“Yes, ma’am.”
Outside, streetlight poured across her skin. She tugged me down for one more kiss—quick, dirty, final punctuation.
“Truth,” she whispered. “I don’t mind scratches when I decide where the mark lands.”
“Truth,” I answered, opening the door to my Palisade for her, “I want to stay in every spot you like until you forget your name.”
Her eyes glinted with equal heat and softness. “Good. Drive.”
Chapter 3
Scratch
Ididn’t plan to end up in his apartment.
That was the lie I kept running while we climbed three flights in his old Swissvale building, my eyes locked on the damp cling of his white tee and the slow flex of his back beneath it. I said I was being polite. Said I was just walking where the night led. Said I was just saying yes to a man whose kiss had already rearranged me in a hallway.
But when he unlocked the door, flicked on a low lamp, and stepped aside like he was offering me more than a seat, I knewbetter. I hadn’t been polite. I hadn’t been casual. I’d walked straight into what I wanted.
His place smelled like soap and books. Vinyl stacked by the wall—Maxwell, Coltrane, Anita Baker. A crooked physics poster over a crowded bookshelf. He set his keys in a bowl, straightened the frame out of habit, then turned to me like he was holding himself back with two fists.
“You want water?” His voice was even, measured.
“Later,” I said, though my throat was dry. Later I wanted it replaced with sweat. With him.
We stood there too long. His glasses were still on. For the first time, I hated them—because I needed his eyes bare. I reached up, slid them off myself.
No shield. Just him. And my knees went weak under the weight of that look.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
The kiss inside his apartment wasn’t careful. His mouth crashed into mine, swallowing the sound that tore out of me. His hands clamped my waist, dragging me close, his dick pressed thick against me.
He walked me backward until my thighs hit the couch. I dropped, breathless, and he stripped his shirt with one hand. Brown chest, broad shoulders, abs tight enough to make me greedy. I scratched down his stomach just to feel it jump.
“Take it off,” I whispered, tugging at my hoodie.
“You want help?”
“Don’t you dare.” I peeled it off myself.
His eyes dragged over me, slow, devouring. “Goddamn,Rayna.”
His hand traced my collarbone, down my shoulder, brushed the curve of my breast before his mouth found skin above my bra.
“Quentin—” I meant to warn, but it came out wrecked.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Less talking.”
He lifted me like nothing, carried me to his bed. The sheets smelled like detergent and him. My pants tangled under my hands, smoother under his. He slid my panties down deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch.
When he finally saw me bare, I almost cracked a joke. But the way he looked stopped me cold. Not gawking. Not gloating. Seeing.
“Beautiful,” he rasped, reverent and raw.
