I tear her shorts down in one rough yank, dragging her panties with them. She’s wet already, slick against my fingers as I pressbetween her legs. The sound she makes, half whimper, half curse, nearly unravels me on the spot.
“Jace,” she pleads, breath breaking, head tipped back against the pillow.
I sink two fingers into her, slow and deliberate, just to hear her choke out my name again. Her walls clench tight, greedy, and I curl my fingers until her back arches off the bed.
“More,” she gasps. “God, don’t tease—”
Her nails rake down my arms, desperate, and I give in. I shove my boxers down, the fabric tangling before I kick them free. Line the head of my cock up with her entrance. And then I drive into her in one hard thrust that knocks the air from both of us.
“Fuck,” I groan, forehead pressing to hers, the world narrowing to nothing but the slick heat of her clenching around me. “Still so perfect.”
She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper, and suddenly it’s all motion and sound, her cries, my curses, the slap of skin, the headboard rattling against the wall. Fast. Hungry. Like we’ll never have another chance, like we’ll burn out if we stop.
Her teeth catch my shoulder as she muffles a scream, body clamping down hard, trembling around me. The rush of it tears through me, white-hot, unstoppable. I follow her over the edge, spilling into her with a growl that feels ripped out of my chest.
When it’s done, I’m shaking, still buried inside her, still holding her tight like I’ll lose her if I let go.
And then I jolt awake. Alone. The room flickers with the light from the TV, the low murmur of voices filling the silence, my body still strung tight, the ghost of her touch fading too fast.
My heart pounds, my breath uneven. It was just a dream. Just my memory playing tricks. A memory I clearly remember all too well.
It felt like it was happening, it felt real. Too real.
And the ache it leaves behind? That’s worse than anything.
Chapter Six
Heat in the Rain
Sarah
The Bar smells like beer and old wood, the kind of place where the jukebox only half works and no one cares. Emma’s the reason I’m here. She swore I needed a night out, shoved a shot glass into my hand, and said something about “new memories fixing old ones.”
She’s wrong. New memories don’t fix anything. They just blur the edges for a little while.
The door swings open, letting in a rush of cold air and too many memories. His voice, low and familiar, cuts through the noise like it’s meant for me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Jace Prescott.
He’s got two days of stubble and the kind of tired slouch that comes from pretending you’re fine when you’re not. A few of the guys from the team clap him on the shoulder, laughing too loud, trying to drag him into whatever game they’re playing at the corner table. He nods, half there, half somewhere else.
I know that look.
It’s the same one I’ve been wearing for weeks.
Emma leans in, following my gaze. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push either. That’s the thing about Emma, she’s always known when to give me space.
She hesitates, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You ever notice how some places hit like a sucker punch?”
My laugh comes out thin. “Maybe.”
“Yeah.” She nods, half-smiling, half-knowing. “That's why I usually avoid this place.”
I lift a brow. “Then why drag me here?”
