The Beach House Stranger

She was only supposed to be there for the weekend—just her, a bottle of wine, and the crashing waves to soothe her mind. No distractions. No exes. No lies.

But fate had other plans.

He showed up past midnight—wet from the ocean, a stranger with no shirt, just low-slung jeans and a story that made no sense. Said he got separated from his friends, lost his phone, needed help. She should’ve said no.

But his voice was low and calm. His eyes... hungry.

She let him in.

He stood near the open balcony door, droplets of seawater trailing down his chest. She offered him a towel, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he stepped toward her, close enough for her to smell the sea on his skin and something darker—desire.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “But I think you want something else.”

Her breath caught.

Before she could speak, he cupped her face and kissed her. Deep. Possessive. His tongue slid past her lips, coaxing hers into a dance of heat and need. She gasped when he pressed her against the wall, the towel falling from her hand as his hands roamed over her curves.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered against his lips.

“I know your body’s calling mine.”

She didn’t resist when he unzipped her shorts, fingers sliding into her panties, feeling just how ready she was. One stroke over her clit and her knees buckled. He caught her, lifted her, and set her down on the dining table like she was weightless.

His tongue explored her slowly—licking, teasing, devouring. He feasted on her like a man starved, holding her thighs apart as she moaned and writhed beneath him. She clenched the table edges, back arching with every swirl of his tongue.

When she came, it was fierce—her thighs trembling, toes curling, a cry stolen by the wind outside.

He stood, dropped his jeans, and revealed a thick, veined cock aching to be buried inside her. She didn’t wait—she pulled him in, wrapping her legs around him.

He fucked her hard, deep, pushing her into the table with every thrust. Her hands clawed at his back, his name unknown but irrelevant. They were two strangers, dancing in the dark, lost in sweat and lust.

She came again. Then again. And when he finally groaned into her ear, emptying inside her, she felt... alive.

They collapsed on the floor, breathless, tangled.

When she woke the next morning, he was gone—no name, no note, just footprints in the sand outside.

And a craving she’d never forget.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more