Chapter 33
thirty-three
BEN
The back door of The Firehouse slams behind us, and the world goes from rain-lashed chaos to humid, stale warmth in the span of a heartbeat.
Cass doesn’t let go of my hand.
She drags me through a back corridor, past stacked cases of booze and a crooked EXIT sign flickering like it’s having a seizure. The distant roar of the crowd is a muffled heartbeat through the walls, the end of someone else’s moment happening while ours is just beginning.
I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t really care. Having won a second chance, I’d follow her into an active volcano right now if she asked. But when she yanks open a door marked STAFF ONLY and shoves me inside, I have a feeling where this is heading.
“Very Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Trainspotting,” I laugh as I take in the bathroom. “Romantic.”
“Hey, you want to date a scene girl,” she says with a smirk. “This is the scene, take it or leave it…”
The lock clicks behind us, and she’s on me before I can form a coherent thought. Her hands are everywhere—tangling in my damp curls, gripping my biceps hard enough to leave bruises—and the force of her makes my knees buckle slightly.
Her fingers work at my belt with the kind of speed that suggests extensive practice, but who the hell am I to judge when I’m likely to benefit from all that experience. The leather hisses through the buckle. The button pops. The zipper—
Oh God.
“You took care of the one thing I couldn’t fix.” Her voice is low and sexy as hell. “Now shut up and let me take care of you.”
Before I can respond—before I can thank her or apologize or tell her she doesn’t owe me anything—she drops to her knees, looking up at me with mascara smudged around those fierce blue eyes and rain-flattened hair plastered to her skull and an expression of pure, feral adoration.
I’ve spent years running from moments like this. The guy who fumbles and apologizes and finds an excuse to be somewhere else. But there’s nowhere else I want to be, and there’s no version of myself I’d rather show her than this one: terrified, desperate, completely at her mercy.
She yanks my jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, and I’m exposed, harder than I’ve ever been in my life. She wraps one hand around the base of my cock—firm, confident, possessive—and the other grips my thigh like she’s anchoring herself to reality.
Then she leans forward and takes me into her mouth.
The sound of the other band muffles, and I focus only on her—the soft heat of her mouth, the pressure of her tongue doing something obscene against the underside of my cock, and the rhythm she’s establishing that matches the tempo of her encore.
Aggressive. Driving. Absolutely relentless.
My head falls back against the graffiti-covered mirror, totally captured by the way she’s hollowing her cheeks and moaning around me like she’s enjoying this as much as I am. She works me like she’s got a point to prove, like she’s claiming territory, like every stroke is an answer to a question.
Mine, her rhythm says. You’re mine now.
Yes, my body answers. God, yes.
Then she takes me deeper, and I’m lost.
My hands find her wet hair without permission, tangling in the short, choppy strands, not pushing, but holding on like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this bathroom, this moment, this version of myself that’s finally able to make sense of things.
“I can’t—” My voice cracks. “Cass, I’m gonna—”
She doesn’t slow down.
She speeds up.
Her tongue flattens against the underside of my cock as she takes me deeper, and the suction increases, and her hand tightens just slightly where it grips the base, and the combination is too much—it’s all too much—and I shatter.
Her name rips out of my throat—raw, desperate, broken—and I spill into her mouth, my legs shaking so hard the only thing keeping me upright is the sink behind me. She swallows it all, takes everything I have to give, and doesn’t stop working me until I’m completely spent and trembling.
When she finally pulls back, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and grins up at me. “You taste like boy,” she says.
There’s no malice in it. Just satisfaction. Just smugness. And as she stands slowly, she runs a critical eye over me—the flush spreading down my chest visible through my unbuttoned flannel, the shake in my thighs, the way I’m gripping the edge of the sink like a lifeline.
Her gaze drops lower.
I’m still hard.
The orgasm helped, but it didn’t finish me. Not completely. The weeks of wanting her, the terror of almost losing her, the electric high of watching her perform and knowing she was mine... it’s all still there, coiled in my gut, demanding more.
“Still hungry, Sasquatch?” She laughs, low and throaty and absolutely triumphant. “Looks like you want more…”
The look she gives me is darker and hungrier than anything I’ve seen before, and it makes my cock twitch against my stomach. She doesn’t wait for me to make the next move, and instead turns and hops onto the edge of the ceramic sink, yanking me forward.
As I ease between her spread thighs, her hands grip my soaked flannel, pulling me into her space until we’re chest to chest, mouth to mouth, sharing the same humid air. I can taste myself on her lips—salt and musk—and instead of being weird, it’s hot.
“I’m taking what I want now.” She breathes it against my lips. “OK?”
I nod.
Her hands are already at my hips, guiding me, positioning me. The ripped fishnets under her skirt have a convenient tear that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was. I don’t have enough blood left in my brain to process logistics as I watch her pull her panties aside.
All I know is that when she wraps her fingers around me and guides me to her entrance, she’s slick. Wet and ready and waiting, and the realization that blowing me turned her on this much sends another spike of heat through my recovering system.
She wants this as much as I do.
“Cass—”
“In,” she commands.
I obey.
I slide into her in one smooth, deep thrust, and we both gasp—her eyes going wide, her back arching against the mirror as she clenches like a vise around me in a way that borders on painful because she’s so tight, so hot, so mine.
“Oh fuck,” she breathes, and there’s wonder in it.
With her back braced against the glass and me standing between her thighs, she has all the leverage. She wraps her legs around my waist—those ripped fishnet-clad legs, the heels of her combat boots digging into my lower back like spurs—and locks me in place. Then she starts to move.
She rocks her hips, grinding against me, setting a pace that’s demanding and relentless and absolutely fucking perfect. I match her rhythm, then double it, holding her tighter against me while my hands cup her ass, providing the structural support she needs to chase whatever she needs.
The mirror behind her fogs completely, condensation trickling down the glass. The fluorescent light flickers again and for a second we’re moving in strobe, the frozen frames of two people who almost lost each other and are determined to never let go again.
“Ben—” Her voice cracks on my name.
I shift the angle slightly, leaning forward to pin her more firmly against the glass, one arm wrapping around her back for support. The new position is deeper. I can feel every flutter of her internal muscles, every involuntary clench, every tremor that runs through her body.
My other hand slips between our bodies.
Her clit is swollen and sensitive under my fingers, and when I press against it—gently, because I’m learning her as much as I’m learning how to do this, and because I want to give her everything she’s given me—her reaction is immediate and devastating.
“Fuck—” She cries out into my neck. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare—”
I keep the pressure steady, keep my thumb circling while my hips drive into her, matching the frantic pace she’s set. She’s close—I can feel it in the tension of her thighs wrapped around me, the way her breathing has gone ragged and desperate, the way she’s clutching at my back.
Her orgasm shatters the tension in one explosive release. She comes hard, shuddering against me, dragging me right back to the edge with her. The sensation is overwhelming—the heat of her, the tightness, the way she’s crying out my name—and I don’t have the strength to hold back.
I drive into her three more times—hard, fast, desperate—and then I’m gone too, with a groan that echoes off the tile walls and probably carries into the hallway outside. And, this time, I’m totally and utterly spent, with no repeat performances possible.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing each other’s air. The distant thump of bass from the main room filters through the walls, but it sounds like it’s coming from another dimension, until Cass laughs.
“These guys are terrible,” she says.
I’m laughing too, and it breaks whatever spell was holding us frozen in place. I pull back just enough to look at her, and she’s grinning up at me, her makeup completely destroyed, her hair a disaster, her entire presence radiating a satisfaction so deep it’s almost smug.
“You’re a mess,” I tell her. “A total catastrophe, but also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re a mess.” She tugs at my flannel, which is definitely misbuttoned and probably has mascara on the collar. “Also, your fly is still down.”
“Romantic.”
“I try.”
We fix our clothes, still breathless, still laughing at nothing and everything. I splash water from the cracked sink onto my flushed face, and find the paper towel dispenser is empty because of course it is, so I use my sleeve instead.
And as we get presentable again, there’s no awkwardness.
It feels right.
Like this is exactly where we’re supposed to be. Like every fumbled conversation and panicked retreat in my life was just practice for this—learning to stay, learning to show up, learning to be the person she saw when she looked at me on that stage.
Cass finishes adjusting her skirt and looks up at me. “Ready to face the world, Kellerman?” she says.
I run a hand through my hair, which is definitely a lost cause. “Ready,” I shrug.
She unlocks the door, and the venue hallway rushes back in. But everything feels brighter and sharper than it did an hour ago, like someone adjusted the contrast on reality and forgot to reset it. Or maybe that’s just the endorphins talking.
Either way, I’m not complaining.
We make it approximately fifteen feet before Milo materializes from a side door. He looks at us—my misbuttoned shirt, Cass’s smudged makeup, the general aura of “we definitely just had sex in that bathroom”—and pushes his glasses up his nose with weary resignation.
The old Ben would have panicked.
This Ben just grins.
“Took you guys long enough,” Milo says.
Cass doesn’t miss a beat. “We were negotiating.”
“Uh huh.” His expression suggests he knows exactly what kind of negotiating took place and has already decided not to ask for details. “Well, while you were negotiating, you missed the knock on the door from the producer who wants to offer us a deal.”
Cass is breathless. “Wait, which producer?”
Milo nods toward the bar area. “The guy over there.”
I follow his gaze. There’s a guy in his thirties leaning against the bar, wearing the kind of carefully curated “I’m in the music industry but still cool” outfit—a slim-fit vintage blazer over a deliberately faded band tee, expensive sneakers, and a craft beer.
“He’s from Iron City Records,” Milo continues. “He wants to talk to us about a deal, but Joel and I said it was up to you.”
Cass goes completely still beside me.
Iron City Records. I’ve heard her mention them—one of the few labels she actually respects, one that signs artists based on sound instead of marketability. It’s the kind of label that would let Pinebox stay Pinebox instead of trying to sand down their edges into something radio-friendly.
“He’s interested?” Her voice is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension radiating off her body. “No mention of changing our sound?”
“Very interested.” Milo pauses, and his gaze shifts to me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. “He specifically said he couldn’t believe the tone you got out of that ‘piece of junk’ amp. He said it was ‘dirty but perfectly clean’ and asked who did the mod.”
I feel Cass’s hand squeeze mine, and I look down at her. Her eyes are shining. Not with tears, but pride. “Ben, thank you, you helped me be me.”
She rises on her toes and kisses me, quick and hard, right there in the hallway with Milo watching and the scout probably taking mental notes and the entire venue full of people who could be judging us for a hundred different reasons.
I don’t care.
For the first time in my life, I genuinely don’t care who’s watching or what they think. The Nerd and the Jock—they’re both here, both visible, all me. And the girl in my arms sees each one of them and chooses them anyway.
When she pulls back, she’s still grinning. Her hand is still in mine. The record label scout is still waiting by the bar with an opportunity that could change her entire career. And I’m standing here in a misbuttoned flannel with mascara on my collar and a stupid smile on my face.
But I love the mess, I love her, and I’m staying.
“Come on,” Cass says, tugging me toward the bar. “We’ve got a meeting.”
“I’m not really—I mean, this is your thing, I don’t want to—”
“Kellerman.” She stops, turns, fixes me with that fierce blue stare that brooks no argument. “That guy wants to talk about my sound. Our sound. You’re part of this now. You’re part of me. So shut the fuck up and follow me to that bar.”
So, I do, and for once in my life, I’m not running away from something.
I’m running toward it.