Page 42 of Play Dirty (Villalargos University #1)

Chapter Thirty - Five

Nico

“ R eyes,” the grumpy detective who locked me up; steps into view. I perch on my elbow and watch as the door opens. He doesn’t spare me a glance as he says,“You made bail. Let’s go.” I swing my legs off the cot, my sneakers hitting the cold floor with a light thud.

“Bail?” I ask.

“You heard me.” He taps his clipboard against the bars, annoyed. “Some kid with too much money and a busted lip signed the paperwork.”

My brows twitch.

It must be Thiago, of course.

I nod and keep my mouth shut for once. Stepping outside the cell and into the hall, I follow him as he brings me to sign my release. My heart gallops inside my chest, my palms sweaty as I draw closer.

After signing the papers, Mr. Bad Cop warns me to make sure I’m available for the investigation and leads me down another hall.

Uncertainty washes over me. I’m not sure how I feel about going back to a world that thinks I’m a monster.

A world where the girl I love turned me in.

It’s only been two days, but it feels like a lifetime.

The cuffs might be off, but freedom doesn’t feel like freedom when you’re walking through the exit of a jail in dirty clothes back to the prison that is Villalargos.

Thiago do esn’t say a word as he steps out of the passenger seat; Zayden’s behind the wheel. His knuckles are bruised and still bloody, his eyes avoiding mine.

No one says anything.

What is there to say?

Nice to see you. How was jail? What’s the point?

I’m free now. Is it over? Who fucking knows.

All I know is that she turned me in… and now I’m free.

The drive back is silent, everyone is lost inside their own minds…

Zayden’s grip on the wheel is tight as Thiago stares out the window, his knees bouncing like he’s waiting for the next war. Not even music dares to fill the air.

I stare down at my hands.

They’re dirty, scarred, and bruised. Yet somehow, they have managed to remain clean. But it didn’t matter to her.

We pull i nto campus, and I don’t wait. As soon as we park outside the dorm, I swing open the door and step out before either of them can say anything. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want apologies.

I want air.

I want to be alone.

Most importantly, I want Shiloh.

My feet guide me inside. After some food and a nice hot shower, I’m finally ready to go where my heart guides me next.

I don’t even realize where I’m going until I’m cutting the corner and see light spill from inside.

Quiet music is playing as I push the door open, and the scent of clay and lavender hits me like a ghost.

There she is.

Hair in a messy knot above her head, sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in clay like she’s trying to mold her guilt into something pretty.

Ariana Grande's soft voice spills from her speaker. The song “Ghosting” plays quietly in the background as I watch the woman who owns my heart, like a stalker; she’s so concentrated that she hasn’t noticed— I’m here.

Right behind her.

Her fingers tremble as the wheels spin and the shape wobbles under her pressure. She doesn’t hear me as I step closer.

Quiet and careful.

The way you approach something that has never been yours and might disappear if you touch it too soon. I stop behind her. Just inches away. I see it in her body the moment she senses me. How she stiffens, her breath catches in her throat, and her hands falter.

Still, she doesn’t turn.

I place my hands over hers.

Slow.

Gentle.

Sure.

She gasps , but doesn’t pull away. “You’re pressing too hard,” I whisper.

Her shoulders collapse— like she’s been holding her breath for days and finally lets it go.

I guide her hand back to the center of the clay.

We move together, breathing in sync as our palms slide together, steadying the shape between us.

“I didn’t know.” She says softly. “I thought– God. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

I swallow the ache rising in my throat. My chest is tight. Rage, hurt, grief, and want all blend into one unique flavor, colliding and conflicting.

“You turned me in, Shi.”

“I know.”

She finally looks up at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes, and her lips tremble. “I’m sorry.”

Those eyes almost break me. It would be so easy to forgive, to fall apart, and let her in. But I don’t.

Instead, I nod somberly and let the silence speak.

The wheel slows before fully coming to a stop.

Shiloh turns to fully face me, letting me see everything in her all at once. Her fear, remorse, and love. That’s what nearly undoes me. Then she stands, causing our chests to brush against each other.

“Say something.” She breathes.

So I do.

I kiss her.

Hard. Desperate. Full of every word I couldn’t say in that cell or that night.

My fingers slide through her hair, undoing her messy bun as she gasps against my mouth, fingers fisting my shirt.

I walk her back against the edge of the workbench.

Her hands find my jaw, my waist, my back — pulling me closer, anchoring herself.

I could have milked her apology. But we have already wasted so much time as it stands.

We don’ t speak.

We don’t need to.

We’re covered in clay, in grief, and somewhere in between—something that almost feels like forgiveness. When I push the straps of her top down, she doesn’t hesitate. If anything, she helps me, unbuttoning her pants and kicking them off with ease.

I rip my shirt over my head with one hand while the other slides up her hips, my thumb tracing slow, lazy circles along her skin. She makes the sweetest little sounds, her breath hitching as goosebumps rise beneath my touch. I smirk at the sight, at the way her body reacts.

Her fingers fumble at my belt, and I let them. We close the last bit of space between us—nothing left between our bodies now but heat and everything we never said.

On the bench in the low, dim studio with only the soft hum of the drying fans, our breath, and some Ariana Grande melody— Shiloh becomes mine again.

I dip in between her legs, inhaling the sweet scent of her, “Mine.” I growl against her cunt, lapping the damp spot on the fabric of her panties as her hand fists my hair.

“Yours.” She breathes, hips grinding into my face as I nudge her pink panties to the side with my teeth, tasting her slowly– like I've been starving. “Yours.” She moans again, sending the sweet sound straight to my aching cock.

I lap at her, tongue circling her clit. I continue my slow circular movements, pressing, claiming all of her while she gasps above me like she’s drowning in the moment. Her legs tremble against my shoulders, hands pulling at my roots, and when she shatters, I taste her on my tongue.

I follow her there.

I’ll follow Shiloh Johnson anywhere.

The sound that spills from her lips is not a scream. It’s not even a moan. It's a sob.

Of relief .

Of release.

Of return.

I kiss the inside of her thigh, climbing up to kiss her chest, the hollow of her throat, and the corner of her mouth.

Not caring about the uncomfortable feeling that comes from coming in your pants.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into her like she’s been dying to shove me back inside her.

To memorize the feel of my body pressed into her.

It’s perfect, just like I always knew it would be.

I guide myself into her, slowly savoring the sweet sound that falls from her lips. Her head falls back, lips parting in a silent cry. “I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m not leaving.”

She pulls me in deeper using the heel of her foot. And we move — not fast, not frenzied– but like we’re trying to rewrite every bad memory with the way we fit. Perfectly imperfect. I pull out of her warmth only to look down as I push back in.

Fuck, seeing my cock disappear inside her looks just as amazing as it feels.

“Look how beautifully you take me.” I rasp as her forehead presses against mine, both of us watching as I slowly push back in. “You were made for me, Shiloh. Look at us. So fucking perfect.”

She whimpers, her nails raking softly down my spine. My forehead is still pressed against hers, our breath tangled. I kiss her. Slow and deep as we move again. No rush. No rage. Just rhythm. Just reclamation.

Each stroke writes over what we lost.

Each gasp from our lips heals a wound, erasing all the time we spent apart and in someone else's arms.

She pulls me deeper, her legs wrapping tight around my waist, her voice cracking as she moans out my name, “Nico.” Just before her walls strangle my cock, and she shatters.

There’s nothing but her at this moment. Just the shape of us, covered in drying clay, pain, and desire, molding into something almost sacred.

“I love you.” She breathes hard, her voice small but certain. I smile at the words, feeling hope and warmth. Something that I thought died long ago.

I close my eyes and let the words sink in, not because I don’t believe her, or because I don’t feel the same. But for so long, I imagined hearing those words and hated myself for wanting them. Deep down, I knew behind the hate and the insults that Shiloh Johnson wanted me just the same.

“I know.” I breathe against her skin. “I’ve never stopped.”

And she breaks again, shuddering beneath me— her tears mixing with the sweat on her cheeks. I follow her to the deep end, mouth pressed against her heart.

“It’s always been you.,” I growl as I fill her up with everything I've held back. Breeding her because she’s mine to fill.

To use.

To ruin.

To love.

We collapse together, still tangled. The only difference now is that we are whole.

I press my forehead to hers, and for once, I want to say it back.

Those three words. Those eight letters that have been carved into my heart, are working their way up my throat.

Words that were hers from the moment I laid eyes on her.

I knew it back then, and it’s even more clear now— stronger, despite being buried deep inside for so long.

The words spill out of my mouth before I can shove them back down.

“I love you, Shiloh Johnson.”

She freezes, and her breath hitches like she’s afraid she’s imagined it. Her fingers trail up my arm, her leg curling around my hip as she pulls me closer. “Say it again.”

I smile a gainst her skin. “What?”

“Eight letters. Three words. Say it.”

“I love you.”

This time she doesn’t reply, but the way her body melts into mine tells me what words could never.

The studio is silent aside from the fans, Arctic Monkeys playing softly from her speaker, and the beating of our hearts.

We are a tangled mess of limbs on the cold ground, yet all I feel is warmth.

Our clothes are scattered around us, her legs are draped over mine, and my hand is resting on the curve of her waist.

We just exist. No need for words. But our bubble is shattered by the pings of our phones.

She doesn’t move as I hesitate to reach for it, afraid of what comes next, because I want more of this.

More of her. I want to hide us somewhere the secrets can’t find us, but the thing about these skeletons is that they always come out of the closet.

The screen lights up in the low light.

The Pulse Blog

Shiloh’s breath catches in her throat as I stare at the glowing screen. “He killed June.” Time stops as I slowly turn to her, placing the phone on the ground before pulling her into me. “How did you figure that out?"

She lets out a deep breath. “I’m not ready to talk about it. Not now, just know that you’re protected, let’s just say I exposed some of the fucked up things that happen back at the club.” I place a kiss on her hair, inhaling the sumptuous scent of her. “What happens now?”

She shrugs, grabbing my hand and placing hers on mine. My hand is so large compared to her dainty one. “We live.”

“I like the sound of that.”