Chapter 1: Neon Sins & Stolen Moans
The air on the rooftop was cool and carried the scent of impending rain, a sharp contrast to the warm, whiskey-tinged warmth of the bar. Lucas Friar tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling out of place amidst the sleek glass and the low hum of curated conversations. He’d come to meet a colleague, who’d bailed, and now he was nursing a costly scotch alone, watching the city pulse below.
That’s when he saw her.
Ava Matthews was slumped over the polished zinc bar, her laugh a too-loud, sparkling thing that cut through the murmur. Her dress was a slip of dark fabric, and it had ridden up her thighs, revealing a stretch of smooth skin. Some guy in a pretentious suede jacket was leaning into her space, his mouth close to her ear, his hand resting too high on her back.
Lucas was moving before he fully processed it. “Ava.”
She turned, her eyes unfocused but bright. “Lucas?” Her smile was wide and genuine, then wobbled. “Holy shit. You look… grown up.”
“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice low. He leveled a look at Suede Jacket, who held up his hands in mock surrender and melted back into the crowd.
“I’m celebrat… celebrating,” she enunciated carefully, trying to sit up straight. The movement made her dress slip another dangerous inch. “Legal adulthood. It’s… expansive.”
“It’s a Tuesday night, Ava. Where’s Riley? Where are your friends?”
“Riley thinks I’m at a study group.” She giggled, a soft, private sound. “My friends are boring. They wanted to go to a frat party. I wanted…” She gestured vaguely at the neon skyline. “Atmosphere.”
Lucas sighed, the weight of his long-standing, complicated loyalty to her older sister settling on his shoulders. He couldn’t leave her here. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”
“Not to Riley’s,” she slurred, a sudden sharpness in her tone. “I can’t… not like this. She’ll do that disappointed head-tilt thing all night.”
He knew that head-tilt. He’d been on the receiving end of it himself, years ago. “Fine. My place is close. You can sober up and I’ll call you an Uber.”
Getting her down in the elevator was an ordeal. She leaned into him, her body soft and pliant against his, the scent of her perfume—something with vanilla and bergamot—mixing with the alcohol on her breath. Her hair brushed his chin. He kept his hands firmly on her shoulders, a respectful distance from the places his mind kept wandering.
His apartment was quiet, dim, a stark contrast to the electric buzz of the rooftop. He flipped on a single lamp. “Sit. I’ll get you water.”
When he returned from the kitchen, she wasn’t on the couch. She was standing in the middle of his living room, kicking off her heels. The city light from his window outlined her figure through the thin fabric of her dress.
“Ava, water.”
She took the glass, drank, and set it down on a bookshelf with a decisive clink. Her eyes, clearer now but burning with an intensity that sobered him more than any coffee ever could, locked onto his.
Then she was on him.
Her mouth found his with a desperate, clumsy heat. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. One hand fisted in his hair, the other clawed at the buttons of his shirt. A sharp, bright pain flared where her nails scraped down his chest.
He grabbed her wrists, breaking the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Ava, stop. You’re drunk. This is–”
“I’m not that drunk,” she hissed, her voice a raw whisper. “And I’m so fucking tired of being good. Of being Riley’s little sister. Of being the smart one who follows the rules.” She pushed against his grip, grinding her hips against his thigh. He could feel the damp heat of her through both their clothes, a shocking, undeniable truth. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this. I felt you in the elevator.”
He was hard. Achingly so. And she knew it.
Every rational argument–Riley, the age gap, her intoxication–dissolved under the sheer physical force of her. With a groan that was part surrender, part defeat, he let go of her wrists.
“Fuck being good,” she breathed against his lips, and then she was moving down his body.
Her hands went to his belt, her movements surprisingly deft. The buckle opened, the zipper rasped down. She pushed his trousers and boxer briefs over his hips, and his cock sprung free, fully erect.
She didn’t hesitate. She looked up at him, her dark eyes holding his for a searing second, and then she took him into her mouth.
The heat was instant, overwhelming. Her tongue swirled around the head, tasting him, before she sank down, taking him deeper. She moaned, and the vibration traveled straight through his core. One of her hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently, while the other worked the base of his shaft.
“Jesus Christ, Ava,” he choked out, his hands tangling in her hair. He didn’t push, just held on as her head began to bob, her rhythm eager and unpolished and utterly devastating. She’d pull back until just the tip was between her lips, sucking hard, then plunge down again, her nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. She gagged once, lightly, and pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her swollen lips to him.
“You taste so good,” she murmured, husky and direct, before diving back down. This time she took him all the way, her throat opening to accept him until he felt her nose press into his skin again. She held it, her eyes watering, then pulled back, gasping for air.
It was too much. The sight, the feel, the illicit, screaming wrongness of it. He pulled her up by her arms, his kiss now claiming, hungry. He walked her backwards until her knees hit the edge of his couch and they tumbled down onto it.
He was on top of her, his weight pinning her into the cushions. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing the skirt of her dress up around her waist. The plain black cotton of her panties was soaked through, a dark patch of evidence. He rubbed his palm over the fabric, feeling her heat, and she arched against him with a sharp cry.
“Lucas, please…”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband and tugged, pulling them down her legs in one rough motion. He didn’t bother with finesse. Positioning himself between her thighs, he guided himself to her entrance. She was slick, ready. He looked down at her face, flushed and fierce, her lips parted.
“Last chance to be good,” he growled, the words barely recognizable as his own.
Her answer was to hook her leg around his hip and pull him into her.
She was tight, impossibly so, and hot, and wet. He sank into her with a single, slow, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She gasped, a sound of shock and pleasure, her nails digging into his biceps. For a moment, he didn’t move, just let them both feel the full, shocking reality of their connection.
Then he began to move.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her deeper into the couch. The frame squeaked in protest, a mundane sound against their ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. He fucked her with a desperate intensity, all his pent-up frustration and confusion and sheer, wild want pouring into this one act. She met every thrust, her hips rising to meet his, her moans growing louder, filthier.
“Oh god, right there, don’t stop, fuck, Lucas…”
Her words ignited him. He drove into her harder, faster. One of his hands slid between them, his thumb finding her clit. She screamed, her body bowing off the couch, her inner walls clenching around him like a fist.
It shattered his control. His thrusts became erratic, primal. With a final, deep plunge, he came, roaring her name into the curve of her neck as his release pulsed into her in hot, endless waves. She followed him over the edge a second later, her own climax rippling through her, milking him until he was spent, collapsed on top of her.
The only sounds were their heaving breaths and the distant wail of a siren several stories below. The neon from the window painted a lurid stripe across their tangled, sweaty limbs.
Lucas’s mind, blank and buzzing with pleasure just seconds before, began to spin back into horrified, razor-sharp focus. He was inside Riley Matthews’ little sister. He wasn’t wearing a condom. She was nineteen.
He rolled off her, the sudden separation feeling like a physical wound. The damp, spent air of the room grew cold on his skin.
Ava lay beside him, catching her breath, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. She reached out and traced a line through the sweat on his chest.
He caught her hand, stilling it. His voice, when it came, was hollow. “Ava.”
“Mmm?”
“We can’t… This can’t happen again.”
Her smile faded. She propped herself up on one elbow, the city light glinting in her eyes, which now looked utterly sober and clear.
“Why not?”
Before he could formulate an answer—before he could even begin to list the catastrophic reasons—his phone buzzed on the floor, skittering across the hardwood. The screen lit up, illuminating the dim room.
The caller ID read: RILEY.