Room For More? Ch. 01

Room For More?

Shannon adjusted the hem of her top for the third time in as many minutes, glancing down the quiet hallway of the high-rise.

"You look perfect," Craig murmured, leaning in to kiss her temple.

She exhaled a laugh, half-nervous, half-buzzed from the energy of the city. "I know. I just want this to go well."

"It will. This is exactly what we talked about -- smart location, flexible setup, good price."

He said it like a checklist, but she heard the excitement underneath. He was trying to play it cool, but Shannon had watched him scroll through listings every night for weeks. This place was the first that felt real. That felt like a future.

They were three weeks into their relocation -- boxes still half-unpacked, IKEA tools scattered across the floor of their temporary sublet. Craig's new job in finance had kicked off fast, all early mornings and late commutes, but he was already buzzing with ideas and ambition. She admired that about him -- how he carried himself with purpose but never took himself too seriously.

When he'd suggested getting a flat share to save for a future home, Shannon had hesitated. She liked their privacy. Their rhythm. But she also liked the idea of building something together. Not just coasting, but planning.

Besides, they were solid. Better than solid. Even now, waiting outside a stranger's apartment door, she felt the low hum of comfort in her chest -- that certainty you get when you're exactly where you're supposed to be, with exactly who you're meant to be with.

Craig looked down at her and smiled, and that was it -- that little smile that made her stomach flip even after three years. He'd been her first real partner. The first man who saw her -- not just her body or her beauty, but her softness, her fire, her flaws. He listened. He touched like he meant it. He made her cum with his mouth and made her tea after. Who the hell was that lucky?

Her eyes drifted to his jaw, to the light stubble he'd meant to shave this morning. He smelled like sandalwood and fresh laundry. Her fingers curled instinctively around his.

The hallway was quiet, all clean lines and gentle lighting -- modern but softened by age. Shannon liked the way their footsteps echoed, how the stillness made everything feel slightly more important. She could hear Craig rehearsing his charm in his head, even if he was playing it cool on the surface.

She glanced down at her reflection in the blackened glass of the window. Not fixing anything this time. Just seeing herself.

A cropped sweater over a lean waist, jeans that hugged hips she'd finally stopped criticising. Her body was a quiet contradiction -- soft in places, strong in others. Years of yoga gave her a long, supple silhouette, but she wasn't delicate. Her ass was full, thighs firm, belly gently curved. She carried herself with that particular kind of confidence that didn't come from approval, but from use -- like she knew her body, not just how it looked, but what it could do.

Her face was open, expressive -- dark hazel eyes that tilted upward slightly at the corners, a full mouth, and a kind of sun-warmed complexion that made her look permanently kissed by summer. Her hair was a cascade of thick, dark curls -- usually wild, tonight tamed into a loose bun she'd twisted without thinking.

Pretty, people told her. But Shannon never quite believed it until she saw the way Craig looked at her.

She didn't feel nervous. Just... aware. Aware of her skin, her breath, the little hum of excitement that came with new beginnings.

Craig reached out and knocked. A low, confident rhythm. Three beats.

"Stop checking your reflection in the window," he teased.

"I'm not!"

"You are. And again -- perfect."

Before she could argue, a sound stirred behind the door -- footsteps. Slow, heavy, deliberate. Not the scuff of sneakers or slippered feet. These landed with intention. Shannon's chest lifted as she inhaled.

The door opened.

At first, it was just space -- the tall, open frame of the entryway, the dark interior behind it. Then he stepped into view.

Ronald.

Shannon registered it all at once, like a heatwave -- his sheer size, the effortless coil of muscle beneath a black fitted tee, the slope of shoulders so wide they seemed to block the light behind him. His skin was deep, smooth, the kind of darkness that made you think of strength and stillness in equal measure. There was no smile at first, just calm -- a steady, centred presence that felt like gravity.

Then his mouth curved, slow and polite. "You must be Craig and Shannon."

His voice was lower than expected. Not loud, but grounded -- like it came from his chest, not his throat.

Craig stepped forward to shake hands, already turning on the charm. Shannon stayed back a beat longer than necessary, her gaze drifting across the frame of him. Not leering. Not that. Just... noting. How his forearms looked carved, veins rising under skin like subtle topography. How the fabric of his shirt hugged his chest in a way that suggested not vanity, but inevitability.

His body wasn't the only thing large.

Even the way he stood -- not puffed up, not dominant in the cliché sense -- just there. Quietly owning the space. Not demanding attention. Simply built for it.

When his eyes landed on her, it wasn't a stare. It was a glance. But it held, just a second longer than expected. His gaze didn't rake her. It acknowledged her. Saw her, fully, and then moved on without a word.

Shannon felt the breath rise in her chest again.

"Yeah," Craig was saying, grinning as he shook Ron's hand. "Thanks for having us."

Ron nodded, stepping back to let them in. "Of course. Come in, take a look. No pressure."

His voice didn't smile the way his mouth did. It was smooth. Measured. Assured. The kind of voice that didn't need to sell anything.

The moment they stepped inside, Shannon felt it -- the subtle hush of a space built with intention. The kind of quiet that didn't come from emptiness, but from design. Light poured in from wall-length windows, catching the soft sheen of polished floors and clean architectural lines. Everything about it felt... composed.

Ron walked ahead of them, barefoot, comfortable, his pace steady. "Place is fully furnished," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "But if you've got your own things, feel free to swap stuff out, decorate your room however you like. Make it yours."

Shannon appreciated that. She hated feeling like a guest in her own space.

He moved through the open-plan kitchen and living room, pointing casually as he went. "That's the main common area. I often work from home, but I tend to keep it low-volume during the day."

The kitchen made her stop in her tracks.

A massive marble island ran the length of the space, veined in gold and stormy grey, matte and cool beneath the fingers she couldn't resist brushing along the edge. Industrial light fixtures hung overhead -- matte black and brass -- and below them, a wide breakfast bar with sleek, high stools. Everything gleamed. Clean lines. Hidden appliances. Thoughtful touches.

The espresso machine caught her eye. Built-in. Real. Not the kind you impulse-buy and regret.

Ron led them into the hallway, gesturing to a room as they passed. "I converted that one into a bit of a gym-slash-office. Mostly mornings and evenings in there. You're welcome to use the equipment if you're into that kind of thing."

Shannon nodded, already picturing her yoga mat unrolled, her body moving through sun salutations with soft music playing while someone else -- someone quiet -- typed away at a nearby desk.

They reached the bedroom. Ron opened the door and stepped back.

"This would be yours."

Craig blinked. "Wait, this is the master suite?"

"One of them," Ron said with a small smile. "There are two. I've got the other."

Shannon glanced at Craig. His eyebrows had lifted. She stepped inside and felt the temperature shift -- not physically, but emotionally. It was so open. Airy. Not just space, but light. A king-sized bed, already dressed in crisp white linens, anchored the room. Across from it: a broad window spilling golden afternoon sun across hardwood floors. To the left, a walk-in closet. And beside it, a private en-suite that looked lifted from a spa -- slate tile, rainfall shower, warm backlit mirror.

She let out a soft sound in her throat. Not quite a laugh. Just... wonder.

Back in the living room, Ron motioned toward the entertainment setup. A sleek, wall-mounted TV glowed black above a built-in electric fireplace, its ember display flickering quietly like a slow heartbeat.

Craig let out a low whistle. "That's an OLED, right? I've always wanted one. Never seen one that big outside a showroom."

"Eighty-inch," Ron confirmed. "But yeah, it's a good screen. I use it mostly for movies."

"You've got the whole theatre vibe going," Craig added, visibly impressed.

Shannon barely registered the specs. Her attention was pulled elsewhere -- the fireplace below, the velvet reading chair angled just right beside it. She imagined herself curled up there with a blanket, a book, maybe tea. The thought wrapped around her like warmth.

Then the balcony.

Sliding glass doors opened onto a curved terrace that wrapped with the line of the building, opening into the skyline like a stage. The sun was dipping low, casting everything in copper and rose. The city stretched for miles, glass towers glowing, windows blinking on one by one.

At the far end of the balcony: the hot tub. Steam drifted lazily from the surface, even now in the daylight. It wasn't ostentatious. It looked... inviting.

"Evenings out here are my favourite part," Ron said softly. "The light, the breeze, the quiet. Sitting in the tub with a drink -- it's a good way to end the day."

Shannon stepped closer to the glass. The view was unreal. The kind of view people fought for. She could see herself out there. Book in hand. Steam curling in the air. A blanket draped over her legs. Her whole body at ease.

She looked at Craig again.

He smiled, wide-eyed and glowing.

This didn't feel like something they were applying for.

It felt like something they were already falling into.

Ron excused himself briefly, disappearing down the hallway toward the kitchen. "I'll grab us something to drink," he said easily. "Sparkling water okay?"

Shannon nodded, and the moment he turned the corner, Craig let out a low exhale, eyes wide with that same disbelieving smile he'd worn since they stepped through the door.

"Is this real life?" he muttered.

Shannon laughed, still standing at the edge of the balcony. The breeze brushed her skin, just enough to lift the fine hairs on her arms. The city stretched out like a living thing below them -- glass and steel and infinite movement, all quieted by distance.

"It's ridiculous," she said. "I mean... the kitchen? That tub?"

"And the fact that he's not charging double?" Craig added, turning to her with that playful incredulity he wore so well. "That's the part I don't get."

They drifted back into the living room, fingers brushing. Everything felt suspended -- too good to question, but almost unreal in its precision. Shannon looked around again, trying to picture it with their things layered in. Her books on the shelf. Craig's half-worn sneakers by the door. Her mug on the counter next to the espresso machine. It was easy to see. Too easy.

Ron returned, placing three glasses on the coffee table -- simple, crystal-cut tumblers, the water inside fizzing softly.

"This place is incredible," Craig said, settling onto the couch. "Honestly? You could charge double for it. Easy."

Ron shrugged, sinking into the opposite end of the couch with quiet ease. "It's not about squeezing someone for rent," he said. "It's about sharing space with the right people. Makes life a lot simpler when the energy's good."

Shannon found herself watching him again -- the way he sat, relaxed but alert, his long frame folded neatly into the plush cushion, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. There was something about how he took up space. Not aggressively. Just naturally. Like he belonged in every room he entered, and didn't need to prove it.

Craig nodded. "That's a good way to look at it. I'm guessing this place is yours, then?"

"Yeah. Bought it five years ago."

"What do you do, if you don't mind me asking?"

Ron took a sip, then set the glass down. "Private investments. A lot of it's remote now -- consulting, equity plays, that sort of thing."

Craig perked up. "No way -- I'm in finance too. Way lower down the ladder, obviously. Just started at a firm here in the city. But I've always been fascinated by that side of it -- private markets, building long-term wealth."

There it was -- the spark. Not fanboy awe, not obsequious. Just genuine admiration. The kind of connection Shannon recognised in Craig's voice when he found someone who could talk shop at a level he aspired to reach.

Ron didn't gloat. He just nodded, interested. "It's a good time to be getting in. You'll pick it up fast."

Shannon leaned back in her chair, watching the two of them. She liked this, actually. The ease of it. No weird tension. No awkward power dynamic. Just... chemistry. Not the kind you had to name. The kind that settled.

Craig turned to her. "Tell him what you do."

Shannon smiled. "I work from home too. Mostly yoga classes over livestream, a bit of freelance design work, and I paint when I can afford to."

Ron's eyes lit slightly. "Painting? Oils or watercolour?"

"Mostly acrylic. A bit of mixed media."

"I'd love to see some of it sometime," he said simply. "I've got a few pieces from local artists. I think art keeps a space alive."

It was such a quiet thing to say, but Shannon felt it land. Not as a flirtation -- just a thought she didn't expect to hear from a man like him. That kind of contrast stuck in the mind.

Ron stood, collecting the glasses. "Well," he said, "if you two want the place, it's yours."

Craig blinked. "Just like that?"

"You're the right fit. I trust my gut."

Shannon looked at Craig, then back to Ron. Her chest lifted with something soft and warm -- like stepping into hot water. Like falling into luck.

"We'd love to," she said.

Craig squeezed her hand.

Ron smiled.

And deep in her belly -- low and silent -- something fluttered.

--------

The heat was different on the twenty-eighth floor.

Not the sweltering kind -- the building was air-conditioned, the windows triple-glazed -- but the kind that came from motion. From lifted boxes, from sweat on forearms, from men breathing through effort and smiling through it.

Craig hauled the final box through the front door, grunting as he shifted the weight to one side.

"You sure this one doesn't have your book collection in it?" he teased.

Shannon smirked. "It's yoga equipment. You'll thank me when your back gives out from lifting like that."

Ron, already inside, took the box from Craig with one smooth motion. No showboating. No flexing. Just strength that didn't ask for attention. He carried it into the master suite like it weighed nothing.

Craig blinked, still catching his breath. "Jesus," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "You ever slow down?"

Ron reappeared, relaxed, barely glistening. "Years of practice."

He wasn't even winded.

Shannon watched the two of them -- both shirtless now, both damp with sweat. Craig was lean, defined, his body shaped by years of running and weekend gym sessions. Ron was something else. Broader. Denser. Built like he could tear open the world if he wanted, but chose not to.

She pulled her eyes back to Craig and smiled. He was a catch. A real one. No doubt in her mind.

That evening, once the last box had been shoved into a corner and the cardboard grease-stained from empty pizza slices, the city began to glow beyond the tall apartment windows--rows of lights blinking into dusk like quiet applause. Craig reached for her without a word, his touch warm and certain, a gravity she didn't resist.

She climbed onto his lap atop the still-unfamiliar mattress, the sheets beneath them stiff and crinkling, holding the faint scent of plastic wrap and factory starch. Her knees bracketed his hips, and she leaned in, letting her weight settle, her palms against his chest as their mouths met. He kissed her the way he always did when exhaustion blurred into arousal--slowly, like he had all night, like she was something to savor. There was heat behind it, but something tender too--grateful, almost reverent.

Their bodies moved with the ease of well-learned rhythm, a quiet confidence forged in dim bedrooms and hurried mornings. His hands gripped her hips just firmly enough to make her feel claimed. And when he pressed into her--thick and hot and heavy--she gasped, the familiar stretch drawing her open in one slow, deliberate slide.

Seven inches, maybe a touch more--she'd measured him once, playfully, breathless between kisses--and every bit of him felt designed to fill her, to reach exactly where she needed. He moved with patience, with purpose, each roll of his hips drawing a little more sound from her throat, a little more tremble into her limbs. He watched her with that focused heat he always had, like her pleasure was something sacred. Her body responded without hesitation--arching, clenching, giving in--until her fingers curled around the headboard and her cries broke free, sharp and breathless, his name barely forming around them like a whispered prayer.

She came in a quake of sensation, her body fluttering around him as she pulsed through it, the aftershocks delicate but consuming. He didn't let up--not until he followed with a groan low and raw against her neck, his release slow and deep and drawn from somewhere wordless.

They collapsed into the silence that followed, the heat between their bodies mingling with the faint electric hum of their new space. Skin on skin. Breath on breath. The city pulsing quietly beyond the glass.

"You happy?" he murmured eventually, not bothering to open his eyes.

She smiled against his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles against his skin. "Completely."

And she meant it.

Her hand rested on his chest. His heartbeat was steady, warm. The air in the room smelled like skin and clean sheets and the faint spice of their new lives unfolding.

She let her eyes wander -- to the window, to the skyline, to the dark outline of the hot tub out on the balcony. The city was bigger than she'd imagined. But it didn't feel overwhelming. It felt... open.

She had Craig. He was everything she'd hoped for in a partner -- kind, sexy, solid, smart. He made her laugh. Made her come. Made her feel seen. What more could a woman ask for?

And the place... the place was perfect. Modern, soft, generous. And Ron -- well. They'd gotten lucky there too. A roommate who kept to himself, helped them move, didn't blink at heavy lifting or sweat. Someone easy to be around. Respectful.

She smiled to herself, curling deeper into Craig's side.

They were lucky.

She wasn't sure what she'd done to deserve all this, but she felt it settle in her bones like sunlight warming stone.

From the hallway, the faint sound of water running. A door shutting. Soft, even footsteps. Ron, probably heading to bed.

She closed her eyes again.

Happy.

Content.

But far from still.

Shannon hadn't meant to cook anything complicated. It was just going to be pasta -- quick, mindless. Something to fill the space while Craig worked late and she unwound after her final class. But something about the silence of the apartment, the glow of the evening light spilling across the marble countertops, the crisp comfort of her bare feet on hardwood... it pulled her into rhythm. Onion, garlic, olive oil. A glass of red wine. Music low on her phone. By the time she was slicing basil and simmering sauce, she was cooking, not just making food.

She liked this part of the day -- when the building quieted, when the city softened just a little, when the sky outside went golden and the light inside turned gentle. It was the first time since moving in that she felt like she could truly exhale.

The sound of a door opening pulled her gently out of her focus. Ron stepped into the kitchen, barefoot, towel still draped casually over his shoulder. His shirt clung a little to his chest -- clearly fresh from a shower -- and there was a damp curl to the ends of his short hair. Not styled. Not performed. Just real.

He moved toward the fridge with that same unbothered grace he always seemed to carry. She noticed it more now -- how he didn't rush anything. Not even a glass of water.

"Smells incredible," he said, glancing at her, then the pot.

She looked up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks. I may have... overdone it."

"You expecting company?"

"Just Craig. And I guess now you, if you're interested."

He smiled at that. Not flirtatious. Just appreciative. "You sure?"

"Of course. You helped us haul half our lives up the elevator last weekend. Consider this repayment."

Ron stepped a little closer, peeking into the pot with a quiet hum of approval. He leaned back against the counter, his forearms resting along the edge. Everything about him seemed loose -- not sleepy, just relaxed in a way most men didn't allow themselves to be. She liked that. It made the space feel calm without effort.

"Need help?" he asked.

"If you're offering."

They fell into a quiet, easy rhythm -- he set the table without needing to ask where anything was, while she stirred and plated. When she turned to pass him the salad bowl, their hands brushed, warm from proximity. She didn't flinch. Neither did he. The contact was casual. Natural. But it stayed in her mind longer than it should have.

He was taller than she usually noticed. Close like this, she could see the texture of his skin -- smooth, dark as polished mahogany, a faint line of stubble shadowing his jaw. His smile, when it came, was rare but deeply felt, like something blooming slow and wide across his face. And his eyes -- deep brown with a fleck of gold near the centre -- always seemed to land gently, never lingering longer than they should. He was handsome, obviously. But more than that, he was at ease in his own body, and somehow that made her relax too.

It struck her then -- how comfortable she was in his presence. Without thinking about it. Without shrinking or posturing. It was... easy.

When they sat down to eat, the conversation drifted easily. He asked about her work, not in the way people asked to be polite, but with a kind of focused curiosity. She told him about the online yoga classes, about the live painting she streamed now and then when her mood allowed for it. He listened, fully, and it made her want to share more. Not perform, just speak.

"I like the way you talk about movement," he said, somewhere between bites. "Like it's a language."

She tilted her head. "It kind of is."

He nodded once. "That makes sense."

No elaboration. Just space. Room for her to exist.

When the food was cleared, she poured him a second glass of wine, and they lingered by the window. The sky was starting to darken now, the city beginning to shimmer in layered light. He pointed out a tower on the far end of the skyline, and they talked briefly about design, about lines and structure and silence.

It was the kind of talk that didn't feel like anything, until later -- when she'd find herself replaying it. Wondering why it stuck.

The front door opened just before eight. Craig stepped in, tie loosened, the edge of fatigue across his shoulders. He smelled like the train -- the city, his day, the hours he'd been out in the world grinding.

"Whoa," he said, eyebrows lifting. "Full dinner?"

"I had help," Shannon said, smiling as she moved to meet him. She kissed his cheek, tasted stress and salt. "You okay?"

He exhaled slowly. "Long one. But this... this smells amazing."

Ron passed him a plate without ceremony. "Glad you're here."

Craig looked between them, amused. "You two make a good team."

Shannon felt something catch in her throat -- not guilt. Not even tension. Just the awareness of what Craig had said. The truth of it.

They sat down again, all three of them, and the rest of the evening unfolded in warm, overlapping conversation. No raised voices. No hard edges. Just a kind of hush beneath everything, as if the space had learned how to breathe around them.

Saturday unfolded like something out of a film -- warm light on bare skin, soft music in the kitchen, the apartment breathing slowly around them. Craig had slept in, his body heavy against hers beneath the sheets, the rare kind of stillness that only came when his stress finally cracked and let rest pour in. Shannon painted in the early hours, half-dressed and barefoot, brush in one hand, coffee in the other, city light curling in through the glass. She watched him from across the room at one point -- hair messy, eyes lazy with sleep -- and thought, not for the first time, I love this man.

She saw how tired he'd been. The way he clenched his jaw when he thought she wasn't looking, the weight in his shoulders when he scrolled through unread emails. So she decided: tonight was for them. No work talk. No distractions. Just softness. Pleasure. Their own quiet world.

She picked the red dress. The one Craig never let her leave the bedroom in without stopping her. His look when she walked out of the bathroom in it was everything she'd wanted -- part hunger, part reverence, like the sight of her still knocked the wind from him.

They were just slipping on jackets when Ron appeared at the end of the hallway, towel slung casually around his waist, fresh from a shower. His voice was relaxed, smooth as always.

"Hope you two don't mind -- I've got someone coming over later."

Craig smiled, already halfway through buttoning his coat. "Of course not. It's your place."

Shannon added, "We'll be out for date night anyway. You've got the place to yourself."

Ron nodded once, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. "Enjoy."

They did.

The city felt warm around them that night -- slow jazz in a candlelit bar, the clink of glasses, the glow of street lamps as they walked side by side through narrow streets. Craig made her laugh more than once, his hand always somewhere on her: her hip, her back, the dip of her neck when he leaned in to tell her she was the most dangerous thing in the room. It felt like the early days. Effortless. Intimate.

By the time they got home, Shannon's skin was warm from wine and touch, her body already leaning toward his before the door had even closed. They kissed like they meant it -- no rush, no script, just mouths meeting with the kind of hunger that only comes from comfort. Her dress hit the floor, his shirt followed, the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, and she climbed into his lap, straddling him like the last three years had never dulled her want.

They were halfway there when the sound came.

A moan.

High. Sharp. Feminine.

They both froze, just briefly.

Craig laughed softly under his breath, brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "Guess he's getting lucky."

But the sounds that filtered through the thin apartment wall weren't playful. They weren't giggles muffled by pillows or the squeak of bedsprings caught in a careless rhythm.

No.

This was different.

Deliberate.

A measured, relentless cadence. Heavy. Grounded. The unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin--not the frantic slap of casual sex, but something slower. Hungrier. A rhythm that spoke of pressure and surrender, of someone being taken apart piece by piece.

Then a voice -- feminine, breathless, wrecked. "Oh my *God--*yes--yes--please--"

Shannon's breath caught. Not from embarrassment. Not quite from arousal, either. But something bloomed beneath her ribs. A tension. A flicker of something unnamed.

Craig kissed her neck, trying to pull her focus back. His cock, hard and hot, pressed insistently against her thigh. She shifted, guiding him in with a practiced ease. That first stretch still made her catch her breath -- the thick length of him sliding home, deep and full, hitting that sweet ache she'd come to crave. Seven inches. Maybe more. Enough to make her gasp the first time. Enough that she'd had to learn him.

Her ex had been smaller -- pleasant, forgettable. Craig had been different. Bigger. Slower. More patient. He didn't just fuck. He filled. He split her open in a way that lingered, left her walking sore and satisfied for days.

Her moan was soft, instinctive. Her thighs wrapped around him, hips lifting into his thrusts.

But the noises next door grew louder.

Not playful.

Not performative.

Raw.

The woman was sobbing now, but not from pain. Her voice broke in those high, trembling tones that didn't sound like acting. "I can't--I can't take it--it's too much--*fuck--*yes--don't stop--don't stop--"

Craig faltered. His rhythm slowed. He let out a breathless chuckle. "Jesus."

Shannon didn't laugh.

Her body kept moving, but her mind was somewhere else -- not drifting away from Craig, but pulsing with something deeper. A second heartbeat. Her thighs clenched tighter. Her breath shortened. She felt herself teetering, caught between the intimacy she was in and the mystery unfolding just beyond the wall.

The sounds didn't stop. They built -- desperate, carnal. The creak of the bed. The low thud of the headboard. Guttural, feral groans that felt too real to ignore.

She came almost silently. A slow, shivering unraveling. Her fingers clutched Craig's arms as her hips trembled through it. He followed close behind, groaning softly into her neck as he pulsed deep inside her.

They collapsed together, slick and spent, limbs tangled. His body grew heavy with sleep, breaths evening out as he drifted.

But the wall didn't go quiet.

The rhythm started again -- slower now. Methodical. The bed tapping against drywall in a relentless cadence. Then came the voice, lower this time. Thick with lust, soaked in awe.

"You're so fucking big... God... I can't believe it--*I love your cock--*how are you even real--"

Shannon's breath hitched, nearly imperceptible.

She remembered the first time Craig had stretched her. That sweet ache. The way her body had needed time to take him. How she'd thought that was the limit -- the edge of what was possible.

She'd believed that was the deepest she could be filled.

Now, staring up at the ceiling, she wasn't so sure.

She didn't feel jealous. Not exactly. Not even turned on -- not in a way she could claim. Just... disoriented. Like stepping into a familiar room and realising there's a staircase you never saw before. A hollow space beneath the floorboards that had started to hum.

She shifted closer to Craig, letting his warmth wrap around her. He murmured something sleep-slurred, an arm tightening around her waist.

Shannon exhaled slowly, eyes drifting closed.

But the sounds lingered.

Long after the moans faded, long after the wall fell quiet -- they stayed with her.

Morning came slowly. The kind of slow that followed too many hours of shallow sleep. The apartment was quiet again, the city still wrapped in that pale early haze that made everything feel gentle and undone. Craig was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in his usual way -- one arm over his face, legs tangled in the sheet. His body was warm, familiar, beautiful. She'd curled herself around him for most of the night.

But she hadn't really slept.

The sounds had stopped sometime before dawn. She wasn't sure when. The woman's final moans had been hoarse, near incoherent. Then the silence had come, thick and sudden, like a weight dropped into still water.

Shannon slid out of bed, careful not to wake him. She pulled on a robe, barefoot, hair loose, and padded quietly down the hallway toward the kitchen. She didn't hear anything at first -- no footsteps, no doors -- just the soft hum of city morning outside the windows.

As she passed Ron's room, the door was half-closed. Not shut. Just ajar.

She hadn't meant to look.

But she saw.

The light in the hallway was soft, early -- filtered through blinds not yet opened. The door to Ron's room was ajar, just enough. He stood side-on to it, towel in hand, fresh from the shower, dragging the cloth slowly across the back of his neck. Water still clung to his skin, catching in the dips and planes of muscle -- wide shoulders tapering to a lean waist, the sculpted grooves of his back cut in clean shadow. His obliques sloped inward, disappearing into the shadowed grooves above his groin, where muscle gave way to something heavier, darker, impossibly male. Her breath caught before she realised it.

She hadn't intended to stop. But her gaze was already moving -- tracing the natural descent of his form, from the strength of his torso to the subtle definition of his abdomen... and then farther. Lower.

And then she saw it.

Heavy. Hanging. Full.

Even soft, it looked obscene. Not in the way of exaggeration or grotesquery -- but in its sheer, quiet truth. Long. Thick. Uncut. It wasn't aroused. Not even close. And still, it looked... impossible. As if evolution had made one reckless exception.

Her first reaction wasn't lust. It was a kind of stunned, cellular disbelief -- the stillness that overtakes you when something doesn't quite fit the rules you thought governed the world. He wasn't erect, and yet he already surpassed Craig. Easily. In length, in girth, in sheer physical presence. It didn't seem like something a body could take without being remade.

An as he moved, she caught the sway -- that weight -- the unhurried shift of mass with every step. There was no vanity in it. No performance. It was just there. Inescapable. A quiet fact of his anatomy. Not a showpiece. A burden.

She stood frozen in the hallway. Not gawking. Not leering. Just... still. Trapped by the moment. Caught in the realisation of what she was seeing -- and all that it meant.

And then, with a kind of forced grace, she turned.

She walked away. Calm. Controlled. Every muscle in her body pulling toward composure. Past the doorway, past the long shadowed hall, into the kitchen like nothing had happened.

But it had.

At the window, she stood with a glass of water pressed to her lips, the coolness grounding her, chasing the heat from her cheeks. She drank not out of thirst, but necessity -- to focus, to steady, to remind herself of her body.

But the image wouldn't leave.

Not just the sight of him, but the understanding.

The why behind those sounds last night -- those moans that hadn't been pretty, hadn't been sweet. They'd been torn from the gut. Desperate. Shattered. Real.

Shannon thought of her own first time with Craig. How he'd filled her. How her legs had shaken from the stretch, the ache blooming with pleasure. He was seven inches, maybe more. Thick. Attentive. He made her cum deep, made her feel claimed. It was the best sex she'd ever had.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Not just bigger. Beyond.

Her thighs shifted, pressed together on instinct. Not arousal, not exactly -- not yet -- but a hum beneath her skin. Her mouth was dry again. Her pulse tight and low. There was a shift in her now, subtle but certain. A quiet cracking of scale. A realignment of what she thought was possible.

Footsteps approached behind her.

Ron's voice was quiet. "Morning."

She turned. He was fully dressed now -- dark joggers, plain black T-shirt. Nothing unusual. His face calm, unreadable. Just like always.

"Morning," she replied, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

He stepped past her to the fridge, opened it. "Did you and Craig have a good night?"

She nodded. "Yeah. We went to that jazz place near the canal. It was nice. Needed the reset."

He smiled faintly, still looking into the fridge. "Sounds perfect."

She hesitated. The words left her mouth before she could stop them. "And... you? Your friend--?"

He didn't look up. "Nothing serious."

He closed the fridge and leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely. "She's sweet. But I'm still looking for something real."

The words weren't suggestive. Just honest.

Shannon nodded again, the glass cool in her hands. She couldn't meet his eyes.

"I've got a few calls this morning," he said, stepping back into the hallway. "Let me know if you two want to do anything for dinner later. I'll stay out of the way."

And then he was gone.

The apartment swallowed him again.

Shannon stood alone.

Not shaken.

But altered.

--------

She liked using the office in the mornings.

It was technically Ron's space -- half gym, half workstation, glass desk and weight rack divided by a wall of mirrors -- but he'd always told her she was welcome. He wasn't territorial about it, and she liked the feel of it in the early light. The whole apartment had a hush at that hour, like it hadn't quite decided what kind of day it would be. And the room itself had that subtle, masculine warmth she never quite put her finger on -- leather, cedar, the faint trace of iron from the dumbbells that lined the wall.

Her mat was already down, her body warm and humming as she flowed from warrior into low lunge, holding the stretch, eyes soft. She liked this version of herself -- not performing, not teaching, just present. No one watching. No one asking.

The door opened behind her mid-pose.

She didn't startle. Just breathed in deeper.

Ron's voice was low and casual. "Don't move on my account. I just need to make a quick call."

She turned slightly, hand still planted on the mat. He was shirtless again -- joggers low on his hips, hair damp. A towel slung around his neck. He moved across the room with that same unhurried weight she was starting to associate with him, dropped into the chair at his desk, tapped a few keys, and leaned back.

"Won't be long," he added, slipping in earbuds.

She nodded. "I don't mind."

But she wasn't fully in her breath anymore.

She tried to stay present -- grounding herself in the breath, sinking into pigeon pose, her hips opening slowly as her cheek met the mat. Her belly rose and fell in rhythm, but her focus was already splintering.

His voice had shifted.

Not louder. Not showy. Just... different.

"... two partners, plus legal counsel... Yes, Thursday works -- but we'll do it here. Let them see the skyline."

That quiet authority. Calm, controlled, entirely unforced. It wasn't the tone he used in casual conversation -- it was the voice of a man who didn't need to prove anything. He simply was the room.

She stayed folded, arms outstretched, body still--but her mind slipped sideways. A slow, creeping awareness curled around her as she wondered if his eyes had flicked from his screen. If, even for a moment, they'd landed on the arch of her back, the slow draw of her breath. The way her leggings clung to every curve -- soft fabric stretched over the shape of her ass, high and tight and unavoidably there.

She didn't know if he was watching.

But she felt watched.

And the sensation lived just under her skin, like heat, like static, like the trace of a hand not yet placed.

She breathed into it, not pushing it away. Let it simmer.

The call ended cleanly. Just a clipped "Confirmed," followed by silence and the click of the mute button.

She rose slowly, uncoiling like smoke, knees under her, palms smoothing over her thighs in a gesture more graceful than necessary. When she glanced up, he'd already turned in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching her with a gaze that was quiet... but direct.

"You're good," he said, voice lower now. Less business. More something else.

She smiled, pulse beating a little too fast in her throat. "Been doing it a while."

"Flexibility like that's dangerous."

She laughed -- too lightly -- trying to soften the weight of his words. "You should join me sometime. I offer private lessons."

His eyes didn't move. Didn't blink. Just held hers, a flicker of warmth under the surface, unreadable.

"I might take you up on that."

He stood then, stretched his back, rolled out his shoulders. As he reached the door, he paused. Just for a second.

"Oh -- that meeting I scheduled for Thursday... I was thinking Craig might benefit from coming. It's a low-pressure thing, but I'll be hosting a few major clients. Thought it might be a good intro to how I handle client-facing stuff. Might open some doors."

Shannon blinked, surprised. "That's... that's really thoughtful."

Ron just shrugged, casual again. "He's sharp. He just needs to be in rooms where people see it."

Then he was gone.

She sat there on her mat for a long moment, her body cooling beneath her clothes, the aftertaste of his voice still lingering in the air.

It was a generous offer. A professional gesture. Nothing more.

But something inside her stirred -- not jealousy, not attraction, just... a knowing.

--------

The apartment looked like it had been prepped for a magazine spread -- every surface clean, every object placed. The skyline framed perfectly behind the bar where Ron stood, sleeves rolled, glass in hand. The clients arrived just past five, laughter in the hallway before the door even opened. They were well-groomed, sharp-eyed, expensive without being flashy. Men who were used to being offered things. Men who could tell when someone understood leverage.

Ron didn't pitch. He just talked. His voice low and smooth, his cadence patient. He offered nothing up front, let them reach for the value themselves. Craig, sitting slightly off to the side at first, seemed unsure of when to enter -- but Ron pulled him in without breaking rhythm. Asked his opinion on something niche. Gave him space. Made him visible.

Shannon watched from the hallway, out of sight, wine in hand. She didn't want to distract. But she couldn't look away. Craig held his own -- sharp, prepared, respectful. He smiled when he meant it. Listened when it mattered.

And Ron... Ron guided the entire room like a conductor in silk.

After the clients left, Craig sat at the edge of the couch, wide-eyed and still glowing.

"Man..." he exhaled. "I don't even know what to say."

Ron handed him a drink. "You did well."

"I just watched you work," Craig said. "You didn't sell. You just let them come to you."

Ron sat opposite, relaxed. "No one wants to be sold. They want to feel known. You learn what they like. Remember it. Not just in business -- in life."

Craig nodded slowly.

Ron sipped his scotch, then added, "You give them an experience, not a transaction. Take this bathhouse thing. Do they need it? No. But they like it. They unwind. They feel seen. We talk casually. And later this week, when the offer's on the table? It doesn't feel like a pitch. It feels like a continuation of a relationship."

Craig tilted his head. "So it's not about this deal."

Ron smiled faintly. "It's about the next ten."

--

They left for the bathhouse just after dusk.

It wasn't some garish club or overbuilt spa -- it was elegant, quiet, exclusive. Stone walls, low lighting, steam hissing gently through copper vents. Craig changed quickly in the locker room, unsure how much to wear. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the heat.

Ron was already inside -- barefoot, body bare, seated in the largest corner of the sauna like he belonged to it. The clients were across from him, lounging in silence. Craig hesitated for a moment before stepping in.

It wasn't strange. Not exactly. Just unfamiliar.

Conversation flowed easily -- politics, real estate, emerging markets. Steam curled lazily around them, muffling the world into something soft and slow. At one point, Ron leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and as he shifted to adjust his seat, he didn't bother covering himself.

He didn't need to. No one did. That was the point of a place like this -- full exposure, no pretenses.

But Craig saw it.

All of it.

Not hard. Just there.

Thick. Heavy. Long. Uncut. It hung downward with a natural curve, the skin smooth over its mass, as if even gravity took it seriously. It rested against one thigh like something the body had learned to carry, not flaunt -- a third limb, quiet in its weight.

Craig blinked. Looked away. Looked back. Tried not to react. No one else did. But something inside him tensed -- a tightness in the chest, a dryness in his mouth he couldn't quite swallow down.

He wasn't insecure. He'd never needed to be. Shannon praised him. Past lovers had, too. He knew what he had. What he could do.

But this?

This wasn't just bigger.

It was other.

The way Ron sat -- easy, unbothered, unaware -- like that kind of size was simply part of the everyday furniture of his life... it hit Craig in a place he hadn't known was sensitive.

He didn't speak much after that. Just nodded when appropriate. Let the conversation drift. Let the steam blur his vision and the image burn itself into the backs of his eyes.

Ron didn't look at him.

Didn't need to.

Later, at home, Shannon lay curled on the bed in one of Craig's hoodies, legs tucked beneath her, scrolling her phone as she waited for the sound of the door.

When it finally opened, she looked up -- and the expression on Craig's face wasn't quite what she expected. Like he'd just come back from something holy. Or unholy.

"Well?" she asked, grinning.

He tugged off his shirt and tossed it aside, dropping onto the bed like his limbs were heavier than usual. "It was incredible. Ron was incredible. Honestly... I get it now."

She arched a brow. "Did the homoerotic spa seduce you?"

He huffed a laugh, eyes still on the ceiling. "You joke, but--" He hesitated. "Shan. I saw it."

She blinked. "Saw what?"

His voice dropped a register. "It."

She laughed too fast. "Come on."

"I'm serious," he said, turning toward her, his face open, vulnerable in a way she rarely saw. "I don't know how he lives like that. I don't know how women take it. It's not... it's not normal."

She gave a low whistle, shaking her head, feigning disbelief. "You're exaggerating."

"I'm not. I'm a big guy. You've told me that. But next to that? I felt like a... sample size."

Shannon laughed again, but it came a beat too late. Her heart fluttered unexpectedly. Her skin prickled. "Maybe the steam got to your head."

"No," he said. "No, this was--God. It was just there. Hanging. Like it had gravity."

She straddled him, cutting off the spiral with her body. Her thighs bracketed his hips, and she leaned in, letting her weight sink into him, grounding both of them. His hands slid up to grip her waist, instinctive, anchoring.

"Well, I haven't seen it," she lied, voice low, mouth brushing his jaw, "and until proven otherwise, you're still my big man."

He exhaled hard as she eased down onto him, the heat of her body swallowing him whole.

"Yeah?" he breathed.

"Yeah," she murmured, lips at his throat.

Their hips began to move -- slow, practiced. Familiar.

But under the rhythm, something had shifted.

Shannon clung to his heat, to the sound of his breath and the tension in his thighs. She kissed him harder than she meant to. Rode him like she could overwrite her thoughts with his body.

But her mind wouldn't still.

Her body had already seen the difference.

And no matter how deep Craig went... something inside her had started to ache for more.

--------

She didn't usually teach in person anymore. After moving into the city, she'd taken to the comfort of live streamed classes -- soft lighting, curated playlists, no commute, no awkward postures to correct. But something about this particular Tuesday had made her want to be around people. She'd accepted a guest slot at a yoga studio just a few blocks from the apartment, a warm little space with linen curtains and cork floors. It felt good to teach. Her body moved like memory. Her voice found its rhythm again.

But halfway through the class, she noticed him.

A man near the back. Mid-forties, paunch under his shirt, eyes that stuck to her like sweat. He didn't follow the movements. Didn't seem interested in the poses. He just watched -- not openly, but constantly. His gaze was too still. Too exact. The kind of quiet that made the air shift, even when nothing was said.

She didn't let it show. She finished the session, bowed, thanked the group. But when she left the studio, her skin was tight and hot under her clothes. She took out her earbuds, instinctively alert to the sound of footsteps behind her. Her senses were too tuned. Her walk too sharp. Every shop window became a mirror she checked.

He was behind her.

A half block back, maybe less. Not close enough to confront. But too close to ignore.

She didn't run -- not yet. She just turned left, down a quiet side street, toward a cafe she knew had an alley that ran behind it. A shortcut. A hiding spot. Somewhere off the main road.

The alley was tight and shadowed, flanked by old brick and bins. She stepped into it quickly, her breath starting to come faster, her heart clawing at her chest. She crouched low behind a dumpster, pressed her back to the wall, and pulled out her phone. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it.

Craig answered on the second ring. "Hey, babe--"

"There's someone following me," she whispered.

His voice sharpened instantly. "What? Where?"

She told him, quickly, eyes darting to the mouth of the alley.

"I'm too far," he said, already dialling on a second phone. "But Ron's close. He'll get there faster. Stay hidden. Don't move."

She nodded into silence. The call ended.

The footsteps came a moment later.

Slower now. Cautious. Like he was looking.

She flattened herself against the wall, breath tight in her chest. She could see him now -- the man from the class, pausing at the entrance of the alley, scanning. Her body felt frozen, ready to run but nowhere to go.

And then -- another shape.

Ron.

He didn't say a word. He just moved.

She heard it before she understood it -- the dull, shuddering thud of a body hitting metal. She peeked out from behind the bin and saw the man crumpled to the ground, back against the brick, wheezing. Ron stood over him, eyes unreadable, fists still loose at his sides. He didn't shout. Didn't threaten. He just watched the man with a silence that made the air feel heavier than before.

Shannon stood slowly, legs shaky.

Ron turned, eyes softening only when they found hers.

She didn't think. She just walked to him. Into him. Pressed herself against his chest, arms wrapped tight around his ribs. Her forehead against his collarbone.

He didn't squeeze her. Just held her. One hand low on her back, the other hovering near her shoulder, firm and still. His body was warm. His breath steady. She didn't cry -- not because she wasn't scared, but because something in her had gone very, very quiet. The adrenaline receded. And in its place came a calm that wrapped around her like water.

They walked home side by side. No words. He didn't ask if she was okay. He just stayed one step ahead, blocking the wind.

Craig was waiting at the door, breathless, eyes wide. "Shan--thank God." He pulled her into his arms, kissed her cheek. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"She's fine," Ron said simply. "He won't bother her again."

Craig turned to him, full of sincerity. "You didn't have to do that, man. I can't thank you enough."

"You don't need to," Ron said, calm as ever. "She's part of the household. That makes her mine to protect."

Neither of them questioned the wording. But Shannon felt something settle in her stomach -- something solid. It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't seduction. It was possession. Not the kind that cages. The kind that claims.

That night, after the shower, after the tea, after the shaking had stopped, Shannon curled into bed beside Craig and let his warmth hold her. His arms were familiar. His voice soothing. She loved him.

Craig kissed her shoulder. "Hey."

She hummed. "Yeah?"

"We should do something for Ron."

She turned her head slightly. "Do something?"

"Yeah," he said. "He's done so much for us. Helping with the move. Talking me through that client pitch. And then today... I mean--today. He didn't even hesitate."

She nodded, her cheek against his chest.

Craig rubbed slow circles into her back. "Let's take him out. Dinner. Drinks. Let him know we see it."

"That sounds perfect," she whispered.

It was supposed to be casual. A thank-you dinner, nothing fancy -- just the three of them out together, letting the air shift a little after the weight of what had happened. But even before the first round of drinks arrived, Shannon could feel something different between them. Not tension. Not awkwardness. Just... a kind of gravity. Like they'd all stopped pretending that Ron was just a landlord.

They'd chosen a place not far from the apartment -- warm lighting, black leather booths, just loud enough that no one needed to whisper. Shannon wore something soft and clingy, not for Ron, not even for Craig, but for herself. A reminder that her body still belonged to her, even if lately it had been waking up in ways she hadn't expected.

Ron looked good. Of course he did. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled, that quiet confidence radiating from every slow movement. He didn't dominate the conversation, but he anchored it. Craig, to his credit, held his own. He was looser than she'd seen him in weeks -- more relaxed. He laughed easily. He ordered bourbon like he meant it. And when the food came, and the plates clinked between them, he raised his glass.

"To Ron," he said. "For being a better roommate than I thought we deserved."

Ron just tilted his glass in return, eyes flicking toward Shannon, warm and unreadable. "You two are easy to live with. That's rare."

She smiled, felt her heart tug in her chest.

After the second drink, they were all glowing -- tipsy without being drunk, warm without melting. The walk back was full of soft teasing, Craig joking about how the meal had ruined his macros, Ron throwing it back by saying good whiskey counted as a wellness supplement.

As they stepped inside the apartment, the air cooled against Shannon's skin. She slipped off her heels at the door and stretched her toes on the hardwood, already picturing bed when Ron turned slightly over his shoulder.

"Still a perfect night for the hot tub," Ron said, leaning against the balcony rail, drink in hand. "You're both welcome to join me. Just be warned -- I've got a strict no-clothes policy when it comes to hydrotherapy."

Craig snorted into his glass. "That a medical recommendation?"

"Philosophical," Ron replied, already turning toward his room. "Water moves best when nothing gets in the way."

Shannon laughed, heading down the hall. "You two can have your naked bonding session. I'm not planting my bare ass on shared acrylic."

In the bedroom, she opened a drawer, rifling through the folded options with a flicker of indecision. Her fingers paused on the dark green one -- the one with the thin straps, the open back, the high cut over her hips. Minimal coverage. Maximum effect. She told herself it was for the feel of the water. For herself. Not for them.

Still... she smoothed a hand down her side before walking out.

When she stepped onto the balcony, Craig let out a low, appreciative whistle.

"Jesus, babe. I'm gonna need an ice bath just to recover from looking at you."

She smirked, cheeks flushed, pretending it was from the night air.

Ron, already half-submerged in the hot tub, turned his head just enough to glance -- a slow, subtle take. No lingering. Just a flick of the eyes, a shift in his mouth.

"You clean up well," he said, voice low.

Shannon lifted an eyebrow. "This is me messy."

Craig laughed from behind her. "And somehow, that's more dangerous."

Ron's mouth curved into something unreadable -- half smile, half something else -- before he sank deeper into the water, steam rising to blur the edge of his jaw.

"Come on in," he said. "Plenty of room."

She slid in carefully, the heat a shock at first, then a balm. The bubbles started with a low hum, the night wrapped around them like velvet.

Conversation drifted like the steam -- easy, unhurried. Music played low from the speaker, something lo-fi and unobtrusive. They talked about nothing and everything: favourite films, bad takeout, half-forgotten sports injuries. Ron lounged against the stone wall of the tub, arms stretched wide along the edge, his body relaxed in that quiet, powerful way some men seem born into. He didn't posture. He didn't need to. Every stretch, every shift of muscle, seemed to subtly claim more space.

At one point, he rose -- unhurried, unbothered -- reaching for the bottle of wine balanced on the ledge behind him.

And there it was.

Bared. Uncovered. Entirely unselfconscious.

The water slicked off his skin in rivulets, steam curling at his waist. For a few suspended seconds, the full length of him was visible -- clear, heavy, un-ignorable beneath the haze. Long. Thick. Dense. It didn't jut or boast. It hung, like something lived with rather than shown off. Less a body part than a presence. Carried, not worn.

Shannon's breath stilled. Her fingers tensed slightly around her wine glass.

Craig let out a soft, stunned laugh. "Jesus, Ron. I mean--damn."

Ron poured without looking down, the motion smooth. "I did warn you."

Craig shook his head slowly, still grinning. "You ever think about donating that thing to science?"

Ron took a slow sip, the corner of his mouth curling. "Considered it," he said. Then, with a glance over his shoulder -- just enough to land -- "But I'm still getting some use out of it."

Shannon laughed. She had to. But it caught, somewhere in her throat. A little too tight. A little too late. Under the water, her thighs pressed together without thought. Not obviously. Not enough to draw notice. Just... reflex. Quiet. Urgent.

She smiled like it was nothing. Like she was only playing along. But the ache had already begun -- low in her belly, insistent, intimate. That familiar pull she hadn't expected to feel again tonight.

Craig turned toward her, nudging her knee beneath the bubbles. "Bet you're glad you kept the bikini on."

She lifted her glass, her voice steady. "Honestly? Starting to regret it."

They all laughed.

The bubbles rose. The music played. The steam wrapped around them like a curtain slowly drawing shut.

And beneath it all, a new kind of silence settled.

Not awkward.

Not innocent.

Just understood.

--------

The apartment was quiet, heavy with that late-evening stillness that always came after a long day spent inside. The city's glow pressed faintly through the glass, casting soft reflections across the bedroom wall. Shannon and Craig had eaten dinner in their pyjamas, curled up with a bottle of red and an old movie neither of them finished. She liked nights like this. Domestic. Safe. He'd brushed her hair out of her face when she laughed. He'd kissed her shoulder as he passed behind her to grab more wine. There was no pressure in it. No expectation. Just closeness.

They slipped into bed sometime after eleven. Her skin was still warm from the bath. Craig was already half-asleep, chest bare, one arm flung across the pillow like he was inviting her in without knowing it. She curled into him. Let herself exhale.

They kissed slowly. No rush. The kind of touch that came from memory, not hunger. But as his hand slid along her hip and between her thighs, something in her body responded before her mind did. Heat. Not just warmth, but need. Deeper than usual. Wetter.

He noticed it. Smiled against her mouth.

"I love when you're like this," Craig murmured, kissing along her jaw, his voice warm, affectionate, unaware.

She hummed in response, eyes slipping closed as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. She needed the contact. Needed the pressure. His body moved over hers with a rhythm they knew by heart -- deep, patient strokes that filled her completely. He was strong, steady. He held her like he always did: with care, with confidence, with love.

And for a moment, she let herself feel it.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Her lips brushed his throat. Her hips met his in slow, measured sync -- the kind of sex that's meant to last. To say we're here. We're still here.

But then her legs tightened.

Not gently. Not lovingly.

They locked around his waist, thighs drawing him in harder, deeper. She tilted her pelvis to meet him with more force, her breath catching in sharp little bursts. The hunger came fast -- too fast -- and it didn't feel like hers. Not just hers.

Craig moaned softly, lips brushing her ear. "You want it rougher?"

She didn't answer.

Because just as the words left his mouth, a cry rang out from the room next door -- sharp and raw, unmistakably female.

"Oh--fuck--yes--Ron--don't stop--"

Craig paused for half a breath. Then kept going, thrusting into her with a little more force, trying to meet the moment.

But Shannon was already gone.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her mouth parting in something between a gasp and a prayer. Her body arched beneath Craig, hips moving faster now -- not in rhythm, but in need. And in her head, it wasn't Craig's cock inside her anymore. It wasn't his voice in her ear.

It was Ron.

That image she couldn't shake -- the heavy, impossible length of him, slick with steam, swaying between those carved thighs like something out of another world. The way it must stretch. Fill. Change you.

Her cunt clenched hard, instinctively, and her moan broke free before she could bite it back.

"Oh fuck--"

And as if summoned by it, the woman next door screamed again -- louder this time, voice wrecked with pleasure.

"Oh GOD--RON--"

Shannon came.

Violently. Without warning.

Her back arched clear off the bed, legs trembling, thighs clutching Craig's hips like a vice. The orgasm tore through her with a force she couldn't name -- too much, too deep, too sudden. Her mouth opened in silence, breathless, like something holy had cracked inside her. Her nails scored Craig's back. Her whole body trembled.

Craig groaned her name, breath hitching as he buried himself deep and came with a soft, shuddering release.

They collapsed together, sweaty and tangled, the air thick with heat and fading breath.

But Shannon's legs were still shaking.

Her eyes stayed open.

And from the other side of the wall, the echoes hadn't stopped. That voice -- her voice -- kept breaking open the night. Louder now. Uncontained. Pleading.

"*Yes--Ron--yes--*I can't take it--please don't stop--"

Craig kissed her shoulder, murmured something against her skin, and let his breath slow sleepily.

But Shannon stayed awake.

Staring at the ceiling.

Listening.

She'd cum -- with Craig inside her.

But she wasn't thinking of Craig.

She was thinking of him.

And for the first time in their perfect relationship, Shannon wondered--

Was there room for more?

--------