The hinges groaned as I eased Bill's back door open. His familiar scent—wood smoke and that piney cologne—punched me in the gut, making my knees wobble. Breathe, Tina. Just breathe. I traced the edge of their kitchen counter, fingertips skating over chilled marble. His empty coffee mug had sat there, lipstick smudged on the rim. Not hers. Mine. From Tuesday. I had watched her toss it in the dishwasher through the window, not even noticing my pink lipstick on it.

I floated up the stairs and down the hallway to the bedroom, my pulse rattling against my ribs. His flannel work shirt pooled inside the laundry hamper. Plunging my face into it, I inhaled until black spots danced behind my eyelids. Smothered in him. Salt and sweat and the long, lonely shifts at the mill. Perfect. Sticky heat coiled in my belly. I pictured his big hands calloused and smelling of sawdust, knuckles grazing my waistband. Wanted to unbuckle that tool belt and — I collapsed onto the creaky bed, the heat between my thighs throbbing. I stretched out where he slept and ground my palm against my jeans. Hard. Quick breaths sawed from my throat. If only he knew how the zipper hissed back in the silence. How my back arched, teeth sinking into his pillow while I thought of the rasp of his stubble against my inner thigh. "Yess, Bill..." Wheezing. Desperate.

My fingers hovered over the button of my jeans. Just a quick touch, just a grind against his sheets—God, I'd done it before, left my wet mark on his pillow like a claim. But no. Not tonight. I forced my hands to my sides.

***

7 PM. The heat inside my chest clawed its way up my throat as I pressed against their prickly juniper hedge. Bill's kitchen window framed them like a live painting—his wife perched on the countertop, legs wrapped around his waist. Her blouse hung open, cream lace spilling from a beige bra. Bill's mouth moved down her neck, rough hands squeezing her hips like he wanted to leave bruises.

"Bill," she sighed, her voice muffled against his hair.

He ground against her, his pants straining. The pathetic fly of his pitiful khakis bulged against the zipper, a telltale sign of how ardently his pulsing member clamored for freedom. I could almost taste the salt on his skin.

"Not now, honey." His wife slid off the counter, buttoning her blouse. "Book club in twenty minutes."

Bill gripped her waist, his knuckles white. "They'll wait."

She laughed, patting his cheek like he was a puppy begging for scraps. "Later."

The door swung shut behind her. Bill stood frozen, shoulders heaving. He slammed a fist against the refrigerator. Milk cartons rattled inside.

I slid back against the prickly hedge, Bill's kitchen window still framed in my gaze. My chest heaved, the image of his wife's cream lace and Bill's grasping hands seared into my brain. I pictured myself in her place, perched on that counter with Bill's mouth tracing my neck. His hands would squeeze my hips, not hers. My vision blurred, and I felt the familiar tug of fantasy.

I'd wear something that made him look twice - a black mini, maybe, or a red dress that hugged my curves. My hair would spill down my back like a waterfall, and my eyes would gleam with a perpetual yes. Yes to his roaming hands, yes to his hungry mouth, yes to the silent promises he'd make with his eyes. I'd never say no, never push him away, or laugh and pat his cheek like he was a puppy. I'd let him take, let him claim, let him own me.

In my mind's eye, I saw us walking into a crowded room together, Bill's arm slung over my shoulders. Heads would turn, women would whisper, and men would stare. They'd see the way Bill's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me, the way his fingers curled possessively around my shoulder. They'd know I was his, that I belonged to him, body and soul. My heart swelled at the thought, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

Bill's wife would be a distant memory, a faded photograph tucked away in a forgotten album. He'd forget the way she laughed, the way she smelled, the way she'd pat his cheek like a scolding mother. He'd forget everything except the way I made him feel - alive, wanted, needed. And I'd never let him forget, never let him look away. I'd be his obsession, his fixation, his everything.

As I stood there, lost in my fantasy, the kitchen window slid open, and Bill's voice carried out into the night air. "Tina?" he called, his voice low and rough. My heart stuttered, and I felt a jolt of electricity run through my veins. How did he know I was out here? What did he want? I hesitated, my mind racing, as Bill's voice came again, a little louder this time. "Tina, is that you?"

The back of my neck prickled. Bill stood framed in the kitchen window, squinting into the darkness. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Shit, shit, shit.

"Tina?" His voice cut through the cool night air. "Is that you?"

I scrambled to my feet, twigs snagging my jeans. "Bill! Yeah, hi." My voice sounded too high, too bright.

Curiosity warred with something else in his eyes as I stumbled into the dim light spill. He leaned on the windowsill, arms crossed. "What're you doing out here?"

The lie tumbled out, raw and untested. "My car. It won't start. Not a damn sound." I wrung my hands, the picture of helplessness. "I gotta get to the city. Tonight. Doctor's appointment." Heat flooded my cheeks. "Real important..."

His eyebrows shot up. Pure disbelief etched lines across his forehead. He stared at me, silent. The moment stretched thick with suspicion. My throat tightened. He knows. He has to know.

Then his shoulders dropped slightly. "City?" His voice was flat. "Now?"

"Please, Bill? I'd call a cab, but... broke 'til payday." I touched my throat, willing my pulse to slow. "You're the only one. I mean..."

Another heavy pause. He looked past me into the dark yard. Sighed, a low rumble. "Okay."

Relief washed through me, cold and slippery. "Thank you! Oh God, thank you—"

"Five minutes," he interrupted, curt. "Front of the house. And Tina? Make it quick." The window slid shut with a soft thud. He vanished into the dim interior.

My knees almost buckled. I pressed trembling fingers to my lips, breathing fast. Five minutes. Alone in his car. With him.

My sneakers crunched on the driveway gravel as I rounded the house. Every nerve ending felt scraped raw. Bill's truck, big and dark, idled patiently in the driveway, exhaust pluming white in the cool night air. The cab light was on, silhouetting him behind the wheel. He looked tired, rougher than usual. Fatigue carved lines beside his mouth. He didn't glance my way as I hauled open the heavy passenger door and slid in.

The inside hit me instantly. His place. Leather, a faint tang of engine oil, and overwhelmingly, just him. Sawdust and sharp pine aftershave layered over something warm and musky and fundamentally male. It wrapped around me, thick as a blanket. I pulled the door shut, sealing us in together. "Thanks again, Bill," I breathed, barely above a whisper, fastening the seatbelt across my chest. "Seriously. Lifesaver."

He grunted, a short, non-committal sound. His eyes stayed fixed on the windshield. Without another word, he threw the truck into drive. The tires growled on the pavement as we pulled away from his house, away from his wife's beige bra.

The quiet stretched. Heavy. The only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal as he swung onto the main road towards the highway. The dash lights cast a dim green glow, illuminating the strong line of his jaw, the faint stubble shadow. His big hands rested loosely on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knuckles prominent. My palms tingled with the urge to touch.

"So," I started, shifting slightly towards him, letting my knee brush against the hard plastic of the center console. Close enough. "Long shift at the mill?"

Just like he'd started with his wife. Standard Bill territory, safe ground.

"Mmm." He didn't turn his head. "Usual."

Another wall. Silence settled again, thicker this time. Streetlights strobed past, painting fleeting, striped patterns across the truck's interior, across his profile. I watched the muscles flex in his arm as he shifted gears. My gaze drifted down to where his thick thigh pressed against the worn denim of his work jeans. Heat prickled under my skin.

"You ever think about just... getting away?" My voice was softer now, aimed at the side of his face. "Leaving all the... the usual stuff behind for a while?"

He glanced over then, finally. A quick flick of his dark eyes. Suspicion? Or curiosity? Hard to tell in the dim light.

"Away?" His tone was flat, almost dismissive. "Can't afford away, Tina. Work to do."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." I swallowed. Smooth, Tina. Real smooth. The leather seat creaked under me. The air felt charged, crackling with everything I wanted to say but couldn't. I smelled his shirt again, the one I'd buried my face in, the salt-sweat-sawdust scent amplified in this small space. My fingers tightened on the edge of the seat. Another streetlight flashed, catching the worn fabric stretched taut over his thigh again. My stomach clenched. What would it feel like? Right now? His hand moving from that steering wheel....

"College treating you okay?" Bill finally broke the silence, eyes still on the road.

I shifted in my seat, catching his profile in the flickering streetlights. "It's alright. Just... kind of lonely sometimes." My voice dipped lower. "You know, studying all night... missing a little... action." I let the words hang, biting the edge of my lip.

"Mmm." I stretched my arms lazily, arching my back slightly. "No distractions."

He didn't react. Didn't shift away. Didn't acknowledge it. His fingers tapped once on the steering wheel. Silence wrapped around us again, tight and unyielding. My annoyance spiked. Was he ignoring the vibe? Or just fucking oblivious? Did he never want? Pulling away from his wife like that, so frustrated... that fire was there. I saw it. Smelled it. Felt the need radiating off him. Pulsing under the surface like a snagged power line. Why not me?

"Nice truck, by the way." My attempt at flirtation sounded pathetic even to me. Forced. "Powerful." My eyes darted deliberately down again, tracing the heavy outline of his arms working the wheel, the strength coiled beneath his flannel sleeve. The thick column of his throat.

"Gets me where I need to go." His reply was clipped. Utilitarian. An anatomy textbook could have more passion. He adjusted the vents slightly, directing cool air onto his face.

My teeth clenched. Every sound in the cab felt amplified: the steady thrum of the engine, the faint whistle of wind around the side mirror. The scent of him was intoxicating. Suffocating, raw, potent Bill smell that seeped into the seats, into the air, into my stupid, desperate head. It made my throat tighten. My palms were damp. Why wouldn't he talk to me? Offer more than grunts? Drop the fucking stoic act for two seconds?

The city lights glowed faintly in the distance. We were less than fifteen minutes out. Fuck. Time was collapsing. The thought of getting out of this confined space with him, abandoning this electric proximity, felt like suffocation. I needed something. Anything.

"You look tired," I tried again, softening my voice, letting a note of fake concern edge in. "Long week?"

"Always is." He didn't expand.

Silence crashed down again, more brittle than before. My knee pressed harder against the console. A faint tremor ran through my leg. Heat pooled low in my belly. The route was monotonous. Bill drove with a quiet, unchanging focus. Efficient. Unreadable. Utterly infuriating. That ache inside me twisted, turning sharp and sour.

Another mile flashed past the dark roadside fields. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, the purple plastic glitter coating on my short nails catching the green dashboard glow as I pressed my thumb hard against a knuckle. Ran a hand through my hair, then another.

I stared at the side of his face. That firm jaw. The way his dark hair curled a little over his collar. My skin felt too tight, stretched thin over the heat simmering underneath. The silence wasn't just silence anymore; it felt like rejection. A wall slammed into my face. Was I invisible? Disgusting? Did I reek of teenage desperation? My face burned.

Traffic ahead. Bill tapped the brake, slowing us smoothly. The sudden decrease in noise made the air seem heavier.

"So," I tried one last time, my voice straining for lightness. "What's the plan when you get home? Kelly's out..."

"Sleep." The word landed like a brick. Final. Undisputable. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel again, like they had been gripping his wife earlier. But not for me.

Hot, leaden disappointment slammed into my chest. My throat closed up. I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the furious humiliation igniting my skin. He pointed wordlessly at the upcoming exit ramp sign for the city hospital district. "That's your block?"

I managed a jerky nod, staring rigidly ahead through the filthy windshield, not trusting myself to look at him. My fists clenched in my lap, the fingertips tingling.

"Here?" That rough baritone voice, now thick with impatience.

"Yeah." My voice came out brittle. Strangled. I fumbled for the door handle. The heavy metallic noise when I pulled it reverberated in the tense stillness of the car. Half-turned back, perched on the edge of the seat. He hadn't moved. Still staring straight ahead, hands locked on the wheel, jaw tight in the sharp white light. The line of his shoulders was rigid.

"Thanks for the ride," I ground out, the words tasting like ashes. I wasn't going to offer gas money. Screw him.

He just grunted. A slow blink. Utter finality.

The heavy door swung wide, cool night air hitting my skin. One foot planted on the pavement. Then, as I pushed up, pivoting my body out, the sensation slammed into me. Hot, focused, intense. His gaze pinned right on my ass. Thick and heavy as a physical touch. It wasn't a glance. It was a claiming stare, raking over the curve of my jeans.

I froze mid-motion, bent over, halfway out the door. My heart stalled, then stuttered back hard against my ribs. He's looking. He's really looking.

Slower. I deliberately dragged the movement out. Let my hips sway just an inch wider than necessary. Felt the denim pull tight. A tiny, deliberate wiggle–a slow roll from the small of my back down. Silent. Provocative. Leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Heat sparked low in my belly. A silent victory hummed through my veins.

Then I pulled fully out, standing tall on the pavement. Without turning, without a backward glance, I slammed the truck door shut.

***

Sunlight streamed through my cheap blinds, dust motes dancing. The stinging memory of last night's truck ride clung. His indifference. His rigid silence. But that one molten second... his stare burning right through the denim onto my skin. He wanted. Even if he refused to say it. Today, I wouldn't need words. I'd make him show it.

The closet door screeched open. Choices. Bill saw lumber, sweat, and practicality. He needed to see... possibility. The ripped band tee? Too immature. The tight black dress? Trying too hard. My fingers brushed against a flimsy slip of pale blue lingerie I'd bought weeks ago, just for this goddamn moment. The silky fabric slid like liquid over my hips, clinging to every curve before whispering around my thighs. Sleeveless. The neckline plunged enough to showcase small, tight breasts without screaming desperation. Skin. That's what he'd see. Bare arms. Bare legs smooth from my rushed shower.

I found his favorite hoodie balled in my laundry basket–the worn gray one smelling overwhelmingly of his raw, sleep-warm skin. My nose pressed into it, inhaling deep. Mine for now. I debated putting it on over the slip. Vulnerability? Power play? Fuck it. I wanted him to see me wearing his clothes. The absurdly thin scraps of lace holding this together still on display. His scent would be around me, suffocating in the best way. My reflection in the cloudy mirror traced the faint tan lines, the jut of hipbones under icy blue silk, the flush already rising on my throat. You want me to look innocent, Bill? Too late. Today, you see the raw deal. And you take it.

Easing the bedroom window open, the familiar rusty complaint echoed dully. Cool air hit my silk-covered legs. His yard sprawled empty two doors down. Kelly's minivan was long gone. My worn ballet flats made no sound as I landed in his overgrown flower bed. Heart drummed like frantic wings against my ribs. Not fear. Thrilled hunger. That feeling of crossing a line deliberately, irrevocably drawn. The back porch step barely creaked under my weight. My fingers found the chipped brick near the azalea bush. Cold metal scraped my knuckles. The spare key. How many times had I watched Kelly jam it back here? Lazy security.

The lock clicked open smoother than my own apartment's. I shut the door silently behind me. Smugness curled in my stomach. I flitted through the downstairs like a ghost, drawn straight upstairs. His scent intensified near the closed bedroom door. Musky sleep, a clean, sharp bite.

I pushed the door open. Heavy twilight filled the room from drawn blinds. Their bed. Big. Old oak frame. Crisp white sheets smelling faintly of detergent... but under it, him. Burrowed deep into the fibers. I inhaled, sharp. My throat tightened. This was it. His space. The epicenter where it would happen. Peeling back the covers, the sheets cool against my bare legs as I slid between them like I did many times before.

I pressed my face deep into the down pillowcase. His imprint was everywhere. Heat pooled low and relentlessly between my thighs. The slip felt almost indecent against the clean sheets. Every nerve ending vibrated, hypersensitive to the weave of the linen, the silence pregnant with his eventual return. Waiting became a physical ache.

That desperate need coiled in my belly again, tight and liquid. Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed. Boots thudded onto tiles. A pause. He'd see my discarded flats near the back door. He'd know.

My breath hitched. I closed my eyes, feigning sleepiness I didn't feel, curling slightly on his side of the bed. One bare shoulder deliberately peeked out. His worn gray hoodie pulled low over my hips swallowed my hands. My scent layered over his, now.

Footsteps climbed the stairs. Slow. Careful? Suspicious. Each creak vibrated up my spine. He paused outside the bedroom door, the long hesitation thick enough to taste. The brass knob turned. The door opened.

He stood silhouetted against the brighter hall light. Work jeans dusty, plaid shirt damp with sweat across his broad shoulders. His gaze swept the dim room, landed on the bed–on me. On the sprawl of bare leg, the curve beneath the hoodie's edge, the pale skin where the slip pooled near my thigh.

"Jesus Christ." His voice scraped out, raw, stunned. Not angry yet. Just disbelief, thick and choking. He didn't move from the threshold.

I let my eyelids flutter open slowly. Looked straight at him through the gloom. Smiled, letting my lower lip catch just under my teeth. "Hey, Bill." My voice dipped low, sleep-rough on purpose.

"What the hell are you doing?" He finally stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. More confusion on his face than the anger I expected. His eyes flickered from the hoodie I wore to the bed. "My bed. My clothes. How did—"

"Found your spare key." I shifted purposely against the sheets, arching my spine just enough to make the silk pull taut across my breasts beneath the hoodie fabric. Saw his gaze snag there. "It was cold waiting."

"Waiting? You break into my goddamn house and crawl into my—" He stopped himself, dragged a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. Kept his distance. Six feet felt like a canyon. "Get out. Now. You can't be here." He gestured sharply towards the door. His fingers trembled slightly.

I pushed the hoodie off one shoulder completely, exposing the delicate lace strap, the smooth plane of my collarbone. Flushed skin in the dim light. "Why not? The house is empty." I kept my voice calm. Level. "Kelly's gone. Like last night."

He stared at the exposed skin, his jaw tightening until a muscle leaped in his cheek. "Tina." His tone dropped, rougher. Dangerous. Control fraying at the edges. "This is insane. You need to leave."

"Insane?" A slow smile spread across my face. I sat up further in the bed, letting the comforter fall to my waist. The blue slip was alarmingly visible now against the white sheets. Dipping low over my chest. My bare knees brushed together. "Maybe." I met his widening eyes. "Crazy feels pretty good sometimes."

He sucked in a sharp breath. Took a single, almost involuntary step closer to the bed. Closer. Five feet. His gaze raked over the slender lines of my arms, down to where my hands lay flat on the sheet beside my hips. Then back up, catching mine. The denial forming on his lips looked flimsy. "Crazy is trouble. You know that. This is... you're just... what, nineteen? Hell." He shook his head, disgust wrestling with something else. Something hot.

"Old enough," I murmured. My chin lifted, challenging him. I felt the raw power surge, seeing the conflict war in his eyes, in the tension coiling his shoulders. "Plenty old enough." My voice dropped to a near whisper, husky. "Last night. Outside the truck. You watched." I let the unspoken accusation hang. The scorching memory of his gaze on my curve.

"You were leaving." The words scraped out. Defensive. Weak. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

"So?" I stared him down. Then, pushing back the rest of the comforter, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The blue silk whispered against my skin. My bare feet touched the cool wooden floor. Standing up, the hoodie fell to mid-thigh, leaving a long expanse of leg visible, the cling of the slip obvious beneath. I stepped towards him. One pace. Close enough now to smell the fresh sweat on his skin, the singed wood and gasoline from his job. Close enough to see the frantic pulse jumping in the thick vein of his throat.

He didn't step back. Rooted.

I tilted my head back, looking up into his tight face, the dark eyes now filled with a storm. Anger. Fear. Hungry warmth. Inches separated us. "Nineteen?" I breathed, letting my eyes roam his mouth. "Yeah, married." Another step closed the remaining space. My fingers reached out, feather-light, tracing the stiff line of plaid over the hard muscle of his chest. Not pushing. Barely touching. My voice was a breathy demand, almost lost in the small space between our bodies. "So?"

My finger traced the rough plaid over Bill's pounding heart. He didn't flinch. "So?" I breathed again, tilting my chin up. The word hung, loaded. My own pulse thrummed against the inside of my wrists where the hoodie sleeves swallowed my hands. Every nerve screamed. He shoves you away. He calls Kelly. The cops come—shame, ruin. My smile felt brittle, plastered over the frantic skittering under my ribs. What if he gives in? Then what? Can I even — My guts twisted, sudden, cold.

Bill's breath hitched, a jagged sound in the silence. His gaze dropped, tracking the thin blue strap slipping further down my shoulder, then lower, to the dip of lace barely covering my breast beneath the hoodie's gaping neckline. His jaw clenched. Hard. The muscle under my fingertip jumped like a live wire. The hungry heat I saw last night blazed back into his eyes, hotter now, stripping away the pretense of anger.

"Jesus, Tina," he rasped. His hand lifted, swift and rough, not towards me, but to his own temple. He dragged it down his face like he could scrub the sight of me away. "This isn't a game." His voice cracked. He stepped back. Just an inch. A retreat? An invitation?

I moved with him. Didn't give him space. The scrape of his work boots was loud on the floorboards. Inside, the frantic whispers roared. Pathetic. Ridiculous child. He smells the desperate need on you like cheap perfume. But my hand drifted lower on his chest, feeling the frantic drumming against my palm, down towards the worn leather of his belt buckle. The heat from him was a wall.

He caught my wrist. Big fingers wrapping. Not squeezing. Trapping. Holding. His breath came in uneven bursts, washing over my face. His eyes, fixed on mine. The storm in them wasn't anger anymore. It was conflict, warring with a predatory hunger that stole my breath. His thumb moved. A slow, rough stroke over the thin skin covering my wild pulse point. A question. An answer. The touch set fire to my veins.

My lips parted. Words deserted me. Pleading eyes locked onto him were my only language. The scent of raw Bill flooded my senses. His fingers tightened a fraction on my wrist, pulling me infinitesimally closer against the rough denim barrier separating our bodies. The world dissolved into the frantic rhythm under my palm, the desperate question burning in his stare, and the terrifying, exhilarating plummet into whatever came next. His head dipped. My breath stopped.

His grip on my wrist tightened. A sharp jerk, pulling me flush against him—the hard ridge of his jeans digging into my belly, his rough fingers branding my skin. A low, strangled noise ripped from his throat, something between frustration and surrender. Then his hands were on my waist, fingers biting into flesh as he lifted me effortlessly, tossing me backward onto the bed. The impact bounced me once before the dip of the mattress swallowed me. He was on me before I could catch my breath, knees hitting the mattress on either side of my thighs, a wall of heat and need.

His plaid shirt, already undone, my fingers clawing at the fabric, yanking it off his shoulders before he could stop me. The muscles in his arms tensed as he stripped it away, the worn cotton joining the growing mess of clothes on the floor. His chest was rougher than I'd imagined—coarse dark hair dusting hard planes, scars, and sun-worn skin, the kind of body built by labor.

I shoved the hoodie off my shoulders, letting it pool around my elbows before wriggling free. The thin blue lingerie gaped lower, barely clinging to the swell of my tits now. Bill's gaze burned hotter than his hands, raking down my body like he was memorizing the shape of me for the last time.

His belt buckle clinked. Fingers worked the button of his jeans—too slow, too deliberate. The zipper rasped open, and I arched up to help, slick heat pooling between my thighs as I peeled the bra from my body, baring every inch of flushed skin. No more hiding. No more games. His breath hitched at the sight—the pink, untouched flush of my nipples, the desperate way my hips lifted toward him, offering.

His hands slid back up my ribs, dragging over sensitive skin, stopping just beneath my breasts. His thumbs brushed the underside, rough and demanding, and I whimpered, writhing under the teasing pressure.

"Bill—" His name slipped out, breathless.

He kissed me. Hard. A bruising press of lips that stole the rest of my words, his tongue tangling with mine, wet and claiming. I melted into it, fingers knotting in his hair as he dragged his mouth down my throat, biting the tender skin just enough to make my hips jerk. Lower—his lips traced the curve of my breast, teeth scraping my nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth. A shocked cry tore from me, legs wrapping around his waist, grinding shamelessly against the hard press of his jeans.

He groaned, pulled back just long enough to shove his jeans down his thighs, kicking them to the floor. His cock sprang free, thick and already slick at the tip, and my mouth watered at the sight. Before I could reach for him, he pushed me flat.

His rough hands slid down my thighs, fingers hooking into the lace of my panties. I squeezed my legs together on instinct—just for a second, lifting my hips. His growl vibrated through me as he ripped them down in one swift motion. The air hit my exposed skin, wet and warm. His stare burned between my legs, a primal hunger flaring in his eyes.

"Fuck," he grated out, throat tight.

I watched his cock jump, thick and desperate, twitching at the sight of me—young, slick, spread just for him. My breath came in shallow gasps. The raw need on his face sent heat roaring through my veins.

His fingers gripped my thighs, spreading them wider. I arched up, hooking my knees over his shoulders, offering myself shamelessly. My own hands slid between my legs, fingers parting my pussy lips with deliberate slowness—soaking wet, glistening, flushed pink.

"Look at me," I breathed, voice dripping with mischief. "I want you, Bill!"

His nostrils flared. A ragged sound tore from his throat. Then his mouth crushed against mine, rough and possessive, tongue delving deep like he was chasing the taste of my words. His stubble burned against my skin as he broke away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, over my collarbone. Teeth scraped my nipples, pulling another cry from me before his lips mapped lower—along my ribs, my stomach —

He stopped just above the junction of my thighs, his breath fanning over my slick folds. His voice wrecked. "Christ."

A slow grin curled my lips, watching him inhale sharply, eyes dark with realization. He already knew the scent of my teen pussy.

"Yes, I've... soaked your sheets before. When you were gone." I pulled him closer. "But now you are here."

My fingers raked through his hair, guiding him lower.

A ragged exhale left him. His eyes flicked up, meeting mine with a knowing look—hot, possessive, satisfied. My stomach flipped.

"Fuck, a crazy little thing is what you are," he muttered, voice wrecked as he dove between my legs.

The first swipe of his tongue sent lightning through me, sharp and electric. I arched off the bed, gasping, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there as he lapped at me like a man starved. Every flick, every slow stroke, dragged me closer to the edge. His fingers dug into my thighs, spreading me wider, opening me up as his tongue swirled over my clit, sucking gently before diving back in.

A moan tore from my throat. My hips rolled, chasing every searing stroke of his tongue until my thighs shook. His fingers replaced his mouth, rubbing tight circles just as his lips wrapped around my clit again, sucking harder. The pressure built—white-hot, unbearable—until I shattered, his name on my lips as I came, shuddering under him.

He didn't let me catch my breath. One hand wrapped around my hip, flipping me onto my stomach before hauling me back up onto my knees. His teeth grazed my shoulder as he lined up behind me, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance.

A shaky inhale. A slow push—stretching, filling, claiming. I bit my lip, whimpering as he bottomed out, his hips flush against my ass.

"So fucking tight," he growled.

Then he moved. Hard. Deep. No mercy. Each thrust sent shockwaves through me, his grip bruising as he fucked into me with rough, uneven strokes. The slap of skin echoed in the quiet room, mixed with my breathless moans, his choked curses. His fingers dug into my hips, pulling me back onto him with every punishing drive.

"Bill—ah! Please—"

He leaned over me, pressing his chest to my back, his breath hot in my ear. "Shouldn't be here," he rasped, each word punctuated by another sharp thrust. "Shouldn't feel this goddamn good."

A strained whimper escaped me. My fingers clawed at the sheets as pleasure coiled tighter, spiraling toward another brutal climax. His hand slid around my waist, fingers finding my clit, rubbing just right —

I arched my back, pressing hard against his thrusts as the rough drag of his cock sent sparks dancing behind my eyelids. "Yeah—like that—fuck, Bill, take it!" My voice cracked on a moan as his fingers dug harder into my clit, his other hand fisting in my hair to yank my head back.

His breath was fire against my neck, ragged and desperate. "Such a greedy little thing! Took my whole damn cock like you were made for it."

I shivered, the filthy words sending a fresh rush of wetness between my legs. "Made for you," I gasped, rocking back harder, meeting each thrust. The slap of our skin echoed, obscene and perfect. His grip on my hip was iron, holding me in place as he pounded into me, deep, brutal strokes that had me seeing stars.

He chuckled darkly, his teeth scraping my shoulder. "Christ—fuck."

His thrusts turned erratic, rougher, like he was losing control, and I loved it. The bed rocked beneath us, the headboard slamming the wall in time with every snap of his hips.

"Show me," I panted, twisting to look back at him. His sweat-slicked chest, the desperate clench of his jaw—every inch of him was primal, male in the rawest way. "Show me how bad you want me—how bad you need it—"

A growl ripped from his throat. He pulled out suddenly, flipping me onto my back before dragging my hips up, forcing my legs over his shoulders. One hand pinned my wrists above my head, the other guiding his cock back to my soaking entrance.

"No more games," he gritted out, slamming back inside in one brutal thrust.

I cried out, back bowing as he filled me, stretched me, ruined me. His hips pistoned, relentless, the new angle rubbing deep, hitting that perfect spot over and over until my thighs trembled. His grip on my wrists tightened, pinning me completely, taking exactly what he wanted—no sweet, no soft, just raw fucking.

The world exploded. White-hot, blinding. I choked on his name, back arching as I came again, clenching around him like a vice.

His grip tightened. "Fuck—Christ—" One last, deep thrust. He collapsed onto me as he spilled inside me, ragged groans muffled against my skin.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Just the sound of our harsh breathing, the slick slide of sweat between our bodies. Then his weight shifted—his mouth pressed to my lips, soft, needy, and loving.