The words sink under my skin. I can feel the same rush from that night at Velvet creeping up again. One I’ve been trying to drown ever since he walked into my classroom. He’s not just threatening to tell my dad. He’s dangling the truth—my truth—like a match over gasoline.
I hate him for it.
I hate how close he is.
He takes a step forward, closing the space until my back meets the door. His hand plants next to my head, the other brushing my hip. “Tell me, Penelope,” he murmurs, voice low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Do you think about that night? How my skin burned under your touch? How I came from one breath? Or how I couldn’t look away when you made yourself come?”
My chest rises fast, unsteady. “Stop.”
He doesn’t. His breath ghosts against my ear. “Next time, I want you to use me. Make me your personal fucktoy. Use my mouth like you used that toy.”
“Shit,” I hiss before I can stop it.
Then he kisses me.
It’s rough and hungry, teeth clashing, breath tangled. My hand finds the back of his neck before my brain catches up, fingers tightening just to feel him closer. I bite his bottom lip—hard—and shove him back.
“No.” My voice comes out sharp. “This is wrong. Your mother is marrying my dad, and I’m not losing my TA position because you don’t know when to quit.”
He smiles, that maddening curve of his lips that says he’s already won something. “Then go out with me tomorrow.”
I don’t think. I just grab a handful of his slacks, squeezing his hard length beneath until his breath stutters. “No thank you,” I whisper, leaning close enough for him to feel the words. “I don’t date.”
His eyes darken. I release him, turn, and slip out of the pantry before he can answer. My shoes hit the wood floor too loudly as I walk the rest of the way to the bathroom.
The door shuts behind me, and I finally breathe.
I grip the counter and stare at my reflection. My lip gloss has bled past the edge of my mouth, a faint red sheen where his kiss dragged it out of place. A flush still clings to my cheeks, high and reckless, and a damp strand of hair sticks to my temple. My throat moves when I swallow; the pulse there flutters too fast to hide. I look like a woman who crossed a line and hasn’t decided whether she regrets it yet.
“Get it together, Pen.” I splash water on my face; the cold bites enough to wake me up. “Some freshman boy can’t shake you.”
He can’t. He won’t.
He can’t tell my secret without telling his, and I doubt Mommy Dearest would appreciate hearing her perfect son was at a sex club, letting someone like me give him orders.
I pat my face dry, pull the gloss from my pocket, and stare at myself one last time. My hands still shake, but I fix my posture, tucking the chaos behind a neutral smile.
When I walk back out, the air in the dining room feels heavier—like the walls know what just happened down the hall. I school my expression into something pale and tired. “Sorry,” I say, pressing a hand to my stomach. “I think something didn’t agree with me. Maybe the fish.”
Abi’s chair scrapes back immediately. “Oh, dear.” Her voice climbs high and sweet, concern wrapped in performance.“Should I get you some ginger tea? I have a lovely herbal blend that works wonders.”
She’s already halfway up before I shake my head. “No, really. I’ll be fine. Just need to lie down.”
Dad’s brow furrows, lines deepening around his eyes. He sets his fork down, half rising from his chair. “You sure, sweetheart? You don’t look great.”
I manage a small smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ll text when I get home, promise.”
He nods, still uneasy, but lets me go. Abi sits back down with a polite frown, clearly more disappointed about the disruption than my supposed illness. Talon just watches from across the table, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly what’s making me sick.
I grab my purse, mumble another apology, and step out into the cool night. The door shuts behind me with a soft click that feels too final.
My heart’s still racing. My skin’s still buzzing.
And I hate that part of me already wants to know what he’ll do next.
By the time I make it back to my apartment, my brain’s running on fumes and bad decisions. I kick off my shoes by the door and drop my purse on the counter with a thud that feels louder than it should.
I peel off my clothes, letting them pool on the floor, and pull on my favorite soft pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt that smells faintly of fabric softener. My hair goes up into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose no matter how many times I twist the tie. I catch my reflection in the window—bare-faced, tired, human again.
