The lock clicked under her hip — a small, final sound — and then his hands were on her waist, spanning it, pulling her off the door and into him like he'd been waiting the whole walk up the stairs to do exactly this.

Rae's bag slid off her shoulder and hit the vinyl with a soft thud she barely heard. The room was dark — she hadn't turned on the light, hadn't thought past the door, past the laugh they'd shared in the stairwell and the way his hand had rested at the small of her back the whole way up. Cheap vinyl under her sneakers, the faint sour smell of the hall carpet bleeding under the door, her own sweat going cold on her neck from the dancing. A poster of a band she couldn't name anymore hung crooked on the wall. Her roommate's side was a wall of fairy lights, unlit. Nobody home. That had been the plan. That had been the whole, innocent, stupid plan.

"Rae."

He said it low, close to her ear, and it didn't sound like her name. It sounded like something he'd already decided about her.

Her glasses had fogged at the edges. She reached up to push them straight and her knuckles brushed his chest instead — the cotton of his t-shirt, the heat under it, the slow rise and fall like he wasn't out of breath at all. She pulled her hand back fast, like she'd touched a stove.

"I was just — I thought we could —" She heard herself. The little apologetic ramp at the end of every sentence she'd ever said to a boy. "I don't usually do this."

"I know." His thumb moved along her hipbone, slow, through the yoga pants. "I know your type."

She blinked up at him. "My type?"

"Mm." He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at the way her blouse had pulled tight across her chest when she'd reached up, the way the top button had come undone somewhere between the bar and the third floor. "Church girl. Good grades. Says sorry when she hasn't done anything yet." His mouth curved. "You've been thinking about this all night and you're still gonna tell me no. Just to hear yourself say it."

The heat climbed her throat. "That's — that's not —"

His hand left her waist and took her chin. Two fingers and a thumb, tipping her face up, and there was nowhere to look but him. Dark eyes. No hurry in them at all. He held her there a second, letting her feel how easy it was, and then he kissed her.

Not the way she'd imagined it. She'd imagined soft. She'd imagined a boy who'd ask first, who'd laugh when their noses bumped, who'd let her set the pace because she was the one who'd never done it. Jay kissed her like he was finishing an argument she'd already lost. His tongue pushed past her lips and she made a sound into his mouth — a startled, high gasp she'd never made before — and her hands came up between them, flat against his chest, meaning to push.

They didn't push.

His arm locked around her back and hauled her up onto her toes. The kiss went deeper, wetter, and her knees did something she'd only read about in books she'd closed fast when her mother came in the room. They went weak. Actually weak. She grabbed his shirt to keep from sliding down the door.

She pulled her mouth back an inch. "Wait —"

He kissed her again before she finished the word. And she let him. That was the thing she'd think about later, in the dark, for weeks. She let him. Her hands were still on his chest and they weren't pushing, they were just there, and her mouth had stopped trying to shape the word stop and started shaping something else entirely.

His hands found the hem of her blouse. She felt the cool air hit her stomach before she understood what he was doing — and then the buttons were going, one, two, three, quick and sure like he'd done this a hundred times and she was the easiest thing he'd ever undressed. The loose white cotton slid off her shoulders and down her arms.

"I —" she started.

His fingers found the clasp of her bra at her back. One twist. It gave.

"Oh," she said. Small. Surprised at how fast a body could be made to mean nothing, to be just skin and air and the cold press of a door.

Her breasts spilled out and his eyes dropped and stayed there, and she felt the blush go all the way down her chest, blotchy and hot, the way it always did when anyone looked at her directly. She crossed her arms over herself on instinct.

He caught her wrists.

Not rough. Certain. He pulled her arms behind her back, and before she could work out what was happening, the blouse was around one wrist and the bra around the other, and he was knotting the two together behind her, the silk of the bra strap biting into the soft skin of her forearm. She twisted. It held.

"What are you —"

"Shh."

He lifted her bound hands with one arm, up and back, until her shoulders pulled and her chest arched forward and there was nothing she could do to cover herself. The stretch burned along the front of her ribs. Her nipples, already hard from the cold, tightened further, and she hated how much she could feel them — two points of heat in the dark room, aimed at him.

His free hand closed over her left breast.

She made a noise. Not a word. Her whole body curled toward his palm and she didn't tell it to.

"There," he said, quiet, like he was confirming something to himself. His thumb found her nipple and circled it — slow, wet from his own mouth a second later, because he bent his head and took it between his lips and sucked, and Rae's bound hands jerked uselessly behind her and her head fell back against the door with a thud she barely felt.

His tongue was flat and hot and then the edge of his teeth, just enough, and something pulled tight and low in her belly, a wire drawing up from between her legs to her throat. She was breathing through her mouth. Loud. She could hear herself and she couldn't stop.

"Jay —"

He switched to the other breast. Same slow attention. His thumb rolled the first nipple while his mouth worked the second, and she arched into him, hips tipping forward off the door, and she felt how wet she was — soaked through the yoga pants, a slick heat she'd never once let herself notice before, not like this, not with a name attached to it.

She should say stop. The word was right there. She'd said it to boys at the bar, she'd said it to the one who'd grabbed her ass on the dance floor, she said it easily, it was her favorite word. Sorry. Stop. Sorry.

She didn't say it.

He straightened up, still holding her wrists high with one arm, and looked down at her — glasses crooked, mouth open, chest heaving, hands tied behind her back like she'd done it to herself. Something moved across his face. Not a smile. Something quieter.

"You feel that?" he said.

"Feel what?"

"That." His knee pressed between her thighs, up against the soaked cotton, and she made a sound she'd never heard come out of her own mouth — a broken, wanting thing — and her hips rolled down onto his leg before her brain caught up.

Her face went scarlet. She turned it into the door.

"That's what I meant," he said. "Your type. You've been good your whole life and nobody ever told you it feels like this."

He let go of her wrists. Her arms dropped, still bound, and she stood there wobbling on her heels, blouse and bra knotted behind her, breasts bare and wet from his mouth, and she didn't run for the door and she didn't reach for her clothes. She just stood, breathing, and watched him step back and turn toward the chair.

Her desk chair. The one she did her chem homework in. He pulled it out from the desk with one hand and turned it to face her, and the scrape of the legs on the vinyl was the loudest sound in the room.

"Sit."

Her legs carried her over before she'd decided anything. She sat. The chair was cold through the yoga pants and her bound arms pressed awkwardly against the backrest, and she looked up at him — up, because even sitting, he was that tall — and he was already undoing his belt.

The buckle clinked. Leather slid through the loops with a hiss. Her mouth went dry and her heart did something in her throat, and she watched his hands like they belonged to someone else, someone she was allowed to stare at.

He pushed the khakis down and took himself out.

Rae had seen exactly one penis in her life, in a health class diagram, and it had been a gray line drawing with no blood in it. This was — she couldn't — the word big was a nothing word. It stood up out of his hand, thick as her wrist and longer than her hand by a mile, the head dark and shining, and she stared at it with her lips parted and her glasses sliding down her nose and did absolutely nothing to cover herself.

"I can't," she said. It came out a whisper.

"Can't what?"

She didn't have an answer. He stepped in close, straddling her knees, and took her bound wrists and lifted them again — up, over her head this time, until her arms crossed behind her neck and her elbows squeezed her own breasts together. The position pushed them up and out, plump and flushed, the nipples still wet and tight, and she understood with a hot lurch what he wanted them for.

He spat into his palm. Stroked himself once, twice, and then laid the length of his cock down into the crease between her breasts.

The heat of it shocked her. Skin on skin, and not the soft kind — the shaft was hard as the door behind her, and she could feel the pulse in it, a thick beat against her sternum, and she made a small sound and pressed her thighs together and felt the wetness there smear.

"Hold still."

He cupped her breasts with both hands and pushed them together around himself, and then he started to move. Slow at first, dragging the head up through the crease and down again, the slick of his spit going tacky, and she watched it slide out the top of her cleavage and disappear and come back, and her whole chest was burning, the friction of it, her own skin rubbed raw against the underside of him.

He spat again. Went faster.

The chair creaked under her. His hips found a rhythm, and she was pinned there with her arms behind her neck and her tits shoved together like a toy he'd picked up, and the burn climbed and climbed until her nipples were two live wires and every drag of him sent a jolt straight down between her legs. She was grinding against the edge of the chair without meaning to. The seam of her yoga pants was soaked through and she could smell herself — that sharp, private smell — and she couldn't do a thing about it.

"Look at me."

She looked up. He was watching her face, not her chest, and that was somehow worse — the way he wanted to see what this was doing to her. She felt the blush hit again, up her neck, into her cheeks, and her eyes went wet at the corners, and she didn't look away.

"Good girl," he said, and something in her chest turned over.

His rhythm broke. He pulled out of the crease and stepped closer, one knee on the chair beside her thigh, and his hand came off her breast and took her jaw instead, thumb pressing her chin down.

She knew what he was going to do. Her whole body knew. She shook her head — small, fast, back and forth against his grip — and her mouth said, "I've never — I don't know how —"

And her mouth opened.

On its own. Wide, jaw dropped, tongue flat, like her body had already agreed to something her voice was still refusing. He looked down at her open mouth for one long second, and then he pushed in.

She gagged immediately. The head hit the back of her throat and her whole body seized — bound hands flying up, spine arching, a wet, panicked sound around the mouthful of him. He didn't pull back. He held there, letting her throat learn the shape of it, and she breathed hard through her nose and her eyes streamed and her glasses fogged completely, and then he drew back and pushed in again, deeper, and she stopped fighting it.

Her tongue found the underside of him. She licked along it, clumsy and learning, tasting salt and skin and something faintly bitter, and her jaw ached and her throat worked around the thickness of him and she was doing this, she was actually doing this, on her knees on her own desk chair with her hands tied behind her head.

He fucked her mouth in long, even strokes. Not brutal. Patient. Watching her take it, watching her figure it out, and she did — she found a rhythm, breathing through her nose between thrusts, swallowing around him when he pushed past the gag, and the wet sounds filled the little room, obscene and loud, and she felt her own thighs sliding against each other, slick and needy, the whole time.

"That's it," he said. His voice had gone rough. The first crack in the certainty. "Just like that."

His hand tightened in her hair — the curls he'd been pretending not to notice all night, fisted now, holding her head steady — and his hips sped up, and she felt him swell against her tongue, felt the pulse go hard and fast, and he said her name once, low, and came.

Hot. So much of it, thick and salt and sudden, flooding her mouth, and her first instinct was to pull back and her body's was to swallow, and her body won. She swallowed. Greedy, working her throat, taking every pulse of it, and he held her head there through all of it until the last twitch, and then he pulled out slow and she licked the head clean without being told, catching the last of it on her tongue.

She sat there after, mouth open, breathing hard, glasses completely useless, bound hands still behind her head. The room smelled like him and like her, the two mixed into the cheap vinyl dark, and somewhere down the hall a door opened and closed and a girl laughed at something, ordinary and far away.

Jay looked down at her. His cock was still out, still half-hard against his thigh, and he hadn't moved to put it away.

Neither of them was done. She could feel it — the wire still pulled tight in her belly, the wet mess between her legs, the ache in her jaw, and the way his eyes were already moving down her body again, past her mouth, past her chest, lower.

Her bound wrists shifted against each other behind her neck. The knot held.