_a/n: OK SO CAUTION. this gets inappropriate. like very. aka i'm switching the rating to M. you've been warned lol
(i'm sorry if smut makes you uncomfortable and if it does, maybe you should only read half of this? the second half is it. it's not a lot, but i mean. it's a good amount of smut.)
v. here's to heads, heels, and falling
And he was right. Her pants looked better on his floor.
.
.
.
It's not like she's a prude or anything. Really.
She just never considered herself a sexual creature, especially in the abode of her own apartment complex. When all parts of her home add up—the banal walls of simple tones, the mixture of wooden and carpeted floors, the floral vintage couches, the pure blanch bathroom setting; she could only conclude that there is an extreme lack of sex appeal—all plain with no hidden stashes or tabs of porn on her laptop or dirty DVDs, no spunky colors to splash any part of the rooms, or lonely toys for that lonely soul.
This is only in the beginning though.
This is when she'd been a liberal arts major, she'd have ramen nightly, and drown her aching drunk body in a winter bath after having to sneak back in through her fire escape because she'd forgotten her key on her countertop. This is before sporadic pizza deliveries and spontaneous AM runs to the local mini mart to pick up milk for her cinnamon toast crunch. This is before having someone that was willing to take the subway and walk three blocks to the diner she worked at past midnight to accompany her home because she had a nasty feeling about that man with the glasses who kept staring at her through the transparent doors. This is before Lucas Friar.
It's Friday morning.
She usually sleeps in since they both don't have class, but since she'd crashed around nine the night before, she let herself step out of her room in the early hours of the morning. Because hey, why not?
It's 10:07 AM and her fingers are clenching and unclenching at the hem of her sweater when she opens the door of her refrigerator and prays to every god out there (despite the fact she's a goddamn atheist) to help her keep her eyes off his bare, tanned, toned (glistening—his body is fucking glistening) back. He's at the stove making pancakes, broad and lined and not facing her. And fuck, she really needs to start waking up earlier.
And she's staring. Boy, is she staring.
"Do we need to make another juice run?"
He doesn't turn, and proceeds to flip a round of chocolate chip batter. She blinks, ruby red in the face. Right. She'd forgotten she'd kept the fridge wide open when she'd been meaning to pull out the carton of orange juice she tends to drink after dragging herself out of bed. She'd totally forgotten—hadn't even noticed the cool atmosphere enveloping her since heated, dirty, embarrassing thoughts had colored her mind.
"Oh—uh—no," the blonde internally scolds herself for stammering. "The chill was refreshing."
"Hot, isn't it?" And this is when he glances over at her, handing her a plate.
"What?" She really hopes she's not as scarlet as she feels.
"The weather?" and he flashes her a smile in clarification—that knowing kind of smile, the one that's slightly smug and shows just the right amount of teeth; the one that screams something between I can see through you and I'm a complete tool.
Right. Goddamn she hates feeling like the virgin school girl.
It's 10:11 AM and she can't help but lose herself in scenarios of him pushing her up against her walls, of her pushing him down on the floor where the carpet meets the wood, of how comfortable the couch would be if he were to go rough on her, and of ridding the essence of purity with the sounds she can make in her bath tub. Man, the fact she can see the definitions of his abs when she takes the plate from him throws her off the edge, hungry for more than just breakfast.
"The landlord really needs to get his shit together and fix the A.C.," Maya states, reluctant to change the subject. That is until she's spraying whipped cream into her mouth. She tries her absolute best to keep her head from spiraling at the thought, keeping her eyes on her food and thinking twice before letting her pupils wander.
"Agreed," she hears him say opening the freezer. "We're outta ice cream. Let's get something cold tonight?"
Anything to keep her cool. "I'm down for Slurpees."
/
They end up getting way too much to load around even when the nearest Seven Eleven had been approximately a block and a half away. They're each carrying two paper bags filled with unnecessary necessities, she calls them, along with their shaved ice beverages.
The staircase is daunting, but for some odd reason she chooses it over the elevator, using the excuse of having a television show to watch at a certain time and she'd been impatient waiting for the doors to open. He knows something's up, though; just can't name it. She'd been acting strange the entire day. She barely even watched TV—such bullshit.
He's pulled out of his train of thought when he notices how short her skirt is as she's skipping along the steps in front of him. No matter her speed, his stride is enough for him to be right behind her after every tread up the stairs. He fixates his gaze upon the back of her body, from the waist she reveals during the rare occasions she wears cropped tops (and he recalls the indents of her hip bones—wow) to the ass that's swaying side to side with every level, skirt flouncing up and down unbeknownst to her (and he tries to ignore the fact he'd caught a glimpse of red panties—he tries to be a gentleman, looks at his feet after being flashed in silence, but really; his thoughts are running haywire) and her fucking legs. Always bare, always miles long, always looking velvety smooth.
It's 9:54 PM and he can't help but dream about them being wrapped around the bottom of his torso with his hands holding her ass up against the wall and his—
Maya comes to a halt on the second to last step, quickly looking back at him with an alarmed look. She'd asked something about chocolate fudge that he'd barely heard in the background and he's taken aback at her sudden stop, accidentally ramming into her slightly before flushing red and automatically moving the paper bags to the front of his body to hide an uncomfortable bulge that had made contact with her side.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"I've got the chocolate," he answers a little too quickly.
Her eyes squint at him in that confused king of way, ignoring his answer because at this point, it's the last thing on her mind.
Fuck.
Without shrugging or any further commentary, the Hart turns back on her heel and makes it to their door.
/
Her lips are cherry red from her Slurpee and they are both fully clothed for reasons they both decide not to explain to each other—basically their attempts to prevent awkwardness from spurring. It is approximately ninety-three degrees and Maya Hart, for the first time, is wearing pajama pants and Lucas can't help but think (in a matter-of-factly way) that it has to do with him.
Great. Now she thinks you're probably one of those perverted roommates. The ones that secretly obsess and masturbate to her shower sighs and fuck it all she's probably going to kick you out by the end of the night. (even if you did pay for over half of her snack picks) You screwed yourself over, say hello to New York streets.
So what that he'd gotten hard? He can't help it—really. He hadn't gotten any action since his first girlfriend in his later high school years and Maya Hart is stunningly hot. He can't not fantasize. It's not like he'd ever advanced on her or thought of advancing on her. Maybe he flirted here and there, but that's the end of it. They were friends, capital f. There's a ninety-nine percent chance she'd gotten freaked out, he decides.
Dammit.
/
She doesn't mention it.
How would someone address something like that, anyway?
She wonders what Lucas had been thinking about—whether it'd been a double x film or something NC-17 or maybe, possibly, her? She shakes her head at the last part, instantly dropping that option in order to rid of unnecessary hopes and whirlwind her mind places where it shouldn't heighten. She knows exactly how bustling her brain gets at these thoughts that'd been inescapable today.
The blonde continues to stare off into oblivion, vision misplaced as her roommate flips through the channels beside her, whose senses are growing more aware of the close proximity of their bodies. She's squirming subconsciously at the uncomfortable feeling of her inner thighs in these goddamn pants and these goddamn thoughts.
"Maya, you do realize it's over ninety degrees, right?" he breaks their silence.
She quirks a brow condescendingly in his direction and replies, "Yes."
"Aren't you hot?"
"Aren't you?"
The Friar boy mutters something incomprehensible under his breath as he pivots his gaze toward the blaring television. And since she's got a temper, especially if it has to do with him giving her cheek, she's quick to speak up.
"Excuse me?" She deems it easier to be angered with him than feel the need to fuck him senseless.
"I'm very hot, actually. So pardon me, ma'am," he snaps, because he deems it easier to be annoyed by her than feel the need to kiss her senseless. He stands up and steps over where her legs are resting on the coffee table in order to make his way to their kitchen.
"I have a name," Maya grumbles, getting off her ass as well and starting to shuffle to get to the fridge before him. A glass of water is what she needs to quench her thirst. That's all. Really.
"Says the one who calls me some form of Cowboy weekly," he sees the game she's playing as soon as she's trying to make her way in front of him to cut him off at the slight platform of the cold kitchen floor. He doesn't give her the satisfaction with the use of the speed and agility he'd been able to strengthen during sports. Lucas steadily opens the fridge to eye the pitcher and just as he's about to grab it, she bumps his hip with hers, and grabs the iced cold water before him.
"Get your own drink," and Maya knows she's being childish. This is how she masks it, how she keeps cheeks from tinting rose and prevents herself from stammering. If she keeps this up and he continues to become frustrated with her, he'll disappear into his bedroom and she won't have to deal with him—with this.
But since Lucas doesn't give up without a fight, he's quick to steal the pitcher right back and trail sturdily out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into his room—distinctly emphasizing the boundary of the off-limit zone. They'd discussed the importance of boundaries, and if one or the other were to enter the other's chambers without permission, they owed the other whatever they pleased. He smirks at her from inner depth of his room as she flips him off. He proceeds to drink straight from the pitcher, and that's when she goes ballistic because its ninety-three degrees and she had filled that shit up.
"Give it to me," she mutters sourly. She's actually too irritated that she doesn't notice how teasing her words had been. Feeling mischievous and lacking the sense to give a damn, she steps foot into his quarters attempting to reach for the water he'd been holding in the air above his head. After fruitless tip-toeing and stupid hopping attempts, (and he—still snickering at her tiny body trying the impossible) she comes up with an idea.
Maya leans toward him, only sort of, leaving enough space for a veil of heat to conjure in between them as she slowly begins to run her fingers down his chest and quieting the sound of her voice.
"I know you want to give it to me," her voice is sweet, sweet venom—tempting, intoxicating, addicting.
He gulps. This is not how things were supposed to go.
She slides two fingers down the pattern of his abs, only the thin layer of his v-neck preventing skin to skin contact. The smirk slowly fades from his face and onto hers. She's got him around her finger. She dares herself to move a finger lower, watching the way his elbows buckle, lowering the pitcher to her reach. Once its in her grip and the bottom is in her hands, they both make a yank at it.
And of course, (because of puberty, genetics, testosterone) he pulls it harder, and the two toppling onto his bed is inevitable at this point. The water ends up splashing on the both of them and he drops it somewhere on the carpet. They're wet and she's hurdled on top of him.
It's 11:42 PM and he's breathing in the scent of her flavored lips and she feels him pushing against her thigh and sighs. There's way too many heated thoughts unraveling the parts of their mind they try their best to keep hidden that they stay in place, unable to move with a locked gaze and parallel pants connected to the rhythm of that beating in their chests.
"A little breathless there, aren't 'cha?"
"You know," he starts smugly. He'd always been good at playing her little games. "I think I'd be able to get my normal dose of oxygen if you weren't on top of me, crushing my poor diaphragm."
"Sucks for your diaphragm," she smiles, resting her chin on her hands which are now embedded at the very top of his chest. Her lips are teasing and her eyes are tempting. And when she pushes her groin against his hard shaft, he throws his head back further into his bed, his eyes shutting and his lips parting in sensation. When he manages to tilt his chin forward to meet her eyes, she closes the gap of his mouth with hers.
She tastes like cherries and vanilla and fuck, he knows he'll never be able to get enough.
The Hart bites his bottom lip and steals the throaty sigh that comes from his lungs with another kiss afterward, before sitting up and continuing to straddle him. She throws blonde tendrils behind her ears before feeling the dampness of his shirt. In the dim luminescence of his desk lamp, every line of his chest is visible through the transparent white of the fabric and her pupils dilate. As she pulls his shirt up, he moves his hands on top of her to stop him.
"Ladies first," he murmurs smoothly. "You look gorgeous and all, but I'm pretty sure your pants would look much better on my floor."
"Only because I owe you for coming into your bedroom," she acquiesces, before taking a quick look around his walls and remarking with a shit-eating grin, "—which is pretty mediocre. I wouldn't have ever pinned you as a Texan Ranger if I were to judge your persona based off your room."
"Shut up," he says, leaning up to bruise her neck.
"Make me."
There's a flicker of lust in her eyes that he catches and she's offering him another challenge that he's willing to accept. He'll always be willing to play. He places his hands on her hips and forces a switch in position so he's on top, switching it up and catching her off guard at the sudden change. And like he'd planned, she's momentarily silenced as he pulls her pants down her heaven-sent legs and flings them behind him, already long forgotten.
Maya watches as his eyes descend lower, pupils still on her as he lets his fingers crawl up the inner of her thighs and play with the lace of her panties. And knowing Maya from the months he's lived with her, he could already tell she wouldn't be a fan of child's play, so he swiftly pulls the garment down, slowly, steadily, and teasingly before throwing the backs of her legs over his broad, dampened shoulders, hooking her to him while his tongue toys with her clit.
He wants to capture the sound that erupts from her bitten lips, but he settles on simply being able to make them, being the cause of such whimpering desperation, continuing to suck on her folds before pushing a finger in and her gasp is even better than what he'd dreamed it to sound like.
After a round of vibrant sensations and heavy panting, (and when had her shirt come off?) she roughly pushes him against the headboard and doesn't hesitate to pull off his pants and boxers. She eyes the prize, and flickers her eyes to his vulnerable, desperate, pleading stare—keeping their gaze locked as she licks his shaft up. The groan that bursts with every down of his cock brims her skin with goosebumps. She spits his fluids onto him before continuing to bob her head down, and he adores the way her eyes never leave his. She swirls her tongue and kisses the wet tip, and he decides she's going to be the death of him. When she moves onto using her hands, her talented, nifty fingers curled around him and moving at brilliant speed, her name slips out of his lips.
He unclasps her bra, moving his lips across erected tits and molding his calloused hands wherever he can get a yelp out of her.
Before he climaxes, he pushes her down onto his bed, watching her vixen eyes that screamed for his full entrance, flare and twinkle wildly. She watches him shuffle on a condom from his night stand drawer and her kitten smile does wonders to his body. She fists one of her hands into his chestnut hair while another claws at his back when he thrusts into her tight walls. At the quickening of his pace, her toes curl and she moans so load that he kisses her to absorb the noise and moisture the dryness that had taken over her tongue.
It's 1:09 AM and she reaches her orgasm only fifteen seconds before him, her delightful moans igniting his climactic vein of pleasure before he bursts.
/
She wakes up to him fiddling with strands of her hair.
The morning glow of the sun beams through cracks of his window and brightens the lodging that had once been her guest room, a place of banal walls and carpeted floors, a place she had never even thought of having sex in before Lucas Friar.
She turns to face him then, admiring the way sunlight pours onto a mélange of his exposed body parts. The two exchange quiet good mornings and soft smiles.
"Lucas Friar, Thirst Quencher," he states, pleased with himself. He continues to tease, "Ladies call me Gatorade."
She sighs, defeated that she'd been the first one to have melted in the others' hands by a mere fifteen seconds. "Shut up."
"Make me," he mimics.
It's 9:13 AM when she drags him out of bed behind her and his lips have become bitten, bruised, and marked hers. And he was right. Her pants looked better on his floor.