Drake unzipped his pants.
Elle's eyes went wide.
Her throat bobbe visibly.
"…That's not going to fit," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Drake couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips.
"It will," he said, positioning himself at her entrance. His voice came out lower than he expected. "You ready?"
Elle's fingers dug into the sofa cushion beneath her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, pale skin flushed pink from her cheeks down to her collarbone.
"Y-Yes," she stammered, turning her face away. "Be g-gentle."
Drake leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. "I will."
Drake pushed forward slowly.
Elle's breath hitched. Her nails bit into his shoulders, and a sound escaped her throat—half gasp, half cry. Pain and pleasure braided together in a single trembling note.
"Nghhh…!"
Drake froze.
"Are you okay?" He searched her face, thumb brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead.
Elle's eyes were squeezed shut, her brow pinched. A beat passed. Then two.
She exhaled slowly, and her grip on his shoulders loosened.
"Yeah," she breathed, voice barely audible. "Continue. Please."
Drake moved.
Slowly at first—deliberate, careful, reading every flicker of expression that crossed Elle's face. Her lips parted, and a soft, broken moan slipped free.
"Ah… Ah…"
Drake watched her face—every flutter of her lashes, every parting of her lips. The tension in her body unwound like a slow-release spring, her walls adjusting around him as the pain ebbed and something hotter flooded in to take its place.
"Ah… Ah…" Her moans softened, shifted. Lifted.
Drake took that as permission.
He increased the pace.
Not dramatically—just enough. Each thrust drew a sharper sound from Elle's lips, her voice climbing in pitch, her fingers sliding up his back to grip his hair.
"I love you, Drake," she gasped out between moans.
"I love you too, Elle."
He leaned down and kissed her.
Not like the rushed, desperate kisses from before. This one was slow—deliberate—his lips moving against hers like he had all the time in the world. Elle melted into it, her mouth opening for him, and their tongues met in a hot, tangled slide.
She tasted like cherry lip balm and something sweeter underneath—something uniquely her.
Their tongues moved together in a slow, fervent dance—twirling, pressing, retreating, and meeting again. Elle made a soft sound against his mouth, muffled and desperate, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist as he continued to move inside her.
Each thrust drew a new note from her.
"Ah! Ah! I... I love it, Drake!" Elle's voice cracked on the words, breathless and raw. Her back arched off the cushions, her body trembling beneath him.
"I love it too..." Drake groaned, his voice dropping low and rough. "You're so tight, Elle."
The words sent a visible shiver through her. Her nails raked down his back hard enough to leave marks, and she pulled him closer—deeper—like she couldn't get enough of him.
Drake drove forward with renewed urgency, the wet heat of her pulling him deeper with every thrust. The sofa creaked beneath them—cheap springs protesting—neither of them cared.
"Drake... I'm— I'm—" Elle's voice fractured, her words dissolving into sharp, stuttering moans. Her inner walls clenched around him, rhythmic and desperate, squeezing like her body was trying to pull him even deeper inside.
"I know," Drake panted against her ear. "I'm close too."
Drake drove forward—one final, deep thrust—
"Kyaaaaaah—!"
Elle's entire body seized. Her back arched off the cushions, her legs locked around his waist, and a cry tore from her throat—loud, unfiltered, raw. Her walls clamped down around him in pulsing waves, and Drake gritted his teeth as the pressure pushed him over the edge with her.
Drake spilled into her—hot, thick, deep.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Only the sound of ragged breathing filled the quiet living room.
The cushions were a mess—half off the frame, blanket bunched uselessly on the floor.
Elle's chest heaved. Her hair fanned across the armrest like spilled ink, golden strands clinging to her damp forehead. Her lips were swollen, her eyes half-lidded and glazed.
"Hah… hah…"
Drake turned his head. Elle lay beside him, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling in shallow pulls. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her collarbone, catching the late afternoon light that slanted through the curtains.
For exactly three seconds, everything was perfect.
Then reality set in.
Elle's eyes snapped open.
"Wait." She sat up abruptly, blanket clutched to her chest. "Wait, wait, wait—"
Drake, still half-dazed, blinked up at her. "What?"
Elle's face cycled through shock, horror, and then fury in the span of a single heartbeat.
"You— inside— ARE YOU DUMB?!" She smacked his chest with her palm. "I'll get pregnant, you idiot!"
"Don't worry," Drake said, his voice steadier than his racing heart. He pulled back, separating from her with a soft hiss from them both.
Elle watched him with wide, suspicious eyes as he shifted his grip on her hips.
Then he flipped her over.
"Huh?"
The world spun.
One moment she was sitting; the next, her stomach was pressing into the sofa cushions, her knees digging into the fabric. She was on all fours, her back arched, completely exposed.
Drake positioned himself behind her, the heat of his body radiating against her back. He ran a hand down the curve of her spine, resting on her hip.
"Ready for round two?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"Wait? Again?" Elle twisted her head to stare at him, disbelief warring with the flush still coloring her cheeks. "I thought guys didn't do it more than once—"
"My body isn't normal..."
Before Elle could process what that meant—
Click.
The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
The front door.
Drake's blood turned to ice.
"Fuck!"
The word exploded out of Drake's mouth as he scrambled off the sofa with zero grace, limbs flailing, nearly face-planting on the carpet. His hands shook as he yanked his pants up, fumbled with the zipper, and snatched his shirt from the floor—turning it inside out in his panic before jamming it over his head.
Elle hadn't moved.
"Elle, what are you doing—move!" Drake hissed, yanking a throw blanket off the sofa arm and tossing it at her.
She caught it on reflex, curling it around herself just as the door swung open.
The door swung open.
Aunt Marina stepped inside, dropping her handbag on the entryway table with a heavy thud. She rolled her neck, wincing, and kicked off her heels one at a time.
"Huh… I'm so tired today," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder. The word came out flat, exhausted—the voice of a woman who had spent eight hours dealing with people she hated.
Her eyes drifted lazily across the room.
Drake, standing in the middle of the living room, shirt inside out, sweat plastering his red hair to his forehead, breathing like he'd just run a marathon.
Elle, curled into the sofa, wrapped in a blanket that covered everything from the chin down, her face the color of a ripe tomato, her hair a disaster.
The living room smelled like sweat and something else Aunt Marina couldn't quite place.
Her gaze moved slowly from Drake to Elle.
Back to Drake.
The silence stretched.
Aunt Marina's eyes narrowed.
"What… happened here?" she asked, her voice shifting from tired to cautious. Her gaze lingered on the blanket wrapped around Elle, then tracked back to Drake's inside-out shirt. The gears were turning. Slowly. Inexorably.
Elle's panic was visible—a tremor running through the blanket, her knuckles white where she gripped it.
Drake, however, had spent years watching hentai protagonists talk their way out of impossible situations.
This was his moment.
Drake scratched the back of his head, forcing a sheepish grin onto his face.
"Well… it's kind of a long story," he started, letting out a nervous laugh that sounded exactly genuine enough to pass. "The air conditioner started acting up this afternoon—it was throwing out hot air instead of cold. Like, seriously hot. The whole living room turned into a sauna."
He gestured vaguely at the room, which—thanks to their earlier activities—did genuinely feel warm and stuffy.
"I know I shouldn't have messed with it," Drake continued, the words rushing out faster now, fueled by adrenaline. "But I tried to fix it myself. Bad idea, right? I popped the panel open, and boom—water sprayed everywhere. It got all over Elle before we could shut it off."
He gestured helplessly at the blanket-wrapped girl on the sofa. "She was soaked. So I grabbed the blanket to keep her warm while we waited for the room to cool down. I was worried she'd catch a cold or something."
Drake let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "But... hey, good news. I managed to fix the compressor in the end. It's kicking in now, but it's still pretty stuffy in here. Sorry about the mess."
"Ah, really?"
Aunt Marina didn't look convinced. She took a slow step forward, her eyes scanning the room like a detective at a crime scene. They lingered on the discarded clothing near the sofa—Elle's skirt, Drake's boxers—before Drake smoothly kicked them under the coffee table with his heel.
She stared at him.
Aunt Marina's gaze held on Drake for a long, uncomfortable beat.
Then it shifted to Elle.
Elle, who was gripping the blanket like it was a life raft, her face so red it could have lit a dark room. Her eyes were fixed on the carpet with the intensity of someone trying to develop laser vision through sheer willpower.
Aunt Marina's eyes narrowed further.
The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap.
Drake's heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat rolled down his temple—and not from the broken air conditioner this time.
Aunt Marina exhaled slowly through her nose.
"Sigh…" She pressed two fingers to her temple, rubbing in slow circles. "You two are a disaster."
Drake blinked.
Aunt Marina didn't elaborate.
She simply turned, collected her handbag from the entryway table, and trudged toward the stairs. Her steps were heavy, each one creaking against the old wood like a slow drumbeat of judgment.
"Try not to break anything else in this house," she called over her shoulder, not bothering to look back.
To be continued...
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Guys, I'm back!