I crossed the space before the thought finished forming in her eyes. My hands landed on her shoulders, firm enough to still the tremor running through her.
“I don’t want that,” I murmured.
Her pupils widened, and for a heartbeat neither of us breathed. Then she was in my arms, all warmth and rising pulse. The kiss started soft, then burned hotter, the kind that emptied your head and filled every quiet part you’d been avoiding. She tasted like whiskey and nerves, and I didn’t pull back until she pressed her palms against my chest.
“I can tell you’re nervous,” I said, my thumb brushing her cheekbone.
She tried a laugh, but it broke halfway. “I told you, I don’t do this.”
“Then why?—”
“I caught my boyfriend cheating on me.” The words came clipped, like she’d rehearsed them and hated every syllable. “I just want to feel…”
Her eyes dropped; she didn’t finish.
“I can do that,” I murmured. The words came out low, raw. “Guy’s a fucking moron for cheating on you.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You don’t even know me.”
“Doesn’t take long to see what’s right in front of me.”
I kept my gaze level, but inside everything was shifting—obedient restraint scraping against the years of want I’d buried under booze and fury. She couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-two, maybe, too young for the broken pieces I carried, but that didn’t stop the way she felt under my hands. Every angle of her pulled some forgotten instinct awake, needy and dangerous.
When she looked up again, I saw that same mix of hurt and defiance that used to stare back at me in locker room mirrors before a fight. She wanted pain to mean something. I knew that look.
Her fingers fisted in my shirt and drew me closer again. The lamp’s glow slid between us, catching in the line of her throat as she tilted toward me. Her breath shivered against my neck.
I should’ve stepped back. Should’ve given a damn about what tomorrow might look like. But I wasn’t a good man. Hadn’t been one in a long time. And after tasting her, all I wanted was to drown in her until the noise in my head shut off.
I kissed her hard, slow, taking what she offered and more. Her back hit the wall, and she didn’t flinch. She melted into me, answering each movement like we already knew the rhythm. For once, I wasn’t thinking about redemption or rules or second chances.
Just her. Just this. The one thing in years that felt real.
The wall dug into my shoulder blades, but I didn’t care. Her hands were under my shirt, nails scraping up my ribs, and every touch burned hotter than the last. I caught her wrist, not to stop her—just to feel the pulse hammering against my thumb.
“Bedroom’s back here,” I muttered against her mouth.
She didn’t answer, just let me pull her down the hall, our steps unsteady, clothes already half-undone. The floorboards groaned under us, old and complaining, but neither of us slowed. My fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head backjust enough to kiss the sharp line of her jaw. She gasped, and I swallowed the sound.
The bedroom door hit the wall with a thud. The room was cold, the sheets probably still smelled like detergent and neglect, but none of that mattered. She shoved me backward, and I let her, landing on the edge of the mattress with her straddling my lap. Her thighs squeezed tight around mine, and I gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of her waist.
“You’re sure?” I asked, one last time, because something in me still remembered how to be decent.
She yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. “Stop asking.”
The sight of her—skin flushed, hair messy, eyes dark with want—shoved the last of my restraint into the fire. I pulled her down, crashing our mouths together again, and rolled us until she was beneath me. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of my jeans, impatient, while I dragged my mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, tasting salt and something sweet beneath it.
She arched up, breath hitching as my hand found her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. “Fuck,” she whispered, and the sound went straight to my gut.
I stripped off my shirt, then hers, letting the fabric pool on the floor. Her skin was warm under my palms, smooth where mine was rough. She reached for my belt, but I caught her wrists, pinning them above her head.
“Not yet,” I growled.
Her lips parted, a silent challenge, and I took it. Kissed her again, harder this time, until she was gasping beneath me, until the only thing left was heat and need and the way her body moved against mine, like she was trying to crawl inside my skin.
Her pulse jumped under my lips, fast and wild, like a trapped bird. I dragged my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, the faintest hint of perfume—something floral, somethingher. My teeth grazed her collarbone, and she gasped, back arching off the bed.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I murmured against her skin. Not just words. Truth. She was all sharp edges and softness, the kind of contradiction that made my hands shake. My cock throbbed, heavy and aching, pressed against the rough denim of my jeans. I hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years. Maybe never.
