Chapter 28: The Taste of Forgotten Sparks
The water was a shock of pure, bone-aching cold. Briana gasped as it climbed past her knees, the rocky bottom slick beneath her feet. “Still takes your breath away, doesn’t it?” Jake’s voice was close behind her, a warm vibration in the chilled air.
His hands found her waist, steadying her as she wobbled on a moss-slick stone. His touch was both familiar and electrically new, a contrast to the water’s embrace. “I remember you yelling that the fish were gonna nibble your toes,” she said, her own voice unsteady.
He laughed, a short, warm puff against her ear. “You said the same thing.” His thumbs brushed the worn denim at her hips, a ghost of the touch from the night before. The sun beat down on her shoulders, but a deeper chill was setting in.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered, and it wasn’t just about the water. She turned within the circle of his arms, their faces inches apart. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the quarry’s silence became a roaring in her ears.
“Bree.” Her name was a question. She could feel the beat of his heart where their damp clothes pressed together. The memory of the kiss, the desperate chaos of it, hung between them.
“This is a bad idea,” she said, but she didn’t move away. “Probably.” He leaned his forehead against hers, a gesture so painfully sweet it made her chest ache. “But we’re already in the deep end.”
A shout of laughter echoed from across the quarry, shattering the moment. They sprang apart, the spell broken by the mundane reality of other people. Briana stumbled back, the water now feeling acutely, painfully cold.
“We should go,” she said, wading toward the shore with clumsy strides. He followed, silent. The ride back was filled with a radio song neither of them listened to.
At the house, the silence felt different, charged and fragile. She stood in the hallway, water pooling at her feet from her soaked cutoff shorts. “I should pack,” she said, not looking at him.
“Right.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Bus is early.” She nodded and escaped upstairs, closing the guest room door behind her. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, a silent accusation.
She lifted a folded sweater, then simply sat on the edge of the mattress, listening to the quiet house below. A floorboard creaked outside her door, then the soft sound of his footsteps retreating. She picked up her silent phone, its dark screen showing only her reflection—a girl caught between two worlds, neither of which felt entirely her own.jak
The screen remained dark, a slab of obsidian showing her own troubled expression. The chamomile burn, the quarry’s chill, the memory of his desperate kiss—it all clung to her skin like a film. She needed it gone.
She peeled the damp, gritty cutoffs from her legs, the denim heavy with quarry water. Her shirt followed, smelling of lake and wildflowers and something else, something like regret. The silent house watched her cross the hall to the bathroom.
The tiles were cool under her feet. She turned the knob, and the shower head coughed to life with a metallic shudder. Steam began to fog the mirror, erasing the reflection she no longer wanted to see.
Briana stepped in, closing the glass door behind her. The hot water hit her shoulders first, a scalding contrast to the quarry’s embrace. She let it pound down her back, washing away the lake and the feel of his hands on her hips.d
She let it pound down her back, washing away the lake and the feel of his hands on her hips. But the phantom pressure of his mouth on hers remained, a brand beneath her skin no water could reach. She dressed in soft, clean clothes, the cotton a balm.
Downstairs, the empty kitchen demanded a purpose. She opened the fridge, its light revealing the familiar chaos of Judy’s groceries. “I’m making pasta,” she announced to the quiet house, her voice firm against the silence.
Jake appeared in the doorway, watching her gather garlic and an onion. “You don’t have to do that.” “I want to,” she said, and it was true. The simple, methodical work of cooking anchored her.
The sizzle of garlic in olive oil filled the room with a warm, immediate scent. She moved with a focused rhythm, chopping parsley, stirring the simmering tomatoes. Each action was a quiet defiance of the chaos humming inside her.
Every few moments, her mind replayed the quarry. The cold water, his warm chest, the sheer want in his voice. Her body thrummed with the echo of it, a low, insistent current beneath her hands.
“Smells amazing,” Jake said, setting the table without being asked. It felt domestic and dangerous, this easy collaboration. She plated the food, steam rising between them.
They ate at the cleared kitchen table, the only sounds the clink of forks and the low hum of the evening news on the old TV. The pasta was good, rich and garlicky. “This is perfect,” he said, and she knew he wasn’t just talking about the food.
She nodded, twirling spaghetti around her fork. The kiss felt amazing, a secret truth she held on her tongue instead of speaking. Her phone, still on Do Not Disturb, vibrated once against the dresser upstairs, a distant, ignored tremor.
They cleaned the kitchen in a wordless, efficient tandem, the scrape of plates the only conversation. The living room couch exhaled a puff of dusty air as they settled onto opposite ends. “Anything’s fine,” Briana said, tucking her feet beneath her as he scrolled through options.
The blue light of the screen painted his profile, highlighting the concentrated dip between his brows. He chose an old heist movie, something loud and full of predictable motion. The opening chase scene roared to life, a burst of sound that fractured the house’s deep quiet.
As the plot settled into a mundane stakeout, the adrenaline from the day began to seep away. The warmth of the pasta, the familiar couch, the meaningless dialogue on screen—it all coalesced into a thick, comfortable haze. She felt her body leaning, gravitating toward the solid, warm presence beside her.
Soon, her shoulder was pressed against his arm, the worn cotton of his sleeve soft against her skin. He didn’t move, didn’t tense, just let the contact happen. She slid down slightly, her head finding a resting place against him, her curls spilling over his shoulder.
The atmosphere was great after the food, a cozy, shared inertia. Briana huddled next to Jake, pulling the old quilt from the back of the couch over both their legs. His arm came around her then, his hand resting on her far shoulder, his thumb absently stroking the seam of her shirt.
She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, a rhythm that slowly synced with her own. On screen, cars screeched and glass shattered, but the sound felt muffled, far away. The phantom taste of chamomile was finally gone, replaced by the safe, simple scent of fabric softener and him.
This, she thought, was its own kind of deep end. His thumb stilled, then curled gently, his fingers tightening just once against her arm.Ja
The credits began to roll, casting moving shadows across their stillness. The room dimmed further as the screen went black, plunging them into a silence that was heavier than before. He didn’t move his arm.
“The guest room bed squeaks,” he said, his voice low in the dark. “Like, really loud.” He wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed on the blank television.
Briana knew this was about more than noise. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to his calm, steady breathing. The quilt suddenly felt stifling.
“So does yours,” she whispered, recalling the sound from the night before. He finally turned his head, his face so close she could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “You want to just… sleep in mine tonight?” The question hung there, simple and profoundly complicated. It wasn’t about the quarry’s reckless heat.
This was about the quiet. She thought of her silent phone upstairs, of Lilly’s warnings, of Kisha’s venomous whisper by the sink. Then she thought of the deep, anchoring peace of his arm around her just now.
“Yes,” she said. The word was quiet, but absolute.hey
They stood up from the couch, the quilt pooling at their feet. The walk down the dark hallway felt longer than before, each creak of the floorboards a punctuation mark. He pushed his bedroom door open, the air inside still and warm.
He went to his old stereo, a clunky thing from high school. “Mind if I…?” he asked, already plugging his phone in. She shook her head, no, she didn’t mind.
JAKE PUT ON BRIANA’S FAVORITE R&B PLAYLIST. A slow, familiar bassline filled the room, smooth vocals weaving between the beat. IT FELT PERFECT.
The music was a tangible thing, softening the room’s sharp edges. It was the same mix she listened to while studying, miles away in her dorm. Here, now, it felt like a bridge between those two lives.
He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand over the back of his neck. “This is still my favorite,” she said, nodding toward the speaker as a particular song swelled. “I know,” he said, and the simple admission held everything.
The charged silence from the living room was gone, replaced by a shared, breathable atmosphere. She joined him on the bed, not touching yet, just listening. The singer’s voice asked a question about love and timing, the lyrics suddenly, painfully apt.
He leaned back against the headboard, and she mirrored him, their shoulders now brushing. The phantom chamomile was a distant memory, drowned out by the melody. Her body finally began to unclench, the music doing what the shower could not.
She closed her eyes, just for a second, letting the harmony wash over her. When she opened them, he was looking at her, his expression softer now. The playlist moved to the next track, another deep cut she loved.
For the first time all day, Briana stopped counting the hours until the bus.
For the first time all day, Briana stopped counting the hours until the bus. The music was a current pulling her under, and his shoulder was a solid shore. He shifted beside her, the mattress groaning softly.
“Briana.” He said her full name, and it sounded like a confession. He turned his head on the headboard, his eyes dark in the low light. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
The words hung in the space between them, simple and utterly devastating. The chamomile ghost was just a memory; this was a new, present fire. She didn’t answer with words.
She turned her body toward his and closed the distance herself. Her mouth met his with a softness that quickly fractured. He made a low, hungry sound in his throat, his hands coming up to frame her face.
This kiss wasn’t like the desperate collision in the hallway. It was deeper, a slow, searching conquest. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of mint and the red wine from dinner.
Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed against her damp skin, his hands sliding down to the hem of her top.
She arched into him, a silent answer. He peeled the soft cotton over her head, his mouth finding the lace cup of her bra. He sucked her nipple through the fabric, the wet heat making her gasp.
“Fuck, Jake,” she whispered, her head falling back. His hands were at the button of her jeans, deft and urgent. He pushed them down her hips, his rough palms sliding over her thighs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he muttered, his gaze raking over her caramel skin in the dim light. He shed his own clothes quickly, and then his naked body was against hers, skin to skin. He was hard, his cock pressing insistently against her stomach.
Briana
His skin was fever-hot against hers, a startling contrast to the quarry’s chill still living in her memory. “Wait,” she breathed, her hands pressing against his chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heart. The music swam around them, that same R&B beat now underscoring a different, more primal rhythm.
She looked up at him, his face etched with a raw want she’d only ever imagined. “Jake, I am ready for penetration but can we do everything else?” The words felt clumsy and clinical in her mouth, but they were the only anchors she had. Jake was happy to oblige, his expression softening from desperate hunger to something more focused, almost reverent. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “Anything. Everything.”
He kissed her again, slower now, his mouth a tender promise as he shifted his weight. His hand slid down the plane of her stomach, fingers slipping through the coarse curls below, and she jerked at the unfamiliar intimacy. “Just my fingers,” he murmured against her lips, and she nodded, a tight, frantic motion. He touched her, exploring the slick, swollen folds with a patience that felt agonizing and exquisite. “You’re so wet,” he whispered, the filthy word a hot brand in the dark. “So fucking wet for me.”
A strangled sound escaped her as he circled her clit, the pressure building in a tight, unfamiliar coil. His mouth followed where his fingers led, his tongue laving a slow, torturous path. The sensation was overwhelming, a white-hot wire of pleasure that erased every other thought—the bus, Kisha, the fucking chamomile. Her hips bucked off the mattress, a silent plea, and he groaned, the vibration against her core pushing her higher. “Come on, Bree,” he urged, his voice muffled against her flesh. “Let go.”
Her orgasm ripped through her with a shocking, violent intensity, her back arching as a ragged cry tore from her throat. He held her through it, his mouth gentle now, lapping at her trembling flesh until she shuddered and went still. Breathing hard, she pulled him up, tasting herself on his tongue as she kissed him with a new, frantic hunger. She wrapped her hand around his cock, the hard, velvety heat of him feeling both alien and inevitable in her grasp. “Now,” she said, the word not a question but a demand.ith
She pushed him onto his back, the springs protesting, and swung a leg over his hips. Her curls formed a dark curtain around their faces as she looked down at him, his cock straining against her thigh. “My turn,” she murmured, the words a soft vibration in the charged air.
Briana had never done this before, but a raw instinct took over. She lowered her mouth, her tongue tracing the blunt head, tasting salt and skin. Jake gasped, his hands fisting in the sheets as she took him deeper, her lips stretching around his girth.
She found a rhythm, all eager heat and suction, her hand working the base in a tight, twisting stroke. “Oh, fuck, Briana,” he choked out, his hips lifting off the bed. The playlist had ended, leaving only the wet, obscene sounds of her mouth on him and his ragged breathing.
She looked up, meeting his glazed, desperate eyes, and took him all the way to the back of her throat. His whole body tensed, a strangled groan tearing from him as he fought not to come. She was amazing at it, a natural, consuming him with a focus that obliterated every other thought—the scholarship, the fraternity, all of it.
Jake thought he might pass out, the pleasure a white static behind his eyes. “Stop, stop or I’m gonna—” he begged, tugging weakly at her hair. She released him with a soft pop, her own breathing heavy, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his shining, twitching cock.
He was shuddering, his stomach muscles clenched tight. “Jesus, Bree,” he gasped, the words stripped raw. She kissed her way back up his body, her hand never leaving him, stroking the slick, hard length in a firm, knowing rhythm she hadn’t possessed an hour ago.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice husky. His eyes, dark and clouded with need, locked onto hers. Her thumb smeared the wetness beading at his tip, working it around the swollen head in slow, torturous circles.
“I want to feel you come.” Her command was a low whisper against his mouth. He groaned, his hips thrusting up into her tight fist. “Fuck, I’m close, so close.”
His breath came in hot, ragged pants. “Tell me,” she urged, her rhythm relentless. His whole world narrowed to the pressure of her hand, the sight of her bitten-red lips, the impossible reality of her here.
“I can’t—Kisha—” he choked out, a final, fraying thread of guilt. Briana’s hand tightened. “Forget her.” She said it without malice, a simple erasure. His climax tore through him with a gut-deep snarl, stripes of hot release painting his stomach and her moving fingers.
BRIANA FINISHED JAKE WITH HER HAND, milking every last pulse from him until he went limp, his breath a broken thing. She wiped her hand clean on the sheet beside him, a practical, intimate gesture. In the thick silence, the only sound was their slowing breath, the old house settling around them.
He pulled her down into the sweat-damp sheets, wrapping himself around her, his nose buried in her curls. THEY FELL ASLEEP, JAKE HOLDING HIS BEAUTIFUL WISH TIGHTLY, as if she might dissolve into the same memory as the quarry’s cold water or the taste of burnt chamomile.
He woke to the gray, tentative light of dawn bleeding through the blinds, her body still a warm curve against his chest. Her breathing was deep and even, but her eyes were open, staring at the wall where a poster from his senior year hung slightly crooked. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was the thick, waiting kind.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear it,” he murmured into her hair, his voice raspy with sleep. She didn’t turn, just captured his hand where it lay over her stomach and held it tight. “My bus is at nine-fifteen.”
They moved through the morning in a practiced, quiet pantomime. She showered while he made coffee, the sounds of water and grinding beans filling the spaces where words should have been. They sat at the kitchen table, the same one from last night’s pasta, steam rising between them like a ghost.
“What happens now?” she finally asked, not looking up from her mug. He ran a thumb over a knot in the wood grain. “You go change the world.” He paused, the next words physically painful to form. “And I stay here. With Kisha.”
She nodded, a quick, sharp motion, as if she’d expected it. “For now,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “For now,” he agreed, the two words a fragile, desperate bridge.
The kiss at the bus depot was not gentle. It was a furious, consuming press of lips and teeth and tongue, a last gasp for air. She tasted of coffee and salt, and he gripped the back of her jacket, crumpling the fabric in his fists. She pulled away first, breathing hard, her midnight curls wild from his hands.
“Go,” he said, his voice breaking on the syllable. She turned and boarded the bus without looking back, finding a window seat. The engine growled to life, a diesel shudder that vibrated in his bones.
He watched until the bus became a speck, then vanished, leaving only the shimmer of heat on asphalt. The taste of her was still on his lips, a phantom more real than the empty street before him.
The taste of her was still on his lips, a phantom more real than the empty street before him. He drove home through a town that felt like a film set, every landmark now just a backdrop for a memory he couldn’t keep.
Pulling into the driveway, he killed the engine and sat in the sudden, echoing quiet. The house stood silent, holding the ghost of her laughter in the steam from yesterday’s shower, the imprint of her body on his sheets.
He found the crumpled receipt for the quarry’s parking fee in his pocket, the paper soft from the water. He flattened it on his knee, staring at the time stamp—yesterday, right before everything and nothing changed.
A car door slammed outside, sudden and familiar. Then another. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, accompanied by the cheerful, grating sound of his mother’s voice carrying through the front screen door. “Jake? Honey, we’re back early! The conference was a snooze.”
JAKE’S PARENTS RETURNED HOME. The front door swung open, flooding the dim living room with intrusive sunlight and the smell of fast food. Cal lumbered in behind Judy, dropping a duffel bag with a thud. “Place is quiet,” his father observed, his gaze sweeping the room and landing on Jake, still frozen on the couch.
“Too quiet,” Judy said, her cheerful tone softening as she studied her son’s face. “Everything okay? How was your last night with Briana?” She said her name so casually, a mundane inquiry that felt like a physical blow.
Jake stood, the receipt fluttering from his lap to the floor. “Fine. It was fine.” He moved toward the hallway, a retreat. “She left on time.”
“Oh, good,” Judy said, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’m putting the kettle on. I brought back that chamomile blend you like from the hotel.” The word chamomile hit the air between them, a dropped stone.
Jake stopped walking. His mouth flooded with the remembered, acrid burn of the tea Briana had hated, the tea he’d made her drink in this very kitchen a lifetime ago. “I don’t want any,” he said, his voice strained.
“Since when?” Judy called after him, but he was already closing his bedroom door, leaning against it. From the kitchen, the distinct, herbal scent began to steam into the house, a fragrant ghost he couldn’t escape.