Tight. What a word.
I had spent three months loosening myself for someone—loosening my pride, my expectations, my entire future—only to end up emotionally stretched thin.
Three months of constant texting. Good mornings that felt intentional. Future plans said casually, like they weren’t dangerous.
Three months of thinking I had found something real in a city that never stops offering options.
And now, I was being complimented for the one thing in my life that apparently still had limits.
Funny how heartbreak makes everything feel wide and raw, but in the middle of a stranger’s condo with the city shimmering outside the window, the only thing he noticed was how ‘tight’ I was. Not my heart. Not my depth. Just my hole.
“Bro, I’m close,” he said, his voice thinning.
Close.
I used to love that word.
Close meant shared moments, toothbrushes, knowing someone’s Starbucks order without asking. Close meant somebody choosing you naturally, without hesitation or without confusion or without having to decode mixed signals like you were solving a murder case at 10PM with tears in your eyes and Taylor Swift playing in the background.
Funny how people can make you feel close without ever actually choosing you.
But then my thoughts got cut off because, suddenly, the stranger’s hand grabbed the back of my head, pushing my face against the pillow like I was a piece of meat.
There was pressure. A breath. A pleasured grunt that told me he came.
He collapsed beside me like he’d accomplished something.
I stared at the ceiling.
And that’s when it hit me.
Three months.
Three months of anticipation. Of imagining potential. Of falling in love with someone who never actually promised me anything. Three months of “almost,” of “maybe,” of “let’s see where this goes.”
And somehow, that hurt more than anything that came with labels.
A teardrop fell beside my face.
But I wasn’t crying because the guy beside me had rearranged my guts. I was crying because the guy I wanted never showed up.
Because here I was, naked in a stranger’s condo, with the city sparkling like it approved of my choices, realizing that this sex wasn’t moving me forward. It was just helping me avoid standing still.
And in Southside—the place where everyone wants to be—standing still felt like the most terrifying thing at all.
“Wanna go again?” whispered the guy, kissing my shoulder like this was intimacy.
“You still hard?” I asked.
“You top me this time,” he said.
I raised my brow in disbelief.
Hell no.
I’m a fucking bottom.
CHAPTER 1
Novels you may like ...
