Chapter 14: Dinner
The dent in Susie’s car flashed in Ron’s mind as he climbed the stairs to Puck’s apartment, each step echoing his own apprehension. He’d seen it that morning—a brutal, crumpled eye staring from the silver door panel. Guilt prickled his skin despite knowing he hadn’t caused it. The memory intertwined with the throbbing beneath his collar where Puck’s mark still lingered, a phantom brand. He smoothed his beige sweater, inhaled sharply, and knocked.
The door swung open.
Puck filled the frame.
Ron’s breath hitched.
She wore skin-tight leather leggings that vanished into knee-high stiletto boots. A sheer black mesh top clung to her torso, revealing a lace bra beneath and the dramatic swell of her augmented breasts. A thin leather collar circled her throat, its silver O-ring glinting under the hallway light. Her raven hair fell in loose waves, framing kohl-rimmed eyes burning with unchecked hunger. Incense and spice curled from the apartment behind her.
"Ronnie," she breathed, the word thick, almost slurred. Her gaze raked over him like a physical touch. "You came."
"Y-you invited me," he stammered, stepping inside as she swayed aside. Her apartment assaulted his senses: vibrant abstract paintings clashed with band posters; towers of books leaned precariously near a sagging velvet couch; empty coffee cups dotted every surface. The air was warm, heavy with sandalwood and something muskier beneath.
Puck closed the door, the click unnaturally loud. She pressed her back against it, trembling slightly. "I cooked," she blurted, pushing off the door and gesturing wildly toward a small table crammed beside a bookshelf. A steaming pot of rich, red stew sat beside crusty bread. "Putanesca. Spicy. Like… like life."
Ron forced himself to move, perching on the edge of a rickety chair. "Smells incredible, Puck."
She practically lunged for the pot, ladling stew into bowls with jerky movements. Her knuckles were white on the spoon handle. She set his bowl down hard, sloshing sauce onto the worn wood tablecloth. "Tell me," she demanded, hovering over him instead of sitting. "Tell me if it’s good."
He took a careful spoonful. Flavors exploded—garlic, chili, briny olives. "It’s… really good, Puck. Perfect."
A shudder ran through her. She gripped the back of his chair, her knuckles brushing his shoulder. "Perfect?" she echoed, voice strained. "You mean it?"
"Completely. It’s delicious."
She moaned softly, low in her throat. Her eyes glazed, fixed on his mouth as he swallowed another spoonful. She hadn’t touched her own food. Her breathing grew shallow, rapid. She leaned closer, the heat of her body radiating against his side, the scent of her skin—desire and leather—overpowering the stew.
"Ronnie," she whispered. Her hand drifted from the chair to his forearm, fingers tightening possessively.
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. Her intensity was a physical force, pinning him. Sweat beaded on his temples. "Y-yes?"
"Need…" The word choked off. Her gaze dropped to his collar, where the hidden mark pulsed. She licked her lips, a sheen of saliva glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her entire body vibrated with suppressed tension. The collar seemed to tighten around her throat.
He set the spoon down slowly."Puck? Are you—"
"Need you," she gasped, cutting him off. Her fingers dug into his arm. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his, stripping away any pretense. "Ronnie. I-I really need you to—" She stammered violently, breath hitching. "F-f-f-fuck me now."
Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. The hum of the city outside vanished. Only Puck’s ragged breathing filled the cluttered room. Her plea hung between them—raw, desperate, a demand ripped from her core. She swayed on her stilettos, trembling, waiting, every nerve ending exposed. Ron stared, trapped in the electric stillness, the taste of olives and chili turning to ash in his mouth. The collar gleamed. Her eyes burned. The moment stretched, taut and fragile, balanced on the edge of surrender.