Saw Me 10

The soda wasn’t cold. Obviously. School vending machines are basically expensive disappointment dispensers, but I needed somewhere to stand that wasn’t my locker of shame or the bathroom where I’d been hiding for three days straight.

Fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps. The hallway reeked of industrial disinfectant and teenage desperation. I thought I was alone.

Wrong.

“You always get Cherry Coke when you’re pissed.”

His voice hit me like a physical thing. I didn’t turn around because I’m not a masochist. Well, maybe I am, but I have standards.

“Stalking me now?” I asked the vending machine.

“Reading you.” Chase moved closer. I could feel the heat radiating off him like a human furnace. “It’s not that hard.”

“Congratulations. You’ve cracked the code of teenage emotional eating.”

“I read your new list.”

My stomach dropped into my shoes. “Cool invasion of privacy.”

“You left it out.”

“I left it in my bag.”

“Which was open.”

“Which was zipped.”

“Which was on my floor.”

Fuck. Right. When I’d grabbed my stuff and bolted after our hallway explosion, apparently I’d been less careful than I thought.

“So?” I still wasn’t turning around. Couldn’t. If I looked at him, I’d either cry or kiss him, and both options felt like surrender.

“So I know what’s next on your little rebellion checklist.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “It’s not a rebellion checklist.”

“‘Sleep with someone who actually sees me.’” His voice was quiet. Dangerous. “That’s not rebellion?”

I finally turned. Mistake. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for weeks. Like maybe he’d just found the corner piece.

“Maybe it’s just honesty,” I said.

“Honesty about what?”

“About wanting something real for once.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to smell whatever cologne he’d been wearing today.

“And you think I’m real?”

“I think you’re the only person who’s called me on my bullshit.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

We stared at each other across six inches of loaded air. His jaw was tight. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets like he was physically restraining himself.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

“Probably.”

“You’re gonna regret it.”

“Maybe.”

“I’m gonna hurt you.”

“You already have.”

That broke something in his expression. Like I’d just landed a punch he’d been expecting but still couldn’t block.

“Zoey—”

“Don’t.” I pressed my palm against his chest. His heart was hammering. “Don’t talk me out of this. Don’t save me from myself. Don’t do that thing where you decide what’s good for me.”

“What if I’m deciding what’s good for me?”

“Then you’re a coward.”

His laugh was sharp. Bitter. “Yeah. I am.”

“Good. I’m tired of brave boys who think they know everything.”

The bell rang, and the spell broke—just long enough for the world to start spinning again.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just exchanged glances sharp enough to draw blood.

After the final bell, he waited by his car like it was a decision he’d already made.

He didn’t ask if I wanted to come. Just unlocked the door, eyes flicking to mine like a dare.

We drove to his house.

I stood in his hallway like an idiot, heart performing Olympic gymnastics, until he stepped close enough to touch the hem of my hoodie. Not pulling. Just… anchoring.

I reached for his collar. He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t step back when I traced his jaw like I was trying to memorize the geography of his face. He watched me like I was the weather he’d been waiting for. Like he was done running from the storm.

“I’m not pretending,” I whispered.

“I know.”

He kissed me first.

Not sweet. Not soft. Inevitable. Like his mouth had been carved for mine and we were finally done pretending.

My back hit the wall. He cursed against my lips and kissed me harder, like he was punishing me for making him wait. His hands slid under my shirt, down my waist, my hips—everywhere. Claiming.

“Fuck, Zoey,” he growled, pulling my hoodie off like it insulted him. Then his shirt was gone too. Skin to skin, breath to breath.

His mouth devoured my neck—biting, sucking, licking a path down like he was trying to brand me from the inside out. I moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“I want this,” I breathed, voice shaking. “I want you.”

He froze for half a second, chest heaving. Then the leash snapped.

He grabbed my ass, lifted me, threw me onto the bed. My bra hit the floor. My leggings followed. He knelt between my legs, eyes dark, lips glistening with need.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispered, dragging his tongue down my stomach, slow and dirty. “Now I’m going to make you scream.”

Then his mouth was on me.

Hot. Wet. Devouring.

I arched, cried out, shaking as his tongue flicked and sucked and fucked me until I shattered on his tongue, breathless and wrecked.

He didn’t stop.

Fingers replaced his mouth, curling inside me, stroking that devastating spot until I came again, crying out so loud I thought the neighbors would hear.

Then he was over me, breath warm on my lips, eyes locked to mine like the world had narrowed down to just this—just us. He brushed my hair from my face with a trembling hand, then guided himself to my entrance, his tip slick, teasing.

“Zoey…” His voice was hoarse, reverent. “I need to feel all of you.”

“You have me,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I want all of you.”

He pressed inside—slow, deep, every thick inch stretching me until I gasped and my back arched off the bed.

“God,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel like heaven.”

My fingers dug into his arms, clinging to him as our bodies fit together perfectly, like they were always meant to. His lips brushed my temple, then my jaw, then settled back on mine, softer this time. Like he needed to savor it.

“You okay?” he murmured.

I nodded breathlessly. “More than okay. Move, please.”

He pulled back, then slid in again—long, slow strokes that made me tremble. He kissed me through it, our mouths catching on each breath, each moan. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, every thrust making my toes curl.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered into my mouth. “So warm. So mine.”

I whimpered, thighs tightening around him. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he said. “Not when you sound like that. Not when you look at me like I’m the only one who’s ever touched you like this.”

“You are,” I gasped.

His forehead dropped to mine, and he groaned as our bodies moved faster, deeper. The pressure coiled tight in my core, every movement dragging me closer to the edge. He felt it too—I could tell by the way his hands gripped my hips tighter, by the curse that left his lips when I clenched around him.

“Zoey—fuck—I’m close.”

“Then take me with you,” I breathed. “Don’t let go.”

His hand slipped between us, fingers finding my clit, circling with perfect pressure until my breath hitched, eyes flying open. “Yes—yes—don’t stop.”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice thick, desperate. “Let go, baby. I want to feel you fall apart.”

And I did.

I cried out, body pulsing around him, nails digging into his skin as I shattered. He followed a breath later, hips stuttering, face buried in my neck as he moaned my name into my skin.

We didn’t speak right away. Just lay there tangled together, sweaty and trembling, his body draped over mine, hearts pounding in sync.

Then he looked at me. Really looked. “That wasn’t just sex.”

“No,” I whispered, brushing his damp hair back. “It was everything.”

His mouth curved, soft and stunned. “You’re everything.”