10. Cassie
Cassie
My dorm room suddenly feels very small with Tyler in it, who is twice the size of me.
He’s looking at my bookshelves, reading the spines, and I have to stop myself laughing, because I don’t think he knows any of them. He laughs at my eclectic mix of romance novels, literary fiction, memoirs, and academic theory.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Nothing. I just like seeing what you like. It’s very you, smart and emotional and unafraid to read things that might make you feel things.”
I sit on my bed, and he joins me, keeping respectful distance but not too much, and I don’t want him to either.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“Sure.”
“Do you regret sophomore year? I mean, I know it was terrible. But do you regret it in the sense of wishing it never happened?”
“That’s a weird question.” That's really not what I thought he was going to ask, but I don’t think anyone would ask something like that.
“I know. But I’ve been thinking about it, and if sophomore year hadn’t happened, you might not have become the fierce, protective, brilliant person you are now. You might not have written all those pieces about toxicity and silence. You might not have this clarity about what you want from people.”
“I’d rather have had that clarity without the trauma.”
“I know. I’m not saying it was good that it happened. I’m saying that people are shaped by their experiences, and I’m grateful that you survived yours and came out stronger.” I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder.
“That’s very thoughtful.” I whisper.
“I have my moments.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while.
“I want to have sex with you,” I shut my mouth not believing I just said that and I immediately tell him. “Not necessarily tonight. But at some point. Soon. Before I overthink it and convince myself it’s a bad idea.”
He laughs. “Sex is never a bad idea.”
“I’m a direct person, and think about these things.”
“I noticed. I like it.” He turns to face me. “I want that too. When you’re ready. Not before.”
“I’m ready now.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Tyler. I’ve spent two years hating you. I’ve spent the last few weeks getting to know you. I’ve spent the last few days figuring out that I actually like you. I’m sure.”
He kisses me, and this time it’s slower, more intentional. His hands find the hem of my shirt and pulls back just enough to look at me, silently asking permission.
I nod, already breathless. “Yes.”
He peels the fabric up and over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.
His eyes darken as they drag over the plain black bra I’m wearing, nothing fancy, but the way he looks at me makes it feel like lingerie.
He reaches behind me, unhooks it with ease, and lets it fall.
Cool air kisses my skin a second before his hands do.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You’re beautiful.”
I don’t give him time to keep talking. I pull his shirt up, and he helps me yank it off.
The hard planes of his chest and stomach are right there, warm under my palms. I lean in and press my mouth to the center of his chest, tasting salt and skin.
His hands slide into my hair, gentle but insistent, guiding me as I trail lower.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine, while his fingers work the button of my jeans. I lift my hips so he can tug them down, along with my underwear, until I’m completely bare beneath him.
He sits back on his heels for a moment just to look.
The heat in his gaze makes my skin flush hotter.
Then he leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly, tongue flicking.
I arch into him with a soft sound I don’t even try to hold back.
His hand trails down my stomach, between my legs, and he groans when he finds how wet I already am.
“Christ, you’re soaked.” Two fingers stroke through my folds, gathering slickness, then circle my clit with deliberate pressure. “Been thinking about this?”
“Yes,” I admit, hips rocking against his hand. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He works me open with those fingers, first one, then two curling them just right while his mouth moves to my other breast. The dual sensation builds fast, heat coiling low in my belly. I’m panting, fingers digging into his shoulders, when he suddenly pulls away.
I make a protesting noise. He only smirks, standing just long enough to shove his own jeans and boxers down.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, and the sight of it makes my mouth go dry.
The sexiest thing I’ve seen, as he slid the condom on.
He climbs back over me, settling between my thighs, the blunt head of him nudging against my entrance.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says, voice strained. He’s holding himself rigid, waiting.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. “I already told you. I’m sure.”
He pushes in slowly, inch by careful inch letting me feel every stretch. The burn is sharp at first, then melts into a deep, perfect fullness. When he’s buried to the hilt he stills, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
“Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.” I roll my hips experimentally. “Move.”
He does. Long, steady thrusts that grow deeper and faster as I meet him.
The wet sound of our bodies, the creak of the bed, the low sounds he makes against my neck—everything heightens.
One of his hands slips between us again, thumb finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips.
“Tyler—” My voice breaks. The tension snaps. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, walls clenching around him as I come hard, gasping his name.
He follows a few thrusts later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he spills inside me. For a long moment we stay locked together, sweat-slick and breathing hard, his weight a welcome pressure pinning me to the mattress.
Eventually he eases out and collapses beside me, pulling me into his chest. His fingers stroke lazily up and down my spine.
“Still sure?” he asks, voice quiet, almost teasing.
I turn my face into his neck and smile. “Very sure.”