Page 56 of Bend & Break
“This is why I don’t like college parties,” I say, sidestepping a guy who’s carrying a massive potted plant down the hall. “They’re just... unsafe.”
Idolike being with my friends, though. So I go to them anyway.
“Unsafe is fun,” Mads says, scanning each doorway. He guides me around a cluster of people taking shots while lying on the floor. “You’re just allergic to fun.”
“I’m allergic to clown behavior,” I correct. “Nothing about this is fun.”
We peek into another room. Nothing but a group playing Mario Kart on a flat-screen that takes up half the wall.
“Not here either,” I sigh.
“Brilliant. I was hoping to avoid actually finding him,” Mads says.
I roll my eyes, but the truth is I’m starting to agree. Every time we think we’ve spotted Jonah, it’s just another random dude. My shoes stick to the floor in a way that makes me not want to know what’s on them now, and I’m starting to question if any of this is even worth it.
We pass a door that’s cracked open. No noise. No bodies spilling out into the hall. Mads pauses and tips his head toward it.
“Thank god,” I murmur. “I need to reset my brain for a minute if we’re going to stay here any longer.”
He grins, nudging the door wider with his foot. “Oh, I’ll reset your brain, alright.”
I glare up at him, blatantly ignoring the fact that my pussy throbs in response to the thought of whatever he meant by that.
The room is empty, dimly lit from the streetlamp outside, the hum of the party muted as soon as the door clicks shut behind us.
Mads leans back against it, watching me. “So, we’re alone. At a party. In a room with a lock.” His voice dips just enough to make my stomach tighten. “Someone’s overdue for a full reboot.”
“Please,” I reply, my body wound so tight from the chaos that is this party that I’m not sure I could relax and let this happen even if I wanted to.
And I do.
I say as much out loud, and Mads—being Mads—takes that as an invitation to prove me wrong.
I mean, I’ll let him try.
He closes the distance before I can decide whether I’m moving closer or away. One hand bands around my waist, the other curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into him. Suddenly, I’m being spun around.
My back meets the door with a quiet thud. He’s in my space—heat, cologne, the self-satisfied look that says he’s been planning this the entire time.
His thigh slots between mine, pressing until my breath hitches. “This. Fucking. Mouth,” he pinches my bottom lip between his fingers and tugs. “Is merciless. And you have no idea how often I think about making you come,” he says. I don’t get a chance to ask him how often exactly, because then his lips are on mine—hot, demanding, stealing the part of my brain that knows how to think.
Like everything else between us, the kiss is all push and pull, teeth catching, tongues sliding. He presses closer, caging me in, the solid line of his thigh between mine an unspoken dare.
Every shift of his leg sends heat rushing through me, his hands holding me exactly where he wants me. My fingers twist in his hair, pulling him in tighter, chasing the friction he’s deliberately giving and taking away in equal measure.
It’s dizzying, the way he kisses me. The way heis. Everything else blurs around the edges—the pounding bass from the party, the uneven beat of my own heartbeat—until all that’s left is the way his big hands move my body against his.
He doesn’t give me time to overthink what’s happening. There is a fleeting thought in the back of my mind that this is embarrassing, the way I’m all but humping his leg like a fucking dog. But it feels too good, too right, too much like he wants it as much as I do.
And I realize that nothing I want could evertrulybe embarrassing with Mads.
I release every ounce of hesitation and grind myself down on his thigh, firm and unyielding from years of play, every shift of muscle against me a reminder of just how much power he carries in his body—and how easily he’s letting me use it. He groans into my mouth—loud, encouraging—the vibration of it swirling through every inch of my writhing body.
I think the only thing that could make this hotter is if we were skin to skin, my slick pussy sliding over that fucking tattoo of his.
Every thought splinters into something bright, all logic stripped away until there’s only want—urgent, unrelenting, impossible to slow down. The rest of the world shrinks to the point where it doesn’t exist, just his voice in my ear, the weight of his presence, and the dizzy rush of knowing I’m seconds from tipping over an edge I can’t pull back from. It’s reckless and consuming, a single-minded chase toward something that feels inevitable, inevitable, inevitable—until it crashes through me and everything inside goes white-hot and blinding.
My chest heaves against his, every inhale catching on the weight of what just happened. I can’t think past the rush still sparking under my skin, can’t remember what we came up here for, can’t bring myself to care. His forehead rests against mine, his breath just as uneven, and there’s a wicked sort of satisfaction in knowing I’m the reason for that.
