Chapter 1: The Text That Lit the Fuse
The cards were shit. Shawn stared at the seven and three of mismatched suits in his hand, then at the growing pile of cash in the center of the coffee table. The neon glow from the streetlamp outside cut through the haze of cigarette smoke, painting everyone’s faces in sickly green and orange.
“I’m out,” he said, tossing his cards face-down. “You animals are bleeding me dry.”
Leo, across the table, cackled and scooped the pot toward him. “It’s not our fault you bluff like a kid sneaking cookies.”
The hum of conversation and the soft shush-shush of the cards being shuffled filled the room. Shawn took a long pull from his beer, the bottle warm now, and let his gaze wander. The apartment was a familiar disaster—empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, the faint scent of weed and cheap cologne. His knee jiggled under the table, a restless energy with no outlet.
Then he felt it. A pressure, subtle at first, against his calf. He shifted, thinking he’d bumped the table leg. It came again. Slower this time. A deliberate slide of something soft and warm up the denim of his jeans.
He looked down, then followed the line—past the edge of the table, over a sleek black boot, along a tight-clad leg—until he met Reagan’s eyes. She was curled into the corner of the sofa, technically part of the game but having folded ages ago. She held a bottle of whiskey by the neck, her other arm draped along the back cushions. Her expression was pure, unadulterated mischief.
She didn’t look away. Just held his stare and increased the pressure of her foot, her toes flexing against his muscle.
His phone buzzed against the wood, screen lighting face-up.
A text notification. From Reagan.
He flicked his eyes to it, then back to her. Her smirk deepened. She took a slow sip of whiskey, her throat working. He reached for the phone, his fingers leaving a damp print on the glass.
The message was four words.
I’m bored of cards.
Heat, sudden and unmistakable, flushed through him, burning hotter than the whiskey ever could. It climbed his neck, prickled under his collar. He read the words again, his brain stuttering over their direct, unmistakable meaning.
Another buzz. Another message.
Your place is across the hall. Tell me it’s less of a pit than this one.
He typed, his thumbs clumsy. Depends on your definition of ‘pit.’
Her foot slid higher, to the back of his knee. He could feel every point of contact through the fabric.
I have a very flexible definition, she replied.
The dealer, Mark, was talking. “You in, Shawn? Earth to Shawn.”
“Uh. Yeah. Deal me out. I mean, in. Deal me in.” He fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and tossed it on the table without looking. His entire awareness was a narrow tunnel running from Reagan’s piercing green eyes down to her foot, which was now tracing a slow circle on his thigh.
Leo snorted. “Dude, pay attention. You just called a forty-dollar blind with a twenty.”
“Right. Sorry.” He fished out another bill. The game blurred into background noise. The clink of chips, the rustle of cards, Mark’s monotone voice calling the bets—all of it muffled, distant. Reagan’s text thread was a live wire in his hand.
She was watching him, one eyebrow arched. Challenging him. A loose strand of her fiery hair curled against her cheekbone, catching the ugly neon light and turning it into something beautiful. The tattoos on her forearm seemed to shift as she rotated the whiskey bottle.
His phone buzged again.
Or we could just stay here. See how long it takes them to notice my foot in your lap.
A jolt shot through him, equal parts panic and pure desire. He shifted in his chair, trying to discreetly adjust himself. He typed back, his heart hammering against his ribs.
They’d never notice. Leo’s counting his imaginary winnings.
True. But I’m getting impatient.
He watched her read the message. She didn’t smile. Her expression turned intent, focused. She placed her whiskey bottle carefully on the floor. Then, in one fluid motion, she uncurled from the sofa and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. The hem of her shirt rode up, revealing a flash of smooth skin and the lower edge of a tattoo. Every male eye at the table flicked toward her for a second before snapping guiltily back to their cards.
“I’m tapped out,” she announced, her voice cutting through the room’s murmur. “Gonna get some air.”
She didn’t look at Shawn as she walked toward the apartment’s front door. She just let her hand trail across the back of his chair as she passed. The scent of her—whiskey, cigarettes, and something sweet like vanilla—wrapped around him.
Five seconds. He gave it five seconds of staring blankly at his new, equally shitty hand.
“Fold,” he said, standing up so fast his chair scraped back loudly.
“What? Dude, it hasn’t even come around to you yet,” Mark said.
“I know. I fold preemptively. Against the universe.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the shape of his keys. “I’m done too. Late night tomorrow.”
Leo’s knowing grin was the last thing he saw before he turned and walked out, pulling the apartment door shut behind him on a chorus of heckles.
The hallway was cold, quiet, and dimly lit. The burnt-carpet smell was a relief after the smoky apartment. Reagan was leaning against the wall next to the stairwell door, exactly opposite his own apartment. She’d been waiting. Maybe six feet separated them.
She pushed off the wall and closed the distance slowly, her boots silent on the industrial carpet. She stopped a foot in front of him, looking up. Her eyes were very green.
“So?” she said.
“So,” he echoed. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.
“Is it less of a pit?”
“Marginally.”
“Good enough.”
She reached past him, her arm brushing his chest, and took his keys from his loose grip. She found the right one, slotted it into the deadbolt of his door. The click was unnaturally loud in the silent hall.
She pushed the door open, a dark rectangle leading into his private space. He followed her in, flicking the light switch as he passed. A single floor lamp in the corner sputtered on, casting long shadows across the admittedly messy room—a video game controller on the couch, a laptop on the coffee table, a stack of clean laundry in a basket he’d never put away.
Reagan didn’t seem to notice the mess. She turned to face him, leaning back against the arm of his sofa, and finally let the smirk fully form on her lips. “No roommates?”
“Not for six months,” he said, locking the door behind him. The final thunk of the bolt seemed to seal them in, away from the world.
“Perfect.”
She moved then, not towards him, but further into his space. She picked up a framed photo from his bookshelf—a shot of him and his brother snowboarding. She ran a finger over a small abstract sculpture he’d bought at a flea market. She was assessing, cataloging. Claiming the territory without touching him.
The tension coiled tighter. It was in the quiet, in the space between her deliberate movements. It was in the way she finally turned, her gaze landing on him with a physical weight.
“You know,” she said, her voice a low hum, “most guys would have made a move after that first text.”
“I’m not most guys,” he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
“I’m starting to see that.” She took a step closer. Then another. “It’s interesting.”
She was right in front of him now. He could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the precise line of black eyeliner. The scent of her was everywhere.
He didn’t know who moved first. Later, he’d swear it was mutual. The space between them vanished. His hand found the curve of her waist, fingers spreading over the soft cotton of her shirt. Her hands came up, one tangling in the hair at the back of his head, the other pressed flat against his chest, right over his pounding heart.
The kiss wasn’t soft or exploratory. It was a collision. Her mouth was hot and tasted like whiskey and rebellion. She kissed him like she was proving a point, like she was trying to consume him. He matched her, intensity for intensity, his other arm wrapping around her back to pull her flush against him. The world narrowed to the press of her body, the slide of her tongue against his, the sharp little gasp she made when he bit her lower lip.
She broke the kiss, her breathing ragged. Her green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “The bedroom,” she said, the words a command, not a question. “Or the couch. I don’t actually care.”
He didn’t answer with words. He just grabbed her hand and dragged her down the short hall, pushing open his bedroom door. As they crossed the threshold, tangled together, her laughter was a low, thrilling sound in the dark, and the only thought in his head was a simple, stunning realization: Nothing about tonight is going to be simple.
The door clicked shut, sealing them into the near-dark of his bedroom. The only light spilled in from the living room, cutting a sharp diagonal across the rumpled comforter and painting Reagan in stark relief. Her back was against the door, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by something hungrier, more intent.
She didn’t wait. Her fingers went to the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one swift motion. It fell to the floor without a sound. Then her hands went to the button of her jeans, shoving them down her hips along with her underwear. She stepped out of the pile, utterly unselfconscious, a pale curve of skin and flame-colored hair in the dim light.
“You’re overdressed,” she said, her voice a scrape of gravel.
Shawn’s hands fumbled at his own clothes, his fingers suddenly thick and clumsy. He got his shirt off, toes his shoes, pushed his jeans and boxers down. The air was cool on his skin, but he was burning up from the inside.
Before he could move or speak, Reagan closed the distance between them. She dropped to her knees on the carpet.
Her hand was on him, guiding him to her mouth. There was no tentative exploration. She took him in, deep, her tongue flat and deliberate. A rough, shuddering sound escaped him. His hands found her head, fingers threading into the wild silk of her hair. She set a ruthless rhythm, all confidence and demand, her green eyes locked on his, watching every flinch, every uncontrolled twitch of his muscles.
Just when he felt the tightening coil in his gut, the warning signal, she pulled off with a wet, soft pop. She looked up at him, her lips swollen and gleaming.
“Not yet,” she whispered, her voice dark with promise. She kissed the inside of his thigh, her breath hot. “I’ll be good. I’ll be your little butt slut, Shawn. Just tell me what you want.”
The words shot through him, electric and obscene. He could only stare down at her, at the beautiful, fearless havoc kneeling before him.
“I want to taste you,” he managed, the words torn from somewhere primal.
A slow smile spread across her face. She rose, turning, bracing her hands against the foot of the bed. “Then taste.”
He knelt behind her. The scent of her was overwhelming. He pressed his mouth against her, licking a slow, broad stripe. She arched her back with a sharp gasp. He did it again, then focused, his tongue seeking tighter, hotter ground. He rimmed her asshole, firm and deliberate, and she cried out, a broken sound that tightened every muscle in his body. He buried his tongue as deep as he could, and her whole body trembled.
“Enough,” she gasped, twisting around. She grabbed his face in both hands, pulling him up. “Kiss me. Let me taste it.”
He kissed her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth. She moaned, a low, vibrating sound of pleasure, and kissed him back ferociously, claiming her own taste from his lips.
She broke the kiss, her forehead resting against his, their breath mingling in ragged pants. Her lips moved against his ear, her whisper a hot brand.
“I want to feel you. Your big cock. In my ass. Right now.”
He fumbled for the nightstand drawer, finding the condom, tearing the packet. She watched him roll it on, her eyes hooded. She guided him, her hand steady around his base, positioning him at her tight, forbidden entrance.
He pushed in slowly, a fractional, burning inch. The sound she made was half pain, half triumph. He went slower, feeling her body resist then relent, accept, envelop him. He was fully sheathed, buried deep, both of them frozen, panting.
“Fuck me,” she breathed, the words a command.
He began to move, a shallow, careful rhythm. She pushed back against him, taking him deeper.
“Harder,” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Don’t be gentle. Fuck my ass hard. Claim it.”
He obeyed. His thrusts became longer, deeper, driven by a need that obliterated thought. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, of her ragged cries and his guttural groans. Her fingers clawed at the comforter.
“Yes,” she chanted. “Yes, just like that. Your slut. Your ass. All yours.”
The crude, desperate words fueled him. He drove into her, losing all rhythm, everything dissolving into pure, frantic sensation. The world narrowed to the fierce heat gripping him, to her choked pleas.
“Come on,” she begged, her voice shattered. “Do it. Fill me up. Come in my ass.”
It broke him. A roar tore from his throat as he slammed into her one final, searing time, his vision whiting out as he spilled into the condom. He collapsed over her back, spent, his heart hammering against her spine.
For a long moment, the only sound was their heaving breaths. Then, she shifted slightly beneath him.
Her voice, when it came, was soft, almost wondering. “Well,” she said. “That was a hell of a hand you folded on.”