Page 26

I shouldn’t have touched her.

Should’ve never went to her house. Should’ve thought about the bigger picture, about what I need to do to fix this mess with the team, with her father, with my future.

But all I can think about is her. The way she looked at me, full of defiance and something else. The way her body betrayed her. The way she smelled.

Fuck.

I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles crack. My other hand still carries the scent of her, soaked into my skin. I bring my fingers to my nose, inhale deep, and my cock jerks in my jeans. Hard again.

Jesus Christ.

I should be calling Coach Jacobs. Should be strategizing, making sure I don’t piss off my old man any more than I already have. Instead, I shove my seat back, undo my belt, and palm my aching dick.

The second I wrap my fingers around it, I groan . How am I so hard already? My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My hand is still slick with her, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

She fucking did this to me.

Spit in my palm. Fist tight. Stroke rough.

I imagine her mouth, her perfect fucking lips, the way she gasped when I pressed my knee between her thighs. The way her hips chased the pressure before she realized what she was doing.

She liked it.

I know she did.

I squeeze tighter, pumping fast, punishing. My chest rises and falls in ragged breaths, heat pooling low, unbearable. My grip isn’t enough. My hand isn’t her. But I picture her on her back, spreading eagle for me, eyes flashing with anger and something darker, something she’s too stubborn to admit.

I picture ruining her, fucking off her virginity.

My head falls back against the seat. Muscles tense. Pleasure coils sharp and hot at the base of my spine. I drag my thumb over the head, teasing, torturing.

The second I let go, I let go completely.

A sharp growl rips from my throat as I come, vision hazy, mind blank except for her.

Not even Maya anymore.

But her .

I clean up with the first thing I can find, some crumpled napkins from the console, and toss them onto the passenger seat. I’ll deal with that later. I’m at least relieved that my cock piercing is fully healed and easy to clean. I let out a deep breath. Right now, I need to get my head straight.

Zane’s shop is the best place for that. The guy never asks questions, just hands you a beer and lets you hang out. No expectations. No bullshit.

By the time I pull up, the garage is quiet except for the low hum of a radio playing some old rock song. Zane’s under the hood of a classic Mustang, sleeves pushed up, hands already covered in grease. He glances up when I walk in.

“Thought you were dead,” he says, smirking as he wipes his hands on a rag. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been busy.” I grab a beer from the mini fridge in the corner and pop the top.

Zane watches me for a second like he’s debating whether to press, then just nods and goes back to work. That’s what I like about him. No pressure. Just space.

I take a long swig of my beer and lean against the tool bench, forcing my mind onto something else. But my body still hums, muscles tight, skin hot. I shake it off, take another sip, and pick up a wrench and pass it to my best friend.

I have to forget her for now.

Halfway through my second beer, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see my father’s name. My stomach knots for a second before I open the message.

Got called into work. We’ll reschedule dinner.

Relief rushes through me so fast I almost laugh. That means no lectures. No bullshit about expectations. No passive-aggressive reminders that I need to “focus on my future.” No pressure about the hockey game.

I set my beer down and look over at Zane, who’s still messing with the Mustang. “Wanna grab drinks?”

He snorts, tightening a bolt before straightening up. “Can’t. Spending the night with my girl.”

I roll my eyes but don’t push. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, man. Tomorrow.” He tosses the wrench onto the workbench and grabs a beer for himself. “Try not to get into trouble in the meantime.”

I don’t make any promises.

The bass rattles through my bones as I step into the club. Strobe lights cut through the darkness, flashing over sweat-slicked bodies grinding to the music. The air is thick with cheap perfume, spilled liquor, and the kind of desperation that makes it easy to forget shit for a few hours.

That’s what I need. To forget.

Because if I let myself think, I’ll fucking drive back to her house and bury myself so deep inside her she’ll forget how to hate me.

How the fuck has this girl consumed me?

I exhale sharply and drag a hand down my face. No. Not her. Not tonight.

I head straight to the bar and order whiskey. No ice. The first sip burns down my throat, grounding me. The second lets me breathe a little easier. By the third, I’m watching a brunette in a tight red dress lean against the counter, laughing at something her friend says.

She’s pretty. Full lips. Curves in all the right places. When she catches me staring, her smile turns coy. She tilts her head, eyes flicking over me in assessment.

Yeah. She’ll do.

I push off the bar and move toward her. She pretends not to notice at first, sipping her drink with a slow drag of her straw. But when I settle next to her, close enough that my arm brushes hers, she turns.

“You always stare this hard?”

I smirk. “Only when I like what I see.”

Her lips part just slightly. Her pupils dilate. She’s already imagining it. How it’ll feel when I take her home, when I press her against a wall, when I make her forget her own name.

I could play the long game. Buy her a drink. Make her laugh. But I don’t have the patience for that tonight. I lean in, letting my breath tickle her ear.

“Let’s get out of here.”

She shivers. Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t pull away. “That’s it? No small talk?”

I slide my hand up her bare arm, watching the goosebumps rise in my wake. “Do you want small talk, or do you want to feel good?”

Her breath catches. I already know the answer. She’s here to fuck.

Five minutes later, we’re in the alley behind the club. Her back is against the brick wall. Her dress is shoved up to her hips. Her nails scrape down my arms as I slip a hand between her thighs, finding her already soaked for me.

I don’t think of Sienna.

Not when the girl moans into my mouth. Not when she gasps as I push two fingers inside her. Not when she begs for more.

But I do when I bury myself inside her and she whimpers, head falling back against the wall.

Because she doesn’t sound like Sienna.

Doesn’t feel like her.

Doesn’t look at me with those fire-lit eyes that make me want to ruin her.

I grip the girl’s hips harder, thrusting deeper, chasing something I can’t quite reach. It’s not enough. It should be. But it’s fucking not.

Her moans grow louder. She’s close. I could pull back, leave her aching, walk away without a second thought.

But I don’t. I let her come, feeling her tighten around me, dragging me over the edge with her.

My head falls forward as I spill inside the condom, muscles locking, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

It’s only after, when I step back and fix my jeans, that I realize my hands are shaking.

Not from pleasure. From frustration.

From knowing that no matter how many girls I fuck, how many bodies I bury myself in, I’ll still want the one I can’t have.

The girl straightens her dress, giving me a dazed smile. “That was…”

“Yeah,” I cut in. I don’t care what she thinks it was. I don’t wait for her to say anything else before I turn and walk away.

I head to my car and dial Maya on my phone.

“Hey, stranger,” Maya answers my call. I hate how flirtatious she sounds. “Miss me finally?”

“What?” I say.

She giggles. “You never call me anymore. I thought once we broke up, maybe you’d call or send an occasional text, but you completely ghosted.”

“We broke up,” I defend myself.

“Why are you calling me if you’re going to be such a dick.”

I exhale. “I came three times today.”

I hear her clapping and her voice drips of sarcasm. “Congrats, asshole.”

“Not once did I think of you,” I add.

She laughs. “Then why the fuck are you calling me?”

“I just thought I’d let you know I moved on, and you should, too.”

“Yeah, like I’m sitting here in London crying over you, Caleb. Get the fuck over yourself,” she says in a malicious tone and ends the call.

That’s all the closure I need. I get into my car and lean back. My skin still smells Sienna’s perfume, but under it, I swear I catch something else.

Something sweeter. Something familiar.

Pussy.

I let out a harsh breath and slam my fist against the dashboard.

I can’t let this fester. Can’t let her get under my skin like Maya did.

Because I know myself. If I let this keep building, I’ll do something fucking reckless.

Like drive back to that house.

Like throw her over the nearest surface.

Like fuck her until she can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think of anything but me.

And if I do that, I won’t stop.

I start the car and peel out of the parking lot, ignoring the way my cock twitches at the thought of her.

I need to get my head straight.