I Feel Like Making Mistakes Tonight [FM] [Cute] [Romantic]

(Audio in comments)

You know what, I feel like making mistakes tonight. There’s something in the air, and I’m not talking about the smell of flour and cinnamon and eggs. I’m not even talking about another glass of wine, that hardly feels like a mistake at this point.

No, there is something else on my mind, and that would really count as a mistake. You live too close, just two floors, two flights of stairs away. You see me all the time, and we chat down in the laundry room, or when you help me carry up the groceries, because of course you do.

You are a good neighbour, and I’m afraid you have also proven to be a good friend. Always polite, and friendly to those you hold dear. Diligent and hard-working, and a bit of a jokester anytime you aren’t professional. It’s a good mixture, you are fun to be around and easy to work with, and bake with apparently. I didn’t even plan on you being here with me tonight, but I’ll admit that when we stumbled into each other my first idea was to invite you. I was a bit surprised that you said yes, we’ve both been kind of busy lately, and haven’t had much time to talk. But here you are, no, here we are, standing in my kitchen and looking at the mess we made.

The cake is in the oven, most of the cleanup done, and of course you were as much a help there as you were with the baking. A cute smile and helpful, and worst of all: anticipating. You aren’t like the guys who stand in the way all the time, your eyes see what’s going on and your mind anticipates my next move. When I’m wrist-deep in the dough and realize we need another egg it’s already on the way to me before I can really ask. You are there with the sugar because you read the instructions, and it is clear that you are no stranger to baking by the whole way you’re doing things.

It’s all so sweet, much like the cake. You even managed to take my glass of wine and let me drink from it while my hands were busy kneading the dough. And that was no longer just sweet, it was cute. It got me a little tipsy, and so did the wine. I didn’t even realize it, but you are getting ahead, and I’m getting ahead of myself.

I think we are done here, we can leave the rest of the mess behind. That is stuff I don’t need your help with, you did enough. Well, in the kitchen at least, I feel like we aren’t quite done yet in here. The evening is no longer young, but there are still some usable hours left, and it’s dark anyway so neither of us will be going anywhere. Why don’t you just stay, for a while at least? Come on, you’ve been here before, we’ve had evenings like this before. Nothing’s changed, right? I’m not different, am I? Please tell me that I’m still the same.

Why don’t you keep my mind occupied for a while, until it’s time for you to hit the hay? I mean, it’s not like you have it far, you don’t have to leave to catch your last train, and you don’t even have to get up early tomorrow. So, feel free to stay, I have nothing else to do anymore, and you at least want some of that cake, don’t you?

It wouldn’t be right to have you do all the work, and then get stuffed all by myself, with you no more than five minutes away and yet so far. Wouldn’t be right of you to leave me hanging, either, not when you could be sitting in that couch there, and talk your way into my pants.

Fuck, I didn’t just say that out loud, did I? It’s bad enough that I am thinking that, why in the heavens does my mind even go that far? But no, the look in your eyes hasn’t changed, so I guess I kept my mouth shut, didn’t I? You are still over there, and if I had said anything out loud you would be either out the door or on top of me. And I don’t know which of them would be worse.

Come on, give me something to work with here. You know me well enough by now to make a slight advance, especially when it’s clear by now that I am not at the height of my game. You simply have to notice, you are way too good at judging my moods to not see the mood I’m in right now. You must be able to tell that I need you to either get away or come closer. And you know better than to do the former, you know that when I’m asking myself that question that we both already know the answer.

The answer is that tonight, you don’t have to ask too many questions, and even those are more for your sake than mine. I’m fine with handing all responsibility over to you, it’s probably you who needs to shoot me some asking glances and I guess I’ll have to nod a bit and maybe bite my lip. And fine, I can do that, I can even say yes a couple times, just so you know that I am in fact on board.

I guess you would need those, to feel safe making your advances, the ones you usually wouldn’t attempt without a huge signs with big, boxy letters on it. So here I am, waving my glass of wine around like a shipwrecked girl trying to catch the plane’s attention.

Why don’t you come over here, and take the glass out of my hands? I’m sure that it is safer on the table than it could be in my hands, they are a little shaky by now. And I’m sure that’s just the alcohol, it’s just the long day behind me that has made me tired, and exhausted.

Oh god, who am I trying to fool? This is it, tonight’s the night, you worked fucking hard enough for fucking long enough. You deserve a little something for your efforts, I mean, other guys would have long taken their chances with me and risked something harmless like a foot massage. Any other guy would have made a crude joke about dough, baking, wine, us two standing in a kitchen – there is potential for some ill-advised joke in there somewhere. But no, of course not, mister high-morals has to prove again that he is better than other guys.

But I can’t even hate you for that, because it’s not a game you’re playing. You are just you, and that is what I like so much about you. I can’t really bring myself to complain, not aloud for that matter. I do feel like complaining, but it’s more of a silent complaint, one that I would feel embarrassed to say out loud.

Oh hey, that look in your eyes, what was that? Was that you getting the hint? It almost looked like it, for a moment there. Was that a bit of hunger in your eyes, a completely atypical moment of desire? Or was that just a reflection of my own eyes?

Fine, one last attempt, I’ll do the thing you need me to do. Here, we have avoided touching so carefully tonight, too carefully to make this anything close to an accidental touch. You’re getting the point? Great, I was worried there for a little bit.

But now, now you’re getting it, I can see it in your eyes. I see your raised eyebrow, and I mirror it. I have no issues playing a little game with you there, not after you played yours with me for a fucking eternity. Go ahead, make your choices, let the chips fall where they may. Maybe I don’t mean anything by it, and maybe I would flip out and bounce from wall to wall if you so much dare as touch me? Maybe, but not likely.

But no, you aren’t afraid of me, you aren’t like one of those shy guys who can’t say what they want. It’s more that you wouldn’t want to risk a good thing for a slightly better thing, and that you are actually happy to talk to me and bake with me. You are well aware of the possibilities here, and you respect me too much as a person to desire me as a willing slut shivering underneath you.

But then you also know a thing or two about the derailing trains of morals and emotions, don’t you? You can still treat me with respect even as you respectfully disagree with my choice of clothes, and take them off for me. You can respectfully take me into your arms, and then be so polite to pull the blanket over us so that nobody can see what you’re doing to me.

And sure, you can also turn me around, press my face into the cushions, sure. But why, for the love of god, do you think that massaging my neck is what I need from you? Come on, there is a time and place for two bodies slowly getting comfortable with each other, of testing how far each of us is willing to go. But that time is not fucking now, we did a lot of testing today, and all those weeks we’ve known each other. You showed me that I could trust you, that you could respect my boundaries and that you would take no for an answer should I ever feel the need to. And you know the same abou me, that I’m not someone who jumps at you and digs my claws and teeth into you over the smallest insignificance.

But let me tell you something, I will absolutely dig my claws into you if you keep up this nonsense, you can touch and caress me all night long if you want to. I don’t need your patience anymore, I fucking have none of my own patience left to deal with yours.

That’s better, that is you reaching around me, squeezing my breasts. And god, they needed to be squeezed, Just like I need your fingers pushing my shirt over my shoulders. Yes, that is perfect, that is soft fabric suddenly feeling rough, and so do your caring hands. That is my pants sliding down, your whole bodyweight shifting, the last bit of protecting fabric sliding over my ankles.

That is you, not even bothering to give me time to adjust, before your fingers work their way between my legs, where they belong. I wish I wasn’t so fucking obvious, so embarrassingly ready for you, for anything you could do to me. Your fingers are a start, and they are magic to my mind, but they are nothing against your words that reach my ears. They don’t make sense to me, but then they do, and I’m sure that what you say is well articulated and articulate. You probably put effort into what you say, do your best to ease my mind and make me comfortable with my choices that led us here. But really, all I hear is your voice, not your words, so why don’t you just start talking some sense into me?

Why don’t you start telling me the things I need to hear, the words that would hurt during the light of day or height of morals? You should start calling things by their name, and call me yours. No, don’t just call me yours, make me yours. Claim me, take me like I’m yours, which really I am. I fucking am, so much right now.

That, that is the sound of a zipper, my mind can still process that. And it is fucking perfect, just like what I’m about to feel, feel, have felt. That is you sliding into me, and again I wish I could muster any sort of resistance. But I am melt in your wax, or however you say that, and I’m honestly not sure where the massage stops and the sex starts with you. That is your dick in me, and your hands on my shoulders, soft movements of your hips balancing out with the strong fingers digging into my back, knuckles working their way up my spine.

I can not tell either where the fun stops and the pain starts, but it’s already over by the time the moans leave my lips. You are still inside of me, barely moving an inch, and your lips stop talking and start kissing. My neck, my shoulders, my butt cheeks. God in hell, how did you manage to do that, did your dick really just slip out of me?

It did, didn’t it? You really just did that, control yourself and give me time and space to catch a breath and breathe again? Fuck you, with all my heart and mind, don’t you dare treat me like that. I don’t need you to be nice to me, I don’t even want you to. This was your chance to take me, make me wince, and grab me by my neck and push me deeper into the couch, steady your weight on me and fuck me raw. But no, you can’t just do that, can’t just let yourself go like that.

You have to lean back, run your hands down my legs, and dig your thumbs into the soles of my feet. This is over for you, before it really started. You did what you came to do, and now the fun part of the evenings starts. The part where you dress me up again, pull me near and cuddle with me for the rest of the night.

And maybe, maybe later tonight you’ll find a way to get some for yourself, or you might just keep yourself in control, so much fucking self-control. I seriously can’t handle it. And that smile, I can’t even look at it without blushing.

At least you have the decency to take me into your arms so I can stare at the wall instead of staring at you. And now, your words start reaching my ears again, and they are so damn caring. Come on, you could at least call me a cute slut, your very own cute little needy slut. Don’t make me feel like this is still you being nice to me, and so fucking polite.

Say it with a smile if you have to, but say it.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/r2ldnd/i_feel_like_making_mistakes_tonight_fm_cute