Chapter 1: Sparks at Red Bedroom Records
The air in Red Bedroom Records hit Jamie Scott like a physical force the moment the door hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside. Late afternoon sun, thick and golden, poured through the skylights, catching the swirling dust motes dancing above endless rows of vinyl spines. The scent was a heady cocktail: aged paper, warm wood, a faint tang of ozone from old electronics, and the cloying sweetness of melting vinyl beneath the heat. It felt like stepping into the lungs of a sleeping giant.
And then he saw her.
Peyton Sawyer stood bathed in one of those dusty sunbeams, silhouetted against a wall plastered with faded concert posters. Music pulsed low – a slow, deep bassline that thrummed through the floorboards and into Jamie's bones. She was swaying, her eyes half-lidded, caught in a private rhythm. It wasn't a dance meant for watching; it was unconscious, a physical sigh. Her hips rolled in slow, mesmerizing circles, shifting the weight gracefully from one booted foot to the other.
His breath caught, sharp and sudden in his throat.
She wore a sleeveless charcoal silk blouse, the delicate fabric clinging to her skin like ink. It was damp. Sweat glistened along the elegant ridge of her collarbones, catching the light, tracing a path down the open V at her throat. As she leaned slightly to inspect a record spine, the silk stretched taut across her back. He saw the faint outline of her bra strap, a darker line beneath the thin barrier.
"Hey, Trouble." Her voice, when it came, was warm honey laced with familiar sarcasm. She turned, a slow pivot on the worn wooden floor, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. The movement made the silk ripple, catching the light differently. Her famous curls, a vibrant cascade of auburn and gold, tumbled over one shoulder. She hadn't changed it, not really. Still that untamed halo he remembered from countless afternoons at his parents' house, from childhood sleepovers where he’d lie awake, listening to the murmur of her voice downstairs with his mom and Brooke, memorizing the cadence of her laugh. Her eyes, that impossible, luminous blue-green, fixed on him, sharp and knowing.
"Thought you might chicken out," she continued, stepping closer. The scent hit him then, cutting through the shop's mustiness: jasmine. Sharp, intoxicating, the exact same perfume she’d worn when he was twelve and she’d ruffled his hair after a soccer game. That scent haunted the edges of his dreams even now, tangled with half-remembered fantasies.
"Peyton. Hey." His own voice sounded rough, unfamiliar. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets to hide how they wanted to tremble. She was here. Real. Close. Sweating in silk. "Wouldn't miss it. Mom practically shoved me out the door."
She chuckled, a low, smoky sound that vibrated down his spine. She reached up, her fingers brushing through the short, dark hair at his temple. It was a careless gesture, habitual, leftover from when he was just Haley’s kid. But her nails, short and painted a deep plum, grazed his scalp. Just a whisper of contact.
Electricity. Pure, undiluted. It sizzled down his neck, across his shoulders, and arrowed straight to his groin. His cock gave a hard, insistent throb against the denim of his jeans, startlingly immediate. He sucked in a breath, hoping she hadn’t noticed the slight jolt that ran through him.
"Still looks like you need shoving sometimes," she teased, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Kid." She emphasized the word, but her gaze lingered on his face, perhaps registering the sharpening jawline, the loss of true baby-fat. "God, Jamie Scott. Seems like yesterday you were building blanket forts in my living room, stealing my french fries."
"Your fries were legendary," he managed, forcing a grin that felt tight on his face. He could still feel the phantom trace of her nails, the heat radiating from her skin mere inches away. Six years. Six years of sidelong glances across crowded rooms, of stealing glimpses of her neck as she bent over her sketchpad at his kitchen table – that smooth column of skin disappearing into her shirt that had fueled a thousand adolescent fantasies. Six years of the way her curls bounced with her laughter, a bright, defiant cascade against the world's grey. Six years of this low-burning ache that felt less like a crush now and more like a fundamental need. He remembered the exact curve of her calf beneath a summer dress when he was fifteen, the way her lower lip looked when she bit it in concentration. He remembered everything.
"Flattery will get you an interview, maybe," she said, turning away towards the cluttered mixing board nestled in a corner alcove. "Come on. Let’s talk while I cue up something less… soporific." She bent forward over the console, her back to him, reaching for a vinyl sleeve. Her skirt – he hadn’t fully registered it before – was a short swathe of dark jersey. As she leaned, it rode up the backs of her thighs.
Lace.
Jet black, delicate lace, stark against the creamy skin of her upper thighs. Thigh-high stockings. The tops were scalloped, intricate, disappearing just an inch or two beneath the skirt's hem. The revelation was a punch to his gut. He could see the subtle tension of the elastic band digging slightly into her flesh, the smooth expanse of skin above it, the vulnerable curve where thigh met buttock.
His pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the bassline. Heat flooded his face, his neck. His cock was fully hard now, a thick, aching pressure trapped behind his zipper. His palms were slick inside his pockets. He stared, helpless, at the contrast – the dark lace, the pale skin, the careless invitation of her pose. Years of stolen looks coalesced into this single, devastating image. How many times had he imagined touching her? How many times had he woken aching and guilty from dreams filled with the scent of jasmine and the imagined texture of her skin?
She shifted her weight, hunching slightly further to examine a dial. The silk blouse, already strained across her back, gaped open at the neckline. Jamie’s breath hitched. He saw the deep shadowed hollow between her breasts, the subtle swell of flesh pushing against the constraint beneath. The edge of her bra – also lace, he saw now, maybe cream or pale pink against her dusky gold skin – peeked out, barely containing her. The lace was intricate, delicate, whispering secrets he desperately wanted to know. The top curve of her breast, soft and full, seemed impossibly close. He could almost feel the heat radiating from that shadowed valley, imagine the soft weight, the texture. His mouth went desert-dry.
"Okay," Peyton murmured, more to herself than him, her fingers deft on the board. "Let's see what you think of this one..." She reached sideways, stretching for a pen that had rolled just out of reach on the console's surface. It was a small movement, twisting her torso slightly towards him.
The gap in her blouse widened.
Just for a split second. A flash of skin. More than the hollow. The lace bra dipped lower, revealing the soft upper swell of her breast, the very edge of a dusky areola peeking above the scalloped edge. It was fleeting, accidental, a consequence of the stretch and the heat-loosened silk.
But to Jamie, it was a lightning strike.
White-hot. Brutal. It shattered the fragile dam holding back the raw, ragged hunger that had been building inside him for years. Every suppressed groan, every stolen glance, every fevered dream roared to the surface in a single, blinding surge. His carefully constructed restraint, the veneer of the polite kid visiting his mom’s friend, evaporated. His body moved before his mind could catch up, pulled towards that exposed sliver of skin like a planet caught in a star's gravity. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, started to lift from his pocket.
The lift of Jamie's hand wasn't conscious. It was pure, raw instinct, a magnet drawn to the exposed heat radiating from Peyton's skin. He didn't walk; he surged, closing the scant distance between them in a single, fluid step that brought his chest flush against her back. The heat hit him first – a furnace blast through his thin t-shirt, the damp silk of her blouse instantly clinging to him. The scent overwhelmed him: jasmine, sweat, her. The bassline thrummed beneath their feet, syncing with the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs.
Peyton jolted. A low chuckle escaped her, breathy and rough. "Whoa, kiddo," she murmured, her voice thick with amusement, head tilting slightly. She thought it was a joke, a clumsy lunge toward the locked demo vault cabinet beside the mixing board. "Easy there. It's not going anywhere." Her hip nudged gently back against his thigh, playful.
His response was silence. His right hand, the one that had lifted, snaked past her waist, fingers finding the cold metal slide of the heavy deadbolt on the thick shop door. With a decisive, slick click, he shoved it home. The sound wasn't loud, but in the sudden intimacy choked by the low music, it landed. Like the wet flick of a tongue dragged hard up the length of her spine.
Peyton froze. The playful curve of her lips vanished, replaced by a slackness of shock. Her pulse erupted beneath the delicate skin of her throat, fluttering wildly, visibly against the damp column. He saw it. A frantic bird trapped against glass. Panic flared in her wide, impossibly blue-green eyes.
"Jamie?" Her voice was a thin rasp now, stripped of warmth. She tried to push back, to step away, but the edge of the crowded mixing board dug into her hips from the front, trapping her against him. Her back arched slightly, pressing her ass more firmly against the hard, undeniable ridge of his erection straining against his jeans. The thin layers of his denim and her jersey skirt offered no real barrier; the heat was scalding, the shape of him unmistakable – a thick, rigid line grinding insistently into the cleft of her ass.
Oh god, yes. Right here. Feel it? Feel how much I want you? Six years. Six years of wanting just this. Fuck yes. The thought roared through Jamie’s mind, primal and victorious. The fantasy tasted metallic, coppery with desperation, flooding his mouth. Seeing the lace, that glimpse of breast, the scent of her sweat… it shattered every civilized restraint. He was drowning in the reality of her pressed against him, the silk clinging to her skin, the heat radiating from her lower back. His left palm flattened against her lower abdomen, pressing hard through the silk. His thumb slid upwards, catching roughly on the elastic waistband of her skirt. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve beneath her navel. He felt it immediately – a tremor deep within her core muscles, a subtle, involuntary clenching that vibrated against his fingertips.
Peyton gasped. A short, sharp intake of breath that caught halfway. Half protest, half something else entirely. Her thighs clenched tight together instinctively, a reflex against the sudden, overwhelming pressure grinding against her backside, against the possessive spread of his hand low on her belly. Her left hand shot out, gripping the metal edge of the mixing board with white-knuckled force. The platinum band of her wedding ring scraped harshly against the brushed aluminum, a tiny, grating screech lost beneath the music but screaming in her own ears.
Her mind fractured. One part screamed danger, a primal alarm shrieking through the haze of shock and sudden, terrifying vulnerability. Haley’s son. Haley’s son! What the HELL is he doing? Get off! Move! NOW! The locked door clicked again in her memory, sealing them in this suffocating intimacy. The heat radiating from him was oppressive, terrifying. His erection felt like a weapon, demanding, violating the space she thought was safe. Shame washed over her, hot and prickling – shame at being caught off guard, shame at the sheer audacity of this assault by him.
But another current surged beneath the terror and outrage, dark and treacherous. It was the involuntary clench of her thighs against the grinding pressure, a treacherous pulse of heat blooming low in her belly, radiating outwards from where his thumb brushed her skirt band. It was the way her skin prickled wherever his hand pressed, the damp silk amplifying the contact. And the smell. Goddamn it, the smell. Burying her nose slightly against her shoulder, trying to escape him, she inhaled deeply. Beneath the jasmine, beneath the shop's dust and vinyl, there it was: a ghost scent. Clean soap, adolescent sweat, sunshine on grass. Lucas. Not Lucas now, but Lucas at sixteen, leaning against her locker, radiating that same potent, confusing aura of burgeoning masculinity. The scent memory hit her with brutal force, a wave of nostalgia tangled with forbidden sensation. No. Nonononono. She hated it. Hated the treacherous ache it awoke, hated the way her body, conditioned by decades of loving Lucas, responded to that echo in his son. Hated that amidst the terror, a sliver of her registered the hardness of him, the sheer physicality, and didn't recoil entirely with pure disgust.
Yes. Trembling. For me. She feels it. She knows. Jamie watched the frantic pulse in her throat. He saw the stark white of her knuckles gripping the console. He felt the tremor beneath his splayed hand intensify. His own shame was a cold whisper at the edges of the burning lust, a flicker of Haley’s friend, Mom will kill me, what am I DOING? drowned instantly by the roaring need. Her ass was soft, impossibly yielding against his cock. The lace he’d glimpsed was there, just beneath the hem of her skirt, inches from his questing fingers. The fantasy wasn't fantasy anymore. It was silk, sweat, heat, and trembling muscle pressed against him. His hand, still pressed firmly low on her belly, began to move downwards. Slowly, deliberately. His fingers curled inward, seeking the hem of her skirt bunched against the console.
The rough pads of his fingers found the soft jersey fabric riding high on the back of her thigh. He hooked them – not gently – underneath the hem. The dark material gathered instantly, bunching roughly against the tender skin of her upper thighs, pulled taut against the intricate black lace tops of her stockings. The cool air of the shop brushed the newly exposed skin just above the lace. His thumb, still outside the skirt, pressed harder against the waistband, anchoring her as his other fingers curled possessively beneath the fabric, against bare skin just above the delicate scalloped edge of the stocking. The lace scraped softly against his knuckles. He stopped there, poised, breathing raggedly against the damp silk covering her shoulder blade, his cock a burning brand against her, his hand claiming the territory beneath her skirt. The tremors running through her muscles vibrated against his invading fingers.
The tremors running through her muscles vibrated against his invading fingers. It was the only warning. Then his grip hardened, knuckles whitening against the pale skin of her upper thigh where his fingers hooked beneath the skirt. A choked gasp tore from Peyton’s throat, swallowed by the thumping bassline. In one vicious, upward yank, he hauled the dark jersey skirt to her waist. The fabric bunched thickly against her hip bones, exposing the intricate black lace tops of her stockings and the delicate, matching panties beneath.
“Jamie! Stop—!”
The protest died as a dry sob. His other hand, the one low on her belly, didn’t move to the panties. It fisted the lace edge near her hip and pulled. A sharp, tearing rip cut through the humid air – the seam giving way as easily as wet paper. Cool air hit newly bared skin, intimate and violating.
Her sob was hot and wet against the sweat-damp cotton of his hoodie. Instinct took over. Her hands flew from the mixing board, clawing desperately at his back, nails raking skin through the thin fabric. It was futile, a trapped animal’s struggle. He didn’t flinch. Instead, his knee slammed between her thighs, forcing them brutally apart, pinning her harder against the console’s unyielding edge. She felt the rough denim of his jeans against her inner thigh, then the terrifying brush of heat and hardness as he shoved his own jeans down just enough.
No. No. Haley’s son. Lucas’s son. God— The thoughts fragmented.
He freed himself – thick, flushed, the glistening head slick with precome catching the dusty golden light. There was no fumbling, no hesitation born of inexperience, only the raw, focused hunger that had consumed him for years. He lined himself up against her exposed, vulnerable entrance, already slick with her fear and unwanted arousal. Then, in a single, brutal stroke that tore a ragged scream from her lungs, he thrust in to the hilt.
The impact slammed her body forward. The heavy mixing board rattled violently; a plastic fader knob snapped clean off under her splayed, desperate palm, skittering across the console. Pain exploded – a burning, stretching agony deep inside her, obliterating thought. Hot tears welled instantly, streaking black mascara down her cheeks in messy rivers. The violent shove also tore the silk blouse wider; her breasts sprang free of the flimsy lace bra, the peaked nipples dragging harshly over the cold, brushed aluminum surface of the console with every subsequent, punishing thrust.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, teeth sinking into the tender flesh near her shoulder. Salt, sweat, and the jasmine perfume flooded his mouth. His hips snapped against her ass with relentless, driving force, a rhythm dictated by the throbbing bass shaking the floorboards, a song only his fevered mind could hear. Each inward drive was a hammer blow, jarring her bones, forcing choked gasps past her lips.
Humiliation warred with the searing pain. Her body, slick and treacherous, betrayed her. Against her will, against every shred of conscious resistance, the brutal friction, the sheer overwhelming sensory assault, ignited a perverse spark. Her inner walls fluttered, then clenched rhythmically around the invading thickness, a spasm of pure, involuntary biological response. A strangled cry burst from her, a sound she didn’t recognize – part agony, part shattered surprise – as an orgasm ripped through her body like an electrical seizure. It was violent, unwelcome, wracking her frame with convulsions that squeezed him tightly, milking him in waves of profound, soul-crushing shame.
He groaned, a guttural animal sound vibrating against her torn skin. The sudden, fierce clenching triggered his own release. His hips jerked erratically, losing the brutal rhythm, pistoning deep as thick, hot pulses erupted inside her. She felt it, a visceral flooding deep within her womb, a claiming she hadn’t consented to. He stayed buried, his cock still twitching, spilling the last spurts as the final tremor of her own unwanted climax subsided. Warmth, thick and viscous, began its slow slide down the inside of her trembling thigh, mingling with her own slickness, pooling obscenely at the lace top of her stocking.
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by their ragged breathing and the low thrum of the needle stuck in the run-out groove of the record. He pulled out. The wet, sucking sound was obscenely loud in the confined space.
Come, pearly white against her dusky gold skin, welled at her opening and dripped in slow, viscous trails down her inner thigh, catching the light, tracing paths through the sweat and tears to pool at the delicate lace scallops. He stepped back, fumbling his jeans up over his softening cock. His hoodie was askew, the collar damp with her tears and sweat. Deep plum lipstick was smeared across his mouth like blood from a fresh wound. His cheekbone was already blooming a deep crimson – the mark from the slap she hadn't yet consciously decided to deliver, her hand striking out in blind reflex moments before.
Peyton stared at him, her vision blurred, lungs burning. Every nerve screamed. Her right hand, stinging from the impact, lifted again. This time it was deliberate. She slapped him. Once. Crisp. Stinging. The crack echoed sharply off the glass storefront walls, startlingly loud after the primal sounds that had filled the space seconds before. Her palm burned.
"Get out." The words scraped her raw throat, shredded to a whisper. "Get out now."
He didn't speak. Didn’t look at her face. His eyes darted to the mess on the floor near his feet – the small, silver demo USB drive he’d brought, abandoned in a damp, glistening puddle on the carpet, a puddle comprised of sweat, tears, and their mingled fluids. He turned, unlocked the deadbolt with a click that sounded like a gunshot, and walked out into the late afternoon sunlight. The door hissed shut behind him.
Alone.
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Peyton’s legs buckled. She slid down the front of the rattled mixing board, the cold metal scraping her bare back, until she crumpled onto the worn wooden floor. Her skirt remained bunched at her waist, the torn lace panties a shredded ruin. Her thighs trembled violently, muscles still spasming. The wet, cooling slickness between her legs felt like acid. Mechanically, her fingers dipped down, touching the sticky mixture – his come, thick and alien, mingled with her own fluids, the tangible evidence of her violation and her body's humiliating betrayal. Shame, cold and heavy, settled deep in her bones.
Her gaze, unfocused, drifted to the scratched aluminum surface of the mixing console, right where her left hand had been braced. A faint, silvery gouge marred the metal. The unmistakable, tiny scratch left by the platinum band of her wedding ring. Lucas.
The thought of her husband ignited a fresh wave of agony. But beneath it, coiling like smoke, something else pulsed. Low. Insistent. A throbbing not just in her bruised hip, or her stretched, aching core, but within. Centered on the swollen, hypersensitive nub of her clit. The echo of the orgasm she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t wanted, yet had shattered her completely. It pulsed again. A sickening, obscene counterpoint to the horror. A betrayal deeper than the bruise blooming on her skin, deeper even than the scratch on the console.
Obsession. The word slithered into her consciousness, cold and venomous. His? Or... hers? The fantasy – years of stolen glances, half-formed daydreams – hadn't died in the violence. It had been forged in it, twisted, taking root not in gentle longing, but in the raw, exposed ruin he had left behind.
She pushed herself up on shaking arms. The movement sent fresh drips coursing down her thigh. Ignoring the mess, the pain, the trembling, she crawled to the shop door and slammed the deadbolt shut again with a violence that rattled the glass. She pressed her forehead against the cool pane, staring out at the empty street where he’d vanished. The late sun felt accusatory. She closed her eyes. The rhythmic throbbing between her legs pulsed again, insistent, undeniable, a dark seed planted in fertile shame.