I never planned for Tim to see.
One blistering afternoon behind an abandoned building, top down on his brand-new convertible, I knelt in the back seat with Carter and let the sun pour over us. My pigtails swayed with every slow, hungry dip of my head, the warm leather creaking beneath my knees while Carter’s fingers tightened in my braids. Then he turned me around, eased me down, and I felt myself open, stretch, surrender in a way that tore a long, shaking moan from my throat. The car rocked, the air filled with slick sounds and breathless cries, and I came undone right there in broad daylight, trembling as his big black hands touched me, gasping, marked in every possible way.
Tim watched the whole thing from the shadows of his uncle’s truck. He saw me beg the big black man. He saw me shatter under his touch.
And when I finally stumbled home, thighs trembling, still leaking what Carter had left behind, Tim didn’t scream, didn’t leave.
He dropped to his knees the moment I stepped inside, eyes wide, lips already parted, desperate to taste exactly how thoroughly another man had claimed me.
That afternoon broke the last of his resistance.
From then on, every time I came back flushed and aching, stretched and dripping, Tim was waiting, heart pounding, hands shaking, ready to clean every trace of them from my skin with a hunger that shocked us both. Some nights he’d bury his face between my thighs before I even reached the bed, chasing the warmth they left inside me. Other nights he’d watch from the window while Carter and Chris rocked the camper on its springs, my moans spilling into the dark, then crawl to me the second they were gone, licking me clean like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
I never pretended to feel guilty again. I just took what I craved… and Tim learned to live for the taste of being second.
Unashamed. Unstoppable. And deliciously, irreversibly his ruin.
