Red: 1000 Ways to Sin

“I f*****g hate you!” The words explode out of Jessica before she can stop them, sharp and ragged, echoing off the empty lockers like a slap. Her voice cracks on the last syllable, but she doesn’t care. She’s done caring. Miles stands there in the dim after-hours light, shoulder against the metal, arms crossed like he owns the whole damn hallway. That smirk—God, that f*****g smirk—curls slow and deliberate across his mouth, the same one he’s worn every time he’s leaned in too close in class, every time he’s “accidentally” knocked her books to the floor, every time he’s whispered just loud enough for the room to hear that she’s easy, desperate, pathetic. Tonight he went further. In front of half the senior class at the bonfire send-off, he’d leaned over her shoulder, breath hot against her ear, and said, loud enough for everyone to laugh, “Still waiting for someone to actually want you, Jess? Or are you still practicing on your pillow?” The laughter had burned worse than the fire. She’d walked away then, cheeks flaming, but the rage followed her all the way back to school, all the way down this stupid hallway where she’d come to grab her forgotten chem notebook and found him waiting like he knew she’d be here. Now he’s blocking her path, all six-foot-something of him, broad shoulders filling the space, dark eyes glittering with something dangerous. She shoves him. Hard. Both palms slam into his chest. “Move.” He doesn’t budge. Instead he steps forward, forcing her back until the cold metal of the locker bites into her spine. Her heart is hammering so loud she’s sure he can hear it. “Say it again,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. Not mocking this time. Hungry. “I f*****g hate you,” she spits, slower, meaner, each word a blade. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition. Then his hand snaps up, fingers wrapping around her wrist, yanking it above her head and pinning it to the locker with a metallic thud. His body follows, crowding her in, thigh sliding between hers, chest pressing against her breasts until she can barely draw breath. Their faces are inches apart. She can smell him—sweat, cedar cologne, the faint bite of smoke from the bonfire still clinging to his hoodie. His eyes drop to her mouth, then back up, dark and molten. “You sure about that?” he murmurs. She should knee him. She should scream. Instead her free hand fists the front of his shirt and yanks him closer. Their mouths collide like a car crash—teeth clacking, lips bruising, no finesse, just fury. He groans into her mouth, low and wrecked, and the sound detonates something inside her. She bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to taste blood; he hisses, retaliates by sucking her tongue deep, one hand sliding up to fist her hair and angle her head exactly how he wants it. Her body betrays her instantly. Hips rocking forward against the hard ridge of him, back arching so her n*****s drag against his chest through their shirts. She hates how wet she already is, how her thighs tremble, how every vicious swipe of his tongue makes her c**t throb. He breaks the kiss first, both of them gasping, foreheads pressed together. A thin string of spit connects their lips for a heartbeat before it snaps. His thumb drags roughly across her swollen bottom lip, smearing the taste of him. Jessica’s chest heaves. She can feel his heartbeat slamming against hers, just as fast, just as furious. She shoves him again—this time he lets her, stepping back just enough for her to slip free. Her legs feel like they might give out. Her mouth tastes like him. Like copper and sin. She doesn’t look back as she walks away, heels clicking too loud in the silence, lips tingling, core aching, every nerve screaming for more even as her mind chants the same three words over and over. But at the end of the hallway, just before she turns the corner, she hears his low, rough voice carry after her. “Run all you want, Jess. You’re already fucked.” She doesn’t stop. But her steps falter. And the heat pooling low in her belly flares hotter than ever.