Stops.
The cool metal of the handle sits just inches from my fingers. And suddenly, I’m not here. Not in my condo. Not in this moment. My heart pounds in my ears as my hand hovers over the handle.
I’ve been here before.
“Spence?” Ryan’s voice filters through the door, lighter now. “You good in there, or did you bail on me already?”
I stare at the handle.
I’m not sure I can open this door.
Because suddenly, I’m twenty-one years old again.
Fourteen
In the Closet
Spencer
21 Years Old
I stand in front of the mirror in my dorm room, fingers fumbling with the silk of the bowtie at my throat.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
The words don’t even feel real in my head. Neither does the tux. It fits well for something that isn’t mine. Black, sharp, clean lines hugging my shoulders, tapering at my waist like it was made for me instead of rented off a rack with money I absolutely did not have. I smooth my hands down the front of the jacket anyway, like I can press the doubt out of it.
Out of me.
I huff a quiet breath, eyes flicking over my reflection again. Hair perfectly in place as usual. Ugh. My bowtie’s crooked.You drained your savings for this,I remind myself, the thought sharp and immediate. Rent. Books. Food. All of it took a backseat to tonight.
Tohim.
Travis Hale.
My body reacts to the name, same way it always does—something bright and hot sparking low in my ribs despite the nerves twisting through me.
Travis Hale, the star pitcher for Stanford’s baseball team. Campus royalty. The kind of guy people orbit without even realizing they’re doing it. Tall and broad-shouldered with a thick baseball ass. Charisma for days. Pair all that with an effortless, devastating smile, and people fall at his feet. He’s the heir to Hale Enterprises. The golden boy.
The frat king with a secret.
Yes, folks, Travis Hale likes to be bent over every which way ‘till Sunday taking a fat cock until he’s screaming and fucked breathless. And for the past six months…the fat cock in question has been mine.
My lips press together as I stare at myself, something softer slipping into my expression.
Six months.
Six months since that stupid party I never even wanted to go to. I can still see it if I close my eyes—the crush of bodies, music too loud, beer spilled on the floor. My friend Heather dragging me by the wrist, insisting I “needed to live a little.” I remember trying to escape to the kitchen, needing air, needingspace.
There he was, drunk and grinning. His eyes drew me in instantly. They focused on me like I was the only person in the room. “Hey,” he’d said, leaning in like we already knew each other. “You’re really fucking hot.”
I’d laughed because I knew exactly who he was. Knew his skirt chasing reputation. I’d laughed, because what else do you do when Travis Hale says something like that? He was clearly very drunk and joking.
Except he wasn’t. He continued flirting in a voice soft enough no one else could clock. I continued to laugh. But then he’d followed me back to my dorm.
My lips turn up into a smile at the memory—not because of what we did, but because of what came after. Because he stayed. Because he came back.
Again.
