Chicago, 1965

You wake up slow.

Your head is pounding and your mouth tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and heat. You stretch out in the bed before your body catches up and you realize this isn’t your bed.

The sheets are expensive. Not the scratchy cotton blend you have at home. The walls are painted dark and there’s a window with half-closed blinds spilling morning light across the hardwood floors.

You sit up, blink hard, and look down.

You’re wearing a man’s shirt. You don’t remember putting it on. It smells like smoke and aftershave and something vaguely masculine, like leather and engine oil and cologne.

Your panties are still on, barely.

Your bra is somewhere else.

You run a hand through your hair, which is a mess, though not a disaster. The kind of mess that still looks like it was earned.

And then it comes back—all of it.

You and your best friend had started the night with nothing but irritation and an open bottle of gin. You’d been complaining, again, about the guy you’d been seeing. The one with a dull job and bad hands. The one who kissed like he was apologizing for it. The one who couldn’t fuck without asking, “Is this okay?” every five seconds and still somehow getting it wrong.

“I want to feel something,” you’d muttered into your drink.

Your friend had laughed and suggested a change of scenery. You left your usual haunt and wandered into a louder bar across town.

And then there he was—leaned against a pool table, cigarette between his lips, watching the table like he was hunting it.

Benny Cross.

He looked like sin incarnate. T-shirt clinging to his torso, jeans low on his hips, hands veined and ringed with dried grease. He clocked you the second you walked in. Didn’t smile. Didn’t wink. Just watched.

When he spoke to you—low, lazy, slow—you nearly dropped your drink.

You didn’t flirt well. You didn’t know how to hold eye contact without feeling like you were being burned alive.

But he liked it.

The way you blushed when he stood too close. The way you bit your lip when his hand brushed your thigh. He didn’t rush. Just played pool and let you orbit him—until you were on his lap in the back booth, his mouth at your ear, fingers trailing up your thigh beneath your dress. You couldn’t believe how bold he was—how smooth. And when his hand slid under the band of your panties, still in public, your breath caught loud enough for him to laugh against your skin.

You’d whispered, “We can’t—here—”

He’d replied, “Then let’s go.”

And you had.

You remember the roar of his bike between your legs. The way you clung to him, dress flying up, heart hammering. His apartment was across the river, a top-floor walk-up with black tile floors and records stacked in crooked piles.

He barely got the door closed before his mouth was on you.

You remember the way he pushed you up against the wall, his hands beneath your thighs. How he carried you to the bed without stopping, his mouth everywhere—rough, greedy, thorough. You remember his voice, low and filthy in your ear. The kind of voice that makes your knees shake when it says your name.

You remember the way he held your hips, grounded you, slammed into you so deep you thought you might shatter. The sweat. The smell.

You remember saying his name. Twice.

You remember screaming it the third time.

And then—

You blink, breath catching in your throat. The memory is so vivid your thighs ache.

You swing your legs out of bed and start grabbing your things. Your shoes are by the dresser. Your dress is crumpled across a chair. Your bra—found it—half hanging off the edge of the record player. You pull on your clothes quick, heart racing. You’ll leave before he wakes up. It’s better that way.

You tiptoe into the kitchen—

He’s already there.

Leaning against the counter, mug in one hand. Hair a mess, one side of his jaw dark with fresh stubble. No shirt. Low-slung jeans.

He takes a sip from the mug. “Mornin’. You always sneak out lookin’ that good, or am I just special?”