It’s almost 2 a.m. when your phone lights up.

Her name. Your heart stutters.

You haven’t spoken in months. The last time you saw her, you swore you were done. You told yourself you wouldn’t answer if she ever reached out. You promised.

But the message is just a pin. An address. No words. And before you can think twice, you’re slipping out of the club, lying to your friends, summoning a ride.

The closer you get, the louder the voice in your head screams bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. But your pulse is pounding, and your palms are sweaty, and when you climb those stairs and knock, you already know you’ve lost.

The door swings open, and there she is.

She doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask how you’ve been. Her eyes sweep over you once, slow and shameless, then she’s grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside. The door slams shut behind you, and her mouth is on yours before you can catch your breath.

You stumble back against the wall with a gasp, her body flush against yours. The kiss is messy, hungry, all teeth and heat, like she’s been waiting months just to ruin you again. And God—you let her.

Her hands are on your waist, sliding up under your shirt, fingertips brushing bare skin. You shiver, gripping her shoulders, kissing her back like you need it to survive.

She pulls back just enough to smirk, lips swollen, eyes dark. “Missed me?”

“Worst idea ever,” you pant, though your nails are already digging into her shirt, pulling her closer.

“Then why are you here?” she teases, lips brushing your jaw, down your neck. “Why’d you come running the second I called?”

You open your mouth to snap back, but all that comes out is a breathless whimper when she sucks lightly at your throat. Her laugh is low, satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

She drags you toward the couch, pushing you down before crawling into your lap. The weight of her, the warmth—it makes your head spin. She kisses you again, slower this time, deliberately teasing, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to whisper:

“You still taste the same.”

Her hands wander, sliding down your thighs, gripping, squeezing. You arch into her, desperate, and she grins like she owns you. Like she’s always owned you.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” she murmurs against your ear, her breath hot, her tongue flicking just enough to make you shudder. “Lie to me. Go on.”

You can’t. You don’t. Instead, your hands are roaming over her hips, tugging her even closer, lips chasing hers with a hunger that betrays every promise you ever made to yourself.

And when she finally grinds down against you, slow and purposeful, you gasp so loud she laughs again—dark, wicked, victorious.

“God, you’re easy,” she whispers, kissing you harder, deeper, until your thoughts dissolve into static.

It’s reckless. It’s wrong. And it’s everything you’ve been craving.