Chapter 27
Jamie
I take the stairs two at a time, shoving through people, out the door before anyone can stop me. Cold air slams into my lungs, but it doesn’t help—nothing does. I call an Uber, fire off a quick text to Kowalski with an apology for leaving, and shove my phone away like it burned me.
What the fuck just happened? How did I let it get that far? My skin still feels wrong—too hot, too aware—his mouth, his teeth, the way he looked at me, like he knew exactly what he was doing, how he felt, hard and thick in my hand.
“Fuck…” The word comes out low, wrecked.
The ride home is a blur. I don’t remember getting out of the car, don’t remember unlocking the door —just the slam of it behind me and the silence that follows.
Finally. I pace immediately, restless, energy crawling under my skin, tiles echoing with every step.
I can still feel him. That’s the problem.
The way Rhys got in my space like he owned it, as if he owned me.
I didn’t hate it. I was basically begging for it.
My jaw clenches hard enough it hurts. No. Not happening. Not for anyone. Definitely not for him. He thinks he can push me? Get a reaction? Make me crack? I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. How does he make me lose control every single time I’m around him?
Cold shower. Fix it. Shut it down.
He’s fucking poison in my veins and I have to flush him out.
I head straight for the bathroom, crank the water ice-cold, and step in.
It hits me like a slap, numbs my skin, but the heat in my stomach just claws higher.
No distractions now. Just him. Rhys. The way he said my name—taunting, almost like a dare.
Leaning in close like he wanted to see me lose it, as if he wanted me to need it.
What if I hadn’t told him to fuck off?
What if I’d let him keep going?
What would have happened?
“Shit.” My voice is rough, useless.
He’s just playing with me. That’s all it is. Rhys loves to get under my skin and see what’ll happen if he presses hard enough.
And I let him. God, I fucking let him.
My hand drops lower, fist tight around my cock, already aching, angry.
I brace my head against the tile. “Fuck fuck fuck—” I can’t stop thinking about him, even though I shouldn’t.
Even though I swear I hate him. But his smirk’s burnt into my brain.
I can feel his mouth on my neck, remember the way his breath felt on me.
And that voice—filthy, right in my ear, too close.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinch the tip hard, chasing pain, hoping it’ll kill this.
“I fucking hate him.” The words come out a growl, hard and mean, but I need them to matter.
Because if they don’t—my grip tightens. Hard.
Fast. Like if I keep going I can erase him.
Like I can rub him out of me. My abs lock up, tension and want twisting together until I can’t tell them apart.
Because if I don’t hate him, what the hell am I doing?
This isn’t want. It’s need. It’s a fucking addiction. I’ve spent so long trying not to want him that I don’t know what to do now that I definitely do.
I see him under me, mouth shut for once, eyes blown wide. No banter, no pushback, no smart-ass comebacks—just his lips parted and his voice gone, all that attitude wiped clean as he chokes on me. I’d shut him up. Make him beg. Make him pay for every time he’s ever pissed me off.
“Fuck—” The thought slices through me, sharp as glass. My hand moves faster, rough, relentless. I want to take something back, all the control he stole from me. But it still feels like it’s him, like he’s got his fingers hooked straight into me, tugging, twisting, stroking.
“Fuck, Rhys—” His name slips out, torn and desperate.
That’s it.
Everything snaps, white-hot, my forehead slamming against the tile as I come, shaking. For one second, there’s nothing. Just air. Just the water. And then—he’s still there. Rhys. Stuck in my head, under my skin, something I can’t rip out, no matter how hard I try.