American Boyfriend - Exchange Student Part 8

It started at the coffee shop.

We were just grabbing iced lattes after class, nothing special. I was leaned over the counter trying to pick a muffin when some guy behind us — tall, buzzcut, gym rat type — nudged in and said, “Dude, your accent’s kinda hot. Are you from somewhere else?”

I blinked.

Before I could say anything, he looked past me. “Wait—you’re the foreign one.”

He was smiling at Ren.

Ren did his usual polite bow thing, half-smile, head tilted.

Buzzcut kept going. “You guys together?”

I coughed. “We’re roommates.”

“So, no?” the guy asked, locking eyes with me.

Ren didn’t say anything.

Buzzcut handed me a napkin with his number on it and walked off, shooting a wink.

I thought that was it.

But back in the dorm, everything was... weird.

Ren didn’t say a word. Not during the walk, not while unlocking the door, not when I kicked off my shoes and asked if he wanted to order food.

He just stood there, in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

I turned around. “What?”

He looked at me, eyes darker than usual. “You liked him?”

“What? Who?”

“That guy. Buzzcut.”

I scoffed. “No. He was just—"

“You smiled.”

“I smile at people.”

“You smiled more.”

I rolled my eyes. “What, are you jealous?”

He stepped closer.

And suddenly, it hit me. His chest was rising and falling. His jaw was clenched. His whole body was tense.

Ren was pissed.

“No,” he said. “I’m not jealous.”

I raised a brow. “Then what the hell is this?”

He took another step.

“I’m claiming you.”

Before I could answer, he pushed me back against the closet, lips crashing into mine.

The kiss was hard. Wet. Possessive.

I moaned into his mouth, clutching at his shirt. But he was already yanking it off. Then mine. Then we were kissing again, bare chests pressed tight, hips grinding.

He reached down and palmed my cock through my jeans. “Still hard for me?”

“Always.”

“Even when he was flirting?”

I grabbed his face and kissed him again. “Especially then.”

He growled — actually growled — and shoved me onto the bed.

Then he climbed on top. Pulled off my pants. Undid his own.

We were naked. Breathing hard. No music, no distractions — just us.

He hovered over me. “Can I?”

I nodded.

“Please.”

He spit in his hand. Rubbed it on himself, then on me, slow and deliberate.

Then he lined up. Looked into my eyes.

Pushed in.

I gasped.

It was slow at first — careful — but god, he was deep. Stretching me open, inch by inch.

He held my hand. Kept kissing me.

“Okay?” he whispered.

“Fuck—yeah.”

Then he started moving.

Rhythmic. Fluid. Fucking.

His hips snapped into mine, faster now, every thrust hitting something inside me that made me groan.

He leaned down, kissed my throat, moaned in my ear:

“You’re mine.”

“Yes…”

“My American boyfriend.”

I gasped.

He grabbed my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

I came fast. All over my stomach.

He wasn’t far behind — buried himself deep and came with a long, choked moan, body shaking above me.

Then he collapsed on my chest.

Sweaty. Satisfied.

Breathless.

“Mine,” he murmured again.

I kissed his hair. “Yours.”