Chapter 6

CHLOE

Hunter was home, barefoot in the kitchen, tossing a frozen pizza into the oven like it was an offering to the gods of mediocre comfort food. He was still in his work clothes—shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, collar loose—and she thought, God, I could ride him right here on the linoleum.

Instead, she let the door close behind her and said, matter-of-factly, “I’ve been thinking about your cock all day.”

He turned, eyebrows up. A slow smile spread across his face, and then she was already unbuttoning her blouse.

“Oh?”

She walked past him and bent over the dining table, hips tilted, panties damp.

“Yeah,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You gonna do something about it, or just stand there?”

He did something about it.

The sex was fast, messy, and perfect. She moaned loud enough to fog the windows, clutched the edge of the table until her knuckles went white. He held her hips like they were his anchor, slammed into her with all the pent-up confusion and lust he couldn’t admit to himself.

She came first—hard—and egged him on with breathy little praises between thrusts.

“Just one girl tonight,” she said as he panted into her neck, almost laughing. “Gina’s out of town. You’re stuck with me.”

A beat passed.

Then, more playful: “Unless you need another. I could figure something out.”

He groaned, half-laughing, half-lost. She felt his teeth graze her shoulder before he finally came, hard, thick and deep inside her. She stayed bent over, catching her breath, grinning.

Later, they were at the table again—this time seated, sharing greasy slices off the baking tray. She was still flushed. Still warm. Still glowing.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it.

Bailey.

Chloe’s eyebrows lifted.

She wiped her hands, smiled at Hunter, and stood.

“Work thing,” she said.

He snorted. “You just trying to get out of doing the dishes?”

She grinned. “That, too.”

In her room, she shut the door and sank onto the edge of her bed, unlocking the phone.

Bailey’s messages were nervous. Rambling. Obsessive.

She wanted to see Hunter again. She needed to. She didn’t know why.

Chloe’s smile sharpened.

She typed quickly:

Chloe: You should text him. I’ll give you his number. Just don’t mention me.

A pause. Then another:

Chloe: I’ll be with him when the message comes in. I’ll make sure he says yes to going out tonight.

She hit send.

Then lay back on her bed, legs still slightly parted. She could feel his cum still inside her, a slow, lazy warmth that coated her deeply.

She exhaled through her nose, closed her eyes, and let herself drift.

Bailey on her knees. Hunter standing over her. Chloe watching. Guiding.

Things were falling into place.

Just like they should.

HUNTER

The bar smelled like spilled beer and vape juice. Not the worst place to revisit the past, but not the best either.

I was early. Not on purpose—I just didn’t want to be late. Or maybe I didn’t want time to think about what the hell I was doing.

Bailey had texted me an hour ago. No context. Just:

Hey. Want to catch up tonight?

It wasn’t the kind of message you ignore, especially when it comes from the girl you took to prom and never quite got over. But still—out of nowhere?

I showed the text to Chloe. She snorted, “Your little prom date? Maybe she wants a do-over. You gonna wear a corsage or just fuck her this time?”

She said it like a joke, but her voice had that sharp edge she used to cut people with in high school. I used to hate when she talked about Bailey like that—like she was some porcelain doll in a porno.

Still, Chloe was the one who told me to go. Said she was drawing a bath, taking the night off, that she’d probably be asleep before I got home. She even kissed me on the cheek. Not the lips. The cheek.

So here I was. Sitting at the edge of a sticky booth in a bar I didn’t pick, waiting to see if Bailey Tanner still looked like a seventeen-year-old in a Sunday school dress—or if I’d finally get to see the version of her that had haunted my late-night thoughts for a decade.

I shifted on the vinyl seat. The back of my neck felt hot.

And then I saw her.

She was short—four ten, maybe—and still built like the girl I remembered: narrow hips, long legs, not much curve to speak of. But the dress changed everything. Black, tight, short. It clung to her like a rumor and hit mid-thigh, just high enough to tease the black stocking tops beneath. Her heels were tall, legs crossed delicately as she waited at the bar, one toe arched like a dancer.

Her nipples were visible through the fabric—small and hard, unapologetically so. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. She didn’t need one.

Her face, though—that stopped me. Same cherubic features. Same big eyes, now rimmed in smoky liner. Glossy lips. A faint shimmer on her cheekbones. She looked like a grown woman cosplaying her own innocence.

I couldn’t decide if I was aroused or confused. Probably both.

Then she turned, saw me—and the entire illusion collapsed into something familiar and ridiculous and completely Bailey.

She squealed. Actually squealed.

“Hunter!”

She ran over and threw her arms around my neck, hugging too tight, nearly knocking the air out of me. I caught a mouthful of her hair and nearly choked.

“Shit, sorry!” she laughed, pulling back. Her hands were still on my chest. “I didn’t mean to, like, strangle you. You just looked really good. And nervous.”

I was both.

We slid into the booth together. Her leg pressed against mine.

\The booth wasn’t small, but Bailey slid in beside me like it was natural. Like it was the only option. She settled close—shoulder brushing mine—her legs folding neatly beneath the table.

I shifted, just slightly, to give her more room. She adjusted too, somehow keeping the same distance. I tried not to read into it.

“You always sat this close?” I asked, half-grinning.

“Did I?” she blinked innocently. “Maybe I missed you.”

The bartender dropped off my mezcal. Bailey leaned toward it—toward me—to read the label. Her perfume was light but sweet, like white peach and something synthetic.

“You smell good,” I said, and regretted it immediately.

She smirked. “You too. All grown up now.”

She shifted again, and when her dress slid up her thigh an inch, I caught a glimpse of the dark top band of her stocking. Not lace, but thick and deliberate. My eyes went there instinctively—then snapped away, like I’d touched a hot stove.

I drained half my glass.

“So,” I said, grasping for neutral ground, “who else have you kept in touch with?”

“You mean besides the man I haven’t seen in ten years who could have banged me on prom night but unfortunately was a gentleman?”

I choked. She laughed.

“Kidding. Kind of.”

“Jesus, Bailey.”