Page 42 of The Spark

We ate in silence. But it wasn’t peace.

It was tension. That slow, burning kind. Heavy. Lingering. Like something important had been said without words—and now we were both waiting to see who’d break first.

She hadn’t brought up this morning.

How she dipped without a word, like last night didn’t flip our whole shit upside down.

And I hadn’t asked because part of me was still pissed. And part of me was still afraid.

Afraid this would go exactly how I didn’t want it to go—her running, me chasing, both of us pretending like our friendship was the only thing that mattered.

After we cleaned up, I flopped onto the couch, remote in hand, trying to act normal when nothing about this was.

“Movie?” I asked, even though I already knew what I was putting on because it was our movie. It was the start of some of our best moments.

WhenLove Jonesstarted playing, she froze.

I felt it. The stillness in her breath. The sharp edge in her posture.

The record store scene hit, and all I could think about was the night before—her in that studio, arms crossed, legs tight, trying to look unbothered while I watched Raj eye her like she was the answer to everything he’d ever needed.

It took everything in me not to show my whole damn ass.

Because she wasn’t his. She wasmine.

Had been since we were kids.

And now that I’d had her again—tasted her, fucked her, felt her fall apart around me—I couldn’t pretend I didn’t want every inch of her. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t losing my mind seeing her shine for someone else.

Then the love scene started. She shifted. Sat up straighter.

I turned to look at her, opened my mouth to say something?—

And then she wasonme.

Straddling my lap, gripping my shoulders, her mouth crashing into mine like we were both starving and there was nothing left to lose.

I groaned, hands instantly finding her hips, dragging her down against the ache in my shorts. Her lips were wet, frantic, her tongue sliding deep as she rocked on me like she needed iteverywhere—my mouth, my chest, my dick.

She was hot and slick between her thighs, no panties again, and I was gone.

My shorts were off in seconds.

Her hand reached between us, guided me to her heat—and then she was sinking down. Slow. Wet. Deep.

I threw my head back with a guttural moan as her pussy gripped me tight, squeezing like it was made for me.

“Fuuuuck, Amaya…”

She didn’t wait. Didn’t give me a chance to breathe.

She moved, and I followed.

Her thighs flexed. Her breath hitched. Her pussy stretched around me, slick and warm and pulsing.

The sound of her riding me was obscene—skin slapping, wetness squelching, her soft moans getting louder with each bounce. The couch creaked beneath us, her tits brushing against my chest as she moved, her mouth crashing into mine again, messy and deep.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped against my lips, her forehead pressed to mine, her nails biting into my shoulders.

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