It’s a confession. A raw, drunk truth that somehow lands harder than it should.
She laughs again—this breathy, fucked-out sound—and licks her lips like she’s considering where else to put that mouth.
My control frays.
Her scent, her heat, her shamelessness; it’stoo much. And I know exactly how this ends if I don’t stop her.
I should stop this. Iwillstop this. Any second now.
Fuck.
I want to shove her back on the bed, rip that hoodie off, and bury myself in her. I want to grip those full hips, spread her thighs wide, and fuck her so hard she screams my name. Until she’s sobbing with pleasure. I want to feel her nails rake my back, her legs wrapped around me, her pussy clenching tight as I drive into her, brutal and relentless, until we’re both wrecked.
My cock throbs under her touch, and for the first time in my adult life, I’m not in control of my own body.
This is wrong. She’s drunk. Unconscious two minutes ago.
I’m a killer standing over a bed with an innocent woman who has no idea what kind of monster she’s touching.
But her hand keeps moving. And I keep letting it happen.
“Stop.”
The word shreds out of me; harsh, splintered, a command meant for both of us. But it sounds more like a plea. Like I’m begging myself to remember who I am and what this is.
She blinks up at me, dazed, lips parted. Confused.
I should be balls deep in this woman. Fucked her mouth, her cunt, bent her over, and made her forget every man who didn’t know what to do with all those curves. She’s perfect. Soft. Built for sin. And she touched me like she wasready.
But I’m not a fucking animal.
Not tonight.
I rip myself away, step back hard enough that her hand slips off me like I burned her. Maybe I did. Maybe I’m poison and she doesn’t know it yet.
Already regretting it. Already missing her touch.
My jeans feel like a vise, my cock aching from the pressure, from the restraint. Every cell in my body is screaming to go back. To take. To ruin.
Instead, I turn my back on her and walk out.
I close the door behind me.
3
Mary
“Hi, Mr. Kaplan,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “What can I help you with today?”
The eighty-four-year-old legend of Brightside National Bank hobbles forward with his usual two canes and a Ziplock bag of nickels, and I swear the sound of his approach is like nails on a chalkboard inside my skull.
My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, then decided to use my brain as a piñata. Ten minutes late to work because my phone died sometime during my… whatever the hell happened last night. No alarm. No memory of how I got to the room. Just me waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a mouth that tasted like I’d been gargling wine.
“Mary, you look like hell,” Mr. Kaplan says as he sits, eyeing me with the brutal honesty only octogenarians can get away with. “Have you been sleeping?”
No. I’ve been trying to piece together whether I dreamed up the hottest man alive or if he actually exists.
“Just a long week,” I reply, tapping into his account while my brain throbs in rhythm with the keyboard clicks.
