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BAD GUY

T he night buzzes with energy, the kind that makes your skin prickle with anticipation. There’s some type of event on the main street that runs down the length of the beach, transforming the vibrant tourist hub into a carnival of sound and color. Food trucks line the sidewalks, filling the air with the mouthwatering scent of grilled meats, sweet fried dough, and spicy sauces. Live music spills from every corner—a blend of reggae, surf rock, and acoustic ballads. Crowds ebb and flow, clusters of friends laughing, even some couples dancing, and strangers embracing the freedom of a warm, coastal night in Sunset Cay.

“I know you love people watching,” Timmy says, smiling as he watches me take it all in. “Come on,” he says, playfully grabbing my hand. “Let’s grab some little bottles of Fireball, and then I have the perfect place for us to sit.”

As usual, his spontaneity thrills me. I never know what’s coming next with him, but it always feels exciting—like a never-ending adventure. We duck into a nearby convenience store and grab a few flight bottles of Fireball.

He grabs my hand and tugs me back toward the main street, toward a large utility box, its dark green surface weathered by the salt air. “Come on,” he says, crouching to give me a boost, hoisting me up onto it before jumping up himself. We’re higher up than most people, and can see everything going on in both directions. It feels like we’re perched on top of the world.

From here, the street unfurls in both directions—waves of people, the glow of string lights, and the music drifting on the breeze. The view is exhilarating, like we’re part of the crowd but above it at the same time. Timmy cracks open one of the little bottles of Fireball and hands it to me. The cinnamon whiskey burns down my throat, filling me with a giddy warmth that makes everything shimmer a little brighter.

He drapes his arm around me, pulling me close, and kisses me on the side of my head. “Isn’t this amazing? I love you so much,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and sincere.

It’s moments like this—when he’s spontaneous, adventurous and affectionate—that make me feel like I’ve found my person . He brings out a side of me that I didn’t know existed—one that craves fun and freedom, that feels carefree and uninhibited. With him, it’s like anything is possible.

I feel a bit like a naughty school kid sitting up here. But what’s the worst that can happen? Someone asks us to hop back down from the utility box? No big deal at all. This is just silly, innocent fun. And I want to hold on to this feeling for as long as I can.

We sit quietly for a while, content, just enjoying the buzz around us.

Then his voice drops to a growl. “We’re going to go home and fuck now.”

The bluntness of his words sends a thrill through me.

I love the way he’s so direct about sex, so matter-of-fact and sex-positive. His confidence is intoxicating, a far cry from my ex who could barely say the words ‘sex’ or ‘fuck’ without blushing. In any case, Timmy’s openness makes me feel alive, as if I’m gradually shedding my inhibitions. I wonder if old me—before I started reading and writing dark romance—would have been able to handle someone like him. Now, though, I find myself grinning .

“Well, that sounds good,” I reply, biting my lip. “But we need to go to the store first. We’ve run out of condoms.” The way we’ve been fucking, we’re single-handedly boosting the condom economy.

Timmy groans, rolling his eyes with playful exasperation. “Do we really need to get more? Can’t we do it without?”

A flicker of unease creeps in, but I push it aside. “No, we need to get some more,” I insist, keeping my voice light but firm.

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Fine then, let’s go.” He helps me down from the utility box, and I laugh as I stumble slightly as I make my landing. Then he leads me to a convenience store where I buy an overpriced pack of condoms. Timmy’s fun and spontaneous, but he wouldn’t push me to do something I’m not comfortable with.

The moment we step back into my apartment, Timmy undresses with the urgency of someone starving for touch. His clothes hit the floor in a heap, and he’s already pulling me close, his hands everywhere all at once.

“We should do it without a condom,” he murmurs against my neck, his voice rough and persuasive.

The unease returns, stronger this time. “I don’t feel comfortable doing that yet,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.

“Come on,” he pleads, sliding his massive hands over my hips. “We need to. I told you I got tested recently. We’ll be fine.”

I hesitate, caught between wanting to please him and wanting to honor my own comfort. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’d rather not yet.”

“Oh, come on,” he pleads. “It’ll feel so much better and I’ll feel so much closer to you. It’ll be great for both of us.”

“No, I don’t feel comfortable doing that yet,” I say. I always feel awkward having this conversation, but it’s important and I stick to my guns.

His face tightens with frustration. “Come on, it’ll be fine,” he says, and before I can react, he shoves his cock into me .

The shock of it knocks the air from my lungs, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond.

But he does feel really good inside me.

Letting him slam his massive cock into me, every thrust feels like a badge of honor, a war between pleasure and discomfort, pain and desire. My body aches under the force of him, but there’s something exhilarating about how much he wants me, about the way he’s looking at me like I’m the answer to every need he has.

“Jesus, Margaux,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips like a lifeline, as if he’s putting his full two hundred pounds into every thrust as he slams into me with full force. “You’re letting me fuck you so fucking hard.”

The praise sends a wave of warmth through me, my body responding even as my mind wrestles with the unease. His words sink deep into the parts of me that crave validation, and I feel myself clench around him.

After a while, it starts to feel uncomfortable, like my cervix is about to be dislodged, but it’s that line between pleasure and pain, and I feel like I’m making him incredibly happy. “You’re so fucking amazing, Margaux, taking my massive cock like this.”

I feel a swell of pride, my praise kink continuing to kick in.

He groans, “good fucking girl,” and I almost come around his cock.

His balls slam against me, and I feel little shivers radiating throughout my body. It’s not an orgasm, but it feels so fucking good, and I lose myself in the moment. My limbs feel numb as he holds my hips so tightly I know it’s going to leave bruises.

No one has ever fucked me so passionately, so violently, before.

“You’re my good little fucking slut, you know that?” he growls, and his words hit me like a drug. I never knew I liked being talked to like this, but here I am, melting beneath his filthy praise.

My pussy clenches harder around his cock. “Yes, Timmy,” I whisper. “I’m your dirty fucking slut.”

He thrusts harder, his breath ragged. “And you’re all mine, my little whore. ”

“Yes,” I pant. “I’m your little whore.”

The words unlock something within me—something wild and free, something I didn’t know was buried deep inside. With each thrust, I feel myself letting go, surrendering to the moment as if I’m just a vessel here to serve his pleasure.

“Jesus, Margaux. You’re so incredible,” he says afterwards, as we lay entangled in each other’s arms, still panting from the exertion. “Nobody’s ever let me fuck them that hard,” he murmurs, a note of awe in his voice. “You took that so well. My cock is huge, and I was really slamming into you.”

“Yes, baby,” I smile up at him, basking in the glow of his words. “That felt so good. You’re amazing.”

He leans down to kiss me on the forehead.

Later, he’s still buzzing. “Margaux, I still can’t believe how fucking insane that sex was. You’re incredible. Your pussy is incredible. It’s definitely the best sex I’ve ever had. And your blowjobs? Oh my god, also definitely the best.”

I beam with pride and agreement, my pussy still tingling from earlier. “Yeah. Your cock is the best, too. That was some amazing sex.”

Despite the praise, the knot in my stomach lingers. I try to ignore it, to focus on the pleasure humming through my body. But something about the way he pushed past my boundary gnaws at me, an uncomfortable truth I don’t want to face.

“We’d better be careful, though,” he says earnestly. “At this rate, I’m worried my dick’s going to fall off from how much we’re fucking.”

“Well, neither of us wants that to happen.” I laugh, but it feels hollow.

I want to believe what just happened is okay because we’re in love, and he would never hurt me. But part of me knows something isn’t right. I told him no, and he didn’t listen.

I wish he would have been a bit more respectful and taken no for an answer. And it’s not like I was denying him completely, even though that would have been my prerogative to do so. I was just asking him to wear a condom. It feels like he’s putting his own pleasure or enjoyment over what I’ve expressed is important to me .

“See, didn’t that feel way better? Your pussy was great before, but it’s so much better this way.”

I give a quick smile. “Yeah, it did feel really good.”

He’s not wrong. I push the thought away. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

The sex was incredible. I just would have preferred he respected my boundaries a little more, that’s all.

But even as I tell myself this, the uneasy knot refuses to untangle, sitting heavy in my chest like a truth I’m not ready to confront.