Rhys #2
She gasped, spine going rigid, head whipping around fast enough her hair caught against her cheek. Wide eyes met mine in the hallway's dim light. Recognition hit her in stages—shock, confusion, something that might've been fear except it softened too quickly into something else entirely.
"Coach Ac—"
I crowded her against the doorframe before she could move. Before she could slip inside and lock me out where I belonged. Hood still pulled low enough to shadow half my face. Close enough her breath caught—sharp, startled, the sound of it hitting me like a physical blow.
"Did he touch you?"
The words scraped out rough and low, barely recognizable as my own voice. Gravel and broken glass and something darker underneath that I couldn't quite bury.
Her eyes went wider. Lips parted on an inhale she forgot to release.
She nodded. Small. Uncertain. Honest.
The admission punched straight through whatever control I'd wrapped around myself on the walk up.
My hand moved before conscious thought caught up—fingers closing around her wrist with deliberate gentleness that cost me everything.
Too gentle. The kind of careful that meant every instinct screaming inside me wanted to be anything but.
Her pulse jumped beneath my fingertips. Rapid, frantic, the wild flutter of a trapped bird beating itself against a cage. I felt it throb against my palm—proof she was just as wrecked by this as I was, just as unable to pretend we could exist in the same space without combusting.
I pulled her hand toward me. Slow. Inexorable. Giving her every chance to pull away even as I knew she wouldn't.
"Show me."
Not a question. Not a request. A command wrapped in restraint so fragile I could feel it fracturing with every breath.
She stared at me—searching my face for something I couldn't name, some answer I didn't have—before her fingers shifted against mine. Trembling. Hesitant.
Then she guided my hand to her waist.
Right side. Just above her hip. The exact spot where his palm had rested with casual familiarity that made violence coil in my chest like a living thing.
My fingers splayed across fabric still warm from her body. Covered the space completely, erasing every trace of him with the pressure of my touch. Too possessive. Too territorial. Too everything I'd promised myself I wouldn't be.
Her breath hitched.
I felt it under my palm—the sharp catch, the way her ribs expanded against my fingers before she remembered to exhale.
"Here?" The word came out darker than I intended. Rougher.
She nodded again. Couldn't seem to find her voice.
My thumb traced the curve of her waist through her shirt. Once. Twice. Memorizing the shape of her even as guilt tried to claw its way up my throat and failed spectacularly.
"Anywhere else?"
The question hung between us—dangerous, loaded, crossing every line I'd sworn I wouldn't cross again.
She swallowed hard enough I watched her throat work. Shook her head.
Something violent and possessive settled behind my ribs. Satisfaction I had no right to feel. Relief that tasted like shame but burned through me, anyway.
"Good," I heard myself say.
I exhaled sharply—the sound closer to pain than relief.
My fingers flexed against her waist, tightening fractionally before discipline caught up and forced them to gentle. Everything inside me pulled taut, every muscle locked down so hard my jaw ached with the pressure of holding myself in check.
She was right there. Close enough I could count the rapid flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Close enough her scent wrapped around me like a physical thing, drowning out reason and restraint and every promise I'd made to myself about staying away.
I pressed her back against the wall beside her door. Not rough—but unyielding. Inexorable. The kind of controlled pressure that left no question about intent even as I kept my touch careful, deliberate, giving her every chance to tell me to stop.
She didn't.
Her back met painted plaster with a soft sound that shuddered through me. Wide eyes locked on mine, dark and uncertain and hungry in ways that destroyed whatever threadbare control I'd been clinging to.
My hand came up beside her head—palm flat against the wall, fingers spread wide, bracketing her in. Caging her without touching. Giving myself something to lean into that wasn't her body pressed against mine.
It wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough with her.
I lowered my forehead to hers slowly; the movement measured despite the chaos tearing through my chest. Our breath mingled in the narrow space between us—hers coming fast and shallow, mine controlled through sheer force of will.
I didn't kiss her. Didn't let my other hand drift from her waist, even though every instinct screamed to touch more, claim more, memorize every curve until the shape of her was branded so deep nothing could erase it.
Just held her there, trapped in the weight of everything I couldn't say.
Everything I shouldn't feel. Everything I'd been trying to bury for weeks that kept clawing its way to the surface every time she looked at me.
Her warmth soaked through my palm where it rested against her waist. Her pulse hammered so hard I felt it echo in my own chest, syncing our heartbeats into something singular and dangerous.
"You're going to be the end of me."
The words scraped out rough and raw, confession wrapped in warning wrapped in truth I could no longer deny. Not with her breath ghosting across my lips. Not with her body trembling under my hand.
Not with the certainty carved into my bones that I'd already crossed every line that mattered.
Her breath hitched—sharp, broken—and something inside me snapped. Clean. Absolute. The last thread of restraint I'd wrapped around this need severing so completely I felt it like a physical break.
I kissed her. Fierce and hungry and claiming, my mouth crashing against hers with none of the hesitation that had plagued every other touch. This wasn't confusion. Wasn't accident. Wasn't something I could walk away from pretending it meant nothing.
This was inevitable.
Her lips parted on a gasp, and I swallowed it, taking advantage of her surprise to deepen the kiss with deliberate intent.
My hand stayed on her waist—anchoring, possessive—while the other remained braced beside her head, keeping me from pressing my full weight against her even as everything in me demanded exactly that.
She made a sound—soft, needy—that went straight through me.
Her hands came up between us, fingers curling into my jacket like she needed something to hold onto. Like she was drowning, and I was the only solid thing in reach.
I shifted closer, thigh sliding between hers, crowding her more thoroughly against the wall. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, my tongue sliding against hers with the kind of thorough possession I'd been denying myself for too long.
She tasted like wine and something sweeter underneath—something that was just her, intoxicating and dangerous and mine in ways that should've terrified me. Did terrify me. But not enough to stop.
My fingers flexed against her waist, fabric bunching under my palm as I fought the urge to slide my hand beneath her shirt and feel bare skin. To map every inch of her with touch instead of restraint.
Her back arched slightly, pressing closer, and the movement sent heat flooding through me so intense I had to break the kiss or lose what little control remained.
I pulled back just enough to breathe—forehead still against hers, chest heaving, every muscle trembling with the effort of not taking more.
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and dazed and devastatingly beautiful.
"Tell me to leave," I rasped against her mouth.
She shook her head. Small. Certain.
Destroyed me completely.
Because this time, I wasn’t going to.