The ceiling has a crack in it. I've been staring at it for what feels like hours, tracing the same line from the corner to the light fixture, over and over. My jeans are still on. I haven't moved except to press my palm against my groin once, twice, trying to push down the ache that has nothing to do with sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way her chest heaved. The hurt in those dark eyes. The way she turned and walked away.
My phone stays dark on the nightstand. I don't check it. I'm afraid of what I'd see. Or what I wouldn't.
The mini-fridge hums. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs. Normal sounds. A normal night. Except I'm lying here with my hand pressed against myself, thinking about the way her body felt against mine at the party, the way she pressed close, the way she pulled away. And I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know if I did anything wrong. I just know she looked at me like I'd broken something.
I roll onto my side. The pillow smells like stale detergent. I close my eyes and see her again. The curve of her hip. The way her tank top hung loose. The way she bit her lip when she looked at me. My cock throbs against my zipper and I hate myself for it. This isn't about that. This isn't about wanting her body. This is about the look on her face when she walked away.
I don't sleep.
---
Morning comes gray through the blinds. I shower. I dress. I grab my bag and head to class because that's what you do. You keep moving. You pretend the world didn't crack open last night.
I find a seat near the back. The lecture hall is half-empty. I pull out my notebook, stare at the blank page, and wait for something to happen. For the Professor to start talking. For my brain to catch up. For anything that isn't the replay of her face in my head.
And then I see her.
Chloe is standing near the door with the same guys from the party. The ones who were laughing. The ones she was with before she found me. She's wearing cutoff shorts so short I can see the curve of her ass cheeks, and a thin white tank top with no bra underneath. Her nipples are hard against the fabric. Her hair is loose, wild, falling over her shoulders. She looks like she walked out of a dream I can't stop having.
My chest aches. I try to look away. I can't.
She's laughing at something one of them says, but it's wrong. The laugh is too loud, too bright, brittle like glass. She touches his arm. She leans in. She's performing. I can see it from here. And then she turns, just slightly, and our eyes meet.
For a second, nothing moves.
Then she angles her body away. Deliberate. Like she's cutting a thread between us. She turns her back to me.
My heart breaks. Right there. In the middle of a lecture hall full of strangers, my chest cracks open and I feel it.
I drop my gaze to my notebook. I don't see the page. I see her back. The curve of her spine. The way her hair falls. The way she won't look at me.
The Professor starts talking. I don't hear a word.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. She's still with them. Still laughing. Still touching. But there's a tightness in her shoulders. A stiffness in the way she holds herself. She's not okay. She's pretending, and she's good at it, but I can see the crack.
A girl sits down next to me. I don't know her. She's cute in a forgettable way, with blonde hair and a smile that's too eager. She says something about the assignment. I nod. I don't hear her. Chloe's voice cuts through the room—that laugh again, bright and wrong—and I flinch.
The girl next to me touches my arm. "You okay?"
I open my mouth to answer. I don't get the chance.
Chloe turns. She sees the girl's hand on my arm. Her eyes widen. Just for a second. Then they narrow. Something floods her face—hurt, anger, something raw and bleeding—and then it's gone. She smiles. Too bright. Turns back to the guys. Laughs at something. Touches someone else's arm.
I want to go to her. I want to cross the room and take her hand and ask her what I did wrong. But I can't move. I'm pinned to this chair by the weight of everything I don't know how to say.
The girl next to me is still talking. I don't care. I can't care. Chloe is right there, twenty feet away, dressed like she wants me to see every curve, every line of her body, and she won't look at me.
She's wearing that thin white tank top. No bra. Her breasts move when she laughs, heavy and full, and I can see the outline of her nipples. The way they press against the fabric. The way the fabric clings to the sweat on her skin. She knows. She has to know what she's doing. She's wearing a thong under those shorts. I saw it when she bent over to pick up her bag. A thin line of black fabric disappearing between her cheeks.
Half naked. She's half naked, and she's standing there pretending she doesn't know me, and I can't breathe.
The girl next to me leans closer. "I'm Sarah, by the way."
I force myself to look at her. "Marcus."
"I know." She smiles. "Everyone knows who you are."
I don't ask what that means. I don't want to know. I just want Chloe to look at me. Just once. Just for a second.
She doesn't.
The lecture drags on. I take notes I won't read. The girl—Sarah—keeps finding excuses to touch my arm, my shoulder, my hand on the desk. I let her. I don't pull away. Part of me wants Chloe to see. Part of me wants her to feel even a fraction of what I felt last night when she walked away.
Childish. I know. But I'm tired of being the one who holds on.
Chloe glances over. Sees Sarah's hand on mine. Her jaw tightens. She looks away. But not fast enough. I saw it. The crack in her armor. The flash of something raw and real.
She still cares. She's still hurting. And she's standing there in a tank top and shorts so short they barely qualify as clothes, and she's dying inside, and I don't know how to reach her.
The lecture ends. People shuffle. I gather my things slowly, watching her from across the room. She's talking to one of the guys, laughing, touching his chest. He's tall. Dark hair. The kind of guy who looks like he belongs in a magazine. She's leaning into him like she's trying to disappear into his shadow.
I stand up. My legs feel heavy. My chest feels hollow.
Sarah touches my arm again. "You want to grab coffee?"
I don't. I want to cross the room. I want to take Chloe's hand. I want to pull her away from him and tell her I'm sorry, even though I don't know what I'm sorry for.
But Chloe is looking at me now. Finally. Her eyes meet mine over his shoulder. Dark. Hurt. Accusing. Like I'm the one who did this.
Maybe I am.
I don't answer Sarah. I can't. My voice is gone. I just stand there, holding my notebook, watching Chloe watch me, and neither of us moves.
The guy she's with says something. She laughs. But her eyes don't leave mine. And in that laugh, I hear everything she's not saying.
Why didn't you come after me?
Why didn't you call?
Why are you letting her touch you?
I don't have answers. I don't have anything except the ache in my chest and the sight of her walking away again, this time with him, her hand sliding into his, her hips swaying like she's daring me to stop her.
I don't.
Sarah says something else. I don't hear it. I'm watching Chloe's back disappear through the door, her hair swinging, her thin tank top stretching across her shoulders, and I'm drowning in the silence she left behind.
"Marcus?" Sarah's hand on my arm again. Warm. Persistent.
I blink. Look at her. She's pretty. Nice smile. Nothing like Chloe.
"Coffee," I say. My voice sounds dead. "Sure."
I don't know why I say yes. Maybe because I'm tired of being alone. Maybe because I want Chloe to see. Maybe because I don't know what else to do with the ache in my chest.
We walk out together. I don't look back. But I can still feel her. The ghost of her touch. The sound of her laugh. The image of her walking away, half-naked and broken, and me standing here like a fool, not knowing how to fix it.
I hear the word "coffee" leave his mouth and something inside me shatters. He said yes. He actually said yes to her. Sarah. The girl with the boring ponytail and the safe, modest t-shirt. The girl who hasn't spent every single day for the past two months finding excuses to touch him, to be near him, to let my nipples brush against his arm when I lean over his desk.
My hand tightens on the guy's sleeve—Derek, I think his name is, some guy from the party—and I force a laugh I don't feel. The sound comes out bright and empty, like breaking glass wrapped in cotton. Derek starts talking about something, his hand finding my waist, and I let it stay there because I need an anchor, something solid to stop me from screaming.
I watch them leave. Marcus and his coffee girl. He doesn't look back. Not once. His shoulders are broad under his t-shirt, that same gray one he wore the first time I saw him in the dining hall, the one that stretches across his back when he moves. I know the shape of him. I've memorized it. And now he's walking away with someone who doesn't even know how he smells after the rain, how his voice drops when he's flustered, how his hands warm up when he holds a mug too long.
She doesn't know him. I do. And he just chose her.
The thought hits like a fist to my sternum. I step back from Derek, mutter something about needing air, and I'm out of the building before I know what I'm doing. The afternoon sun hits my face and I blink, disoriented. I'm walking. My legs are moving, carrying me across campus, past the library, past the fountain where he sat with me last week and let me ramble about my psych midterm while he just watched my mouth move.
I stop at the edge of the quad. The coffee shop is across the street. I can see the awning, the red and white stripes, the little chalkboard sign that says "Fresh Brew All Day." He's in there. With her. Sitting across from her. Letting her laugh at his jokes. Letting her touch his hand on the table.
I can't breathe. My chest is a cage and my heart is a trapped animal throwing itself against the bars.
My phone buzzes. I don't look at it. My feet are already moving, crossing the street, pushing open the door, the little bell overhead chiming my arrival. The air hits me—coffee, cinnamon, the faint sourness of old milk—and I scan the room like I'm hunting prey.
Back corner. Booth. He's sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door, and he sees me the second I walk in. His eyes go wide. That familiar, gorgeous, infuriating cluelessness flickers across his face—why is she here?—and I feel a surge of satisfaction so sharp it almost hurts. He saw me. He's looking at me. Not at her.
Sarah is saying something, leaning forward, her hand on the table. I don't care. I'm already walking toward the counter, letting my hips swing the way they do when I want to start a fire. The guy behind the counter—early twenties, dark curls, a tattoo peeking out from his sleeve—lights up when he sees me. "Hey, what can I get you?"
I lean onto the counter, let my chest press against the edge. My tank top is thin, white, and the air conditioning is aggressive. My nipples are hard. I know they are. I can feel the fabric catching. "What's your favorite?" I ask, my voice warm, conspiratorial. "Surprise me."
The barista's eyes drop to my chest. He catches himself, looks back up, grins. "You look like a caramel macchiato kind of girl. Extra sweet."
"You know me so well already." I smile, let it linger. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Marcus watching. His jaw is tight. Good. Let him watch. Let him wonder why a guy who makes coffee for a living is paying more attention to me than the girl he came here with.
"You should put your number in," the barista says, sliding a receipt across the counter. "In case you want to change your order."
I laugh, touch his hand briefly. "Maybe I will." I don't. I just let the pen hover, let him wait, let Marcus watch. The tension in my chest eases a fraction. This is a game I know how to play. I've been playing it my whole life. Being looked at. Being wanted. It's the only language I speak fluently.
I take my drink—he wrote his number on the cup, bold black ink—and turn, scanning the room like I just noticed them. "Oh. Hey, Marcus. Fancy seeing you here."
My voice is light, teasing. His eyes are dark. Sarah's smile has frozen into something thin and brittle. She's pretty in a washed-out way. No curves. No heat. Nothing that would make a man remember her in the dark.
"Mind if I join?" I'm already sliding into the booth next to Marcus. Our thighs touch. I don't move away. Neither does he.
"We were in the middle of something," Sarah says. The edge in her voice could cut glass.
"I'll be quick. I just wanted to say hi." I take a sip of my drink, looking over the rim at Marcus. His eyes are on my mouth. I lick my lips without thinking. "You left the lecture pretty fast."
"Yeah." His voice is rough. "You seemed busy."
"I was." I say it flat, let the weight of it hang. "But I'm not anymore."
The barista appears at my elbow. "Hey—I forgot to ask your name. For the cup." He's grinning, nervous, hopeful. "So I know what to write next time."
"Maybe I'll tell you next time." I wave the cup. "Thanks for this."
He doesn't leave. He's waiting for something. A sign. A number. Anything. I give him a soft smile, the kind that says maybe and not right now all at once, and he finally retreats, his eyes lingering on the curve of my hip where my shorts cut high.
Sarah's voice cuts through the moment. "Wow. That's a lot of effort for a free coffee." She's looking at me, her eyes cold. "I mean, the shorts alone must have taken some courage."
I blink. Slow. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying." She shrugs, all false innocence. "Some of us don't need to dress like we're going to a club to get attention."
I feel the words land like a slap. But I've been hit before. I know how to roll with it. I'm about to fire back—something cutting, something that will make her feel as small as she's trying to make me feel—when Marcus's voice cuts through, low and hard.
"Don't talk to her like that."
I freeze. My heart stops. Then starts again, faster, harder.
Sarah's face goes pale. "I was just—"
"You weren't." He's sitting up straighter now, his shoulders squared, his eyes locked on her. "You were being mean for no reason. She didn't do anything to you."
I can't breathe. He's defending me. He's angry, actually angry, and it's on my behalf. The heat that spreads through my chest is nothing like the jealousy I felt ten minutes ago. This is molten. This is honey and fire and the ache between my thighs that I've been trying to ignore all week.
Sarah says something else—"I didn't mean anything by it, jeez"—but I'm not listening. I'm watching Marcus. The way his jaw is set. The way his hands are flat on the table, like he's holding himself back. The way his eyes flick to mine, searching, asking if I'm okay.
I nod, just a fraction. I'm more than okay. I'm drenched.
"We should go." Marcus is already standing, grabbing his cup. He looks at me, then at Sarah. "This was a mistake. I'm sorry."
Sarah starts to protest, but he's already moving, his hand brushing my arm as he passes. "Come on."
Two words. Two words and I'm on my feet, following him out of the coffee shop, the little bell chiming our exit. The evening air hits me—cool, damp, the smell of wet pavement—and I wrap my arms around myself, my heart hammering so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts.
He stops on the sidewalk. Turns. His face is unreadable, but his eyes—those hazel eyes I've been drowning in for weeks—are burning with something I don't dare name.
"Why are you really here, Chloe?"
I open my mouth. Close it. The words are stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest, tangled in the ache that's been living there since I watched him leave the party with her.
"Because I couldn't stand it." My voice comes out smaller than I meant it to. Raw. "Watching you with someone else. Watching you laugh at her jokes, touch her arm, look at her like she mattered. Like I didn't."
His eyes widen. The blush starts at his neck, creeping up his cheeks, staining the tips of his ears. "Chloe, I—"
"No, let me finish." I step closer. My hands are shaking, so I shove them into the pockets of my shorts. "I've been throwing myself at you for weeks. You think I dress like this for the weather? You think I bend over in front of you because I'm clumsy?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I'm not subtle. I know I'm not subtle. But you never—you just looked at me like I was being friendly. Like I was just another person in your life. And then you found Sarah, and I thought, fuck. I missed my chance. He doesn't want me."
He's staring at me. The blush has spread to his forehead now, and he's rubbing the back of his neck so hard I'm surprised he hasn't worn through the skin.
"Chloe, I—" He stops. Swallows. His voice drops, rough and strained. "I didn't think you meant it like that. I thought you were just being nice. You're nice to everyone. You smile at everyone. You touch everyone."
"Not like that." I'm closer now, close enough to smell the detergent on his shirt, the faint sweat from walking. "I don't press my tits into everyone's chest when I hug them. I don't bend over in front of everyone so they can see my ass through my shorts."
"I thought that was just how you—"
"It's not."
He exhales, long and shaky. His hand drops from his neck. "I was so angry." The words come out in a rush, like they've been waiting to escape. "At the party, when those guys were all over you. I wanted to punch them. Every single one of them. I wanted to drag you away and tell them to keep their fucking hands off you." He laughs, a short, self-deprecating sound. "I didn't even know I felt that way. Not until I saw you laughing at something that asshole said, and I just—I saw red."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "You were jealous."
"Yeah." He meets my eyes, finally, and the vulnerability there makes my knees weak. "I was jealous. And then I saw you with that barista, and I thought—I thought maybe I really did miss my chance. That you were just playing with me. That I was some dumb freshman you were bored with."
"Marcus." I reach for his hand. His fingers are warm, a little rough, and they curl around mine automatically. "I was trying to make you jealous. The whole thing. The guys at the party, the barista—it was all for you. I wanted you to see what you were missing."
His jaw tightens. "I saw."
"And Sarah?" I hate that I'm asking, but I have to. "Was she real? Or was she just—"
"She was a distraction." He cuts me off, stepping closer. His chest brushes mine. "A stupid, pointless distraction. She was nice, and she was there, and I was trying to forget how much I wanted you." His voice breaks on the last word. "It didn't work."
I'm trembling. I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, the solid weight of his body so close I could lean forward and press my lips to his collarbone. "So what now?"
"I don't know." His hand comes up, hesitates, then cups my jaw. His thumb traces my cheekbone, featherlight. "I've never—I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the guy you want."
"You already are." I tilt my head into his palm. "You just didn't know it."
He looks at me for a long moment. The streetlight catches his eyes, makes them glow amber. Then he leans in, slow, giving me every chance to pull away.
I don't.
His lips brush mine. Soft. Tentative. A question, not a demand. I answer by pressing closer, parting my lips, letting my tongue trace the seam of his mouth. He makes a sound—low, surprised, hungry—and his hand slides into my hair, fisting the strands, tilting my head back.
The kiss deepens. His other hand finds my hip, pulls me against him. I feel the hard line of his body, the heat radiating off him, the way his breath catches when my tongue slides against his. I'm already wet, aching, pressed so tight against him that he must feel the heat pooling between my thighs.
He breaks the kiss first, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.
"Can we go somewhere?" His voice is wrecked. "Somewhere private?"
I nod, not trusting my own voice. He takes my hand, laces our fingers together, and starts walking. I follow, my heart hammering, my body humming with anticipation.
The dorm room door closes behind us, and the world narrows to the space between us, the sound of our breathing, the distance I'm about to close.
I don't even let the lock catch. The second I hear the click, I'm on him—my hands in his shirt, my mouth on his, pushing him back until his knees hit the edge of his bed and he stumbles onto the mattress. He makes a sound, surprised, his hands coming up to my waist, and I climb into his lap, straddling him, grinding down before I can think about it.
"Christ, Chloe—" He's breathless, his hands gripping my hips, his eyes blown wide in the dim light from his desk lamp.
"Sorry." I pull back, panting, my hands still fisted in his t-shirt. "I'm sorry, I just—I've been wanting to do that for weeks, and I couldn't wait, I couldn't—"
"Hey." His hand comes up to my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. The gesture is so gentle it stops me cold. "Don't apologize. Don't ever apologize for wanting me."
I melt. I actually fucking melt, my whole body going liquid, and I lean into his palm, pressing a kiss to the heel of his hand. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Show me." His voice is low, rough, his eyes darkening in the half-light. "Show me."
I don't need to be told twice. I pull my tank top over my head in one motion, letting it fall somewhere behind me, and I'm bare from the waist up, my breasts heavy and full, my nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat of him beneath me. His breath catches. His hands come up, hovering, not quite touching, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he does.
"You can touch," I whisper. "I want you to."
His palms settle on my ribs, warm and rough, sliding up until they cup my breasts. He's so careful, so reverent, his thumbs tracing circles around my nipples until I'm arching into his hands, a low sound escaping my throat.
"Marcus—"
"I've dreamed about this." His voice is barely audible. "Woke up hard, thinking about what you'd look like. Sound like." He squeezes gently, and I moan. "You're so much better than my imagination."
I reach behind me, fumbling with the button of my shorts. "I want to be naked. I want you to see all of me."
He helps me, his fingers brushing mine as we push the denim down my thighs, over my hips. I kick them off, and I'm left in just my thong—a thin strip of black fabric that barely covers anything, that's already soaked through with how wet I am.
His eyes travel down my body, slow, deliberate. He licks his lips. "Chloe, I—"
The door swings open.
I don't even register the sound at first—I'm too focused on Marcus, on the way his hands are still on my waist, the way his breath hitched when he saw me. But then I hear a sharp intake of breath from the doorway, and I turn my head.
Some guy—tall, lanky, with a stupid backward baseball cap and a grin that spreads slow and ugly across his face—is standing there, his eyes fixed on my bare chest, my nearly naked body straddling his roommate.
"Well, well, well." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, not even pretending to look away. "Marcus, you dog. Didn't know you had it in you."
I don't move. I've never been ashamed of my body—I've spent years learning to love every curve, every inch of it—and some random roommate isn't about to change that. I hold his gaze, one eyebrow raised, daring him to say something else.
"Get out, Derek." Marcus's voice is tight, controlled, but I feel his hands clench on my waist.
"Chill, man. I just came to grab my laptop." Derek takes a step into the room, and his eyes sweep over me again, lingering on my thighs, the wet spot on my thong. "Damn, she's even better up close."
Something shifts beneath me. Marcus's body goes rigid, his jaw tightens, and then he's moving—shifting me off his lap, rising to his feet, stepping between me and the doorway. His shoulders block my view, and I watch his back muscles flex as he squares up to his roommate.
"I said get the fuck out." His voice is low, dangerous, nothing like the shy, bumbling guy I've been chasing. "Now."
Derek holds up his hands, still grinning. "Alright, alright. No need to get territorial." He backs out of the room, but his eyes find me one last time over Marcus's shoulder. "See you around, beautiful."
The door slams shut.
Marcus stands there for a long moment, his back to me, breathing hard. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and I can see the tension in every line of his body—the way his shoulders are hunched, the way his neck is flushed red.
I don't say anything. I just slide off the bed, pad over to him, and press my chest against his back. My arms wrap around him from behind, my palms flat against his stomach, and I rest my cheek between his shoulder blades.
"Marcus."
He exhales, long and shaky, and his hands uncurl. He turns in my arms, pulling me against him, and his face is buried in my hair. "I'm sorry. I should have locked the door. I didn't think—"
"I don't care about him." I tilt my head back, meet his eyes. "I care that you did that."
"Did what?"
"Stood in front of me. Told him to leave." I reach up, cup his jaw. "No one's ever done that for me before."
He blinks, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "Of course I did. He was looking at you like—" He breaks off, jaw tightening again. "Like you were something to be consumed. And you're not. You're—" He stops, swallows. "You're fucking beautiful, Chloe. And I won't let anyone treat you like you're just a body."
My heart clenches. I rise on my toes and kiss him, soft and slow, and I feel the tension bleed out of his shoulders one degree at a time.
"So," I murmur against his lips, "where were we?"
He laughs, a breathless sound, and his hands slide down my back, settling on the curve of my ass. "I think you were about to get naked."
"And you were going to worship every inch of me."
"More than that." He dips his head, pressing a kiss to my collarbone, then lower, to the swell of my left breast. "I was going to show you exactly what you do to me."
I shiver, my fingers threading into his shaggy brown hair. "Show me, then."
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carries me back to the bed. The desk lamp casts one long shadow across the ceiling as he lays me down, and I watch him hover above me, his hazel eyes soft and dark and full of everything I've been hoping for.
I pull back from her. My hands are still on her waist, but I shift my weight, sitting up on my knees between her thighs. The desk lamp throws half her face in shadow, the other half golden and soft, and she looks up at me with those dark eyes that have been haunting me for weeks.
"Chloe, I need to tell you something."
She props herself up on her elbows, and her breasts shift, heavy and full, the nipples hard and dark against her olive skin. I force myself to meet her eyes. "What is it?"
I rub the back of my neck. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "I've never—" I stop, swallow. "I've never done this before."
She blinks. Her lips part, and I can't tell if she's surprised or amused or something else entirely. "Never?"
"Never." I drop my hand, let it fall to my thigh. "I mean, I've fooled around. A little. But not—" I gesture between us. "Not all the way. Not with someone like you."
The silence stretches. I can hear the fridge humming, my own breathing, the blood rushing in my ears. I'm about to apologize, to tell her she can leave, that I understand if she doesn't want to be my first—
"Hey." Her voice is soft, and she sits up, reaching for my face. Her palm cups my jaw, her thumb tracing along my cheekbone. "Look at me."
I do. Her eyes are warm, that vulnerability I saw at the party flickering beneath the surface.
"There's nothing wrong with that," she says. "Everyone has a first time."
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." She shifts closer, her knees bracketing my hips, and her hands slide down to my shoulders. "I'm glad you told me. That takes guts." She kisses me, soft and slow, and I feel the tension in my chest loosen a fraction. "And honestly?" Her lips brush against mine as she speaks. "It kind of makes me want you more."
I pull back, frowning. "Really? I thought you'd be—"
"Disappointed? No." She shakes her head, and her hair falls around her face like a curtain. "I've been with guys who thought they knew what they were doing. They didn't. They rushed, they fumbled, they acted like they had something to prove." Her hand trails down my chest, over my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my jeans. "You're not like that. You're careful. You pay attention. I've seen the way you look at me—like you're memorizing every detail."
My breath hitches as her fingers slip under the waistband, barely grazing the skin above my boxers. "I am," I admit. "I can't help it."
"Good." She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. "Because I want you to remember every second of tonight."
She pushes me back onto the mattress, and I land with a soft thud, staring up at her as she straddles my hips. The desk lamp throws her shadow across the ceiling, and she looks like something out of a dream—hair wild, skin glowing, her body bare and beautiful above me.
"If you want to stop at any point, tell me," she says, her voice low. "But if you're okay with it, I want to be your first. I want to show you what it feels like."
I can barely breathe. "I want that. I want you."
She smiles, and it's different from the flirty, teasing smiles she's given me before. It's genuine. Warm. Like I've somehow done something right.
She reaches down and pulls my shirt over my head, tossing it somewhere into the dark. Her palms press flat against my chest, and she leans forward, her hair brushing my skin as she kisses a trail down my sternum, my stomach, stopping at the button of my jeans.
"Lie back," she murmurs. "Let me take care of you."
I do. I let my head fall back against the pillow, closing my eyes, feeling her fingers work the button free, the zipper sliding down. She tugs my jeans and boxers down my thighs, and I lift my hips to help her, until I'm completely naked beneath her.
Her breath catches. I open my eyes and see her staring at my cock—hard, straining, already leaking at the tip. She licks her lips, and I feel a shudder run through me.
"You're beautiful," she says, and I laugh, because no one has ever said that about me, much less about that part of me.
"I'm serious," she insists. She wraps her hand around me, and I gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily. "You're perfect."
She lowers her head, and I feel her tongue—warm, wet, tracing a slow line from base to tip. My hands fly to her hair, fingers tangling in the black silk, and I moan, a sound I've never made before, raw and desperate.
"Easy," she murmurs against my skin. "Relax. Let me show you."
She takes me into her mouth, and the world narrows to that single point of contact—her lips, her tongue, the soft hum of pleasure vibrating through me. I grip the sheets, my knuckles white, trying not to thrust, trying to let her set the pace.
She pulls off after a few minutes, her lips swollen, her eyes dark. "Not yet," she says, kissing her way back up my body. "I want you inside me."
She reaches down, and I hear the faint tear of a foil wrapper. She rolls the condom onto me, slow and deliberate, her fingers stroking me through the latex, and I'm trembling, barely holding on.
She positions herself above me, the head of my cock pressing against her slick heat. She meets my eyes, and I see the question there.
I nod. "Please."
She sinks down, and I feel it—the stretch, the warmth, the impossible tightness of her. I cry out, my hands finding her hips, and she pauses, letting me adjust, her breath coming in soft gasps.
"You okay?" she asks, her voice strained.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" I can't finish the sentence. I've never felt anything like this. She's so hot, so wet, clenching around me like she doesn't want to let go.
She starts to move—slow at first, a gentle rock that sends sparks up my spine. I watch her face, the way her lips part, the way her eyes flutter closed, the way she bites her lower lip as she picks up the pace. My hands roam her body: her breasts, her hips, the curve of her ass. I want to remember every inch, every sound she makes, every ripple of sensation.
"Marcus." She says my name like a prayer, and I feel something building in my gut, hot and urgent.
"Chloe, I'm—"
"Not yet," she breathes, leaning forward, her chest pressed against mine, her mouth at my ear. "Wait for me."
She changes the angle, and I see stars. I grip her hips harder, matching her rhythm, and she moans, a sound that vibrates through her whole body. She's close—I can feel it in the way she clenches, the way her breath comes in ragged little gasps.
"Now," she whispers. "Come for me."
And I do. The wave crashes over me, hot and relentless, and I hear myself groaning, her name falling from my lips like a broken promise. She follows a second later, her body shuddering, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I hold her through it, feeling her pulse around me, feeling her collapse against my chest.
We lie there for a long moment, tangled and slick, breathing together. I stroke her hair, and she presses a kiss to my collarbone.
"So," she murmurs, her voice sleepy and satisfied. "How was your first time?"
I laugh, a breathless sound. "Perfect."
She lifts her head, her dark eyes meeting mine. "It only gets better."
I don't want to move. I don't want this moment to end—his cock still soft inside me, his arms wrapped around my waist, his breath warm against my neck. I can feel his heart thudding against my back, slower now, steady.
"So," I murmur, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "We need to talk about ground rules."
He tenses beneath me. "Ground rules?"
"Don't look so scared." I laugh, propping myself up on an elbow so I can see his face. The lamplight catches his hazel eyes, and I watch them search mine. "I'm not going to bite. Well. Maybe I will. But first: I need you to know how I work."
He swallows. "Okay."
"I'm a touch person. Like, aggressively. I need physical contact the way other people need air. If I'm not touching you, I'm not happy. And I'm not letting you go a single day without my body against yours." I let my hand slide down his stomach, past his navel, until my fingers brush his softening cock. He gasps. "Specifically, I want to sleep every night with this inside me."
His eyes go wide. "Every night?"
"Every. Single. Night." I squeeze him gently, and he hisses. "I want to wake up with you buried deep. I want to fall asleep feeling you stretch me. That's the rule. Non-negotiable."
He stares at me for a long moment, his breath uneven. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. "That's... I mean, that's not exactly a hardship."
"Good." I lean in and kiss him, soft, letting it linger. When I pull back, I see something flicker in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or hesitation. "What?"
"I, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, the same flustered gesture he always makes. "I have a thing too. A kink, I guess."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tell me."
"Your breasts." The words come out in a rush, and his cheeks flush. "I mean, I love them. I love the way they look, the way they feel, the way your nipples get hard when I touch them. And I want... I want access. Anytime. Like, if I want to put my mouth on them, I don't want to have to ask. I want to be able to reach under your shirt whenever I feel like it, or pull your top down and just—" He stops, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, that's probably weird."
I feel heat pooling between my legs. "Weird? Marcus, that's the hottest thing you've ever said to me." I grab his hand and press it against my breast, still bare, still sensitive from earlier. "You have permission. Twenty-four-seven. Any time, any place. You want to taste me? You take."
His eyes darken. He squeezes, and I moan softly.
"And," I add, clenching my inner muscles around his cock still half-hard inside me, "I agree to your terms. So we're even."
He groans as I grip him. "Fuck, Chloe."
"Now." I shift, rolling onto my back, pulling him with me so he's hovering above me. "You said you wanted to try new positions. Show me what you've been thinking about."
For a second, he hesitates. Then something changes in his face—a confidence I haven't seen before. He sits up, pulling out of me with a wet sound, and reaches for my hips. "Turn over," he says, his voice lower, rougher. "On your hands and knees."
My breath catches. I obey without thinking, rolling onto my stomach and pushing up onto my elbows. I hear him shift behind me, feel his hands grip my hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of my ass.
"Is this okay?" he asks, but there's an edge in his voice—not a question, not really.
"Yes," I whisper. "God, yes."
He positions himself, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I'm already soaked from earlier, and when he pushes in, it's smooth, deep, stretching me in a way that makes me cry out. He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, his pelvis flush against my ass, his breath ragged above me.
And then he starts to move. Hard. Fast. His hips slam into me, each thrust driving me forward, and I grip the sheets, my knuckles white. I've never been fucked like this. He's in control, and I love it—the way his hands dig into my hips, the way his breath hitches with every stroke, the way he moans my name like it's a prayer and a command all at once.
"More," I gasp. "Please, more."
He pulls out, flips me onto my back, and lifts my legs over his shoulders. The new angle is deeper, and I feel him hitting places I didn't know existed. He wraps his hand around my throat—not tight, just present—and I feel a thrill shoot through me.
"Look at me," he says, and I do. His hazel eyes are dark, locked on mine. "I want to see you fall apart."
He thrusts harder, faster, and I feel the first wave building. I try to hold back, wanting to draw it out, but he's relentless. His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and I shatter.
"Yes—fuck—Marcus—"
I come hard, my body clenching around him, and he groans, slowing just enough to let me ride it out. Before I can catch my breath, he shifts position again, pulling me onto my side, lifting my leg over his hip. He enters me from behind, one hand on my breast, the other tangled in my hair, and he fucks me like he's been waiting his whole life for this.
Two. Three. Four. I lose count somewhere around seven, each orgasm ripping through me, leaving me trembling and raw. He's relentless—changing angles, changing pace, whispering filthy praise in my ear.
"You're so beautiful when you come. I want to watch you come again. Give me another."
And I do. Again and again, until I'm so sensitive that every stroke feels like too much and not enough. I'm sobbing, begging, pulling him closer.
Thirteen. I count them as they crest, each one distinct, each one pulling another layer of me apart. He's barely held on himself, his body shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Inside me," I gasp. "Come inside me. I want to feel it."
He lets out a guttural sound, his hips slamming forward one last time, and I feel him pulse, hot and thick, filling me. I clench around him, drawing it out, and we collapse together, tangled and slick and utterly spent.
We lie there for a long time, breathing in sync. I stroke his hair, and he presses a kiss to my shoulder.
"So," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "How was your... thirteenth time?"
I laugh, a breathless, broken sound. "Perfect." I curl closer, feeling him soften inside me. "But you know what the rule says. We're not done until morning."
He groans, but I feel him smile against my skin. "I think I can manage that."
I close my eyes, warm and full and happier than I've ever been. Tomorrow, there will be questions, complications, the world outside this room. But tonight—tonight, he's mine.
I feel him softening inside me, the heat of his body still pressed against my back, his breath warm on my shoulder. We're both slick with sweat, tangled in sheets that smell like us. I don't want this to end—not yet, not ever. My thighs are still trembling from the last wave of pleasure, but there's a low ache between them that isn't satisfied.
I reach down, finding his hand where it rests on my hip, and guide it slowly between my legs. My fingers brush against wetness—my own, his, mixed together and still warm. I press his palm flat against my cunt, letting him feel the slick evidence of how ready I am again.
"Marcus," I whisper, my voice raw from all the sounds I've made. "You remember our rule, right?"
He stirs behind me, his breathing hitching. I feel his fingers twitch against my folds, probing gently, and I gasp as they dip inside me. He's still half-hard, but I can feel him thickening against my ass as he explores.
"We're not done until morning," he murmurs, his voice rough, like he's just woken up. But there's a hunger in it that makes my stomach flip.
"That's right." I push back against his hand, guiding his fingers deeper. "And I'm still wet. Still want you." I turn my head, catching his eyes in the dim light from the desk lamp. "So what are you going to do about it?"
He pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth. I watch as he tastes me, his eyes closing for a moment, and a shudder runs through me. Then he shifts, rolling me onto my back, positioning himself between my legs. His cock is already hard again, pressing against my thigh, and I reach down to guide him to my entrance.
"I'm going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he says, and there's a new edge in his voice—confidence, maybe, or just the exhaustion that strips away all pretense. He pushes in, slow and deep, and I feel every inch as he fills me.
"Yes," I breathe, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."
He starts moving, a steady rhythm that builds from the slow, deliberate thrusts into something harder, faster. His hands find my breasts, kneading them, his thumbs circling my nipples until they're pebbled and aching. I arch into his touch, moaning, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Look at me," he says, and I do. His hazel eyes are dark, locked on mine, and there's something raw in them—something that makes my heart race. "I want to see you come one more time."
I'm close already, the sensitivity from earlier making every stroke feel electric. He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit, and I cry out as he circles it in time with his thrusts. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my belly, and I'm so close—so close—
And then he stops.
I whimper, bucking against him, but he holds still, his cock buried deep inside me, his thumb pressing but not moving. "Not yet," he says, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come on my command."
I'm trembling, desperate, every nerve ending screaming for release. "Please, Marcus—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want to come. I want to come with you inside me. Please."
He starts moving again, slow and deliberate, building me back up from the edge. Then he speeds up, harder, faster, and I feel myself shattering around him, my cunt clenching in waves as I cry out his name.
"That's it," he groans, thrusting through my orgasm. "Fuck, Chloe—"
He follows me over, his hips slamming forward one last time, and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick. I grip him tight, drawing out every last drop, and we collapse together, breathing hard, hearts pounding.
For a long time, we just lie there, tangled in each other. I stroke his hair, feeling the sweat cooling on our skin, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. The desk lamp flickers, casting long shadows across the ceiling.
"How many is that?" he asks, his voice muffled against my neck.
"I lost count," I admit. "But I think we've earned a break."
He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. "Good. Because I don't think I can move."
I smile, running my fingers down his spine. "You don't have to. Just stay here."
He shifts, pulling out of me slowly, and I feel a warm trickle run down my thigh. He reaches for a tissue from the nightstand and cleans us both up, his movements gentle, almost reverent. Then he wraps an arm around me, pulling me close, and I rest my head on his chest.
The hum of the mini-fridge is the only sound. I close my eyes, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath my ear. Tomorrow, there will be questions—about us, about what this means, about the world outside this room. But tonight, he's mine. And I'm not ready to let go.
"Marcus," I whisper, my voice sleepy.
"Yeah?"
"Morning isn't here yet."
He groans, but I feel him smile against my hair. "You're going to kill me."
"Maybe. But what a way to go."
I feel him harden against my thigh again, and I grin in the dark. The night is still young.