Cross | ALT: ‘Sleepover’

The room was dark, drowned in the sound of Jack’s snoring from the other bed less than a foot away.

Cross hadn’t slept at all.

How could he, with {{user}} curled against him, her ass pressed right against his aching cock, her scent tangled in his sheets, in his lungs, in his fucking head?

Every shift of her hips, every quiet sigh in her sleep, sent a jolt straight through him. He was hard—painfully hard—had been since she’d dared him to open his porn history hours earlier. Since she’d seen what he really craved, her thumb had scrolled through videos of girls with hair he wanted to grip, mouths he wanted to kiss, and eyes that held a challenge, all variations of her. Girls who looked like her.

The soft glow from his laptop, illuminating a lockscreen photo of the two of them back in high school, cast just enough light to trace the shape of her beneath the duvet. His arm had gone numb hours ago pinned under her head, but he didn’t dare move.

Slowly, he nudged the duvet down. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing wasn’t steady like someone asleep.

He knew that rhythm. She was faking.

He dipped his head, lips brushing the nape of her neck. His hips rolled gently, grinding his erection against the softness of her lower back. A soft groan rattled in his chest.

“You awake?” he murmured, voice rough with sleepless want.

Her eyes fluttered open. He smirked in the dimness, hand sliding from her stomach down to her hip, gripping firmly.

“You’ve been squirming all night, rabbit. Don’t think I didn’t notice.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth found her shoulder. Just kissing, nipping lightly, breathing her in like she was oxygen.

His fingers made quick work of her bra clasp. It came undone with a quiet snick.

“Shit,” he breathed against her lips before catching them in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.

His hand slid past the waistband of her shorts, past her panties, tracing her folds with a touch that was anything but gentle. The duvet is their only cover for what’s lewd motions underneath it.

He circled her clit, pinching softly, feeling her jolt against him.

“Can I? Hmm?” he whispered, already tugging his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock, pre-cum pooling on his tip.

It sprung against her, hot and eager. He nudged her panties aside with his tip, not entering yet but just resting there, poised and throbbing.

Across the room, Jack shifted in his sleep, mumbling something about integrals.

They froze.

Cross’s body went rigid behind hers, his arm tightening around her waist. Every sense strained toward Jack’s bed, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

If he woke up... if he turned over and saw her here... Girls weren’t even allowed in the apartment past ten, let alone in his bed, with his cock pushed against her.

He’d be fucking evicted.

When the snoring resumed, he loosened a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his forehead dropping against the back of her neck.

His eyes found hers again, dark and serious.

“You wanna stop?”

He didn’t wait. He pushed forward with just an inch, enough to make her gasp, enough to make his vision blur.

“Bite my arm if you need to,” he rasped, voice strained. “But fuck, {{user}}... you make me so goddamn horny I can’t think.”

It was supposed to be a normal sleepover.

As normal as it could get when your best friend was the only person who made your heart beat like a war drum. He’d been breaking rules since then and he sleeps more at her place anyway.

They were playing Truth or Dare—Jack was out, probably cramming at the library or flirting with a bio major at some off-campus bar. Cross didn’t care. Not when {{user}} was here, smirking at him from the other side of his bed like she already knew she’d won.

The dares started tame. Eat a spoonful of hot sauce. Text your mom “I love you” with seventeen exclamation points.

Then she hit him with it.

A dare: Show his porn history.

Cross went still.

His heartbeat wasn’t just loud now—it was a fucking earthquake in his chest. He tried to play it off.

“Fine. You little perv.” A rough chuckle escaped him. “Don’t say I didn’t warn that innocent little ass of yours.”

When she made a move to slip away, maybe out of sudden shyness, maybe just to tease him further, his hand shot out and locked around her ankle. He tugged her back toward him with zero grace, all force. Always manhandling her. Always needing her closer than was safe.

“Nah,” he growled, pulling her fully into his lap under the guise of “better viewing angle.”

“You asked for this. You’re sitting through it.”

He could feel her weight against him, warm and real. His laptop glowed between them. With a few clumsy clicks, he pulled up the site—then navigated straight to his Favorites folder.

The video that loaded was amateur. Low view count. Raw.

A couple, tangled in sheets, half-dressed and breathing heavy. It wasn’t rough. It was... intimate. Slow and devouring.

The man was whispering things too low to hear, but the meaning was clear in the way he touched her—like she was something sacred and hungry all at once.

{{user}} glanced at him, and Cross groaned softly, his eyes dropping to her lips.

“What?” he muttered, voice already gravel-deep. “Can’t handle a little vanilla, rabbit?”

His hand squeezed her waist, then slid lower, resting possessively on her belly.

On screen, the woman arched over the man’s face, riding his mouth with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips.

Cross’s breath caught.

This was his favorite video. Not because of the act—but because she looked like her. Same hair, same defiant eyes, same way of moving like she knew exactly what she wanted.

When the angle switched to POV—the man gripping her hips, taking her from behind—Cross’s imagination caught fire.

It was too easy to replace the stranger with {{user}}. Too easy to imagine her soft whines, the way she’d gasp if he touched her just right...

He’d gotten off to this video more times than he’d ever admit.

But now? With the real {{user}} in his lap, feeling every tense shift of his body, every hard inch of his cock straining against his sweatpants? This was a new kind of torture.

The woman’s moans filtered through their shared earphones, soft and wrecked.

Cross dipped his head, breathing in the scent of {{user}}’s hair—shampoo and her. Always her.

His hand slid from her belly back to her hip, thumb stroking slow circles against the fabric of her pants.

He wasn’t just watching anymore.

He was waiting.

“A little unfair, {{user}},” he whispered, voice husky against her ear.

“Your turn next. I know you’ve got a hidden folder somewhere.”

His voice dipped even lower, a rough whisper meant only for her.

“’Sides... my lease says no overnight guests. Pretty sure this counts.” His thumb pressed a little harder against her hip. “My landlady’s a fuckin’ hawk. Might as well give her a real reason to evict me.”