Chapter 1: Stolen Moments in the Study
The bass from the party downstairs was a physical thing, a throbbing pulse through the floorboards that vibrated up through my sandals. I needed air that didn’t smell like spilled beer and frat boy cologne.
I slipped down the dim hallway, the shouts and laughter fading behind me. A familiar door, slightly ajar, led into the frat’s study. It was quieter here, the chaos muffled to a dull roar. The room was a cluttered warzone in the low light from a single desk lamp: half-empty beer bottles, crumpled frat pins, a whiteboard scrawled with soccer plays and drunken doodles of half-naked girls. The air smelled like stale whiskey, sweat, and the faintest hint of Aria’s perfume—still clinging to the armchair where she’d sat just hours ago.
I leaned against the massive mahogany desk, letting my head fall back, and closed my eyes. A mistake. The second my lids shut, all I saw was him. Harry. His green eyes tracking me across the party. The way his thumb had brushed mine when he handed me a drink. The heat of his body as he’d squeezed past me in the crowded kitchen.
The click of the door locking echoed in the quiet room.
I jumped, my eyes snapping open.
He was already across the room, his movements silent and predatory. The lock turned with a final, definitive thud.
“Harry,” I breathed, my voice a shaky thing.
“Nikki.” He said my name like it was a secret he’d been saving. He didn’t stop moving until he was right in front of me, caging me against the desk. “Running away?”
“I needed a minute.”
“From me?” His smile was all teeth and promise. He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands found my hips, his grip firm, fingers digging into the thin material of my dress. All the air left my lungs.
“We can’t,” I whispered, even as my body arched toward him.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his mouth hovering over mine. His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. “We really fucking can.”
His kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claim. A hot, slick slide of his tongue against mine, consuming and desperate. My hands flew to his shoulders, the hard muscle there bunching under my palms. Every coherent thought dissolved into pure sensation. The scratch of his stubble. The possessive sweep of his hands down my back, cupping my ass and hauling me flush against him. I could feel the hard, thick length of him pressed against my stomach, and a low moan vibrated in my throat.
He broke the kiss, his eyes dark and wild. “Been thinking about this all night. All week.” In one rough motion, he gathered the hem of my dress and yanked it up to my waist. The cool air hit my skin. His gaze dropped, drinking in the sight of the black lace thong. A curse, filthy and hot, spilled from his lips.
His fingers hooked into the fragile sides. A sharp rip echoed in the room, and the lace gave way. He tossed the ruined fabric aside, his eyes never leaving me.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled, dropping to his knees.
His hands spread my thighs wider, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He didn’t tease. He leaned in and buried his face between my legs, his tongue finding my clit in a hot, wet stripe that made my legs buckle.
“Oh, god,” I choked out, my hands scrambling for purchase on the slick desktop.
He ate me like he was starving. His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking, circling and flicking. He pushed one finger, then two, deep inside me, crooking them just right. The stretch, the filthy, wet sound of it, the pressure building—it was too much. Pleasure coiled tight in my core, a scream gathering in my chest.
“Harry… I’m gonna…”
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting straight to my womb. My orgasm ripped through me, violent and shocking, my body shaking as I cried out, the sound muffled by my own arm. He didn’t let up, licking me through the aftershocks until I was whimpering, oversensitive and raw.
He stood, his jeans already open, his cock springing free. It was thick, veined, curving up toward his stomach. He gripped himself, giving a slow stroke, his eyes locked on mine. “Your turn.”
He spun me around, bending me over the cool, scarred wood of the desk. My cheek pressed against a leather blotter that smelled of dust and ink. He kicked my feet wider apart. One hand anchored in my purple curls, fisting tightly, pulling my head back. The other guided the blunt, slick head of his cock to my entrance.
He didn’t ask. He pushed.
A broken gasp tore from my throat. He was so big, stretching me, filling me in one relentless, deep thrust. For a second, there was only the overwhelming sensation of being full, split open.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his body going rigid against my back. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Then he moved.
He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. The desk creaked with every drive of his hips. The hand in my hair tightened, holding me in place for his thrusts. The slap of skin on skin, our ragged breathing, the low groans he let loose with every plunge—it was raw, obscene, and the most electric thing I’d ever felt.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his breath hot against my ear. “That’s all me. You think about this when you’re with him? You think about my cock in this sweet cunt?”
“Yes,” I sobbed, the admission torn from me. The friction was building again, a tighter, sharper coil. “Harder. Please.”
He obliged, fucking me with a raw, animalistic intensity that made me see stars. My nails scraped the leather. The pleasure was a white-hot brand, searing away every thought of my boyfriend, of consequences, of anything but the feel of him pistoning into me.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained. “Where do you want it?”
“On me,” I panted. “Mark me.”
With a final, deep snarl, he pulled out of my dripping pussy. His hand stroked his length twice, fast and rough, and then hot streaks of his release landed across my ass and lower back, possessive and claiming.
We stayed like that for a moment, both of us heaving for air, the only sounds our ragged breaths and the distant pulse of the party.
Then, the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the hallway. A laugh. Getting closer.
Panic, cold and immediate, shot through me. Harry’s body went tense. In one fluid motion, he pulled me upright, spun me, and shoved me toward the deep shadows behind a large, heavy bookcase in the corner.
“Don’t fucking move,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent.
He quickly tucked himself back into his jeans, zipped up, and grabbed a discarded sweater from a chair, throwing it over the wet evidence on the desk blotter just as the doorknob rattled.
“Locked?” a familiar voice slurred from the hall. Kyle. My boyfriend.
Harry ran a hand through his disheveled curls, took a deep breath, and unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough to block the view inside.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Looking for Nikki,” Kyle said. “You seen her? She disappeared.”
Behind the bookcase, I pressed my hand over my mouth, my heart hammering against my ribs. I could smell Harry on my skin, feel his cum cooling on my back.
“Nah, not in here,” Harry said, his voice effortlessly casual. “I was just grabbing my playbook. Maybe she went out for a smoke?”
“Yeah, maybe. Alright, see you out there.”
The footsteps retreated. Harry closed the door slowly, locked it again, and leaned his forehead against the wood for a second. Then he turned to where I was hidden.
He walked over, his gaze sweeping over me. My dress was still rucked up around my waist. I was a mess—flushed, trembling, exposed. He reached out, his thumb wiping a stray streak from my hipbone. His touch was startlingly gentle now.
“You should go,” he said quietly. “Out the window. It leads to the side alley.”
I just nodded, numb. He helped me straighten my dress, his hands impersonal now, efficient. He lifted the heavy window sash, the cool night air rushing in. I climbed onto the sill, my legs still shaky.
“Nikki.”
I looked back at him. The desk lamp carved the sharp lines of his face out of the darkness. His expression was unreadable.
“This changes everything,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t answer. I dropped into the alley, the gravel crunching under my feet. I walked quickly, the sounds of the party fading behind me, the phantom feel of him still moving inside me with every step. The shame was there, a cold knot in my stomach. But beneath it, humming in my veins, was a terrifying, thrilling current of pure want. It was far from over. It had only just begun.
The alley smelled like wet asphalt and distant rain. Each step away from the frat house felt heavier than the last. Kyle’s apartment was only two blocks away, a fact that usually felt convenient but now loomed like a sentence.I could still feel the sticky, cooling trails on my skin. I walked faster, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the pavement. My mind was a blur of sensation—the brutal grip in my hair, the deep, stretching fullness, the raw sounds he’d pulled from me. I pressed my thighs together as I walked, a phantom ache throbbing in time with my heartbeat.I used my key and slipped inside. The living room was dark, lit only by the glow of a muted sports highlight reel. Kyle was sprawled on the couch, a half-eaten slice of pizza on his chest.
“Hey, babe,” he mumbled, his eyes half-closed.“Where’d you go?”
“I needed air. The party was a lot.” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, too high, too bright. “You left without me.”
“Got a headache.Texted you.” He sat up, the pizza sliding to the floor. He didn’t notice.“You okay? You look… flushed.”
“Just walked fast.” I toed off my sandals, my movements jittery. “I’m gonna shower.”
“Hey.” He reached out and caught my wrist, his grip warm and familiar. He pulled me gently down onto the couch beside him.His other hand came up to push my curls back from my face. “Missed you.”
He smelled like pepperoni and cheap beer, a comfortable, uncomplicated scent. Guilt was a physical weight, a rock in my stomach. He leaned in to kiss me, and I met him halfway, but it was all wrong. His lips were soft, his pace languid.My nerves were still screaming from Harry’s bruising, possessive mouth. I felt like a live wire shoved into a sock drawer.I kissed him back anyway, trying to lose myself in the familiar. Trying to erase the alley, the study, the desk. His hands slid under my dress, palming my thighs.“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he murmured against my neck. His touch was earnest, reverent even.It made my skin crawl.
I needed to feel something else.Anything else.“Just fuck me, Kyle,” I whispered, the words sharp-edged.
He blinked, surprised by my tone, but then a pleased smile spread across his face.“Yeah. Okay.”
He led me to the bedroom, not the shower. He pushed me down onto the bed, climbing over me. He took his time, kissing my collarbone, sucking a mark just below my ear.His hands moved with a practiced ease. He touched me like he knew the map of my body, but the map had been redrawn in the last hour, and he was hopelessly lost.
He peeled my dress off, his eyes roaming my body. I prayed the shadows hid the faint red marks from Harry’s stubble, the possible imprint of his fingers on my hips. Kyle’s gaze didn’t linger. He was already shoving his sweatpants down, his cock stiff and ready.He settled between my legs.There was no teasing preparation. He pushed inside, and I gasped.It felt different.Loose.Empty. A familiar fit that now felt like a cheap imitation.“You’re so wet,” he groaned, beginning to move. His thrusts were steady, rhythmic.He leaned down to kiss me, his tongue in my mouth. I closed my eyes.Behind my eyelids, I wasn’t here. I was bent over that mahogany desk. I heard the crack of his hips against my skin, felt the biting pull of my hair, smelled whiskey and sweat and sex.The memory was so visceral it stole my breath.
A moan escaped me, but it was for a ghost.Kyle mistook it for him.
“That’s it,” he panted, his pace quickening.His thrusts became shallower, faster. “You like that?Yeah, take it.”
His words were a distant buzz. My body moved on autopilot, hips rising to meet his, legs wrapping around his waist.A performance. I bit my lip to keep another name from spilling out. The pressure built, a dull, obligated simmer. I clenched around him, forcing a mimicry of pleasure, and my breath hitched in a convincing falsetto.“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his body stiffening. He drove into me a few final, frantic times before stilling with a low grunt, his head buried in my neck.We lay there, his weight a comfortable prison. He rolled off after a moment, breathing heavily.“Damn. That was amazing.”
“Yeah,” I said, staring at the ceiling.The word was ash in my mouth.
He dozed off almost instantly, an arm thrown possessively over my stomach.I waited until his breathing deepened into the soft snores I knew so well.
Then I slid out from under his arm.I went to the bathroom and locked the door. In the stark fluorescent light, I saw everything.The faint redness on my wrists. The smudged remnants of Harry’s release drying on the small of my back.I looked wild.Ruined.
I turned the shower as hot as I could stand and stepped under the scalding spray. I scrubbed my skin raw with a washcloth until it stung, but the feeling was still there. The deep, branded memory of him.The water ran clear, but I didn’t feel clean.
Back in the bedroom, Kyle slept peacefully.I crawled into bed, leaving space between us. The city lights painted faint stripes across the ceiling.I replayed it all, every filthy, perfect second. The danger of it, the absolute wrongness, was a cold thrill twisting in my gut alongside the guilt.
My phone, buried in my clutch purse on the floor, buzzed once. A sharp, silent pulse in the dark.I didn’t move to get it.I didn’t need to. I knew.It had only just begun, and I was already drowning. And God help me, I didn’t want to come up for air.
The buzz of my phone was a live nerve buried in the silence. I didn’t move.Kyle’s arm was a lead weight across my ribs. I stared at the ceiling until the gray dawn light bled into the room, turning everything the color of guilt.
He stirred as the garbage trucks started their rumbling concert outside.“Mmm. Morning.” He nuzzled into my neck, his morning breath warm and sour. His hand slid down from my stomach, fingers creeping under the waistband of my panties.I caught his wrist. “I have that early Lit critique. Professor Finley hates tardiness.”
“Five minutes,” he mumbled, his erection pressing against my hip.His touch was sleepy, entitled. A part of me, the old part, would have given in.Kept the peace.
I pulled his hand out and slipped from the bed.“I can’t. Really.”
He flopped onto his back with a grunt, rubbing his eyes.“Fine.Whatever.”
The apartment felt smaller. The cheap laminate floor was cold under my feet.I started the coffee, watching the brittle stream of dark liquid fill the pot. My phone, still in its clutch on the floor, felt like a loaded gun in the next room.Kyle padded out, shirtless, scratching his stomach. He poured a mug, sipped, made a face. “You used the cheap stuff again.”
“It’s all we have.” My voice was flat.
He looked at me, really looked, for the first time since I’d come home.“You’re being weird. You okay?”
“Headache,” I said, turning to the window.The lie was automatic. “Just… a lot of assignments.”
“Tell me about it. Coach has us doing two-a-days until the playoffs.” He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, kissing my shoulder.“We should do something tonight.Just us. Takeout, maybe that Netflix series you like.”
The domesticity of it choked me. “Maybe.”
My phone buzzed again.A longer, more insistent vibration.Kyle felt me tense.
“Who the hell is texting you at seven a.m.?”
“Probably Aria,” I said, too quickly.“Finley’s critique. She’s panicking.” I disentangled myself.“I should shower.”
In the bathroom, locked again, I pulled the phone from my purse. The screen glared in the sterile light.Two messages. Both from a number not saved in my contacts, but etched into my mind.
The first, from last night: You taste even better than I dreamed.The second, from five minutes ago: I can still smell you on my hands.
A violent shudder ran through me.My knees went weak. I braced myself against the sink, my reflection pale and wide-eyed.Shame, hot and sharp, flooded my system. Then, a low, treacherous throb between my legs.My body was betraying me, celebrating the violation.
I didn’t reply.I couldn’t. I stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing until my skin was pink, trying to erase the phantom feeling of his mouth, his hands, his cum.It was useless.He was under my skin.
When I came out, wrapped in a towel, Kyle was dressed.“Gotta run. Film review at eight.” He pecked my cheek.His lips were dry. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” The words were ash.The door clicked shut.The silence was absolute, and it screamed.
I walked to the window. Down on the street, students moved like ants, carrying their backpacks and their simple lives.My own life had fissured overnight, a clean, profound crack right down the middle. On one side: Kyle, my friends, my degree, the person I was supposed to be. On the other: a locked study, the taste of whiskey, and the devastating green eyes of a boy who knew exactly what he was doing.My phone buzzed a third time in my hand.
You left your panties.Lace.Torn.A picture followed. The shredded black lace, laid out neatly on a surface I recognized—the mahogany desk. His playbook was open beside them.My breath hitched.This wasn’t just a secret anymore.It was a trophy. Proof.My thumbs hovered over the screen. Every good sense I had told me to delete it, to block the number, to go to my Lit critique and bury myself in Keats and forget. But that other part, the impulsive, passionate part that wrote secret poems in the dead of night, that craved something more real than this careful life, was screaming louder.I typed back.
You shouldn’t have kept them.The reply was immediate.
I shouldn’t have done a lot of things.Doesn’t mean I won’t do them again.
Kyle almost walked in.He didn’t.That’s the point.He never does.
The truth of it was a slap.Kyle lived in a shallow, sunlit world. He didn’t see the shadows, didn’t look for them.Harry lived in the shadows. He was the shadow.What do you want?I sent.You.On that desk again. Right now.My core clenched, a visceral, painful pull. I looked around the empty apartment, at the dying succulent on the windowsill, at Kyle’s soccer jersey draped over a chair. A coffin of nice, predictable things.I have class.Skip it.
And do what?I’m at the frat.The house is empty. Everyone’s at practice or asleep.I’m in the study.Door’s unlocked.It was a dare. A beautifully, terribly dangerous dare. The memory of the footsteps in the hall, Kyle’s voice, the sheer terror of being caught—it should have been a deterrent. Instead, it wired the memory with a higher voltage, made it more addictive.I didn’t write back. I dropped the phone on the bed like it was burning me.I paced. I pulled on clothes—jeans, a tank top, a hoodie.My Lit notebook stared at me from my backpack. Professor Finley’s dry, droning voice echoed in my head.
The apartment walls felt like they were pressing in.I grabbed my keys.I didn’t think. If I thought, I would talk myself out of it.This was pure, unadulterated impulse. The same impulse that had made me turn and kiss him back last night. It was a devil on my shoulder, and it had just won.I didn’t go toward campus. I took the back stairs, emerging into the alley where I’d landed hours before. The morning air was cool, sharp with the smell of damp brick and garbage.It cleared nothing.I started to walk.Then I ran. My sneakers slapped the pavement, my breath coming in ragged clouds.I wasn’t running toward something. I was running away from the girl who had lied to her boyfriend, who had showered and pretended everything was normal.I was shedding her with every step.
The frat house loomed at the end of the street, silent and imposing in the morning light.The porch was empty.The windows, dark.
My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I slowed to a walk, my muscles singing with nervous energy.I climbed the front steps.The door was, as promised, unlocked.
I pushed it open. The grand foyer was a disaster zone from last night—cups everywhere, sticky floors, the stale, sweet stench of spilled liquor and regret. Silence hung over it all, thick and heavy.I didn’t call out. My footsteps were muffled on the stained carpet as I made my way down the familiar hallway.The study door was closed.Light bled from the crack underneath.
I stopped in front of it.My hand trembled as I reached for the knob. This was the line.The one I couldn’t uncross. Once I turned this knob, there was no pretending.No going back to before.
From the other side of the door, a low, familiar voice sounded, barely more than a murmur.
“I know you’re there.”
He’d been waiting.He’d heard my footsteps.I turned the knob.Pushed the door open.
Harry was leaning against the front of the desk, right where he’d bent me over. He was in gray sweatpants and nothing else, his lean torso a canvas of tattoos in the slanted morning light.The ripped black lace lay beside his thigh. His green eyes burned into me, devoid of yesterday’s playfulness.This was a different kind of hunger.Solemn.Intent.
He didn’t smile. He just looked at me, taking in my flushed face, my heaving chest, the decision written plainly in my stare.“You came,” he said. It wasn’t a question.It was an acknowledgment of a truth we both now knew.
I let the door swing shut behind me. The click of the latch was the loudest sound in the world.