Chapter 1: Bottle Spin and a Locked Door
The bass from the speakers thumped through the floorboards, a steady pulse that felt like a second heartbeat. I took a long sip from my plastic cup, the cheap beer bitter on my tongue, and surveyed the chaos of the Sigma Tau living room. Bodies were packed tight, a sweaty, laughing mass under the streaky glow of a malfunctioning strobe light. Someone had spilled a pitcher of something sticky on the coffee table, and the air smelled like citrus vodka, weed, and regret.
“He’s staring again,” Aria murmured, leaning into my shoulder. Her pink hair streak glowed in the dark.
“Who?” I asked, knowing exactly who.
“Don’t play dumb, Martinez. It doesn’t suit you.” She nudged me with her elbow, her eyes darting across the room to where Harry Styles was holding court by the makeshift bar—a door balanced on two milk crates. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand, his other gesturing wildly as he told some story to Liam and Zayn. His laughter cut through the music, easy and bright, and his green eyes found mine for a half-second before flicking away. My stomach did that stupid, traitorous twist.
“He’s not staring. He’s just… existing in my general direction,” I said, tearing my gaze away. “It’s a chronic condition with him.”
Louis appeared beside us, a devilish grin plastered on his face. “The sexual tension in this room is so thick I could chew it. It’s giving me a rash. Someone make a move or I will, and it’ll be tragic for everyone.”
“Piss off, Tomlinson,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“Nah. We’re playing a game.” He grabbed an empty beer bottle from the floor and plopped down in the center of our crumbling circle. Aria, Hanna, Emily, Spencer, Liam, Niall, Zayn—all our high school ghosts crammed onto stained couches and threadbare carpet. “Spin the bottle. Classic. No excuses.”
A collective groan went up, but everyone shifted closer. It was that kind of night. The kind where nostalgia and too much alcohol made you agree to stupid things.
Louis gave the bottle a fierce whirl. It clattered against the floorboards, spinning, slowing, and landing pointedly at Niall, who had to plant a sloppy, laughing kiss on a grimacing Zayn. The game continued. A spin for Liam and Emily, a peck on the cheek. Another for Louis and Aria, who kissed properly, softly, because they could.
Then it was my turn.
My fingers felt clammy. I set the bottle down, gave it a flick, and watched it rotate as my heart hammered against my ribs. It slowed, wobbled, and stopped.
The neck was aimed directly at Harry.
The room erupted. Louis howled, pumping a fist in the air. “Yes! Finally! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Harry’s smirk was all lazy confidence, but I saw the faint tension in his jaw. He shrugged, those stupid broad shoulders moving under his thin white tee. “Rules are rules, Martinez.”
“This is bullshit,” I said, but I was already moving, because backing down would have been worse. He met me in the middle of the circle, the noise of our friends a distant buzz in my ears.
He smelled like Irish Spring and that stupid, expensive cologne he always wore. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His eyes searched mine, and for a second, it wasn’t a game. It was just us, suspended in the noisy dark.
Then he kissed me.
It wasn’t soft. It was a claim. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past my lips before I could even think to deny him. One hand fisted in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling just enough to arch my back into him. I heard someone, probably Louis, whistle. My hands came up, meant to shove him away, but they curled into the fabric of his shirt instead, holding on. The taste of him—whiskey and mint and Harry—flooded my senses. I kissed him back. I couldn’t help it. It was a fucking gut reaction, years in the making.
He broke the kiss first, leaving me breathless. His eyes were dark, his smile cocky and infuriating. “Not bad,” he murmured, just for me.
“Shut up,” I breathed, shoving him back a step. My lips felt swollen.
Louis was on his feet, his eyes manic with glee. “Alright, that was cute, but the universe demands more! Tradition states a spin like that needs… privacy!” Before I could process his words, he grabbed my arm and Harry’s, yanking us off our feet and shoving us toward the narrow door next to the bathroom. “The storage closet! Seven minutes in heaven, you animals! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“Louis, don’t you fucking dare—” I spat, but it was too late. He wrenched the door open, pushed us into the utter blackness, and the door clicked shut behind us. I heard the distinct scrape of a chair being wedged under the knob, and Louis’s muffled cackle fading away.
Silence. Thick, hot, absolute darkness.
I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. I could feel him. His body was a solid line of heat an inch from mine in the cramped space. It smelled like dust and old wood and the clean scent of his skin.
“Well,” Harry’s voice was a low vibration in the dark. “This is cozy.”
“This is psychotic. He’s going to die. Slowly.” I groped behind me, my hands hitting shelves of cleaning supplies and discarded board games. My hip bumped a stack of something cardboard.
“Relax. It’s seven minutes.” He shifted, and his forearm brushed mine. A spark shot straight through me.
“Don’t get any ideas, Styles.”
He chuckled, the sound intimately close. “Ideas are all I’ve got in here, Nik.” His hands found my hips in the dark, big and sure. My breath hitched. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m pissed off.”
“Liar.” One hand slid under the hem of my crop top, his fingers splaying across the bare skin of my stomach. They were cool, a shocking contrast to the heat building inside me. I jerked at the touch.
“Get your hand off me.”
He didn’t. His other hand came up to cup my jaw again, his thumb tracing my bottom lip, still tender from his kiss. “Your mouth says one thing. Your body’s saying something else entirely.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over my ear. “You’re already wet for me, aren’t you?”
I wanted to deny it. To knee him in the balls and scream. But he was right. A deep, aching throb had already started between my legs, a traitorous pulse answering his claim. I hated him for knowing. Hated myself for reacting.
“Fuck you,” I whispered, but it sounded weak, shaky.
He dropped to his knees so suddenly I gasped. His hands hooked into the waistband of my jeans and my panties, yanking them down to my ankles in one rough, efficient motion. The cool air of the closet hit my exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his mouth.
He didn’t tease. He just ate.
His tongue licked a long, flat stripe from my entrance all the way up to my clit, and my legs almost buckled. A choked sound escaped my throat. His hands gripped the backs of my thighs, holding me open, pulling me closer to his mouth. He buried his face in me, his nose pressing into my curls, his tongue circling my clit before plunging deep inside me.
“Oh, god—Harry—” The words were ripped out of me.
He growled against my flesh, the vibration making me cry out. “Told you,” he panted, his tongue working relentlessly. “You taste so fucking good. Like you’ve been thinking about this.” He added a finger, then two, curling them up hard inside me, finding a spot that made white lights flash behind my eyelids. My head thumped back against the shelves. One hand scrabbled for purchase, knocking a can of something to the floor. The other fisted in his messy curls, not pushing him away, but holding him right there.
He was ravenous. Slurping, sucking, fucking me with his tongue and fingers until the entire universe shrunk to the four walls of this closet and the devastating pressure of his mouth. The obscene, wet sounds of him devouring me filled the dark. My hips started to move against his face of their own volition, seeking more friction, more of that delicious torture.
“Come for me, Nikki,” he demanded, his voice rough and muffled against my cunt. “Come on my face. Right now.”
The command, the sheer filthy arrogance of it, shoved me over the edge. A sharp, blinding climax tore through me, seismic and violent. I shook, my knees buckling, a silent scream caught in my throat as I convulsed around his fingers. He rode it out with me, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes until I was gasping and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
He stood up. I heard the rasp of his zipper in the dark. Then his cock was in his hand, thick and hard and hot as it brushed against my bare thigh. A fresh jolt of desire, sharp and urgent, stabbed through my post-orgasm haze.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Still trembling, I obeyed. I bent over the stack of cardboard boxes in front of me, my jeans and panties still tangled around my ankles. The rough material scraped my knees. I heard him spit into his palm, then the slick sound of him stroking himself.
He didn’t ask. He just guided himself to my entrance and pushed inside with one brutal, deep thrust.
I cried out, my fingers digging into the cardboard. He filled me completely, a burning, stretching invasion. He didn’t move for a second, just let me feel the full, aching length of him buried inside me.
“This,” he panted, his hands clamping onto my hips, “is what you wanted, isn’t it? All that fucking arguing. All that hate. You just wanted me to fuck you in this closet like a secret.”
He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a ruthless, driving pace. Each thrust rocked me forward, my tits scraping against the box. It was too much, it was not enough. It was raw and perfect and devastating. I was moaning, a broken, continuous sound I hardly recognized as my own.
One of his hands snaked around my hip, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing rough, tight circles. The dual sensation was unbearable. I was climbing again, too fast, a coil ready to snap.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips pounding into me. The shelves rattled with every drive. “You’re so fucking tight. Gonna make me come.”
His words, the animalistic sound of our bodies slapping together, the pressure of his fingers—it all crested at once. My second orgasm ripped through me like a shockwave, a deep, internal clenching that milked his cock as he fucking roared behind me, his thrusts turning jagged and frantic. I felt the hot pulse of him coming deep inside me, his whole body shuddering against my back.
For a long minute, there was only sound: our ragged, gasping breaths, the faint thump of bass through the walls, a burst of laughter from the party outside. Reality seeped back in, cold and unwelcome.
He pulled out slowly. I felt the immediate, tell-tale trickle of his cum starting to drip down the inside of my thigh. I stayed bent over, trying to remember how to breathe, how to be a person instead of just a collection of shattered nerve endings.
I heard him zipping his jeans. A match flared, illuminating his sharp, handsome face for a second as he lit a cigarette he’d pulled from somewhere. He took a drag, the ember glowing in the dark. He offered it to me. I took it, my fingers unsteady, and inhaled the smoke, needing something to anchor me.
“We should get back out there,” he said, his voice now casual, detached. As if he hadn’t just shattered me into a million pieces and loosely put me back together. “Before they send a search party.”
I straightened up, wincing as I pulled my jeans and panties back up. The damp, sticky feel of him inside my clothes was a branding. I fixed my top, ran a hand through my hair. I was trembling, my legs feeling like wet paper.
He moved the chair, opened the door. The blaze of light and sound from the party was an assault. He stepped out, not looking back, immediately getting swallowed by the crowd, slapping Louis on the shoulder as he passed.
I stood in the doorway for a second, cloaked in the closet’s shadow. Aria caught my eye from across the room, her expression a question. I gave her a tiny, shaky smile that felt like a lie on my face.
I walked back into the party, the ghost of his hands still on my skin, the taste of him still in my mouth, and knew, with a sinking, exhilarating certainty, that nothing was fixed. Everything was broken wide open. And it was far from over.
And it was far from over.
The next hour passed in a blur of too-bright laughter and another beer I didn’t want. I could feel him. Everywhere. The soreness between my legs was a constant, throbbing reminder. The sticky dry of his cum on my inner thigh itched. I’d scrubbed at it in the frat house’s disgusting, graffiti-covered bathroom with a rough paper towel, but the phantom sensation remained, like a tattoo.
Harry was across the room, holding some blonde from the sorority house next door in a casual side-hug, laughing at something Louis was shouting. He looked completely at ease. Unraveled. It made me want to break a bottle over his perfect head.
Aria materialized beside me, handing me a fresh cup of water. Her eyes were soft, knowing. “So. The closet.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not asking. I’m observing. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. A really handsome, emotionally stunted truck.”
I sighed, leaning against the wall. The noise of the party felt muffled, like I was hearing it from underwater. “It was nothing. It was spin the bottle. It was a stupid game.”
“Nikki. Your lip is bleeding again.”
I touched my bottom lip, where his stubble had rubbed it raw during the kiss. The tiny coppery taste confirmed it. “Friction,” I muttered.
“Right.” She sipped her drink, watching Louis with a fond smile as he attempted to balance a plastic cup on his forehead. “He hasn’t looked away from you once all night. Even while he’s manhandling Kappa Kappa Gina over there.”
“He’s not looking at me.”
“He is.” She turned to me, serious. “And you’re looking at him. It’s the same song you’ve both been screaming since junior year. When does the record break?”
Before I could answer, a presence loomed over us. It was Harry, the blonde now gone. He smelled like smoke and sweat and that cologne. The memory of his face between my legs flashed, hot and unwelcome.
“Montgomery,” he nodded at Aria, a mock-formal dip of his chin. Then his green eyes landed on me. They were unreadable. “Martinez. You surviving?”
“Barely,” I said, my voice impressively flat.
“Good.” He took a swig from his bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “We’re heading back to our place. Everyone. Louis commandeered a keg. The night is young and painfully mediocre.” His gaze swept over me, from my blue roots down to my worn boots. It felt like a physical touch. “You coming, or you gonna hide in the bathroom all night?”
Aria looped her arm through mine. “We’re coming. Lead the way, Styles.”
The walk to the off-campus house Harry shared with Louis, Liam, Niall, and Zayn was a chaotic, shouting parade of twenty-somethings spilling down the sidewalk under the yellow glow of streetlights. I hung back, letting the crowd surge ahead. He hung back with me.
We walked in silence for a full block. The tension was a live wire stretched between us, buzzing in the cool night air.
“You’re quiet,” he said finally, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“You’re observant.”
“I fucked you too hard in that closet, didn’t I?”
The crudeness was a weapon. I stopped walking, turning to face him right there on the cracked pavement. “Is that what you think this is? You fucked me ‘too hard’ and now I have the vapors? Get over yourself.”
He stepped closer, invading my space. “Then what? You’ve been giving me death glares for an hour. You came twice. I felt you. So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is you think that’s all there is!” The words burst out of me, too loud. A few people ahead glanced back. I lowered my voice to a furious hiss. “The problem is you do that, and then you just… walk away. You light a cigarette. You make a joke. It’s a transaction for you.”
His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. “You wanted it. You were dripping before I even touched you.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then what is the goddamn point, Nikki?” His control was slipping, the charming mask cracking to show the raw frustration beneath. “You push me away every single day. You hate me in the light. But in the dark? In a fucking closet? You come on my tongue like you’re starving for it. So yeah, I walk away. Because I don’t know what else you want from me. You don’t give me anything else to work with.”
We were chest to chest now, breathing each other’s air. The truth in his words was a slap. It left us both stunned, staring at each other in the dim light, the party moving away without us.
“I don’t know what I want,” I whispered, and it was the most honest thing I’d said to him in years.
Something fractured in his eyes. The anger bled out, leaving something naked and desperate. He swore under his breath, looked away, then back at me. “Fuck this.”
He grabbed my hand, his grip firm, and pulled me off the sidewalk, cutting through a narrow alley between two houses. It was dark, lined with overflowing trash cans. He didn’t stop until we were shrouded in the deep shadows at the back, the sound of the party a distant echo.
“What are you doing?” My heart was hammering again.
“Giving you something else to work with.” He pinned me against the rough brick wall, his body caging mine. This wasn’t the playful chase of the game. This was stark. Urgent. “You say I walk away. So here I am. Not walking away.”
He kissed me. And this kiss was different. It wasn’t a claim of victory. It was a question. A confession. His lips were softer, moving over mine with a frantic, hungry need that stole the breath from my lungs. His hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. A broken sound escaped his throat, and it unraveled me completely.
I kissed him back, my fingers digging into the back of his neck, pulling him closer. This was worse. This was so much more dangerous than the closet. This was the thing I was afraid of.
He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against mine. “Tell me to stop, Nikki. Right now. Or I am not stopping.”
I didn’t tell him to stop. I reached for the buckle of his belt.
It was like flipping a switch. The tenderness vanished, consumed by a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. He spun me around to face the wall, his hands yanking my jeans and panties down to my knees again. The brick scraped my palms.
“You want me to not walk away?” he growled in my ear, one hand fumbling with his zipper. “Then feel me. Every fucking inch.”
He pushed inside me in one deep, brutal stroke. I cried out, my voice echoing off the alley walls. He was rougher than in the closet, fueled by a year’s worth of pent-up frustration and this new, terrifying vulnerability. There was no rhythm, just a desperate, pounding need. His hand snaked around my waist, fingers finding my clit, rubbing harsh, demanding circles.
“This what you want?” he panted, his hips slamming into me, driving me against the unyielding brick. “You want me to be messy? To lose my goddamn mind over you? Fine. Here. I’m losing it. You feel that?”
I did. I felt everything. The burn of the brick, the chill of the night air on my exposed skin, the searing heat of him filling me over and over. His other hand gripped my hip so hard it would bruise. It was overwhelming. It was perfect. It was a fight and a surrender all at once.
“Harry—” His name was a sob.
“Say it again.”
“Harry. Please.”
“Please what?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
He groaned, a raw, animal sound, and buried his face in the space between my neck and shoulder, his breath hot and ragged. His pace became frantic, chaotic. I was hurtling toward the edge, the pressure coiling unbearably tight. His fingers worked me faster, his thrusts becoming shorter, deeper.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice strained. “Now, Nikki. Come right now.”
It wasn’t a choice. My orgasm detonated, a silent, seismic rupture that shook me to my core. My body clenched around him, milking him, and with a shattered curse, he followed me over, pumping into me with a final, shuddering thrust, his whole weight slumping against my back.
We stayed like that for a long minute, both of us heaving for air, still joined. The world came back slowly: the distant bass, a dog barking, the cold seep of the brick through my shirt.
He softened inside me. Gently, he pulled out. I heard him zip his jeans. I stayed leaning against the wall, my legs trembling, my thoughts a incoherent jumble.
His hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped me pull my clothes back up. He turned me around to face him. In the sliver of light from a distant porch lamp, I could see his face. He looked wrecked. Beautiful and completely undone.
He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, his eyes tracing my features like he was memorizing them. Then he leaned in and kissed me, once, softly, on my swollen lips.
“Let’s go home,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He took my hand. This time, I let him. We walked out of the alley and towards the glowing windows of his house, the noise of the party swelling to meet us. His thumb rubbed a slow circle over my knuckle. It was a tiny gesture. It felt bigger than anything that had happened in the dark.
We didn’t speak. The unresolved thing between us wasn’t resolved. It was just bigger now. Hungrier. It had a taste and a smell and a feeling, and it was walking hand-in-hand with us right into the lion’s den of our friends, who would have questions we couldn’t possibly answer.
The front porch light was on. Through the window, I could see Louis laughing, Aria tucked under his arm. It looked warm. It looked safe.
Harry squeezed my hand once, tight, before letting go to open the door. The wall of sound and light hit us. The chapter wasn’t ending. It was just getting started, and I had no idea what my next line was.