Chapter 3 _ Solo Sparks

Alexandra's POV

The train rattled north out of the city, carrying me away from the hotel, away from him, away from the mistake I could still feel between my thighs.

I pressed my forehead to the cold window, watching the skyline blur into gray December morning. My reflection stared back—eyes shadowed, lips still swollen from his bites, cheeks flushed with something that wasn’t just shame.

I’d done it again. Let someone in, let them see the cracks, then run before they could decide I wasn’t worth keeping.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A new client email. Perfect timing. Freelance life never let you wallow for long.

The job was in Portland—three weeks of branding for a boutique coffee roaster. Decent pay, decent escape.

I’d booked the ticket on the platform last night while Jace slept beside me, his arm slung possessively across my waist. I’d stared at the ceiling for an hour, heart hammering, before slipping out like a thief.

Now the city was behind me, and the ache between my legs was the only reminder he’d been real.

I arrived in Portland just after noon. The Airbnb was a converted loft above a bookstore in the Pearl District—exposed brick, high ceilings, a clawfoot tub I planned to drown my regrets in later.

I dropped my bag, stripped, and stood under the shower until the water ran cold. My skin still bore faint purple marks from his fingers, his mouth. I traced them with soap-slick fingertips, remembering how he’d growled my name when he came inside me.

Fuck. Stop.

I dressed in black jeans and a soft gray sweater, hair still damp, and headed out to meet the client. The roastery smelled like dark beans and cedar smoke.

The owner, Mara—a sharp-eyed woman in her forties—shook my hand and launched straight into mood boards and color palettes. I nodded, sketched, asked the right questions. Professional. Detached.

But every time I leaned over the table, the seam of my jeans pressed against the sensitive spot he’d bruised with his hips, and my breath caught.

That night I met Caleb.

He was one of Mara’s graphic assistants—tall, tattooed forearms, easy smile, the kind of guy who looked like he knew exactly how to make a woman forget her own name for a few hours.

We ended up at a dive bar after the meeting, talking fonts and kerning over cheap IPAs. He laughed at my dry humor, touched my arm when he spoke, leaned in close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and citrus, nothing like Jace’s cedar-and-smoke.

When he asked if I wanted to see his place, I said yes.

His apartment was small, cluttered with art prints and vinyl records. We didn’t waste time on small talk. He kissed me against the door, hands sliding under my sweater, warm and sure. I kissed him back harder, trying to drown the memory of another mouth, another set of hands.

He lifted me onto the kitchen counter. My jeans came off in a rush. He dropped to his knees, pushed my thighs apart, and licked a slow stripe up my center.

I moaned—loud, deliberate—wanting to prove I could still feel something other than Jace.

Caleb was good. Patient. He teased my clit with soft flicks, then sucked, then slid two fingers inside, curling them just right. The build was steady, familiar, safe. I threaded my fingers through his hair, hips rocking, chasing release.

When I came, it was sharp and quick, a bright flash that left me trembling but not shattered.

He stood, wiped his mouth, grinning. “Bedroom?”

I nodded.

We fucked on top of the covers, slow at first, then faster. He was careful, attentive—asked if I liked it deeper, harder, slower. I did.

I came again, nails digging into his back, but it felt… polite. Controlled. Like we were both performing satisfaction instead of surrendering to it.

After, he rolled off, kissed my shoulder, and asked if I wanted to stay the night.

I told him I had an early call.

I dressed in the dark while he slept, just like I’d dressed in Jace’s hotel room. Slipped out. Walked the cold streets back to my loft.

The clawfoot tub waited. I filled it with scalding water and lavender oil, sank in up to my chin, and let the heat soak into my bones.

And then the memories came, uninvited.

Jace’s mouth between my thighs, relentless, hungry. The way he’d looked up at me while he licked, eyes dark and possessive. The stretch of him inside me, thick and unyielding, hitting places that made my vision white out. The sound he’d made when I clenched around him—raw, broken, like I’d ruined him.

My hand drifted down between my legs almost without thought.

I was still sensitive from earlier, but this was different. This was need.

I circled my clit slowly, remembering the way he’d pinned my wrists above my head, the way his teeth had grazed my throat. My other hand cupped my breast, pinching the nipple until it ached. I imagined his voice in my ear—low, filthy, telling me to come for him again.

The water sloshed as my hips lifted, chasing the ghost of his cock. I slid two fingers inside myself, then three, stretching, mimicking the fullness I still craved. My thumb worked my clit in tight circles, pressure building, fast and desperate.

When I came, it was violent—back arching, water spilling over the edge, a choked cry echoing off the tiles. My thighs shook. My chest heaved.

And when the aftershocks faded, I was left with tears mixing with bathwater.

Because it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

I climbed out, wrapped myself in a towel, and padded to the bedroom. My sketchbook lay open on the desk. I flipped to a blank page and started drawing—sharp lines, bold shadows, a man’s profile in the dark. Broad shoulders. Jaw clenched. Eyes that burned.

I didn’t label it.

I didn’t need to.

I closed the book, turned off the light, and crawled into bed alone.

Tomorrow I’d work. I’d smile at Mara and Caleb. I’d pretend the night with Jace was just another story I’d tell myself when I was old and safe.

But tonight, with the city quiet outside and the ache still pulsing between my legs, I let myself admit the truth.

I wanted him again.

And I was terrified that I always would.