CHAPTER 3
AVA'S POV
I unlock the front door and step inside.
The house is quiet at first. The kind of quiet that makes my ears ring. I close the door softly behind me and just stand there in the hallway with the spare key still digging into my palm, listening. For a second I almost believe Lisa was right and the place is empty. Then I hear it — a cupboard closing in the kitchen, followed by the low clink of a mug being set down on the counter.
Marcus is home.
My stomach drops and tightens at the same time. Heat flashes low in my belly so fast it almost makes me dizzy. Lisa said he wouldn’t be here. She looked me in the eye and told me the house would be empty. Part of me is glad she was wrong.
I walk toward the kitchen trying to look normal, like I’m just her best friend using the spare key after a long day, not the girl who still has her boyfriend’s cum dried in a thin film on her inner thighs. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every step makes me aware of how sticky I still am between my legs.
Marcus is standing at the counter with his back mostly to me, pouring coffee like it’s any other evening. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders and grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips. He looks bigger than he does in my head. He always does. When he hears my footsteps he glances over his shoulder.
“Ava.”
Just my name. Calm. Like he expected me.
“Hey,” I say, and I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. “Lisa said I could stay tonight. She thought you wouldn’t be home.”
He turns fully around, leaning back against the counter with the mug in his hand. His eyes move over me once — not obvious, but slow enough that I feel it. Face. Chest. The short skirt I never changed out of. My bare legs. I have the sudden, humiliating thought that he might be able to tell I’m still messy from earlier.
“She was wrong,” he says simply. “You staying anyway?”
“Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“It’s fine.” He nods toward the stairs. “Guest room’s clean. Or just use Lisa’s. She won’t mind.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The dried cum on my thighs pulls slightly when I move. I need to get out of these clothes. I need to shower before I do something stupid like push this further right here in the kitchen.
“I’m gonna use Lisa’s shower,” I tell him, already taking a step back. “Change. I’ve been running around all day.”
Marcus watches me for a second longer than necessary, eyes dark and unreadable, then gives a small nod. “Alright.”
I turn and head for the stairs before I can stare at him too long. My legs feel unsteady. Every step up makes the sticky mess between my thighs shift, a filthy reminder of Ryan that only makes me think about Marcus harder. By the time I reach the top I’m breathing too fast.
Lisa’s room looks exactly the same as always — neat bed with the soft blue bedspread, desk still covered in her binders, the faint sweet smell of her vanilla lotion hanging in the air. I go straight into her bathroom and lock the door even though I know the lock doesn’t mean much.
I strip quickly. Blouse. Skirt. Bra. The panties are a lost cause — damp and ruined — so I ball them up and shove them to the bottom of my bag. When I look down at myself I can still see faint sticky traces on my inner thighs. I step under the hot water and finally breathe.
I mean to shower fast. Instead I stand there longer than I should, hands braced on the tiles, letting the water run down my body while my mind stays downstairs with him. My fingers slide between my legs almost on their own. I’m still swollen and sensitive from Ryan. The second I brush my clit I have to bite my lip to stay quiet. I could make myself come right here if I wanted to. It wouldn’t take long.
I force my hand away, finish washing, and turn off the water before I do something even more pathetic.
I dry off with one of Lisa’s towels. That’s when I realize what I actually brought: one clean pair of panties and an old oversized T-shirt of hers I’ve been keeping in my bag for nights like this. No shorts. No pants. The T-shirt is light grey and soft from too many washes. When I pull it on, it only comes down to the middle of my thighs. My wet hair drips onto my shoulders and makes the fabric cling to my chest and stomach. My nipples are still hard from the mix of cool air and leftover adrenaline. The shirt does nothing to hide them.
I look at myself in the mirror. Flushed face. Damp skin. Hard nipples pressing against the thin cotton. Bare legs. I look like I just got fucked. Or like I’m about to be.
I unlock the bathroom door and step back into Lisa’s bedroom—
Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed.
I freeze.
He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, like he’s been waiting the whole time. His eyes go straight to me — wet hair dripping down my back, the way the T-shirt sticks to my body, my bare thighs, the fact that there’s clearly nothing underneath.
Neither of us speaks.
Water runs from the ends of my hair, down my collarbone, and under the neckline of the shirt. My heart is slamming so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra and that the shirt is thin enough for him to see the exact shape of my nipples. I’m also aware that if I move wrong, he’ll see everything else too.
Marcus’s eyes move slowly down my body and back up to my face. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t pretend he’s not looking.
And I don’t move.
I just stand there in the doorway of my best friend’s room, dripping wet, barely dressed, already aching between my legs, waiting to see what he’s going to do about it.