Moving In
With Paris Berelc
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Cheating
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.
(https://thumbs2.imgbox.com/29/e0/kONI1zjl_t.jpg) (https://imgbox.com/kONI1zjl)
(Story Inspired by Pix)
It had been a long day, as my buddy and I were helping his girlfriend, Paris, move into his apartment. They’d only been dating for a few weeks, hell, maybe a month if you were being generous, but here we were, hauling boxes of her stuff up three flights of stairs like it was a damn wedding registry.
Personally? I thought it was too soon. Way too soon. But he seemed completely taken with her, eyes lighting up every time she spoke, acting like she was the missing puzzle piece in his messed-up life. Maybe she was. Or maybe he was blinded by the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous and had the kind of flirty energy that turned heads without even trying.
I tried not to judge. She seemed cool enough. Talkative, always joking around, the kind of girl who knew exactly when to play innocent and when to throw out a loaded glance just to watch the room shift.
Still, something about this whole thing rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was how fast it was happening. Maybe it was how she looked at him, and sometimes, how she looked at me.
But that didn’t matter right now. Right now, we were knee-deep in cardboard boxes, sweat, and the smell of too many scented candles packed without lids.
And of course, just as the sun started dipping and the last box thudded onto the floor, my buddy wiped his hands on his jeans, slapped me on the back, and said, “I’m gonna run out for beer and pizza. You two cool to start unpacking?”
Before I could say anything, he was already grabbing his keys and heading for the door.
Which left me alone. With Paris.
And a whole lot of unsaid tension packed tighter than her suitcase full of yoga pants.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment instantly felt smaller.
Paris had this energy about her, constant, unbothered, and always just a little too much. She was smiling, humming to herself, digging through a box full of candles, books, and makeup bags. Every time she moved, her shirt slipped a little further off one shoulder. Every now and then, she’d glance up and catch me watching.
She never said anything. Just smirked like she knew exactly what she was doing.
I tried to focus. I really did. But unpacking someone else’s life next to them while you both threw flirtatious glances each other's way? Not easy. Not when she looked like that, and especially not when I kept hearing her boyfriend’s voice in the back of my head.
At some point, we both reached into the same box, me going for a pile of books, her for some framed photo. Our hands touched. Just for a second.
But it was enough.
Her fingers brushed mine, soft and deliberate. Neither of us moved at first. Then she looked up at me, eyes steady, lips slightly parted like she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling back fast, like I’d just touched something hot.
She didn’t move. Just stayed crouched there, one hand still in the box, watching me with that same half-smile.
“Are you always this jumpy?” she asked.
I forced a laugh. “Are you always this… extra?”
Paris tilted her head, biting her lip like I’d just complimented her. “You think I’m being extra?”
“I think you like attention,” I said, grabbing another box and tearing it open just to have something to do.
“Maybe I do,” she said, almost too casually. “Doesn’t mean I expect it from everyone.”
That hit harder than she probably meant it to. Or maybe she meant it exactly like that. With her, it was always hard to tell where the line was between playful and calculated.
I exhaled through my nose and glanced at her. “Hey… look, if I’ve been weird or whatever…”
“You have,” she cut in, grinning as she sat back on her heels.
I narrowed my eyes. “I was trying to apologize.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, biting back a laugh. “That’s what makes it cute.”
Jesus Christ.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, the curve of her smirk matching the challenge in her eyes. “But now that you are apologizing... let me just say this...”
She paused, that little dramatic flicker in her tone turning the moment just sharp enough to slice.
“I don’t mind getting attention from you.”
My chest tightened, not from panic, but from the way the floor seemed to tilt under me. I stared at her, trying to come up with a response that wouldn’t sound like a disaster waiting to happen.
Paris just looked pleased with herself, like she’d lobbed a grenade and was waiting to see if I’d jump on it or let it blow.
“I… don’t know what you want me to say to that,” I muttered, trying, and failing, to sound indifferent.
Paris shrugged. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t act like it’s a crime to look.”
She stood up, brushed off her hands, and walked past me, close enough that her leg brushed mine as she passed. On purpose.
And just like that, the moment was over.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
But as I stared down into the box I had opened, some random crap, chargers, a stack of notebooks, I realized I hadn't heard a damn word of what she’d just said. I was too busy hearing what she meant.
This was no accident. Paris wasn’t confused, or just playful, or testing waters. She knew exactly what she was doing.
And now she knew I saw it.
Paris reappeared a minute later with a folded throw blanket in her arms. She didn’t look at me. Just set it down on the couch and started smoothing it out like nothing had happened.
“You’re being quiet again,” she said without turning.
“Just thinking,” I muttered.
She turned then, slowly. That same smirk was gone.
“Do you ever think about it?” she asked.
My stomach dropped. “Think about what?”
She took a step closer.
“Don’t do that,” I said quickly, before she could finish the thought.
“Why not?” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “You already look. You don’t think I’ve noticed?”
I swallowed hard. “You’re dating my friend.”
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “And he’s sweet.”
Another step closer.
“But you? You look at me like you’re trying not to. Like you’re fighting something.”
I stood up fast. “Paris. Don’t…”
“Why?” she cut in, eyes locked on mine. “Because it’s wrong? Or because you’re afraid you won’t stop if you start?”
That hit like a gut punch. And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
“You think I haven’t felt it?” she went on. “That tension? You barely even talk to me, but your eyes do. Every time we’re in the same room.”
I shook my head. “Jesus Christ…”
She stepped even closer. Now barely a foot away.
“I’m not asking for forever,” she said. “I’m just asking if you want this. Right now.”
And there it was. The moment.
Not a fantasy. Not a game. A decision.
Paris didn’t bother waiting for an answer. She just turned and walked to the couch, letting her hip sway with each step, then looked back at me with eyes that dared me to follow, dared me to do anything at all.
I did.
She stood there, hands on the back of the couch, looking over her shoulder. I crossed the room, not sure if I was being pulled or if I’d made the choice myself. Maybe both. A minute later, or maybe it was less, maybe it was more, time got strange, her jeans were peeled halfway down her legs, as she folded herself over the back of the couch.
I should have stopped. I should have laughed it off, made a joke, left the room, done any of a dozen honorable things. But none of them happened.
Instead, I found myself closing the distance.
She was impossibly warm, even before I pressed against her, hands on her hips, breathing hard. I lined myself up, half-expecting her to stop me, to say something clever, to pull away, but she only arched her back. I was inside her in a single motion, the couch squeaked once, too loud.
I braced myself, hands tightening on her bared hips, and pulled her back into me, the firm curve of her ass meeting my thighs. I wanted to hear it again, so I did it again, finding a greedy rhythm, the thick sounds of our bodies hitting each other.
My hands dug into the curves of her waist, as we fucked. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was all urgency and risk, her breathing fast and uneven. She looked over her shoulder, mouth open. I saw a glimmer of real mischief, a dare, a sort of “I knew you’d cave” delight that was both infuriating and impossible to resist.
The couch wasn’t stable, its legs skittered across the hardwood with every thrust, but neither of us cared.
I gripped Paris harder, the primal thud of hips on ass echoing around the little apartment, the motion shaking loose a box from the arm of the couch. It tumbled to the floor, but neither of us flinched. I pushed her harder, the suede cushions threatening to slide out from under us. She clawed at the fabric of the couch.
I thought about him, my friend for the briefest of moments, the guy who trusted me to help him move boxes and keep his girlfriend company. But then Paris moaned, loud and reckless, her head thrown back over her shoulder so her hair tumbled down her spine. For a split second, I didn’t care about him. For a split second, I only cared about how tight she felt, how she was taking every inch of me and then pushing for more.
Paris bit her lower lip, eyes squeezed shut, the line of her back flexing with every movement. She met me push for push. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing sweet. It was the kind of sex that felt like it was pulling something loose inside you.
Her head pressed into the blanket, hair spilling everywhere, as I continued to work over her snatch, ramming my shaft in and out of her sex hole, at a rapid pace. Paris started to slide forward, and I caught her by the waist, pulled her back to where I wanted her.
My hands slid under her shirt, up her stomach, rolling her forward so I could grab at her tits, squeeze them hard enough to leave marks. She wriggled, arched, her body meeting mine in perfect counterpoint. There was nothing delicate about the way she moved, she wanted this, needed it hard and fast, and she made no effort to hide it.
“Fuck,” she moaned out in pleasure.
Paris started to moan again, higher, sharper. I felt her clench around me, her hands clawing into the backrest so hard I thought she might rip the fabric. She was coming. I could feel it, the desperation in her voice, the way her whole body tensed, then shook in short, hard bursts.
I felt her tense, then shudder, the tight grip of her hands on the couch morphing into trembling as she came. I wasn’t far behind, the heat building in my pelvis, my legs locked as I rammed into her, deeper with every thrust. Everything else went out of focus until it was just us, skin and sweat and breath, and then I was coming too, gasping with an involuntary grunt I’d never let anyone else hear.
Paris straightened slowly, tugged her jeans up, then turned to face me. For a second, I thought maybe she’d be ashamed, or angry, or cold. Instead,
she collapsed against the armrest, chest heaving, hair matted to her neck, a wild and private look in her eyes as she twisted to look at me. I steadied myself on the back of the couch. The room was full of the echo of our ragged breathing, the ceiling fan above us ticking out its indifferent timing.
By the time my buddy got back, pizza boxes balanced on one hand, six-pack cradled in the other, we were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, almost too casual, a sitcom vision of domestic bliss, except the air was thick and neither of us could quite look him in the eye.
He set down the food, flopped between us, and popped open a beer and passed me one, wordlessly. Paris was already halfway through a slice before anyone said a word. She took huge, unapologetic bites, licking the grease off her fingers in a way that was at once completely normal and completely not.
"So," my buddy said, glancing between us, "you two unpacked a lot, huh?"
Paris just grinned, mouth full, and I offered a grunt of agreement, trying not to choke on my own heartbeat.
The End