Chapter 9: The Arrangement
She just let him take her to bed, and let him fuck her with a desperation that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the woman he'd lost.
The sheets were cool beneath his back, the lavender scent of her pillows already familiar in a way that made his stomach turn. Kate moved above him with practiced ease, her hips rolling in that particular rhythm she'd perfected over the months they'd been doing this dance. Her fingers splayed across his chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there, and she smiled down at him with something that might have been affection if either of them were capable of that anymore.
"There you are," she murmured, grinding down harder. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
Justin's hands found her hips out of habit, gripping the sharp jut of bone as she rode him. "How could I forget you?"
She leaned forward, her mouth hovering just above his, her breath warm and tinged with the whiskey they'd shared. "You've been distant. Even for you."
He didn't answer. He just flipped them, pressing her into the mattress with a force that made her gasp. Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, heels digging into the small of his back as he drove into her with a rhythm that was all frustration and no finesse.
Kate moaned beneath him, her head thrashing against the pillow. "Fuck, Justin. Yes."
He watched her face contort with pleasure, watched her lips part and her eyes squeeze shut, and felt absolutely nothing. She was beautiful, willing, familiar—everything he should have wanted. But his mind kept drifting to another face, another voice, another body that curved against his in ways that felt like coming home.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rougher than he intended.
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and glazed with lust. "What?"
"I want you to look at me while I fuck you."
She bit her lip, a moan escaping as he thrust deeper. "God, Justin. You're so fucking—"
He cut her off with his mouth, kissing her hard enough to bruise. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she bucked against him, chasing her release with the same frantic desperation that drove him.
But when she came, clenching around him with a sharp cry, he was still searching for something he couldn't name.
---
Later, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through the sweat on his skin. The room had cooled, the candles burned down to stubs, and the silence between them was heavy with unspoken truths.
"Who is she?" Kate's voice was quiet, almost curious.
Justin stiffened beneath her. "Who is who?"
"The girl you keep thinking about when you're inside me." She propped herself up on one elbow, meeting his eyes with a directness that made him want to look away. "You called me Paris last week. While you were coming."
The name hit him like a punch to the gut. He opened his mouth to deny it, to explain, to say anything that would deflect the truth. But the words wouldn't come.
Kate's expression softened, something almost like pity flickering across her features. "I'm not stupid, Justin. I've known since the first time you showed up at my door looking like you'd lost your best friend."
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."
"It's not complicated." She sat up too, the sheet pooling around her waist. "You're in love with her, and you're using me to avoid dealing with it."
"I'm not—"
"You are." Her voice was gentle but firm. "And I'm tired of being your distraction. I deserve better than being a warm body you fuck when you can't have the one you actually want."
The words stung because they were true. He'd been using her, just as he'd used every woman since Paris had kicked him out. Using them to fill a void that nothing could fill, to quiet a voice that only grew louder with each meaningless encounter.
"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. "You're right. You deserve better."
Kate smiled, a sad, knowing thing. "I know I do. That's why this is the last time."
She said it simply, without anger or accusation, and that made it worse. He'd hurt her—not the way he'd hurt Paris, but in his own careless way, he'd hurt her too.
He dressed in silence, each movement heavy with the weight of his failures. At the door, he paused, looking back at her one last time.
"I hope you find what you're looking for," she said. "I hope she forgives you. I hope you stop running."
He nodded, not trusting his voice, and walked out into the night.
---
The campus was quiet at this hour, the streets empty except for the occasional stray cat darting between dumpsters. Justin walked without direction, his feet carrying him through the familiar paths of the college grounds.
He found himself at the library, of all places.
The building loomed before him, its gothic architecture casting long shadows in the moonlight. He'd never spent much time here—that was Paris's domain, her sanctuary of books and silence and half-written stories.
He pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of old paper and dust washing over him. The main reading room was empty at this hour, save for a lone figure hunched over a desk in the corner, surrounded by stacks of books.
His heart stopped.
Paris sat with her back to him, her wild curls spilling from beneath a beanie, her pen moving across a notebook with urgent, agitated strokes. She hadn't heard him enter, hadn't noticed his presence at all.
He should have left. Should have turned around and walked away, respected the boundaries she'd drawn so clearly. But his feet refused to move.
She reached for a book, knocking a pen to the floor. It rolled across the tile, stopping just inches from his shoe.
She turned.
Their eyes met across the silent room, and the world seemed to stop.
---
She froze. The recognition flickered across her face too quickly to mask, followed by something harder, a guardedness that made him want to break through and find the woman who'd once looked at him with such naked longing. Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the desk, but she didn't reach for it—she just stared at him like he was a ghost she'd exorcised months ago, one she never expected to see again.
"Justin." His name fell from her lips flat and empty, a door locked and bolted.
"Paris." He took a step forward, his hands raised as if approaching a spooked animal. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"Clearly." She turned back to her notebook, her pen scratching across the page with renewed intensity. "You should go. This is a quiet space."
He ignored the dismissal and moved closer. "It's late. What are you still doing here?"
"Working." She didn't look up. "Some of us are trying to graduate."
The sting of her words was sharp, but he deserved it. He'd earned every ounce of her bitterness. "I've been thinking about you."
She laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "Yeah, I bet you have. Probably between all the other girls."
He winced. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" She finally looked up, her amber eyes blazing with an anger he'd never seen before. "You want to talk about fair? You told me you loved me, Justin. You made me believe—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "You know what? It doesn't matter. We're done."
"Paris, please—"
"Please what?" She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "Please give you another chance to break me? To tell me you're not ready, to watch you run back to Kate the moment things get real?"
"I ended things with Kate tonight." The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "For good."
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"
"Believe what you want." He took another step closer, close enough to see the exhaustion in her eyes, the hurt she was trying so hard to hide. "But I'm done running, Paris. I'm done lying to myself about what I want."
"And what do you want?"
The question hung between them, loaded with all the weight of their history. He could lie, could deflect, could protect himself the way he always had.
Instead, he told the truth.
"You."
---
The word echoed in the silent library, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings and the rows of forgotten books. Paris stared at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, and he could see the war raging behind her eyes—the desire to believe him warring with the instinct to protect herself.
"You don't get to say that." Her voice cracked. "You don't get to show up months later and say you want me like it's that simple."
"It is that simple." He moved closer still, close enough to touch. "I was scared, Paris. Scared of how much I felt, scared of ruining something good because I didn't know how to be anything but a fuckboy. But I'm not scared anymore."
"Prove it."
The challenge was sharp, but he saw the vulnerability beneath it. He reached out slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, and cupped her face in his hands. Her skin was warm beneath his palms, her breath hitching as he leaned in close.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured. "I'm not going to run, or lie, or pretend I don't feel what I feel. You asked me once if I was ready to commit, and I was too much of a coward to answer. I'm answering now."
He paused, letting the moment stretch, letting her see the truth in his eyes.
"Yes. I'm ready. I'm ready to be yours, completely, if you'll still have me."
She searched his face, looking for the lie, the loophole, the escape hatch he'd always kept ready. But there was none.
And then she kissed him.
It was desperate and hungry, her fingers fisting in his shirt as she pulled him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding into her hair, tilting her head back as he deepened the kiss until they were both breathless.
She broke away first, gasping. "Not here. Someone could—"
"Your dorm," he said. "Now."
"Your dorm. Now."
The words hung in the stale library air, charged with an urgency that made her forget the stack of books waiting for her. She grabbed her bag in a daze, shoving the notebook inside without bothering to close it properly. He followed close behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body through the thin fabric of his shirt.
The night air hit them like a wall of cool relief as they burst through the library doors. She walked fast, her sneakers slapping against the concrete, her heart hammering so loud she was certain he could hear it. He kept pace beside her, his presence a magnetic pull that made her skin prickle with awareness.
They didn't speak. Words felt inadequate for the thing building between them, the electric tension crackling in the space between their bodies.
Her dorm building loomed ahead, and she fumbled with her key card, her fingers trembling. The door swung open, and she led him up the stairs, down the familiar hallway, past doors adorned with whiteboards and decorations that blurred into meaningless shapes.
She unlocked her room, pushing the door open. The fairy lights she'd left on cast a warm, flickering glow over the chaos—the stacks of books, the scattered pens, the laptop screen still glowing with a half-written story. She barely registered any of it.
The door clicked shut behind them.
He was on her in an instant, his mouth crashing against hers with a hunger that stole her breath. She responded in kind, her fingers fisting in his shirt as she pulled him closer, needing him closer, needing to erase every inch of distance that had grown between them.
"There's something I need to tell you—" he started, but she cut him off.
"Later." She tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head. "I don't want to talk. I just want you inside me."
The words ignited something primal in his eyes. He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed, laying her down with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the fire burning in his gaze.
He stripped off her clothes with shaking hands, his movements urgent but reverent, as if he was unwrapping something precious. She returned the favor, her fingers working at his belt buckle with a desperation that made her hands clumsy.
This time, there was no hesitation.
He positioned himself at her entrance, and she pulled him down, capturing his mouth in a kiss as he thrust inside her. They both groaned into each other's mouths, finally connected again.
"Fuck," she breathed as he filled her completely. "I forgot how good you feel."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made her heart stutter. "I didn't forget. I couldn't forget. I've thought about this every single night since you kicked me out."
She didn't want to hear that—she couldn't afford to hear it. Not when she'd finally learned to build walls around the wreckage of her heart. She arched her hips, forcing him deeper inside, making him forget about words.
"Then stop talking and show me."
He did.
His mouth found her neck as he moved inside her with a rhythm that was slow, deliberate, each thrust hitting that spot that made her see stars. She clawed at his back, her nails raking down his skin as the pleasure built, coiling in her belly like a snake preparing to strike.
"God, you feel so good," he groaned against her ear. "So tight, so perfect. I don't deserve this."
"Shut up." She gasped as he drove deeper. "Just shut up and fuck me."
He flipped her onto her stomach, lifting her hips as he drove into her from behind. She cried out, her fingers gripping the sheets as he slammed into her with a force that made the headboard bang against the wall. His hand came around, his thumb finding her clit as he pounded into her from behind.
"There it is," he grunted. "There's that fucking grip. You missed me too, didn't you?"
She couldn't answer—could only moan as the pleasure built to a fever pitch, his thumb circling her clit with that practiced precision that made her forget everything else.
"I'm gonna come," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Fuck, Justin, I'm gonna—"
"Let go," he commanded, his thrusts growing frantic. "Let go for me, baby. Squirt all over my cock."
She shattered, crying out his name as the orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing as she came hard. He didn't stop—he kept pounding into her, riding out her climax, and she felt a second wave building even as the first was still cresting.
He reached under her, his fingers finding her clit again, working her with ruthless precision. "Give me another one," he growled. "I know you've got more in you."
She did. Her body was trembling, oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire as he drove her toward a second peak. She peaked again, gushing around him with a force that left them both soaked. The feeling of her liquid heat around his cock drove him over the edge, and he came inside her with a guttural groan, spilling his release as his hips shuddered against hers.
They collapsed together, tangled in the wet sheets, their breathing ragged and harsh. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, pressing kisses along the curve of her shoulder.
"I love you," he murmured. "I love you so much."
She stiffened in his arms.
The words hung in the air like a challenge, demanding a response she wasn't ready to give. She'd let him back into her body—maybe that had been a mistake.
She pulled away, sitting up, her back to him. The fairy lights cast her shadow across the wall, fragile and small.
"You should go."
"What?" He sat up, his hand reaching for her shoulder. "Paris—"
"Don't." She shrugged off his touch, wrapping her arms around herself. "Don't say anything else."
"Please, just talk to me. After everything we just—"
"We just fucked." Her voice was hollow. "That's all."
"That's not all." He moved to sit beside her, his face etched with confusion. "I told you I loved you. I thought we could—"
"We can't." She turned to face him, her amber eyes flat and unreadable. "I don't trust you, Justin. How could I trust anything you say when every word out of your mouth has been a lie disguised as honesty?"
The accusation hit him like a physical blow. "That's not fair. I've never lied to you. I told you from the beginning that I wasn't looking for commitment—"
"And then you told me you loved me, and you let me fall for you, and you made me believe we could be something real." Her voice cracked, and she hated herself for the weakness it betrayed. "But you weren't ready—you said so yourself. And then you ran back to Kate the moment things got messy."
"I ended things with Kate. Tonight. I told her—"
"I don't care what you told her." Paris stood, her movements sharp and defensive. "I spent months picking up the pieces you left behind. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I can count. And now you show up, say you love me, and expect me to just open my legs and believe you?"
He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand, cutting him off.
"I don't trust you. Maybe I never will." Her voice settled into something calm, clinical—the tone she used when analyzing literature, when dissecting a text she'd lost faith in. "So I'm going to lay out the terms, and you're going to listen."
He stared at her, stunned into silence.
"We can do this." She gestured to the tangled sheets, the lingering scent of their lovemaking. "Occasionally, when I want it. When I'm lonely or frustrated or just need a warm body that knows how to make me come. But that's all it is. That's all it will ever be."
Justin's jaw tightened. "And if I want more?"
"Then we're nothing at all." Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet, deliberate and damning at once. "You don't get to have it both ways. You don't get to fuck me when it's convenient and then expect me to trust you with my heart. You broke something that can't be unbroken."
"I can fix it. I can earn back your trust—"
"You can't." Her words were sharp, cutting. "You made your choice months ago, and it wasn't me. I'm not willing to give you the chance to hurt me again. I can't go through that again." She looked away, her voice dropping. "So either we do this on my terms, or we don't do this at all."
The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, each second amplifying the distance that had grown between their bodies and the thing that had once felt like love.
He stood slowly, pulling on his clothes with mechanical movements. The man who'd entered her room with such fire and passion was gone, replaced by someone quieter, someone who'd just been handed a sentence he couldn't appeal.
"I want more," he said finally. "But I'll take what you're willing to give me."
Paris crossed her arms tighter, a shield against the ache in her chest. "Then we have an understanding."
"Just tell me one thing." He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Do you feel anything for me at all?"
Her silence was his answer.
He nodded slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "That's what I thought."
She should have let him walk out. Should have let the door click shut and the silence settle back in like a familiar blanket. But something in her chest cracked open as he turned to leave, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "Stay."
He froze.
"I'm saying stay." Her voice was steadier now, though her hands shook at her sides. "Not because I trust you. Not because I think we can work. But because I'm tired of lying to myself about what I want."
He turned to face her, his dark eyes searching hers for the truth beneath the armor. "And what do you want?"
She crossed the room in three steps, pressing her palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her hands. "You. Right now. In my bed."
"One time," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "That's all this is. I need you to know that."
He cupped her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. "I know what you're giving me. I know what you're not. I'll take what I can get."
She kissed him before he could say anything else, pulling him back toward the bed with a desperation that surprised them both. The tenderness from before evaporated, replaced by something rawer, more primal. She pushed him onto the mattress and climbed on top, guiding him inside her with a single, fluid motion.
"Don't say you love me," she whispered as she rode him, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was all appetite. "Don't say anything you don't mean."
"I won't." He gripped her hips, helping her find the rhythm she wanted. "I'll just feel you."
She leaned forward, her mouth finding his as she moved faster, chasing a release that hovered just out of reach. His hands found her clit, stroking her in time with her movements.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, you're so good. Right there, baby."
She came with a sharp cry, her body shuddering above him. He followed moments later, his hands tightening on her hips as he spilled inside her.
This time, when she collapsed beside him, he didn't say anything. He just held her as she drifted off to sleep, her head resting on his chest, her breath evening out.
Paris woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside her were cold, and the indentation of his body was barely visible in the morning light. She lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the hollow ache settle in her chest.
When she finally sat up, she saw the note on her desk, weighted down by one of her dog-eared copies of Proust.
I know you don't want me to say it. So I won't. But that doesn't change the fact that I'll be waiting for you when you're ready. - J
She crumpled the note in her fist, a single tear escaping down her cheek. She had all the power now. She'd set the terms and he'd accepted them. This was what she wanted.
But it didn't feel like winning.