Chapter 3: REBECCA

{THE TASTE OF MIDNIGHT AND REGRET 1}

The frat house was a sea of bodies, a pulsing mass of music and heat that made my skin feel tight. I sat in a corner, my back pressed against the wall, trying to disappear.

But I couldn't disappear from the ghost feeling of Jaxon's

fingers buried in my hair or the brutal, hot ache he had left between my thighs.

Eve was beside me, basically vibrating with excitement as she watched the team.

"Trevor just looked over here. Again. Becca, I swear, if I don't get my hands on that defenseman tonight, I'm going to spontaneously combust."

I forced a smile, though it did not reach my eyes. Around us, a group of Beta forwards started a slurred chant of "Mc-Call! Mc-Call!" and a red solo cup was shoved into my hand.

I took it, but I didn't drink. After what happened in the locker room, I needed every ounce of my sobriety to survive the night.

My eyes, against all my better judgment, drifted across the room, searching for the one person I should be avoiding.

I found him near the keg, surrounded by the usual crowd of admirers. Gavin sat next to him, leaning back with a red cup in hand, whispering into the ear of Sherly Bonnet.

Sherly was the captain of the cheer squad—blonde, perfect, and

the uncontested queen of the social hierarchy—but she wasn't looking at my stepbrother.

But Sherly's manicured hand was on Jaxon's arm, her thumb stroking the defined curve of his bicep through his thin t-shirt.

Then his head turned.

His gaze cut through the crowd, the smoke, the noise, and locked onto me.

The air vanished from my lungs in a quick, silent gasp.

His eyes weren't just watching; they were grabbing.

They had the same hungry look they had when he pushed me against the wall, as if he was noticing every shake and every fast beat of my heart.

A wave of heat, pure and shameful, rolled from my core outwards, making my nipples pebble tight against my bra. My wolf purred, a traitorous sound that made me want to scream.

I looked away so fast my neck twinged, pretending to be fascinated by Cole trying to do a keg stand.

"You okay?" Eve nudged me, her brow furrowed. "You're all red. Are you running a fever?"

"It's just hot in here," I lied, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "Too many Alphas, not enough air. My wolf is literally begging for freedom."

Eve laughed, throwing her head back. "Mine's begging to get mounted by one of these hockey cupcakes. Seriously, Becca. If Jaxon Throne was looking at me with those 'I'm-going-to-fuck-you-senseless' eyes, I wouldn't be hiding in a corner. I would be on my knees."

"Eww, Eve!" I hissed, a fresh jolt of arousal sparking low in my belly at her crude, accurate words. "No. He's my coach. And he's a jerk."

"A spectacularly fuckable asshole," she corrected, wiggling her eyebrows.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Mom: 'Don't stay out too late, baby. Be safe.'

Me: 'Mom, I'm twenty. Not a child'

Mom: 'You are to me. Just no drinking and driving. I love you.'

I looked at the screen, feeling a familiar emptiness in my chest.

Ever since my father died, her worry had become suffocating. My mind flashed back to that night—the hospital call, the rain, the sight of my father's Beta star jersey folded on a chair.

The police said the drunk driver had vanished into the night.

I still had the letters.

The anonymous apologies that started arriving two weeks after the funeral. My mom couldn't bear to look at them, but I kept them tucked away in a shoebox—a mystery I wasn't ready to solve.

"Who was that?" Eve asked.

"Just my Mom. Being Mom."

Eve opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes widened. I followed her gaze and saw Gavin making his way toward us.

My stepbrother always looked awkward around me, his hands shoved deep into his jeans, his university jacket tight across his shoulders.

He was handsome in a traditional, jock sort of way...blonde and

blue-eyed...but he looked at me like I was a problem he couldn't solve.

"I'm heading out," Gavin said, his voice stiff. "If you need a ride, I can drop you off."

I glanced past him.

Jaxon was still watching me, a red cup dangling from his fingertips. He took a slow swig, his throat working, his eyes never leaving mine.

He was drunk—I could see the tiny sway in his stance, the darker, more intense set of his jaw.

'A car ride with my cold stepbrother and the man who had just used me as a plaything?'

"No," I said, the word coming out clipped and harsh. "I'm riding with Eve."

Gavin's blonde brows drew together. "She's been drinking, Becca. I've seen her."

"You've been watching me?" Eve chirped, a sly grin spreading. "I'm flattered. And maybe a little creeped out."

Gavin rolled his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Just get her home safe."

He turned and walked away.

Eve huffed, crossing her arms. "I get that he's your stepbrother, but he's a bigger jerk than Jaxon. He didn't even congratulate you on the goal. What a douchebag."

The drive back to my mom's house felt like I was floating in a wide sea. I was tipsy...not from the drink I hadn't touched, but from the adrenaline and the remaining scent of Jaxon that seemed to be stuck in my lungs.

I was staying at my mom's because my dorm assignment had been a disaster—a roommate who thought 3 AM was the perfect time for screechy violin practice.

I spent the last week begging the Dean for a new room, promising I would take anything as long as I didn't have to stay under my stepfather's roof another night.

I sneaked through the back door, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the kitchen island that would wake my stepfather faster than a fire alarm.

I made it to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, my chest heaving.

Alone.

I peeled off my clothes, letting them pool on the cool tiles, stepping into the shower. The water was really hot, pouring down on my shoulders, my back, my breasts.

It didn't clean me; it made things worse.

As soon as I closed my eyes, I was back there, against the cold locker, his hard body. The unforgiving tile at my back, the rough fabric of his track pants against my bare thighs.

My hands flattened against the slippery shower wall. My head fell forward, droplets catching on my eyelashes.

His hands, it was not soft, not polite, just grabbing. One hand in my hair, pulling my head back. The other... God... the other pushing my shorts aside, his fingers—thick, demanding—finding my soaked cunt and just... claiming it.

A rough moan tore from my throat, lost in the drumming water.

My own hand moved between my legs, my fingers sliding through the slickness that had nothing to do with the shower.

So wet, still so fucking wet for him.

I mimicked his brutal pressure, two fingers piercing inside my own tight heat, my thumb finding my swollen, pulsing clit.

It was not the same.

It was empty, a cheap imitation.

My own touch was clumsy, desperate. Where his had been an undeniable show of power, mine was just... a pathetic try to get back a feeling I never really had.

I felt sick to my stomach. I jerked my hand away, shaking.

But the ache did not fade. It throbbed. A strong, persistent beat that I felt deep inside, in the tips of my breasts, in the hole of my throat.

My wolf whined, a sound of pure, frustrated need.

"Fuck," I whispered, the curse swallowed by the steam.

My hand returned, this time, I did not think, I just felt. I let the memory take over, the taste of his grip in my hair.

The hot drag of his breath against my ear.

The mere, overwhelming size of him, crowding me, taking over my space, my air, my senses.

I pictured his face—all sharp curves and stormy eyes and that cruel, seductive mouth.

I imagined it here, between my thighs. His tongue, broad and flat, lashing my clit. His teeth grazing my inner thigh. His low growl vibrating through my flesh.

"Oh, God..." I gasped, my fingers moving faster, curling inside myself, searching for that perfect, deep spot.

My other hand crept up to my breast, pinching and pulling at my nipple, the sharp sting blending perfectly with the building kink of pleasure in my belly.

The water poured on me, matching the chaotic, slippery sounds of my own fingers fucking into my cunt.

I imagined it was his cock.

Thick. Veined. Persistent. Stretching me open, filling me with a burning, delicious pressure my fingers could never replicate.

I imagined the rough, pounding rhythm he would use, no pity, just raw, driving need.

"Jaxon..." The name spilled from my lips, a broken, wanton plea.

My hips began to buck against my hand, fucking my own fingers, chasing the ghost of a sensation he had imprinted on my body.

The coil twisted tighter, tighter, a screaming knot of stress. My breaths came in short, quick pants, fogging the air. My knees trembled.

The tiles were slick under my feet.

I saw his eyes in my mind, holding mine, watching me come apart.

It hit me like a lightning strike—a violent, shaky wave that ripped a choked scream from my throat.

My back arched, my cunt clenched viciously around my fingers, and a hot gush of release spilled out of me, mixing with the shower stream. Pleasure, white-hot and shattering, sent out from my body to the very tips of my fingers and toes.

I slumped against the wall, boneless, panting, the aftershocks making my muscles twitch.

Then came the cold crash of reality.

Shame, hot and acrid, burned the back of my tongue. I had just come, screaming a man's name—my coach's name—in my mother's shower.

I had fantasized about being used, taken, broken by him.

I was disgusting. Pathetic.

I turned the water to ice and stood under the brutal, cold spray until my skin was numb and my teeth chattered.

Trying to freeze the feeling out.

Trying to freeze myself out.