Chapter 32 #3
Don’t look toward the corner.
I give myself one long look in the mirror. One more silent pep talk.
Don’t. Look. At. Rhys.
I’ve got this.
I unlock the door and pull it open and immediately get shoved back through it.
The door swings shut.
Rhys slips inside silently, his eyes determined. He locks the door behind him. The bathroom shrinks, closes in—just the two of us, too close, too dangerous.
I’m cornered.
My heart is knocking against my ribs, my skin is on fire. He leans back against the door, arms crossed, acting calm now, but I see it: the pink in his cheeks, how his chest lifts, the way he watches me, hungry and bright.
“What the fuck was that?” My voice is low, ragged with it. Anger.
He shrugs, mouth twitching. “You tell me. Couldn’t help noticing you watching.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I say, but it comes out hard, shaking.
“What about him bothered you, Jamie?” Still that same quiet, relentless voice.
Just him, taking me apart one question at a time.
Dismantling all my carefully built defenses.
“Was it that he was there with me? Was it that I was talking to him? When I touched him? Or was it—” he pauses, measured, “—that it wasn’t you? ”
“You need to move so I can leave.”
“Answer the question.”
He pushes off the door and closes the distance in two strides.
I should shove him off me. I don’t. I never do.
He pins me against the sink, body heat rolling off him, the sharp smell of peppermint and sweat and tequila making me lightheaded.
His fingers brush my jaw, tracing the line.
His thumb presses into my chin, digging into me, and turns my face toward him.
“Jealous?” he asks, his voice provoking me further.
I want to deny it, but I can’t. I breathe hard, wanting to punch him, wanting to kiss him, everything blending into something I can’t separate.
“It meant nothing, remember,” I spit, but my voice is husky, breathless, betraying how I really feel, what I really want.
He smiles, but there’s nothing soft in it. “He wanted me. Wouldn’t have made me chase him. Wouldn’t have run away from me all the time.”
That’s it. The last tether of my control, the one thing holding me together, snaps.
I shove him, hard, back into the wall. He laughs and lets me, like this is a little game we play.
Like this is what he wanted all along. He grabs my wrists, pins me right back.
Bodies locked together, chest to chest, like always.
My cock’s hard, pressed to his thigh. I can’t hide it. Don’t want to.
“What, Jamie? You want me?” he whispers, mouth at my ear. “Scared that someone will see just how bad you want me?” He grinds into me, slow and torturous. My breath stutters.
He pushes me back and we collide in an angry mess, hands in my hair, mouth bruising mine—furious, desperate.
I bite his lip, hard. He moans, hips rolling against mine, hands yanking at my belt.
I snap and rip at his shirt, pulling him closer, teeth on his throat, biting down until he gasps, until I leave a mark on him.
He drops to his knees, rough and impatient.
Yanks my jeans open, drags them down, mouth hot and wet and—fuck—already on me.
I fist his hair and hold him there, thrust into his mouth with no warning, no apology.
His throat tightens and he chokes but takes it all anyway.
His hands grip my thighs, nails digging in, bruising.
His eyes are up, daring me to look away.
I don’t.
I watch him—fuming, frantic, working me like he can’t get enough. I want him to hurt for it, to feel it for days, like he hurt me with his bullshit. I fuck his mouth, rough and raw, riding the edge of fury and want, hating how good it feels.
Only Rhys makes me feel this way, like I need to take my anger out on him, choke him with my cock.
He pulls off, breath ragged, spit slicking his lips. “You want everyone to know I’m yours? Show me.” He drags my hand to his throat, lets me squeeze, lets me see his eyes go hazy with it.
I shove him back, take his mouth again and taste myself on his tongue.
I feel wild, unhinged. I want to ruin him for anyone else.
I want that stranger out there to know Rhys was mine in here.
I want to bruise his throat. I want him to remember this every time he tries to look smug in the locker room or think of touching someone else again.
I hold his head and push him back down, fuck into his mouth, in and out, in and out, right between control and losing my mind.
My hand locked in his hair, knuckles white.
Eyes on each other still. I’m close—embarrassingly close, weeks of hostility and hunger boiling over.
I warn him, but he just moans around me, deeper, tongue working, like he needs it, like he needs to be ruined by me too.
When I come, it’s not quiet. I yell, shudder, hips jerking, spilling hard down his throat.
He keeps sucking, milking every drop, refusing to let go until I’m a shaking mess, breath gone, head pressed back to the wall.
He pulls off slowly, mouth slick, spit and release smeared across his lips, his chin shining.
He looks up at me, eyes wild, mouth still full—my cum glistening on his tongue. He slips his cock free from where it was pressing against his jeans, already hard, working himself, needy like always, but I’m not letting him finish himself.
I reach down, grab his wrist, and pin it to the tile above his head.
I crouch over him and I yank his face up to mine and I kiss him—filthy, tasting myself in his mouth, passing my cum from me to him with our tongues, licking it from his lips, biting hard.
He moans into me, body shuddering, head thudding back, legs falling open for me.
I pull back a little, breath harsh against his jaw.
“Spit it out,” I order, holding out my palm.
“Now.” His dark eyes search mine—then he opens his mouth, spits the thick mess into my hand, a string of it connecting us for a second before it breaks.
I smear it over his cock, roughly, stroking him hard and fast, my fist slick and tight.
He falls apart for me, hips jerking up into my grip, mouth open, eyes glazed, hand scrabbling at the tile for leverage.
“Don’t fuck with me like that again.” My voice is gravel, raw from everything I’ve been holding back.
I jerk him rough, fast, stroking him with so much aggression it’s almost violent.
He bucks into my fist, body arching, desperate to chase it.
He’s panting, throat exposed, lips bitten red.
“Fuck, Jamie—I won’t, that feels so good—fuck—”
I squeeze tighter, thumb working the head, twisting my wrist. He’s falling apart, hips stuttering. “Yeah, that’s it,” I mutter, voice gone. “Come for me. Let everyone know who made you come.”
He comes hard, loud and messy, spilling over my fist, over himself, arching up off the floor. His whole body shaking with pleasure. I hold his stare the entire time.
Silence after, both of us spent, sweat cooling on bare skin. I collapse beside him, hearts hammering, side by side on the bathroom tile. I wipe my hand on his shirt and don’t care if he notices. He laughs, hoarse and spent, and the sound goes straight to my bones.
“Doesn’t change anything,” I say, voice wrecked, trying to sound convincing.
He grins up at the ceiling, ruined and proud.
“Sure. Keep saying that.”
He sits up, tucks himself in, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and pats my leg. Gives me one last smirk before he unlocks the door and vanishes. I stay there, the taste of him still in my mouth.