Chapter 10: The Jersey and the Roommate
Ryan took another sip of his coffee. The steam curled around his face, obscuring his expression for half a second, but when it cleared, the smirk was still there—sharp and knowing.
"Morning," he said again, slower this time. His pale eyes traveled over Miri with the kind of casual assessment that made her want to disappear. She felt every inch of her exposed skin—the bare legs swinging over the edge of the table, the jersey that barely covered her thighs, the pink socks that suddenly seemed ridiculous.
She grabbed the hem of the jersey and tugged.
It didn't help.
"Ryan." Leo's voice had dropped an octave. "What do you want?"
"Coffee." Ryan lifted his mug. "This is the kitchen, last I checked."
"It's Saturday morning. Everyone's still asleep."
"Except you two." Ryan's gaze slid to Miri again. "And whoever was screaming your name at six in the morning. She's not your usual type."
Miri's face went nuclear.
She felt the heat crawl up her neck, spread across her cheeks, burn the tips of her ears. She wanted to slide off the table and crawl under it. She wanted to sink through the floor and disappear into the basement. She wanted—
Leo's hand found her thigh.
Warm. Steady. Possessive.
"She's not a type," he said quietly. "She's Miri."
The words hit her somewhere deep. Somewhere soft and vulnerable and perpetually bruised by years of being overlooked. She looked at Leo—really looked at him—and something shifted in her chest.
Ryan's eyebrows rose.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he inclined his head, just slightly, like he was conceding a point in an argument no one else had heard.
"Fair enough." He pushed off the doorframe. "I'll be in my room. With headphones."
He turned and walked away.
His footsteps receded down the hallway—slow, unhurried, the gait of a man who had all the time in the world. Miri listened until she couldn't hear them anymore, until the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the thud of her own heartbeat.
Then she exhaled.
"Oh my God."
Leo laughed. Soft and low.
"He's not so bad."
"He saw me. In your jersey. With my—" She gestured vaguely at her legs. "Everything."
"He saw you sitting on a table looking like you belonged there." Leo's hand slid higher, curving around her hip. "Which you did."
"I was wearing fuzzy socks."
"And you looked cute as fuck."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to list all the reasons this was mortifying, all the ways she'd just embarrassed herself, all the evidence that she didn't belong in this house or this kitchen or this jersey.
But Leo was looking at her like she was something precious.
And she was tired of arguing with people who saw her.
"Come on," he said. He pulled her off the table, his hands steadying her when her legs wobbled. "Let's go upstairs."
He took her hand.
His fingers laced through hers, warm and calloused, and he led her out of the kitchen, down the hallway, past the living room where someone had passed out on the couch with a solo cup still in their hand.
Miri's socks slapped against the hardwood.
She had to hurry to match his stride—he was so much taller, his legs so much longer—and she found herself half-jogging, half-skipping to keep up. It should have felt awkward. It should have felt ridiculous.
It didn't.
It felt like following.
They climbed the stairs together. The banister was sticky with something she didn't want to think about, and the carpet on the landing had a stain shaped like Florida, but she barely noticed. She was too focused on his hand in hers, on the way his thumb traced circles on her knuckles, on the fact that he was leading her somewhere and she was letting him.
His room door was still unlocked.
He pulled her inside and shut it behind them. The lock clicked with a sound that made her stomach flip.
Then he turned.
His body pressed her against the door. His hands found her waist, slid up her ribs, pushed under the hem of the jersey. His fingers were hot against her skin, rough and seeking, and she gasped when his palms covered her breasts.
No bra. No barrier. Just skin on skin.
"You're not wearing anything under this," he murmured.
"Couldn't find my bra."
"Convenient."
"Very."
He kissed her.
It was different from last night. Softer. Slower. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the taste of her tongue, the way she sighed when he tilted her head back.
His thumb found her nipple.
He circled it—lazy, deliberate—until it hardened under his touch. Then he did the same to the other, rolling it between his fingers until she whimpered against his lips.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"You want more?"
"Always."
He lifted her.
Just scooped her up like she weighed nothing, one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and carried her across the room. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He set her down in his desk chair.
It was large—one of those ergonomic things with wheels and armrests and more buttons than a spaceship—and she sank into it, the leather cold against her bare thighs.
Leo knelt in front of her.
He kissed her again. Deep and slow and thorough. His tongue swept through her mouth while his hands roamed her body—down her sides, over her hips, under the jersey to cup her ass.
She moaned into him.
He pulled back. Just enough to look at her.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said. "You know that?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
She reached for him instead.
Her fingers found the waistband of his sweats. She tugged, and he helped her—lifting his hips, shoving the fabric down—and then his cock was free.
It bobbed in front of her face.
Thick. Long. Already leaking at the tip, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the morning light.
She licked her lips.
"I want to taste you again," she said.
His breath caught.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She slid off the chair.
Her knees hit the carpet, soft and scratchy beneath her. She positioned herself between his legs, her hands on his thighs, and leaned in.
He was warm. So warm.
She wrapped her lips around the head and sucked.
"Fuck—"
His hands found her hair. Not pulling—just holding. Grounding himself. She took him deeper, working her mouth down his shaft, her tongue flat against the underside. She could taste the salt of his skin, the faint bitterness of pre-cum, the lingering ghost of what they'd done before.
She gagged.
Pulled back. Tried again.
Her rhythm was messy, uncoordinated. She didn't know what she was doing—not really—but she knew what she wanted, and she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to feel him come undone because of her.
"Slow down," Leo gasped. "Fuck, Miri, slow down or I'm gonna—"
She pulled off.
A string of saliva connected her lips to his cock, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"Don't hold back," she said.
"I'm not trying to—"
"I want you to come."
His eyes went dark.
"Not yet."
He stood, pulling her up with him. His cock was slick and hard, pressing against her stomach, and she could feel every inch of it through the thin fabric of the jersey.
"I want to be inside you," he said. His voice was rough. Raw. "I want to fuck you until you forget every other man who's ever looked at you."
She shivered.
"There haven't been any others."
"I know." He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her lips. "That's what makes it so fucking good."
He spun her around.
His hands found her hips, guiding her toward the desk. She bent over it without being asked—her palms flat on the surface, her legs spread, the jersey hiked up over her hips.
The wood was cold against her skin.
She heard him groan behind her. Felt his hands on her ass, spreading her cheeks, exposing everything.
"You're so pink," he said. "So wet. Is this all for me?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"It's all for you. Only you."
He pushed inside her.
One stroke. One brutal, perfect stroke that split her open and filled her completely. She screamed—couldn't help it—and her fingers scrabbled at the desk, knocking over a pen cup, sending papers flying.
He didn't stop.
He fucked her like he was trying to prove something. Hard and fast, his hips slapping against her ass, his cock driving deep into her with every thrust.
"You said you'd make me forget my own name," she gasped. "Prove it."
He growled.
His hand found her hair, fisting it, pulling her head back. The angle changed—he was hitting deeper now, something sensitive and electric—and she sobbed with every stroke.
"What's your name?"
"I don't—I can't—"
"Say it. What's your name?"
"I don't remember—"
"That's right." He slammed into her. "You don't remember. Because I'm fucking it out of you."
The desk rocked. Her legs kicked. She was making sounds she'd never heard herself make—wanton, desperate, filthy sounds that echoed off the walls.
"Leo—Leo—please—"
"Please what?"
"Harder—"
He gave her harder.
His thrusts became punishing. Relentless. She was nothing but sensation—a body being used, a cunt being filled, a girl being fucked within an inch of her life.
She came.
Not slowly. Not gently. It was a detonation, an explosion that ripped through her body and left her shaking. She screamed his name—over and over, a litany of surrender—while he fucked her through it.
"That's it," he groaned. "That's it, baby, come on my cock—"
She couldn't answer.
She could barely breathe.
He pulled out.
She whined at the loss, but he was already moving—flipping her over, lifting her onto the desk, spreading her legs wide. He stepped between them and pushed back inside.
"Bare," she gasped. "I want to feel you bare."
"I know." He kissed her neck. "I know, baby. I've got you."
He fucked her slow this time.
Deep and deliberate, his hips rolling in a rhythm that made her toes curl. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back, and held on.
"I want to come inside you," he said. "Is that okay?"
"Yes—please—"
"I want to fill you up until you're dripping with me."
"Do it."
He kissed her.
His tongue slid into her mouth as he fucked her, swallowing her moans, drinking her down. The desk creaked beneath them. The papers rustled. The morning light painted everything gold.
"I'm close," he breathed.
"Me too."
"Together?"
"Together."
He reached between them. His thumb found her clit and pressed—hard and perfect—and she shattered.
This orgasm was different. Deeper. It rolled through her in waves, each one triggered by the feel of him pulsing inside her, filling her, marking her as his.
He groaned her name.
His hips stuttered. His cock twitched. And then he was coming—hot and thick and endless—emptying himself into her while she clenched around him.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Tangled. Breathing. Spent.
Her glasses were crooked on her face. She could feel the imprint of the keyboard against her back. Her thighs were shaking, her pussy was sore, and there was a spot on her shoulder that she was pretty sure would bruise.
She felt incredible.
Leo pulled out slowly. She winced at the sensation—the emptiness, the trickle of his come sliding out of her—but he caught it with his fingers. Pushed it back inside.
"Don't waste it," he said.
She stared at him.
"You're filthy."
"You love it."
She did.
God help her, she did.
He pulled her off the desk and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, like she was something fragile, and climbed in beside her.
His arm wrapped around her waist.
His nose buried in her hair.
"Hey," he said.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing tonight?"
She blinked. "What?"
"I'm asking if you want to do something. With me. Tonight."
She turned in his arms. Faced him. His eyes were soft, his expression open, and she realized with a start that he was nervous.
Leo Castellano was nervous.
"I don't have plans," she said.
"Good." He smiled. "Because I want to take you somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere nice. Somewhere you can wear that dress you had on last night and I can watch you walk into a room."
She laughed.
"What?"
"You want to watch me walk into a room?"
"I want to watch you do everything." He kissed her forehead. "I want to watch you eat. Sleep. Read. Talk about medieval monks. Everything."
Her heart stuttered.
"This is real," she said. Not asking.
"Yeah." He pulled her closer. "It's real."
She closed her eyes.
Outside, the morning had fully arrived—cars honking, birds singing, people living their lives in the oblivious way people do. Inside, in the warmth of his arms, Miri let herself believe it.
For the first time in her life, she believed it.
"I need to go home first," she said eventually. "Shower. Change. Find my other shoe."
"I'll drive you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She didn't argue.
She just laid there, in his bed, in his jersey, with his come still warm inside her, and let herself feel it.
Wanted.
Beautiful.
His.
And when they finally got up, when she found her missing shoe under his bed and he pulled on a clean shirt and they walked out of the house together, his hand wrapped around hers.
She didn't feel like hiding anymore.
The sun was warm on her face.
The world was full of possibilities.
And for the first time in twenty years, Miri Hayes was ready to meet it.