All Chapters of Still Fucking Yours: Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

The doors slid open on the twelfth floor and the past walked in wearing a black coat and the same fucking mouth she used to bite. Maya’s fingers locked around the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles went white. Two years. Two years of deleting his number, of training herself not to look for his shoulders in every crowd, of telling herself the way he used to ruin her was just nostalgia and bad decisions. None of it survived the three seconds it took for Cassian Hale to step into the elevator. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when it mattered. His eyes moved over her once—slow, deliberate, the exact way he used to look at her right before he decided whether to be gentle or not. Dark hair a little longer. Jaw sharper. The same heavy stillness that always made her feel like prey who had already decided to stay. The doors closed. Silence pressed in on every side. Maya kept her eyes on the illuminated numbers. 12. 11. 10. She could smell him. Same cologne, same skin underneath it.

Maya woke up sore. Not the gentle, pleasant ache of a good night. This was deeper. A dull, throbbing reminder between her legs that still pulsed every time she shifted against the sheets. She could feel him—still. The stretch. The bruises blooming on the backs of her thighs where the railing had bitten into her skin. The faint, sticky evidence that he had come inside her and left it there like a brand. She stared at the ceiling of the unfamiliar loft for a long time, one arm thrown over her eyes, trying to convince herself that last night had been a mistake she could simply erase. It wasn’t. Her body knew it. Her cunt was still soft and swollen, sensitive enough that the brush of the sheet made her bite her lip. When she finally dragged herself into the shower, the hot water stung the scrapes on her thighs and the faint crescent marks his fingers had left on her hips. She stood under the spray longer than necessary, fingers drifting down almost against her will, sliding throug

Maya told herself she could control it. She lasted exactly six hours and fourteen minutes. The morning after the floor had been a carefully constructed performance. She woke at 5:40 a.m. already aching between her legs, already sticky with the evidence Cass had deliberately left inside her. She stood under a cold shower until her teeth chattered, scrubbed her skin raw, and dressed like she was going into battle: tailored black trousers, a silk blouse buttoned to the throat, blazer structured enough to feel like armor. Hair scraped back. Makeup precise. Every piece of clothing chosen to erase the woman who had shown up at his door at one in the morning with nothing underneath a T-shirt. She took the stairs. All twelve flights. Her thighs burned by the time she reached the lobby. The ache between her legs burned worse. Every step reminded her of how deep he had been, how hard he had fucked her into the hardwood, how he had watched his cum drip out of her and then pushed it b

It happened on a Thursday. Maya would remember that later—the ordinary cruelty of it being a Thursday, the way the week had been building toward something neither of them wanted to name. Four nights in a row she had fallen asleep in his bed or he in hers. Four mornings of soft hands that turned vicious. Four days of walking through the world with secret bruises under her clothes and the slow, filthy knowledge that she was still carrying him inside her long after he left. They had stopped pretending it was temporary. They simply refused to talk about what it actually was. That night she came back to the building later than usual, brain still buzzing from a client dinner that had run long. The elevator was empty. She rode it to twelve with her forehead resting against the cool steel wall, already aching in anticipation. When the doors opened she walked straight to his door instead of her own. She didn’t question it anymore. Her body had stopped asking permission days ago. Cass