Chapter 4: Sunrise Stakes
The first hint of light crept through the blinds like a thief, painting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. Justin's eyes opened before he was fully conscious, his body already oriented toward her warmth before his brain caught up. Paris was curled against his chest, her wild curls a riot of chaos across the pillow, one arm flung possessively across his torso. Her lips were parted slightly, her breathing slow and even, and in the pale dawn light she looked almost fragile—a stark contrast to the sharp-tongued force of nature he'd come to know.
He should leave. Her roommate would be back eventually, and he didn't want to complicate things. But the thought of disentangling himself from her warmth felt like a physical impossibility. So he stayed, watching the light shift across her skin, memorizing the curve of her cheekbone, the faint freckles dusted across her nose that he'd never noticed in the dimness of the arcade.
Her eyes fluttered. Not fully open, just a crack of amber peeking through heavy lids. A sleepy smile curved her lips. "You're still here."
"I am."
"Thought you'd be gone by now." Her voice was rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that sent a pulse straight to his groin.
"I was trying to leave." He traced a finger along her collarbone, watching her shiver. "But you're very distracting."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Exactly. That's the problem."
She laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated against his chest. "You're ridiculous."
"You've mentioned that." He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Then her temple. Then the corner of her mouth. "I should go."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it." He kissed her jaw, her throat, feeling her pulse quicken under his lips. "But there's something I need to do first."
"What's that?"
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he slid down her body, trailing kisses along her sternum, her stomach, the sensitive skin just below her navel. She gasped, her hands flying to his hair as he settled between her thighs. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with intent, and she swallowed hard.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
He lowered his head, dragging his tongue through her slick folds. She tasted like salt and musk and the lingering sweetness of last night, and he groaned against her, his eyes fluttering closed. She was already wet, already trembling, and he hadn't even done anything yet. He lapped at her slowly, savoring her, learning the rhythm of her hips as they pressed against his mouth.
"Justin—" His name came out as a whimper, her fingers tightening in his hair.
He circled her clit with his tongue, feather-light, teasing. She arched beneath him, a low moan escaping her throat, and he felt a surge of possessive pride. He'd done that. He'd made her sound like that. He wanted to make her sound like that over and over again, until she forgot every other name she'd ever cried.
He sucked gently, drawing the sensitive bud between his lips, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his face. He held her down, one arm across her pelvis, and continued his assault. Her taste was intoxicating, and he couldn't get enough.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Justin."
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He dragged his tongue through her folds, dipping inside her, then returning to circle her clit with relentless precision. Her thighs were shaking, her breathing ragged, and he could feel her approaching the edge—that telltale tightening, the way her body clenched around nothing, searching for him.
"Come for me," he murmured against her skin. "Let go."
She shattered. Her back arched off the bed, her cry muffled by her own hand as waves of pleasure wracked her body. He continued to lick her through it, gentler now, drawing out every last tremor until she collapsed against the mattress, boneless and trembling.
He crawled up her body, his erection pressing insistently against her thigh. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with satisfaction, and she gave him a lazy, wicked smile.
"Your turn."
"I thought I was leaving."
"You thought wrong." She reached down, wrapping her fingers around him, and he hissed through his teeth. "You started this. You're going to finish it."
He didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself at her entrance, pausing just long enough to meet her eyes—a silent question, a final check-in. She nodded, and he sank into her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made them both groan.
"Fuck," she breathed, her head falling back.
"Not yet." He pulled out almost completely, then pressed back in, setting a deep, unhurried rhythm. Each stroke was deliberate, measured, designed to make her feel every inch of him. She whimpered with each thrust, her nails raking down his back, and he bit back a groan at the sting.
"Harder," she demanded.
"Shh." He pressed his hand over her mouth, muffling her cries as he increased his pace. "You'll wake the neighbors."
Her eyes flashed with defiance, but she didn't pull away. She bit down on the heel of his palm, and he hissed at the sharp spike of pleasure-pain. He drove into her harder, faster, his thumb finding her clit and brushing it in tight circles.
She came again with a scream that he swallowed with his hand, her body clenching around him like a fist. The sensation pushed him over the edge, and he followed her with a guttural groan, burying his face in her neck as his release crashed through him.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant chirping of birds outside. Finally, he lifted his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her swollen lips.
"I really need to go," he murmured.
"I know."
He pulled out slowly, missing her warmth immediately, and rolled off the bed. He found his clothes scattered across the floor—boxers by the door, jeans on her desk chair, shirt somewhere near the bookshelf. He dressed quickly, his movements efficient, while she watched from the bed, propped up on one elbow.
"You're going to text me?" she asked.
"Obviously." He pulled his shirt over his head, finger-combing his hair into some semblance of order. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."
"Promise?"
He crossed the room, leaning down to steal one final kiss. It was soft, almost tender, and tasted like promise. "Promise."
He pulled back, and she smiled—a real smile, unguarded and bright. It made his chest ache in a way he didn't want to examine.
"Go," she said, shooing him toward the door. "Before I change my mind and keep you here all day."
"Tempting."
"Go."
He laughed, reaching for the doorknob. The door swung open, and he nearly collided with a petite Latina woman standing in the hallway, her hand raised mid-knock. She froze, her dark eyes widening as they flicked from him to the rumpled bed to Paris, who had yanked the sheet up to her chin with a strangled yelp.
"Oh," Maya said flatly. "You're the quarterback."
"Maya—" Paris started, her face a burning shade of crimson. "I can explain—"
"Don't want details." Maya held up her hand, already backing away. "Seriously. I just came back for my laptop and I've seen enough."
Justin, to his credit, didn't look embarrassed. He looked amused. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, his smirk firmly in place. "Nice to officially meet you. Paris has told me so much."
"Paris hasn't told me anything." Maya's eyes narrowed. "But I know your type."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's a 'I'm watching you' thing." She pointed a finger at him, her expression serious. "Hurt her and I'll make your life a living hell. I know people."
Justin held up his hands in mock surrender. "Understood. She's in good hands." He turned back to Paris, who looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "I'll text you."
"Okay."
He winked, then sauntered past Maya with a self-satisfied grin, disappearing down the hallway. Maya watched him go, then turned to Paris, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
"The quarterback," she repeated. "The one who broke Kate's heart at the party?"
"It's not like that." Paris buried her face in her hands, groaning. "He's not—it's different with him."
"Different how?"
Paris lifted her head, her gaze drifting to the window where the morning light was filtering through the blinds. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips. "I don't know. But it is."
Maya studied her for a long moment, then sighed, dropping her bag on the floor. "Fine. But I want details. All the details. Preferably over coffee." She paused. "And you're going to need to buy me breakfast for walking in on that."
Paris groaned again, but she was laughing. "Deal."
---
Later that morning, Paris sat in her favorite corner of the campus coffee shop, a chai latte growing cold beside her as she stared at her phone. He'd texted an hour ago—a simple "Thinking about you" followed by a string of emojis that made her roll her eyes but smile anyway. She was still staring at it, trying to craft a response that was clever but not too eager, when the door swung open.
Kate walked in.
Paris stiffened, her fingers tightening around her phone. But Kate didn't notice her. She was too focused on her companion, another girl Paris vaguely recognized from the party. They ordered drinks, laughing about something, and took a table on the far side of the room.
Paris should have looked away. Should have focused on her essay, the one that was due in two days and still needed a thesis. But she couldn't help watching Kate, the way she gestured with her hands, the easy confidence in her posture. She wondered what Kate would do if she saw her here. If she'd make another scene, or pretend she didn't exist.
She didn't have to wonder long.
Kate's gaze swept the room, cataloging faces, and caught on Paris. Her expression flickered—recognition, then something colder. She said something to her friend, who glanced at Paris with open curiosity, and then she rose, crossing the room with deliberate steps.
"Hey." Kate's voice was casual, almost friendly. She slid into the chair across from Paris without being invited. "We haven't officially met. I'm Kate."
Paris set down her phone, meeting her gaze evenly. "I know who you are."
"Right. The coffee shop." Kate's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You made quite an impression."
"I was just returning the favor."
Kate's smile flickered. She leaned back in her chair, studying Paris with an appraising look. "Look, I'm not here to cause drama. I just want to give you some friendly advice."
"I didn't ask for advice."
"Consider it a gift anyway." Kate's voice dropped, losing its pretense of warmth. "Justin's not the guy you think he is. He's charming, sure. He's good at making you feel special. But he's a player. He'll get bored eventually and move on to the next shiny thing." She paused, letting the words land. "I'm not saying that to hurt you. I'm saying it because I've been where you are, and I wish someone had warned me."
Paris studied her. There was a flicker of genuine emotion in Kate's eyes—not malice, but something rawer. Something that looked a lot like hurt.
"Maybe that's true," Paris said slowly. "Or maybe you're projecting your own experience onto a situation you don't understand."
Kate's jaw tightened. "I'm just trying to help."
"I don't need your help." Paris kept her voice calm, even. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm a big girl. I can make my own mistakes."
"Even if they hurt you?"
"Especially then." Paris picked up her chai, taking a sip. "Because they're mine. And I'll learn from them."
Kate stared at her for a long moment, a range of emotions flickering across her face—frustration, respect, something that might have been envy. Finally, she pushed back her chair, standing.
"Good luck," she said. There was no warmth in it, but there wasn't venom either. Just resignation.
"Thanks." Paris watched her walk away, then let out a slow breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest, but her hands were steady. When she looked down at her phone, there was a new message from Justin.
"Everything okay?"
She smiled, typing back a response. "Everything's fine. See you soon."
The response was immediate. "I'm counting on it."
Paris set down her phone, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the chai. Maybe Kate was right. Maybe Justin would hurt her. Maybe this was all a disaster waiting to happen.
But for the first time in her life, Paris found herself looking forward to the fall.
But for the first time in her life, Paris found herself looking forward to the fall.
The days that followed had a rhythm she was beginning to crave. Morning texts from Justin, usually something stupid—a meme, a photo of his breakfast, a complaint about Coach's drills. Her responses were measured at first, calculated to seem less invested than she was. But by Wednesday, she was sending him pictures of the weird stains on the library carpet and asking his opinion on which one looked most like a Rorschach test.
He always answered within minutes.
They met for lunch on Thursday between his classes and her seminar. He showed up with two sandwiches from the deli near the athletic complex and an apology that he hadn't had time to shower. She told him he smelled fine, which was a lie—he smelled like sweat and grass and something faintly chemical from the training room. But he also smelled like him, and she was starting to associate that particular combination of scents with safety.
"You're staring," he said, mouth full of turkey club.
"I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Observing what?"
She tilted her head, considering. "The way you eat. You're very methodical about it. Like you're fueling a machine rather than enjoying a meal."
He paused mid-bite, then deliberately took an enormous, messy bite, letting mayonnaise drip onto his chin. She laughed, loud and genuine, and he grinned around his food like he'd won something.
"You're disgusting," she said.
"You smiled. That's all that matters."
The easy rhythm of it unsettled her more than the intensity. With Justin, everything felt natural—too natural. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment when his charm revealed itself as a weapon. But it never came. He just kept showing up, kept being present, kept making her laugh in the middle of her carefully constructed solitude.
By Friday, she'd stopped waiting for the fall.
---
The party was at a house off-campus, one of those sprawling rentals filled with mismatched furniture and walls stained by years of spilled beer. Justin had texted her at nine, asking if she wanted to come. She'd said no initially, citing an essay due Monday. He'd responded with a single screenshot: a photo of his face, eyes wide and pleading, captioned "please."
She was pulling on a skirt by nine-fifteen.
Maya watched from her bed, a bag of chips balanced on her stomach. "You're going out with him again?"
"We're just hanging out."
"At a party. That he invited you to." Maya raised an eyebrow. "That's called a date, genius."
"It's not a date. It's—" Paris paused, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of her necklace. "I don't know what it is, honestly."
"Do you like him?"
Paris turned, meeting Maya's gaze in the mirror. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Did she like him? She didn't know what that meant anymore. She'd spent so long keeping people at arm's length that she'd forgotten how to recognize the feeling when it crept in.
"I don't know," she said finally. "I think I might."
Maya nodded slowly, a knowing smile curling her lips. "Then go. Figure it out. But if he hurts you, I'll castrate him in his sleep."
"Noted."
---
The house was already crowded when she arrived, bass thrumming through the walls like a heartbeat. She spotted Justin near the kitchen, surrounded by teammates whose names she'd learned but couldn't quite keep straight. He was laughing at something, his head thrown back, and she felt a familiar flutter in her chest when his eyes found hers across the room.
His smile shifted—from easy to something sharper, hungrier. He said something to his friends, clapping one on the shoulder, and made his way toward her.
"You came."
"You made a compelling argument." She gestured vaguely. "With the face."
"I knew it would work." He took her hand, his fingers warm and sure, and led her toward the keg. "Want a beer? Or I think they have something stronger in the garage."
"What, no wine coolers?"
"Don't be a stereotype."
She laughed, accepting a red plastic cup of something that tasted faintly of grapefruit and regret. They circulated through the house, Justin introducing her to people whose names she immediately forgot. She was good at that—at being present without being engaged, at smiling without committing. But his hand stayed on the small of her back the entire time, grounding her, keeping her tethered.
The music shifted, the tempo slowing slightly. Someone had dimmed the lights, and the room felt smaller, more intimate. He turned to her, his eyes dark in the near-darkness.
"Dance with me?"
She looked around, at the couples swaying together, at the bodies pressing close. Every instinct screamed at her to refuse. Dancing was intimate. Dancing was vulnerable. But his hand was already reaching for her, and she was already taking it, stepping into the space between his arms.
They swayed together, his hands resting on her hips. The music was loud, but he leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.
"You smell good."
"Patchouli. It's—"
"It's you." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "I like it."
She swallowed, her throat tight. "You're very smooth."
"I'm honest." His hands tightened on her hips, drawing her closer. "There's a difference."
She felt him then—the hard length of him pressing against her through his jeans. Her breath caught, and she looked up at him, searching his face for some sign of apology or embarrassment. But there was none. Just naked want, raw and unashamed.
"See what you do to me?" His voice was low, rough. "Every time I see you, it's like this. I can't help it."
"Justin—"
"Tell me you don't feel it too." He rolled his hips against hers, a slow, deliberate grind that made her gasp. "Tell me you're not just as wet for me right now."
Her face burned. They were surrounded by people—dancing, laughing, oblivious. And he was pressed against her, hard and insistent, his hands sliding down to cup her ass.
"I—"
"Don't lie to me." His thumb traced the seam of her skirt, edging higher. "I can feel it. The way your body responds to mine. You want this as much as I do."
She did. God, she did. Her body was betraying her, her hips moving against his in an instinctive rhythm. He groaned, low and guttural, his forehead dropping to hers.
"I need to be inside you," he murmured. "Right now. I don't care who sees."
"Here?" Her voice was a squeak.
"Here." His hand slid under her skirt, his fingers finding the edge of her underwear. "Don't make me beg, Paris. I'll do it. I'll get on my knees right now and beg."
She should stop this. They were in public, surrounded by his teammates, her classmates. Someone could see at any moment. But the thought only made her hotter, her blood running thick and heavy in her veins.
He moved her panties to the side, his fingers sliding through her slick folds. She bit her lip to stifle a moan, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're so wet for me."
He withdrew his hand, and she heard the sound of his belt unbuckling. Then he was lifting her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her skirt bunching around her hips. He positioned himself at her entrance, and she felt the blunt pressure of him, just the tip.
She met his eyes. "Do it."
He sank into her in one slow, deliberate thrust. The world narrowed to the sensation of him filling her, stretching her, completing her. She gasped against his shoulder as he bottomed out with a low groan.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel incredible."
People were dancing around them, oblivious. Or maybe they weren't—maybe someone was watching. She didn't care. She couldn't care. Not with him inside her, his hands gripping her hips, setting a rhythm that was careful, controlled, designed to keep them hidden.
He moved inside her with shallow, precise thrusts, each one sending sparks of pleasure up her spine. His face was buried in her neck, his breath hot against her skin.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice strained. "How many times I've thought about this. About having you like this. In public. Where anyone could see."
"Justin—"
"You're so tight. So perfect." He thrust deeper, harder, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out. "I want to hear you. I want everyone to know how good I'm making you feel."
She shook her head, her nails digging into his back. "Can't. Too loud."
"Then be quiet for me." His hand found her mouth, pressing against her lips. "Be quiet and let me fuck you."
He drove into her with renewed intensity, his hips snapping against hers. She was grinding against him now, meeting each thrust, chasing the pleasure coiling low in her belly. The music pulsed around them, a driving beat that matched the rhythm of his hips.
"Feel that?" he whispered. "Feel how good we fit together? You were made for me, Paris."
She couldn't respond. The pressure was building, coiling tighter and tighter. She was close—so close. He knew it, too. His thumb found her clit, stroking her through the haze of pleasure.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come right here. Let everyone see how good I make you feel."
She shattered. Her body clenched around him, convulsing with the force of her release. He muffled her scream with his hand, his own groan swallowed by her hair as he spilled inside her, his hips shuddering through his climax.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They stood there, entwined, hidden in plain sight among the dancing crowd. His forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling in shared intimacy.
Finally, he pulled out slowly, letting her legs slide down until her feet touched the floor. He tucked himself back into his jeans with practiced efficiency, then smoothed her skirt down, his hands lingering on her hips.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded, her voice still caught in her throat. Her legs were shaky, her body thrumming with electricity.
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Let's get out of here."
She let him lead her through the crowd, toward the front door. No one looked twice. No one noticed anything had happened. But she felt different—marked by the encounter, claimed in a way she couldn't fully articulate.
He pulled her into the night air, the cool breeze a shock against her flushed skin. His car was parked at the curb, and he opened the passenger door for her with a gesture that was almost chivalrous.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My place. If that's okay."
She slid into the seat, looking up at him through the dim light. "Yeah. That's okay."
He closed the door, and she watched him cross around the front of the car. There was a spring in his step she hadn't noticed before. She felt a smile tug at her lips.
This was dangerous. She knew that. Everything about him was dangerous. But as he slid into the driver's seat, his hand finding hers across the console, she found she couldn't bring herself to care.
The engine hummed to life, and they drove into the night.