Chapter 5: The Couch
The ride to his apartment was a blur of streetlights and the low thrum of the engine. Paris kept her hand in his, her palm pressed against his, fingers intertwined. She watched the city slide by through the window—neon signs bleeding into puddles on the asphalt, silhouettes of people stumbling between bars, the late-night pulse of a campus that never fully slept. But her awareness was elsewhere, tuned to the heat radiating from him, the way his thumb traced slow circles on her knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of her.
He parked in front of a modern building with a glass facade. She'd never been to his place before—they'd always ended up at hers, her cluttered sanctuary with its fairy lights and secondhand books. This was different. This was sleek and polished and very, very him.
He led her through the lobby, his hand steady at the small of her back. They rode the elevator in silence, the space between them charged with something electric. When the doors slid open, he guided her down a hallway and unlocked the door with a quiet click.
His apartment opened up before her—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering skyline, dark wood floors gleaming under recessed lighting. A leather sectional dominated the living room, deep and plush, flanked by shelves of trophies and framed photographs. It smelled like him: cedar and something faintly woody, layered with the ghost of expensive cologne.
She barely had time to take it in before he kicked the door shut, his hands finding her waist and spinning her around. He pressed her against the cool wood, his body a wall of heat against hers, and kissed her like he'd been holding his breath all night.
His mouth was fierce, demanding. She responded in kind, her fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. He tasted like beer and something sweeter—the lingering trace of the cocktail he'd been nursing earlier. She swallowed it down, letting herself get lost in the press of his lips, the scrape of his stubble against her chin.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite name. Hunger, yes. But something else. Something softer.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough, "how long I've wanted you here."
"Since the party?" she asked, her own voice breathy.
"Since the moment you spilled that drink on me." He laughed, low and amused. "You looked at me like I was the most annoying person you'd ever met. And I thought, 'I need to know her.'"
She smiled despite herself. "You were annoying."
"Still am." He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to her jaw. "But you're still here."
She didn't have a response to that. Not one that made sense, anyway. So she kissed him instead, pouring everything she couldn't say into the press of her lips against his.
He walked her backward toward the couch, his hands never leaving her body. When her knees hit the edge of the sectional, he guided her down, easing her onto the cushions. The leather was cool against her bare legs, a contrast to the heat rolling off both of them.
He knelt before her, his hands finding the hem of her skirt. He looked up at her, asking a silent question. She nodded, and he slid the fabric up, revealing the damp fabric of her underwear.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're soaked."
"Whose fault is that?"
"Yours." He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down her legs with agonizing slowness. "You're the one who walked into that party looking like that. Wearing that skirt. Smelling like vanilla and sin."
She laughed, but it caught in her throat when he spread her thighs, his hands gripping her knees with possessive strength. He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, higher. His breath ghosted over her skin, warm and teasing.
"Justin—"
"Patience."
He dragged his tongue through her folds, a slow, savoring stroke that made her arch off the couch. He hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks through her nervous system. She grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging him closer, and he obliged, burying his face between her thighs.
He licked her with deliberate thoroughness, exploring every inch of her like he was committing it to memory. His tongue circled her clit, flicking across the sensitive bundle of nerves until she was trembling. He sucked gently, drawing it between his lips, and she cried out, her hips bucking against his mouth.
"Keep your voice down," he murmured against her skin. "Thin walls."
"Fuck the walls."
He chuckled, the sound muffled, and redoubled his efforts. He drove two fingers inside her, curling them upward, pressing against that spot that made her see stars. Her vision went white at the edges, her hands fisting in his hair as he worked her with relentless precision.
"Justin—I'm gonna—"
"Not yet." He withdrew his fingers, leaving her aching and empty. "I want to taste you first."
He lowered his head again, his tongue flat against her clit, lapping at her with broad, wet strokes. His fingers returned, two of them sliding inside her, curling and pressing in a rhythm that made her toes curl. She was close—so close—her body trembling on the edge of release.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, Justin."
He didn't make her wait. He sucked hard on her clit, his fingers crooked just right, and she shattered. She came with a cry, her body convulsing beneath him, her hips grinding against his face as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her.
He didn't stop. He licked her through it, gentler now, drawing out every last tremor until she collapsed against the cushions, boneless and gasping.
He crawled up her body, his weight a welcome pressure. He was still fully clothed, and she felt a pang of frustration at the barrier between them. She reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle.
"Off," she demanded. "Now."
He grinned, that infuriatingly charming grin, and pulled back just enough to strip off his shirt. His chest was a landscape of muscle, sculpted by years of training. She reached out, tracing the lines of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles quivered under her touch.
"You're beautiful," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
His expression softened, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "So are you."
He shed his jeans and boxers, his erection springing free. She reached for him, wrapping her fingers around the base, and he hissed through his teeth.
"Careful," he warned. "I'm close."
"Good."
She stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching his face contort with pleasure. His eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum.
"Paris—"
She took him into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the head. He groaned, his hands finding her hair, gripping but not pushing. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper, savoring the weight of him on her tongue.
"Fuck." His voice was strained. "You're going to make me—"
She pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip. "Not yet."
His eyes snapped open, dark and hungry. "You're a tease."
"I'm thorough."
He grabbed her waist, spinning her around. She gasped as he bent her over the armrest of the couch, her hips elevated, her chest pressed against the leather. He spread her thighs wide, his hands gripping her ass, and she felt the blunt pressure of him at her entrance.
"Look at you," he breathed. "So ready for me. So perfect."
"Justin—"
He slid into her in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. They both groaned, the sound primal and raw. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust, his fingers digging into her hips.
"You feel incredible," he murmured. "So tight. So wet."
"Move," she demanded. "Please."
He did. He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back into her with a force that made her cry out. He set a brutal rhythm, each thrust driving her further into the leather, the friction of his pelvis against her clit sending sparks through her body.
The room filled with the sounds of their coupling—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of her arousal, the groans and gasps that escaped both of them. The city lights glittered through the windows, casting them in sharp relief, and Paris felt utterly exposed. Utterly seen.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it."
She was close again, the pressure building low in her belly. He reached around, his thumb finding her clit, circling it with relentless precision.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."
She shattered. Her body convulsed, her inner walls clenching around him as she came with a scream she couldn't suppress. And then—something else. A rush of liquid, a gush of warmth that sprayed across his stomach, his chest.
She froze, mortification flooding through her. But he only groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You squirted. You actually squirted."
"I—I'm sorry—"
"Don't be." He drove into her harder, faster, chasing his own release. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."
He pounded into her through her orgasm, her body still clenching and fluttering around him. And then he followed, his own release crashing through him with a guttural roar. He buried himself deep, spilling inside her, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They remained frozen in place, connected, breathing ragged. The only sounds were their gasps and the distant hum of the city below.
Finally, he pulled out slowly, his hands gentle on her hips. He turned her around, guiding her to sit on the couch. She collapsed into the leather, her body trembling, her mind spinning.
He disappeared into what must have been the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp cloth. He knelt before her, cleaning her with surprising tenderness. His touch was soft now, reverent, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of moments before.
"You okay?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
She nodded, still unable to form words. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then pulled her into his arms, settling her against his chest.
"Stay," he murmured against her hair. "Tonight. Just stay."
She should say no. She should remind him that this wasn't a relationship, that they were just fooling around. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she nodded, letting her head rest against his shoulder.
He carried her to his bedroom, laying her on the oversized bed. The sheets were cool and smelled like him. He climbed in beside her, pulling her close, his body a wall of warmth against her back.
"Good night, Paris," he whispered.
She closed her eyes, letting the steady beat of his heart lull her toward sleep. In the morning, she knew, they would have to talk. They would have to figure out what this was. But for now, she let herself sink into the warmth of him, into the unexpected comfort of being held.
Just before sleep claimed her, she heard him speak again, so quiet she almost missed it.
"I think I'm in trouble."
She didn't know what he meant. She was too tired to ask. But the words lingered in her mind, curling around her consciousness like smoke, as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5 (Continued)
Sunlight carved through the blinds in sharp golden blades, catching dust motes suspended in the air. Justin's arm was heavy across her waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck. Paris lay still, watching the light shift across the unfamiliar ceiling, cataloging the foreign geometry of his room.
She should leave. She had an eleven o'clock seminar, and her copy of The Waves was still on her desk at the dorm, untouched since Tuesday. But the warmth of him pressed against her back made movement feel impossible.
His fingers stirred against her stomach, tracing lazy patterns. "You're thinking too loud."
"How do you know?"
"Your whole body gets tense." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Like you're preparing for something."
She turned to face him, her nose brushing his. "I'm preparing to leave. I have class."
"It's Saturday."
"I have a study group." She paused. "And laundry."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Laundry. Right. Very important."
"It is when you're out of clean underwear."
His eyes darkened, a spark of something wicked flickering in their depths. "You know, you could just pack a bag. Stay here for the weekend. I have a washer and dryer."
The offer hung in the air between them. It was casual, easy, barely a question at all. But she felt the weight of it anyway—the implication. A weekend. Together.
"I have a paper due Monday," she hedged. "I need my notes."
"Bring your notes." He traced the curve of her hip beneath the sheet. "I'll even make you breakfast. I make a mean omelet."
She studied his face, searching for any sign of insincerity. She found none. Just open, earnest want. It unsettled her more than any game-playing ever could. She didn't know how to respond to honesty like this.
"Let me at least grab my laptop," she said finally. "I can't write by hand. It's tragic."
His smile was slow, pleased. "Deal."
He kissed her softly, a gentle press of lips that lingered. Then his hand slid lower, skimming over her thigh, and the kiss deepened. She melted into him, her body responding with familiar hunger.
"We have time," he murmured against her lips. "Before you go."
"Class starts in two hours."
"We'll be quick."
She laughed, but the sound caught in her throat as his fingers found her slick center. "Liar."
"Okay, maybe not quick." He rolled on top of her, his weight a welcome pressure. "But I'll be efficient."
His mouth trailed down her neck, and she let her head fall back against the pillow. This was happening. Again. After last night, after the raw intensity of their coupling, she'd thought the fire between them might have banked. But it burned just as bright, just as consuming.
He positioned himself at her entrance, and her breath caught. He paused, meeting her eyes.
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
"Don't stop."
He thrust into her, slow and deep, and she gasped. He moved with careful deliberation, each stroke measured, designed to prolong the moment. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"You're going to make me late," she breathed.
"Then be late."
He lowered his head, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. They moved together in a lazy rhythm, unhurried, savoring the intimacy of the morning light. When she came, it was with a soft cry against his lips, her body trembling beneath him.
He followed soon after, his own release shuddering through him. For a long moment, they lay tangled together, breathing in sync.
"I really do need to go," she whispered.
"I know." He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "But you'll come back tonight?"
She hesitated. The question felt bigger than it should have. "Yeah. I'll come back."
---
The walk to her dorm was brisk, the autumn air nipping at her cheeks. She pulled her beanie low over her curls, replaying the morning in her mind. There was something dangerous about the ease she felt with him—the way her usual walls seemed to dissolve in his presence.
She unlocked her dorm room, expecting Maya to still be asleep. Instead, she found her roommate propped against the headboard, a coffee in hand, her eyebrow raised in knowing amusement.
"Well, well. Look who finally decided to grace me with her presence."
Paris rolled her eyes, dropping her bag on the floor. "Don't start."
"Start what? I'm just admiring your walk of shame." Maya gestured toward the door. "You've got that glow, babe. That 'I got thoroughly railed' glow."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." Maya grinned, but her eyes were sharp, assessing. "So. Justin's place, huh? How was it?"
Paris flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. "It was... good."
"Just good?"
"Really good." She paused, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "He made me breakfast. Well, he tried to. He burned the toast."
"Sounds like a keeper."
"It's not like that." Paris sat up, reaching for her laptop. "We're just... having fun. That's all."
Maya gave her a long look, the kind that said she wasn't buying it. But she didn't push. She just took another sip of her coffee and let the silence speak for itself.
---
The rest of the day passed in a blur of books and highlighters and half-finished annotations. Paris threw herself into her work, trying to quiet the voice in her head that kept drifting back to him. By mid-afternoon, she'd drafted three pages of her Virginia Woolf essay, and her brain was starting to feel like mush.
She texted him around four. A simple "Study break?" followed by a coffee emoji. In the past, he'd always responded within minutes. But the minutes stretched into an hour, and her phone remained stubbornly silent.
She tried not to read into it. He had practice. He had meetings. He had a life that didn't revolve around her. But by the time six o'clock rolled around and she'd sent a second text—"Are we still on for tonight?"—the silence felt heavier.
At seven, her phone buzzed. Relief flooded through her before she'd even read the message.
"Sorry, practice ran long. Coach is a sadist. Can I rain check tonight?"
She stared at the words, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Rain check. It was a reasonable request, perfectly casual. But something about it felt off.
"Everything okay?" she typed back.
"Just tired. Need a hot shower and sleep. Tomorrow?"
She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
He didn't respond. She set the phone down, staring at the screen until the glow faded and the screen went dark.
---
Saturday night bled into Sunday. He texted her in the morning—a brief "Good morning, sunshine" with a photo of his dog. She responded with a half-hearted heart emoji, her mind still occupied with the previous night's silence.
He called her in the afternoon, his voice warm but tired. They talked for twenty minutes about nothing—her paper, his muscles, the terrible sandwich he'd made for lunch. It was easy, familiar. But there was an undercurrent she couldn't quite name. A distance that hadn't been there before.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, tucking her phone between her ear and shoulder as she folded laundry. "You seem... off."
"Just tired." His voice was flat, carefully even. "Practice has been brutal. Coach is prepping us for the LSU game. Double sessions."
"Ah." She believed him. Mostly. "Well, get some rest. Don't let me keep you."
"Never." The word was soft, almost tender. "I'll text you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay."
She hung up, staring at the phone in her hand. Something prickled at the edges of her consciousness—a warning she couldn't quite articulate. But she pushed it aside, chalking it up to her own overthinking tendencies. He'd said he was tired. He was a senior quarterback with a demanding schedule. Of course he needed rest.
She went back to folding laundry, trying to ignore the emptiness that had settled in her chest.
---
Later that night, Justin sat in his car, the engine idling in the darkened parking lot of the athletic complex. His headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating empty asphalt and the chain-link fence of the practice field. He'd been sitting here for—he checked the clock—twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, staring at nothing, his mind replaying the weekend on a loop.
He should call her. He knew he should. She'd sounded worried, that carefully neutral tone she used when she was trying not to reveal her feelings. He'd heard it. He'd ignored it.
He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, the sharp sting grounding him. What the hell was wrong with him? She was open, she was beautiful, she made him laugh. She was everything he thought he wanted. And yet, the moment she'd started to feel like more than a hookup, he'd felt the walls closing in.
He liked her. That was the problem. He actually liked her.
He was scared. The word felt too small in his chest, too fragile. Justin Calloway didn't get scared. He was the guy who cracked jokes in the huddle, who shrugged off sacks with a grin, who never let anyone see him sweat. But the feeling blooming in his chest was unmistakable: a low, humming dread.
If he kept seeing her, he was going to fall. He was going to let her in, and she was going to see all the cracks in his carefully constructed exterior. She was going to find out that the golden boy was just a mask. And when she left—because she would, eventually—he'd be shattered.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. His thumb hovered over her name. Then it moved down, finding an older entry.
Kate.
She picked up on the second ring. "Well, this is unexpected."
"Are you busy?"
A pause. "Why?"
"I need to clear my head." He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion pulling at his bones. "Can we meet?"
Another pause, longer this time. "The usual spot?"
"Yeah."
"I'll be there in ten."
The line clicked dead. He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, staring at the dark shape of the practice field. The floodlights were off, the bleachers empty. Everything was still.
He pulled out of the parking lot, the tires crunching over gravel. He told himself this was just a casual hookup. A familiar face to pass the time. Nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with the girl with the wild curls and the sharp tongue who had somehow burrowed her way under his skin.
The car rolled through the night, and he didn't look back.
---
He met Kate in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall on the edge of town. Her car was already there, a sleek silver coupe that caught the glow of his headlights. She leaned against the hood, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
"Rough night?" she asked as he approached.
"Something like that."
She pushed herself off the car, closing the distance between them. Her fingers traced the collar of his shirt, a possessive gesture that used to make him feel in control.
"Let me guess. Trouble with the new girl?"
He flinched, but he didn't pull away. "It's not like that."
"Sure it isn't." Her voice was dry. "Then why are you here?"
He didn't have an answer. Or rather, he had too many, and none of them were ones he was willing to say out loud. So he kissed her instead. It was a kiss born of desperation rather than desire, and Kate responded with practiced ease.
They moved to the backseat of her car. It was familiar territory, a map he knew by heart. But as he sank into her warmth, he kept his eyes squeezed shut. He didn't want to see who he was pretending she was.
When it was done, he sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Kate fixed her hair, casting him a curious look.
"Get it out of your system?"
He didn't respond.
"That's what I thought." She climbed out of the car, pausing at the door. "You know, Calloway, you're a lot more complicated than you pretend to be."
"I'm not complicated."
"Then why do you look like you just lost something?"
He watched her walk back to her car, her silhouette sharp against the streetlights. When her taillights disappeared around the corner, he finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Paris. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then he pocketed his phone without reading the full message, the words "I'll text you tomorrow" still burning his throat like a lie he couldn't swallow.