Chapter 8: Don't Wear Panties
The bass hit her before she even reached the front door.
It thrummed through the soles of her sneakers, through the cracked concrete of the porch, through the bones of her ankles and up into her teeth. The frat house loomed against the night sky like a drunk giant—windows glowing orange, silhouette figures pressed against the glass, the front lawn littered with red cups and someone's abandoned flip-flop.
Miri hesitated on the sidewalk.
What the fuck am I doing?
She'd asked herself that question at least twelve times since she'd left. Twelve times she'd almost turned back. Twelve times she'd pulled out her phone, stared at Leo's message, and kept walking.
Don't wear panties.
She wasn't wearing any. The dress was thin enough that she could feel every brush of night air against her bare skin, every whisper of fabric against her thighs. The lack of underwear made her feel exposed in a way that was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
She climbed the porch steps. The door was open, spilling yellow light and sweat-stink onto the lawn. A couple of guys were making out against the railing, hands everywhere, entirely oblivious to the world. Miri slipped past them, through the doorway, into the crush of bodies.
The living room was packed. Somebody had pushed all the furniture against the walls to create a makeshift dance floor, and people were grinding against each other in ways that seemed to defy physics. The air was thick with cheap beer and cheaper cologne and the particular musk of too many humans in too small a space.
Nobody looked at her.
She was invisible here. Just another body in the crowd, just another anonymous face in the sea of flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. The realization was oddly comforting. She could have been anyone. She could have been the kind of girl who did this all the time.
She moved through the crowd, her eyes scanning for the stairs. A guy in a backwards cap tried to hand her a beer. She shook her head, kept walking. Someone's elbow caught her shoulder. She barely felt it.
The staircase was in the back corner, half-hidden behind a cluster of girls taking selfies. Miri squeezed past them, her hand finding the railing, and started climbing.
The music got quieter with every step.
By the time she reached the second floor, it was just a muffled thump, like a heartbeat buried under blankets. The hallway stretched ahead of her, lined with closed doors. Most of them had those cheap whiteboards mounted next to them, covered in names and crude drawings and messages in dry-erase marker.
Leo's door was at the end.
It was slightly ajar. A sliver of warm light leaked through the gap, and she could hear movement inside—the creak of a mattress, the soft sound of breathing.
She should knock.
She should definitely knock.
Her hand found the door before she could overthink it. She pushed it open and slipped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click.
The room was chaos organized into some approximation of order. Football posters covered the walls, edges curling, corners torn. A king-sized bed dominated the space, buried under a mountain of hoodies and stray socks. There was a mini-fridge in the corner, humming quietly, and a desk that looked like it hadn't been used for studying in months.
But it was the stack of books in the corner that caught her attention. History books, she realized. Dog-eared, spine-cracked, well-loved. The kind of books she knew intimately.
Leo was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He was wearing nothing but boxers.
Black boxers, the same ones from the photo. His chest was bare, all those muscles she'd felt pressed against her in the locker room now on full display. His hair was damp, like he'd just showered, and there was a bead of water slowly tracing its way down his collarbone.
He looked up when she entered.
His smirk vanished.
Miri stood there, frozen, her back against the door, watching the way his expression shifted. The easy confidence drained from his face, replaced by something darker. Something hungrier. His eyes traveled down her body, slow and deliberate, taking in the blue dress, the way it hugged her curves, the way her bare legs looked in the dim lamplight.
"You came," he said.
His voice was rougher than she'd ever heard it.
"You sent me a picture," she replied, and her voice was steadier than she expected. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
He didn't answer. He just stood, and the motion was fluid, predatory, the kind of movement that reminded her that he was a football player, an athlete, a man built for physicality.
Two strides. That was all it took. He crossed the room in two strides and then she was against the door, his body pinning her, his mouth crashing down on hers.
The kiss was nothing like the ones they'd shared before. Those had been tentative, exploratory, gentle. This was devouring. His tongue pushed past her lips without preamble, claiming her mouth like he owned it. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, and he pressed himself against her with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs.
She felt him. All of him. The hard planes of his chest, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, and lower—the unmistakable ridge of his cock, already hard, already straining against his boxers.
"God, you're really not wearing any underwear," he breathed against her mouth.
She shook her head.
"Fucking hell."
His hand slid down. Over her hip, along her outer thigh, then up—up under the hem of the dress, higher and higher until his fingers found the apex of her thighs.
She was soaked.
"So wet already," he murmured, his thumb brushing through the slick heat. "Did you touch yourself before you came? Thinking about me?"
"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
"Did you make yourself come?"
"No. I stopped."
"Good girl."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She felt them in her stomach, in her knees, in the sudden clench of her cunt around nothing. He felt it too—she knew he did, because his eyes darkened, and that smirk finally appeared, but it wasn't playful this time. It was feral.
"On your knees," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"I said get on your knees, baby. I want to taste you."
Her heart stuttered. He was already dropping before she could respond, his hands on her hips, guiding her down until she was sitting on the floor with her back against the door. He hooked his fingers into the hem of her dress and yanked it up, up, up, until it was bunched around her waist and her pussy was completely exposed to him.
He stared.
Just stared, for a long, agonizing moment, his eyes fixed on the slick, swollen flesh between her legs.
"I've been thinking about this since the locker room," he said. "Thinking about what you'd taste like. How you'd look spread open for me."
Miri's breath hitched. She couldn't form words.
He leaned in, and his tongue dragged through her folds—one slow, deliberate stroke from her entrance to her clit.
She nearly screamed.
Her hips bucked, her thighs clamping around his head, and he laughed—a low, vibrating thing that she felt in her bones. His hands gripped her thighs and forced them wider, holding her open, and then his mouth was on her again, tongue working her clit in tight circles, lips sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make her see stars.
"Leo—" Her voice cracked. "Oh God, Leo—"
He didn't stop. He ate her like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted, like he couldn't get enough, like he'd die if he stopped. His tongue pushed inside her, fucking her with it, then returned to her clit, relentless, punishing, perfect.
She grabbed his hair. Her fingers twisted in the dark strands, pulling hard, and he groaned against her pussy in response, the vibration shooting straight through her already frayed nerves.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please don't stop, please—"
He didn't.
The pressure built—that familiar coil, tighter than before, hotter than before. Her thighs trembled against his ears. Her back arched off the door. Her vision went white at the edges, narrowing to a pinpoint of sensation, and then—
She came with a broken cry, her body convulsing, her hips grinding against his face. He rode it out with her, his tongue gentle now, lapping at her through the aftershocks until she was gasping and oversensitive.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick with her, and he was grinning like a wolf.
"You taste like fucking honey," he said.
Her cheeks burned.
He stood, and she expected him to reach down, to help her up, but instead he bent and scooped her off the floor like she weighed nothing. She yelped, her arms flying around his neck, and then she was flying—tossed onto the bed, landing in a tangle of hoodies and sheets.
Before she could orient herself, he grabbed her ankles. He dragged her to the edge of the mattress, her legs falling open, her dress still bunched around her waist. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching as he reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a foil packet.
He rolled the condom on. His movements were efficient, practiced, but his eyes never left hers. When he was ready, he stepped between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, hot and blunt and terrifyingly large.
"You're sure?" he asked. His voice was rough, strained. "Tell me you're sure."
"I'm sure."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was burning, overwhelming, exactly on the edge of pleasure and pain. She gasped, her fingers fisting the sheets, her body fighting to accommodate him. He went slow—agonizingly slow—inch by inch, letting her feel every single one.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you're tight."
She couldn't respond. She couldn't breathe. She could only feel—the pressure, the fullness, the way he split her open and made a place for himself inside her.
When he was fully seated, he paused. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath hot against her mouth, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Tell me when," he said.
"Now," she whispered. "Move now."
He pulled back, almost all the way out, and then thrust back in.
The first stroke made her cry out. The second made her sob. By the third, she was clawing at his back, her nails raking down his spine, and he was groaning, pumping into her with increasing speed and force.
"Fuck, Miri—Miri, you feel—fuck—"
His rhythm faltered, then steadied, then broke apart again. He was everywhere—inside her, around her, filling her completely. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her earlobe. His teeth grazed her shoulder, hard enough to leave marks.
"You're so good," he rasped. "So fucking good. Taking all of me. Squeezing me so tight."
She was climbing again. The pressure was building, cresting, and she didn't think she could survive another orgasm—but her body had other ideas.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Let go. Let me feel you."
She shattered.
The second orgasm hit harder than the first, ripping through her like lightning, and she screamed—actually screamed—her nails digging into his shoulders, her cunt clamping down on him so hard he shouted.
"That's it," he groaned. "That's my girl. Fuck—"
He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his hips relentless, driving her through wave after wave of pleasure until she was boneless and trembling and utterly wrecked.
But he wasn't done.
He pulled out—she whimpered at the loss—and flipped her over. His hands guided her to her hands and knees, her ass in the air, her cheek pressed against the tangled sheets.
"One more," he said. "One more, baby. I know you've got it in you."
He pushed back inside, and the angle was different—deeper, harder, hitting something that made her see sparks. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back to meet his thrusts, and the sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room.
"Leo—Leo, I can't—"
"You can." His voice was in her ear, low and rough and filthy. "You can and you will. This pussy was made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to come on it."
His hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her clit.
She screamed.
The third orgasm was almost too much. It was pain and pleasure and everything in between, her body convulsing, her vision going black, her cunt milking his cock for all it was worth.
He lasted three more strokes.
"Fuck—I'm gonna—"
He buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, his body shuddering, his hips grinding against her ass. She felt the pulse of it—even through the condom—and it was enough to tip her over one final time, a tiny, fracturing climax that left her sobbing into the mattress.
They collapsed together.
He rolled them onto their sides, still inside her, still breathless, still shaking. The bass from downstairs thrummed through the floor, and the party continued on, indifferent to the world that had just been remade in this tiny, cluttered room.
Miri lay there, her cheek against his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart. His fingers traced idle patterns on her hip, soothing, grounding.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
He laughed. It was a tired, satisfied, almost wondering sound.
"Yeah," he said. "Holy shit."
She tilted her head up. He was looking at her—really looking—and there was something in his eyes she couldn't quite name. Something soft. Something that made her chest ache.
"I've never—" She stopped. Swallowed. "That was my first time."
"I know."
"You did?"
"Yeah." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I could tell. And I wanted—" He paused, searching for words. "I wanted it to be good for you. I wanted it to be right."
She stared at him.
"It was," she said softly. "It was perfect."
His smile was small, almost shy. It was a strange look on him—the cocky jock, the playboy, the man who could have any girl he wanted—and it made something twist in her chest.
"Stay," he said. "Tonight. Stay."
She should say no. She should get up, get dressed, go home. This was supposed to be just one night, just one thing, just a thing.
But she didn't want to leave.
"Okay," she whispered.
He kissed her forehead. It was tender in a way she didn't expect, and she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of him.
Outside, the party raged on.
Inside, Miri drifted, her body sore, her heart full, and for the first time in her life, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.