My phone lit up.
Quentin: You up?
Me: Yeah. Why?
It took seconds for his reply.
Quentin: Been thinking about you. All day. Couldn’t stop. Had to stroke myself earlier just to breathe and to not beg to have you again. Still feel the way you threw me off count.
My thighs snapped together. The heat spreading low and fast at his honesty. It was intoxicating.
Me: You touching yourself to me?
Quentin: From now on it will always be you. The way you rode my dick. The way your pussy squeezed me. The way you screamed my name when you came all over me. I can’t get it out my head.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, breath shaky.
Me: You’re not right for telling me that when I’m already in bed.
Quentin: That’s exactly why I’m telling you. I want you messy before you sleep. Loud, even if I’m not there to hear it.
My nipples hardened under the towel, aching for his mouth.
Me: You’re terrible.
Quentin: No. I’m honest. And I can’t wait to have you again.
The towel slid off like my body had made the choice before my mind caught up. I dropped my phone, slid under the sheets, and let my hand go where he’d already lit me up.
I was soaked—slick spilling down my thighs before I even touched myself right. Two fingers spread it and I moaned, hips jerking, back arching against the mattress.
“Fuck, Quentin,” I whispered into the dark, circling my clit, my nipples hard points against the cool sheets.
My free hand gripped my breast, pinching until I gasped. My pussy clenched at nothing, desperate, so I pushed two fingers inside—fast, needy, obscene squelch filling the quiet.
“Harder,” I begged nobody but him, curling my fingers, rolling my hips like I was meeting his stroke.
In my head it was him—glasses gone, sweat dripping, pounding me until I broke. His voice rough in my ear:Don’t let go of me, Rayna.
“Quentin,” I cried, fucking my hand, cream coating my fingers as the heat coiled sharp and wild.
Then it snapped—orgasm ripping through me, pussypulsing, body jerking as I squirted hard, soaking the sheets while his name tore out of my throat.
When it passed, I lay trembling, wrecked and wet, thighs twitching, sheets ruined, pussy still clenching around nothing.
A laugh slipped out, weak and breathless into the pillow. “Reckless.”
But the truth pulsed louder than the mess under me. Louder than my moans. Louder than the lies I tried to tell myself.
I wasn’t done.
I wanted Quentin Hale again. And soon.
Chapter 7
Deflection
By Friday afternoon, my whiteboard looked like a war zone—angles, arrows, smudges where a dozen half-erased problems bled together. The kids were buzzing, half because it was the end of the week, half because I’d promised whoever solved the last problem could leave five minutes early.
