Chapter 2

Maxime Pov

The Northpoint house party is a beast all its own—a living, sweating, pulsing animal with bad intentions and zero chill. Every breath I take is thick with cheap beer, tequila fumes, and too many different brands of overpriced cologne.

It’s sensory overload—the walls vibrate with bass so heavy it shakes my insides, lights flicker strobe patterns over faces I mostly recognize and wish I didn’t.

Navigating this place is war; shoulders bump mine, someone spills a drink down my arm, and my boots stick to floors that haven’t seen a mop since move-in day.

The whole place of alcohol.

I spot Simone before she sees me—of course she's claimed the best seat in the house. She’s perched on a barstool in the kitchen, legs crossed with all the careless confidence of a girl who’s never had to beg for attention in her life.

Her dark hair falls glossy over her face, and she's holding court with a pack of drooling sophomore boys who can’t tell if they want to worship her or get out of her way.

She looks like she owns the deed to the entire house and might just burn it down if she's bored.

“Maxime Tremblay,” Simone announces as I push through, her gaze sweeping down my body with the slow appreciation of someone window-shopping for trouble. “You look like you came here to start shit. Did you come to find Jesus, or lose your religion?”

I smirk, grabbing a cup from the pyramid of Solo towers behind her. “Definitely the second one. Maybe both, if he’s got good abs.”

She grins, all white teeth and mischief. “Oh my God, you’re insufferable. Spill it. Where’d you run off to?”

I hesitate just long enough for her to lean in. “I was upstairs. I needed a breather. And I may have run into Connor MacLeod.”

Simone practically choked on her vodka. “You what? Connor fucking MacLeod?” he gapes at me, scandalized and gleeful. “Maxime, please tell me you didn’t.”

I shrug, feeling the aftershocks of the encounter still humming under my skin. “We had a moment. Or… he had a moment. He was exasperatingly hot, if you’re into smirking athletes who know exactly how to weaponize their dimples.”

His eyes widen, hungry for details. But I’m too busy replaying it in my mind—the lazy slouch against the wall, the way his messy brown hair kept falling into his eyes, those eyes sharp and reckless and hungry when they landed on me.

The way he said “Hater,” like he was tasting it for the first time.

Simone opens her mouth for another snarky comment, but she doesn’t get the chance.

Across the living room, in the swirl of bodies and bad decisions, Connor is watching me. There’s a cocky half-grin tugging at his mouth as he jerks his chin at the stairs—a wordless, arrogant summons.

My pulse stutters, “yes” already blooming in my chest.

I set my cup down, barely aware of Simone voice fading into the background. My body is already moving, cutting a path through the crowd with single-minded focus.

I find him now at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister .

His eyes drop to my mouth before meeting mine, and something wicked flickers there.

“You good?” His voice is low, vibrating somewhere under my skin.

I tip my head, giving him a slow, deliberate once-over. “Lead the way, Captain.”

He grunts—approving, hungry, already halfway gone. He turns and heads up the stairs, not checking to see if I’ll follow.

He already knows.

The hallway upstairs is quieter again, shadows flickering along the walls, party noise fading to a distant throb.

He opens the last door, gesturing for me to go ahead. I brush past, his arm brushing my waist, and the contact feels like a brand, hot and reckless and impossibly intimate.

He closes the door behind us, leaning his weight into it, shutting it.

There’s a tension in the air, the kind that makes you forget your own name. He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me, his gaze dropping to my lips and lingering there.

“I don’t do promises,” he says finally, voice rough, as if dragging the words up from somewhere deep. “I don’t do... I don’t do—”

“Boyfriends,” I finish, letting the word hang between us, sharp and decisive. “Perfect. Me neither.”

His eyes go darker, hungrier. Then he’s moving—fast, urgent, like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing on the menu.

His hand slides into my hair, roughly, and his mouth crashes against mine. It’s a kiss that doesn’t waste time on pleasantries or slow burn; it’s a let-me-devour-you kiss, all tongue and teeth and need.

His lips taste like whiskey and I clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, my fingers slipping beneath the fabric to trace the hard lines of his stomach. His muscles jump under my touch, and he lets out a sound—half groan, against my lips.

“Hater,” he mutters, his voice gone hoarse.

He backs me toward the bed, urgency written in every line of his body. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and then I’m falling, sprawling across the cheap comforter as he follows me down.

My shirt t is gone in seconds—his hands are everywhere, greedy and reverent.

“Jesus, Maxime.” His voice is reverent, like he’s seeing something holy. “You’re fucking perfect.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds my jaw, trailing fire down my neck, his teeth scraping the delicate skin.

I arch beneath him, desperate for more, as he traces the edge of chest with his tongue, teasing and taunting until my nipples ache for his mouth.

then his mouth is on me—hot, wet, sucking me deep.

The sensation rips a moan from my chest, my back arching, my fingers tangling in his hair as I try to drag him closer, never close enough.

“Connor,” I gasp, my hips bucking for friction. The ache between my legs is relentless, sharp and desperate.

my jeans were gone before I even realize he’s moving, tossed to the floor with a practiced flick of his wrist. He kneels between my legs, big hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wide.

He looks up, eyes locked on mine, dark and glittering with intent.

Then his mouth is on me, his tongue lapping, swirling, flicking over my rod with relentless precision. His fingers slide inside me from behind —one, then two—stretching me, filling me, the rhythm perfect and practiced and devastating.

The room spins, pleasure crackling down my spine, every nerve ending sparking as he drives me higher and higher. I’m clawing at the sheets, moaning his name, the pressure unbearable, and when I finally come it’s shattering—violent, unstoppable, a tidal wave that crashes through me, leaving me breathless and trembling.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth and tongue coaxing every last tremor from my body. He groans low in his throat, like he’s drunk on me, like he could live between my thighs forever.

When he finally pulls back, his face is flushed, his eyes wild. He shoves his boxers down, cock springing free—and holy hell, will that thing even fit?—thick, hard, impossible to ignore.

He reaches for his wallet, rolls on a condom, all while holding my gaze, challenge and hunger and something raw flickering there.

“You ready for me?” His voice is a rasp, threadbare and aching.

“Now, Connor. Please.”

He turns me over as He fits himself between my a**, lines himself up, and thrusts—a single, long, punishing slide that stretches me to my limit. I gasp, nails digging into the sheets as he buries himself into me.

Holy. Shit.

Is it possible to actually be split in half by a guy’s dick? Because that is one hundred percent what it feels like right now. I mean, I knew he’d be big—Connor has all that cocky, big-dick energy, the kind that screams don’t worry, I’ve got you covered—but Jesus H. Christ.

He’s not just big. He’s p**n-star, how-is-this-legally-allowed big.

I’m legitimately struggling to breathe, and not in a poetic ~he takes my breath away~ kind of way. More like, I might need to sign a waiver kind of way.

The stretch is obscene, delicious, borderline criminal. I have a split second of panic—like, am I going to survive this? Are my internal organs just going to rearrange themselves to accommodate him? Do I need to see a doctor after this?

Apparently, my face says it all, because Connor stills, his brow furrowing just a little as he studies me. His hand comes up, gentle on my cheek, thumb brushing along my jaw as he whispers into my ear.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but not teasing. “You good? Want me to go slow?”

God. The worry in his eyes—makes my heart lurch. He’s still got that Connor glint, a little smug at the way I can barely form words, but there’s something real behind it.

Like he’d actually stop if I asked.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, because somehow that concern is even hotter than the cocky swagger.

“I’m good,” I manage, breathless. “Just… Jesus, Connor.”

His lips twitch, that half-smile slipping out, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just leans in to press his forehead to the back of my head for a second.

And then he thrusts again—slow, deep, so goddamn thick—and my brain pretty much explodes. Any and all coherent thought: gone.

All that’s left is sensation, and holy fuck, there is so much sensation. The friction, the fullness, the delicious, almost unbearable pressure.

Every nerve ending in my body is dialed up to eleven, every whimper torn from my lips because there is just… so. much. him.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m almost proud of myself. Like, look at me, taking this absolute monster like a goddamn champ.

Add that to my résumé: Survived the Connor Pierce Experience.

And God, the way he fills me—completely, totally, to the point where I swear I can feel him in my throat—it’s all I can do not to lose my mind, not to scream his name like a prayer.

Who needs religion when you’ve got this level of holy experience?

Honestly? If I die right now, at least I’ll go out satisfied. And very, very full.

“God, you’re so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot on my lips.

And then turned me to face him then he snaps, pace quickening, slamming into me with a force that rattles the bed against the wall. I hook my legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, chasing the next wave, desperate for more.

Sweat slicks our bodies, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the small room, our shared breath and broken moans filling the space.

He grabs my wrists, pins them above my head, his muscles straining as he fucks me harder, deeper. His control slips, breath ragged, hips snapping erratically.

“Maxime,” he gasps, voice breaking. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close.”

The sight of him losing it—Connor Pierce, golden boy, undone and desperate—tips me over the edge. I clench around him, pleasure detonating through my body, another orgasm ripping me apart.

He groans, loud and guttural, slamming into me one last time as he spills, shuddering, his whole body trembling with it.

After, the room is heavy with heat and the sound of our breathing. Connor rolls onto his back, one arm thrown over his face, a lazy, satisfied smirk curving his lips.

He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t offer any sweet nothings, just lies there.

I sit up, find my shirt, fingers shaking just a little as I tug it on. I can feel his eyes on me, dark and amused.

“Want me to walk you down?” His voice is thick, lazy, and smug.

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “I can handle a flight of stairs, Connor.”

I cross to the door, pausing in the doorway to look back at him—sprawled across the bed, king of this crumbling kingdom, certain he’s the one who set the rules.

He thinks he’s untouchable, safe behind his walls, his “no-strings” speech a shield.