Careless. And God, delicious.
I thought about how hungry he’d been for me. The way his mouth closed greedily around my nipples when I straddled him, how I rode him hard and fast until I was clawing his chest and screaming his name.
I thought about when he pulled me to my knees, knelt behind me, one fist in my hair while he drove into me with a roughness that split me open. His breath ragged in my ear, his voice saying things I knew I’d replay every time I touched myself.
But what stayed with me wasn’t just the rawness. It was what came after.
The way he held me through the tremors, whispering “breathe, baby” while my body twitched under him. How he pressed kisses into my damp forehead, the corner of my jaw, like tenderness was as urgent as release. He’d wiped sweat from my chest with his palm, rubbed circles into my hip when it cramped, made me drink water before I rolled over. It should’ve been simple. Necessary. But it felt like foreplay. Like every soft thing he did was another way of working me open.
Gray light slipped through the blinds, sunrise brushingthe room like a reminder of how wanton I’d been. How wanton I still was. Because I wanted more. My thighs ached. My clit throbbed. Lying there, deliciously sore, I knew one thing: I wasn’t done.
Beside me, he stirred. Warmth shifted. His breath grazed my shoulder, then his lips. A kiss so soft it sent a shiver racing down my spine.
“You awake?” he murmured.
“Maybe,” I whispered.
He didn’t wait. His hand slid across my stomach, his palm heavy and sure. His mouth kissed lower, trailing heat along my shoulder, my neck. I closed my eyes, pretending for half a second I might resist. I didn’t. I was never going to.
“Quentin,” I breathed, but it sounded like an invitation. I think I wanted it to.
He rolled me onto my back, eyes dark even in the pale gray light. His kiss was soft at first, a tease, until my fingers brushed against his coarse hair, bracing for what I knew was coming.
Then it broke open. His mouth devoured mine, his tongue stroking deep, his hand sliding between my thighs until I was arching up to meet him.
“Still wet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers through the mess before pushing into me slow, stretching me all over again until my breath broke. My legs locked around his waist without thought, dragging him deeper, my nails raking his back. His groan spilled into my mouth as he kissed me, then broke free when he rocked into me deliberate, even, like he was laying down a rhythm only we could hear.
I clung to him, chasing it, meeting every thrust. His mouth found my breast, sucking hard, teeth scraping my nipple just enough to make me cry out. His eyes lifted, pinning mine, and the hunger there made my whole body quake.
“Say my name,” he demanded, voice rough, hips driving harder.
“Quentin,” I moaned. Again. Louder. Dirtier, until it sounded like a hymn and a curse at once.
His rhythm faltered, broke apart, turned wild. He buried himself deep, shaking against me, spilling inside me with a growl that vibrated through my chest.
And then he kissed me—slower, sweeter, a contrast that wrecked me more than the roughness had. Like he wanted me to remember the tenderness just as much as the wreckage.
Eventually, he let me shower because we both needed to head into work. I stood under the spray, hot water beating down, but it didn’t rinse him off me. My thighs trembled with every shift of weight, my skin slick with the echo of his touch. I pressed my forehead to the tile, breath catching when I brushed between my legs and felt the tender ache, the pulse of him still etched there. His rhythm hadn’t left. It was a count my body couldn’t stop replaying.
When I finally got home to my one-bedroom apartment in Penn Hills—hair damp, lips swollen, body tender—I collapsed against my couch. The cushions felt too soft after his weight, too empty without his heat. My chest rose too fast, like he’d left his breath tangled with mine. My thighs still quivered, my nipples still tingled, and my mouth—God—still felt ruined from the way he’d kissed me.
Reckless. Absolutely reckless.
And the worst part—the lie I wanted to tell myself—that it was just sex—didn’t stick. Because every ache, every tremor, every throb whispering under my skin said the same truth.
Nights like this don’t fade easy. Sometimes they leave marks you can’t see until later.
And I wanted it again. I wanted him again.
Chapter 5
Force & Direction
After classes, I pushed a cart through Giant Eagle, list in hand, rhythm off. My days usually ran exact—shower, drive, lecture, grade—but Rayna had shifted the count. She was still on me. On my skin. In my head. In that space between my ribs where breath usually sat neat. I’d showered this morning, buttoned my shirt, walked into school like order mattered, but she hadn’t let me go.
Fluorescent lights made the apples look camera-ready,the lettuce like it’d been misted by angels. None of it registered. All I saw was her—hips rolling over me, mouth open when I gripped her waist and held her down.
I picked up spinach. Put it down. Picked it back up. My hand shook like it remembered her nails dragging down my chest.
