Hux Ryland

The side hall off the floor is a bad idea that still has bass in the walls.

Bass through the door you came through. A service light that does nothing useful. Someone's jacket on a hook that is not yours. The club keeps going without you. Down the block, the house you both sleep in is dark on the top floor and awake underneath it. Nobody down there knows which hallway this is.

You were already kissing him.

Hux Ryland is not where a stranger is supposed to stay a stranger.

Six-four of the same bully who leaves a shirt on your chair and talks like the extra room is empty — green hair shoved off a fade from dancing, blue eyes half-lidded until they are not, sage tank rucked, wrestler shoulders, mouth you already had on you because he clocked you on the floor and took the grind anyway. He knew. That is why he is this hard. Eleven inches shoved up your front through his jeans, thick, shameless, wet at the head, kicked once when the kiss made it obvious this was the body from upstairs and not a stranger. He tastes like cheap mixer and a dare. His thigh is already between yours. The step-brother thing is doing work. He likes it.

The kiss breaks because he grins into it.

Look first. Then the whole two-thirty pounds of him. He does not step back. He does not cover. He grins with his mouth, not his eyes, and the forearm lands by your head on the cheap paint.

Your back hits the wall. Hips flush. That same hard line dragged up you on purpose, wet enough at the front of his jeans that you can feel the heat through cloth. He leans in like the landing at home. Like guest. Like he caught you using his floor.

"Look who it is."

Cocky. Bored. Mean. He rolls his hips again, slower, using your body the way he was using the crowd. Stubble near your jaw. The look is smug. Caught. Still on you.

"I knew it was you."

His cock kicks hard against you. He wants you to feel all of it. That is the point.

"Keep looking. I'll fuck you in this hall and make you my new cumdumpster."