The bass from the downstairs TV thrummed through the floorboards, a distant heartbeat to the chaos unfolding in the guest bedroom. My own heartbeat was a frantic drum solo against my ribs. Chase’s mouth was on mine, tasting of cheap beer and pure, unadulterated hunger. His hands, big and calloused from years of construction work, were already under my jersey, shoving the fabric up.

“Fuck the game,” he growled against my lips, his voice a rough vibration that went straight to my core.

I didn’t argue. The party was a dull roar below, a world away. Here, it was just the two of us, the scent of his cologne and my own rising arousal, and the desperate need to feel. My fingers clawed at the back of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. The sight of his torso, all defined muscle and a dusting of dark hair, made my breath catch. I wasn’t a passive participant. I was a switch, and tonight, the current was surging, wild and untamed.

I pushed him back, my palms flat against his chest, until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he sat down with a soft oof. My eyes locked with his, a challenge in my gaze. I kept my jersey on, but slowly, deliberately, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings and panties and pushed them down my thighs. The air was cool on my exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between my legs.

“Watch,” I commanded, my voice lower than I intended.

I stepped out of the clothing puddled at my feet and climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap. The rough denim of his jeans scraped deliciously against my inner thighs. I could feel the hard, thick line of him straining against the zipper, and a shudder of pure want rocked through me. I leaned forward, my lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You don’t get to touch yet,” I whispered, and felt him tense beneath me, a low groan escaping him.

I began to move, a slow, grinding roll of my hips, the damp heat of my bare core sliding over the denim covering his cock. The friction was maddening, a tease that promised so much more. I could see the strain in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists on his own thighs. My control. My pace. I arched my back, letting the jersey ride up, offering him the full view of my breasts swaying with the motion. His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue.

“Romi…” he breathed, a plea and a warning.

I ignored it. Reaching between us, I fumbled with his belt buckle, the metal clinking loudly in the room. I got his jeans open, shoved them down just enough. And then I took him in my hand. He was thick, heavy, the skin velvety and hot. A bead of moisture already glistened at the tip. I stroked him once, twice, my thumb swirling over the sensitive head, and he bucked his hips involuntarily.

“Now,” he gritted out.

The power shift was electric. In one fluid motion, his hands were on my hips, his grip iron-strong. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and impaled me in one deep, devastating thrust.

Oh, god.

The fullness was shocking, exquisite. A sharp cry tore from my throat, swallowed by the distant roar of a crowd on TV. He filled me completely, stretching me in the most perfect way. For a second, neither of us moved, just connected, breathing each other’s air. Then he began to move.

He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, driving up into me with a force that stole my breath. Each thrust jolted through me, a direct line to every nerve ending. The headboard began a steady, rhythmic thump against the wall, syncing with the chaos downstairs. I braced my hands on his shoulders, my nails digging in, riding the wave of pure sensation. The pleasure was a tight coil in my belly, winding tighter with every slam of his hips.

“Harder,” I gasped, the word barely audible.

He obeyed, his hands moving from my hips to grip my ass, fingers digging into the flesh, spreading me wider, taking me deeper. The angle changed, and suddenly he was hitting a spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. My control shattered. The switch flipped. A raw, guttural moan ripped from my throat, loud enough I was sure they’d hear it over the commercials.

“Yes, right there, fuck, Chase, don’t stop!”

I was babbling, mindless, consumed by the primal need for release. He leaned forward, capturing my nipple in his mouth through the thin fabric of my jersey, sucking hard. The dual sensation—the deep, internal pounding and the sharp, electric pull on my breast—was too much. The coil snapped.

My orgasm crashed over me like a rogue wave, violent and all-consuming. My body clenched around him, a series of intense, pulsing contractions that milked his length. I threw my head back, back arching, a silent scream on my lips as pleasure radiated out from my core, turning my limbs to liquid fire.

He felt it, my climax triggering his own. With a final, ragged groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid beneath me. I felt the hot, sudden rush of his release flooding me, a deep, intimate claim that sent another, smaller shudder through my spent body.

We collapsed together in a sweaty, panting heap on the rumpled comforter, the sounds of the party filtering back in. The distant chant of a crowd. A bottle breaking. Laughter.

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