Fucked Hard on the Counter

I was 27, wading through that murky stretch of life where pretending to be okay feels like a full-time job you’re about to quit. My dad had died a few months earlier, and I’d walked away from my job at the bookstore. Everything inside me felt cracked open.

Mason had always been magnetic to me. Sandy blond hair that fell messy over his forehead, a low, rumbling voice that carried a quiet confidence, and these sharp green eyes that seemed to see straight through you — like he knew your secrets before you did.

I’d been hooked on him since the day we met at a mutual friend’s party, though I buried it deep. He was tangled up with my so-called “best friend,” Tara. I stayed out of it, played the good girl — until the rules changed.

It was a frigid Friday night in July, the kind where the wind bites through your jacket. Restless, I was doom-scrolling when I caught Tara’s latest sob-story post: a black-and-white photo of her staring out a window, captioned, “Love can mean walking away…”

I snorted. My brain did the math: “Mason’s out.” And sure enough, he was.

“You holding up?” I texted her, keeping it light, like I cared.

She called instantly, voice thick with tears. “He’s done with me. Said I’m suffocating, that I’m too much, that I’m paranoid.”

“Sheesh, maybe he’s onto something,” I thought, but I murmured vague sympathies instead, sprawled across my futon. I let her ramble for 40 minutes — crying, cursing, circling back. When she finally hung up, I didn’t hesitate. I slid into Mason’s DMs.

“Hey. Heard about the breakup. You okay? Here if you need me.”

His reply pinged back fast. “Hey, thanks. Didn’t think you’d reach out. Appreciate it.”

I played it smooth, dropping little hooks. “Let’s hang out sometime, grab a drink.” Then, “If you’re around, stop by.” I sent my address and cranked some grunge to drown out my nerves while I shoved clutter under the couch.

He rolled up past midnight. He looked rough — bags under his eyes, shoulders slumped—or maybe he was just leaning into the wounded vibe. Guys like him don’t need much to stumble into a girl who’s ready to catch them.

He stepped inside, bringing a whiff of cedar and leather. Those green eyes were hazy, searching, like a stray dog sniffing for shelter. My kind of catnip.

“Beer?” I offered.

“Hell yeah.”

We sank into the couch. I had on this baggy flannel shirt, unbuttoned halfway, no bra, no shorts — just panties underneath. When I crossed my legs, the shirt rode up, flashing skin I knew he’d clock. And he did. I made sure of it.

“I don’t even know where it all went wrong,” he said, cracking the beer.

“Maybe it’s not about going wrong. Maybe it’s about breaking free.”

He turned those eyes on me, and I swear they flickered — like he’d just stepped onto thin ice and heard it creak. My apartment wasn’t safe ground anymore; it was a live wire.

My hand found his knee, resting there like it was no big deal. He stiffened, glanced down. I could see the outline straining against his jeans, and that was my green light.

“If you’re here to vent, go for it,” I said, voice low. “But if it’s something else… don’t bullshit me.”

He didn’t speak. Just lunged, hands framing my face, lips crashing into mine with a force that tasted like frustration and want. I melted into it, parting my lips, letting him in.

I swung a leg over him, straddling his lap, feeling the hard ridge of him press up against me through the thin fabric of my panties. I rocked my hips slow, deliberate, a soft moan slipping out as the friction lit me up. He groaned, deep and ragged, hands sliding under the flannel to grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin like he was claiming territory. He shoved the shirt off my shoulders, baring me completely.

“Goddamn, you’re unreal,” he breathed, mouth dropping to my chest. His tongue flicked over one nipple, then the other, hot and wet, sucking hard enough to make me gasp. He grazed me with his teeth, just enough to sting, and I arched into it, heat pooling low.

I fumbled with his jeans, yanking them down. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, pulsing. I wrapped my lips around it, taking him in deep, tasting salt and skin. My tongue swirled over the tip, then down the shaft, sloppy and hungry. Spit slicked my chin as I worked him, sucking with a fury I didn’t know I had. He growled, fingers twisting in my hair, tugging just shy of painful.

“She never went this hard,” he muttered, voice breaking.

I smirked around him, humming so the vibration hit him harder. I knew she didn’t.

He hauled me up, spun me around, and bent me over the kitchen counter. Cold granite hit my stomach as he kicked my legs apart. He knelt behind me, hands spreading me open, and his tongue dove in — long, slow licks that made my thighs quiver. He sucked my clit into his mouth, teasing with flicks and pressure until I was clawing at the countertop, whining for more.

“Fuck me already,” I begged, voice raw.

He stood, lined up, and drove in — deep, sudden, stretching me full. He didn’t ease into it; he fucked me like he meant it, hips snapping hard, the counter digging into my pelvis with every thrust. Plates clattered in the cabinets; my moans echoed off the walls, loud and shameless.