The doorbell rang at two in the afternoon, a jarring electric buzz in the quiet house. Johnny was on the couch, a textbook open and unread on his lap, the last-day-of-break stillness thick around him. He knew who it was before he even stood up. He’d known since he woke up.
He opened the door and the breath left his lungs.
Paige stood on the welcome mat, a smirk playing on her lips. The dark green tank top, skin-tight, the fabric straining over her breasts. The black mini skirt, so short it was barely a suggestion, painted onto her hips and thighs. The same outfit. Every detail. The January air was cold, raising goosebumps on her bare arms, but she didn’t shiver. She just watched him, her dark eyes taking in the way his gaze dropped, stalled, and dragged back up to her face.
“Hey,” she said, her voice a low, knowing thing.
“You’re gonna freeze,” Johnny managed, stepping back to let her in.
“Worth it.” She brushed past him, the scent of her perfume—something warm and vanilla—cutting through the stale, heated air of the house. She walked into the living room as if she owned it, her hips swaying with that deliberate, provocative rhythm. She turned to face him, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Parents gone?”
“Bowling. Jim’s at a friend’s.”
“Perfect.” Her eyes traveled over him, from his worn jeans to his faded t-shirt. “You remember this, right?”
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “I remember.”
“Good.” She pushed off the couch and closed the distance between them. She didn’t touch him. Just stood there, looking up at him, her chest rising and falling. “It’s been over a year. Feels like forever and also like yesterday. You were so skinny. You’re still skinny.” Her hand came up, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt. “But you’re not the same.”
“Neither are you.”
“No.” Her fingers drifted down, over his chest, stopping just above his belt. “I’m not.”
He caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough to still her. “Why the costume, Paige?”
“It’s not a costume. It’s a reminder.” She tilted her head. “And I like the way you look at me when I wear it. Like you’re seeing it for the first time all over again. Like you want to eat me alive.” She pulled her wrist free, but only to place her palm flat against his stomach. She could feel the muscles tense under her hand. “I have a request.”
“What?”
“I want it rough.”
The words hung in the quiet room. They weren’t a whisper. They were a statement, clear and direct. Johnny didn’t move. He just looked at her, at the challenge in her eyes, at the slight flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Rough how?” he asked.
“I don’t know. You figure it out.” Her hand slid lower, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans. “No mercy, Johnny. That’s what I want. Just for today. Before we go back to… all of it.”
He understood. The request wasn’t just about sex. It was about the pressure valve, about the looming return to school, to hallways and classes and pretending. It was about the fragile tenderness they’d built over the break needing a counterweight. Something to scream against the quiet.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t the soft, exploring kiss from the night before. It was hard, possessive, his mouth claiming hers with a sudden urgency that made her gasp into him. His hands went to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above the hem of her skirt, and he walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the couch.
“Off,” he said against her mouth, tugging at the tank top.
She broke the kiss, her breathing already ragged. She pulled the green fabric over her head in one swift motion, letting it drop to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were full, her nipples tight and peaked in the cool air of the room. He looked at her, his gaze hot and heavy, and she saw the shift in him. The quiet boy was gone, replaced by something sharper, hungrier.
He pushed her down onto the couch, coming over her, his knees on either side of her thighs. He kissed her again, his tongue pushing into her mouth, and she met him with equal force, her nails scraping down his back through his shirt. He pulled back, his hands going to the skirt. He found the zipper on the side, yanked it down, and then he was pulling the tight black fabric down her legs. She lifted her hips to help him, kicking it off her ankles.
She was naked now, sprawled on his parents’ beige couch, completely exposed. He stayed above her, still fully clothed, just looking. His eyes traveled over every inch of her—her breasts, her stomach, the dark triangle of curls between her thighs. The intensity of his stare was a physical touch, and she felt herself grow wet, a slick heat gathering that had nothing to do with gentleness.
“Turn over,” he said.
Her heart hammered once, a hard, single beat. She rolled onto her stomach, the rough fabric of the couch scratching her nipples. She felt him move behind her, his weight shifting the cushions. Then his hands were on her, spreading her thighs apart, his touch firm and unapologetic. He ran a palm over the curve of her ass, a slow, possessive stroke.
“You asked for no mercy,” he said, his voice low by her ear.
“I did.”
His hand came down on her ass. Not a playful slap. A sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the quiet room. The pain was bright, shocking, followed immediately by a wave of heat that spread through her whole body. She cried out, her fingers clutching at the couch cushions.
He did it again. On the other side. The sound was louder this time. Her skin burned. A moan tore from her throat, half pain, half something else entirely. She was dripping now, her wetness slick between her thighs.
“Johnny—”
“Quiet.” His hand smoothed over the heated skin, then he spread her open with his thumbs. She felt the cool air on her most intimate flesh, then the heat of his breath. He didn’t kiss her there. He licked her, one long, slow stripe from her opening to her clit. She jerked, a gasp catching in her throat.
He held her hips down, his grip firm. “Stay still.”
He licked her again. Then again. His tongue was relentless, circling her clit, dipping inside her, tasting her. He didn’t build her slowly. He drove her fast, his mouth hot and demanding, his stubble rough against her tender inner thighs. She was panting, pushing back against his face, but he held her firm. The orgasm built quickly, a tight coil in her belly, spurred by the contrast—the sharp sting on her ass, the ruthless pleasure of his mouth.
“I’m gonna—” she choked out.
He pulled his mouth away.
The denial was a physical ache, a sudden, hollow emptiness. She whimpered, her body trembling. “Please.”
“Not yet.” He stood up. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the sound of his belt buckle, the zip of his jeans. She kept her face pressed into the couch cushion, her entire body throbbing. Then his hands were on her again, turning her onto her back. He was naked now, his cock hard and jutting out, the tip flushed and wet. He looked down at her, his red hair messy, his green eyes dark.
He didn’t kiss her. He gripped her thighs, pushing them apart and up, bending her almost in half. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slickness. He looked her in the eye.
“Tell me you want it,” he said.
“I want it.”
“Tell me you want it rough.”
“I want it rough. Please, Johnny.”
He pushed into her. Not a slow slide. One hard, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, her back arching off the couch, her inner muscles clenching around the sudden, delicious stretch of him. He didn’t pause. He pulled out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm from the first moment. The couch creaked with each drive of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, wet and obscene.
He fucked her like he was exorcising something. Like he was trying to break them both. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he pounded into her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back, meeting every thrust with a roll of her own hips. It was too much. It was everything. The pleasure was a sharp, bright edge, cutting through every thought, every worry. She was just sensation—the fullness of him, the friction, the heat where their bodies joined.
“Look at me,” he gritted out.
Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. She met his gaze. His face was a mask of fierce concentration, sweat beading on his forehead. There was no tenderness there now. Just raw, unfiltered need. And she realized, with a jolt, that this was him, too. This was the boy who’d countered her tease in the van. This was the passion she’d unlocked.
“You feel that?” he grunted, driving into her. “You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes.”
“You’re mine.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a sob. “Johnny, I’m gonna come.”
“Come.” It was an order.
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming. Her cunt clenched around his cock in rapid, pulsing waves, milking him. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound she didn’t recognize as her own. He kept fucking her through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself as far as he could go and came. She felt the hot pulse of his release inside her, the throbbing of his cock as he emptied himself. His whole body shuddered, a groan tearing from his chest, and he collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the couch.
They lay there, a tangled, sweating heap. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint hum of the furnace. Johnny’s face was buried in the crook of her neck. She could feel his heart hammering against her breast.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of her. A rush of wetness followed, a mix of her arousal and his cum, warm on her thigh. He didn’t move away. He shifted to the side, pulling her with him, so they were lying facing each other on the narrow couch. Her skin was on fire, marked by his hands and his mouth. She could already feel the tender ache between her legs, the throbbing heat on her ass.
He reached out and brushed a damp curl from her forehead. His touch was gentle now. The contrast made her throat tighten.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She traced the line of his jaw, his cheekbone. “Yeah.”
“Too much?”
“No.” She swallowed. “It was exactly what I wanted.”
He searched her face, his green eyes soft again, the fierceness receding like a tide. He leaned in and kissed her, softly this time. A slow, closed-mouth kiss that felt like a seal. An apology and a promise all at once.
They lay in silence for a long time, listening to each other breathe. The winter light through the window was pale and weak, casting long shadows across the carpet. Johnny’s hand rested on her hip, his thumb stroking the skin he’d reddened.
“The outfit,” he said finally. “It worked.”
A small, tired smile touched her lips. “I know.”
Down the hall, the phone rang, shrill and insistent. They both flinched. The real world, testing the locks. It rang four times before the answering machine in the kitchen clicked on. They heard his mother’s recorded voice, then a beep.
“Johnny? It’s Mom. Tournament’s running long. We’ll be home by five. Jim’s getting a ride from the Jacobs’. There’s pizza money on the counter if you get hungry. Love you.”
A click. A dial tone. Then silence.
Paige let out a long, slow breath. “Five o’clock.”
“Yeah.”
She looked at him. The quiet boy was back, but she could still see the ghost of the other one in the set of his shoulders, in the possessiveness of his arm around her. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that both of them belonged to her. The one who whispered promises in the dark, and the one who knew exactly how to give her what she’d asked for.
“We should get up,” she said, not moving.
“In a minute.”
He pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over them. Under the scratchy wool, skin to skin, they waited for the courage to move.
Johnny’s thumb stilled on her hip. He listened to the quiet house, the furnace humming, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. The pale light had shifted, grown a little thinner. He turned his head on the cushion, his nose brushing her temple. “Get dressed.”
Paige blinked, her body heavy and languid against his. “What?”
“Your clothes. Put them back on.” His voice was low, a quiet command. “The outfit.”
She lifted her head to look at him. His green eyes were calm, but there was a new intent in them, a focus that made the heat between her legs, which had never fully faded, pulse back to life. “Why?”
“I want to tease you this time.”
A slow smile spread across her face. She pushed herself up, letting the afghan fall to her waist. The air was cool on her damp skin. She swung her legs off the couch, her bare feet hitting the scratchy carpet. Her skirt and tank top were a dark puddle on the floor near the coffee table. She stood, feeling his eyes on her back, on the red marks his hands had left on her ass. She bent, deliberately slow, to pick up the clothes. The movement pulled at the tender ache inside her, a fresh slickness warming her thighs. She was already wet again.
She stepped into the short black skirt, shimmying it up over her hips. It felt tighter than before, her skin sensitized. She pulled the dark green tank top over her head, the fabric catching on her damp shoulders. She didn’t put her underwear back on. She turned to face him.
Johnny hadn’t moved. He lay on his side on the couch, propped on an elbow, watching her. The afghan covered him from the waist down. His red hair was mussed, his fair skin flushed across his chest. He looked like a painting of some lazy, dangerous god. “Come here.”
She walked to him, stopping just out of reach. The skirt hem brushed mid-thigh. The tank top clung to her breasts, her nipples hard against the cotton. She could feel the wetness seeping, a slow, insistent leak. “Now what?”
He reached out, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her skirt. He didn’t pull her closer. He just held her there, his knuckles resting against her lower belly. “Stand still.”
His other hand came up. He traced the hem of her tank top, his fingertips skating along the bottom edge, just above the waistband of her skirt. He didn’t touch her skin. He traced the line of fabric, back and forth, a maddening, feather-light touch over the cotton. Her stomach muscles jumped. She sucked in a breath.
“You’re breathing fast,” he observed, his voice quiet.
“I know.”
His fingers drifted upward, tracing the curve of her ribcage through the thin material. He followed the side seam, up to the swell of her breast, then traced the underside, a slow, deliberate circuit that made her nipple ache for contact. He still didn’t touch her skin. He painted her through the fabric, mapping her. His green eyes followed the path of his hand, studying her reactions.
“Johnny.”
“Hmm?”
“Please.”
“Please what?” His finger finally brushed over her nipple, a slow, circling pressure through the cotton. She gasped, her hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hand on her waistband held her firm. “I didn’t say you could move.”
She bit her lip, forcing herself still. The ache between her legs was a deep, throbbing hollow. She could feel herself getting wetter, a hot trickle down her inner thigh. He had to see it. He had to know.
He did. His eyes dropped to the hem of her skirt. “Lift it.”
Her hands trembled as she gathered the black fabric, pulling it up to her hips. The cool air hit her exposed skin, her bare cunt. She was completely open to him.
Johnny’s gaze darkened. He let out a slow breath. “Look at you.” He didn’t touch her there. He kept his eyes on her face. “You’re dripping.”
She was. She could feel it. A hot, slick bead gathered, threatened to fall. She clenched, trying to hold it back, and the internal squeeze made her whimper.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “Let it.”
She forced herself to relax. The drop escaped, tracing a warm path down her thigh. A flush of humiliation and pure, blinding heat washed over her. She’d never been so exposed, so utterly seen in her want.
He finally moved his hand from her waistband. He brought his fingertips to the inside of her thigh, just below the wet trail. He didn’t go higher. He traced the path of her arousal, smearing it into her skin. “You taste yourself on my fingers later,” he murmured. “You’ll remember this.”
He brought his wet fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers. He sucked them clean, slowly. The obscene, wet sound filled the quiet room. Paige’s knees nearly buckled.
“On your knees,” he said.
She sank down onto the carpet in front of the couch, the rough fibers biting into her skin. He shifted, sitting up, letting the afghan fall away. He was fully hard again, his cock standing thick and flushed against his stomach. A bead of clear fluid glistened at the tip. He didn’t touch himself. He just looked at her.
“You can look,” he said. “You can’t touch.”
She stared, her mouth watering. She wanted to lean forward, to take him into her mouth, to taste the salt and musk of him. She wanted to feel him pulse on her tongue. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“Open your mouth.”
She did, her lips parting. He reached down, his thumb brushing her lower lip. He traced the shape of her mouth, then pressed his thumb inside, resting it on her tongue. “Suck.”
She closed her lips around his thumb, sucking gently, her tongue working against the pad. It was a poor substitute, a cruel imitation. She moaned around it, the vibration humming through her own skull.
He pulled his thumb out with a soft pop. It was slick with her saliva. He reached between his own legs, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. He gave himself one slow, deliberate stroke, spreading the wetness from his tip down his length. Paige watched, mesmerized, her breath coming in short pants. The pre-cum mixed with her spit made a soft, slick sound.
He guided himself toward her face, the swollen head nudging against her lips. She strained forward, but he held her back with a hand on her shoulder. “I said you can’t touch.” He rubbed the tip back and forth across her lips, painting them wet. She could taste him, a faint, salty bitterness. She licked her lips, desperate for more.
“Beg,” he said, his voice rough.
“Please.”
“Not good enough.”
“Please, Johnny. Let me suck you. I need to.” The words tumbled out, raw and honest. “I need to taste you. Please.”
He considered her, his jaw tight. Finally, he gave a slight nod. “Okay.”
He didn’t push into her mouth. He held himself still. “You do the work.”
She leaned forward, her mouth closing over the head of his cock. The taste exploded on her tongue—salt, skin, him. She swirled her tongue around the ridge, lapping at the slit, drinking down the fresh bead of fluid that welled up. A low groan rumbled in his chest. She took him deeper, her lips stretching, her throat relaxing as she’d learned to do. She took him until her nose pressed into the coarse red hair at his base. She held him there, her throat working around him, before pulling back slowly, her tongue dragging along the underside.
“Fuck,” he breathed. His hand came to the back of her head, not forcing, just resting there, his fingers tangling in her curls. “Just like that.”
She found a rhythm, slow and deep, her head bobbing, her mouth a wet, tight heat. She focused on the sensations—the velvety skin, the hard ridge, the way his muscles jumped in his thigh when she sucked particularly hard. She could feel his control fraying. His breathing grew ragged. The hand in her hair tightened.
“Stop.” The word was gritted out.
She pulled off with a wet sound, her lips swollen, a string of saliva connecting her mouth to his glistening cock. She looked up at him, dazed.
“Stand up. Turn around. Bend over the couch.”
She scrambled to obey, her body humming with need. She turned, placing her hands on the worn cushion of the couch. She bent at the waist, presenting herself to him. The short skirt rode up, baring her completely. She felt exposed, vulnerable, hotter than she’d ever been.
She heard him move behind her. His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs digging into the sore flesh of her ass. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her slick entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed himself through her wetness, back and forth, coating himself in her.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re dripping for me.”
She was. She could feel the mess she’d made, the slickness covering her thighs, his cock. “Please,” she whispered into the cushion. “Please, Johnny. I need you inside.”
“You have me.” He pushed, just an inch, a slow, stretching invasion that made her cry out. He stopped. Held there. “All of me. You just have to take it.”
He pulled back, then pushed again, another inch, another searing stretch. He was going slow, maddeningly slow, filling her by degrees. Each partial thrust was its own exquisite torture, a promise of fullness endlessly deferred. Her cunt clenched around the invading thickness, trying to pull him deeper. She was panting, her fingers clawing at the fabric of the couch.
“More,” she begged. “God, please, more.”
He gave her another inch. Then another. He was halfway in, the stretch a burning, perfect ache. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear. “You want it rough?” he whispered. “This is rough. This is me making you feel every single inch.”
He pulled almost all the way out, leaving just the tip inside her clenching emptiness, then sank back in to the same halfway point. Again. And again. A short, brutal, shallow rhythm that rubbed directly against the most sensitive part of her with every thrust but denied her the deep, satisfying fullness she craved. She was sobbing, tears of frustration and overwhelming pleasure leaking from her eyes. “Please, all the way. I need all of you.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Fuck me, Johnny. Please. Fuck me all the way. I’m yours. Just fuck me.”
He drove forward in one long, smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. He was so deep she felt him in her throat. He held there, his body trembling against hers. “Good,” he grunted. “Now you have me.”
He started to move, long, deep, punishing strokes that shoved the couch forward an inch with every thrust. The wet, slapping sound of their joining filled the room. He fucked her with a relentless, focused intensity, one hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. There was no tenderness, no softness. It was pure, animal possession. And she loved it. She loved the loss of control, the way he used her body for his pleasure, the way her own pleasure coiled tighter and tighter with every deep drive.
“Come for me,” he growled in her ear. “Come on my cock. Now.”
It was the permission she didn’t know she needed. Her orgasm detonated, a white-hot explosion that ripped through her core. Her cunt convulsed around him, a series of violent, milking spasms that pulled a ragged shout from his lips. He fucked her through it, his rhythm breaking, his thrusts becoming hard, frantic jerks. With a final, deep grind, he came, his cock pulsing hot inside her, a flood of warmth that mingled with her own release. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the couch, his face buried in her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
They stayed like that for a long time, joined, spent, breathing in ragged unison. The room smelled of sex and sweat and old carpet. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. Another gush of wetness followed, soaking her inner thighs. He didn’t move away. He turned her in his arms, pulling her down onto the floor with him, onto the afghan. He held her, her back to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. They were both still mostly dressed. Her skirt was rucked up around her waist, her tank top damp with sweat. His jeans were around his ankles.
He nuzzled the back of her neck. “Okay?”
She could only nod, her body a boneless, sated weight against his. The deep, throbbing ache between her legs was a sweet, persistent reminder. She felt raw. Used. Perfect.
The light through the window was decidedly golden now. Late afternoon. She could see dust motes dancing in the slanted rays.
“What time is it?” she whispered.
“Don’t know.” His voice was sleepy. “Four-thirty, maybe.”
They had half an hour. Maybe less. The real world was a ticking clock in the next room.
“We should clean up,” she said, not moving.
“In a minute.” His arms tightened around her. “Just… a minute.”
She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart against her back. She could feel his soft cock nestled against the curve of her ass, a damp, intimate weight. The marks on her skin throbbed in time with her pulse. She had asked for no mercy. He had given her none. And in the ruthless, beautiful taking, she had never felt more cherished.
Down the hall, a door opened and closed. Footsteps. Light, quick. Jim.
They both froze.
The footsteps padded down the hallway, past the living room archway. They heard the refrigerator door open, the clink of a glass, the faucet running. Jim was home.
Johnny’s body went rigid behind her. Paige held her breath. They were lying in plain view on the living room floor, a tangle of limbs and disheveled clothing. If Jim glanced in…
The footsteps approached. They stopped in the archway.
Paige squeezed her eyes shut, praying to a god she didn’t believe in.
“Johnny?” Jim’s voice, tentative.
Johnny didn’t answer. He lay perfectly still, his breath warm on her neck.
“You in here?” A pause. Paige could feel Jim’s eyes scanning the shadowed room. The couch was blocking most of their bodies from view, but not all. Her bare legs were visible. Johnny’s jeans around his ankles.
“Whatever,” Jim muttered, his voice dripping with adolescent disinterest. The footsteps retreated, back down the hall. A bedroom door clicked shut.
The breath Paige had been holding rushed out in a silent shudder. Johnny’s arms loosened their vise-like grip.
“Jesus,” he whispered against her hair.
They disentangled themselves, moving quickly now, the spell shattered. Johnny pulled up his jeans, fastening them with fumbling fingers. Paige stood, her legs shaky, and smoothed her skirt down. The fabric was damp in the back. She could feel the sticky, cooling evidence of their sex on her inner thighs. She needed the bathroom. Desperately.
“I’ll go first,” Johnny said, reading her face. He padded down the hall to the bathroom. She heard the lock click, then the sound of the shower starting a moment later. He was washing away the evidence.
She stood alone in the dim living room. The afghan lay rumpled on the floor. The couch cushions were dented and askew. The room held the ghost of them—the scent, the energy, the violence of their passion. She picked up her discarded underwear from near the coffee table and stuffed them into the pocket of her skirt. She wouldn’t be putting them back on.
The shower stopped. Johnny emerged a minute later, his hair damp, wearing a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants. He smelled of soap and toothpaste. He handed her a damp washcloth, warm and clean. “Here.”
She took it and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door. The mirror was fogged. She wiped a clear circle and looked at her reflection. Her hair was a wild nest of curls. Her lips were swollen. There was a faint red mark on her neck, just below her ear. Her eyes were dark, sated, haunted. She looked like a girl who had been thoroughly fucked. She cleaned herself between her legs, wincing at the tenderness. The washcloth came away streaked. She rinsed it, then washed her face, trying to impose some order.
When she came out, Johnny was in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of water. He handed one to her. She drank it greedily, the cold liquid a shock to her system.
From down the hall, they heard the tinny sound of a video game—the repetitive blips and explosions of Jim’s Nintendo.
“I should go,” Paige said, her voice sounding small in the quiet kitchen. “Before your parents get back.”
Johnny nodded. He set his glass down on the counter. The pizza money his mother had mentioned lay next to the phone, a folded ten-dollar bill. A relic from a normal world.
He walked her to the front door. She hesitated, her hand on the knob. She turned to look at him. The quiet boy was back, his green eyes soft, but she could still see the shadow of the other one in the set of his mouth, in the way he held himself, protective and possessive even now.
“Monday,” she said. It was a question and a statement.
“Yeah.” He reached out, his thumb brushing the mark on her neck. “I’ll see you at school.”
She leaned in, kissing him softly. A closed-mouth kiss that tasted of toothpaste and promise. “Bye, Johnny.”
She opened the door. The late afternoon winter air was a cold slap. She stepped out onto the porch, pulling her thin jacket tighter around the tank top. She didn’t look back as she walked down the driveway, her legs still unsteady, the tender ache between them a secret she carried onto the sidewalk.
Johnny closed the door. He stood in the silent hallway, listening to the video game sounds from Jim’s room, the hum of the furnace, the faint, fading echo of her footsteps on the pavement outside. The house felt emptier than it had before. He looked at the closed door to the living room. He didn’t go back in there. He walked to the kitchen, picked up the ten-dollar bill, and put it in the drawer where the spare keys were kept. He didn’t want pizza. He wasn’t hungry.
He went to his room and closed the door. He lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The scent of her was still on his skin, beneath the soap. He could still feel the ghost of her body under his hands, the way she’d clenched around him, the raw sound of her coming. He brought his wrist to his nose. The leather bracelet she’d given him smelled faintly of her perfume, and of them.
Down the hall, the video game music changed to a victory fanfare. Jim whooped. A car door slammed outside. His parents were home.
Johnny closed his eyes. The weekend was over. Tomorrow was school. Tomorrow was the world. But here, in the dark behind his eyelids, she was still bent over his couch, dripping for him, begging for more. And he was still inside her, giving her exactly what she asked for.
No mercy.
He fell asleep with the scent of her on his wrist, the leather bracelet pressed to his nose, and dreamed of her immediately.
In the dream, they were back in the van. Not the cold, borrowed minivan from the bowling alley parking lot, but a different one—older, rusted along the wheel wells, smelling of gasoline and mildew. The carpet was the same, though. That scratchy gray industrial carpet. She was wearing the outfit, the dark green tank top and the black mini skirt, but it was torn at the hem. She wasn’t teasing him. She was crying. Silently. Tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
He reached for her, but his hands passed through her shoulders like smoke. “Paige.”
She shook her head, her curls bouncing. She mouthed words he couldn’t hear. Then she pointed at his wrist. The leather bracelet was gone. In its place was a raw, red burn, the skin blistered and weeping.
He woke with a gasp, his heart slamming against his ribs. The room was dark. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed 9:47 PM. He’d been asleep for maybe an hour. Down the hall, the television was on—the laugh track of some sitcom his parents were watching. The mundane sound was an anchor. He lay still, waiting for his breathing to slow. The dream-image of her crying face lingered behind his eyelids, sharp and wrong.
He got up, padding to his door and opening it a crack. The hallway was lit by the blue flicker from the living room. He could see the back of his father’s head over the recliner. His mother’s slippered foot propped on the ottoman. A bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. A snapshot of ordinary life that felt like it existed on the other side of thick glass.
He closed the door and went to his desk. He didn’t turn on the lamp. The moonlight through the window was enough. He opened the top drawer, his fingers finding the smooth river stone first. He set it on the desk. Then he felt for the small, folded square of paper—the ten-dollar bill from earlier. He unfolded it, smoothing it flat under his palm. A ten. Pizza money. The simplicity of it was almost funny.
He thought about her walk home. The unsteady legs. The tender ache she carried. Had she made it without anyone seeing her? Had her father been home? The questions were hooks in his gut.
From the other side of the wall, he heard Jim’s bedsprings squeak. Then the sound of his brother’s door opening, footsteps to the bathroom. The toilet flushed. The faucet ran. Jim’s door closed again. The routine of it was a rhythm Johnny usually found comforting. Tonight, it felt like a countdown.
He put the stone and the money back in the drawer. He lay back down on the bed, on top of the covers. He stared at the ceiling, tracing the familiar crack in the plaster with his eyes. He could still smell her. Not just on the bracelet—a deeper scent, in the room itself. Her perfume, yes, but underneath it, the salt-sweet musk of her skin, the faint, metallic hint of sex. It was in his sheets. It was on him.
He replayed it. Not as a fantasy, but as a memory, forcing himself to move through it moment by moment, touch by touch.
Her at the door, leaning against the frame, that outfit like a challenge. The way her skirt had ridden up when she sat on the couch, showing the pale skin of her thighs. The directness in her dark eyes. *I need you to be rough with me.*
The first smack of his hand on her bare ass. The sharp, shocking sound of it. The immediate bloom of red on her fair skin. Her gasp—not pain, but surprise, and underneath it, a dark thrill.
His mouth on her, after. Her taste, familiar and new at once because of the context. The way her hips had come off the couch, seeking his tongue. Her fingers in his hair, not guiding, but gripping. Holding on.
The feel of her wetness as he pushed his cock into her. The tight, hot clench of her. Her legs wrapping around his back, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. *Say it.* His own voice, rough in his ears. *Say you’re mine.* Her whisper, broken. *I’m yours.*
The second time. Bending her over the couch. Her skirt pushed up, her back arched. The slick, obscene sound of him driving into her from behind. The way her body jolted with each thrust. Her moans, muffled by the cushion. His name, gasped into the fabric.
And the fear. The pure, cold terror when Jim’s footsteps stopped in the archway. The absolute stillness of her body under his. The way his own blood had roared in his ears, louder than any possible discovery.
He turned onto his side, curling around the memory. His body was responding, hardening again, a dull ache in his groin. He ignored it. This wasn’t about that. This was about possession. She had asked for roughness, and he had given it. He had marked her, claimed her, fucked her until they were both raw and spent. And in doing so, she had claimed something from him, too. A piece of his control. A piece of his quiet.
The laugh track from the TV swelled again. His father’s low chuckle joined it. Johnny closed his eyes. He tried to imagine tomorrow. The fluorescent halls of school. The bell schedule. The homework he hadn’t done. Paige, across a crowded cafeteria. Would she look at him differently? Would there be a secret in her smile, a knowledge in her eyes that everyone else was blind to? Or would she be the Paige from before—teasing, armored, playing a part?
He hoped for the secret. He feared the armor.
He must have dozed again, because the next time he opened his eyes, the house was silent. The clock said 11:13. The TV was off. His parents’ bedroom door was shut. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator downstairs.
He was thirsty. He got up and went to the door, listening. Nothing. He opened it and moved down the dark hall to the bathroom. He drank water from his cupped hands at the sink, the cold shocking him fully awake. In the mirror, his reflection was pale, his red hair tousled, his eyes shadowed. He looked like a boy who had done something irreversible.
He went back to his room but didn’t get into bed. He sat at his desk again. He picked up the river stone, rolling it in his palm. The canyon. The fight. Her tears then had been real, angry, frustrated. Today’s had been… something else. A release she had orchestrated. A surrender she had commanded.
He thought about the word “mercy.” She had asked for none. And he had given none. But lying there afterward, with Jim’s footsteps retreating, his arms around her had been gentle. The washcloth he handed her was warm. The goodbye kiss was soft. Was that mercy? Or was it just the other side of the same coin?
A car passed on the street outside, its headlights painting a slow arc across his ceiling. He watched the light move, then vanish. The silence it left behind was deeper.
He put the stone down. He looked at his wrist, at the braided leather bracelet. In the dark, he couldn’t see its color, only feel its presence. A promise. A collar. A claim. He brought it to his nose again. Her scent was fainter now, almost gone, swallowed by the soap from his shower and the neutral smell of his room. The loss of it felt acute, a small panic tightening his chest.
He stood up and went to the window. He looked out at the quiet street. The Moretti house was seven blocks away. He knew the route by heart. He imagined her window, dark now. Was she asleep? Was she lying in her bed, feeling the same tender ache, replaying the same moments? Or was she already dreaming of something else?
The dream of her crying resurfaced, unbidden. The torn skirt. The silent words. The burn on his wrist. He shook his head, physically trying to dislodge the image. It was just a dream. Stress. The aftermath of adrenaline.
But it felt like a warning.
He returned to bed. This time, he got under the covers. The sheets were cool. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, his fingers tracing the edge of the bracelet.
He thought about Monday. Tomorrow. He would see her at her locker before first period. What would he say? *Hey. You okay?* Too obvious. *Last night was…* No. He wouldn’t reference it directly. Not at school. That was their rule, unspoken but firm. School was the world. What happened in his living room, in her bedroom, in the back of vans—that was theirs.
Maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Maybe he’d just look at her. A look that held the memory of her bent over his couch, of her whispered *I’m yours*. A look that said, *I know what you sound like when you come. I know what you taste like. I know the exact shade of red your skin turns when I spank you.* A look that was itself a form of roughness.
He felt himself getting hard again. He let it happen, didn’t touch himself. Let the ache be there. A reminder. A compass point.
Down the hall, the floorboard outside Jim’s room creaked. A midnight trip to the kitchen, probably. Johnny listened to the footsteps, lighter than his father’s. The refrigerator door opened. The light spilled into the hallway, a yellow wedge under Johnny’s door. It stayed on for a full minute. Jim was probably standing there, staring at the contents, deciding. The door closed. The light vanished. Footsteps returned. Jim’s door clicked shut.
Alone again.
Johnny turned onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. He breathed in. His own smell. Shampoo. A faint trace of her, maybe imagined now. He thought of her walking away down his driveway, her legs unsteady. The image was clear, precise. The set of her shoulders under the thin jacket. The way her curly hair bounced with each step. The deliberate rhythm of her walk, as if she was forcing her body to behave normally.
He wondered if she had looked back. He hadn’t watched her go. He’d closed the door. He’d stood in the silence. Had she paused at the sidewalk? Had she glanced over her shoulder at his house, at his window?
It didn’t matter. She was gone. The weekend was over. The last day of freedom had been spent, and spent in a way that felt like it had used up all the freedom he had left.
He slept. This time, no dreams. Just a deep, black emptiness. When he woke, the room was gray with pre-dawn light. The clock said 6:02 AM. Monday.
He lay there for a long time, listening to the house wake up. His father’s alarm first, a harsh buzz that was quickly silenced. The groan of the pipes as the shower started. His mother’s softer footsteps in the hall, then the smell of coffee beginning to drift up the stairs.
He got up. He dressed for school—jeans, a plain t-shirt, a flannel over it. He avoided looking at the couch as he passed the living room on his way to the kitchen. His mother was at the counter, packing lunches.
“Morning,” she said, her voice still husky with sleep.
“Morning.”
“Sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
She glanced at him, her eyes kind, slightly searching. “Big day. Back to the grind.”
“Yeah.”
He poured a glass of orange juice and drank it standing at the sink, looking out the window at the backyard. The grass was frost-tipped. The sky was the color of wet cement.
Jim stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up, wearing a too-big football jersey. “I’m not hungry,” he announced.
“You’re eating toast,” their mother said, not turning around.
Jim grumbled and slouched into a chair. He looked at Johnny. “You were dead to the world last night. I came in looking for the Nintendo controller and you were totally zonked.”
Johnny kept looking out the window. “Long weekend.”
“Whatever.” Jim took the toast his mother offered. “You gonna walk to school?”
“Probably.”
The normalcy of the conversation was a tight band around Johnny’s chest. He rinsed his glass and put it in the dishwasher. He went back upstairs to brush his teeth, to grab his backpack. When he came down, his father was in the hallway, tying his tie.
“Have a good one, kid,” Mitchell said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You too.”
Johnny stepped out the front door. The morning air was cold and brittle, smelling of damp leaves and car exhaust. He pulled his flannel tighter and started walking. Seven blocks to school. Seven blocks before he would see her.
He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets. His right thumb found the edge of the leather bracelet, rubbing it back and forth, a nervous, grounding rhythm. With each step, the phantom sensation of her body under his hands grew sharper. The memory was no longer a ghost. It was a layer beneath his skin, a current in his blood, a fresh, tender bruise on the quiet boy he used to be.
He walked. The school building loomed ahead, its windows reflecting the flat, gray sky.