Chapter 1: Neon Lights and Hidden Desires
The bass thrummed through the floorboards, up through the soles of Grace's platform boots, and settled somewhere deep in her sternum. The house was a pressure cooker of bodies and noise, the kind of party that made the walls sweat. She loved it.
She tipped her plastic cup to her lips, letting the cheap vodka burn a path down her throat, and watched the chaos unfold around her. A couple was making out against the staircase banister, the guy's hand creeping dangerously high on the girl's thigh. Someone had spilled an entire bowl of neon-pink punch on the kitchen linoleum, and people were skating through it like it was a slip 'n' slide. The TV in the corner flickered with a game stream she'd recorded earlier that week—her own voice, tinny and distant, laughing as she headshotted some poor bastard on the other team.
"That's you, isn't it?" A guy with a patchy beard pointed at the screen, then at her. "You're that streamer chick."
Grace shrugged one shoulder, the motion making the lace of her top shift against her collarbone. "Guilty."
"No shit. My little sister watches you. She thinks you're hilarious."
"She has excellent taste." Grace raised her cup in a mock toast and turned away before he could ask for a selfie or, worse, her number.
She wasn't in the mood for fans tonight. She was in the mood for something else, something she couldn't quite name, a restless itch under her skin that had been building for weeks. Her last hookup had been three months ago—a philosophy major with soft hands and softer eyes who'd fucked her missionary-style and asked if she came. She'd lied and said yes, then blocked his number the next morning.
The fishnets she wore tonight were a deliberate choice, a small rebellion against the vanilla bullshit she kept stumbling into. The lace top was another. She wanted someone to look at her and see past the black hair and the tattoos and the bubbly streamer persona. She wanted someone to see the girl who fantasized about being pinned down, about cuffs biting into her wrists, about a hand around her throat that wasn't trying to hurt her, just hold her.
She wanted someone who wouldn't run when they found out.
Grace drained the rest of her drink and was about to go in search of a refill when she felt it.
A gaze. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and her pulse skip a beat.
She turned her head, scanning the crowded living room, and found him almost immediately. Tall. Blonde. Shoulders that looked like they could carry the weight of the world and then some. He was leaning against the far wall, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, and he was staring at her with an intensity that made her stomach clench.
She knew him. Not personally, but she'd seen him around campus. Jay something. He was in one of her art history lectures, always sitting in the back row, always surrounded by a rotating cast of gym bunnies and cheerleaders. She'd watched him once, during a particularly boring lecture on Renaissance portraiture, and thought he looked like a guy who could break a girl in half if he wasn't careful.
The thought had stayed with her longer than she wanted to admit.
He didn't look away when their eyes met. Most guys did. They got flustered, or they pretended they'd been looking at something else, or they gave her a nervous smile and a little wave. Jay just stared at her like he was trying to figure out a puzzle, his expression unreadable.
Grace felt her lips curve into a smile. She wasn't the type to get flustered, either.
She pushed off from the wall and started walking toward him. The crowd parted for her, or maybe she just moved through it like she owned it. A few people called her name, and she waved without looking away from him. She could feel his gaze tracking her, a physical weight that made her skin tingle.
By the time she reached him, her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her face was a mask of casual indifference.
"Staring is rude," she said, leaning against the wall next to him.
"Didn't mean to stare." His voice was deeper than she expected, a low rumble that she felt in her chest. "You just... caught my eye."
"Uh-huh." She took a sip of her empty cup and made a face. "You always this smooth, or am I special?"
Jay laughed, and the sound was warm, genuine. It surprised her. She'd expected him to be cocky, to throw some lame pickup line at her and wait for her to swoon. Instead, he looked almost... nervous.
"You're definitely special," he said. "But I'm not usually this smooth. Or this sober."
"Sober? At a party?" She raised an eyebrow. "What are you, a monk?"
"Designated driver." He held up his beer bottle. "This is my third, and it's been in my hand for two hours. It's basically room temperature piss at this point."
Grace wrinkled her nose. "Gross."
"Yeah." He set the bottle down on a nearby table and turned to face her fully. "So. You're the streamer, right? Grace?"
"You've done your homework."
"It's a small campus. And my buddy's girlfriend is obsessed with you." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes. "She says you're funny."
"I am funny." Grace tilted her head, studying him. Up close, he was even more impressive. The muscles in his arms were defined but not bulky, the kind of body that came from years of discipline, not just vanity. His jaw was sharp, his eyes a pale blue that seemed to catch the neon light from the TV screen. "But I have a feeling you didn't come over here to talk about my streaming career."
"I didn't come over here at all. You walked over to me."
"Semantics." She waved a hand. "You were staring. I got curious."
"Curious about what?"
"About why a guy like you is standing in a corner by himself instead of... I don't know." She gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where a group of girls were grinding to a song she didn't recognize. "Doing whatever it is guys like you do."
"Guys like me?"
"Tall. Blonde. Built like a brick shithouse." She let her gaze slide down his body deliberately, then back up to his face. "I've seen you around. You're always with a different girl."
Jay's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted. He straightened, and suddenly he seemed taller, closer. "You've been watching me?"
"Don't flatter yourself." But her cheeks were warm, and she knew he could see it. Damn her pale skin. "I just notice things."
"I bet you do." His voice had dropped, the playful edge replaced by something lower, rougher. "So what did you notice?"
Grace swallowed hard. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But she couldn't stop. There was something about him, something in the way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he could do to her, that made her want to push further, to see how far he'd go.
"I noticed," she said slowly, "that you always look like you're holding back."
Jay's jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn't say anything. The music pounded around them, the crowd surged and swayed, and Grace felt like they were the only two people in the room.
"Holding back," he repeated. "What makes you say that?"
"Just a feeling." She shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "You've got that look. Like there's something you want to do but you're not sure you're allowed."
"Maybe I'm just polite."
"Maybe." She met his eyes, and the air between them crackled. "Or maybe you're afraid of what would happen if you stopped being polite."
Jay stepped closer. There was barely an inch of space between them now, and she could smell him—something clean and sharp, like soap and cedar. Her breath caught in her throat.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his voice was rough, strained.
"Don't I?"
"I think you like to provoke people." His hand came up, hovering near her waist, not quite touching. "I think you say things to get a reaction."
"Is it working?"
"Yeah." His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she felt it like a physical touch. "It's working."
Grace's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. This was dangerous. This was exactly the kind of guy she needed to stay away from, the kind who could leave bruises on her body and scars on her heart. But she didn't want to stay away. She wanted to push him, to see what he'd do when she pushed back.
She reached out and closed the distance between them, pressing her palm flat against his chest. His heart was racing, matching hers beat for beat.
"You feel that?" she murmured. "That's not politeness."
Jay's hand finally settled on her waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of her top. He pulled her closer, and she let him, her body molding against his like they'd done this a hundred times before.
"You're playing with fire," he said, his voice low and rough.
"Maybe I like getting burned."
His grip tightened, and for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her, right there in the middle of the party, with everyone watching. She wanted him to. She wanted him to stop holding back, to stop being polite, to just take what he wanted.
But instead, he took a breath and stepped back, releasing her. His hands fell to his sides, and he looked at her with an expression that was equal parts frustration and hunger.
"You need a drink," he said. "And I need to not do something I'll regret."
"Who says you'd regret it?"
Jay shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You're trouble. I can tell."
"You have no idea."
"Maybe I want to find out."
Grace's stomach flipped. She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the movement, dark and intent.
"Then find out," she said.
Jay stared at her for a long moment. The music shifted, something slower and heavier, and the lights from the TV screen painted his face in shades of blue and green.
"Not here," he said finally. "Not like this."
"Where, then? When?"
"I don't know yet." He reached out and tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle. "But I have a feeling I'm going to see you again."
"You're damn right you will." She stepped back, forcing herself to put distance between them before she did something stupid, like drag him upstairs and let him do whatever he wanted. "I'm not done with you yet."
Jay's smile widened, and for the first time, she saw a flash of the cocky bastard she'd expected. "Is that a promise?"
"It's a threat."
He laughed, and the sound sent a shiver down her spine. "I'll be seeing you, Grace."
"Count on it."
She turned and walked away, her legs a little shaky, her pulse still racing. She didn't look back, but she felt his gaze on her the whole way, burning through the crowd like a laser.
She found her friends in the kitchen, a cluster of art majors who were passing around a joint and arguing about whether Rothko was overrated. Grace grabbed a fresh cup of vodka and tried to focus on their conversation, but her mind kept drifting back to him, to the weight of his hand on her waist, to the way he'd looked at her like he wanted to devour her.
She took a long drink, letting the alcohol numb the edge of her arousal. She'd meant what she said. She wasn't done with him, not by a long shot. But she needed to be careful. Guys like Jay didn't stick around. They took what they wanted and moved on, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind them.
And yet, as she leaned against the kitchen counter and laughed at something her friend said, she couldn't shake the feeling that this time might be different. That maybe, just maybe, Jay was holding back for the same reason she was.
Because he knew, somehow, that they were both playing the same dangerous game.
She looked down at her cup, at the cheap vodka swirling inside, and made a decision. She was going to find him again before the night was over. Not to hook up. Not to flirt. Just to talk. To see if the hunger in his eyes matched the one in hers.
To find out if he was brave enough to stop holding back.
The party surged around her, a neon-lit labyrinth of laughter and sweat, and Grace let herself be carried by it, her heart still pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with the boy with the pale blue eyes.
She couldn't wait to see what happened next.
Grace found Chloe and Marcus in the kitchen, huddled near the fridge like they were plotting a coup. Chloe was nursing a wine cooler and looking judgmental, which was her default state at parties. Marcus was trying to roll a joint on a cutting board covered in someone's abandoned pizza crusts.
"There you are," Chloe said, her eyes narrowing. "I saw you talking to Jay Mitchell."
Grace grabbed a beer from the cooler at her feet and twisted the cap off. "So?"
"So? He's trouble. Like, capital T trouble. I've heard things."
"What kind of things?"
Marcus snorted without looking up from his joint. "The kind of things that make girls walk funny for a week."
Chloe smacked his arm. "Shut up. I'm being serious." She turned back to Grace, her expression softening into something that looked uncomfortably like concern. "He's got a reputation, babe. And not a good one."
Grace took a long pull from her beer. The carbonation bit at her tongue, and she welcomed the distraction. "I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."
"That's what they all say."
"Who's 'they'?"
Chloe opened her mouth, then closed it. She didn't have an answer, and they both knew it.
Grace leaned against the counter, letting the cold of the beer seep into her palm. She should have been listening to Chloe's warnings, should have been filing away the red flags like a responsible adult. But her mind kept drifting back to the hallway, to the way Jay's hand had felt on her waist, the way his voice had dropped when he told her she was trouble.
She wanted to be trouble. She wanted him to find out exactly how much.
"You're not listening to me," Chloe said.
"I'm listening. I just don't care."
"Grace—"
"I'm going to get some air." She set her beer down and pushed off from the counter. "I'll be back."
She didn't wait for a response. She slipped through the crowd, past the couple still making out on the stairs, past the group of guys doing beer bongs in the hallway, past the girl crying in the corner because someone spilled a drink on her white dress.
The house was a maze, and she navigated it on instinct, turning down a corridor she hadn't noticed before. It was quieter here, the music muffled by walls and distance. The lights were dimmer too, just a single bulb flickering overhead.
She exhaled, letting the tension bleed out of her shoulders. This was better. This was—
A hand closed around her wrist.
She spun, her heart lurching into her throat, and found herself face-to-face with Jay. His eyes were darker than they'd been before, the pale blue almost swallowed by pupil. He didn't say anything. He just backed her against the wall, his body a wall of heat and muscle, and pinned her there with his hips.
"Following me?" Her voice came out breathless, betraying her.
"Looking for you." His hand slid from her wrist to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A promise. "Couldn't stop thinking about what you said."
"What did I say?"
"You said I was holding back." He leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "You were right."
Grace's knees went weak. She gripped the front of his shirt, her fingers twisting in the fabric, and tried to remember how to breathe. "So what are you going to do about it?"
Jay pulled back just enough to look at her. His gaze raked over her body, lingering on the lace of her top, the curve of her hips, the fishnets that made her legs look like they belonged in a magazine. She felt exposed, stripped down, like he could see every filthy thought running through her head.
"Depends," he said. "You want me to be myself?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Grace knew what he was asking. She could say no, could laugh it off and walk away, could pretend she didn't know exactly what he meant. But she was tired of pretending. She was tired of vanilla hookups and soft touches and guys who didn't understand that sometimes she wanted to be used.
She nodded.
Jay's smile was slow and sharp, a predator who'd just been given permission to hunt. He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and pushed open a door she hadn't noticed. A bathroom. Small, cramped, the light from the hallway spilling in just enough to illuminate the sink and the toilet.
He pulled her inside and shut the door, plunging them into near-darkness. The only light came from beneath the crack, a thin sliver of yellow that painted his face in shadows.
Then his hand was back on her throat, pressing her against the door, and she gasped.
"You want me to be myself?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "You sure about that?"
"Yes." The word came out as a whisper, needy and raw.
"Good."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a claiming, his mouth hard and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers like he was trying to devour her. Grace moaned into the kiss, her hands flying up to his shoulders, her nails digging into the cotton of his shirt.
His free hand roamed down her body, over her waist, over her hip, and then up under her skirt. He gripped her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and she whimpered against his lips.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
She should have been embarrassed. Anyone could walk by, could hear them through the thin walls, could know exactly what was happening in this tiny bathroom. But she didn't care. All she cared about was the weight of his hand on her throat, the heat of his body against hers, the way he kissed her like he'd been starving for her.
Her hands slid down his chest, exploring the hard planes of his muscles through his shirt. He was built like a god, every inch of him solid and strong, and she wanted to touch all of it, to memorize the shape of him with her fingers.
Jay broke the kiss, his mouth moving to her neck. He sucked at the skin just below her ear, hard enough to leave a mark, and she gasped.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You like being marked?"
"God, yes."
He laughed, low and dark. "Such a good little slut."
The words should have offended her. Instead, they sent a jolt of heat straight to her core. She was soaked, her panties clinging to her skin, and she knew he could feel it when his hand slid from her ass to the front of her thighs.
His fingers found her through the thin cotton of her panties, pressing against her clit, and she cried out.
"Shh." He clapped a hand over her mouth, his palm hot and rough against her lips. "You don't want everyone to hear, do you?"
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
"Then be quiet."
He didn't move his hand. He kept it there, muffling her sounds, as his other hand pushed her panties aside and slid two fingers inside her.
Grace's eyes rolled back. She whimpered into his palm, her hips bucking against his hand, and he groaned against her neck.
"Fuck, you're wet." His fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her see stars. "Is this what you wanted? To be finger-fucked in a bathroom by a guy you just met?"
She nodded frantically, her hands gripping his wrist, not to pull him away but to hold him there.
"You're a filthy girl, aren't you?"
Another nod.
"My filthy girl."
He pumped his fingers faster, his thumb circling her clit, and Grace felt the pressure building in her core, a wave that was about to crash. She was so close, so fucking close—
And then he stopped.
She made a sound of protest, muffled by his hand, and he pulled his fingers out of her. She could feel them, slick with her arousal, trailing up her stomach, leaving a wet path on her skin.
"Not yet," he said. "You don't get to come until I say so."
Grace wanted to argue, wanted to beg, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold. He was in control. He was always going to be in control. And she loved it.
"Please," she whispered against his palm.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
Jay smiled, slow and cruel, and shook his head. "Not yet. I want to make you wait. I want to make you ache."
He pulled his hand away from her mouth, and she gasped, sucking in air. Her body was trembling, her legs barely holding her up.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I want to see how badly you want it." He leaned in, his lips brushing hers. "And when I finally let you come, I want it to be the best orgasm of your life."
Grace stared at him, her chest heaving. She'd never met anyone like him. She'd never wanted anyone like this.
"You're insane," she said.
"Probably." He shrugged. "But you're still here."
She was. She was still here, pressed against a bathroom door, her skirt around her waist and her panties soaked, and she wasn't going anywhere.
Not until he gave her what she wanted.