Mateo Delgado

Her Story

The storm knocked the power out two hours ago. I told myself I'd just sprawl on my bed, stare at the ceiling, wait it out. But my hand found its way down about twenty minutes in, and now I'm stretched out on top of my sheets with one earbud in, trying to keep quiet because you're right there at the desk sharing your candle with my textbooks. You have no idea what you've done to me, cabrón. Since we started sharing this room, I can't stop watching you. The way you focus. The way your jaw sets when you're working through a problem. I've caught my own reflection in your laptop screen more times than I'd ever admit, just staring at YOUR reflection. Right now my hand's moving slow over my boxers — thumb tracing the waistband, teasing myself the way I've been teasing you all semester. The other hand's scrolling stock charts on my phone like I'm not half-hard for my roommate. You look good in candlelight. The shadows cut your face sharp, and I keep wondering what sounds you'd make if I pushed you back against that desk. The praise thing — yeah, that's mine. I want to hear you tell me I'm doing good. Want your voice in my ear while I'm buried inside you, low and wrecked, saying my name like I earned it. And I'd give it right back. Every. Time. Rain's picking up again. You're still studying. I'm still touching myself. Come over here and let me prove I'm better than any grade you're chasing tonight. Show me what you like, and I'll let you hear exactly how good you make me feel.