4

I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.

Not just the way they moved—though God, they moved like they had a doctorate in unraveling nerve endings. No hesitation, no fumbling, no wasted motion. Just precision. Skill. Ownership.

But more than technique, it was the intent. The way he touched me like my body wasn’t unfamiliar territory, but a map he’d memorized years ago. Like every curve, every tremor, every desperate gasp had been his from the beginning.

Twenty-four hours later, phantom touches still haunted me. The imprint of his fingers wrapped around my throat. The relentless slide of them inside me. The raw, dizzying way he’d made me want to forget my name and beg for his instead.

My vibrator had been working overtime since I got home, but it was useless. Frustrating. Like trying to scratch an itch with oven mitts. Wrong rhythm. Wrong depth. Wrong everything. Nothing could mimic him.

“Earth to Space Cadet.”

Chantelle’s voice snapped through my spiral, dragging me back to reality. I was standing frozen in our kitchen, mug of coffee halfway to my lips, looking like someone had flipped the off switch on my brain.

“Sorry,” I muttered, taking a sip. It was stone cold, bitter. “Just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” Chantelle laughed, hopping onto the counter and swinging her legs like a kid. “Babe, that wasn’t thinking. That was full-blown dick daydreaming. You had the same look you get when you binge those TikToks of guys building decks.”

My neck heated. “I do not.”

“Right. And I don’t masturbate to audio p**n on Reddit.” She smirked, teeth glinting. “Scale of one to ten, how thoroughly did Mystery Man rearrange your organs?”

I choked on my coffee. “Jesus, Chan.”

“What? I’m invested. You disappear for twenty minutes, come back looking like you’d been plowed by a freight train, and—oh yeah—your underwear magically vanished. I’m not blind.”

My face went nuclear. “How the hell—”

“Selena,” she interrupted, smug as a cat. “You’re the kind of girl who wears matching lingerie to the gynecologist ‘just in case.’ You don’t ‘lose’ underwear. Something happened to it.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “This is not a conversation I’m having before noon.”

“Too late. I’ve been waiting a whole damn day. I want details. Was he big? Did you come? Did you make those little squeaky noises you always deny making?”

I grabbed my bag dramatically. “Goodbye.”

“Running away to Daddy’s house won’t make your lady boner disappear!” she shouted after me. “But maybe a dose of family dysfunction will cool you down. Cinderella lost her slipper, and you lost your panties!”

I flipped her off without looking back. But she wasn’t wrong.

My family was chaos personified, and chaos was safer than sitting here obsessing over a man I didn’t even know.

The train ride should have calmed me. Two hours to decompress, to read, to breathe. Instead, I stared out the window, the landscape blurring, replaying every second of that private room. The kiss that burned. His fingers inside me, ruthless and sure. The way his grip at my throat had made my whole body sing with need.

By the time we reached my stop, I was coiled so tight I could’ve lit up the station with sheer frustration.

Home sweet madness.

The front door barely swung open before my dad latched onto me, panicked eyes wide. “Selena, thank God you’re here. I think I’m having a breakdown.”

From the back of the house came Abby’s shrill crying—glass-shattering, cartoon-level wailing. Madison, the middle one, was conspicuously absent. Which meant she was either locked in her room plotting someone’s demise or on the verge of suspension.

“What happened?” I sighed, already bracing myself.

“Madison cut off some girl’s ponytail with safety scissors and got suspended,” Dad rattled, tugging at his hair until it stuck up in clumps. “Abby’s been crying because her Barbie doesn’t have a head—don’t ask—and I burned dinner while untangling Christmas lights in March.”

I blinked. “Christmas lights?”

“She swore they were fairy lights. Now they’re wound around the ceiling fan. I think I invented a fire hazard.”

Of course. This was my life. Mom bailed when I was thirteen, and I’d been the unofficial crisis manager ever since. Grocery runs, peace treaties, therapy sessions, all courtesy of me.

“Okay,” I said, dropping my bag. “Go sit down. Pour whiskey. I’ll handle this.”

Three hours later, Madison was sulking but calm, Abby was cradling Headless Barbie like a misunderstood Halloween queen, the ceiling fan was liberated, and edible food was on the table. Dad snored in the recliner, battle-worn but alive.

Madison curled into me on the couch, teenage bravado cracked just enough to confess. “I felt so stupid. Everyone saw him with Debby Lister, and I just… snapped.”

I stroked her hair. “Heartbreak makes you crazy.”

She looked up. “Have you ever?”

My throat tightened. I thought of last night. Of teeth, tongue, fingers. Of surrendering to a stranger in ways I’d never dared with anyone else. Of running away before I even asked his name.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I have.”

Later, when the house was quiet, I stole a glass of wine—fine, the bottle—and retreated to the porch. The night air cooled my skin, the swing creaking under me. For once, no one needed me.

I let myself remember. The way his hand had anchored me. The way his voice had commanded without raising. The way he’d dragged moans out of me like he owned them. My thighs pressed together at the memory.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

A photo.

My black lace panties, delicate and unmistakable, held in a man’s hand.

I nearly dropped the wine. Another message followed.

Unknown: You left these behind, Cinderella.

My body went hot, then cold, then hotter still. I typed with shaking hands:

Me: Who is this?

The reply was instant.

Unknown: You really forgot about our little scene in the club?

My pulse spiked.

Unknown: You ran before I could give them back. Or give you more.

I bit my lip, heart hammering. Every rational cell screamed block him. Pretend it never happened. But the ache between my legs had other plans.

Me: You talk big for someone who never told me his name.

Unknown: You talk big for someone who ran before I was finished.

I gasped, thighs pressing tighter. Heat licked through me at the bluntness.

Me: Maybe I wasn’t running. Maybe I was making you work for it.

Unknown: Is that what you call it?

Me: What would you call it?

This time, a pause. Long enough to make me nervous. Then—

Unknown: Unfinished business.

My pulse roared in my ears.

Me: And what are you planning to do about that?

Unknown: Depends. Are you brave enough to find out?

I stared at the screen, body thrumming. For once in my life, this wasn’t about family or responsibility. It wasn’t about being good or safe.

It was about me. About what I wanted.

And I wanted him.

My thumbs hovered, then finally typed:

Me: Try me.