And Lorcan—Jesus Christ, Lorcan lookedgone.
His pupils were blown wide open, nearly eclipsing the gray that should dominate. His expression was stripped of everything except raw, unfiltered focus. Like nothing else in the world existed except the pressure of his hand and the way that girl's body went limp under his control as he fucked her.
He didn't even notice me at first.
Just kept squeezing.
Watching.
Counting.
I don't know how long he'd been doing it—long enough to make the girl slump.
I slammed the door behind me, loud enough to snap him out of it.
His hand released. The girl gasped—sharp, wet, desperate—and crumpled backward into his chest. He caught her. Cock still inside her pussy, He was coming as I watched—thrusting in and out even as she coughed, and wheezed, and clung to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.
Which, technically, he was.
When he was finished, he took a few moments to savor it, then he looked at me over his shoulder. No shame. No apology. Just... acknowledgment. Like I'd walked in on him doing fucking calculus homework.
"Lock the door next time," I said.
He nodded.
That was it.
We never talked about it.
I blink.
Jino's still standing in front of me, waiting for a response I'm not giving.
Because I'm seeing Lorcan's hands now. The same hands that wrapped around that girl's throat in the third-floor bathroom. The same hands that were trying to figure out how far he could push. How much she could take.
I take a breath. Recalibrate.
He walked away from the lifestyle. Buried it.
We both did.
Except… I didn't. I lied to him.
And even though I've never had any reason to suspect he was lying when he said he stopped, I never gave him any reason to suspect that I didn't stop either.
It's not like we hang out. I haven't even seen him in years. Our paths just don't cross these days. He's in Boston. And even before I was sent to Riverview, Pittsburgh is a very long fucking drive.
But in the 'now. Sitting here, watching the scene replay in my head—his hand on that girl's throat, her body going slack, the look on his face like he'd found God in the space between her pulse points when he came—I realize something I should've noticed years ago.
People who choke don't juststop.
Not when it's wired that deep.
Not when it's the thing that makes their brain light up like a fucking Christmas tree.
They might bury it. Repress it. White-knuckle their way through years of abstinence.
But they don't stopwantingit.
