He Said He’d Just Cuddle… But His Hands Had Other Plans [F24M30] [Friends to Lovers] [First Time] [Sleepy Sex] [Touch Starved]

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not like that.

We'd been friends for years—close, flirty, but safe. He'd seen me cry over exes. I'd helped him survive a breakup with someone who didn't deserve him. We had a rhythm. Comfort in our friendship. We joked about how if we were still single at thirty, we'd just give up and marry each other.

That night, it was raining hard. One of those storms that shook the windows. My apartment heater had broken and I was already three layers deep in blankets when he texted: "Got food. Want a cuddle delivery?"

He showed up with Thai takeout, two beers, and his favorite hoodie. I threw it on without thinking. He raised an eyebrow.

"You really just claim my stuff like that?"

"It's mine now," I said, already curled up on the couch.

After we ate, we half-watched a movie until the power flickered and cut. The rain didn't let up.

"You should stay," I said before I could overthink it. "Seriously. The roads are shit."

"I'll take the couch."

"You'll take the bed," I replied, nudging him. "We've shared worse after parties. Don't be weird."

So we climbed into my bed—fully dressed, backs turned, trying not to overthink it. But then I shifted. So did he. Somehow we ended up tangled. Arms, legs, warmth shared under the covers like it always belonged.

"You good?" he murmured, hand brushing my waist.

"Yeah," I said, swallowing hard. "Just... cold."

He adjusted, pulled me tighter against him. His palm rubbed slow circles along my hip, just under the hem of my borrowed hoodie. Innocent. Almost.

Then he stopped.

"Do you want me to keep touching you?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded. "Yeah. I really do."

He didn't move right away. I could feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and strong.

"I've thought about this," he said, fingers slipping under the waistband of my shorts, tracing soft paths over my bare skin. "About touching you like this."

"Same," I whispered.

His hand slid lower, over my stomach, down between my thighs. I was already wet—embarrassingly so. He found that quickly.

"Oh," he breathed. "You feel…"

"Don't stop."

His mouth brushed the back of my neck. My hips rocked against his fingers.

When he turned me over to face him, I barely caught my breath before he kissed me. Slow. Deep. Everything we hadn't said for years poured into that kiss.

Clothes were stripped away piece by piece. We moved like we'd done it a hundred times but still couldn't get close enough. When he pushed inside me, I gasped and gripped his back like it was the only thing anchoring me.

We didn't talk much. Just touches. Moans. My name on his lips. His whispered promises against my skin.

I came first. He followed, holding me like he never wanted to let go.

And when we finally calmed, when the room was quiet except for the storm outside, he kissed my forehead and said, "I don't think I can pretend this didn't happen."

"Good," I whispered. "I don't want to."