16. Rhys
Rhys
I was drowning.
Years of restraint, discipline, control—all of it burned away the second she whispered those three words.
Don't let go.
I couldn't. Even if I wanted to. Even if I should.
My mouth moved over hers like I'd been starving for this. For her. And maybe I had been. Maybe since the moment I saw her again, some part of me had been waiting to break.
She made a sound—small, desperate—and it wrecked me.
My hands shook as I pulled her closer. Too close. Not close enough. Her body fit against mine in a way that felt inevitable. Like we'd been heading toward this collision from the start.
Her fingers twisted in my hoodie, nails scraping through fabric to find skin underneath. The touch sent fire racing down my spine.
I broke the kiss long enough to shrug out of the hoodie. Watched her eyes track the movement, wide and dark and wanting.
"Bedroom." The word came out rough. More command than question.
She nodded. Grabbed my hand.
The apartment was tiny. Three steps and we were there. She fumbled with the door. I reached past her, pushed it open, guided her inside with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.
The bed was small. Unmade. A single pillow. Everything about this space screamed temporary, unsafe, hers. And I hated that she'd been here alone. Hated that I hadn't protected her better. Hated that I was the one making it worse.
But I couldn't stop.
Her hands found the hem of my shirt. Hesitant. Shaking.
I caught her wrists. Held them still between us.
"Olivia." I forced myself to meet her eyes. To give her one more chance to think this through. "If we do this—"
"Please."
The word shattered the last of my resolve.
I kissed her again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Let her feel exactly how much I wanted this even as guilt clawed at my chest.
Her sweatshirt came off first. I paused, hands on her waist, searching her face for any sign of fear. Found none. Just trust.
It destroyed me.
My shirt followed. Then hers. Every piece of clothing removed with shaking hands that didn't feel like mine. She touched my chest—tentative, exploring—and I had to close my eyes against the rush of heat.
I guided her toward the bed. Lowered her onto the mattress with hands that tried to be gentle even though everything in me screamed to claim, to take, to hold.
She looked up at me. Hair spread across the pillow. Breathing uneven. Beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
I braced myself over her. Checked her eyes again. "You sure?"
She nodded. Reached up. Cupped my face with trembling fingers. "Don't leave."
The plea hit me like a fist to the sternum.
I wouldn't. Couldn't. Even knowing this was the biggest mistake I'd ever make.
I kissed her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Reverent despite the hunger tearing through me.
My hands moved over her—mapping skin, memorizing the shape of her, pausing every few seconds to make sure she was still with me.
She arched into my touch. Made those small sounds that drove me insane.
And when I finally moved over her, settled between her thighs, felt her wrap around me like I was the only solid thing in her world, I broke completely.
Everything I'd held back for years crashed through me in a wave I couldn't control.
I buried my face in her neck. Breathed her in. Let myself have this one thing I had no right to want. Just once. Just tonight.
Tomorrow I'd hate myself. Tonight, I'd hold her like she mattered. Because she did.
Her skin was too soft. Too warm. I traced every inch like I could memorize her through touch alone. My mouth followed the path my hands made—shoulder, collarbone, the delicate hollow of her throat. She shuddered when I bit down just hard enough to leave a mark. Good. Let her wear me tomorrow.
I pushed her thighs apart. Watched her breath catch as the cool air hit her. She was already wet, already ready, and something dark and possessive curled in my chest. Mine. Just for tonight.
Her breasts fit perfectly in my hands. I squeezed, thumb brushing over her nipple before I took it between my teeth.
She gasped, fingers tangling in my hair, but I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t. I needed her to feel this—the ache, the sting, the way her body responded to mine like we’d been made for this.
I sucked hard, then harder, until she was whimpering, until her back arched off the bed.
The red mark bloomed under my mouth, and I switched to the other side, giving it the same treatment.
Let her remember this. Let her remember me.
Guilt twisted in my gut, but I took it out on her skin instead. My teeth grazed her ribs, my fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise. She took it all, took me, and that only made me angrier. At myself. At her. At the way she made me lose control.
I moved lower. Spread her thighs wider, pinning them open with my shoulders. The scent of her hit me like a punch—sweet, intoxicating, hers. My cock throbbed, but I ignored it. This wasn’t about me. Not yet.
First, I’d make her fall apart.
I dragged my tongue through her folds, slow and deliberate.
She tasted better than I imagined. Richer.
Deeper. I groaned against her; the vibration making her tremble.
Her hands flew to my hair, gripping tight, but I didn’t let up.
Couldn’t. I lapped at her like a man starving, like I’d never get enough.
Her hips lifted, seeking more, and I gave it to her—flat tongue, firm pressure, circling her clit until her thighs shook around my head.
She was dripping. Soaking my chin, my mouth, and I drank her down like I could drown in her.
My fingers joined the assault, sliding inside her with a curl that made her gasp.
Two, then three, stretching her, filling her while my tongue never stopped.
I could feel her getting closer, her muscles tightening, her breath coming in short, desperate bursts.
I pulled back just enough to watch her face as I sucked her clit between my lips. Her eyes flew open, locked onto mine, wide and pleading. Begging. I held her gaze as I flicked my tongue over her, again and again, until her back bowed off the bed and a broken cry tore from her throat.
She came hard. Shuddering, pulsing around my fingers, her release coating my chin. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I lapped at her through it, drawing out every last tremor, every gasp, until she was boneless beneath me.
Only then did I pull back. Wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and finally—finally—let myself look at her.
She was ruined. Hair wild, lips swollen, skin flushed. Perfect.
And she was mine. For tonight.
I moved over her before she could catch her breath. My cock ached, heavy and thick between us, but I didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t give myself time to think. I grabbed her thigh, yanked it up around my hip, and pushed inside her in one rough thrust.
She gasped, nails digging into my shoulders. So tight—too tight—and for half a second, something ugly twisted in my chest. Had she ever—?
But then she arched up, taking me deeper, and the thought dissolved into white-hot need. She felt too good. Too perfect. Like she’d been made just to ruin me.
I snapped my hips forward, hard. Punishing.
Her fault. All of it. The way she’d looked at me in the café, the way she’d kissed me first, the way she’d begged me not to stop.
I gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, my other hand tangling in her hair, yanking just enough to make her whimper.
Her body took me like she was built for it, tight and wet and mine, and I hated her for it.
Hated that I couldn’t stop. Hated that I’d ever touched her at all.
She clung to me, her breath coming in sharp little gasps every time I bottomed out.
Her legs wrapped around me, heels digging into my back, pulling me closer like she couldn’t get enough.
Like I was the one she needed. The thought made me snarl, made me fuck her harder, my hips slamming into hers with a force that should’ve hurt.
But she just took it, took me, her nails raking down my back, her mouth finding mine in messy, desperate kisses.
I could feel her getting close again, her body tightening around me, her breath hitching.
I should’ve slowed down. Should’ve made it last. But I was too far gone, my control shattered, my discipline burned to ash.
I wanted to mark her. Wanted to leave her so wrecked she’d never forget this. Never forget me.
Her back arched as she came, her body clamping down around me so tight I saw stars.
I buried my face in her neck, bit down on her shoulder to muffle the groan tearing out of me as I followed her over the edge.
My release hit me like a fucking freight train, stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything but the feel of her beneath me, the scent of her skin, the way her pulse raced under my lips.
I collapsed on top of her, my weight pressing her into the mattress. Her arms wrapped around me, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back like she thought this was something tender. Like she thought I was something good.
It made me sick.
I rolled off her before I could do something worse—like stay. Like pretend this meant anything. The cold air hit my skin, but I barely felt it. My chest heaved, my heart hammering like I’d just finished a fight on the ice, not fucked a girl half my age in her shitty little apartment.
She reached for me.
I flinched away.
Her hand froze mid-air, her eyes wide, hurt flashing across her face before she could hide it. Good. Let her see what a mistake this was. Let her hate me for it.
I sat up, scrubbed a hand over my face. My cock was already softening, the high of release replaced by a crushing weight in my gut. I could still taste her on my lips. Still feel her under my hands.
And I hated it.
I stood, grabbed my clothes from the floor. Dressed in sharp, jerky movements, like if I moved fast enough, I could outrun what I’d just done.
I froze halfway through pulling my shirt on.
Blood. Not much. Just a small smear against the cheap white sheets where she'd been lying.
My chest went tight. Too tight. I couldn't breathe.
She followed my gaze. Saw what I saw. Her face went scarlet, and she scrambled to pull the blanket over it, over herself, curling into a ball like she could make herself disappear.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't—I should've told you—"
I dropped the shirt. Moved back to the bed before I could stop myself. Sat on the edge. Close enough to touch her, but not touching. Not yet.
"Look at me."
She shook her head, face buried in the pillow.
"Olivia." My voice came out rougher than I meant. "Look at me."
She turned her head just enough. Eyes wet. Terrified. Like she thought I'd be disgusted. Like she thought I'd leave.
I should leave. But that blood—that proof—it did something to me I didn't want to name. Something dark. Possessive. Wrong. She'd been untouched. Completely. And I'd been the one to—
Heat flooded through me. Sharp and brutal and utterly unwelcome.
My cock stirred despite everything. Despite the guilt. Despite knowing I'd just ruined her in a way I could never take back.
I wanted to touch the sheets. Wanted to see the evidence again. Wanted to feel that sick, primal satisfaction settle deeper into my bones.
Mine.
The word pulsed through my skull like a drumbeat.
First. Only. Mine.
I hated myself for it. Hated that the shame twisting in my gut was mixed with something hotter. Something that made me want to push her back down and do it again. Slower this time. Make sure she felt every second of what it meant to belong to me.
"You should've told me." The words came out strangled.
"I know." Her voice broke. "I'm sorry—"
"Stop." I reached out. Cupped her face before I could think better of it. Forced her to meet my eyes. "Stop apologizing."
She searched my expression. Looking for anger. For disgust.
She wouldn't find it. What she'd find was worse.
"You're not—" She swallowed hard. "You're not mad?"
Mad didn't begin to cover it. I was furious. At myself. At the situation. At the way my body responded to knowing I'd been her first.
But not at her.
Never at her.
"No." I brushed my thumb across her cheekbone. Felt her tremble. "I'm not mad."
Relief flooded her face, and it gutted me.
She had no idea what I was thinking. No idea that the sight of her blood had ignited something in me I'd buried years ago. Something territorial and brutal and completely unacceptable.
I should tell her this was a mistake. Should walk away before I made it worse. But my hand stayed on her face. My thumb kept stroking. And the heat in my gut kept building.
Because she'd chosen me. Trusted me. Given herself to me. And some sick part of me wanted to keep that gift forever.
I pulled my hand back. The loss of her warmth felt like an amputation.
"I don't deserve this." The words tasted like ash. "Don't deserve you."
Her eyes went wide. Wounded. "Rhys—"
I stood. Grabbed my hoodie off the floor. Put distance between us before I could change my mind.
"Stay away from me." Each word cut my throat on the way out. "Quit the café."
Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Suffocating.
I forced myself toward the door. One step. Then another. My legs felt like lead.
"Rhys." Her voice cracked on my name.
I stopped. Hand on the doorknob. Every muscle locked tight.
Don't turn around. Don't look at her. Don't—
"Please."
The word shattered something in my chest. A clean break. Irreparable.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. If I looked back, I'd stay. If I stayed, I'd ruin her worse than I already had.
I twisted the knob. Pulled the door open. "I'm sorry," I said. Barely a whisper. Couldn't manage more than that.
Then I stepped through. Closed the door behind me.
The hallway felt colder than it should. Too bright. Too real.
My chest cracked wider with every step away from her door. Ribs splitting. Heart exposed. Bleeding out onto cheap apartment carpeting.
I made it to my car. Sat in the driver's seat. Stared at nothing.
My hands still shook.
I could still smell her on my skin. Still taste her. Still feel the ghost of her touch burning through my clothes.
I'd just walked away from the only good thing I'd ever wanted.
Because that was what I did.
I ruined things. Then left before they could see how broken I really was.