Chapter 5 #2
His hand slides up. Wraps around my throat—not choking. Just holding. Just branding.
“You gonna come for me?” he growls into my ear, voice cracked with heat and something darker. “Gonna soak my cock like a good little addict?”
“Fuck you,” I gasp, eyes rolling.
He grins—feral. “Already are.”
His thumb grinds into my clit again, ruthless, fast, and he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t slow down. He just drives into me, every thrust sharper, meaner—like he’s got something to prove.
“Bet you don’t fall apart for his cock the way you do mine, do you?” he bites out, each word its own thrust. “That’s right. Cum for me. You know you want to.”
My nails dig into his back. I want to scream at him. Want to deny it and spit something sharp back in his face but I can’t. My body’s gone traitor, trembling, writhing against him, heat crawling up my spine like a fuse about to blow.
“You know he could never make you feel this fucking good,” Noir growls. “You know he couldn’t fuck you the way I do.”
I hate him for saying it. Hate that every thrust into me feels like a shot fired in their stupid fucking war with me as the battlefield.
I can’t stand how fucking good it feels.
How deep he is. How filthy he fucks me. Like he owns every broken piece of me and isn’t afraid to shatter what’s left.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s hate. Lust. Madness. All of it poured into me like gasoline, and I’m burning up on it. Choking on it. Clinging to it.
Come on, Blair. Say no. Push him off. Tell him this isn’t what you want.
Because five goddamn minutes ago, you were grinding on Dagger like he was your next fix and now here you are, getting railed in some crusty back room by his arch-nemesis like it’s a goddamn hate-fueled porno.
Real cute. Real classy. Gold-star slut behavior.
But of course I don’t.
Because I can’t fucking lie. I want it. I want every jagged edge. Every cruel thrust. Every ounce of this fucking war they’re waging with me in the crossfire.
I’m clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me from shattering, every thrust knocking the air from my lungs, every grind of his cock dragging me closer to that sharp, crashing edge.
“That’s it little addict, ride the bass. Cum like you’re mine and the whole damn club’s listening.”
My orgasm hits me like a car wreck. Violent. Shattering. My scream tears from my throat, my legs locking around him, cunt clenching down so hard he groans loud, raw, and feral. He fucks me through it, deeper, harder, like he’s trying to pound every thought of Dagger out of my body.
“Blair—shit—fuck?—”
He pulls out just in time, panting as he strokes himself through it, hot ropes of cum striping my stomach, my thighs. He slams a hand into the wall beside my head, panting like he’s been chased through hell.
Silence.
Then his fingers catch my chin, and he tilts my face toward him. Kisses me again, slow this time. Almost tender. Almost.
“Almost enough,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Just enough to dull the ache.”
I don’t understand what the fuck he means.
But I don’t fucking care.
He says it like a confession, all low and broken. I roll my eyes. I’m way too high for this sentimental bullshit.
Then he steps back, grabs his hoodie, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, and gives me a smirk that could kill a god, and just like that—he’s gone.
Leaving me panting. Panties askew. Thighs sticky. Covered in his cum.
Thoughts wrecked.
What the actual fuck.
And why do I already want to chase him down and do it all over again?
Because clearly, you’re a pathetic, dick-drunk mess, Blair. Congrats. Gold medal in being a walking red flag. Get your shit together.
I don’t move at first. Just slump against the wall and try to remember how to breathe, how to function . My legs are jelly. My heart’s still punching my ribs.
Eventually, I glance down at the mess on my skin, the wetness slicking my thighs, the ruined state of my underwear, and grimace.
Fucking hell.
There’s an old T-shirt hanging from a rusted hook on the wall, probably abandoned by some raver weeks ago. I grab it without thinking, wipe myself down in silence, the fabric scratchy and cold against my skin.
Noir didn’t even say goodbye.
Of course he didn’t.
Just left me like this. Used. Wrecked. Wanting.
Fuck him, and worse—fuck me for wanting more.
This? This isn’t normal. This is obsession on a timer. I don’t even know which one of them I want more—Dagger or Noir. Or maybe I just want one of them to choose me , so I don’t have to keep pretending I have control over any of this.
I was never supposed to be this girl. I was a good student. I had plans. I had rules.
Then Brynn disappeared.
And suddenly all the plans, all the rules—none of it mattered.
All that mattered was finding her. Following her footsteps. Trying to understand what led her into this world. What took her from me, and the longer I looked, the more I became her.
I dipped into the drinks. The pills. The parties. Not because I wanted to, but because it was the only way I could feel close to her. Because the grief got too heavy, and I needed something to drown it.
But even drugs never made me feel like this.
Noir and Dagger? They make me feel alive and dead all at once. Like I’m overdosing on something way more dangerous than anything I’ve ever swallowed.
A shout breaks the thought. Peering back into the hall, I can see a commotion from the men’s room, followed by a loud crash and more yelling.
I push off the wall and step into the hallway again just as people start flooding out of the bathroom, faces pale, and voices panicked. The tension’s thick—thicker than anything drugs can dull.
“Someone call an ambulance! He’s ODing!”
I edge closer, pushing through the crowd of people just in time to see a guy on the floor. Golden curls. Sun kissed skin, with a black fishnet muscle shirt. Foaming at the mouth, convulsing on the bathroom floor like a glitching NPC in a broken video game.
“Shay,” someone behind me gasps. “Isn’t that… Jeremiah?!”
Holy. Shit.
The party implodes in real time. Screams, gasps, the kind of chaos that smells like fear and cheap liquor. Someone drops their drink. Someone else grabs their phone. Me? I just… freeze.
Shay grabs her friend’s wrist. “Let’s dip. Now. I’m not catching a case ‘cause that dumbass couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
And just like that, they’re gone. Poof. Glitter and guilt in their wake.
I stare at the body one more beat too long before my feet finally move.
Nope. I’m not sticking around to play twenty questions with a bunch of badge-wearing buzzkills.
I walk. Fast. Boots echoing like a countdown.
This night? It’s been a full-blown overdose of drama, drugs, dick-measuring contests.
And I’m honestly not sure what I’m more scared of?—
The drugs I used to chase.
Or the boys who feel more dangerous than any high I’ve ever had.