Chapter 18
Reece
Ican’t stop thinking about it.
The way she looked when she rode me. Hair a tangled mess from my hands, skin flushed and damp with sweat, that perfect mouth parted, those eyes locked on mine as if she was trying to burn herself into me.
And shit, she did. Every grind of her hips ruined me.
Every slow drag of her pussy over my cock felt like I was being split open and stitched back together with her name carved in my ribs.
She didn’t just ride me. She owned me. Took what she wanted and left me a fucking mess.
And bare?
That was a first.
I never go without, not even during my worst, sloppiest, blackout fucks. But with her, all that went out the fucking window. Every damn heartbeat inside that tight little body was worth it. Especially the way she looked at me when she came.
That sound she made when she did... fuck. That whimper. That stuttering cry. The way her nails dug into my arms and her thighs clenched around me. And I know I’ll be replaying that over and over, cock hard in my hand, chasing the feel of her.
Sam is not just in my head.
She’s under my skin, wrapped around my spine, etched into every part of me that used to be hollow.
I glance over at her in the driver’s seat.
She hasn’t spoken a word since I got in and told her where to go. She simply keeps her eyes on the road, gripping the wheel tightly as if she’s holding onto something other than the drive.
Maybe she’s trying to outrun what happened between us in the locker room.
Or maybe she’s already regretting it.
Regretting that she had taken my cock so deep, she screamed my name.
That’s the part that breaks me. Because I fucking felt it when she fell apart around me. It wasn’t just sex. It was something more. It always fucking is with her.
But now?
Now she’s quiet. Her silence now feels like a punishment.
And me... I’m sitting here, hard again, watching her bite her bottom lip, and I’m wondering if I’m the only one still falling.
I’m so fucking gone for her.
Wrecked.
Ruined.
Totally fucked.
We pull up outside Wes’s burger joint. The place looks like it gave up on life ten years ago. The neon sign’s flickering as if it’s got nerve damage, and one of the letters is burnt out, so it reads “BUR ER.”
The windows are still so slick with grease you could fry an egg on them, but I’ve eaten more burgers here than anywhere else on the planet.
Looks like shit, smells like heaven. Grease, beef, toasted buns.
Best in town, no contest. It doesn’t matter if the seats are cracked and the lights buzz like they’re ready to blow, it’s got history.
Noah and I used to own a booth in the back. We’d spread out, talk shit, throw fries at each other while Jace sweat it out behind the grill.
Those days are gone now that Noah isn’t pretending he’s not in love with Aubrey anymore.
He picks her up from work most nights, always waiting in his car with that goofy expression on his face, as if he still can’t believe she’s his.
Sometimes he even gives Jace a ride home.
Guess that’s what love does. Makes you soft, turns your rivals into carpool karaoke buddies.
I hold the door open, and the smell hits me right in the face.
She brushes past me, and, fuck me, even with her hair a little messy and her lip still kissed raw, she steals the air from my lungs.
I let her go first because I need a second to get my shit together.
My knee throbs like a bitch from the game, my shoulder’s wrecked, my ribs are fucking killing me, but nothing hurts as much as whatever the hell is happening in my chest when I watch her.
Wes’s burger joint has no charm unless you grew up here. Booths are torn at the seams, with duct tape holding more than just the upholstery together.
We head to the counter, and I nod at the guy behind it, some burnout who probably hasn’t changed shifts since high school. He barely looks up, and I don’t blame him.
Posters line the walls from every era of music—some curling at the edges, some half-ripped, some faded by the sun. But no matter where you look, Broken Oasis stares back. Xander, the guy your girl dreams about while you’re inside her. Ace’s fuck-you sneer and inked-up throat.
They began here. Right here in this crappy forgotten town, eating these burgers and probably sitting in the same booth.
“Pick a booth,” I tell her, trying to sound casual and failing, my pulse still crazy from the sex and everything tangled up afterward.
She chooses one by the window, red vinyl split and worn, the seat giving a soft sigh beneath her.
I drop in across from her, the table scarred, my hands restless against the wood. I’m trying to act normal while I’m sitting across from the one girl who has fucked my balance to hell.
“I can’t believe you brought me here,” she mutters, eyeing the cracked menu on the table.
“What, not impressed by five-dollar fries and a chair that’s one ass cheek away from collapsing?” I grin.
She snorts. “Is that the line you use on all your dates?”
“This is my first date,” I say, dead serious.
Her eyes widen briefly before she shifts her expression. “Bullshit.”
“Swear on my cock,” I grin. “You’ve fucked me, you know how sacred that shit is.”
She shakes her head, but a smile plays on her lips. “You’re impossible.”
“Unbreakable,” I say with a wink.
That gets me a full laugh.
“Unbreakable? That’s what you’re going with?”
“It’s a good brand. Strong. Sexy. Marketable.”
Her eyes soften, and that’s dangerous. I’m already fucked six ways from Sunday. She doesn’t need to look at me like that, either.
The server walks over. A girl maybe a year or two older than us, dressed in black jeans and a diner tee that’s seen better days. She doesn’t bother pulling out a notepad.
“What can I get you two?” she asks, her voice flat but not unfriendly.
I glance at Sam before turning my eyes back to the server.
“I’ll have a double cheeseburger. Extra pickles. Fries. Coke.”
Sam examines the menu as if it’s a final exam. “I’ll have the same, but no pickles and a chocolate shake.”
The server smirks. “Coming right up.” She turns on her heels and disappears behind the counter.
I lean back in the booth, stretching one arm along the cracked vinyl, and let my eyes drift back to Sam. She’s already looking at me, chin tilted, fingers tapping against the table.
There’s a pause. Long enough for it to settle between us. The kind that hums with something unsaid. That dares you to say the wrong thing and mean it.
“You walk around acting unbreakable,” she says, voice steady but soft in a way that hits harder. “But that’s bullshit.”
I lift an eyebrow, but she’s already moving on.
“You think I don’t see it?” Her mouth quirks. “The fuckboy swagger. The cocky grin. The whole I don’t give a shit act. It’s armor. Not confidence.”
A breath slips out of me before I can stop it. A half laugh–half surrender.
“What if I told you I wouldn’t know who the hell I am without it?”
She doesn’t soften it for me. “Well, perhaps it’s time you stopped hiding behind it and figured that shit out.”
Fuck. This girl has a knack for saying exactly what I don’t want to hear but really need to.
“I haven’t a clue how to do that,” I admit, dragging a hand through my hair, restless and exposed, because this is the most honest I’ve been with anyone in my entire fucked-up life.
“Why?” she asks, voice softer now.
“You messed me up, that’s a fact?” I glance across the table, heat still lingering on my skin. “One minute I’m teasing you, trying to get a rise, thinking I’ve got all the control I always do. Then you look at me, or… you’re on top of me, and I can’t fucking breathe without you.”
Her eyes stay fixed. She watches me fall apart, piece by piece.
“I have no idea how to be someone else,” I admit, my throat tight. “This cocky, fuck-everything version of me. It’s been all I’ve had for a long time.”
She blinks, caught off guard—but she doesn’t look away or make a joke to deflect. She sits there, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on mine.
So I continue.
“My dad didn’t see me. Not really. Not unless I had a helmet and jersey on. That was when I mattered. When I won or played through an injury. Or I dragged us over the line by sheer fucking force. That’s when I existed. The rest of me didn’t matter. None of that was worth shit to him.”
“So when you quit—”
“I didn’t stop playing because I hated the game.
I stopped because every time I stepped on that field, it felt as if I was begging him to notice me.
Every win, every tackle, every touchdown.
It was me screaming, “Look at me, you piece of shit.” And he never did.
Not really. He just nodded, told me to tackle harder next time. ”
Her eyes soften again, but it’s not pity. It’s understanding.
“I thought when I quit, my old man would lose his shit, but he didn’t.
He stopped showing up. He stopped asking how I was.
Didn’t care when I passed maths. Started calling me soft, because I’m not killing myself for a game that made me more of a man, supposedly.
” I tap my fingers against the table. “He still calls me that name.”
I pause, jaw tight. The words dig up more than I thought they would.
“You know, he used to drag me out of bed before dawn, toss a ball at me before I could blink. Had me running drills until my legs gave out. Told me boys don’t cry, boys don’t give up, boys fucking win.
And I did it, all of it, every bruised rib and bloodied knuckle, simply to get two words out of him. One fucking “well done.””
I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the grease-stained table.
“But none of that ever stuck. The moment I wasn’t his football star anymore, I was just a disappointment again. Some loser who didn’t live up to the family name.”
The server arrives, plates hitting the table, the smell of grease and salt cutting through the heat between us. I blink down at the food, as if I forgot we even ordered.