Red: 1000 Ways to Sin

My bully and 1 2

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of pretending the hallway kiss never happened. Jessica had almost convinced herself it was a fluke—a glitch in her wiring, a momentary lapse brought on by rage and adrenaline. She’d scrubbed her mouth raw in the shower that night, trying to erase the taste of him. It didn’t work. Every time she closed her eyes she felt the bruise of his teeth on her lip, the way his groan had vibrated straight down her spine.

School became a minefield. She changed her route between classes to avoid his locker. She sat at the far end of the cafeteria. She kept her head down during chem, even when the teacher paired them for labs and she had to stand close enough to smell that stupid cedar-and-smoke scent clinging to his skin. But avoidance only sharpened the edges. Every accidental brush of shoulders in the crowded hall sent a jolt through her like live wire. Once, his fingers grazed the small of her back as he passed—barely a touch—and her thighs clenched so hard she nearly stumbled. She hated him for it. Hated herself more.

Miles didn’t make it easy. He didn’t push, didn’t corner her again. He just… watched. That slow, knowing smirk whenever their eyes met across a room. The way he’d drag his gaze down her body like he was remembering exactly how she’d arched against him. She told herself it meant nothing. She told herself she was stronger than this.

She was lying.

The rain started early that Friday. Gray sheets drumming against the windows of the old science wing while the rest of the building emptied out for the weekend. Their group project—some bullshit ecosystem presentation—was due Monday, and half the team had bailed after the bell. Just her and Miles left in the third-floor storage room, sorting through dusty trays of preserved specimens and arguing over who got to write the conclusion.

She should have left when the others did.

Instead she stayed, telling herself it was about the grade. Miles leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up to show the corded muscles of his forearms. He hadn’t said much, just watched her with that same predatory patience. The silence stretched until it felt like a physical thing pressing against her ribs.

She slammed a jar of pickled frogs onto the shelf too hard. Glass clinked. “Why do you do it?” The question burst out before she could stop it. “Why me? Why do you always have to f**k with me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pushed off the bench and stepped closer. The door was shut behind them—someone must have bumped it on their way out. She hadn’t noticed. Now the lock was jammed, the handle rattling uselessly when she tried it.

Miles stopped a foot away. “You really want to know?”

She shoved him. Open palm to his chest, same as last time. “Answer the f*****g question.”

This time he caught her wrists instead of letting her push. His grip was firm, not bruising—yet. He backed her up until her ass hit the edge of a metal shelf. Specimen jars rattled behind her.

“Because you drive me f*****g insane,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every time you glare at me like you want to gut me, every time you bite back instead of crying, every time you walk away like you don’t feel it too—” He pressed closer, thigh sliding between hers. “It makes me want to break you open just to see what’s underneath.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah?” His mouth hovered over hers. “Then why are you shaking?”

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

The kiss was slower than the hallway one, but no less savage. His tongue swept in like he owned the space, tasting her anger, her denial, her want. She kissed him back like she was trying to win a fight—teeth and suction and fury. Her hands yanked at his hoodie; his shoved under her blouse, rough palms sliding up her ribs to cup her breasts through lace. Thumbs dragged over her n*****s until they peaked, hard and aching.

He broke away long enough to growl against her throat, “Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

Instead she fisted his hair and pulled his mouth back to hers while her other hand worked his belt open. Metal clinked. Zipper rasped. He shoved her skirt up around her hips in one impatient motion, fingers hooking into her panties and yanking them down her thighs. Cool air hit wet skin. She gasped.

Miles dropped to his knees like a man starved.

No preamble. No teasing. His mouth sealed over her c**t, hot and insistent, tongue flicking in tight, relentless circles. Jessica’s head thunked back against the shelf. One hand gripped the metal edge above her; the other tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. “f**k—Miles—”

He groaned against her, the vibration ripping a whimper from her throat. Two fingers pushed inside her without warning, curling, stroking that spot that made her vision white out. She rocked against his face, shameless, desperate, cursing his name like a prayer. “You asshole—don’t stop—f**k—”

She came hard and fast, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing out of her. Her legs shook so badly she would have collapsed if he hadn’t stood up and pinned her against the shelves with his body.

His mouth was slick with her when he kissed her again. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned into it, hands shoving his jeans down just enough. His c**k sprang free—heavy, thick, already leaking. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, twice, reveling in the way his hips jerked and his breath punched out.

“Condom?” she managed.

“Wallet. Back pocket.”

She fished it out with trembling fingers, tore the packet with her teeth. He rolled it on while she hooked one leg around his waist. Then he was lifting her, hands bruising her ass, and thrusting in one long, brutal stroke.

They both groaned.

He felt enormous inside her—stretching, filling, pressing against every sensitive spot. She clawed at his back through his shirt, nails digging crescents into skin. He f****d her hard and fast against the shelves—jars rattling, dust sifting down, rain pounding the windows like it wanted in. Each snap of his hips drove the breath from her lungs. She met him thrust for thrust, rolling her hips, grinding her c**t against his pelvis until sparks danced behind her eyes.

“Harder,” she gasped. “f**k me like you hate me.”

He laughed—low, ragged—and obliged. One hand wrapped around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive. The other gripped her thigh, spreading her wider. He pounded into her, relentless, the wet slap of skin on skin louder than the storm outside.

She came again first—shattering around him, walls pulsing, a sob ripping from her throat. He followed seconds later, burying deep and grinding through it, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and broken against her mouth.

They stayed like that for long seconds—panting, sweat-slick, half-dressed and wrecked. His c**k still twitched inside her. Her legs wouldn’t hold her weight.

Slowly, he pulled out. Set her on unsteady feet. She fixed her skirt with shaking hands while he dealt with the condom, tying it off and shoving it in his pocket like evidence to dispose of later.

Neither of them spoke.

She found her panties tangled around one ankle, stepped out of them, and stuffed them in her bag. Her thighs were sticky, tender. Every movement reminded her of him.

Miles watched her the whole time, eyes dark, chest still heaving.

She walked to the door, rattled the handle until it finally gave. Rain rushed in on a cold gust.

She didn’t look back.

But as she stepped into the hallway, legs wobbly, pulse still thundering between her thighs, she felt it—the pull. Already tightening again. Already hungry for the next time he looked at her like prey.

And she knew, bone-deep, there would be a next time.

She just didn’t know how soon.