I stared out the window at the blurring lights of Charleston, the city sliding by like a half-remembered dream, while my thumb stroked her knuckles in slow circles.
Dad’s face tried to intrude—gray hair, tired eyes, that flinch when I'd snappeddon't call me that—but I pushed it back, focusing on her. On this. Numbing the pain with the simple reality of her beside me.
We didn't talk much. Didn't need to.
The radio hummed low, some soft indie song about lost roads and found love, and I let it fill the space. Her thumb mirrored mine, a silent conversation in touch.
By the time we pulled up to the Palmetto Rose, the night had fully fallen, the hotel's brick facade glowing under streetlights like a sanctuary I didn't deserve.
Inside the suite, I locked the door behind us, the click echoing louder than it should have.
Joy turned to me, her eyes dark in the dim light, and something in her expression told me she knew what I needed.
Escape. Oblivion. Her.
I pulled her to me without a word, my mouth crashing down on hers. Urgent now. No slow build like on the pier. This was hunger—raw, demanding, chasing the numbness I craved.
She met me with equal fire, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer as if she could sense the storm raging inside.
My father's image flickered—standing in that doorway, alive, a lie—and I kissed her harder, drowning it in her taste.
"Shower," I growled against her lips, already backing her toward the bathroom.
She nodded, breathless, but then her hands were on me—pushing my shirt up, nails scraping my skin in a way that made me hiss.
We stripped in a frenzy—clothes hitting the floor in wet thuds from the marsh dampness clinging to them. The bathroom filled with steam as I cranked the water hot, scalding, the way I needed it to burn away the edges of my thoughts.
We stepped under the spray together, water cascading over us like a veil.
Joy's hair darkened, slicking to her skin, and she pressed me against the tile this time—her body pinning mine, small but determined.
I let her. Needed her to take control, to give me something other than the chaos in my head.
Her mouth found my neck, kissing, nipping, her hands roaming down my chest. I groaned, my head falling back against the wall as her fingers wrapped around my cock—bold, sure strokes that made my hips jerk.
"Joy—"
She looked up, water streaming down her face, eyes fierce. "Let me."
Fuck.
No virgin should know how to touch like that—teasing the head, twisting her wrist just right, pumping slow then fast until I was throbbing in her grip. But she did. Like she'd unlocked some hidden part of herself, intuitive and hungry, knowing exactly what my fractured soul needed—her taking, me surrendering.
She dropped to her knees, water pounding her back. Her eyes met mine as she leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste the tip.
I groaned, one hand bracing the wall, the other tangling in her wet hair—not guiding, just holding.
She took me in her mouth—slow at first, lips stretching around me, tongue swirling. Then deeper, bolder, her hand working what she couldn't take. No hesitation. No shyness.
She sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks, her free hand cupping my balls, rolling them gently. The sensation hit like lightning—hot, overwhelming.
"Jesus—Joy?—"
She hummed around me, the vibration shooting straight to my spine. Her eyes stayed on mine, dark with power, like she knew she had me undone. She took me deeper, throat relaxing in a way that made my vision blur, her hand stroking in rhythm.
I was lost.
Contradictions forgotten. My father's ghost silenced by her mouth, her touch, the way she owned me without apology.
