Page 26 of Overdose
I step out of the bathroom, still mentally reeling from overhearing Shay plan a pharmaceutical revenge arc, and there he is—posted up across the hallway, one shoulder pressed to the graffiti-tagged wall, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. Smoke coils around his face, catching the pulse of blue-and-purple light stuttering down from the ceiling.
He doesn’t say a word.
Just looks at me.
Reallylooksat me. Like he’s mapping out my faults. Like he already knows where to press to make me break.
“Jesus, do you guys just, like, teleport now? You’re fuckingeverywhere,” I deadpan, one brow arched, voice dry enough to torch the pavement.
He doesn’t blink. “Dagger’s shit’s finally wearing off, huh.”
I pause, blinking slow. “Okay? And?”
A smirk curves the edge of his mouth, but his eyes stay locked—dark, gleaming, calculated. Like he’s not looking at me, but through me. Like he’s watching every fucked-up part of me flare to the surface and thinking, finally.
I shift to one hip, arms folding across my chest. Classic bitch stance. Defensive. But it’s armor made of tissue paper, and we both know it.
He drops the cigarette. Crushes it beneath his boot.
Then he moves.
Two steps. Maybe three. I don’t count them because I can already feel him—his heat, his pulse, the storm building behind his ribs. My breath stalls. His hand wraps around my wrist. Rough. Certain. No asking. No warning. Just the tug of inevitability as he yanks me down the hall and into a small utility room tucked beside the bathroom.
It smells like bleach and sweat and danger.
Then the door slams and I slam with it.
My back hits the wall so hard I gasp, but he’s already there, crashing into me like a fucking avalanche. Mouth on mine. Hands pinning me in place. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not even sane. It’s violent in how much it wants. Tongue greedy. Teeth dragging over my bottom lip like he wants to tear it open just to taste the blood.
I moan, fists fisting his hoodie. Not to push him off—never that. Just to hold on.
Because he’s overwhelming me. Consuming me.
His thigh slides between mine, pressing up as he grinds into me. I feel him—hard, pulsing against my hip. Every beat of hisheart is in sync with mine. Every press of his tongue makes me want more.
He tears his mouth from mine only to drop it lower, nipping my jaw, my throat, the hollow of my collarbone. My hands go to his shoulders, nails digging into the thick fabric before he peels his hoodie off and tossing it to the floor. Leaving him in a sleeveless tee that clings to inked muscle. His arms flex as he grabs my ass, lifts me. I lock my legs around him instinctively, my back slamming against the wall again.
Then I feel it—his hand sliding down. Over the shimmer of my holographic panties, to the waistband.
He growls, low and guttural. “Are you wet for me, Blair?”
I whimper when his fingers press between my legs, right over the fabric. He rubs slow, torturous circles. Looking down at me as he watches my face.
“Answer me,” he snaps, voice low, rough.
“Yes,” I breathe, barely audible.
He looks his fingers under the edge of my panties and drags them aside. No ceremony, no fucking delay.
The cool air hits me like a slap, and then I feel his fingers—confident, practiced, sliding through my slick like he already knows every beat of my body. He groans deep in his throat, low and gravel-wrecked.
“Fuck, Blair,” he mutters, the sound of my name dragged like bass through his teeth. “So fucking wet. I could drown in this pussy.”
His hand slips between my thighs, rough and unrelenting and then his fingers are inside me. Thick. Deliberate. Curling like he’s trying to remix every nerve ending I have. One stroke.
Then another. He builds a rhythm, relentless and perfect, his palm grinding against my clit like it’s the drop in his next set—timed to ruin.
“Goddamn,” he groans, voice thick with heat and arrogance. “You feel that? How tight you are? So greedy. Like you’ve been begging for this beat.”
