3. Scratch
Scratch
I didn’t plan to end up in his apartment.
That was the lie I kept running while we climbed three flights in his old Swissvale building, my eyes locked on the damp cling of his white tee and the slow flex of his back beneath it.
I said I was being polite. Said I was just walking where the night led.
Said I was just saying yes to a man whose kiss had already rearranged me in a hallway.
But when he unlocked the door, flicked on a low lamp, and stepped aside like he was offering me more than a seat, I knew better. I hadn’t been polite. I hadn’t been casual. I’d walked straight into what I wanted.
His place smelled like soap and books. Vinyl stacked by the wall—Maxwell, Coltrane, Anita Baker. A crooked physics poster over a crowded bookshelf. He set his keys in a bowl, straightened the frame out of habit, then turned to me like he was holding himself back with two fists.
“You want water?” His voice was even, measured.
“Later,” I said, though my throat was dry. Later I wanted it replaced with sweat. With him.
We stood there too long. His glasses were still on. For the first time, I hated them—because I needed his eyes bare. I reached up, slid them off myself.
No shield. Just him. And my knees went weak under the weight of that look.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
The kiss inside his apartment wasn’t careful. His mouth crashed into mine, swallowing the sound that tore out of me. His hands clamped my waist, dragging me close, his dick pressed thick against me.
He walked me backward until my thighs hit the couch. I dropped, breathless, and he stripped his shirt with one hand. Brown chest, broad shoulders, abs tight enough to make me greedy. I scratched down his stomach just to feel it jump.
“Take it off,” I whispered, tugging at my hoodie.
“You want help?”
“Don’t you dare.” I peeled it off myself.
His eyes dragged over me, slow, devouring. “Goddamn, Rayna.”
His hand traced my collarbone, down my shoulder, brushed the curve of my breast before his mouth found skin above my bra.
“Quentin—” I meant to warn, but it came out wrecked.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Less talking.”
He lifted me like nothing, carried me to his bed. The sheets smelled like detergent and him. My pants tangled under my hands, smoother under his. He slid my panties down deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch.
When he finally saw me bare, I almost cracked a joke. But the way he looked stopped me cold. Not gawking. Not gloating. Seeing.
“Beautiful,” he rasped, reverent and raw.
I rolled my eyes to cover the quake in my chest. “You gonna stand there or?—”
His mouth cut me off, trailing down my stomach, lower, until his tongue pressed into me and my legs flew open.
“Oh, fuck.” The sound ripped out of me, my hands clutching at the his scalp while his mouth claimed my pussy.
He ate me like rhythm—tongue and lips working a cycle that stole my breath. Flick. Suck. Pressure. Over and over, dragging me higher until I was begging and breaking in the same breath.
“Quentin,” I gasped, thighs shaking around his head.
“Look at me,” he murmured against me.
And when I did—when his eyes locked mine while his mouth wrapped my clit—I shattered. My body jerked, mouth open, crying out while he stayed on me, relentless, working me through every last tremor until I was trembling and ruined.
I collapsed back, panting, slick and undone. He kissed my thigh, then crawled up slow, heavy, settling between my legs like he belonged there.
“You good?” His voice was gravel and velvet.
“I’m not done,” I whispered, tugging at his waistband with shaking fingers.
His laugh was low, dark, vibrating against my chest. He reached for the drawer. My eyes followed every move—his hands tearing the wrapper, rolling the condom down his thick length like he knew I was watching. My pussy clenched just from the sight.
When he came back over me, I was already trembling.
He kissed me hard, lined up, and pushed in slow.
Too slow. Every inch stretched me until I cried out and clung to him.
My body gripped him like I was made for it.
His groan broke against my mouth, eyes locked on mine, dark and certain, seeing me even as he split me wide.
“Relax, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing mine.
I exhaled, and he slid deeper. Whole. Full. My chest arched into his.
At first, his strokes were controlled—deep, exact, like he was still trying to count them. My nails dug into his working back, pulling him harder, faster, until the sound of his hips filled the room.
“Harder,” I gasped, biting his shoulder.
His jaw flexed. He gave it to me. Brutal, deep thrusts that had me crying out, nipples scraping his chest, sweat slick between us. He pinned me with his weight, teeth at my neck, sucking until I whimpered.
“Don’t let go of me,” he groaned, body pounding into mine.
I came hard, screaming, my pussy clutching him. He lost it, driving into me like he couldn’t stop, hips snapping back and forth until his growl shook through me. He spilled into the rubber, hot and rough, the sound of him falling apart almost as filthy as the act itself.
We collapsed, tangled, breath ragged, the air thick with sex and heat. My body throbbed like a live wire, every nerve lit.
I told myself not to read into it. Not to mistake this for more than a night. But when he kissed my forehead and whispered, “Told you I don’t do restraint,” the lie burned in my throat.
Because I wanted more. And I knew I was already in trouble.