His thumb presses into my palm, and the weight of it—the callus, the heat, the certainty—settles something in my chest that's been rattling since the bus. "Call in sick," he says. "Three days. Tell Ethan it's a business trip."
I look up at him. There's something almost soft in his sharp blue eyes, a crack in the predatory confidence I've come to know. "No Mer, no garage, no plan. Just us."
The words land like a match striking against the inside of my ribs. I feel the weight of what he's asking—not a command, but a gift. A pause before the trap snaps shut. Three days where I don't have to think about the debt, the leverage, the woman whose perfume still lingers in the office like a threat.
I lift the phone. My thumb hovers over Ethan's name, and I realize I'm grinning as I press call.
It rings twice. Three times. I picture him in my old bed, the sheets tangled, his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He'll answer because he always answers—it's his job to be reachable, his whole life a calendar of obligations.
"Hey." His voice is thick with sleep, and I feel nothing. Not guilt, not sadness. Just the distant recognition that this man used to make my heart skip, and now he's just a voice on a phone I'm lying to.
"I have to go on a business trip," I say, keeping my voice even. "Three days. Some client thing in the city."
"Oh. Okay." A pause, and I hear him shift in bed. "When did that come up?"
"Last night. I meant to tell you, but you were already asleep."
"Right." He yawns. "Well, be safe. Text me when you get there?"
"I will."
I end the call. Derek is watching me, and there's something in his expression I haven't seen before—not hunger, not possession, but something quieter. Something that looks almost like relief.
"That easy?" he asks.
"That easy." I set the phone down on the workbench, and the screen goes dark. I'm officially unreachable. Three days of nothing but this garage, this man, and the scent of motor oil that's starting to feel like home.
He steps closer, and his hands find my hips. The shirt I'm wearing—his shirt—rides up as he pulls me against him, and I feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric. His mouth finds my neck, and I tilt my head back, letting him breathe me in.
"You know what I want to do with those three days?" he murmurs against my skin.
"Tell me."
His teeth graze my pulse point, and I shiver. "I want to keep you in that room upstairs until you forget your own name. I want to make you come so many times you lose count. I want to wake up with you in my arms and know you're not going anywhere."
His hands slide down, gripping my ass through the thin fabric of his shirt, and I feel his cock hard against my thigh. "And when the three days are up," he says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, "we take on Mer. Together."
I reach up and curl my fingers into his sandy hair. "And if I don't want to leave after three days?"
His smile is slow, crooked, and dangerous. "Then we make it four."
He lifts me onto the edge of the workbench, the cool metal biting into my bare thighs, and I feel his hands spreading me open. The fluorescent light hums overhead, harsh and yellow, but all I can see is the blue of his eyes, all I can smell is the grease and sweat that's become the scent of my undoing.
"Three days," I repeat, and the words taste like a promise.
"Three days," he echoes, and then his head dips between my legs, and I stop thinking entirely.
The first stroke of his tongue is a question, and my hips answer before my mouth can. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider on the cold metal of the workbench, and I feel his breath hot against the slick heat he's already found.
He works me slow, deliberate, like he's learning me all over again. His tongue traces a path that makes my back arch, and I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, and somewhere in the garage a tool clatters, but all I can hear is the wet sound of his mouth on me.
"Derek," I breathe, and he looks up at me through his lashes. His chin is slick, his eyes dark, and he's grinning like he knows exactly what he's doing to me.
"Yeah?"
"You're going to kill me."
He laughs against my thigh, and the vibration makes me clench around nothing. "Not yet. I have plans for you."
His mouth returns, and I stop thinking about plans. I stop thinking about Mer and the debt and the three weeks ticking down. I stop thinking about Ethan in my old bed, reaching for a body that isn't there. All I can think about is the way Derek's tongue curls inside me, the way his calloused fingers dig into my hips like he's afraid I'll disappear.
The orgasm builds slow, a coil winding tight in my belly, and I feel his fingers slide up, finding my entrance, pushing inside me while his mouth works my clit. Two fingers, then three, stretching me, and I gasp as he curls them, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough against my skin. "I want to feel it."
I do. The orgasm crashes through me, my thighs clamping around his head, and I hear myself make a sound I've never made before—something raw and desperate and completely his. He doesn't stop, working me through it until I'm trembling, oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and there's something feral in his grin. "That's one."
"One what?"
"One of the many I promised you." He stands, and I see the bulge straining against his jeans. "I meant what I said. I'm going to make you lose count."
He lifts me off the workbench, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me toward the stairs. His mouth finds mine, and I taste myself on his lips, and I moan against him as his cock presses against my bare thigh. He's still fully clothed, and the friction through the denim is almost unbearable.
We don't make it to the bed. He lays me down on the floor of the apartment, the rough carpet scratching my back, and I reach for his belt with shaking hands. He lets me undo it, lets me pull his jeans down, lets me wrap my fingers around his cock and feel how hard he is for me.
"Look at me," he says, and I do. His blue eyes are dark, intense, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. And then I'm going to do it again."
He pushes inside me, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely. He doesn't move at first, just holds himself there, letting me feel every inch of him. And then he starts to move, slow and deep, and I lose myself in the rhythm.
He fucks me until I'm incoherent, until I'm begging, until I'm not even sure what words I'm saying. And when he comes inside me, hot and deep, I feel a shiver run through me that has nothing to do with pleasure.
"What if," I manage, my voice hoarse, "the pills stop working?"
He stills above me, his brow furrowing. "What?"
"You've come inside me so many times," I say, and the words sound ridiculous even to me. "What if the load is too much? What if the pills just—give up?"
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. "That's not how birth control works, Maya."
"I know. But what if it did?"
He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at me. The humor fades from his eyes, replaced by something serious. "Then I'd take care of you. I told you that."
"I know." I reach up and touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "But what if I wanted it to happen?"
His eyes darken, and I feel him harden inside me again. "Maya."
"I'm just saying." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "It's a lot of cum. Maybe the pills can only handle so much."
He shakes his head, but he's grinning now, that crooked, dangerous grin. "You're insane."
"You made me this way."
He lowers his head, his mouth finding my ear. "If you want me to keep trying until your pills give up," he murmurs, "I'm happy to oblige."
"Prove it," I whisper against his ear, the words barely a breath.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and that crooked grin spreads slow across his face. His blue eyes catch the dim light filtering through the apartment window, and there's something dangerous in them now—something that makes my stomach flip. "Yeah?"
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He reaches over to the workbench without breaking eye contact, his hand closing around a roll of duct tape. The silver gleam catches the light, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. He doesn't ask. He just takes my wrists and binds them together, the tape wrapping twice around, snug but not tight enough to hurt.
"Up," he says, and I lift my arms above my head. He secures them to the leg of the workbench, testing the give, and I feel the strain in my shoulders, the vulnerability of being pinned open for him.
He steps back, looking at me like I'm something he's been waiting to unwrap. "Three days," he says, and his voice is low, rough. "And I'm going to use every single one of them."
He lifts me off the workbench, and I wrap my legs around his waist, my bound wrists resting against the back of his neck. He carries me up the stairs, and I feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the hardness of his cock pressed against my thigh. The door to the apartment swings open, and he lays me down on the carpet, the rough fibers scratching my bare back.
He kneels over me, and I watch him work the buttons of his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the planes of his chest, the dusting of hair, the tattoo I've traced with my fingers in the dark. He doesn't rush. He pulls his shirt off and drops it beside us, then reaches for the hem of the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt—and peels it up over my head.
His mouth follows the fabric down, pressing hot kisses to my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the dip of my stomach. He takes his time, his tongue tracing a path that makes me arch into him, my bound wrists straining above my head.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against my skin. "That's the first one building."
I don't know what he means until his mouth reaches the inside of my thigh, and I feel the coil tightening low in my belly. He's barely touched me, and I'm already close, my body humming with anticipation.
He doesn't stop. He works me slow, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers sliding inside me, curling, pressing, until I'm gasping, my hips bucking against his hand. The orgasm crashes over me, and I cry out, my bound wrists pulling at the tape as I ride it out.
He pulls back, his chin slick, his eyes dark. "That's two."
I'm trembling, barely able to catch my breath. "I've lost count already."
He grins, and it's feral. "Good."
He positions himself between my thighs, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, slick with my arousal. He pushes inside me slow, inch by inch, and I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely. My bound wrists strain above my head, and I feel every inch of him as he sinks deeper.
"That's three," he whispers as he starts to move, his thrusts deep and deliberate. "Or is it four?"
I feel him everywhere. The stretch of him inside me, the weight of his chest against mine, the rough carpet scratching my bare shoulders as he moves. But my mind isn't here. It's slipping, sliding, caught in the rhythm of his thrusts, and somewhere in the dark behind my eyes I'm on that bus again, the stranger's hand over my mouth, the smell of grease and sweat filling my head. The pleasure builds, and I'm lost, and my mouth opens without asking permission.
"Ethan—"
The word hangs in the air like smoke. Wrong. So wrong.
Derek goes still above me. The absence of motion is worse than any slap. His cock is still buried inside me, but he's frozen, and I feel the heat drain from the moment, leaving something cold and sharp in its place.
He pulls out. All at once, no warning, and I feel the emptiness like a wound. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and he's looking down at me like he's seeing someone he doesn't recognize.
The fluorescent light hums overhead. The carpet is rough under my back. I'm bound, wrists taped above my head, legs open, and the silence in the room is sharp enough to cut.
"Say it again," he says, his voice flat.
I can't meet his gaze. I stare at the ceiling, at the water stain in the corner, at anything but the blue of his eyes. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
"I didn't mean—"
"Say it again, Maya."
The words stick in my throat. I shake my head, and I feel the tape pull at my wrists, and I realize I'm trembling. Not from cold. Not from fear. From the weight of what I've done.
He's still kneeling between my thighs, his cock hard and glistening with my wetness, and he's not touching me. That's the worst part. He's not touching me, and I need him to, I need him to move, to fuck me, to remind me whose hands are on my body now.
"Look at me," he says.
I can't.
His hand closes around my jaw, not hard, but firm, turning my face toward his. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I feel the callus, the grease still caught in the lines of his skin.
"Whose name was that?"
The question is quiet. Dangerous. I feel the heat of his gaze like a brand, and I realize I'm holding my breath.
"I don't know," I whisper, and it's almost true. I don't know why his name came out. I don't know why my body still remembers the bus, the stranger, the rough hands that took me without asking.
"You don't know." He repeats the words, tasting them. His thumb traces down my throat, over my collarbone, and I shiver. "You were thinking about him. While I was inside you."
It's not a question. It's a statement, and the truth of it burns.
"I was thinking about the bus," I say, and the words come out raw, honest, stripped of anything that could soften them. "I was thinking about the stranger. About the way he took me. The way he didn't ask."
His eyes flicker. Something moves in them, something I can't name. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't get up and walk out. He just watches me, his thumb still resting against my pulse, feeling it hammer under his touch.
"And now?" he asks.
I look at him. Really look. The sandy hair, the sharp blue eyes, the grease-stained hands that have held me, claimed me, made me forget my own name more than once.
"Now I'm here," I say. "With you."
He doesn't smile. He doesn't move. He just holds my gaze, and I feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us both.
Then he leans down, his mouth brushing my ear, and his voice is low, rough, the voice of the stranger who took me on the bus and the man who's been waiting for me ever since.
"Say my name," he says. "And mean it."
The name sits on my tongue like a stone I've been carrying since the bus. I feel the weight of it—the shape of it, the way it's been waiting in my mouth without me knowing. His thumb is still against my pulse, feeling it hammer, and I don't look away this time.
"Derek."
The word comes out clean. No hesitation, no ghost of anyone else in the syllables. I watch his eyes change—something dark and satisfied settling into them, the way a lock clicks home.
"Again."
"Derek." I say it slower this time, tasting each letter. My bound wrists strain above my head, and I feel the tape pull at my skin, but I don't care. All I can see is the blue of his eyes, all I can feel is the weight of his gaze on my bare body.
His hand slides from my jaw down my throat, over my collarbone, between my breasts. He doesn't rush. He traces the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the bruise he left there days ago that's still fading yellow-green. His fingers find the slick heat between my thighs, and I gasp as he slides them through it, coating them with me.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, and it's not a compliment—it's an observation, a fact he's filing away. "Even after everything. Even after his name."
I should feel shame. I feel something, but it's not shame. It's the raw truth of being seen, of being known, of having no place to hide.
"It's yours," I say. "All of it."
He doesn't answer with words. He positions himself between my thighs, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, slick and hot. He holds there, just at the threshold, and I feel the ache of wanting him inside me like a physical thing.
"Derek," I breathe, and it's not a name anymore—it's a plea, a prayer, a demand.
He pushes inside me in one slow, deliberate thrust, and I feel every inch of him filling me, stretching me, claiming me. My back arches off the carpet, my bound wrists pulling at the tape, and I hear myself make a sound that's half-moan, half-sob.
He doesn't move. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, and I feel him throbbing inside me, feel the pulse of him against my walls.
"Say it again," he says, his voice rough, strained.
"Derek."
He pulls out almost all the way, then pushes back in, harder. The carpet scratches my shoulders, and I feel the impact of him, the weight of him, the way he fills me completely.
"Again."
"Derek."
He sets a rhythm now, slow and deep, each thrust punctuated by the name falling from my lips like a vow. I feel the coil building low in my belly, the heat spreading through my limbs, the way my body opens for him like it knows him, like it's been waiting for him.
His mouth finds my neck, and I feel his teeth graze my pulse point, feel the scrape of his stubble against my skin. He thrusts harder, deeper, and I feel myself climbing, climbing, the edge approaching like a wave about to break.
"Derek," I gasp, and it's the only word I know, the only word that matters. "Derek, I'm—"
"I know," he says against my throat. "I can feel it. Let go."
I do. The orgasm crashes through me, and I cry out his name—his name, not anyone else's—as my body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. He follows me over the edge, his hips stuttering as he comes inside me, hot and deep, and I feel the pulse of him, the flood of him, the way he fills me until I'm overflowing.
He stays inside me, his weight pressing me into the carpet, his face buried in my neck. I feel his breath hot against my skin, feel the sweat cooling on our bodies, feel the way his hands are still gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"That's better," he says, his voice muffled against my throat. "That's so much better."
I feel the tape around my wrists, the strain in my shoulders, the ache between my thighs. But I also feel something else—something quiet and certain, settling into my bones like a truth I've been avoiding.
"I meant it," I say. "Every time I said it."
He lifts his head, looking down at me. His blue eyes are dark, soft, and I see the crack in the predatory confidence, the vulnerability he keeps hidden under the grease and the grin.
"I know," he says. And then he kisses me, slow and deep, and I taste myself on his lips, taste the salt of his skin, taste the promise of three days stretching out ahead of us like an endless road.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something in his expression I can't name—something that looks almost like wonder. "Three days," he says.
"Three days," I echo. And this time, the words don't taste like a promise. They taste like a beginning.
His thumb still rests against my pulse, and I feel it slow under his touch—steadying, like my body is learning to match his rhythm. The tape around my wrists is a constant pressure, a reminder that I'm exactly where he put me, exactly where I chose to stay.
"Three days," I say, and the words feel different now. Heavier. Like they're carrying something I haven't named yet.
He watches me for a long moment, and I see the calculation behind his eyes—the same patience he had on the bus, in the garage, on the nights he watched me walk past without knowing he was there. Then he reaches up, and I hear the tape peel away from the workbench leg. My arms fall, and the blood rushes back into my shoulders in a prickling wave.
He doesn't free my wrists. He just pulls them down, crossing them over my chest, and wraps an arm around my back, hauling me up against him. The tape is still there, binding me to him, and I feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the sweat cooling between us.
"You said my name," he says, his mouth against my hair. "And you meant it."
I nod, my cheek rubbing against his chest. "I did."
His hand comes up, tracing the line of my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His blue eyes are soft in the dim light, the predatory edge gone, replaced by something I can't quite name—something that makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the tape around my wrists.
"I've been waiting for that," he says quietly. "More than I've been waiting for anything else."
The confession lands like a stone dropped into still water. I feel the ripple of it through my whole body, the way it settles into the spaces between my ribs. He's been waiting for my name on his lips—not my body, not my surrender, but the word that means I see him.
I reach up, my bound wrists pressing against his chest, and I can feel the steady thump of his heart under my knuckles. "You have it now."
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I taste the salt of his skin, the faint tang of grease that never quite washes out of his hands. His fingers find the edge of the tape at my wrists, working it loose, and I feel the pressure release, the blood rushing back into my fingers as he frees me completely.
My hands come up, and I curl them into his sandy hair, pulling him closer. The carpet is rough under my bare back, and the fluorescent light still hums somewhere below us, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way his mouth moves against mine, the way his hands are learning the shape of me all over again.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and I see it—the crack in the armor, the vulnerability he keeps hidden under the grease and the grin. "Three days," he says, and the words are a question now, a hope he's afraid to voice.
I trace the line of his jaw, feel the stubble rough under my fingertips. "Three days," I echo. "And then we take on Mer. Together."
His smile is slow, real, nothing like the crooked, dangerous grin I've come to know. "Together," he repeats, like he's testing the weight of the word.
I pull him down to me, and his weight settles over me, warm and solid. His mouth finds mine again, and I feel the promise of the next three days stretching out ahead of us—not as an endless road, but as a beginning. A door that's finally open.
His hand slides down my side, tracing the curve of my hip, the fading bruise he left there. "I meant what I said," he murmurs against my lips. "I'm going to make you lose count."
I feel the heat of him against me, the evidence of his promise pressed against my thigh. "Prove it."
He laughs, low and rough, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. "I plan to."
His mouth finds my neck, and I tilt my head back, letting him breathe me in. The tape lies discarded on the carpet beside us, my wrists free, my hands in his hair, and I feel the shift—not just in my body, but in something deeper. Something that knows exactly where I belong.
The three days stretch out ahead of us like a held breath, waiting to be released.