Lost in Translation (And Other Ways He Ruined Me)

I hadn’t planned on it happening. But then again, when does anyone plan to get fucked senseless on a stranger’s living room floor?

It started simple enough: a message from an old friend—well, sort of a friend. More like this guy I’d met through mutuals, a foreigner with an accent that curled around words in a way that made my knees weak. He’d invited me over for dinner, something traditional from his country, he said. Mysterious, right? I figured, why not? A free meal, some wine, maybe a little flirting. Harmless.

The second I stepped into his apartment, the smell hit me—spices I couldn’t name, something rich and smoky simmering on the stove. He grinned, all messy dark hair and rolled-up sleeves, forearms flexing as he stirred. Fuck.

“You’re late,” he teased, handing me a glass of red.

“Traffic,” I lied, taking a sip. My eyes flicked to his hands. Long fingers, a silver ring on his thumb. Jesus.

Dinner was… intense. Not just the food—which was stupidly good—but the way he watched me. The way his knee brushed mine under the table and didn’t move away. The way he laughed when I tried to pronounce the name of the dish and failed spectacularly.

“Say it again,” he dared, leaning in.

I repeated it, butchering it worse. He smirked. “Cute.”

Cute. That word shouldn’t have sent a shiver down my spine, but here we were.

We moved to the couch after, putting on Friends with Benefits—bad idea. The chemistry between Justin and Mila on screen was nothing compared to the heat building between us. Every joke, every glance, every accidental touch. His arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers skimming my shoulder. My bare foot “slipping” onto his thigh.

Then that scene came on—the one where they fuck in the office—and the air got thick. I could feel his eyes on me instead of the screen. My pulse hammered in my throat.

“You ever done that?” he asked, voice low.

“What, fuck in an office?” I snorted, playing cool. “Nah. You?”

“No. But I’ve thought about it.” His thumb traced my collarbone. “A lot.”

Game over.

I turned to him, our faces inches apart. His breath smelled like wine and mint. “Prove it.”

His mouth crashed into mine, hot and demanding. No sweet buildup, no hesitation—just hunger. His hands tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me moan. I climbed into his lap, grinding down, feeling how hard he was already.

“Fuck, Fernanda,” he growled against my lips, gripping my hips.

I yanked his shirt off, nails scraping down his chest. He flipped us, pinning me to the couch, his teeth sinking into my neck. My dress was bunched around my waist, his jeans rough against my thighs.

“Bedroom,” I panted.

“Too far.”

He dragged me to the floor, the carpet burning my knees. His hands were everywhere—under my dress, squeezing my tits, sliding my panties down. I kicked them off, and he groaned at the sight of me, wet and shameless.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he accused, fingers sliding through my slick.

“Obviously.”

He didn’t tease. Just pushed me onto my back, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and ate me like he was starving. My back arched, curses tumbling out. His tongue was ruthless, circling my clit, fucking me deep. I came with a cry, thighs shaking.

Before I could recover, he was on me again, kissing me raw. I tasted myself on his lips. His cock pressed against my stomach, thick and leaking. I reached down, stroking him, loving the way his breath hitched.

“Condom?” I whispered.

“Back pocket.”

I rolled it on, biting my lip at the way his eyes darkened. Then he was pushing inside, slow, so fucking slow, until I was full.

“Move,” I begged.

He did. Hard, deep strokes that had me clawing at his back. The carpet burned my skin, but I didn’t care. Every thrust hit that sweet spot, his hips slamming into mine. His hands pinned my wrists, his mouth sucking bruises into my chest.

“You feel too good,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

I wrapped my legs tighter, urging him deeper. “Don’t stop—fuck, don’t stop—”

His pace turned brutal, the slap of skin echoing. I could feel him losing control, his rhythm faltering.

“Come with me,” he demanded.

His thumb found my clit, rubbing tight circles. The second orgasm ripped through me, blinding. He followed with a groan, spilling inside me, his forehead dropping to mine.

We stayed like that, panting, sticky, ruined. His cum pooled on my stomach as he pulled out.

He smirked, swiping a finger through it and bringing it to my lips. “Still hungry?”

I licked it clean, grinning. “Depends. You got dessert?”