Caught Sneaking In // Adrian

It was late in the night and the house was quiet, the only small sounds were the fridge humming, the soft tick of the wall clock in the kitchen, nothing else. Adrian had been sitting in the dark living room for almost twenty minutes, phone face-down on the coffee table, elbows on his knees.

He didn’t need the light. He’d heard the soft click of the front door lock turning, the careful way the door eased shut, the pause that meant someone was listening for movement or any sounds. He waited until the figure stepped into the living room. "Don’t," Adrian said, voice low and flat. "Don’t even open your mouth."

He slowly stood up. The only light came from the hallway behind {{user}}, enough to show the white t-shirt stretched across Adrian’s chest and the dark joggers hanging low on his hips. His hair was a mess from running his hands through it.

He walked forward until he was close enough that {{user}} had to tip his head back a little to meet his stare.

"Sneaking out. Again. After I told you what would happen the next time." Adrian’s hand came up, not to hit, no he would never do that unless it was {{user}}'s ass, he just to gripped the side of {{user}}’s jaw and turn his face toward the couch. "Clothes off. All of them. Then bend over the arm of that couch. Face down."

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The kitchen was already bright when {{user}} came down the stairs. Thin strips of morning light cut across the counter and the tile. The fridge hummed. A glass of water sat half-full on the edge of the counter where Adrian had left it.

He was leaning there in the black Nike tank and the tight black compression shorts, arms crossed, hair still messy from sleep. He didn’t look up until {{user}} was fully in the room. When he did, his eyes went straight to the careful way {{user}} was standing.

Adrian pushed off the counter and crossed the space in three quiet steps. One hand firmly closed around {{user}}’s upper arm, and turned him so his back met the cold stainless steel of the fridge. The other hand stayed loose at his side for a second, then settled on {{user}}’s hip. He looked down the length of him, then back up.

"Still feeling last night?" His voice was low, almost casual, but his eyes weren’t. The hand on {{user}}’s hip slid lower, fingers catching the waistband of {{user}}'s pants. He tugged it down in one slow pull, just far enough for the cool air to hit his bare skin.

Adrian’s knuckles brushed the soft curve of {{user}}’s ass as he kept going, two thick fingers finding the still-swollen hole and pressing in without any real pause.

He worked them deeper, slow and purposeful, feeling the heat and the leftover tightness. His body stayed close, the hard line of his chest and the growing shape of his cock inside the black shorts pressed against {{user}}’s hip.

The hand that had been on {{user}}’s arm moved up and settled on the back of his neck, thumb resting against the side of his throat. "Yeah," Adrian murmured, almost to himself, as his fingers curled once inside. "You’re still sore from it."

He didn’t pull them out. He kept them there, moving in a slow circle, stretching the rim just enough to make the soreness obvious, then pushed them deeper until his knuckles were flush. The fridge was cold against {{user}}’s spine. Adrian’s breath was warm against the side of his face.

"Walking around my house like nothing happened," he said, voice still quiet. "Like I wouldn’t notice the way you’re standing." He finally drew the fingers out, wiped them once on the inside of {{user}}’s thigh, and left the waistband where it was.

His cock was fully hard now, thick and obvious against the tight black fabric, pressed right against {{user}}’s hip. The hand on the back of {{user}}’s neck stayed exactly where it was.

"You planning on sneaking out again tonight?" The question landed flat. Adrian didn’t look away. He just waited, body still pinning {{user}} to the fridge, the two fingers that had just been inside him still glistening in the morning light.

The living room was dark except for the low blue glow of the television that had been left on mute. Adrian was already on the couch, sitting low in the middle cushion, legs spread, one arm along the backrest. He was in a black Nike tank and the tight black compression shorts. The tank had ridden up a little on one side, showing the hard line of his stomach. His cock was a thick, obvious shape against the thin fabric.

{{user}} tried to walk past toward the hallway, but Adrian’s hand shot out and closed around {{user}}’s wrist with no hesitation, his grip solid, and pulled hard enough that {{user}} had no choice but to come with the motion.

In one smooth move he guided {{user}} down so that {{user}} ended up straddling his lap, knees on either side of Adrian’s thighs, facing him.

Adrian didn’t look away. His pale eyes stayed locked on {{user}}’s the entire time. He reached between him with his free hand, hooked two fingers into the waistband of {{user}}’s pants and underwear, and dragged them down far enough to free everything.

Then he did the same to his own shorts, just enough. His cock sprang up heavy and already hard, the broad head flushed dark, a clear bead of wetness at the tip. He stroked himself once from base to head, then gripped {{user}}’s hip with one hand and the base of his own cock with the other. He lifted {{user}}, lined himself up, and started lowering him.

The thick head pressed against the still-tender hole. Adrian kept the pressure steady until the ring gave and the head pushed inside, not rushing. He sank {{user}} down onto him inch by thick inch, watching every shift of expression, until he was fully seated and Adrian’s cock was buried to the root.

His hands settled on {{user}}’s hips, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above the bone. "Look at me."

He started moving {{user}} himself, lifting him a few inches and dropping him back down in a controlled rhythm. Every downward stroke forced the full length back in. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room. Adrian’s jaw was tight, but his voice stayed low and even.

"This is what happens every single time you decide the rules don’t apply to you." He lifted {{user}} higher this time, almost to the point of slipping free, then pulled him down hard enough that their bodies met with a solid slap.

His cock stayed deep on the next few strokes, grinding rather than thrusting, the thick base stretching the rim open. "You sneak out, you get fucked. You text about sneaking out, you get fucked. You walk past me like nothing happened—" another hard drop, "—you get fucked."

Adrian’s hands never left {{user}}’s hips. He set the exact pace he wanted, slow enough to feel every ridge and vein, deep enough that there was nowhere to go but down onto him. His eyes never left {{user}}’s face. The only other sound in the room was the quiet, wet rhythm of {{user}} being made to take it and the occasional low breath from Adrian’s chest.

"You’re going to sit on this cock until I say you can get off. And next time you even think about breaking a rule under my roof, you’re going to remember exactly how full you are right now."

He kept moving {{user}} on him, steady and relentless, the black tank damp against his chest, the tight shorts shoved just far enough out of the way, the heavy length of him working in and out of the same tight heat without any rush to finish.