Page 11 of Unwrap Me After Dark
He grins against my skin, his teeth grazing my collarbone. “We definitely shouldn’t,” he agrees, but his hands continue their exploration, slipping under my shirt to trace patterns on my stomach.
I want to shove him off, tell him to fuck himself, but my body is already answering in ways my mind refuses to accept. Tyler watches my struggle, my chest rising and falling as I fight the inevitable. My eyes snap shut, the denial crumbling as heat coils tighter in my stomach, my hardness pressing into his. The moan that escapes my throat betrays me more than anything else. My hands, free now, should push him away. Instead, they find their way to his back, fingers digging into the firm muscle there, pulling him closer. My legs spread wider, allowing him to settle more fully against me.
“Christ, you’re beautiful like this.” Tyler slides a hand between us, pressing the heel of his palm against the front of my jeans, and I cry out at the increased pressure. “That’s it.” His fingers work against me, insistent through the denim. “Show me what I do to you.”
My back arches off the couch, my entire body going rigid before surrendering. I cry out, the white-hot pleasure consuming me. Tyler strokes me through my orgasm, and I hear his encouragements through the fog of ecstasy.
The world returns into focus—the rain on the roof, the scattered Jenga blocks, the sticky wetness in my underwear. I’m sprawled on the couch, legs still spread, with Tyler hovering above me.
Horror rises like bile in my throat.
Tyler must see the shift in my expression because he withdraws, giving me space to breathe. Concern replaces the hunger in his eyes.
“Liam,” he starts, reaching for me again.
I flinch away, pushing at his chest. “Get off me.”
This time he complies, shifting his position to let me scramble up. My legs shake beneath me, barely supporting my weight.
“We should talk,” Tyler says, sitting up and running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I snap, backing away. “This never happened.”
I turn and flee before he can respond, stumbling on unsteady legs to my bedroom. The door slams behind me, and I twist the lock with trembling fingers.
Outside, the rain continues its relentless drumming, as if to say nothing has changed. But everything has. And I have no idea how to face any of it when morning comes.
4
Tyler
MY SKULL THROBS TO the rhythm of my heartbeat as consciousness drags me back to reality. Light cuts through the blinds, forcing me to bury my face into the pillow with a groan. But it’s not just the hangover—it’s the memories crashing back, playing on a loop behind my eyelids. Liam’s head thrown back. My hand moving where it shouldn’t have been. The sounds he tried to swallow. The way his eyes burned into mine afterward, not with shame or confusion, but with pure, undiluted fury.
My stomach twists, and I’m not sure if it’s the hangover or the guilt. Maybe both. I force myself to sit up, ignoring the way the room tilts. Water. I need water. And aspirin. And a fucking time machine.
I stumble to the bathroom, flinching at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Hair sticking up at odd angles. The ghost of last night’s poor decisions etched into the shadows under my eyes. I down three aspirin, chase them with tap water, and splash my face. The cold shock helps clear some of the fog.
What the hell was I thinking? We’d been drinking, sure. The bottle of whiskey was nearly empty by the time we’d finishedplaying. The night had been going well. And then I had to go and ruin it.
I close my eyes, grip the edge of the sink.
Was he too drunk to consent? Did I misread everything?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I need to talk to him. Apologize. Figure out where we go from here.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a clean t-shirt, then make my way toward the kitchen. The floorboard outside Liam’s room creaks, betraying my presence, but his door remains shut. I pass it without knocking. The smell of coffee leads me forward. When I reach the kitchen, I pause in the doorway.
Liam stands with his back to me, shoulders tense, one hand gripping a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He’s wearing sweatpants and a faded NASA t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower.
“Morning,” I manage, voice gravelly.
His shoulders stiffen further. He doesn’t turn around. “There’s coffee.”
I move to the counter, careful to give him space. “Thanks.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I pour myself a cup, grateful for something to do with my hands. When I turn, Liam has retreated to the far side of the kitchen table, still not meeting my eyes.
