Chapter 2: Liquid Courage and Loose Lips
The crowd swallowed us whole the second we stepped through the sliding glass door.
Heat hit me first—that thick, human warmth of too many bodies packed into too small a space, sweat and perfume and spilled beer mingling into something that wasn't quite unpleasant but wasn't exactly pleasant either. The living room had transformed since I'd slipped out back. What had been a manageable gathering was now a full-blown crush, people pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting conversations over a bassline that vibrated through the soles of my feet.
Derek's hand tightened around mine. I glanced back at him, and he raised an eyebrow—a silent question. You sure about this?
I wasn't. But I nodded anyway.
We carved a path through the mass of bodies, dodging a girl who was crying into her phone and a guy who was attempting some kind of breakdance move that mostly involved flailing on the sticky hardwood. The air smelled like tequila and bad decisions.
The bar cart materialized through the crowd like a neon oasis—a rickety metal thing on wheels, crammed with half-empty bottles and crushed ice and cups that had been abandoned hours ago. The surface was slick with something I didn't want to identify, and the mirrors behind it caught the strobe lights in fractured, dizzying patterns.
Priya was already there.
Of course she was. My best friend had a sixth sense for alcohol and drama, and she'd clearly been holding court at the bar cart for a while now. Her sleek black hair was still perfect—how did she do that?—and her vintage floral dress looked unfairly put-together compared to my rumpled lace and smeared eyeliner. She had a drink in one hand and was gesturing wildly with the other, telling some story to a couple of guys I vaguely recognized from the earlier rounds of shots.
She spotted me before I spotted her.
"MIA!" Her voice cut through the noise like a knife through butter. "Where the fuck have you been? I've been looking everywhere!"
"Smoke break."
"You don't smoke."
"I do tonight."
Priya's eyes flicked to Derek, then back to me. Her expression cycled through surprise, recognition, and something that looked dangerously like glee.
"And you brought company," she said slowly.
"Priya, this is—"
"Derek Callahan." She said his name like she was tasting it, deciding whether to spit it out or swallow. "Jake's Derek. The best friend."
"The one and only." Derek's voice was easy, but I felt the tension in his hand. "We've met before. A couple of times."
"At the bowling night." Priya's eyes narrowed. "The one with the ugly sweater."
"That's the one."
"Huh." She took a long sip of her drink, studying him over the rim of her glass. "Interesting."
I needed to redirect this conversation before Priya said something I couldn't take back.
"Shots," I announced, grabbing two plastic cups from the stack. "We're doing shots."
"We're already doing shots," one of the guys said.
"Then we're doing more." I found the tequila—a decent bottle, not the cheap stuff—and poured generously. The liquid sloshed over the rims, and I didn't care. "Derek. Get over here."
He stepped up beside me, close enough that his arm brushed mine. I handed him a cup and took one for myself, then raised it toward Priya and the guys.
"To unexpected reunions."
"To unexpected reunions," Derek echoed, his eyes on me.
We drank. The tequila burned a path down my throat, warm and familiar, settling somewhere deep in my chest. I felt it hit my bloodstream almost immediately, adding to the pleasant buzz I'd been nursing all night.
Priya slammed her empty cup down on the bar cart. "Okay, my turn. Truth or dare."
"We're not playing truth or dare."
"We're playing truth or dare," she insisted, pouring herself another shot. "I'll go first. Truth. Ask me anything."
One of the guys—Tyler? Tanner?—leaned forward. "How many drinks have you had tonight?"
"Boring." Priya waved a dismissive hand. "Pick something interesting."
"Fine. Who's the best lay you've ever had?"
Priya's grin turned predatory. "Paul from my ceramics class. That man could do things with his tongue that should be illegal." She winked at me. "Mia knows. I told her all about it."
"Unfortunately," I muttered.
"My turn." Priya's eyes landed on Derek, and I felt my stomach drop. "Derek. Truth or dare."
He considered for a moment. "Truth."
"Have you ever been in love?"
The question hung in the air, deceptively simple. I watched Derek's face, looking for any sign of discomfort, any crack in his easy composure.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I have."
"For how long?"
"That's two questions."
Priya's eyes sparkled. "So it is."
She let it drop—for now—and poured another round of shots. Someone changed the music, and the bassline shifted to something slower, slinkier. Bodies pressed closer together on the makeshift dance floor. The room felt smaller, hotter, more intimate.
I took my shot and felt it bloom in my chest.
"Mia." Priya's voice had softened, losing its sharp edge. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "I'm glad you came out tonight. I was worried about you."
"You're always worried about me."
"Because you're a disaster magnet." She pressed a sloppy kiss to my cheek. "But I love you anyway."
"Love you too."
"Which is why I have to say this." She pulled back, her expression turning serious—or as serious as it could get with three-plus drinks in her system. "Jake was a fucking nightmare. You know that, right?"
"Priya—"
"I'm serious. That man was a selfish douche who never made you come." Her voice was rising, carrying over the music. "I mean, honestly, what kind of grown-ass man needs to be begged to go down on his girlfriend? That's fucking embarrassing."
The room tilted slightly. Or maybe that was just me.
"Priya, maybe we should—"
"Like, I remember that night you called me, crying, because he told you it was 'too much work' and you should just 'get there yourself.'" She made air quotes with her fingers, her face twisted in disgust. "What a fucking loser."
"Priya." My voice came out sharper now, desperate. "That's enough."
But she was on a roll, her filter completely dissolved by tequila and righteous anger. She turned to Derek, draping an arm around his shoulders like they were old friends.
"You know what I'm talking about, right? You were his best friend. You saw how he treated her." She shook her head, her voice dripping with contempt. "Getting him to go down on her took actual begging. Like, on her knees, please-just-this-once begging. And even then he'd act like he was doing her a favor."
My face was on fire. The entire bar cart area had gone quiet, or maybe that was just the blood roaring in my ears. I could feel eyes on me—strangers, friends, everyone.
"Priya." Derek's voice was calm, measured. "Maybe we should—"
"And the worst part?" Priya barreled on, oblivious. "He never even tried to make it good for her. Just assumed his mediocre dick was enough. News flash, asshole—it wasn't. It really, really wasn't."
She paused, blinking. The silence stretched. And then, slowly, horrifically, her face went pale.
"Oh fuck."
I closed my eyes.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck." Priya clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "Did I say that out loud? Please tell me I didn't say that out loud."
"You said it out loud," one of the guys confirmed helpfully.
"Fuck." Priya turned to me, her expression desperate. "Mia. Mia, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I mean, I did mean it, but I didn't mean to—fuck."
"It's fine." The words came out flat, hollow. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. That was—I shouldn't have—" She grabbed my arm, her grip too tight. "Please don't kill me. I'll do anything. I'll buy you dinner for a month. I'll—"
"Priya." I pried her fingers off my arm, gentle but firm. "It's okay. Really."
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Oh fuck, don't tell her I said that, she's going to fucking kill me."
"I just heard you say it."
"Right. Right, that's—yeah." She covered her face with both hands. "I'm going to go find a hole to die in now."
She stumbled off toward the bathroom, leaving me standing there with Derek and a small audience of strangers who were pretending very hard not to listen.
Derek hadn't moved. He stood beside me, his cup still raised, his eyes fixed on me across the rim of his shot glass.
There was something in his expression I couldn't quite read. Not pity. Not amusement. Something darker. Something that looked almost like determination.
"So," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Jake never made you come."
"Derek—"
"He never ate you out properly."
"That's not—"
"Never made you feel good." He lowered his cup, setting it on the bar cart with deliberate precision. "Never made you scream."
My heart was pounding. The room felt too hot, too close, too loud. I could feel the tequila humming in my veins, the weed softening the edges of everything.
"What are you doing?" I whispered.
Derek leaned in, his mouth brushing my ear. His breath was warm, his voice rough.
"Handing you a mission."
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. The look on his face made my knees weak.
"You deserve better than that," he said. "You know that, right?"
I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up, my brain short-circuiting.
Derek's hand found mine again, his fingers intertwining with my own. He didn't say anything else. He didn't have to.
The bassline thumped. The lights flickered. Somewhere in the house, Priya was probably screaming into a pillow.
And I was standing there, holding Derek Callahan's hand, wondering how the hell I'd gotten here.
"Come on," he said finally. "Let's get out of here."
"Where?"
"Somewhere quiet."
I should have said no. Should have walked away. Should have found Priya and gone home and pretended this night never happened.
Instead, I let him lead me through the crowd.
We pushed past the dancers, past the bathroom line, past the kitchen where someone was doing body shots off a guy in a crop top. The back hallway was quieter, darker, lined with closed doors and mystery stains on the carpet.
Derek stopped at the last door. He tried the handle. It opened.
Inside was a small bedroom—maybe a guest room, maybe someone's actual room—with a unmade bed and a single window overlooking the backyard. The string lights outside cast everything in a dim, golden glow.
He closed the door behind us. The lock clicked.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. The music from the party was muffled now, a distant heartbeat. The cicadas had gone quiet. Or maybe I just couldn't hear them anymore.
"You don't have to do this," Derek said. "If you want to go back out there, I'll walk you to your friends. No questions asked."
"I know."
"But if you stay." He stepped closer. "If you stay, I'm going to make you feel good. Better than good. I'm going to make you forget his name."
My breath caught. "Derek—"
"I've wanted you for three years." His hand came up, cupping my jaw. "Three years of watching him waste you. Three years of wanting to—"
He stopped himself. Shook his head.
"I'm not going to rush you," he said. "But I'm not going to pretend anymore either. Tell me what you want."
I looked at him—really looked. At the sandy hair falling across his forehead. At the blue eyes that had watched me across crowded rooms for years. At the mouth that had just promised to ruin me in the best possible way.
"I want you," I said. "Right now. Right here."
His mouth crashed into mine.
It wasn't like the kiss outside—that one had been tentative, searching, a question. This was an answer. This was teeth and tongue and hands grabbing at clothes, pulling lace and buttons and everything else out of the way.
He backed me against the door, his body pressing into mine. I could feel every inch of him—the lean muscle of his chest, the hardness of his cock straining against his jeans. My fingers fumbled with his belt, desperate, clumsy.
"Tell me what you like," he murmured against my throat. "Tell me what he never did."
"Everything." The word came out breathless. "He never did anything. He just—he just assumed—"
"Assumed his dick was enough." Derek's mouth curved against my skin. "Fucking idiot."
He dropped to his knees.
I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders. "Derek—"
"Shut up." His fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts, pulling them down with my underwear in one rough motion. "Let me show you what you've been missing."
And then his mouth was on me.
I bit my lip to keep from screaming, my head falling back against the door. His tongue was hot and insistent, dragging through my folds with a purpose that made my vision blur. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"That's it," he murmured against my clit, the vibration making me shudder. "Let me hear you."
"I can't—the party—"
"Fuck the party." He sucked hard, and I nearly collapsed. "Let them hear. Let everyone fucking hear how good this feels."
His tongue flicked in rapid, relentless strokes. His fingers found my entrance, sliding inside me with a deliberate slowness that made my walls clench around him. One finger. Two. Crooking upward, hitting a spot that made my knees buckle.
"Oh fuck," I gasped. "Oh fuck, Derek—"
"Say my name again."
"Derek—"
"Again."
"Derek, please, I'm—"
He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my slick skin. "You're what?"
"I'm going to come."
"Then do it." He dove back in, his tongue working my clit in perfect counterpoint to his fingers pumping inside me. "Come for me, Mia. Let go."
I didn't have a choice. The orgasm ripped through me like a wave, crashing over every nerve ending, leaving me shaking and gasping and clutching at his hair. He didn't stop—kept licking and sucking and finger-fucking me until I was trembling, oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders.
When he finally stood, his mouth was wet and his eyes were wild.
"Taste yourself," he said, and kissed me.
I could taste it—my own arousal on his tongue, salty and sweet. It should have been obscene. It was, probably. But I didn't care. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the bed.
"Your turn," I said. "Lie down."
He didn't argue.
He stripped off his shirt—lean muscle, light dusting of hair, a tattoo I hadn't noticed before curving over his shoulder—and stretched out on the bed. His belt was still unbuckled, his jeans embarrassingly tented.
I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.
"You're still wearing your shirt," he pointed out.
"I know." I pulled it over my head, tossing it somewhere behind me. My breasts spilled out, lace cups doing nothing to contain them. "Worth the wait?"
His hands came up, cupping both breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. "Fuck, yes."
I unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down, along with his boxers. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, curving slightly upward. I wrapped my hand around it, felt it twitch in my grip.
"You're big," I said, almost admiring. "Bigger than him."
"Good." Derek's hands moved to my hips, fingers digging into the ink curving over my waist. "Ride me."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I positioned myself over him and sank down slowly, feeling every inch stretch me, fill me. The stretch was good—better than good. A burn that felt like relief.
"Fuck," Derek breathed. "You feel—"
"Amazing?" I suggested.
"Better than that."
I moved. Slow at first, rolling my hips, getting used to the feel of him. Then faster. His hands guided my rhythm, urging me on, matching my pace with thrusts of his own.
The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. Neither of us cared.
"So good," I gasped. "Fuck, Derek, you feel so good."
"Better than Jake?"
"Don't say his name."
"Say mine."
"Derek—"
"Again."
"DER-ek—"
He flipped us over. One second I was on top, the next I was pinned beneath him, my wrists trapped in one of his hands above my head. He fucked into me deep and steady, his eyes locked onto mine.
"I'm going to make you come again," he said. "And you're going to scream my name when you do."
He fucked me harder, deeper, angling his hips to hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. I was so close already—so sensitive from the first orgasm, so on edge from everything.
"Please," I begged. "Please, Derek, I'm—"
"Wait for me."
"I can't—"
"Wait."
He thrust deep, held himself there, grinding against my clit. The pressure was unbearable, perfect, building to something I couldn't control.
"Now," he said. "Come for me now."
I shattered. His name tore from my throat—loud, raw, desperate. I felt him pulse inside me, his own release following mine, his face buried in my neck as he shuddered and gasped.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. His weight on top of me was grounding, reassuring. The party had faded to a dull murmur. The cicadas had returned, their chorus filtering in through the closed window.
Derek rolled off me slowly, pulling me against his chest. His heart was pounding, and his skin was slick with sweat. We lay there, tangled together, catching our breath.
"I was not expecting that," he said, his voice rough.
"Neither was I."
"Good surprise?"
"I don't know yet." I didn't mean to say it, but the words slipped out before I could stop them. "This is still complicated."
"It is."
"Jake's going to find out."
"Probably."
"You're not worried?"
Derek was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed my forehead and said, "I've spent three years being careful. I'm done with that."
I should have argued. Should have pointed out all the reasons this was a terrible idea. But his arms were warm around me, his heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, and the truth was—I didn't want to move.
I didn't want to leave this room. This moment. Him.
"One night," I said finally. "We can have one night."
Derek's chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Is that what you think this is?"
"I don't know what this is."
"Mia." He tipped my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I love you. I've loved you for three years. One night isn't going to change that."
My throat tightened. "Derek—"
"You don't have to say it back." He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "But don't pretend this is just a hookup. I'm not him. I'm not going to fuck you and disappear."
I stared at him, speechless.
"I'm going to worship you," he said. "Every day. For as long as you'll let me."
The words landed somewhere deep, somewhere I'd been keeping locked and barred. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe so badly it hurt.
But I'd been burned before.
"Prove it," I whispered.
Derek's eyes darkened. "Again?"
"Again." I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. "And again. Until I believe you."
He grinned—that slow, easy grin I'd fallen for three years ago.
"Careful what you wish for."
And then he rolled us over and started proving it.