Ray's POV
Her roommate opens the door like she's about to complain about a package or ask for charger cables.
Instead, she sees me—six feet of bad decisions—and just says, "Oh."
Like she's been warned.
Like she knows.
And she does.
Because the second she spots me, she grabs her phone and her keys and mutters, "Yeah, I was heading out anyway."
Gone.
Door shuts behind me.
And there she is.
Sitting on the floor. Legs folded. Bare knees peeking out beneath the hem of a shirt that's so oversized it could belong to me—but it doesn't. Not yet.
One leg tucked under her, the other bent, resting her elbow on it like she's been sitting there for hours. Her hair's in a messy bun. The loose strands frame her face like fire. There's ash on the carpet. She's smoking like her lungs are optional.
She looks up. "You stalk now?"
"Yeah," I say. "I do."
She takes a long drag. Doesn't offer me one.
Her lips part, and the smoke trails out slow. Deliberate.
"You're not supposed to be here."
"You didn't tell that to Rain."
She laughs. Bitter. "You're still pressed about that?"
Pressed?
No, I'm boiling.
"You laughed, Sky."
"I'm allowed to laugh."
"Not with him."
"Jesus, Maddox." She rolls her eyes and crushes the cigarette in the ashtray. "You jealous or just obsessed?"
"Yes."
That shuts her up.
I walk closer. Step over her textbooks, past the Starbucks cup half-full of something sweet and melting.
She's still on the floor when I crouch down in front of her.
Her bare thigh presses against my jeans.
She glares at me. "What, now you're gonna lecture me? Like my dad?"
"I don't want to be your dad," I murmur. "I want to be the reason you can't look him in the eye."
Her breath stutters.
She grabs the lighter. Flicks it. Doesn't light anything—just needs something to do with her hands.
"You're insane."
"You like that."
She swallows.
"I saw you in that t-shirt," I say, voice dropping, "and I swear to God, Sky, you think I'm leaving this room without you on my lap, you're wrong."
She should slap me.
She should throw me out.
But she doesn't.
She stares at me, lips parted, pupils dark and heavy. The kind of look that turns boys into addicts.
And I know exactly what I'm doing.
"I'll make you forget that guy's name," I say, my hand brushing her knee. "Hell, I'll make you forget your own."
Her voice is a whisper. "You're not even supposed to be here."
"And yet—" I reach up, twist my fingers in her t-shirt, tug her closer until her lips nearly brush mine.
"—I'm exactly where I belong."
---
Her thighs shift against the floor as I lean in.
"You're not supposed to be here," she says again, but it's a whisper now. A weak protest. One we both know means nothing.
"Then make me leave," I murmur against her mouth.
She doesn't.
Of course she doesn't.
Because the second my hands slide under that oversized tee—bare skin, soft, warm, addicting—she exhales like I just dragged the soul out of her.
"You wanna know what drove me mad?" I breathe, lips against her ear. "You. Laughing with him. Letting him touch your arm. Letting him exist in your space."
"You're jealous," she accuses, voice trembling like it hates being vulnerable.
"No, baby." I press her down until she's lying flat on the floor. My hands cage her in. "I'm possessive."
My knee nudges between her legs.
Her nails dig into my arms, but she doesn't push me away. She's shaking, yes. But not with fear.
With anticipation.
I kiss her like I'm trying to erase the guy's name from her memory. Like I'm trying to replace her every inhale with me.
She gasps into my mouth, and I bite her bottom lip, just enough to bruise.
"You think that guy could touch you like this?" I growl.
Her hands fist in my shirt. "No one touches me like this."
"Damn right."
She's all legs and thighs and long black hair spilling across the carpet like ink. Her breath is heavy. My hands trace her ribs. Her hips buck slightly under my grip—she wants more, but she won't say it.
So I press my lips to her throat and whisper, "Say it, Sky."
"Say what?"
"That you missed me."
She laughs breathlessly. "I missed the way you piss me off."
"You moaned my name like a prayer last week," I growl. "That wasn't anger, sweetheart. That was surrender."
Her eyes flash. "And now?"
"Now?" My hand slides further down. "Now you're already begging without saying a damn word."
She arches under me. I pin her wrists above her head, and her breath catches.
"You're crazy," she whispers.
"I warned you."
"Ray—"
"If your dad knew what I'm about to do to his little princess," I murmur darkly, "he'd put a bullet in my head."
"Then maybe don't."
"Then maybe stop looking at me like that."
She doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe.
And then?
She pulls me down by the collar of my shirt and crashes her lips to mine.
---
She pulls me harder this time.
We don't even make it to the bed like normal people. She walks backwards, guiding me, and I follow like I'm fucking possessed. Like I'd follow her anywhere, even if it meant hell.
The back of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, and she falls with a soft gasp. Her hair fans around her like a dark halo. And that shirt—the one barely covering her—is riding up her thighs now. I see the edge of black lace.
Holy. Fuck.
"You wore that for him?" I rasp, standing between her legs.
She scoffs. "It's called laundry day."
I push her knees apart. "It's called you wanted me to lose my goddamn mind."
She grabs my tie and yanks me down.
"I don't care if you go mad, Ray," she breathes. "I just care if you're good at it."
That's it.
I lose the last shred of patience I had.
I climb onto the bed and kiss her hard enough to leave a mark. My weight pins her down, but she arches into me like her body was waiting for mine.
"Still thinking about Rain?" I whisper darkly, sliding my hands under her shirt.
"Who?"
"Exactly."
She's warm and soft and everything I'm not. She smells like vanilla and cigarettes and chaos. She tastes like sugar and sin.
I push the shirt up, slowly. Inch by inch.
She shivers, but not from cold.
"Take it off," she snaps.
"You first."
She strips her shirt in one go—messy, fast, angry. And fuck me if that sight isn't burned into my memory forever.
She tries to speak, but I silence her with my mouth. I kiss her like I'm marking territory. My hands grip her thighs, spreading them wider. She lets out the softest, neediest moan I've ever heard—and I nearly black out.
"Sky," I whisper into her neck, voice hoarse, "you're gonna be the death of me."
Her fingers tangle in my hair. "Then die like a man, Maddox."
---
I don't die like a man. I burn like a monster.
Her skin is scorching under my hands. Her nails rake down my back like she's trying to anchor herself. Her mouth is all gasps and curses and my fucking name.
She tastes like sweet smoke and trouble. Like the only drug I want.
The second I get her shirt off, my control snaps. I grab her wrists, pin them above her head, and look down at her—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair a wild halo on white sheets.
"Look at you," I growl, breath heavy. "Daddy's little angel in my bed."
She bucks her hips up. "Shut up."
"Make me."
She does.
With her mouth, her teeth, her thighs wrapping around my hips. She fights dirty, like always—but I fight meaner. I bite down her neck, suck on that sweet spot just under her jaw. I leave proof. On purpose.
"I want you wrecked," I whisper into her skin. "No thoughts, no words. Just me."
"Then stop talking," she pants, nails digging into my shoulder.
My hands trail down her ribs, her waist, her thighs. She's trembling. But she's not scared.
She's starving.
We don't undress. We tear. Lace snaps. My belt flies off. Her breath hitches as I press a hand to her thigh, push her legs apart, and drag my fingers over that thin line of soaked fabric.
"Fuck," I mutter. "You're dripping, Sky."
"Shut the fuck up and do something."
I chuckle darkly. "Oh, baby. I haven't even started."
---
We ruin the sheets.
We knock the lamp off the nightstand.
We break her rules and rewrite mine.
She screams into my mouth when she falls apart the first time—her body clenching around my fingers like she was made for it. I follow not long after, losing myself between those thighs I've dreamed about for weeks.
And when it's over, we don't move. We just lie there. Breathing. Shaking. Quiet.
My hand's still on her thigh. Her leg's over mine. Her lipstick's smeared, and there's a bite mark on my collarbone.
She looks over at me with glassy eyes. "You're fucked in the head."
"Yeah," I say. "But you like it."
She throws a pillow at my face.
---
Sky's POV — Morning After.
Everything hurts.
Not in the ugh I worked out way.
In the Ray Maddox ruined me and now I can't walk without looking like I got hit by a bus kind of way.
I peel my eyes open and immediately groan. My legs are jelly. My neck feels like it got mauled by a very possessive vampire. And when I sit up—nope, just kidding. I collapse right back down with a hiss.
There's a low chuckle from the bathroom.
That son of a bitch.
The door creaks open and he walks out shirtless, towel slung low on his hips like he's in a Calvin Klein ad. Not fair. Zero shame. Just sin and smirks.
"Morning, sweetheart," he purrs.
"I hate you," I groan.
"You're welcome," he grins, sauntering over with two mugs. He hands me one. Vanilla oat latte—of course he remembered. "Drink. You look like you just went twelve rounds in court and lost all of them."
"I was a goddamn courtroom," I mutter, sniffing the cup. "And you didn't just lose your case, you burned down the judge's house."
Ray laughs like I amuse him, like he didn't just mark every inch of me like some territorial beast. I know what I look like. I glanced in the mirror before flopping back down—purple. Purple and bitten and bruised. My collarbone alone looks like modern art.
"Those aren't going away for weeks," I grumble, pointing at my neck.
He looks proud.
"They weren't meant to."
"Ray."
"What?"
"You gave me hickeys the size of Delaware. My dad's going to think I was mugged."
"I'll mug you again if you're not careful," he says, lowering himself next to me on the bed. "You want aloe?"
"No, I want to walk without wobbling like a baby deer."
He grins. "I like the wobble."
I whack him with a pillow, and he just catches it mid-air, throws it back, and pulls me into his lap—careful, surprisingly.
The bastard can be gentle. When he wants to.
"I'm sore," I whisper, leaning against him.
"I know." His voice drops. "You want me to draw you a bath?"
My heart skips. Dangerously domestic. Too much.
I blink. "Are you… being sweet?"
"I can be," he says against my temple. "When you let me."
I want to scream. Or sob. Or kiss him again until I forget that we're supposed to be enemies, that our fathers would probably start a war if they knew where I was right now.
Instead, I sip my coffee. Curl into his chest. And say nothing.
Because right now… I don't want to leave.
Even if it means crawling back to class with bruises in the shape of his mouth.