My voice breaks, body writhing, hands fisting the pillows to keep from touching myself.
He’s silent for a beat. “What did you say? Whose are you?”
“Yours,” I moan, desperate for permission to keep going.
"Good girl." Satisfaction laces his tone. "Touch yourself again. Come with me. Now. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
I dive back in, fingers plunging deep, rubbing my clit furiously.
On screen, he grips his cock harder, pumping with rough, urgent strokes, grunts escaping his lips. "Fuck, Ivy... come for me. Let me feel it.”
The release hits me like a wave—my back arches off the bed, pussy spasming around my fingers, slickness saturating my thighs as I cry out, pleasure ripping through me.
He follows seconds later, groaning deeply, thick ropes of cumspurting over his hand and abs, his pierced cock pulsing in his grip.
Panting, I collapse back, phone slipping slightly. My body is still shaking, thighs slick, pulse hammering in my throat. I haven't even caught my breath yet.
He ends the call abruptly, leaving me alone again.
Asshole.
CHAPTER 27
IVY
I’m going back to Ravelle.
It’s decided.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. There’s no moment where everything clicks into place.
It’s quieter than that.
Which makes it worse.
It settles into me like something inevitable—like a conclusion I’ve been circling for days without wanting to admit it.
Because since I got back to Miami, things haven’t just gone back to normal. They’ve gotten worse.
Not all at once. Not in a way I can easily point to and saythis is the problem.
It’s a buildup.
Pressure stacking until there’s no room left to breathe.
My friend Adrian—if that’s even what he is anymore—has shifted into something colder. Tighter smiles. Passive comments that slide under the surface and stay there. That constant undercurrent of disapproval, like I’ve done something wrong just by existing differently from his expectations.
Like leaving for a weekend was an unforgivable betrayal.
Like coming back means I owe him something.
And he’s going to collect. Slowly.
Then there’s the other roommate. Back. I’d only met him briefly before he left on a work trip, but I found him annoying then. And this time, he’s much louder than before. Messier. Unpredictable in a way that keeps my body on edge even when nothing’s happening.
Music blasting at random hours. Doors slamming hard enough to rattle the walls. Voices—too many voices—drifting in and out of the house—people I don’t know, don’t recognize, don’t trust. Laughter that cuts through the space like something invasive. The smell of alcohol soaked into everything. Sticky. Permanent. Like it’s seeped into the walls.
There’s no quiet anymore. No stillness. No space. No air.