Playing Love with My Roommate

Aria’s Pov

A soft, breathy moan escaped my lips as my fingers worked over my own skin, the pleasure building in slow, relentless waves. The hum of the vibrator was a constant, maddening pulse against my most sensitive spot, painting constellations behind my closed eyelids. In the feverish fantasy playing out in my mind, it wasn’t plastic and silicone—it was Liam’s mouth, his skilled tongue driving me wild with a practiced cruelty only he could possess.

God, just the thought of him—my roommate, the boy I’d pined for since forever—had me trembling on the precipice.

“Yes,” I breathed out, my voice ragged as I increased the intensity, my hips lifting off the mattress of their own accord.

I was right there, so close to shattering, when the sharp jangle of keys cut through the heavy silence. The familiar groan of the front door swinging open followed.

No. Absolutely not. Not now. This was becoming a pattern—the second time this week he’d walked in and wrecked my climax.

With a frustrated growl, I fumbled for the switch, silencing the toy, and shoved it hastily beneath my pillow. My chest heaved as if I’d just sprinted a mile. A fine sheen of sweat coated my skin despite the chill from the air conditioner and the cracked window.

I went completely still, staring at the ceiling, listening. His footsteps were heavy, deliberate, moving down the hall toward our shared space.

The door creaked open. I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Please don’t notice, I pleaded silently. The room was saturated with the scent of my arousal, unmistakable and thick. Could he smell it? Weren’t guys supposed to have some primal radar for this? And worse… what if he’d heard the muffled sounds I’d made earlier? What if he’d heard his own name on my lips? The humiliation would be lethal.

“Cut the act, Aria. I know you’re awake.” His voice washed over me, deep and smooth like aged whiskey, vibrating through the quiet and going straight to my core, which was still throbbing insistently.

I held my breath, feigning sleep, praying he’d buy it and retreat.

The silence stretched. I thought maybe he had. I risked cracking one eye open to check.

And there he was. His unfairly handsome face was mere inches from mine, those rich, honey-brown eyes glinting with a mixture of pure amusement and mocking challenge.

I let out a startled squeak, half-gasp, half-choked laugh, and clapped my hands over my flaming cheeks. “Liam! What the hell? Personal space is a concept, you know!”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough, pulling back just enough to loom over me instead of invading. “Why are you still up? Don’t you have that midterm tomorrow?” He straightened to his full height, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just scared ten years off my life.

I pushed myself up slowly, drawing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, a flimsy shield against my utter disarray. He turned away then, thank goodness, and in one fluid motion, peeled his sweat-dampened jersey over his head.

The muscles of his back and shoulders gleamed under the lamplight, the intricate tattoos—a tapestry of dragons and cryptic symbols—shifting with his movement. Stories etched in ink I ached to read with my fingertips. A fresh, needy pulse echoed low in my belly, and I pressed my thighs together tightly. Down. Not now.

Loving Liam Valdemar was my oldest, deepest secret. A quiet curse that had taken root back when we were just kids with scraped knees in the same neighborhood. He’d been the villain in my story then—the brooding boy next door everyone warned me about. “Trouble,” the neighbors would whisper, giving him a wide berth. But my lonely, bruised heart? It latched onto that attention anyway. It was the only kind I seemed to get.

At home, I was a ghost. My father poured all his affection into my step-siblings, and my stepmother never missed an opportunity to remind me I was the “bad omen,” the reason my mother wasn’t here. I was the background character in my own life, perpetually overlooked.

And yes, Liam was gorgeous. He had been even at thirteen, with a jawline already promising sharp angles, dark hair perpetually falling into eyes that could hold you captive. A straight nose, lips that looked sculpted for sin—I’d imagined them on mine in a thousand stolen daydreams.

He’d teased me, tormented me, sure. But he’d also step in front of anyone else who tried: “Back off. She’s mine to bother.” It was toxic, I knew that even then. I should have run. But that raw, possessive claim? It hooked something deep and desperate in me, and I craved the burn of his focus, however twisted.

How we ended up as roommates was pure, desperate logistics. The university dorms had filled up before I secured a spot, and off-campus apartments demanded a budget I didn’t have. Asking my father for money was out of the question. My sheltered, isolated childhood—makes Rapunzel seem like a social butterfly—left me with no close friends to split costs with, and the idea of a random stranger as a roommate sounded terrifying.

Liam lived in a decent place near Pinecrest University. I swallowed every ounce of pride and asked him for help. He’d grumbled, complained it was a hassle, but he’d said yes. Beneath the abrasive exterior, it turned out he wasn’t completely heartless.

Living with him, though? It was exquisite torture. Sleeping just a few feet from that kind of temptation every night was what finally pushed me over the edge. I’d introduced myself to pleasure with toys, a poor substitute, always, always imagining it was him. How do you share a room with a wildfire and not expect to get burned?

“Are you even listening? Where’d you go?” He snapped his fingers right in front of my face, jerking me back to the present.

“Huh?” I blinked, my gaze locking onto his. His eyes were warm and deep, pulling me in like a riptide. I could have happily drowned there.

He let out an exasperated sigh and dragged a hand through his already tousled hair, making it look even more artfully messy. Devastatingly sexy bedhead, I thought.

“I said,” he repeated, slower, “I need you to come somewhere with me this weekend.”

“A date?” The word leapt from my mouth before my brain could engage, my heart performing a stupid, hopeful somersault.

His expression shifted—surprise, then clear irritation—and he barked a short, humorless laugh. “In your dreams, maybe.”

The words were a physical blow to my stomach. I covered the sting with an eye-roll and a derisive snort. “Ouch. Midnight is a cruel time for ego-crushing, you know.” Inside, I felt hollowed out. But I’d take his scraps over his indifference any day.

“My grandfather is hosting a big family dinner. The whole circus will be there.” He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The casual pose was effortlessly, infuriatingly attractive.

I arched a brow, mirroring his stance by folding my own arms. “And my invitation arrived because…?”

“I want you there.” His tone left no room for argument, but it explained exactly nothing.

I sighed. “That’s not a reason, Liam. It’s a command.”

He scowled, his jaw tightening. “Do you enjoy getting under my skin? I’ve told you a thousand times not to call me that.”

A smirk tugged at my lips. I shrugged. “You live to get under mine. Seems fair.”

He just glared, his heated gaze boring into me until I felt my cheeks flush again. I cleared my throat, desperate to break the charged silence. “Seriously, though. Why me? Why drag your roommate to a family event?” My voice came out softer, more vulnerable than I’d intended.