly.

“I’m not joking,” he replied, “Those songs? Corny as hell. It’s giving diary entries, like—‘oh no, my feelings, someone validate me.’”

He laughed, “You said she plays guitar too, right? Bet she only knows, like, three chords.”

“Stop.”

“Why?”

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking. You’re just too nice to admit it.”

You turned to face him, slow and steady, “I’m breaking up with you.”

He blinked. The air shifted. “You’re what?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you said. Your voice was calm, almost soft, “I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You didn’t flinch, “I said I’m done.”

A pause. He laughed again, but it was forced now, “You’re being dramatic.”

You opened the car door. “Hey—hey. You’re not serious.”

You stepped out. The heat hit you in the face. “Come on, you’re being crazy right now. Babe—”

You shut the door. He didn’t follow. Of course he didn’t. Not when you were walking away. He sat there like he was waiting for a punchline, like it would all undo itself with time.

It didn’t. He didn’t tell people you broke up with him, he couldn’t stomach it. He still acted like he was yours, like nothing changed. But you knew.

Lara always came here when she wanted to disappear; there was something sacred about this room, dust collecting on the windowsills, half-broken blinds letting in streaks of sun like gold knives. The silence was its own kind of music, broken only by the soft scratch of pen to paper or the muted hum of her voice when she thought no one was around.

Today, she was humming again, something slow and unfinished, perhaps even beautiful, in the right hands. You stood by the door, watching her before she noticed.

You didn’t mean to intrude, just walking past, just drawn in by the sound. But now you are here, her back to you. The ache you’d carried for weeks threatening to spill into something you didn’t have a name for.

You took a breath, stepping into the room quietly, hoping that this could be the chance to finally apologize to the girl, to take accountability.

“Lara,” you said. She turned. Her body stiffened immediately, like your voice was a slap. Her eyes darkened, mouth setting in that tight, unimpressed line. She didn’t even pause to pretend, “No.”

That was all she said at first. Not hi, not what, not what are you doing here.

Just: no.

You tried again, “I just wanted—”

“I don’t care,” Lara didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t have to, “You need to leave,” she said flatly.

“I just… Lara, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t say my name like that,” she snapped, stepping back like it hurt. You froze. She laughed, bitterly, “You and your boyfriend. You two always find a way to ruin things, huh?”

You opened your mouth, wanting to respond but nothing came out.

“I had one space,” she said, gesturing around the room, “One space that wasn’t crawling with people who stare. Or laugh. Or treat me like I’m fucking entertainment.”

“I’m not like him,” you said quietly. Her eyes flashed, “Aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. What could you say? He’d torn her down in front of you, again and again, and you’d said nothing. You’d pulled him away, sure, once or twice, but did she ever see you stand against him?

“I didn’t tell him about the lyrics,” you tried. She stared.

“I just… I read the first page. That’s how I knew it was yours. I swear—”

“I said I don’t care.”

You blinked.

“I don’t care if you read them,” Lara said, stepping closer, “I don’t care what you told him. I don’t care what you think you came here to say.”

Then, softer, deadly quiet, “You don’t get to feel bad now.”

Your throat closed around something sharp.

“You don’t get to show up here like you’re not his,” Lara was so close now—she was close enough for you to smell the hint of citrus from her shampoo. Her eyes were wild in a way you hadn’t seen before, not dangerous, just frayed, like something inside her had been pulling and pulling and finally snapped.

You whispered her name again.

“Don’t,” She turned her back on you, and quietly walked toward the table, the notebook left open like a wound.

“You should go,” she said, “Before I really say something I regret.”

But you didn’t move; you were still staring at her, at the set of her shoulders, the trembling in her fingers. And for the first time, you realized: she hated you. That alone should have been your cue. You shouldn’t have followed her, especially not when she already told you to leave. Told you clearly. Told you twice. And yet you stayed.

You stood in that room like you had a right to be there, like your presence wasn’t the exact thing ruining it, “Lara, just—” you tried.

“I told you to go,” She still wasn’t looking at you.

Lara was sitting on an abandoned table, notebook on her knee, pen frozen mid-line. The chair meant for the table was pushed back, untouched. This was her place, her escape, and now you were in it, with your soft voice and your need to be understood.

“I’m not here to fight—”

“But you are here,” She looked up, and there it was, not sadness, not pain, but fury. Her anger looked controlled and quiet, but there was a certain finality to it, “You always ruin everything.”

“Lara, please.”

“No. No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to come in here and pretend you’re not him. You don’t get to want anything from me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” She stood, finally asserting herself, “I don’t like you,” she said, “I never did.”

You blinked.

“I thought maybe you weren’t like the rest of them. But you are. You don’t listen. You don’t leave when people tell you to.”

Lara stepped toward you, just once, “You act soft but you make everything worse. You make me worse.”

Another step. Your breath caught.

“Get out,” she said again, but this time it was low. Different. Still, you didn’t move, so she did.

Lara crossed the space between you with two fast steps, her hands gripped your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks as she kissed you—if it could be called that.

Her mouth was hot and unrelenting, nothing tender in the way she devoured you. It was all teeth and frustration, a punishment passed through lips and tongue.

Her breath hitched, but not with affection; it was something closer to vindication. She’d wanted this for a long time, not because she liked you—but because she hated what you’d become in her eyes.

You didn’t kiss back, not at first. You just let it happen. That was what always seemed to bother people the most; you let things happen.

Lara’s hands were already roaming, gripping your tits, your waist, your hips like she meant to bruise you into memory. She pulled back just long enough to hiss against your lips.

“You and that fucking boyfriend,” she spat, “You’re perfect for each other—liars, cowards. But he didn’t deserve this,” Lara’s hand dragged down between your legs, “He didn’t deserve to fuck a body this pretty.”

You gasped, breathless and dazed, but still not fighting.

“And you—” she growled, pushing you back toward the table, “You don’t deserve to be fucked by a lousy dick like his.”

She shoved you roughly over the wooden surface, hands yanking up your skirt with zero ceremony. Your palms hit the cool table, legs parting slightly without conscious effort. Lara didn’t even stop to undress you properly—just pulled your panties to the side like they were in her way. Her other hand fumbled with her zipper, releasing the hard weight of her cock. And then—

She paused. Fingers brushed between your thighs and came back wet, making her breath hitch; you were soaked.

“Are you—” Lara scoffed, stunned for half a second, before anger took over again, “You wanted this?”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t need to. Your body did it for you. Lara laughed sarcastically, “Of course you did,” She gripped your hips hard, voice sharp as a blade.

“You’re worse than I thought,” she sneered, gripping herself at the base and slapping her cock against your folds, “Your boyfriend mocks me, calls me names, and here you are soaking for the same girl he hates.”

She leaned in, teeth grazing your ear, “Fine. Then I’ll give you what you want. I’ll ruin you for him.”

She aligned herself, cock twitching in her hand, dragging through your slickness again, slower this time, more cruel.

“He’ll never fuck you like I will,” And then she thrust in. One sharp, deep push—no warning, no tenderness, just heat and pressure splitting you open around her.

A choked sound escaped you as your body jolted forward, palms slipping on the polished wood. Lara didn’t hold back; she didn’t want soft, she wanted control and payback, and that’s exactly what you gave her.

“So fucking quiet,” Lara snarled, burying deeper, “Of course you are. Letting me do whatever the fuck I want. Just like you do with him when he says all that stupid crap about me.”

She started to move—rough, punishing strokes, slamming into you with the full force of her resentment. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, the table creaking under your body.

Every time she moved, her voice followed—cutting through the air, bitter and hot, “You let him touch you with hands that weak?”

She pushed in harder, “You let him fuck you with no idea what to do with a body like this?”

Her grip tightened, dragging you back to meet her, “He’ll never make you feel like this. Never.”

“I bet he doesn’t even make you come,” she growled, “But I will.”

Another thrust, it was too deep but it felt so good.

“I’ll make you forget his name,” Lara fucked you like it was a punishment. Like every thrust was a sentence, every snap of her hips a reckoning. And yet—god, you were melting for her. She could feel it. The way your walls clenched around her cock, wet and hot and tight like you were built for her rage. It pissed her off. It turned her on.

‘So fucking tight. So good.’

Her fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, using you, dragging you back into each thrust like she couldn’t get deep enough. She didn’t even mean to last this long—but the way you felt, how easy you took her despite your silence, your docility—it made her want to ruin you more.

“You’re soaking,” Lara growled under her breath, not sure if it was to you or herself, “Fucking dripping for me.”

You couldn’t speak. Your head had dropped, your arms shaking as you gripped the edges of the table, lips parted in a moan you barely managed to swallow. You hated how good it felt. How right it felt. You hated how you didn’t do this sooner.

The stretch of her cock burned at first—ruthless, fast, deep—but now it just lit up every nerve ending you had, dragging moans from you without permission.

Your hips started moving back into hers, chasing her rhythm. Every time she pulled out, you followed. Every time she slammed back in, your thighs trembled and your eyes fluttered shut. And every time she noticed, she got meaner.

“Desperate little thing,” she hissed, “Bet you didn’t moan like that for him.”

Another thrust, “Bet he never even made you cum.”

Another, “I’ll show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

“Fuck,” you gasped—your first word—and it made Lara sneer.

“Oh? Now you’ve got something to say?” she taunted, voice low and cruel, “You don’t say shit when he’s being a dick in front of you. But this?”

She slammed into you again, deeper. Anger was laced with her voice when she said, “This you moan for?”

You bit your lip, stifling another one, but it was too late. Lara could feel it—your cunt fluttering around her like you were about to cum already.

“You’re fucking close, aren’t you?” she hissed, hips grinding into you now, angling her thrusts with a precision she didn’t know she had when she was this angry, “Gonna come all over me just because I said my dick is better than his.”

Your eyes rolled back. Her cock hit just right, dragging against that perfect spot, the tip pressing deeper than anyone else had reached—and you came, hard, without warning. Your body tensed, thighs shaking as you pulsed around her, crying out into your arm as she fucked you through it, not slowing down once.

Lara’s eyes widened, heart thudding in her throat as she felt your orgasm milk her cock. She shouldn’t enjoy it this much. She should hate this. She does. But you were also being so good right now.

And you kept clenching, kept dripping.

‘She’s still wet. Still needy.’

“You came already?” she mocked, panting now, “So fucking desperate.”

You were still coming down when she changed her pace into something slower, deeper, meaner. And you moaned again.

Lara’s hands slid up your back, gripping your shoulder, pinning you there like you’d try to run. She bent over you, hips rolling into you with deliberate cruelty.

“I’ll make you cum again,” she whispered darkly into your ear, “I want you ruined. I want you to remember my dick every time he touches you.”

You whimpered—because it was working. She was still fucking you and you were already climbing again. That coil tightening low in your belly, unbearable, as your body moved in sync with hers like it needed her to break you.

And then it hit you again—your second orgasm crashing into you, louder this time, messier. You clenched around her cock, thighs trembling as you pushed back into her like you wanted more, even through the aftershocks.

“Fuck…” Lara cursed, voice breaking, trying to hold back her own release. She wasn’t done with you yet. You barely had time to catch your breath.

Lara pulled out, only to grab you by the thighs—rough, possessive—and lift you like you weighed nothing. You took off your blouse, followed by your bra, as she positioned you on the table. The scrape of the table edge against your back, cold wood meeting flushed skin, made you gasp. Her hands moved without hesitation, pushing you down until your head tipped over the end, hair almost brushing the floor.

You blinked at the ceiling, and then at her.

Her shirt was half unbuttoned, chest heaving, pants undone just enough to give her access. Her cock stood slick and flushed, still hard. Angry. She loomed above you, watching how your lips parted when you realized what was coming next.

She pressed the tip against your mouth.

“Open,” she said. It was a demand, not a question.

You obeyed instantly.

She fed it to you slowly, almost mockingly—letting you feel the weight of it on your tongue, the heat, the stretch. Your breath hitched as she pushed deeper. Your back arched, hands grabbing for her shirt, her thighs—anything.

She didn’t let up, “Look at you,” Lara murmured, voice low, dangerous, “You let him kiss you with that mouth?”

She pulled back slightly, then pushed in again, harder this time, “You let him fuck you, call it love, and now you’re gagging on the cock of the girl he laughs at.”

Her rhythm grew relentless, “Gonna cum on your tongue, baby. I’m gonna cum so hard, all you’ll remember is my cock even when his tongue is in your mouth.”

Your throat tightened, eyes watering. You moaned around her, muffled and raw, while your own hands found your tits, rolling your nipples between trembling fingers as your hips shifted on the table, legs spread obscenely. You didn’t care. You couldn’t.

“You like this?” she growled, “You like being used like this, right where anyone could walk in?”

Laughter rang out in the hallway—students passing by, unaware of what was happening behind the door, or maybe not.

Lara didn’t stop, instead, she shoved her dick deeper into you, her voice thick with cruelty and heat.

“They’ll see you like this,” she whispered, “See you like the slut you are. Pretty little mouth stuffed full. Eyes all glassy. My cock down your throat like you were made for it.”

You choked on a moan. Her words sent a jolt down your spine.

She leaned down, pressing her body over yours, caging you in.

“You don’t even care, do you?” she taunted, “Bet you’d let me take you out there—make you kneel in the hallway, show everyone what you really are.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was too full. But your hips moved again, rutting into the air. Your fingers dug into her thighs, holding her in place—begging without words for more.

She laughed again, breathless this time, “You’d let me fuck you in front of him, wouldn’t you?” she said, hand gripping your jaw, “Make him watch me break you open. Show him how much better I’ll always be.”

Lara wasn’t done with you. Without a word, she stepped up onto the table, one knee planting beside your head, then the other. She straddled your face like she owned it—because in that moment, she did. The weight of her thighs bracketing your skull, the heat of her body settling just above your lips—it was dizzying.

“Keep that mouth open,” she muttered. Her voice was low, but the command snapped with tension.

You did, without even thinking, and she sank in again deeper than before.

She gripped your head with both hands now, thumbs pressed into your cheeks, holding you steady as her hips rolled forward. Her pace was deliberate—almost punishing. Every thrust filled you, every motion brought her closer, until your lips were flush with the soft curls at her base, and the scent of her was everywhere, overwhelming.

Your eyes watered. You gasped when you could, only to be filled again. But you didn’t pull away, not when this was the only place on Earth that you’d rather be.

You held onto her thighs, your body arching from the table as if trying to match her rhythm, as if you needed this just as badly. Lara looked down at you, eyes blazing.

“This what you wanted?” she hissed, hips snapping forward again, “Letting me use your mouth like he never could? Letting me take what he never deserved?”

You gurgled around her, choked on her rhythm—but she didn’t slow.

Outside, footsteps passed. Laughter again. A voice calling someone’s name down the hall. She didn’t stop. She didn’t even falter.

“They’re right outside,” she said, breath ragged, “One wrong move and they’ll see you. Mouth full. Face ruined. And you won’t even care, will you?”

You didn’t. Not with the way she was fucking you. Not with the way her words seared through your skin, the way her hands held your skull like something precious and breakable.

You moaned, or tried to, and she felt it—deep in her.

“That’s it,” she whispered, looking down at you like she hated how much she wanted you, “Take it.”

Lara’s movements become rougher, less controlled. Her grip on your head was much firmer than before, her breath stuttering, “Fuck—too good. So fucking warm. So wet. That mouth—” She moaned as watches you choke slightly, moaning around her cock, your body arched.

She grits her teeth, hips snapping forward with ragged intensity, “You fucking love this, don’t you?” she pants, “Letting me ruin you.”

The room is hot, thick with panting and slick sounds. Lara’s thighs are shaking slightly now, knees pressing into the table on either side of your head as she aggressively face-fucks you, “Fuck—you take it so well, like it’s all you’re good for,” she growled, sweat slick on her temple as her hips slammed forward without rhythm. Her hands gripped your jaw like a vice, forcing your lips wider, “You’re mine now. Not his. Never his.”

The tension in her body grew as she neared the peak of her release—the way her back arches, her thighs shake, her pace stutters.

Her thrusts were erratic, mindlessly fucked your face needily. She cursed again, louder this time, her abs clenching as her rhythm broke entirely. For a moment, all you could hear was her breath—ragged and frantic—as she threw her head back, practically pounding in your mouth.

‘Lara’s fucking me like she hates me. Like she owns me. And I want more.’

Lara pulls back a second, just enough to say, “Open your mouth. I want to see your fucking face when I cum.” She jerks herself quickly, before sliding her cock against your tongue one last time. She was moaning unapologetically loud now, almost involuntarily. And that’s when the tension finally snaps, Lara cums hard, her hips jerking forward once, then pulling back sharply.

Her cum spills across your face, some hitting the tongue, some dripping down your cheeks and chin, “Fuck—take it. Take all of it,” she growls, voice thick, watching her release hit your open mouth, “God, look at you. Just fucking made for this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, jaw sore and lips swollen, but you didn’t move; you couldn’t. Not when she was still grinding forward on your tongue like she never wanted to stop. She sounded wrecked—raw and real in a way that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Lara stares down at the mess breathlessly, her pupils blown. Some cum was still clinging to her cock, some were dripping off your lips. She growls softly, dick still twitching, she pushes back into your mouth, sliding her tip between your lips again, smearing her release across your tongue, “Didn’t say you could stop,” Lara mutters, almost dazed, “Clean it up.”

Your breath is ragged. You’re still lying on the table, flushed, body slack, skin shining with sweat and semen. Your chest rises and falls. The taste of her lingers in your mouth, thick on your tongue, dripping down your jaw. You can’t move.

Lara’s standing still. Towering over you. Eyes locked on your body—your face, your parted lips, your ruined thighs. Her own breathing is uneven, the final threads of release still curling around her spine. Her pants are still down, her cock wet and twitching, glistening at the tip.

You blink up at her slowly; there’s no shame in your eyes, not anymore. Just heat, a soft daze, and for the first time today, she doesn’t look angry. She simply moves. It’s quiet—the drag of fabric, the faint creak of the table. She positions herself, but not in front of your face like before, but between your legs. Her hands slide under your knees, lifting them just enough to spread you open again. You flinch.

She notices, then paused, but Lara leans in anyway. Her lips brush your inner thigh first. A kiss—slow and damp. And then her mouth finds your cunt.

You gasp.

There’s no rush now. Her tongue is steady, unhurried, warm. She tastes you like she’s drinking, like she’s savoring. You’re still messy—slick and swollen and overstimulated—and yet she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. If anything, she groans into you, low and quiet, like she's been craving this; like she’s starving.

Your fingers twitch against the table. Your hips lift, just slightly, and she follows. Lara presses her tongue deeper. Licks up the wetness she helped create. Sucks at your clit so slowly, you swear your vision whites out.

You’re shaking again—but differently now. This isn’t about punishment, not anymore. It’s not about your boyfriend. It’s not about revenge.

This is just Lara. Mouth between your thighs, tongue worshipping what she just wrecked, and it’s… almost gentle.

She makes a sound low in her throat, like she’s breathing you in. Your name leaves her mouth, barely formed, like she’s quietly worshipping. And something inside you unspools. The air shifts.

The tension that once clawed at your spine softens, curls inward, exhales. You feel her hands tighten, not to restrain you, but to anchor. Her mouth moves slower, more purposefully now, as if she’s chasing not just your release, but something else too. Forgiveness. Closeness. Maybe even clarity.

You meet her eyes briefly, and there’s no smirk, no smugness, nor bite. What you saw was something open. It was wounded and wanting. And it breaks you.

You cum with a sob. It’s quieter than before—no loud slap of skin, no degrading words curling in your ears. Just Lara’s mouth, still on you, her arms locked around your thighs, holding you down like she’s afraid you might float away. You clench around nothing. Your body trembles. She doesn’t stop until you’re shaking in full.

And when she reluctantly pulls back, her mouth is wet with you. Her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed. She breathes for a second, watching you.

Lara’s hands were still on your thighs, her breath cooling the skin between your legs as she looked up at you. But it wasn’t taunting anymore. Not hungry or spiteful or punishing. It was quiet. Something softer.

You were still catching your breath when she leaned in again, not to devour, but to kiss.

She starts kissing her way up. Your inner thigh. The crease of your hip. Your belly. Each kiss is slow, warm, almost as if she’s worshipping your body. Her hand strokes your side—thumb brushing your ribs, palm dragging up to your breast. She mouths over your sternum, the space between your tits, your neck.

And when she finally crawled up your body, meeting your gaze, you saw it—something in her had cracked open. The rage had drained out of her, and what was left was raw and tender. Lara pauses above your lips, as if observing your reaction, gauging if you wanted this, then she kisses you.

But this time, it’s not rough. There was no biting or vengefulness or rush. It’s deep. Tender. Open. A kiss that doesn’t ask for anything. A kiss that lingers. Her fingers threaded gently into your hair, not to pull, not to dominate—but to hold. She moaned into your mouth like she was drunk on you, like kissing you was the only thing that made sense.

She whispered your name.

It wasn’t a command this time. It wasn’t even a plea. It was just the way it sounded in her head when she thought about you. Honest. Quiet. Bare.

Your hands hesitantly rise, unsure, before they find their way tangled in her hair. Lara exhales into your mouth, then pulls back just far enough to whisper, “I still hate you.”

You smile, “I know.”

Then she lines herself up again. You don’t even look down—you just feel it. The weight of her cock between your thighs. The way her tip nudges your entrance, slick and eager. But she doesn’t thrust yet.

She looks at you, and for the first time, you see her hesitate. You nod at her quietly, just once, and she finally pushes in slowly; it was so slow it aches. Lara groans—deep, low, like she’s falling apart. Your mouth parts. Your body clenches around her, still sensitive, still warm. She buries herself to the hilt.

No punishment this time, no taunts. Just her, fully inside you, as you gasp into the open air between your mouths.

“Fuck,” she mutters, “You’re perfect.”

You tilt your hips up. Pull her closer. Her mouth meets yours again, this time with more urgency—but it’s not angry. It’s aching.

She begins to move.

Her hips moved slowly, like she wanted to feel everything. Like she wanted you to feel her—not just the stretch or the weight, but her. All of her. She kissed you as she fucked you, her hand cradling the side of your face, her body pressed flush to yours.

And you realized, maybe she’d needed this just as much as you had. Not the payback, not even the dominance, but the closeness; the kind you can’t take back.

Lara moved like she was afraid to break you. The stretch of her was familiar by now, but the way she eased into you, slowly and steady, pausing just to breathe against your mouth, it made you feel like it was the first time. Your hands were in her hair, pulling her closer, and she let you. She let herself be held.

Her forehead pressed to yours as her hips rocked into you, her rhythm was patient. You gasped, and she caught the sound with her lips, kissing it away before it could settle in the air.

“I hate how much I wanted you,” she whispered, voice ragged with emotion, “Still do.”

But she was trembling, not from anger—something else. The way you clenched around her made her groan, low in her throat, and she slowed even more, grinding deep instead of thrusting fast.

Her cock dragged perfectly along your walls, her pelvis flush against yours with every roll of her hips, sending sparks up your spine with how tender it felt—how full.

You arched into her, moaning softly into her ear, and she gasped like it surprised her, “You feel…” she started, but didn’t finish. Instead, she kissed you again, slower now, her tongue curling against yours like she was trying to say what she couldn’t.

Lara buried herself deep and just stayed there, breathing you in, “I didn’t think I could touch you like this,” she said against your neck, her voice raw, “Not like this.”

Your fingers slid down her back, nails grazing over her skin, and she shivered. You weren’t begging. You weren’t crying. You were with her—meeting every roll of her hips with your own, slow and in sync.

Your moans were soft, breathy, the kind that only came from being fucked just right. Not pounded, not used—known.

Lara gritted her teeth, trying to hold herself together, but you could feel her approaching the edge. Her eyes were wide, almost scared, like she didn’t know how to be gentle and still want something this much.

You cupped her cheek. And for the first time, she let herself look at you. Not the enemy. Not the brat. Just you. Just this.

She rocked into you deeper then, her pace tender but relentless, and you felt your body cresting toward something warm and quiet and whole. Your legs trembled around her hips, your body arching as pleasure built again—but this time, it didn’t break you. It held you.

Lara was whispering something you couldn’t quite make out. Your name, maybe, or perhaps just, “Please.”

And then you cum—shuddering around her cock, burying your face in her neck, clinging to her like you’d fall apart without her.

She didn’t stop, she just held you through it and kissed your temple. Lara slowed just enough to let you feel everything. And for a moment, she wasn’t angry anymore. She was yours.

The world felt hushed after. No rush of blood in your ears, no desperate hands, just warmth.

Lara stayed inside you for a long time, as if moving would make the moment vanish. Her body was heavy, but it didn’t weigh on you. It grounded you. Her breath was soft against your collarbone, her arms caging you in like a shield instead of a trap.

Neither of you said anything.

You could feel her heartbeat in the way her chest pressed against yours; it felt fast, unsteady even. She was still catching up to what just happened, and maybe, so were you.

Your hand moved first. Fingers brushing her hair out of her face, thumb ghosting across her cheek. She flinched at the softness of it, like it embarrassed her. Still, she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she kissed your shoulder. Then your chest. Then the underside of your jaw. Not like before, not to provoke, not to claim. Just… kissing. Like she wanted to remember the taste of peace before it slipped away.

And it was slipping. You felt it in the silence. In the way her eyes flicked to the side, avoiding yours.

She slowly pulled out of you, careful and quiet. You winced at the loss, the soreness blooming, but didn’t say anything. Lara reached for a discarded shirt, yours, maybe hers, and gently wiped between your thighs, her touch tentative, unsure if she was allowed to care this much.

Then she lay beside you, her head next to yours on the table’s edge, like she couldn’t bear to go far but didn’t know how to stay close either.

You stared at the ceiling. So did she.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” she murmured. You didn’t ask which part. You weren’t sure you were ready to hear it. Or ready to forgive it. But still, you whispered, “I know.”

Lara looked at you then. Really looked. And for a second, her face softened like she might cry, but she didn’t; she swallowed it down, tightening her jaw.

Her fingers brushed yours. A silent offer. Not an apology, not a promise. Just a question: Are we okay? You didn’t answer. But you didn’t pull away. And that was enough, at least for now.

But the quiet between you was no longer peaceful. It pulsed with the weight of what hadn’t been said. With the memory of doors slammed and voices raised and all the ways you’d hurt each other.

Still, Lara stayed close. Still, you let her.

Even if tomorrow, none of this made sense, right now, she was warm, and you were tired, and your fingers were still laced together in the room that’s now filled with memories.

The silence afterward was soft, not heavy. No longer bruising.

Lara had her forehead against your shoulder, one arm still loosely around your waist. Your hand brushed up her spine, slow and aimless, just letting the air settle between you. Her breathing had evened out, but she hadn’t moved since the last kiss.

Eventually, reality began to hum back in; the sound of a distant door, the flicker of fluorescent lights, the faint chill of the classroom.

“We should…” you murmured, voice hoarse, “probably get dressed.”

Lara made a low, reluctant sound, it’s not quite agreement, but not quite in protest either. Eventually she sat up, her hair was tousled, her shirt half-buttoned, and her mouth kissed red and slick.

You both dressed in silence. Not the kind that punished, but kind that lingered. You fastened the last button on your blouse, smoothing it out with suddenly nervous fingers. She was facing away from you now, buttoning her pants, her back rising and falling with quiet breaths.

You hesitated. Then, “Would you… maybe want to get dinner?”

She turned slightly, eyes sharp. You clarified, quickly, “I mean, I could buy you dinner. Or make you something. If you ever felt like coming over.”

Lara blinked. You pushed through the knot in your throat, “We don’t have to—I just. I think we should talk. Clear the air. That’s all. But only if you’re open to it. If not, I get it.”

You weren’t sure what kind of answer you were hoping for. You only knew your voice shook more than you wanted it to.

Lara didn’t speak right away. She just looked at you. Something in her gaze shifted; it was not soft exactly, but it was no longer guarded. Maybe it was curiosity or exhaustion; perhaps it was something in between.

Then she looked away and picked up her jacket, “Where do you live?” she asked, quietly.

You paused, silently giving yourself a high five in your head, “Fifteen minutes from here. Give or take.”

She nodded once, adjusting her jacket like it was armor again, “Text me the address.”

You couldn’t help the way your heart kicked in your chest, “You’re coming?”

She shrugged, but her voice was almost… teasing, “I never said I wasn’t.”

And just like that, the moment folded inward. The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t avoidance. It was a promise.

Your apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary. The pasta was almost done, the sauce thickening as you stirred. You had changed into a clean T-shirt and loose pants, something that made you feel a little more grounded. Presentable. Normal, even if nothing about tonight had been.

Then came the knock. You wiped your hands and crossed the room, pulse ticking as you opened the door. There she was. Lara.

Still in the same clothes, though her hair was pulled back now. Neater. Her eyes met yours without flinching, but something in her posture, in the subtle tension of her jaw, told you she was just as unsure as you were.

“Hey,” you said, offering a smile, “Come in.”

She stepped past you, eyes scanning the place, the soft lighting, the little dining setup you’d fussed over more than you cared to admit. You tried not to hover.

“I made pasta,” you added, unnecessarily, “Figured it’s hard to mess up.”

Lara looked at the plate you set down, “Smells good.”

You both sat. At first, the clink of forks and the low hum of the stovetop were the only sounds between you.

You chewed, swallowed, and searched for something light, “So… do you cook?”

Lara lifted an eyebrow, “Does microwaving count?”

You huffed a laugh, “Only if you survive eating it.”

“I mean, I’m still alive,” There was the smallest smirk on her lips, but it faded quickly, her eyes drifting toward her plate again. You kept eating, slower now. Letting the silence breathe but not stretch too long.

“Thanks for this,” she said finally.

You glanced up, “For dinner?”

“For… not making it weird.”

You offered a small smile, “It is a little weird.”

She let out a breath, a soft, short huff of agreement, “Yeah.”

Another silence, thicker this time. And then, because you couldn’t put it off anymore, you set your fork down gently.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you said, “I do want to clear the air.”

Lara fully looked at you then. She wasn’t hiding, not bracing either; just… looking. You shifted in your seat, fingers loosely clasped in front of your plate.

“I don’t know what this is, Lara,” you said honestly, “But I know what it wasn’t. That sex, the way it happened, it wasn’t just about you being angry. And it wasn’t just about me being an asshole.”

She stayed quiet. So you kept going.

“I think we’re both scared. Or pissed. Or—I don’t know. But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean anything. And I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to.”

Her expression stayed unreadable, but her throat worked like she’d swallowed something hard.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, slowly, “You just… hit something I was trying not to look at.”

You exhaled through your nose, “I get that.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s easier if you hate me.”

That hurt in a way you didn’t expect.

You reached out, just enough for your fingers to brush the table near hers, “I don’t hate you, Lara.”

She looked down at your hand, then back at your face, “Maybe you should.”

And it was such a lonely thing to say, it made your chest ache. You didn’t reach for her yet. You just looked at her and said, soft but firm, “I won’t.”

Lara didn’t respond right away. You could feel the air between you cooling, not from disinterest, but from hesitation.

You took a slow breath, “I should’ve said this earlier,” you began, “And I don’t expect it to fix anything. But… I’m sorry.”

Her brows pulled together, almost confused, “For what?”

“For him,” You swallowed, “For letting that go on for so long. For pretending it wasn’t that bad. Even when it was.”

Lara’s eyes flickered. You could tell she wasn’t expecting that. You pressed your palms together, grounding yourself, “I think I kept waiting for him to turn into someone he never really was. And I was so tired of fighting that I started telling myself it wasn’t worth making noise about anymore.”

You paused, “But it was hurting me. And… it was hurting how I looked at you.”

That pulled her attention sharply.

“I hated how he treated you,” you said, “How he’d make digs and put his hands on me like he was proving something. And I still stayed. I didn’t defend you when I should’ve. And I want you to know that that was cowardly. And I’m sorry.”

The silence felt louder now. Lara leaned back slightly in her chair. She blinked like she was still processing. Then her voice came, soft, but edged with something surprised, “So you’re… not with him anymore?”

You nodded, “I ended it. I told him last week.”

Something shifted behind Lara’s eyes. A flash of something like relief or confusion, perhaps it was both, “You didn’t tell anyone,” she said.

“It didn’t feel like a story worth telling. Just something I should’ve done sooner,” You let that settle, then added, quieter, “And if I’m being honest… I think I’ve been thinking about someone else for a while now.”

Lara tilted her head, “Yeah?”

You looked at her then, really looked at her, and for once you didn’t deflect, “Yeah.”

She blinked. Slow. Cautious. Like she wasn’t sure whether to believe you, or whether it was fair to.

“I thought maybe I was just projecting,” you said, smiling faintly, “Because you’re…you. Loud, magnetic, impossible to ignore. But it wasn’t just that. I think I noticed how you saw me. When he didn’t.”

Her face softened.

“And it scared the shit out of me.”

Lara leaned forward, elbows on the table now, eyes locked onto yours, “Still scared?”

You met her gaze, and for the first time in a while, felt something honest settle in your chest, “A little less.”

Lara didn’t say anything at first. But you saw her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, like she was trying to decide if she should cross the line that had already been erased hours ago.

You didn’t wait. You reached out, gently took her hand across the table, “You can… come sit with me, if you want.”

She stood slowly, then rounded the table and sank beside you on the couch, knees brushing yours. You weren’t touching yet, but the heat was there, humming in the small space between you.

Then, finally, your hand found her jaw. You kissed her slowly, deep, nothing like the first time in that classroom. No breathless anger, no punishing urgency. Just the press of lips that had wanted this too long, too quietly.

You kissed her like you were trying to say everything you hadn’t. She kissed you like she wanted to believe you meant it. And you did.

Your arms slid around her waist. You pulled her close, impossibly close, until her chest was pressed to yours, your fingers gripping the back of her shirt like you were scared she’d disappear. She felt it.

Lara pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you, and you didn’t realize how tightly you were holding her until her voice came, low and almost hesitant, “You’re really not letting go, huh?”

Your breath hitched. You tried to laugh, but it came out smaller than expected, “No,” you whispered, “I’m not.”

Lara’s face shifted, something unspoken unfolding in her expression. And then she pulled you right back in, one hand sliding up your spine, the other curling protectively around your shoulder.

You buried your face in her neck, breathing her in, clinging. For the first time since everything exploded, since the yelling, the fucking, the fallout, it felt like peace. Like maybe this was what you’d both been chasing. Not just pleasure. Not just closure. But each other.

Lara’s thumb traced your cheekbone like she was trying to memorize you. You looked up at her from the couch, eyes soft, breath already shallow from the way her hands had lingered, not with hunger this time, but something deeper. Something like awe.

You reached up, touching her face, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “Come here,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. She leaned down slowly, and when she kissed you again, it was different. Gone was the sharpness, the desperate edge. This kiss was warm and steady. Like you were hers, and she was yours, and the rest of the world could wait.

She carried you to your bedroom, carefully, like you might break if she wasn’t gentle. And when she laid you down, it was with a look on her face you’d never seen before, like she’d found something she never thought she deserved.

Your hands moved beneath her shirt, pushing the fabric up with quiet desire. You kissed every inch of skin you uncovered, her stomach, her ribs, the space just under her breasts. You worshipped her body, slow and unhurried, until she finally let you pull the shirt over her head.

And then her gaze dropped to you.

She sat back on her knees beside you, silent, eyes drinking you in like she was seeing something sacred. You felt the air change again—thick with adoration, not lust. When her fingers reached for the hem of your shirt, she hesitated, her touch featherlight.

“Is this okay?” she whispered. You nodded, already breathless.

She peeled your shirt up with slowly, carefully. Her eyes didn’t leave your skin as more of it was revealed. And when she saw you—truly saw you—her breath caught, and her thumb traced the dip between your ribs like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Lara bent down and pressed a kiss to your chest, just over your heart.

Her fingers moved to your waistband next, tugging gently at the soft fabric of your pants. You lifted your hips for her, letting her pull them down, leaving you bare and open in front of her. But you didn’t feel exposed.

You felt seen.

She sat there for a beat, just looking at you like she didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this moment.

Then she touched your thigh, warm and steady, and leaned forward to kiss you again.

This time slower. This time sweeter. Like she didn’t want to stop. You lean into her, pressing kisses on her skin.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered against her, your lips brushing over her collarbone, “I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Lara exhaled shakily. Her fingers curled into the bedsheets on either side of you.

You kissed your way up to her mouth, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

She looked like she was going to argue, like some part of her didn’t believe you, but you didn’t let her.

You kissed her again, soft, open, aching, and guided her gently between your legs.

This time, she entered you with a tenderness that stole the air from your lungs.

There was no rushing nor any sharp words, just the warmth of her body above yours, the feeling of her forehead pressed to yours as she moved slowly inside you.

She kissed you through every thrust, your lips, your jaw, the tip of your nose. Her hands cradled your face, like she couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t believe you were real.

And in the spaces between her movements, she whispered your name like a prayer. You clung to her, hips rising to meet hers, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. Not from guilt. But from the overwhelming way she was holding you, like this wasn’t just sex.

Like it was love. You moaned her name, your voice breaking, your hands sliding up her back, “Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please, Lara—”

She didn’t. She moved with you, for you, until you came again, shuddering, clinging to her, your face buried in the crook of her neck. And she stayed with you, moving gently, as you rode the waves together.

Afterward, she didn’t pull away. She stayed wrapped around you, her lips against your temple, your thighs tangled. No words, just breath and heartbeat and warmth.

And the quiet, terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, this was what it meant to be loved.

#runm3over recs

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