Chapter 33 Adrian
Adrian
The Titans’ off-campus house smells of stale beer, old pizza, and the ghosts of a hundred bad decisions.
It’s a sprawling, run-down colonial the alumni donors keep paying for, a designated clubhouse for the team’s particular brand of chaos.
It’s not my home—my dorm is a sterile, controlled silence—but this is my territory.
I find Dante and Cole on the back porch, away from the early arrivals. Cole is scrolling through his phone, a tense line to his jaw. Dante leans against the railing, watching him.
“She still coming?” Dante asks, his voice low.
Cole sighs, not looking up. “Said she was. As a ‘friend of the program’.”
“There’s no such thing,” Dante scoffs. “Tell her to stay home. It’s a team party, not a press conference.”
“You tell her,” Cole mutters. “She might actually listen to you.”
The corner of Dante’s mouth quirks. “That’s because I’m not afraid to be an asshole about it.” He pushes off the railing as I move inside, joining the main buzz of the party.
The pre-party buzz is a familiar rhythm of loud music and endless, circular shit-talking.
We’re supposed to be celebrating the end of midterms, but I’m just waiting for the signal.
My phone is a dead weight in my hand. The noise of the party is an irritant, a dull roar under the high-pitched frequency of my own anticipation.
The bass vibrates up through the soles of my shoes, a crude heartbeat I wish I could ignore.
I’m hunting for the vibration of my phone like a junkie.
“So, is the tutor actually gracing us with her presence tonight, Cap?” Calder asks, a lazy grin on his face. “Or are you just gonna stare at your phone all night waiting for her to text you about quadratic equations?”
“Fuck off, Calder,” I say without heat.
“I’m just saying,” Gio chimes in. “It’s weird seeing you this… distracted. The girl’s got you on a leash.”
Dante, who followed me in, just smirks. “It’s not the leash that’s surprising,” he says, his voice dry. “It’s that he’s the one who handed it to her.”
Cole claps me on the shoulder, his grin a little too wide. “Hey, man, at least it’s a nice leash. Probably color-coded and everything.”
The old version of me would have put him through a wall for that. But the teasing is different now. The malicious edge is gone, replaced by a grudging, almost impressed cadence. They’re not making fun of her; they’re making fun of me for being so completely gone on her.
“It’s a fucking strong leash,” I say, my voice a low rumble. The admission shuts them up. Declan, silent in the corner, just watches me over the rim of his cup, his gaze sharp and analytical.
My phone buzzes. It’s her.
Clara: Zoe is forcing me into a skirt. We’re on our way.
An image flashes through my mind, hot and immediate: Clara in a skirt, the pale, smooth skin of her thighs.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across my face, but a spike of pure, possessive rage drives through my gut like a blade.
Other guys will see her. They’ll look. They’ll want.
My thumb moves before I can think, typing a response that’s more command than text.
Me: Good. Makes it easier for me to get my hand up it later.
I hit send, the message a brand, a promise. I stand, the decision made, and shove my phone in my pocket. I watch Gio lose at beer pong, listen to Calder tell a story I’ve already heard, but none of it registers. My entire focus is on the front door, waiting. The hunt is on.
It feels like an hour, but it’s probably only ten minutes before the doorbell rings. A freshman opens it, and the atmosphere of the room shifts.
Clara walks in, flanked by Zoe, Genny, and Talia—a four-woman wrecking crew walking directly into the heart of my territory.
Her eyes scan the room, and when they land on me, there’s no surprise, no fear.
Just a cool, analytical assessment, as if she’s measuring a predator to see if it’s worth her time.
Her chin lifts a fraction of an inch. A challenge.
Before I can move, Maya slips in behind them, an annoyance buzzing at the edge of my focus. Dante sees her too and pushes off the wall, intercepting her.
“This is a private party, Maddox,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Press passes aren’t valid here.”
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a reporter tonight, Voss. I’m a friend of the program.”
“No,” he says, a cold smirk on his face. “You’re a shark who smells blood. Cole, get your sister.”
Maya turns to her brother. “Cole, a little help?”
Cole just shrugs, taking a long drink from his cup. “Sorry, May. Team house, team rules.”
Maya’s jaw tightens with fury, but before she can retort, Dante gestures with his head toward the door. “Get out before you get hurt.”
My focus is singular. Clara.
I cross the room, my path cutting directly through the crowd.
I stop in front of her and, without a word, lift one hand to brush my thumb over her bottom lip.
A silent declaration for anyone watching.
Her breath catches. A flicker of fire in her eyes.
I give Zoe and Genny a curt nod. “Stealing her for a minute.”
Zoe steps halfway into my path, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Use protection, Hale,” she says, her voice a low purr. “She plays for keeps.”
I just smirk and take Clara’s hand, lacing my fingers through hers, and pull her down a narrow hallway. I shove open a door to a den and pull her inside, shutting it behind us. The room smells of dust, old leather, and spilled whiskey. The second the door closes, I press her back against it.
I feel the fight in her, the tension in her shoulders a taut bowstring as she decides whether to shove me away or melt.
But it’s too late. Her body has already made the choice.
My fingers trace the hem of her skirt, a path of exquisite torture, before hooking beneath the fabric.
The rustle is a crescendo in the charged space.
My hand slides up the back of her thigh, feeling the faint tremor in her muscle.
She’s wearing panties—simple silk, a disappointing barrier and an agonizingly hot fact.
The urge to rip them off is a primal roar.
Instead, I let my palm cup her ass through the thin material, squeezing gently, possessively. A claim.
A broken, helpless sound escapes her lips. “You like that?” I whisper, my voice thick with arousal. “You like me touching you here? Look at the good little tutor, soaking wet for me in a hallway where anyone could walk by. Exposed. Mine.”
She shakes her head, a lie so blatant it makes a dark smile bloom on my lips as I press them against her skin. Her hips give a traitorous little push against my hand, an undeniable invitation.
“Liar,” I breathe, pressing my mouth to the frantic pulse in her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. The savage impulse to bite down, to mark her, surges through me. “Your body tells the truth. It always does. It’s screaming for me, Clara. Begging.”
My fingers slide forward, tracing the seam of her panties to the wet, pulsing heat between her legs.
She’s already soaked. Utterly drenched for me.
The knowledge sends a savage spike of triumph through me.
Mine. I dip one finger into the slick folds, parting her.
She gasps, her back arching against the wall as her nails dig into my shirt.
“Fuck,” I groan against her neck, the sound muffled and feral.
“Look how wet you are for me. Just from a few words.” I slide a second finger in, spreading her open, finding the hard pearl of her clit.
I circle it once, slowly, and she whimpers, her eyes squeezing shut.
“That’s it, princess. Fall apart for me. Let me feel how much you want it.”
“Stop,” she chokes out, but her hands come up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
“You don’t want me to stop,” I counter, my thumb moving in a brutal, steady rhythm against her clit while my fingers stretch her. “You want me to make you come right here, don’t you? You want everyone to know you’re mine. Tell me you want it.”
“I…” Her hips are moving now, a desperate, frantic rhythm against my hand.
“Tell me,” I command, my voice a blade in the dark. I slow the pace, pulling my fingers almost out, the torture making her whine. “Look at me, Clara. You don’t get to come until you say it. Beg for it.”
Her eyes snap open, glazed and pleading. The haze clears. They focus on mine, sharp and deliberate. Then she says it, not like a victim, but like a queen making a decree. “I want it,” she sobs, the words a raw, ragged confession that breaks what’s left of my control.
That’s all I need. I plunge my fingers back into her, fucking her with a merciless rhythm, my thumb never leaving that single, aching point of pleasure.
I feel the tension coiling in her, tighter and tighter.
I watch her face in the dim light, watch her control shatter, watch her unravel.
Watching her break is a masterpiece. I’m the artist. The architect of her surrender.
When she comes, it’s a violent, silent implosion.
Her back bows, her head thrown back as a series of brutal shudders wrack her body.
A muffled cry is torn from her throat, a sound I feel vibrate against my hand.
Her inner muscles clench around my fingers in a sweet, hot torture that nearly brings me to my knees.
She sags against me, boneless and trembling.
I slowly pull my fingers out, letting her see the slick evidence of her climax coating my hand. Her eyes widen, a fresh wave of mortified pink flooding her cheeks, but she doesn’t pull away. I lift my hand to her trembling lips.
“Taste it,” I command, my voice a raw whisper. “Taste how much you wanted me. How much you broke for me.”