Chapter 2: The Bathroom's Brutal Release
The polished marble hallway felt like a cage after Eveline stormed off. Axel’s knuckles were white where he gripped the strap of his own bag, the phantom sting of her words – overprivileged ass, moral compass of a feral cat – lashing him harder than any physical blow. That flicker of hurt in her eyes, the one he’d ruthlessly stomped down? It echoed in his own chest, a dull, persistent ache beneath the fury. Fuck her. Fuck her righteous indignation and her sharp tongue and the way she saw right through his bullshit facade. He didn’t need her approval. Didn’t need her.
He needed oblivion. Something brutal and physical to scour the image of her furious face, flushed and beautiful even in her hatred, from his fucking skull. The scent of her – vanilla and ink and something uniquely Eve – still clung to him, warring sickeningly with his own expensive cologne.
He stalked past the science labs, ignoring Holt’s muttered, "Ax, wait up, man," his friend’s concerned gaze scraping against his raw nerves. He didn’t want sympathy. He wanted friction. He wanted release. He wanted not to think about Evie Foster.
The first-floor girls' bathroom near the old library annex was usually quiet. He shoved the heavy door open without knocking. Inside, leaning over the sink, reapplying lip gloss, was Penelope Chen. Tall, sleek dark hair, expensive clothes that hugged curves cultivated by personal trainers. She jumped, startled, then recognition flashed in her eyes, quickly replaced by a predatory gleam.
"Well, hello, Axel Graves," she purred, turning fully towards him. "Lost?"
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her. Saw the plump lips, the dark eyes, the invitation in her posture. It wasn’t Eve. It would never be Eve. But it was warm flesh. Available. Forgettable. Exactly what he needed.
He crossed the tiled floor in three strides. The sharp, chemical tang of bleach warred with Penelope’s cloying floral perfume. Before she could utter another word, his hand shot out, fisting in the expensive silk of her blouse. He yanked her forward, slamming her back against the cold, unforgiving tiles. A gasp tore from her lips, half-surprise, half-excitement. He saw it in her eyes – the thrill of the bad boy’s attention, the danger.
"Shut up," he growled, his voice rough, stripped of its usual lazy charm. It was pure gravel, edged with desperation.
His other hand shoved her skirt up around her waist, fingers scrabbling against the thin lace of her panties. He didn’t bother peeling them down, just hooked his fingers into the side and ripped. The delicate fabric tore with a sharp sound. Penelope whimpered, but her hips arched instinctively towards him. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, fixed on his face.
He fumbled with his own belt buckle, the metal clinking loudly in the sterile silence. His cock was already painfully hard, straining against the confines of his trousers, thick and demanding. The image burned behind his eyes: Eve, flushed and furious in the hallway. Eve, thirteen years old, laughing as they climbed trees. Eve, eighteen and devastatingly beautiful walking into orientation a year ago, stealing his breath and his sanity in one fell swoop. He’d known instantly. Known he was poison. Known he’d ruin her. Known he had to push her away, hard and fast, before he did something unforgivable… like drag her down into his fucked-up world. But pushing her away hadn’t worked. He kept circling back, poking the bear, loving the fire in her eyes even as it scorched him, needing that spark, that connection, however toxic. And then he’d run, run to some nameless, faceless girl like Penelope, trying to fuck the memory out, trying to fuck the need out.
He freed himself, the thick length springing free, already slick at the tip. He didn’t touch her, didn’t prepare her. Didn’t care. This wasn’t about her pleasure. It was about exorcism. He gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into soft flesh, and lined himself up. Her wetness glistened at her entrance, a betrayal of her body’s response despite the roughness.
"Take it," he commanded, voice low and guttural. Not Penelope. He wasn’t talking to Penelope.
He drove into her with one brutal, punishing thrust. Deep. Too deep. Too fast. Penelope cried out, a sharp sound of shock and pain that echoed off the tiles. Her nails scraped against his shoulders through his shirt. He buried himself to the hilt, feeling her tight heat clamp around him, a vice grip that made him groan through clenched teeth. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t her.
He pulled back almost immediately, the drag exquisite and agonizing, then slammed forward again. And again. Setting a ruthless, pounding rhythm. The wet slap of his hips against her ass, the slick sounds of his cock plunging into her unprepared cunt, filled the small room. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, her head thudding back against the tile. Her cries became ragged gasps, mixed with low moans. She wrapped her legs around his waist, clinging, trying to meet his ferocity.
But Axel wasn’t seeing Penelope Chen. He was seeing Eve. Eve beneath him. Eve’s tight little body arching, not in pain, but in ecstasy. Eve’s sharp tongue silenced by moans meant only for him. Eve’s fiery eyes clouded with pleasure. He imagined her sweet pussy clenching around him, imagined her whispering his name, imagined burying his face between her legs and tasting her innocence turned to desperate hunger. The fantasy was vivid, torturous, inflaming him further even as it fueled his self-loathing. Unworthy. He was so fucking unworthy. But his cock didn’t care. It surged harder, impossibly thicker inside Penelope’s accommodating body.
"Fuck," he grunted, pistoning into her. His fingers dug deeper into her hip, his other hand braced against the wall beside her head. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickled down his temple. He fucked her like he was trying to break through something, trying to shatter the image burned onto his retinas. He fucked her with a desperation that tasted like ashes. Harder. Faster. The slap of skin grew louder, more obscene. Penelope’s moans escalated, turning breathy and high-pitched. She was close. He didn’t give a shit.
Evie. Evie. Evie. Her name was a drumbeat in his skull, syncing with the brutal rhythm of his hips. He pictured her biting her lip, her fingers tangled in his hair, her perfect tits bouncing as he hammered into her. The fantasy was sharper, more real than the girl gasping beneath him. It coiled the tension in his gut tighter, a white-hot wire ready to snap.
He felt Penelope convulse around him, her inner muscles fluttering wildly as her climax hit. Her cry was sharp, echoing. It barely registered. He was chasing his own release, chasing the fleeting promise of emptiness. He drove into her three more times, deep, grinding thrusts, burying himself as far as he could go. With a guttural roar that ripped from his chest – a sound of fury, frustration, and utter defeat – he came. Hard. Jets of thick cum pulsed deep inside her, a violent expulsion of everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t feel, couldn’t have.
He slumped forward, forehead resting against the cool tile beside Penelope’s head, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs like a bellows. The silence rushed back in, thick and cloying, broken only by their harsh breathing and the dripping of a faulty faucet in one of the sinks. The smell of sex, sweat, and Penelope’s perfume was suddenly overwhelming, nauseating.
Slowly, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was jarring. He tucked himself back into his trousers, fumbling with the button and zipper, avoiding looking at her. Penelope slid down the wall slightly, her legs shaky, her ripped panties dangling uselessly around one ankle. She pushed her skirt down, her movements slow, dazed. A faint flush stained her cheeks, but her eyes held a strange mix of satisfaction and wary confusion as she looked at him.
Axel straightened, running a shaky hand through his hair. He felt hollowed out. Gutted. But the image? Eve’s furious face, her accusing eyes? It was still there, etched behind his eyelids, clearer than ever. The phantom scent of vanilla cut through the stench of sex. The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened; it had deepened, a raw, gaping wound.
He turned without a word, without looking back at Penelope Chen. He pushed open the bathroom door, stepping back into the bright, indifferent hallway. The polished marble mocked him. The whispers of passing students were white noise. He’d tried to fuck her out of his system. Again. And again, he’d failed. The only thing scoured clean was his dignity. The obsession remained, a festering thing, more potent than ever. He needed a drink. He needed ten drinks. He needed something stronger than oblivion. Because oblivion, it seemed, was permanently out of reach. Eve Foster owned it. She owned him. And the vicious fucking cycle was just beginning again.