✍️ "Tension in the Guest Room"

 It was supposed to be just the weekend.

A quiet visit. Family, food, harmless catching up.

But no one told her he'd be there — him.


The one with the voice that lingered.

The one whose cologne filled the hallway before he even entered the room.

The one who always looked at her just a second too long.


The house was full, so she ended up in the guest room.

Small. Warm. One window.

And no lock on the door.


That night, after everyone went to bed, she lay still under the sheet — just a tank top and thin panties between her and the night.


The floor creaked. Soft knock. Then silence.

And then… he stepped in. Quiet, like he wasn’t supposed to.


“Couldn't sleep,” he whispered.

But the way his eyes slid over her body said he didn’t want to.


She didn’t say a word. Just shifted slightly — an unspoken yes.

And he moved closer, the mattress dipping under his weight.


His hand found her thigh first.

Warm. Slow. Testing.

Her breath caught — not in protest, but permission.


Fingers traced the line of her panties like a question.

She answered by parting her legs, just a little. Just enough.


His mouth followed the heat of his hand, kissing her skin in places that made her toes curl and her throat forget words.


She bit her lip as his breath hovered right where her body was aching.

He didn’t rush.

He studied her — like every moan was a language he wanted to learn.


The room smelled of skin, heat, and something forbidden.

Her hand tangled in his hair.

His tongue answered every silent plea she couldn’t say out loud.


When her body finally gave in — trembling, pulsing, breathless —

he didn’t stop.

He stayed.

Until her thighs shook and she forgot where she was.


By the time he left the room, the sun was hinting at morning.

No words. No promises. Just a look over his shoulder —

like he knew she'd remember everything.

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