He moves closer, a silent threat wrapped in memory, and I don’t stop him. I can’t. I’m too far gone to listen to reason, too consumed by the ghost of him to fight. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal, they blur beneath the pulse of want beating in my veins.
Tomorrow, I’ll hate myself for this.
But tonight, I surrender to it—to him—to the all-consuming kind of hunger that once felt like love.
His hand slides lower, possessive, tracing the curve of my hip, dipping beneath the slit of my dress to rest on my thigh. I arch into him, betraying every instinct to pull away.
He steps in behind me—close, dangerous, and unbearably real. His palm slides from my hip, up to my stomach, and pulls me back until every hard line of him locks against every soft edgeof me. The contact steals the air from my lungs as they threaten to collapse inside my chest.
It feels like coming home in the worst possible way, the kind that hurts more than it heals. Tears sting the corners of my eyes before I can stop them. Because he isn’t my home anymore.
He never will be again.
But still, I don’t move, I don’t stop him.
Instead, I lean back into him, my arm looping around his neck, nails biting into his skin, tethering him to me in a way that feels dangerous and heady all at once.
His breath ghosts against my ear, and when he groans—low, pained, and wrecked—it sounds like surrender. I dig my nails a little deeper, leaving my mark like a claim I have no right to make.
Then I turn in his arms, breath ragged, chest to chest. Our mouths hover—a whisper apart—and still, he doesn’t kiss me. He justlooksat me. This pain-filled look, like he’s falling apart inside, and I’m the reason.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s gravity pulling two stars doomed to burn each other out closer and closer until collision is the only thing left.
All I know is this feels inevitable.
Every wound, every silence, every night of missing him, leading to this.
Tonow.
Our mouths collide. It isn’t gentle. It’s an explosion of all the pent-up tension that’s been riding us hard for years now. Teeth and tongue, hunger so sharp it tears me open. I kiss him like I could rewrite time itself, like I could erase the distance carvedbetween us, and he answers with the kind of hunger that feels like punishment and prayer all at once.
His hands dig into my hips, anchoring me. He drags me back into the shadows behind the VIP curtain, pressing me against velvet walls, drowning in flickering lights and the pulse of the club, soaked in sin.
“Why did you come?” I whisper, my lips barely brushing his as the words pass between us, our bodies pressed impossibly close.
He doesn’t answer me with words. He just corners me, one hand above my head, the other gripping my waist, and pins me against the wall. That look—dangerous, demanding, and intoxicating—sends heat straight through me. Like I’m the question he’s been aching to ask, the one that makes him lose control, the one I’m helplessly, wantonly willing to give him.
His hand slides under my dress, finding the lace of my garter. He groans, a low, broken sound as he traces the line of my sheer thigh highs.
“You wore them for me,” he murmurs, voice thick with disbelief that contradicts his next words. “I fucking knew you would.”
My lungs seize as his fingers dip beneath the lace, tracing patterns over my skin, inching closer to where I ache for him most. The thrill—raw and reckless—surges through me, a delicious danger, knowing anyone could walk in at any second. His audacity, his cocky assurance, ignites something inside me I’m not ready to admit.
“You love the risk, don’t you, baby? The thought that anyone—any random stranger—could walk in at this exact moment and see how drenched you are for your stepbrother. You’re drippingfor me, soaked, and it drives me insane. Don’t worry… maybe I’ll let them watch. But they’ll never touch this perfect fucking cunt.”
His words hit me like a whip, searing through every ounce of self-control. Ishouldpush him away. Ishouldrun. Ishouldfight this madness but I don’t. My body betrays me, trembling, shivering, and aching under his palm. Every gasp, every shudder, every desperate whimper is his. I’m trapped between burning shame and unbearable need, my mind screaming to resist while every fibre of me melts into his possession. I’m putty in his hands, helpless, consumed, owned.
“Matt.” His name comes out as a breathless moan—a prayer and a curse wrapped into one as he works his fingers past the lace of my underwear. I press my mouth to his neck, not to kiss, but to muffle the sound that escapes me as his fingers slip inside, finding me as soaked as he predicted.
He grunts, pressing another finger into me. “Fuck, I love how wet you get for me. Always such a good little slut for me, aren’t you, baby? So fucking needy for your stepbrother.”
His words slam into me, stealing the last shards of air from my lungs. All I can feel is him, his fingers inside me, his hard cock pressing into my hip, claiming me as if the world doesn’t exist. All I can smell is him, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. He’s everywhere at once, drowning me, clouding every sense, consuming every thought. I’m completely his—every gasp, every quiver, every desperate moan—utterly, irrevocably owned as if nothing has changed.
I tilt my head back, and in the next second, his mouth is on mine. The kiss hits me like fire, deep and demanding, and I moan against his lips, unable to stop myself. He kisses me like he has the right to touch me, and I kiss him like I’m punishing him. Like I’m punishing myself. I need him to feel every second of thehell he left me in almost as much as I need him to keep touching me.
I taste him—his heat, his sin, the dark edge of him—and it makes my body melt. His tongue teases mine, claiming me with every flick, and I hate myself for it. Hate that I didn’t fight harder, hate that I’m this undone, this desperate for him after one look, one touch, one kiss. Every gasp, every shiver, every stolen breath is proof I’m already lost, still his, utterly and irrevocably.
The pleasure coils tight in my belly as I pull away from his mouth, clenching around his fingers at the sound of Matt’s ragged pants in my ear.
