The apartment smells like fried turkey and spilled beer. A Cowboys game flickers on the big-screen TV, the sound tinny and distant beneath the roar of Johnny’s dad, Mitchell, who is currently standing two feet from the screen, face purple, pointing a half-eaten drumstick at Leon Lett as he fumbles the football in the snow.
“You idiot!” Mitchell bellows. “You goddamn, candy-ass, no-hands idiot!”
Johnny’s mom, Karen, pats the air from the kitchen doorway. “Mitchell, honey, it’s just a game.”
“Just a game? Just a GAME? That moron just cost us the division!”
Paige is tucked into the corner of a worn corduroy sofa, her knees pulled up. She’s wearing a tight black sweater and jeans, her hair a dark, curly halo in the low lamplight. She watches Mitchell’s meltdown with wide, fascinated eyes, a bottle of Coke dangling from her fingers. Johnny sits on the floor, leaning against the sofa by her feet. He can feel the heat of her leg through his flannel shirt.
His cousin Jacob, twenty-one and already king of his own castle, drops onto the cushion beside Paige. He’s got a pitcher of beer in one hand and a grin that says he finds everything hilarious. “Uncle Mitch is gonna give himself a coronary. You need a real drink, Paige?”
“I’m good,” she says, but her eyes flick to the pitcher.
“C’mon. It’s Thanksgiving. Live a little.” Jacob pours a hefty amount into a plastic cup and hands it to her. His other cousin, Mark, older and quieter, leans against the wall, watching the exchange with an amused smirk.
Johnny feels a low, unfamiliar twitch in his gut. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s the sight of Paige in their world, being offered something by Jacob—something adult, something illicit—and the way she takes the cup, her fingers brushing Jacob’s. She takes a sip, her nose wrinkling at the bitterness, but she doesn’t put it down.
“So,” Jacob says, stretching an arm along the back of the sofa, not touching her, but the space feels claimed. “Johnny’s girl, huh? We heard rumors.”
Paige’s cheeks flush. She looks down at Johnny. He meets her gaze, gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug. *Your move.*
“Guess so,” she says, her voice softer than usual. She takes another, longer drink.
Mitchell’s rage finally subsides into a series of grumbled curses as the game goes to commercial. He stomps into the kitchen for another beer. The mood in the room loosens. Mark pushes off the wall. “Parents are gonna head out soon. You two crashing here?”
Johnny nods. “If that’s cool.”
“Always cool,” Jacob says, his eyes still on Paige. “She’s in good hands. We’re practically family.”
An hour later, the goodbyes are a blur of coats and car keys. Mitchell is still muttering about the game. Karen kisses Johnny’s forehead, tells him to behave, gives Paige a warm, searching smile. Jim, who spent the whole evening glued to a handheld video game, just waves without looking up. Then the door closes, and the apartment is suddenly, profoundly theirs.
The silence is thick. The TV is off. The only light comes from a floor lamp and the orange glow of a streetlamp through the blinds. Mark disappears into his bedroom with a nod. Jacob grabs three more beers from the fridge, pops the tops with a practiced flick of his wrist, and hands them out.
They sit in a triangle on the floor, the coffee table between them. Paige crosses her legs, takes a long pull from the bottle. Johnny watches her throat work. The beer is cheap and bitter, but it warms his chest, unspools the tight coil in his stomach.
Jacob starts telling stories. About the time he and Mark got stranded on a fishing boat. About a party that ended with a police helicopter. His voice is a low, confident rumble, his gestures expansive. He’s everything Johnny isn’t yet—assured, experienced, living in a world of his own making. Paige listens, rapt, laughing at the right moments, her eyes shining. She finishes her beer. Jacob gets her another without asking.
Johnny drinks his own beer slower. He watches the dynamic like a play. Jacob, the charismatic host. Paige, the beautiful, appreciative audience. And him, the quiet kid on the floor, the little cousin. The twitch in his gut returns, sharper now. It’s the heat of the beer, the closeness of the room, the way Paige’s laughter sounds different—lighter, freer—directed at Jacob.
“You’re funny,” Paige says, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. The neck of her sweater gapes slightly. Johnny sees the shadow between her breasts.
“Funny keeps you alive,” Jacob says, grinning. He taps his bottle against hers. “You’re alright, Paige. For a junior high kid.”
“I’m in high school,” she corrects, but she’s smiling, not offended.
“My mistake.” Jacob’s gaze lingers. “High school looks good on you.”
The air in the room changes. It’s not just warm anymore. It’s charged. Johnny sets his bottle down on the carpet with a soft thud. The sound makes them both look at him.
“You good, man?” Jacob asks, his tone easy, brotherly.
“Yeah.” Johnny’s voice is rough. He clears his throat. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jacob teases, but his eyes are assessing.
Paige is looking at Johnny now, really looking. Her smile has faded into something more thoughtful. The playful light in her eyes from moments before is gone, replaced by a darker, more familiar intensity. She sees the set of his jaw, the way his green eyes have gone flat and watchful. She takes a slow sip, her gaze locked on his over the rim of the bottle.
Jacob senses the shift. He leans back, stretches, lets out a theatrical yawn. “Alright, kids. I’m hitting the sack. Don’t burn the place down.” He stands, claps Johnny on the shoulder—a heavy, meaningful weight—and gives Paige a wink. “Night, Paige.”
“Night, Jacob.”
His bedroom door clicks shut. The silence that follows is absolute and immense. The hum of the refrigerator kicks on. A car passes outside, headlights sweeping across the ceiling.
Paige is still looking at him. She sets her empty bottle next to his. “He’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
Johnny doesn’t answer. He pushes himself up from the floor, his movements deliberate. He walks to the window, adjusts the blinds, looks out at the empty street. He can feel her watching his back. The beer is a low buzz in his veins, mixing with the sharper, cleaner current of possession.
Her voice comes from right behind him. She’s followed him. “Johnny.”
He turns. She’s close enough to touch. Her face is tilted up, her dark eyes searching his. The scent of her—vanilla soap and the faint, yeasty smell of beer—fills the space between them. He sees the flush on her cheeks, the slight glassiness in her gaze. She’s drunk. Not falling-down, but loose. Unmoored.
“You mad?” she whispers.
His hand comes up. Not to hit. To touch. His thumb brushes her lower lip, traces the soft, damp curve of it. She parts her lips, her breath catching. He feels the warm puff of air against his skin.
“No,” he says, his voice low. “Not mad.”
“Then what?”
He doesn’t have the words. Not for this. Not for the hot, silent claim he wants to stake in a room that still smells like his cousin’s laughter. So he shows her. He leans in and kisses her. It’s not soft. It’s deep and tasting of beer, a reclamation. His tongue finds hers. A low sound vibrates in her throat, and her hands come up to fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
He walks her backward, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the corduroy sofa. She sinks down, pulling him with her. He follows, his body covering hers, one knee between her thighs. The old springs groan beneath them.
He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck, biting gently at the tendon there. She arches, a gasp escaping her. Her hands slide under his flannel, find the thin cotton of his t-shirt, clutch at the heat of his skin. “Johnny.”
He kisses her again, swallowing her name. His hand slides up under her sweater, finds the smooth skin of her stomach. She’s warm. So warm. He moves higher, his palm skating over the lace of her bra, feeling the hard peak of her nipple against his hand. She moans into his mouth, her hips lifting to press against the hard line of his erection through their jeans.
The friction is agony. Sweet, perfect agony. He grinds against her, the denim rough, the pressure building in a slow, aching wave. He’s drunk on her, on the taste of her tongue, the smell of her hair, the soft, desperate sounds she’s making. His hand leaves her breast, travels down, fingers fumbling with the button of her jeans.
She helps him, shoving at the waistband, wriggling until he can get his hand inside. He finds her panties, the silk already soaked through. He pushes the fabric aside, his fingers sliding through her slick heat. She cries out, her head falling back against the arm of the sofa.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against her throat, his fingers circling her clit, slow, then faster. “Quiet.”
She bites her lip, her whole body tensing. Her hips move in frantic little circles, chasing his touch. He watches her face in the dim orange light—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He feels her inner muscles begin to flutter around his fingers. She’s close. So close.
He stops.
Her eyes fly open, confused, desperate. “Johnny—”
He pulls his hand from her jeans. He sits back on his heels, breathing hard. Her sweater is rucked up, her jeans are open, her chest heaving. She looks wrecked. Beautifully, completely wrecked. And he’s the one who did it.
“Not here,” he says, his voice gravel. “Not on his couch.”
She stares at him, her dark eyes wide and dazed. For a second, he thinks she might argue. Then she nods, a slow, understanding nod. She reaches for him, her hand finding his, her fingers lacing through his. They’re both trembling.
He helps her up. They don’t speak. He leads her down the short hallway, past the closed door of Jacob’s room, to the guest room—a small space with a double bed and a dresser. He closes the door behind them. The click of the lock is the loudest sound in the world.
Paige turns to face him. In the near-dark, her expression is unreadable. Then she reaches for the hem of her sweater and pulls it over her head.
Johnny closes the distance and kisses her. It’s not gentle. It’s a hard, claiming press of his mouth against hers, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of her cheeks. She makes a sound—half-gasp, half-surrender—and her hands fly to his wrists, not to pull him away but to hold on.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down her neck, biting at the hollow of her throat. His fingers find the front clasp of her bra. A flick, and it gives way. The lace falls open. He pushes the straps down her arms, lets the garment drop to the floor. Her breasts are pale and full in the dim orange light from the streetlamp outside the window, her nipples dark and already hard.
“Jeans,” he says against her skin, his voice rough.
She fumbles with the button, the zipper. He helps, shoving the denim and her soaked panties down her hips in one rough motion. She steps out of them, kicking the tangled fabric aside. She’s naked now, standing in the middle of his cousin’s guest room, shivering slightly. Not from cold.
His own clothes follow. Flannel shirt shrugged off, t-shirt pulled over his head. His belt buckle clinks as he undoes it, the sound loud in the quiet. He toes off his sneakers, pushes his jeans and boxers down. He’s already fully hard, his cock jutting out, the tip flushed and wet.
Paige’s eyes drop. She stares. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. She takes a step toward him, her hand reaching.
He catches her wrist. “Not yet.”
He turns her, his hands on her shoulders, guiding her toward the bed. The mattress is low, covered in a scratchy floral-print spread. He pushes her down onto it. She lands on her back, her dark hair fanning out against the pillow. She looks up at him, her chest rising and falling fast.
He kneels on the bed, straddling her hips. He doesn’t touch her yet. He just looks. His gaze travels from her face, down her throat, over the swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the thatch of dark curls between her thighs. He memorizes the way the faint light catches the sheen of sweat on her skin.
“You were laughing with him,” Johnny says, his voice quiet.
“He was funny.”
“I know.” He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of her head. His face is inches from hers. “But you’re mine.”
“I know that, too.”
He kisses her again, slower this time. Deeper. His tongue explores her mouth, and she meets him stroke for stroke. Her hands come up to slide over his shoulders, down the knobs of his spine. Her nails dig in. He groans into her mouth.
He shifts his weight, settling between her thighs. The head of his cock nudges against her entrance. She’s slick, hot. He pushes forward, just an inch. The stretch is exquisite. Her breath hitches, her hips lifting to take more of him.
He stops.
“Johnny—”
“Look at me.”
Her dark eyes flutter open. They’re glassy, unfocused with want. He holds her gaze as he pushes in another inch, then another. Slow. Deliberate. He watches her pupils dilate, watches her lips part on a silent gasp. He feels her inner muscles clench around him, a tight, wet fist.
He’s fully inside her now. Buried to the hilt. He stays there, motionless, letting her adjust. Letting himself feel the absolute, consuming heat of her. Her legs come up to wrap around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back.
“Move,” she whispers, her voice ragged.
He obeys. He pulls out almost all the way, then slides back in. A slow, deep stroke. Her head tips back, a moan tearing from her throat. He does it again. And again. Setting a rhythm that’s deliberate, almost lazy. Each thrust rolls through her, making her body arch off the mattress.
He lowers his mouth to her breast, takes her nipple between his lips. He sucks, hard. She cries out, her hands flying to his hair, gripping the short red strands. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Her hips are moving in frantic circles now, trying to match his pace, trying to drive him deeper.
He speeds up. The slow, deep strokes become harder, faster. The bedframe starts to knock against the wall in a steady, rhythmic thump. He knows Jacob can probably hear it. He doesn’t care. Let him hear. Let the whole building hear.
Paige is gasping, a string of broken words falling from her lips. “Yes—right there—don’t stop—Johnny, please—”
He shifts his angle, driving into her at a new depth. Her back bows off the bed, a sharp cry ripped from her throat. He feels her start to come, her pussy clenching around him in rapid, fluttering pulses. Her whole body shakes with it. He keeps fucking her through it, his own control fraying at the edges.
The sight of her—lost in pleasure, because of him—undoes him. His thrusts become ragged, uneven. Heat coils tight at the base of his spine. He’s close. So close.
He buries his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. “Paige.”
“Inside,” she gasps, her legs tightening around him. “Come inside me.”
It’s all the permission he needs. A final, deep thrust, and he’s there. His orgasm crashes over him, white-hot and blinding. He spills into her, pulse after pulse, his body shuddering with the force of it. A low, guttural sound escapes him, muffled against her skin.
He collapses on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. They’re both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. The room smells like sex and cheap laundry detergent.
He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays inside her, softening, feeling the aftershocks tremble through her body. Her hands are still in his hair, stroking now, gentle.
After a long minute, he rolls onto his side, taking her with him. She curls into his chest, her leg thrown over his hip. He can feel his own release leaking out of her, warm against his thigh.
Outside, a car door slams. Someone laughs. Normal Thanksgiving night sounds.
Paige traces a finger over his collarbone. “Your cousin’s bed,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“He’ll know.”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Good.”